Jaruna helps me up to my feet without saying a word. His nose is gushing blood. He wipes it on the inside of his sleeve. He looks dazed, sleepwalking.
I’m afraid to turn around.
Right now, Kiddu could be alive or she could be dead. If I turn around, one of those possibilities will be brought into reality. So I just stand there, frozen.
“Ow!”
A jolt of discharged static pricks my arm—held now by a grinning, alive Kiddu. I collapse into her, I’m so relieved. Her eyes are a bit glazed and her hair is once again a frizzy mess. But she seems unharmed. It occurs to me that the sorcerer was holding back quite a bit when he shot her, compared with the huge blasts of lightning he shot at the mystic.
“You don’t look so good,” she says.
I touch my mouth gingerly. It feels numb. My whole body feels numb. I cough and spit out blood, trying hard not to think about the ragged geometry of the wound.
I wobble a bit. This causes Ayan to gasp.
“Stay away from the blood!” she says, pointing near my feet. “It has been tainted with the sin of his black magic!”
I step away from the sorcerer’s corpse.
Jaruna finishes rewrapping his cloth fingerguards and then nocks his bow. In the process, he seems to switch from dazed teenager back to fearless warrior.
“We must hurry,” he says. “More sorcerers are coming.”
We jog down the corridor, following Jaruna’s lead. Hinged doors line the hall, sagging and rotted portals into dark rooms. The building must be part of the Dividing Wall complex—a disused old fort absorbed into the half-mile-long triangular bulwark.
Eventually we pass a huge gravitic portal, a heavy stone slab engraved with a huge ziggurat and eye. I can hear soldiers shouting outside.
“Two … three … four,” says the mystic. He is counting hinged doors. We follow him past the portal and then he abruptly turns to kick down hinged door number six. It opens into an unlit stairwell that winds down into black nothingness.
I hear a pulsing sound—wohm-wohm-wohm.
Then, stone sliding against stone. Behind us, the gravitic portal starts to open.
“Come!” shouts Jaruna.
We race single-file down the pitch-black winding stairs. Ayan slams the hinged door behind us.
I grope the curved wall blindly with my hands. Then I stumble over rubble lining the stairs and for a horrifying second I am sure I will fall headlong and break my neck. Somehow, I steady myself.
The ground at the bottom of the stairs is soft sand, unlevel and treacherous in the dark. I want to call out for light but the sound of massing and yelling soldiers from the floor above persuades me to be quiet.
I strain to follow the sounds of the people’s footsteps ahead. Then I see something—a flickering light at the end of a tunnel.
It’s a candle, held up by an old native man. He appears to have been waiting for us.
“Mujashatriya Jaruna!” he says. “This way!”
We follow the old native into a narrow cleft in the dark stone wall. As skinny as I am, it’s still a squeeze.
The cleft leads into a curved tunnel dug out of sand, V-shaped on the bottom. Rickety low-hanging wooden beams hold up the ceiling. I bump my head against one and a shower of sand falls down from above, nearly extinguishing the native’s candle.
“Be careful,” he hisses.
The whole tunnel seems ready to collapse at any minute. Every step digs into the loosely packed sand of the narrow sloped walls.
Jaruna speaks to our guide in a tense whisper. “Is everything prepared?”
“Mostly. The sinners have imposed a curfew. Movement is difficult. We should have expected—mujashatriya, may I ask who these two are?”
Jaruna doesn’t answer right away. He probably has no idea what to say.
“Other prisoners,” he finally says. “Do not worry. They are with us.”
The bald man flicks his narrow wrinkled eyes from me to Kiddu. His eyes widen, taking in her unveiled dark-skinned face and bare arms and legs in the dim candlelight. Then he quickly looks away.
“Akkadian prisoners,” he says.
“I am certain we shall find some use for them,” Jaruna says. “Asham willing.”
“Wait a minute,” says Kiddu. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Everyone’s eyes widen now. The bald old native shifts uncomfortably in the sand.
“Kiddu, let’s not—” I say.
“No, Gil! If they only rescued us to use as hostages—”
Jaruna lets out the most condescending sigh I think I’ve ever heard.
“Sister, perhaps you should remind me why we did rescue these fools?”
“Fools?” says Kiddu. “Gil just saved your life, you ass!”
At this, the old native gasps.
“Kiddu!” says Ayan. “Control yourself.”
“Hold on,” I say. “She’s right. We’re grateful—but we have a right to know what’s going on. Me and Kiddu don’t usually associate with … killers.”
“Killers?” says Jaruna.
The old native holds up his free hand, cutting off the argument. I can hear muddled sounds from behind us. Imperial soldiers searching the basement.
“Lord Jaruna,” he whispers. “You must go on ahead. I will collapse the tunnel behind you.”
He thrusts the candle into Jaruna’s free hand.
“Do not worry about me! I have been doing this for years. I know these tunnels like the back of my hand. All praise to Asham.”
“All praise to Asham,” echoes Jaruna.
Moving like a monkey, the old native darts off into the darkness.
After a few moments a pressure wave pulses from behind. There’s a sound like light rain.
We continue plodding through the sand ahead, ducking under wooden beams. I feel like I’m being swept along by some unseen force.
Suddenly, the mystic turns around to face me. Eyes narrowed, pupils glowing with reflected light. I flinch.
“Akkadian,” he says. “You may have aided me in battle. But do not think for a second that you may freely insult me. You—or your squawking whore of a sister.”
“Jaruna!” says Ayan.
I stop flinching and start clenching my fists.
“It’s not an insult,” I say. “It’s a fact. You just killed a dozen people. Without even hesitating. You’re a killer. And don’t you dare talk about—”
“Soldiers!” says the mystic. “And how many innocents have your people killed, sinner? A thousand? Ten thousand? Tell me, and then we may talk about who the real killers are!”
“Hey,” says Kiddu. “I’m not Gil’s sister. And neither of us likes the Empire. At all. So if you’re going to treat us like we do, Lord Jackass or whoever the hell you are, you can go and fuck yourself.”
I step in front of Kiddu, positive that the mystic is going to turn around and slap her. Or shoot her.
Instead, he just sighs. He turns to his sister and speaks in an almost plaintive voice. “Ayan—”
She ignores him. Another pressure wave moves through the claustrophobic tunnel—behind us the old native must have brought down a second set of support beams.
“Kiddu,” Ayan says. “If you continue to speak in this way, my brother may well decide not to take you with us.”
“And where are you taking us?” says Kiddu. “You never answered! What are you people planning to do with us?”
“I would like to know the answer to that as well, sister,” says Jaruna.
I can’t tell for sure, because of her veil—but Ayan’s eyes crinkle in a way that suggests a smile.
“Gil and Kiddu, my plan is to take you with us, across the desert and over the mountains—to the holy city of Harrappa.”