War of the Magi: Azrael's Wrath (Book 2) by Joseph Robert Lewis Page B
Authors: Joseph Robert Lewis
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notice that little trick this evening.
Food appeared from within the tents, prepared and served by husbands and wives who excelled in grilling meats, baking kissra and gurassa breads, crushing eye-watering spices, and brewing aqari gin from dates.
Iyasu did his best to chat politely with the men and women seated around him as he filled his bowl with spicy steak and potato stew, fried chickpea cakes covered in too much coriander, baked fish crusted in peppers and onions, and half a dozen other dishes that he didn’t quite recognize but enjoyed all the same. He ate to excess, until his belly felt truly full and his senses dulled, filling his mind with a desire to find a bed, to lie in that bed, and to never leave it.
He let his eyes drift halfway closed and his mind wandered, not to visions of beasts or battlefields, but to the quiet mountain paths where he had run and played between his lessons with Arrah, when life consisted entirely of being happy and content, at peace with himself and his friends…
A voice intruded gently into his thoughts, and Iyasu opened his eyes just a little to see a Vaari man standing off to one side, singing. The singer wore the same blue robes as everyone else, but even in his stupor Iyasu could see that something was not quite right about this man’s body.
He has no left arm.
He glanced over at Veneka and saw her leaning back in Zerai’s arms as she listened to the man’s song slowly swell and grow, unaccompanied by any instrument. She gazed at him, caught somewhere between admiration and pain.
She’s going to heal him. Or try to, anyway. I wonder what that will be like for him. I wonder how long he’s been without it.
The man sang in the language of the Vaari, a dialect that Iyasu could not begin to fathom, so he let the melody dance majestically through his thoughts as his eyes dipped closed again. He imagined it to be a ballad, a love song, a tale of ancient heroes and maidens and tragic misunderstandings that would end badly, and yet with a note of hope.
The next time his eyes flickered open he saw that the singer was a little closer to the fires and had turned to reveal that he wore a blue silken scarf across the left side of his face, which almost covered the scars on the side of his head.
Something with very large claws tried to kill this poor man. This singer. I wonder why he’s still alive. Someone must have saved him. With wounds like that, he couldn’t have saved himself.
I couldn’t have…
He shuddered.
I would have bled to death in that boat. I would have died today. But look at them all now, so happy, so content. I doubt any of them almost died today.
Or…
He sat up a little straighter.
Maybe they did. Maybe they do all the time, and I’m the only one sitting here like a sack of filth feeling sorry for myself when a man with one arm and one eye is singing his heart out for me.
Damn me.
Iyasu blinked his eyes wide and tried to focus on the singer a little more, tried to follow the melody and imagine what the words meant. He was staring so intently at the singer that he was sharply startled when the man stopped singing and everyone turned to look behind him. Iyasu looked up, frowning, and saw the six armed men stepping into the private enclosure of the Vaari camp.
The six men carried short swords and long spears, and on their shields they carried a symbol, an emblem that Iyasu knew all too well.
The lion shield of Maqari.
Darius’s men.
Some of the Vaari stood up. Some of them began talking to the soldiers, offering them food, asking them to leave, extending handfuls of money, pointing threatening fingers.
Iyasu clutched the carpet under him.
No. No, not here, not now. Oh God, please, not again.
He felt his clothing suddenly flush with warmth as a dark stain grew on the carpet under him.
Run, run away, we need to run away.
But he didn’t run. He couldn’t move, or even speak. He sat very still with tears pooling in his eyes as the soldiers
Food appeared from within the tents, prepared and served by husbands and wives who excelled in grilling meats, baking kissra and gurassa breads, crushing eye-watering spices, and brewing aqari gin from dates.
Iyasu did his best to chat politely with the men and women seated around him as he filled his bowl with spicy steak and potato stew, fried chickpea cakes covered in too much coriander, baked fish crusted in peppers and onions, and half a dozen other dishes that he didn’t quite recognize but enjoyed all the same. He ate to excess, until his belly felt truly full and his senses dulled, filling his mind with a desire to find a bed, to lie in that bed, and to never leave it.
He let his eyes drift halfway closed and his mind wandered, not to visions of beasts or battlefields, but to the quiet mountain paths where he had run and played between his lessons with Arrah, when life consisted entirely of being happy and content, at peace with himself and his friends…
A voice intruded gently into his thoughts, and Iyasu opened his eyes just a little to see a Vaari man standing off to one side, singing. The singer wore the same blue robes as everyone else, but even in his stupor Iyasu could see that something was not quite right about this man’s body.
He has no left arm.
He glanced over at Veneka and saw her leaning back in Zerai’s arms as she listened to the man’s song slowly swell and grow, unaccompanied by any instrument. She gazed at him, caught somewhere between admiration and pain.
She’s going to heal him. Or try to, anyway. I wonder what that will be like for him. I wonder how long he’s been without it.
The man sang in the language of the Vaari, a dialect that Iyasu could not begin to fathom, so he let the melody dance majestically through his thoughts as his eyes dipped closed again. He imagined it to be a ballad, a love song, a tale of ancient heroes and maidens and tragic misunderstandings that would end badly, and yet with a note of hope.
The next time his eyes flickered open he saw that the singer was a little closer to the fires and had turned to reveal that he wore a blue silken scarf across the left side of his face, which almost covered the scars on the side of his head.
Something with very large claws tried to kill this poor man. This singer. I wonder why he’s still alive. Someone must have saved him. With wounds like that, he couldn’t have saved himself.
I couldn’t have…
He shuddered.
I would have bled to death in that boat. I would have died today. But look at them all now, so happy, so content. I doubt any of them almost died today.
Or…
He sat up a little straighter.
Maybe they did. Maybe they do all the time, and I’m the only one sitting here like a sack of filth feeling sorry for myself when a man with one arm and one eye is singing his heart out for me.
Damn me.
Iyasu blinked his eyes wide and tried to focus on the singer a little more, tried to follow the melody and imagine what the words meant. He was staring so intently at the singer that he was sharply startled when the man stopped singing and everyone turned to look behind him. Iyasu looked up, frowning, and saw the six armed men stepping into the private enclosure of the Vaari camp.
The six men carried short swords and long spears, and on their shields they carried a symbol, an emblem that Iyasu knew all too well.
The lion shield of Maqari.
Darius’s men.
Some of the Vaari stood up. Some of them began talking to the soldiers, offering them food, asking them to leave, extending handfuls of money, pointing threatening fingers.
Iyasu clutched the carpet under him.
No. No, not here, not now. Oh God, please, not again.
He felt his clothing suddenly flush with warmth as a dark stain grew on the carpet under him.
Run, run away, we need to run away.
But he didn’t run. He couldn’t move, or even speak. He sat very still with tears pooling in his eyes as the soldiers
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