Page 65 of The Eyes of Tamburah
“Enough,” called a voice. “Take the sun-kissed and leave the prince’s dog in the sand.”
Before she could figure out what that meant, the ring of ambushers tightened. Then it was all flashing swords. She ducked, dodged, rolled away, kicked, blocked, and threw handfuls of sands at those exposed eyes—all she could do against so many armed opponents. The deep sand didn’t help, slowing her down and causing the nicks and slices along her arms to add up. Her stitches tugged painfully with each movement. The clang of swords and grunts meant Rendor fended them off. But for how long?
The answer came a fraction of an angle later when pain laced Rendor’s loud curse. Another sharp hiss and the big man crumpled to the sand. Shyla kept fighting and managed to disarm one attacker. A tiny victory savored for the length of a heartbeat before she was pinned. She struggled until the cold prick of a knife at her throat warned her to be still.
Rendor lay on his side, skewered by two swords. One pierced his left shoulder, the other protruded from near his right hip. Although in pain, his expression promised a violent retribution. One of the attackers pushed Rendor onto his back with his foot. The captain groaned. Her stomach clenched as fear for his life surpassed her own fright. The intensity surprised her.
Then the ambusher grabbed the hilt of the sword in Rendor’s shoulder and shoved it deep into the sand under him. Rendor’s low-pitched scream seized her heart. Despite the tip of the blade digging into her neck, Shyla fought to break away to help him. Another person thrust the sword above Rendor’s hip into the dune. The captain’s hoarse cry cut through the air and right through her.
“Quit fighting or you’ll join your friend,” the man holding the knife said to her, pressing the blade a little deeper. A searing sting bit into her neck as blood rolled down her throat.
She stopped. For now. What they had planned for her could be worse and joining Rendor might be the better option.
“Do we need a thirdstakeor is two good enough?” a woman asked the person with the knife.
“Two’s good. He’s not going anywhere. By the time the sun finishes its jump, he’ll be cooked and eaten by sand demons,” the knife wielder said.
“No! Let him go,” Shyla cried. “There’s no need to kill him. You have me.” She guessed she was the target.
A bark of laughter. “Oh, I think there’s every need.”
“But the Water Prince—”
“Will promote another as his captain. But getting the best ofthis onewill send a message. Prep for departure,” he ordered the others.
They sheathed their weapons and tightened their turbans. Then they pressed their arms tight to their sides and closed their eyes. Odd.
“What about the sun-kissed?” the man on the left asked. “She’s going to spook.”
The knife wielder stepped behind her and pulled her close to him. Unfortunately he kept his grip on the blade. “I’ve got her. Go!”
Shyla witnessed the scene in front of her, but she had to be hallucinating. Or dreaming…no, she’d never dreamt something like that. Perhaps she was drugged—or the Sun Goddess just altered the very fabric of her world. That had to be it! Because people didn’t just sink down into a dune and disappear like a sand devil. Except that a sand devil left spirals, and these people left nothing behind but a cloud of sand grains which rained down, covering all the evidence of the impossible thing that had just happened.
“Our turn,” he whispered.
No way. She’d rather die. Grabbing the hand holding the knife, she yanked it away from her throat.
“Thought so,” he said.
He clamped his other hand over her nose and mouth, blocking fresh air. She bucked and kicked, but couldn’t dislodge it.
“Relax,” he said, drawling the word out. Then he repeated it over and over right into her ear.
Soon a strange lassitude wove through her. Sand sprayed like one of the Water Prince’s fountains around them, moving in slow motion. A tingling started at her toes. It swept up her legs, erasing them. The pain from the cuts on her arms dissolved along with her arms and her torso. Then she disconnected from the world. Nothing left but a thought.
* * *
She reformed…later. Or rather she hoped she’d regained her senses. Because it didn’t seem to matter if her eyes were open or closed, the view remained the same. Either there was no light at all or she was trapped in the blackness of oblivion. A simmering unease bubbled as memories fluttered to life. She chased them, catching up with a sequence of events…black river…blood…a climb…and—Jayden!
He tried to kill her. If it hadn’t been for—Rendor!
The image of him impaled in the sand flashed in her mind. She slammed her fist down on the stone floor underneath her, hoping that pain would eclipse the horror and grief warring in her chest. Being cooked alive was a horrible way to die. No one deserved it. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to help him. Except she’d no idea where she was or how long she’d been…gone.
First step was to determine her location. Lying on her back, she swept her arms out from her hip to above her head, running her hands over the rough stone ground, encountering nothing. Then she reached overhead, seeking a ceiling—it wouldn’t do to bang her head again. It’d been through enough.
Nothing within the length of her arm. She sat up and immediately pressed her cold fingers to her temples as a lightheadedness threatened to send her back down. When her world steadied, she once again used her hands to feel for obstacles. Satisfied she wouldn’t bang into anything, she moved to stand and froze as a sound echoed.
To those living underground, there were a number of noises that caused alarm—the unmistakable rumble of a cave-in, the boom from the flame of a trol lantern encountering a trapped pocket of gas, and the harsh scrape of metal on stone. The last had multiple causes, but not many of them good. For example, a knife’s blade hitting a wall, or a pick digging a hole to bypass a locked door, or a chain dragging along the ground.
