Farr did not look at the T’gol.
At last Grace found her voice. “How was it able to follow me all the way here? And why?”
“Why it was following you, I’m not certain,” Farr said, regarding Grace. “As for how, there is only one way a blood golem could track you all this way. A drop of your blood must have been incorporated into its being. Once that was done, it could follow you by the scent of your blood.”
Bile rose in Grace’s throat; she forced herself to swallow. “That doesn’t make sense. How could one of the Scirathi have gotten a drop of my–oh!”
So much had happened the night of the feast, and it was such a small thing. She had completely forgotten it. However, now the memory came back to her with perfect clarity. Quickly, in trembling words, she described the old servingwoman she had collided with in a corridor of Gravenfist Keep–how the other had dropped a ball of yarn, and how Grace had bent to pick it up, and was pricked by a needle. Grace never saw the other’s face. All she had seen was a hand, reaching out to accept the ball of yarn. At the time she had thought it wrinkled with age. However, the light was dim. The hand could just have easily been covered with scars.
Larad stroked the dark stubble on his chin. “That explains how the Scirathi gained a drop of your blood, Your Majesty. Yet it still does not tell us why the Scirathi wished to follow you.”
“It was me.”
They turned to look at Travis. His gray eyes were haunted.
“They knew you would come in search of me, Grace.” He reached out and took her hands; his own hands were so hot she could hardly bear their touch, but she didn’t pull back. “The Scirathi were hunting me on Earth. They want me for something. Or maybe they just want me dead. Either way, the Scirathi were using you to find me.”
Grace shook her head. She wanted to weep, but her eyes could produce no tears.
“He’s right,” Farr said, wiping his hands on his black robe. “It is the only answer that makes sense.”
Travis let go of her hands. “You’ve got to go, Grace. All of you. You have to get out of–”
A scream rose on the air, coming from the other side of the low ridge. It was a terrible sound, shrill and wet: a sound of animal pain. More screams joined it, then all were cut short.
Grace turned around, heart thudding. “What was that?”
“It was the camels,” Avhir said, unsheathing his scimitar again.
Larad caught the sleeve of Grace’s serafi. “Master Wilder is right, Your Majesty. We must go.”
“It is too late,” Vani said. “They are here.”
A half dozen figures appeared at the top of the ridge, their black robes stark against the coppery sky. Sorcerers.
Vani and Avhir stalked forward, hands and weapons ready, as the Scirathi descended the slope. Grace, Travis, and Larad pressed close to one another, but Farr stood a short distance away. A dagger appeared in his right hand, poised over his arm, ready to draw blood.
“Why are they coming so slowly?” Larad said, his words hoarse. “Would they not rather make quick work of us?”
The sorcerers seemed almost to shuffle down the slope, making no effort to guard themselves. Grace shut her eyes, spinning out a thread. The Weirding was growing weaker, but maybe she could still use the Touch to probe them, to learn something of what they intended to do. She cast her strand out across the desert. . . .
Her eyes flew open. “They’re not alive!”
There was no time for the T’golto respond to her words; the sorcerers had shambled within striking range, tattered robes fluttering, stretching withered arms toward the assassins. Their gold masks gleamed in the light of the setting sun, expressionless, serene. Avhir struck first, his scimitar glittering as it hewed off the hand of one of the sorcerers.
Sand poured from the stump of the sorcerer’s wrist instead of blood.
For a moment the T’golstopped, staring, but the sorcerers continued to close in. Vani launched a kick. There was a crunching sound of bones shattering, and one of the Scirathi flew back a dozen feet. The sorcerer fell to the ground–then got up and began to shuffle forward again. At the same moment Avhir slit the throat of another Scirathi. As with the first, no blood spilled from the wound. Instead, copper‑colored sand rained to the ground.
“Stop!” Farr called out. “You must not wound them!”
Grace wondered what he meant. The Scirathi were corpses– animated husks, nothing more. Wounding them would not kill them because they were already dead, but surely it could not cause harm either.
She was wrong. Avhir either did not hear or did not heed Farr’s words. He made a flicking motion with his wrists, and the scimitar flashed, lopping off the head of one of the Scirathi. The sorcerer’s body toppled, and ruddy sand poured from the stump of the neck, falling onto the desert floor.
The ground began to churn. Red sand swirled with gold. Then, like a waterspout on the sea, a pillar rose up from the ground, building upon itself until it was as tall as Avhir. The sand coalesced, forming a solid shape with thick arms, column‑like legs, and a featureless head set upon bulky shoulders.
Avhir swore in the tongue of the Mournish, then swung his scimitar again. The blade passed through the sand creature’s body, but without apparent effect. Sand gave way around the blade, then coalesced again. The thing struck out with a heavy arm. Avhir grunted, flying through the air, then hit the ground and rolled a dozen feet.
The thing started to shamble forward, toward Grace, Travis, and Larad, but Vani interposed herself. She leaped into the air, hanging there so long she seemed to defy gravity, launching a flurry of punches and kicks at the sand creature. The thing stumbled back as its head exploded in a spray of grit–
–then started forward again as more sand rose up from the ground, becoming part of its form. A new, bulbous head thrust up from between its shoulders.
Another creature was already forming from the patch of sand where the headless Scirathi had died, and red powder continued to pour from the neck of the sorcerer that was wounded. Its body slumped to the ground, an empty shell, and the desert sand roiled beneath it as yet another sand creature started to coalesce.
“How do we fight these things?” Vani called out to Farr, leaping aside as the first sand creature struck at her.
“You can’t,” Farr shouted back. “You cannot wound them, or strike off a limb. They have only to draw more sand into themselves.”
“What about the slipsand?” Avhir called, springing back to his feet. “Might we lure them into it?”
“Sand is sand. It cannot harm them–not when they are made of it. Whatever you do, do not slay another sorcerer!”
That was easier said than done. The four remaining sorcerers threw themselves at the T’gol, withered limbs flailing. Avhir cast aside his scimitar, and Vani ceased striking at them. However, the shriveled bodies of the sorcerers were fragile. Vani tried only to brush one aside and its skin tore beneath her hands like old parchment as red‑brown dust spilled out. The dust fell to the ground, and the desert sand began to swirl.
There were three of the sand creatures now, and unlike the sorcerers they seemed uninterested in the T’gol, only striking if the assassins got in their way. Instead, they kept moving toward Grace, Travis, and Larad. The three backed away, trying to keep the T’golbetween them and the sand creatures.
“Grace, can you do anything?” Travis said, gripping her arm.
She fought for breath. “They’re not alive–the sorcerers or the sand creatures. No threads spin around them. Even if there wasn’t something the matter with the Weirding, I would have no power over them.”