Smoke and Steel, page 1
Smoke and Steel
Dax Murray
Kraken Collective
Copyright © 2024 by Dax Murray
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Contents
Dedication
Content Warnings
1. One
2. Two
3. Three
4. Four
5. Five
6. Six
7. Seven
8. Eight
9. Nine
10. Ten
11. Eleven
12. Twelve
13. Thirteen
14. Fourteen
15. Fifteen
16. Sixteen
17. Seventeen
18. Eighteen
19. Nineteen
20. Twenty
21. Twenty-One
22. Twenty-Two
23. Twenty-Three
24. Twenty-Four
25. Twenty-Five
The Temple of the Stars
Also By Dax Murray
About Dax Murray
Kraken Reads
Kraken Reads: City of Strife
Kraken Reads: Party of Fools
Acknowledgements
Do I even need to say it?
Thank you for believing in me.
Content Warnings
Content Warning List
This is a work of fiction; the behaviors, actions, and views of characters should not be conflated or confused with the author's opinions and beliefs. The presence of these darker themes in this work is not an endorsement of them. This list is as complete as the author can make it.
Consensual Intercourse,
Violence,
Murder, Execution,
Revolution,
Domestic violence,
Arson,
Assault,
Torture,
Blood,
Religious abuse,
Consumption of alcohol,
Suicidal Ideation,
One
Mar’sahr’dan’i are not born; they are chosen. That is what her mother—Sumalika mat Qa’taru, Sarhe’Danu of Sua—had told her. Chosen based on strength, wisdom, cunning, and desire. Chosen for their ability to be ruthless, unforgiving, and unfeeling. In the six years since the violent insurrection at the hands of the Amyrdine Bara, Saritrah has not forgotten those words. She turns them over as if they were stones in her mind as General Arishaki moves the pebbles on the parchment, movements deliberate, slow, but coldly calculated. As long as everyone follows his orders, tomorrow, they will take back Antalyza from the Amyrdine Bara.
If she can take back Antalyza, she can take back all of Sua. The cool night wind pricks at her skin, but the glow of the twin moons sets her eyes on fire. The lost princess; six years in exile, six years of biding her time. Six years of sharpening her claws and honing her fangs. Tomorrow will not be her first skirmish, but it will be the most significant. The sarhe of Antalyza was loyal through and through to her family, the perfect vassal, the perfect servant of the royal family. Now, she will free him from the prisons the insurrectionists have left him to rot in, proving to the world that she will be a just ruler, righting the wrongs of the world swiftly and decisively.
Distantly, a herd of camels sings into the winds of the desert. “Are the Re’u coming through?” Puzur asks. Young, ambitious, but hopelessly clueless. Sari twirls a strand of hair around her finger, willing to let him embarrass himself.
“That doesn’t sound like them; that’s something else,” Harharu replies.
“Aye,” General Arishaki says, straightening his back and scanning the horizon. His harsh voice is barely a whisper, but it has the commanding tone required for a leader. “I don’t like the sound of it.”
“No, it has to be some merchants or traders. Who else would be here?” Ears pricked up, tail frozen, Yangi glances around the fire, eyes wide.
Sari purses her lips. Ashur. It is Ashur. That cursed brother of hers. Her hand reaches for the royal seal, a ring threaded with a leather lace worn loosely around her neck. Always next to her heart, pried from the hands of another of her siblings when she fled the palace the night the Amyrdine Bara attacked. Ashur cannot have it.
“He’s getting closer,” Arishaki says, both hands brushing the sand, speaking with the dunes. “He’ll be upon us within half an hour. From the north.”
“Dammit.” Sari reaches for Katynna, the bladed weapon passed down through the generations, wielded only by the mar’sahr’dan’i; the other item that proves her divine right to the throne and that marks her as the rightful heir to the throne. She pulls the curved blade from the sheath and raises it above her head. “To me! To me! We fight!”
She brandishes it into the night sky, racing towards her stallion, relying on the loyalty of her soldiers to follow her into battle. Fires quickly extinguished, rations hastily eaten—her followers, her believers, her trusted servants rally behind their queen, Saritrah, the next Sahre’Danu of Sua.
She rides toward the gates of Antalyza, the shining city that the Oracle of Yshuld calls home. Of all the people in her demesne that she must protect, the Oracle is the most vital. If Saritrah is their leader, the Oracle is their hope.
She steadies her breath, a trick she was forced to learn before she could walk. She will make it. She will save Antalyza not just from the savage insurrectionists, but from her brother’s sharp talons. The glint of gold against the gate distracts her, a flash of light and then a shadowed figure slips into the desert. A spy sneaking out of the city? The figure creeps along the wall, staying just out of reach of the moonbeams.
But others follow, and the shrill pleas for help that are ripped from the mouth of this mysterious figure alarm her. Not a spy, but someone in distress. Four more figures creep through the gates after it. “Ari, take the lead! There’s someone there,” she yells, no doubt that he will follow her orders.
“Of course, my princess,” he replies. His domineering tone gives way to gentleness and care. He is the only one she has allowed to address her thusly.
The shrill cries continue, interspersed with cruel chuckles. Ashur’s soldiers visiting some sort of violence upon a helpless civilian. She leaps from her horse, putting away Katynna, drawing her spear in one swift movement, and stabbing at the predators before they even see her.
Their prey is small, dark hair pulled back, exposing every inch of fear etched in her face, back pressed against the city wall, fingers curled around a dirty gray robe. She is terrified, cowering, weak. But for the brief second that Sari glances into the woman’s eyes, she sees a golden, radiant light. Power untapped, strength unharnessed, determination hidden beneath fear.
What a waste of potential. And yet, it is her duty to save this woman, even if the woman is too cowardly to save herself. In two graceful arcs, she dispatches the rest of the leering soldiers, sending them to meet Xana. “Hurry back inside,” she says, not bothering to look at the woman as she plunges her spear into the sand and then wipes the sharp point it on her wrist brace.
“I am not going back in there,” the woman says. Her voice quivers, but Sari hears just a glissando of defiance in it. A defiance that she can admire, praise, even respect. But not one she can tolerate. Not right now.
“That’s an order. Get back inside. Things are about to get violent, and the fighting out here is not something a delicate flower like you should have to witness.”
“I assure you, I have seen worse.”
Sari laughs. This woman looks like she’s never seen the outside of whatever walled garden she lives in. What, has she seen the kitchen cat torture a rat? Sari turns around. The woman still shakes, but her back is straight, and her chin is high. Just the right combination of fear and defiance for playtime but a lethal combination on the battlefield. Crossing her arms, Sari wonders if she could recruit the woman for something like armor repairs or weapons maintenance.
“Fine. Do as you like, but I don’t like my work going to waste. I saved your life; pay me back by not losing it tonight.”
The woman looks out into the desert, a death sentence if she has no supplies. “Thank you, ma’am. I will wait out here until the fighting is over and then go home.”
“If I see you out later, I won’t be pleased.”
“Understood.”
Sari mounts her horse, enters the city, and only chides herself for not getting the woman’s name as she unleashes a fury of lethal assaults on the soldiers she meets inside. She slices her way through the throng; how Ashur acquired so many soldiers is baffling, and yet his numbers are overwhelming. His laugh echoes on the wind, mocking her as she forces her way toward his unspoken call. Haunting her as she races to answer it.
Arishaki—loyal, brave, dependable Arishaki—is already engaging her brother. Blood pounding in her ears, she takes a deep breath. Steady. Steady. You don’t win by being reckless; you don’t win by being hasty. Squaring her shoulders, she leaps from her horse, lunging at her brother, her sword point slithering toward his throat.
“Ah, sister dearest! I had not expected to see you here. What a delightful surprise! A family reunion. How have you been, love?”
Sister dearest, he would say before wrapping his hands around Zisuthra’s throat. How have you been, love? He would say before dragging Zisuthra down the halls by her tail. He never hurt Zisu because he hated her; he hurt Zisu because he knew it hurt Sari.
Steady, s
But this is different. She has Katynna strapped at her hip the royal seal concealed under her tunic this time. She has the power of the mar’sahr’dan’i. She slashes, he dodges, neither getting a hit on the other. But he is clearly winning, no sweat upon his brow, no quiver of fatigue on his lips. Her face is contorted in anger and concentration; his is as tranquil as the glow of Yludi on the full moon night.
Why can’t I win? Why can’t I beat him? I can’t lose, I can’t. I have to save our people from him; if he claims the throne, it will be worse than even those brutal insurrectionists.
“Well, this has been so much fun, sister dearest,” he says, jumping backward to land on the edge of the city wall and nodding at someone behind, most likely his second-in-command. “But I have more important things to do than to toy with a little mouse. I got what I came here for, but thank you for keeping me entertained.” He leaps back over the wall, a silent signal to his troops to retreat.
As quickly as they came, Ashur’s army leaves Antalyza. All that remains for Sari to do is drive out the insurrectionists now.
The isiaq of Antalyza, an older qatu by the name of Zaakit, wasted no time in celebrating his liberation. The insurrectionists had fled when they realized they were caught between the two warring royals.
As daybreak shatters the bloody night, the wizened vassal summons the Seers of the Temple of Yshuld.
Hands clasped behind her back, Sari takes in the sights of her new prize. The Temple of Yshuld, the patron goddess of Sua. The Oracle, Yshuld’s Chosen, resides inside of the tall marble walls, attended to by priestesses and acolytes, every comfort given to the ones divinely blessed with not just the Sight, but Her Sight. It is the grey-robbed novices that patter out of the marble doors first, descending the stairs in the best attempts at dignified waltzes that children can make. Following them are the blue-robed acolytes, those who had survived the grueling instruction of harsh priestesses and decided they still wanted to consecrate themselves to Yshuld.
Sari tries not to fidget as the silver-robbed priestesses join the crowd around her, impatient to speak with the Oracle and be on her way to her next conquest. But one of the priestesses catches her eye. The woman from last night! Face blank, back straight, the flowing silver robe doing nothing to mask her identity. A runaway priestess?
Before she can wrap her mind around this anomaly, the gold-robed High Priestess floats down the stairs and bows deeply before her. “Our prayers have been answered; the Sahre’Danu has saved us. Let us lift our voices in praise to Yshuld!”
The gathering of Seers fall to their knees and lift their hands heavenward; eyes closed against the bright sun. The show of honor is interrupted by a scream that Sari knows too well at this point.
She waits for the High Priestess to chastise the wayward adherent, yet the High Priestess does no such thing. Instead, the woman glides across the flowered courtyard to take the frightened woman into her arms. The woman’s whispered words carry on the hot breeze. “Child, what has the Goddess shown you.”
“The end, the end...” The priestess paws at the ground, digging her nails into the soil and then pounding her fists, a cloud of dust enveloping her, the sun’s hazy rays making the woman seem like a mirage.
The High Priestess draws the frightened woman to her feet, leading, or perhaps dragging, her before Sari.
“Darudan,” the High Priestess says, the appellation of royalty only given to a sahre’danu. “Our Oracle is unwell and unable to present herself before you, even though she dearly wishes to be here.”
“Unwell?”
The High Priestess does not meet her gaze. “She suddenly became ill late last night.”
I got what I came here for, but thank you for keeping me entertained. Is this Ashur’s doing? Was he here to assassinate the Oracle? Did he fail and only injure her? No, he wouldn’t leave unless he knew the job was done… Sari wants to ask the High Priestess for more information, but she seems determined to give no further clues.
“Instead, I would like to present you with Sister Nanshaie, a talented Seer, more than blessed by Yshuld.”
Sister Nanshaie curtseys. Sari wants to laugh for her thoughts last night about asking the woman to join the army. But the fear in the Seers eyes confirms Sari’s suspicion. She had been running last night to flee Ashur. She must have known he was coming for the Oracle… But why is the High Priestess acting as if nothing has happened? Is the Oracle already dead?
“I am honored to meet you, Sister Nanshaie.” She holds out her hand, but when the Seer touches it, the spark she feels almost stops her heart.
The Seer, eyes wider than they had been the night before, looks straight into Sari’s soul and somehow stares at something far in the distance. “You will be betrayed; be wary of those you call friends, for their words are naught but lies and their actions naught but subterfuge. I must go. I am sorry, I must go!” She covers her face in her hands and dashes back inside the temple, tripping more than once as she ascends the stairs.
“Forgive her, please, Sahre’danu. She is young, and the strength of her Sight still frightens her.”
“There is nothing to forgive. I appreciate her warning, but I have no need of it. I have Katynna; there is nothing else that I need in order to restore order and justice to the kingdom. All are loyal to me; I am sure she merely misinterpreted what she saw.”
“Of course,” the High Priestess says, her composure cracking for a fraction of a second. “As thank you, we have many gifts for you.”
Isiaq Zaakit joins the congregation as the Seers distribute gold, jewels, and, most importantly, weapons to Saritrah’s army. “Darudan, I also would like to offer you and your army medical care. We have several healers who would be happy to attend to your wounded. I believe I saw that my dear friend Ari had a nasty cut.”
The general steps forward, gripping the isiaq’s hand, laughing. “You worry too much, old friend. I am more than hearty and hale and in no need to see a healer.”
“I wouldn’t be a friend if I didn’t offer, Ari.” The isiaq throws his arm around the general’s shoulder and pulls him away from the crowd.
“Darudan, there is one more thing.” The High Priestess steps closer, far too close for Sari’s comfort, but she does not take a step back. “The key to your victory, I know what it is. There is nothing that would make me happier than to see you occupy the Kashtu Throne. And I have foreseen the beautiful paradise that you will bring to our nation should you do so. But your victory requires more than just strength.”
“Please, speak plainly.”
“There is something more you need, something that I can help you find.”
“The blade of Katynna and the royal seal are more than enough, but I do thank you. I hope to one day bring about this paradise, but I can do it on my own terms.”
“As you say, Darudan.”
It has been six years since Sari last slept in such opulent accommodations. The cool marble floors, the soft and thick ersu, the silk sheets, and the curtained windows let the cool air in but keep the insects out; such a change from staying in cramped edin’tu and sleeping on thin halersu mats. She had spent too much time luxuriating in the cold pool and had missed her usual practice time with Arishaki.
The general stretches, flexing every muscle in his chiseled body. A body hardened by both battle and training. A body that has lain beside hers every night for the last three years. A body that has defended hers since she was a child and he her servant. Only a handful of years older than her, yet exceptionally more skilled, gifted with a speed and precision she could only hope to imitate, he had been assigned her bodyguard when he was only twelve years old. But he had been her training and sparring partner since before she had even learned her letters.
