A Wasteland of My God's Own Making Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Also by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Praise for Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

  A Wasteland of My God's Own Making

  About the Author

  Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

  With Blood Upon the Sand

  A Veil of Spears

  Of Sand and Malice Made

  The Lays of Anuskaya

  Lest Our Passage Be Forgotten

  In the Stars I'll Find You

  The Burning Light

  Strata

  Copyright © 2018 by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  This story first appeared in Hath No Fury © 2018 by Outland Entertainment

  Cover art by René Aigner © 2018

  Cover design by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Author photo courtesy of Al Bogdan

  All rights reserved.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  First Edition: February 2019

  ISBN: 978-1-93964-932-4 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-93964-930-0 (epub)

  ISBN: 978-1-93964-931-7 (Kindle)

  Please visit me on the web at

  http://www.quillings.com

  Also by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  The Lays of Anuskaya

  The Winds of Khalakovo

  The Straits of Galahesh

  The Flames of Shadam Khoreh

  Short Story Collections

  Lest Our Passage Be Forgotten & Other Stories

  In the Stars I’ll Find You

  Novellas

  Strata (with Stephen Gaskell)

  The Burning Light (with Rob Zeigler)

  The Song of the Shattered Sands

  Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

  With Blood Upon the Sand

  A Veil of Spears

  Of Sand and Malice Made

  Praise for Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

  “Beaulieu has proved himself able to orchestrate massive storylines in his previous series, the Lays of Anuskaya trilogy. But Twelve Kings lays down even more potential. Fantasy and horror, catacombs and sarcophagi, resurrections and revelations: The book has them all, and Beaulieu wraps it up in a package that’s as graceful and contemplative as it is action-packed and pulse-pounding.”

  —NPR Books

  “Twelve Kings in Sharakhai is the gateway to what promises to be an intricate and exotic tale. The characters are well defined and have lives and histories that extend past the boundaries of the plot. The culture is well fleshed out and traditional gender roles are exploded. Çeda and Emre share a relationship seldom explored in fantasy, one that will be tried to the utmost as similar ideals provoke them to explore different paths. I expect that this universe will continue to expand in Beaulieu’s skillful prose. Wise readers will hop on this train now, as the journey promises to be breathtaking.”

  —Robin Hobb, author of The Assassin’s Apprentice

  “The protagonist, pit-fighter Çeda, is driven but not cold, and strong but not shallow. And the initial few scenes of violence and sex, while very engaging, soon give way to a much richer plot. Beaulieu is excellent at keeping a tight rein on the moment-to-moment action and building up the tension and layers of mysteries.”

  —SciFiNow (9 / 10 Rating)

  “I am impressed… An exceedingly inventive story in a lushly realized dark setting that is not your uncle’s Medieval Europe. I’ll be looking forward to the next installment.”

  —Glen Cook, author of The Black Company

  “This is an impressive performance.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Racine novelist delivers a compelling desert fantasy in ‘Twelve Kings’.”

  —The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

  “Beaulieu’s intricate world-building and complex characters are quickly becoming the hallmarks of his writing, and if this opening volume is any indication, The Song of the Shattered Sands promises to be one of the next great fantasy epics.”

  —Jim Kellen, Science Fiction and Fantasy Book Buyer for Barnes & Noble

  “Bradley P. Beaulieu’s new fantasy epic is filled with memorable characters, enticing mysteries, and a world so rich in sensory detail that you can feel the desert breeze in your hair as you read. Çeda is hands-down one of the best heroines in the genre—strong, resourceful, and fiercely loyal to friends and family. Fantasy doesn’t get better than this!”

  —C. S. Friedman, author of The Coldfire Trilogy

  A Wasteland of My God's Own Making

  As the sun broke above the horizon, Djaga Akoyo rushed from the heavily shadowed streets into the entrance hall of the collegium medicum. The streets were cool from the chill desert night, but this place was frigid, a feeling that seeped deep below Djaga’s skin, making her quicken her pace all the more.

  “May I help?” An attendant—from the looks of him a scholar fresh from receiving his laurel crown—strode toward her, calm as a wading heron. When he saw the dried blood caked along the front of her beaten leather armor, however, his eyes went wide as the moons. “Oh!” was all he said.

  “Calm yourself,” Djaga told him. “It isn’t mine.” Not all of it, in any case. “A woman name Nadín was taken here yesterday. A stab wound to the gut. Where is she?”

  The young man opened his mouth, but nothing came out. “I’ve only just arrived.”

  “Well, go find her!” Djaga shouted.

  “I’ll take her, Ari.” A tall, black-skinned woman had exited the hallway ahead of them, a high physic named Malanga. She had striking eyes and a pretty smile. The wheat-colored robes she wore was the preferred uniform in the collegium medicum, yet it seemed chosen to match her lustrous black hair, which was braided into a beehive coil atop her head. She’d treated Djaga several times, courtesy of Djaga’s more vigorous battles in the pits; she even hailed from Djaga’s homeland of Kundhun, yet they’d traded no more than a bit of idle chitchat over the years. Djaga felt poor about it now.

  After waving the young scholar away, Malanga motioned for Djaga to follow. To Djaga’s relief, Malanga seemed to have a sense of urgency about her.

  “You should be prepared,” she said to Djaga as they strode swiftly along the halls, “we’ve done all we could, but—”

  “Just tell me how much time she has left.”

  Djaga had known Nadín’s fate from the moment she’d seen the extent of the wound to her stomach. She’d just prayed that Nadín would still be alive upon her return from the desert.

  “She won’t see the sunset,” Malanga said. From the occupied rooms to either side of the hall issued the sounds of low conversation, coughing, moaning, or the shuffle of sandaled feet. “She’s so far refused milk of the poppy in hopes that you’d return, but she is in deep pain. The longer you wait—”

  “Djaga?” The voice had come from the room ahead but it sounded frail, ghostlike. “Djaga, is that you?”

  Djaga swallowed before speaking softly to Malanga. “I would spare her her pain, but I must speak with her first.”

  “The longer you wait—” Malanga tried again.

  “She must know this before she departs for the farther fields.”

  After a pause, Malanga nodded and left.

  Djaga used tentative steps to enter the room. She turned toward the bed, and the world s
eemed to spin. Nadín lay there, but she looked a completely different woman. Her copper skin was pale, almost yellow. Her lips were bloodless. She seemed to have fallen in on herself, a beautiful cavern collapsed after an earthquake. Swallowing the hard knot in her throat, Djaga stepped to the bedside. She’d known this was going to happen, but to now be faced with it…

  Nadín grimaced, reached one hand out. “Did you find her?”

  Djaga pulled a chair close to the bedside and took Nadín’s quivering hand, swathed it in her own. “Yes, I found her.”

  Nadín swallowed once. Twice. She licked her lips before saying, “Will you tell me?”

  “Could we not speak about other things? About our days sailing your ship? Or your family we met?”

  “I would know what happened.” Before Djaga could say anything more, her fingers gave a squeeze, a weak gesture but surprisingly strong for a woman in her state. “And you can’t deny a dying woman her last wish. Do, and you’ll be cursed. You don’t wish to be cursed, do you, Djaga?”

  Despite all the worry roiling inside her, Djaga laughed. “No, I don’t wish to be cursed.” Djaga paused, her eyes brimming with tears. “Very well, my sweet. I’ll tell you my tale. “ She took a moment, regained herself. “I brought you here. You remember? After, I returned to the harbor with Osman, and we took your ship to the desert…”

  Nadín was shaking her head. “No. All of it. I deserve that much.”

  Djaga nodded, resigned. “As you say…”

  But where to begin? How could she tell this tale to her one true love when she’d hidden so much? One word at a time, her father used to say.

  “It was high sun the day Afua came to Sharakhai.”

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  On a day as hot as anyone in the city could remember, thousands gathered to watch a bout in Sharakhai’s storied fighting pits. They had waited a long while already, the seat sellers charging treble the already-dear rate for bouts in the central pit. They drank of lemonade and wine. They placed money with the bet takers wandering up and down the aisles, receiving special chits for the money and the bet taken. They argued about which opponent, Djaga or Talashem, would win. All the while, their eyes drifted to the two darkened mouths of the tunnels where the combatants would soon emerge. When Pelam, the lanky master of the game, strode calmly from one of them, they rushed to their feet, threw their arms in the air, and began shouting to the oven-hot air.

  Pelam, who wore long, purple robes, a bejeweled vest, and an embroidered ivory cap stained with sweat, waited for the cheer to crescendo. Only then did he raise his hands and make a tamping motion. Like a flock of skylarks landing on the banks of the Haddah, the crowd went still, but they sat with ill-contained exuberance, ready to burst into motion once more.

  Pelam spread his arms wide, as if welcoming them all to his home. “You are wise, my good people.” He said these words quietly, yet such was the timbre of his voice that it carried to every corner of the yawning pit. “Either that or you are gifted with the keenest foresight.” He turned suddenly, sweeping his attention to another section of the choked seats. “And if not that, then surely the desert gods have shined on you this day, for you will soon bear witness to one of only two final bouts that Djaga, the Lion of Kundhun, will ever fight!”

  As one, the crowd roared their appreciation. Pelam would normally go on for a time, recounting her exploits, but Djaga needed no introduction to the spectators of Sharakhai. Just as the sound began to die, Djaga emerged from the tunnel. Knowing when it was his time to be the center of attention and when it wasn’t, Pelam merely flourished and arm toward her and backed away. With the sun’s heat washing over her, Djaga took to the center of the pit and slowly turned, allowing the crowd to take her in.

  It was a thing she did to build excitement, a slow teasing of the battle about to begin. It felt familiar as heat in the desert, and yet she hardly knew what to feel, seeing so many gathered, eager to see her trade blows, eager to see blood. Since coming to Sharakhai, she’d practically lived within these walls. If it were only a matter of her body, she stand within them and fight a while longer. She was young yet. Her nagging wounds hadn’t accumulated so badly that she couldn’t still scrap in the dirt with the dogs. But the bouts, the things she rummaged up within her mind to wage these battles so effectively, and for so many years, they’d become like a canker, painful to the touch. And they’d grown worse over the years, until each felt as if it would consume her.

  “Take him!” A young man in the crowd rent the air before him as if opening up some imaginary enemy before him. “Open him up!”

  Many spurred the young man on, but Djaga ignored him, turning her attention elsewhere to a strikingly beautiful woman sitting at the very edge of the pit’s walls. Nadínamira. Nadín. A woman who’d long ago captured Djaga’s heart. She sat in a seat Djaga had arranged for her long ago, to take if she so chose. She rarely did, though. She was too worried over the wounds Djaga received, the danger she was in, but she’d come today, and for that, Djaga was glad.

  Like a perfect marble statue in the midst of a riot, the crowed raged around Nadín. She held Djaga’s eye, smiling her worried smile. Djaga nearly broke, then, nearly allowed the worry that emanated from Nadín like rays from the sun to enter her consciousness. She regained herself a moment later, choosing instead to see only Nadín’s beauty, her dark lips, her curly hair lifting every so often in the meager wind. Look any deeper and she would become lost, and that was a thing Djaga couldn’t allow. Not now, so close to the end. If she were going to start a new life with Nadín, she needed the money these last two bouts would bring. They both did.

  The crowd had become an undulating beast now that Pelam was announcing her opponent. “Talashem,” Pelam was saying, “may be a man born of the desert tribes, but he is fresh from the killing pits of Ganahil at the edges of the Thousand Territories of Kundhun.” Djaga’s ears perked at this—she had been born and raised in Kundhun, after all—but the rest was lost, for the bout was near.

  She paced back and forth over the dusty floor of the pit she knew so well. The shouting of the gathered crowd faded. The desert’s hot wind became like to a dream. She focused on Talashem. Only on Talashem. The way his battle-kissed armor hung on his spare frame. The way he favored his right hip. The way he stared at her as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  I will wipe that look from your face. I will grind it against the dirt until it’s gone. You will remember this fight until your dying days.

  He matched her in weight. His muscles were lithe. It made her wonder just how quick he was. Osman wouldn’t have pitted her against him if he weren’t a good fighter. Her opponents had always been skilled, but since the public announcement of her retirement, they had featured fighters as good as the desert had to offer.

  The crowd burst into a renewed flurry as pit boys ran out in a train carrying an assortment of weapons. Talashem chose a spiked shield and a shamshir while Djaga chose one of the tall leather shields from her homeland and a heavy, curving club, its end round like a fist, studded with nails.

  All the while Djaga whispered under her breath. I ask not for your favor, Sjado. I ask not for your favor. I only give what you require, Sjado. I only give what you require.

  As she returned to her starting point, images of the dead returned to her. Her cousin, lying on green grass, his blood bright beneath the summer sun. Her uncle not so far from him. Her brother as well. Seven others. Her family, by the gods. All of them her family.

  She heard no murmur of reply. Felt no sense of favor from the god she’d invoked. But she felt Sjado’s hunger. It was growing inside Djaga, as it always did when she called upon it. An old friend, it sat within her chest, crouched like a lion. It enlivened her frame, making her club feel as light as air, her shield invincible.

  Nearby, Pelam struck his gong, signaling the start of the bout. Djaga strode forward.

  I ask not for your favor.

  Talashem moved to meet her, wary, ready.

&nbs
p; I only give what you require.

  Perhaps Talashem saw it within her. Perhaps he was simply being wary. But he backed away as Djaga charged, bringing her club down on him as Sjado’s light filled her from within. That was when she felt it, a familiar sensation coming from somewhere in the crowd. It was something she hadn’t felt since leaving her homeland: another who could touch Sjado. Another spurned by the two-faced god.

  Afua…

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Many years before that bout in the pits, far, far away from the heat of Sharakhai, a younger Djaga stood on a hill as the ceaseless winds of Kundhun swept over the grasslands.

  Like standing on the shore of an emerald sea, Djaga thought.

  “Come now,” Afua called from the base of the hill. “Always mooning.”

  Afua wore a leather dress with wooden beads sewn into the shape of an orange dahlia, the sign of their tribe. She shouldered a leather bag, within which were the tools they would need to commit their crime.

  “I’m not mooning,” Djaga replied, taking to the downward slope. “I’m admiring the beauty before me. You should try it one day.”

  Afua replied with a jaunty air as she headed off between two of the hills. “No time. We’ve work to do.”

  “Work to do…” Djaga spoke softly, the wind stealing her words. “Conspiracies to commit, more like.”

  Even so, she followed Afua willingly.

  They soon came to a hill that was shaped differently than the rest. It looked like a spearhead, and into its narrowest slope, the place from which the spear’s haft would extend, a stone door was set. Growing along the threshold and the door’s surface were green moss and white lichen. Now that they were here, the worry that had seemed so far away felt close, a crow flying above her, cawing and judging, like a servant of Sjado herself.