The Wanderer's Mark: Book Three of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 3) by Beth Brower Read Free Book Online Page A

carry torches to frighten wild dogs who follow caravans, especially slave columns, in hopes of food.”
    “What food is there to be found in this place?” Eleanor sighed miserably into the sand.
    “Us,” Dantib said. “The weak, the sick, the dead. It is for human flesh they wait.”
    Bile rose in Eleanor’s mouth at the thought, and she swallowed hard. Whatever hell fate could call up, Eleanor had not been expecting this. They had come so close to the sea. A tear escaped from her eye and pressed steadily down her cheek, leaving a wet line that caught the cold air of the desert night. She did not know their final fate, but Eleanor knew they had failed.
    There were a few dozen miserable souls chained in the slave column. Eleanor and Dantib were linked together, forced to march at the rear. Shackles had been secured around their waists and wrists, and they had been walking for three days with little water and only a bite of bread for food.
    Two of the slavers had taken the horses away, heading west in hopes of selling them to a caravan for a fair price. Dantib had lifted his manacled hands towards hers for comfort as Eleanor watched Hegleh disappear into the setting sun. Eleanor’s boots, itchy as they were, had been taken to vend along with Dantib’s overtunic and Eleanor’s leather bag. All were to be sold to the West, except them. They would go farther into the Shera Shee.
    Now, a day later, her feet were raw and tired, bleeding from a misstep earlier in the day. The manacles would strip her wrists of their skin before long, and Eleanor could not move past the numbness of her shock. She remembered a time when she was young, Edythe had tripped Eleanor as they ran towards the coast near the fortress of Anoir. It was an accident, but Eleanor came down hard, the wind sucked from her lungs as she hit the dirt. It had felt like forever before she could get her body to take in air, to breathe. She had rolled to her knees and gasped at nothing, feeling frightened.
    This was how Eleanor now felt—gasping, her fingers clutching the ground, but no air would come. Clarity felt impossible, and she could barely see the image of Ainsley’s towers as she faded into sleep.
    ***
    “The Kotaah Hills are up ahead, and then we drop down through the Aronee.” Basaal said as he pointed to the distant haze.
    “I can read a map,” Ammar remarked lightly to his brother.
    “Can you?” Basaal raised his eyebrows. “I am all surprise. I did not know you could read anything. Now,” he added, “stop being so bitterly sarcastic, and enjoy the news that we are well into our journey.”
    “Only to make the same journey home on some nameless day,” Ammar replied.
    “Hopeless.” Basaal patted Refigh good-naturedly as he scanned the desert before them. The fall winds, which had perturbed him on his journey north to Zarbadast, were not to be found now in spring, and they rode without headscarves.
    They were weeks out of Zarbadast, and the pulse in Basaal’s blood quickened in anticipation as they headed south. Ammar often rode beside Basaal, who was attached to the body of the emperor’s honorary company. They sought asylum in the back, riding just before the soldiers, wishing to spend no time with the pleasantries born of royal expectation.
    The sound of a rider caused Basaal to turn his head. It was a messenger bearing his own colors. Basaal nodded to Ammar and turned out of place to meet the soldier.
    “Yes?” Basaal asked the messenger once the man had pulled up his reins and caught his breath. The messenger lowered his eyes to show respect then looked at Basaal’s face.
    “A request from your honor guard,” he began, “one called Zanntal. He seeks your counsel with all immediacy and desires Your Grace to come straightway.”
    Basaal nodded. “I’ll come now. To the rear column?” he guessed.
    “I was sent to tell you that he waits half a league east of the column,” the man explained. “It would be my pleasure to show