Markswoman (Asiana #1)(75)
The sky overhead darkened to a dull orange as the wall of dust closed in on them. Kyra kept glancing up at it nervously. It was huge; it looked almost a mile high. How could they possibly outlast it? Despite her dehydration, sweat trickled down her face and back, and she threw up a fervent prayer to the Goddess. Please, let me live, so I can confront Tamsyn in the Hall of Sikandra.
“Cover yourselves,” Barkav shouted over the wind. “Get as close to the cliff as you can. Lie facedown and hold your blanket over your head. Hold on to each other as well.”
Kyra obeyed at once, knowing the advice was for her. The others were already moving into position, holding their blankets tightly over their heads. She lay facedown and immediately got sand in her mouth.
“Keep your eyes and mouth closed,” came Barkav’s muffled voice. “Don’t look up or the sand will blind you.”
Kyra closed her eyes and pressed her lips together, trying to ignore the sharp bits of rock digging into her skin through her cloak.
The sandblast hit the cliff in a howl of fury. They were almost swept away with the sheer force of it. Kyra hung on to Shurik and Saninda, who were on either side of her, but her blanket was snatched away. The sand scoured her exposed neck and pelted her on all sides. The wind tore at the cloth tied around her face. She kept her eyes closed, but the sand got into her nose and mouth. Just when she thought she wouldn’t be able to take another breath, Shurik dragged her under his blanket and breathing became a tiny bit easier. She lay quite still, glad of his arm around her.
It felt like hours before the storm passed. Kyra didn’t dare move until she heard a husky voice saying, “Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it? Nothing like the storm last summer.”
Nothing like the storm last summer? These men were crazy.
Kyra coughed out sand and pushed Shurik’s arm away. A mountain of sand had accumulated on them; they staggered to their feet and dusted themselves off. Kyra’s muscles ached from the effort of holding still for so long while being buffeted by the gale. There was sand everywhere: in her hair, mouth, nose, and ears. It had gotten inside her clothes and cut her skin. Her neck and hands, which had been exposed for only a few minutes, were bleeding.
Aram bent down to examine their provisions. After a moment, he said, “About half our supplies are still here.”
A ragged cheer went up and Barkav announced that it was time for tea. Five minutes later, after using a bit of the precious water to rinse their mouths and eyes, they were all sitting around the stove, cracking jokes about how Calima, the wicked wind, was getting old and toothless. Kyra sipped her tea and listened in disbelief. Aram had a cut lip and Ishtul had a nasty gash on his cheek where a flying piece of rock had hit him. Shurik had cut his hands in protecting her, but he grinned at her foolishly as if they were at a courting party.
Finally Kyra could not bear it any longer. She got up, tore her face cloth into strips, and wet them. She didn’t have any ointment and there wasn’t much water to spare, but it was essential to keep wounds clean or they would fester. Even the Marksmen ought to know that, for all that they didn’t consider healing important enough to merit a full class.
The elders looked up suspiciously as she approached. Ishtul protested that he didn’t need her help, but she ignored him. She wiped his cheek until the grit and sand were gone, and tied a clean strip around his face.
“There,” she said, stepping back. “That should do until you can see a medicine woman in Kashgar.”
“I thank you,” said Ishtul, patting his cheek and looking more hook-nosed than ever.
Aram took a couple of strips from her for Barkav and Saninda. Kyra glanced at Shurik, and he held his hands out to her with a pathetic look. She bit back a smile and bent over them, examining the cuts and cleaning them as gently as possible. Shurik winced several times but didn’t complain, even though it must have hurt.
The moon had risen when they finally resumed their journey. They had lost half a day and half their provisions, but this was little compared to what might have been.
Swaying on her camel under the moonlight, feeling the stillness of the night like a blessing, Kyra thought how close she had come to death. All of them could have died that day, their bodies preserved by the desiccation for some unsuspecting nomad to find years later. And there would have been no one left to avenge the death of Shirin Mam.
But the Goddess had decided their fates otherwise. Kyra was still alive, and her story wasn’t quite finished yet.
Chapter 27
In Kashgar
They arrived in Kashgar the next day, late in the afternoon. The change from the silent emptiness of the desert was abrupt, almost shocking. One minute they were riding between dunes and towering black rocks with the sun beating down on their bowed heads. The next minute they crested a dune and Kashgar lay before them, a vast jumble of adobe buildings dotted with blue-green domes, surrounded by ten-meter-high mud walls. Kyra gawked while Shurik explained that Kashgar was the biggest and oldest town under Khur jurisdiction. It had been settled soon after the Great War ended, eight hundred fifty years ago.
They passed through the walls by the main gate, a massive arched doorway with iron spikes on top. Burly Kushan guards dressed in ceremonial red and gold robes stood on either side of them, bowing deeply, clearly recognizing the group of Marksmen. Barkav and the elders called out greetings, but Kyra kept her face and katari hidden, though she longed to stare at everything. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself. Several clans and tribes had gathered in Kashgar ahead of the annual clan meeting, and it wouldn’t do to start rumors of a strange Markswoman in the company of the Marksmen of Khur.