We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya 1)

Zafira reminded herself that they only needed her to find the Jawarat, and that no one was helping her because they cared. But she was grateful for them then, for the creatures’ focus had shifted away from her.

She nocked another arrow and fired.

* * *

Nasir knew the Huntress was skilled. He had seen her aim when she was in the midst of falling, when her Demenhune companion had taken an arrow for her. She was agile, lithe in war. But seeing it again: her rapid stream of arrows—each one finding its mark—made him feel … he didn’t like how it made him feel.

They were down to four ifrit when the creatures doubled their weapons to a stave per hand and even the Huntress began to grow tired. Nasir tore his scimitar through an ifrit and shoved Benyamin away from another’s oncoming stave.

It occurred to him that he was helping them. This was worse than not killing them.

Nasir swung his scimitar, locking with another of the fiery weapons. The ifrit brought its face close, meaning to intimidate, but Nasir saw nothing.

His will wavered when the heat licked at his hands like dogs starved of hydration.

And then his grip

began

to falter.

Laa. The word echoed deep inside that ever-moving dark mass he called a heart. He couldn’t have come this far only to lose his grip on his own sword.

He threw his weight behind the blade, and the sounds of battle rushed from around him as he lost focus. A roar, a hiss. The clang of metal. The rustle of movement, scuffles. Dark laughter, trickling into his ears.

And then, nothing.

He stumbled forward, the ifrit gone. No, not gone.

Twitching at his feet with a pristine white arrow through the head, as graceful as its owner. Kharra.

A blood debt.

Nasir released a breath. Kill or be killed.

Save and be saved.

Sweat trickled down Nasir’s neck. He sought her out, and despite barely being able to see, he felt their gazes lock amid the fray. And before his pride returned, he acknowledged her with a small tip of his head.

The Huntress nodded back.

CHAPTER 51

The moment Zafira felled the last ifrit, Altair went over them for one final cut across their unmoving throats. The air reeked of burnt flesh. At Zafira’s questioning look, Benyamin leaned back on his heels and said, “Only safin steel keeps them dead.”

Still, they hurried out of the oasis as soon as the task was complete.

“Sharr is upset we killed its kin,” Kifah said, looking at the sky. Zafira would have thought that Sharr should be happy it had more to feast upon, but Kifah’s dark eyes were void of mirth.

Swells of sand marched into the distance, the umber now a shade forlorn because of the gray sky. Aside from nicks and scratches and more than a few burns, everyone had made it out alive, if a bit weary. Altair shared strips of dried goat meat with them, and even Nasir begrudgingly accepted.

“Well, dearest Demenhune? Which way do we proceed?” Benyamin asked carefully. His voice slid eerily in the silence of death.

Zafira shook her head. She was tired of not knowing what was happening. “I need answe—”

“And you will get them,” he said before she could finish. “When we stop for the night.”