“If their counsel were worth even a bushel of grain, then we wouldn’t have woken to find our enemies outside our defenses. Besides, the bulk of them will be dead by sun’s end.”
“And you? Where do you intend to be by then? That you, my sultan, should announce my succession now?”
Kiyan smiled. Jalal was taken aback. There were so few moments when he had seen his father show joy, even when feigned.
“Either by your side,” Kiyan answered, his old self having suddenly returned, if only for the benefit of his son. “Or in Hell, brandishing my kilij against the Devil himself.”
Jalal could not help but grin in return. There is the father I know, he assured himself.
***
With a shade of ebony darker than a starless night, Nire was a remarkable sight. A purebred Dylian stallion, he made both Jalal and Kiyan appear as babes as it towered over them. Every curve and ridge, each muscle, looked as though it had been carved from obsidian, for its coat was brushed with olive oil every morning. The stallion’s high tail carriage added to its regal demeanor, a quality that was not lost on Kiyan. Jalal watched as his father strode to his horse, with every guard, horse handler, and servant bowing as he passed.
Jalal, in awe of his command, was hardly without. He marched to the other end of the war camp, where his detail had his horse ready for him. The hue of sandstone, Yaar was himself a grand specimen. More like a gazelle than a horse in appearance, Yaar was of the Ak-Nobl, a breed that dated back some three thousand years to the Dajestani Dynasty. Slender though he was, Jalal could attest to the fact that Yaar was strong and without equal in speed amongst the other Dylian cavalry horses.
Yaar neighed as Jalal approached. Hafez, his grand handler, stroked the length of his nose. “Our best mount is eager to carry my effendi,” Hafez boasted.
“Then I shall not disappoint,” Jalal answered. He lifted his foot into the stirrup with ease, motioning away from the squires who obligatorily stood by. As he threw his leg over his stallion, his gaze returned to his father’s entourage, which had swelled since he mounted Nire. With each additional cavalry rider came the glint off of a lance or the sight of a kilij sword in its scabbard. Yes, Jalal thought, join my father. Bolster his pride, his spirit. May he never know weakness again.
“My effendi,” Hafez said, his head bowed, suspecting that he was disrupting Jalal’s thoughts. “What is your command?”
Jalal swung his stallion around. His guards, five in all, was much smaller than that of his father. Over the years, they had been ever loyal to him in his missions and campaigns. While the guards of his brothers had become derelicts or drunks, Jalal’s entourage stood intact, even with their trek into the unknown.
Jalal sat a little taller in his saddle as he bellowed. “We stay inside the right flank, just as in our marches. If battle erupts and the outer flank of cavalry fail, we are to fall in line with my father’s guards. Understood?”
Hafez bowed his head, as did the other four.
***
He stared up at Jalal. The green in his irises was even more striking as the afternoon sun hit them. Jalal only wanted to see them and ignore the strands of flesh that dangled from Hafez’s severed neckline. Beneath the dune that cradled his head, grains of sand soaked the red stream of him and many others, absorbing all of the dreams, desires, and sins of the lifeless.
Only the shriek of an oncoming assailant woke Jalal from his trance. The black strands of a foreign beard were nearly upon Jalal before the tip of his kilij sword found muscle and entrails. The man fell into Jalal, his rage emptied. Jalal slid him onto the ground where he joined the others.
Jalal stumbled back over the bodies to the crest of the dune. An impressive array of corpses encircled him, his father and their eight warriors who remained. Most were either male or female soldiers, although a few horses and camels laid among the newfound dead. Their ranks varied, with the lowliest in mismatched armor while the highest among them bore polished mail over fine silk and linen. No matter their prestige or lack thereof, the dead rested in unison, their social status wiped clean.
A grunt caught Jalal’s attention. He looked over his shoulder to find one of their soldiers gripping his neck as an arrow shaft protruded. The soldier, one of their best, sunk to his knees before his face found the sand.
Ahead of Jalal, an archer lowered her bow as she drew an arrow from her quiver. As she nocked it, other archers crested the neighboring dunes. From all camps they came – the El Fayir, the Shoahan, and the Syniad – to approach the last survivors of the Dylian army.
Jalal turned to Kiyan, who stood at the highest point of their dune. With the agility of a painted cheetah, Jalal hopped over body and weapon to find himself by his father’s side. He scooped leather shield, bent and broken amidst the heat of battle, to provide themselves with some protection.
Then they saw her. A shimmering figure of gold and violet, as though she was a walking jewel. The Sultana. Inci.
She stopped atop the dune directly across from them. Tall and straight she was, with the kilij in her left hand nearly half the length of her body. She raised her left index finger slightly, and that seemed to be enough. All stares – not just those of her Syniadian archers, but the ones of the El Fayir and Shoahan as well – were upon her, for in unison with her finger they raised their nocked bows. And with its lowering, the archers unleashed their fury.
A rain of death it was. Precise without fault, each shaft found its mark. The last of the Dylian soldiers fell, leaving Jalal and Kiyan unscathed.
In disgust and anger, Kiyan threw his kilij toward Inci. It clanged against the scaled armor of a female captain at the base of their dune, the metallic sound echoing. “You damn bitch!” screamed Kiyan. “I’ll peel the skin from your hide for all of this!”
“No,” Inci replied flatly.
“You are of my blood. I gave you the highest honor in my court. I gifted you with ivory, gold leaf, and jewels. And this is how you repay me? The eldest son of your father!”
“Your presents were but testaments to your false glory. Your generosity was a ruse, empty gestures meant to veil your contempt for every woman in your family.” Inci’s words were as strong as a torrent yet flowed as silk, the wind carrying them over the dunes to their ears. “You never saw us as equals. None of us. Not your mother. Nor me. Nor the rest of my sisters. Not your concubines. Neither your wives nor slaves. None of us. Not one woman.”
“But our father...”
“Was the only link between you and me. A man who hated women almost as much as you do.”
“No Dylian will ever bow to you.”
“Do you not recognize those from your land?” Inci said as she gestured to the ones around her. “So many already have. The rest will follow. Especially when they see their sultan as my captive.”
Inci made her way through the corpses toward them. Her entourage of warriors did likewise, the men and women of her flock moving in unison to her movements. From among them, Jalal heard the clank of metal on metal. He scanned the ongoing horde to find some with iron chains, shackles and fetters in their hands, no doubt meant for him and Kiyan.
“I did this...”
Jalal turned to find his father bent over. He went down to one knee as he drew his dagger, looking upon the approaching enemy.
“Father, you did all that you could...”
“No, I didn’t. I showed mercy to my enemies. That was my gravest mistake. I should have been stronger. For my nation. My family. For you, Jalal. For you. No wonder all of my other kin and children have abandoned my side. You should have joined them.”
Jalal kneeled before his father. “Never.”
“Defiant till the end. You are my son.” Kiyan placed his hand on his shoulder to pull him close. “If you should survive this, finish our journey. Find the jinni. This sultana may discover our maps, but she has no full knowledge of the terrain we have traversed or the tales we have heard from the locals. It is up to you to find the Survivors of Heav
en, the jinni, the ones who can restore our birthright and save what legacy we have left. Swear to me, Jalal. That until your last breath, you will do all to find the jinni. Swear it.”
The long and thin shadow of Inci came between them. Jalal and Kiyan turned to her, disdain written across their faces, pure hatred spewing from their gazes. Inci, by comparison, was emotionless but for the slightest smirk that formed the hint of a curl on her lips.
“One more thing,” Kiyan began as his son turned his attention back to him. “When you survive this, be sure never to show mercy. Never. Especially to her kind. Take everything for yourself. Crush all your enemies, plow through them without haste. You can do it, Jalal. I know you can...”
“Enough of this old man’s rantings,” Inci interrupted. “Seize them.”
“Jalal,” Kiyan said as he raised the tip of his dagger toward the heavens while he stared at his son. The enemy around him paused.
“Father,” Jalal replied.
“Conquer the known world.”
With that, the dagger disappeared from the blue canvas above. Jalal stared down, finding the blade gone, the hilt protruding from the sultan’s gut. Kiyan fell to his knees. Jalal rushed to his side to cradle him. Blood ran over the links and scales of his mail and gurgled from his mouth. Jalal, having not known his tears for a very long time, cried, turning his face into a floodplain.
The tall, thin shadow found its way over Jalal. “Once, when in the yard at his citadel, your father told me that no enemy would ever take him alive. I should have known he would take his own words to heart.”
“He was a leader of his word,” Jalal said through his clenched teeth and tears. “Unlike you.”
“Pity,” Inci replied. “I would have liked a captive as proud as your father. A true sultan. But I suppose I will have to settle for you.”
Inci’s shadow withdrew, replaced by the clank of scales and chains. Jalal managed a few swings of his kilij before a chain coiled around his right arm, then his left. His back found the sand. His tears, having just kissed the desert air, met the rough spun wool of a black hood.
Chapter 1
Drops rolled down the length of her spine. Ashallah saw tiny bumps of flesh quiver in their wake. She shivers, she realized. If only I could be the one to warm her. That would be a welcome assignment.
The rest of the concubine’s body glistened with a thin layer of sweat. Her forearms. The meat of her legs sticking out between the cuts of her skirt. Her breasts.
Ashallah blinked, regaining her focus. Her lips parted as if to whisper the words she wanted to say.
I am the eclipse to the sun of my enemies. I am strong. I am midnight.
Behind the concubine, sprawled across her bed, stirred a customer. For Ashallah, that alone was enough to spoil the sight of young, tight female flesh.
The man threw off the covers and grunted as he sat up. The coarse, black hairs on his chest rose and then fell as he stretched. Like the other men, Ashallah had seen in the brothel; this one was the brutish sort. Older, unbathed, crass. His looks did not betray his demeanor, as he had turned lecherous and rough once the concubine had shown him to the room. The man did not even bother to close the door before he ripped the dress from the concubine and took her, thereby allowing other customers to peek in and watch.
The concubine shivered. Not from fright, Ashallah knew. From disgust. The woman wrapped a towel around her shoulders to cover herself as she turned to perform her tasks once more.
The brute yawned. He looked to the concubine, his conquest. He scratched his groin.
“In a bit,” he murmured.
He lied back down. Within moments, his chest heaved as his snores echoed through the room.
The concubine’s lip curled into a smile. She turned to her closet, where she threw off her towel and skirt, allowing Ashallah a glimpse of her slender figure before putting on a robe of red silk and gold thread. Ashallah, her lust peaked, stared at the graceful figure as her robe swayed back and forth, silently brushing the marble tiles as the concubine left the room.
From behind the lattice, Ashallah continued to watch the brute on the bed. She had never seen a whale in person, but she had heard of them. The tales of their size, their girth, were well known. Portly creatures Ashallah knew. She imagined that had one washed up on a Dylian shore, dried out and sprouted thick, black hair, that such a beast would be similar to the one before her.
His appearance is of no consequence, she reminded herself. Now he will meet his fate. To remain in darkness. Eternal midnight.
Ashallah extended her foot to the balustrade. The cool stone greeted her sand-covered sole, then the other. Ashallah released the lattice as she knelt on the railing. She leaped into the room, not even bothering to touch the balcony. An unnecessary move, certainly. However, Ashallah had been in waiting for so long that she felt the urge to stretch and jump, if for no other reason than to exercise.
A few long strides took Ashallah to the side of the bed. The transparent silk drapes, perhaps sensing what was to come, parted with the incoming breeze, relenting their cover to become gliding specters of the night.
The dagger in her hand felt light. She had opted for a small, seldom-used piece from her arsenal, one of the few she had procured from the armory of Yasem. Few smiths there knew how to craft proper steel, but her dagger was the exception, being one of the last crafted by the master smith Lazat before his death. With the thin edge and curves of a khukuri blade on both sides, it lacked the heavy, dull edge on its top side. That meant it would fare poorly in blade-to-blade combat. For close engagements though, the weapon served well. The tip could find its way through the link of any chainmail, no matter how finely constructed. Upon breaking the skin, the slim edges guaranteed the flesh and organs would part easily, delivering death to the recipient in quick form.
All this Ashallah contemplated as she stared down at the brute, a man who seemed to lack any capacity for awareness. She twirled the dagger in her hand, relishing the amount of time she had, feeling almost as a young girl does when picking desert wildflowers.
Then, without provocation, the man woke.
He found Ashallah standing over him. Whether he was in shock, or still drowsy, was uncertain. Perhaps he thought her another concubine, sent to the room for his pleasure. No matter the reason for his hesitancy, he spent a moment in quiet stillness, not bother to move or make a sound.
In the moment that followed, his lips parted. To question? To yell? To scream? It made no difference. All his mouth did was open. He emitted no sound. For the time to react, to do anything to try to save himself, had passed.
He had waited, Ashallah told herself. He had waited too long, she contemplated as she wiped her dagger on the sheets. Time will elapse slowly for him, as searing pain spreads from the slash on his neck to the remainder of his body. Seconds will crawl forward as he drowns on his own blood. The minute it takes him to die will be his eternity. By the time death comes he will gladly embrace his midnight.
Ashallah fixated on the growing sea of red that consumed the surrounding white silk sheets. It spread and grew. Dark, unforgiving red.
***
The soft breeze of a dying night parted the drapes. That was enough. Ashallah slipped through them with ease. Her feet tread over the clay tiles with not so much as a whisper of a sound as she glided past table and chair to the hallway.
The always familiar snoring of the household beckoned Ashallah forward. She moved past the room of her mother, her nightly chorus reverberating through the walls. At times, her snoring was so loud it gave the neighbors cause to complain. Not tonight. Tonight was only a mild case, one that would have woken Ashallah and her sister in their younger years, before they had become accustomed to it.
Ashallah moved on to her room next door. She turned the handle and pushed open the door, listening carefully to the hinges. As she suspected, they did not creak, for she had just oiled them before she had left. She moved inside, noting that nothing had changed si
nce she had departed, save the one who was asleep in her bed. That was no surprise to Ashallah, for she knew the scent of desert jasmine in her hair and the fragrance of cumin and cinnamon from the grooves of her nails.
Ashallah moved to the other side of the bed to take a seat next to her sister. She stroked her ebony hair back until she stirred.
“You’re back,” Orzala said pointedly.
“You look like you’ve stayed up too late,” Ashallah said as she continued to stroke Orzala’s hair, envious of the sheen she had admired all her life.
“You said you would only be gone two or three days. It’s been seven.”
“I know.”
“Ommah became worried.”
“Again?”
“I tried to comfort her. But then I began to worry.”
“You two know well by now that my trips can go long. This has happened before. You needn’t be concerned,” Ashallah said, knowing that the last sentence she spoke was a lie.
Although she was trying to calm her sister’s fears, Ashallah felt a tinge of anger well. Her last mission should have been swift and decisive, one that a novice should have finished in two days – if given the proper details. Therein lied the problem. Her missions as of late were planned in haste, without much in the way of useful information. Descriptions of her enemies’ routines, their travel plans, and their residences – all necessary to understand and corner her targets – were scant. During one of her last operation, she even had to send one of her protégés into a brothel in the guise of a concubine, a practice she abhorred, for her commander had failed to provide an accurate report of their target.
“Are you?”
Ashallah gazed at her sister. “Am I what?”
“Concerned. You look worried.”
“No, I’m just tired.”
Midnight Page 2