by James Ponti
Dastan instantly made note of the vipers’ locations as time reversed. Then, with just a tiny bit of sand left in the handle, he let go of the button. He had only managed to set time back for a bit. But that made all the difference.
Now, when the vipers shot into the air, Dastan knew exactly where they’d appear.
With blinding speed, he killed each of the three vipers with the Dagger. Then he threw it through the air and sliced the fourth and final viper in half just as it was about to strike the sleeping Princess Tamina.
The sound of the battle awoke the rest of the camp. Eyeing the dead and dying vipers, their eyes grew wide—except for Tamina’s. Hers narrowed. She knew exactly how Dastan had killed the deadly snakes.
“Persian,” Amar said with amazement, “how did you do that?”
Dastan didn’t even reply. He looked up toward the bluff and saw the silhouettes of the Hassansins watching them. If they remained in the oasis, it would not take long for them to attack again. There would be no more miracles. The Dagger’s handle was virtually empty.
“We have to get out of here,” Dastan said as he cut Tamina free. “Let’s go! Hurry!”
“It’s safe to stop now, Persian,” Sheikh Amar said after they had been riding for quite a while. They had reached the borderlands and were traveling along a rocky path.
Dastan shook his head. “They won’t stop,” he assured them. “They track and they kill. That’s what they do.”
Amar was confused. “What who does?” he demanded.
“Those vipers were”—Dastan searched for the right word—“controlled by a dark secret of the empire: Hassansins.
“For years they were the covert-killing force of Persian kings,” Dastan continued. “But my father ordered them disbanded.”
“This sort of secret government killing activity is exactly why I don’t pay taxes,” Sheikh Amar told Seso.
“They came from the south, where Nizam holds estates,” Dastan explained. “He must have disobeyed my father’s order. They are no ordinary soldiers, but a cult of killers trained in ancient methods of Janna. They’ll do Nizam’s bidding. Without question.”
No one spoke for a moment as they considered the danger they now faced.
“We can’t stop,” Dastan said.
“Perhaps you can’t,” replied Amar. “But we can.”
“We could use your help getting to the temple,” Dastan told him. Along the way, Tamina and Dastan had given them a brief overview of their mission.
The sheikh laughed at this request. “By crossing the Hindu Kush with a storm building?” Amar replied. “Not only do you draw trouble like flies to a rotten mango, you’re also insane.”
Amar signaled his men, and they turned to ride in the opposite direction.
“There’s gold at the temple,” Tamina blurted out.
This caught Amar’s attention. He stopped momentarily.
“More than ten horses can carry,” she assured him. “Yours after you help us. Tax free.”
Sheikh Amar shrugged. Who was he to say no to a good business proposition?
* * *
Dastan, the sheikh, and his men followed Tamina as she led them from the desert up into the mountains. They crossed through the snow-covered Khyber Pass into lands beyond the empire.
Despite the harrowing journey, Tamina showed no sign of suffering. She seemed at peace. Dastan found this far more impressive than her beauty.
Finally, after days of cold, they had reached a more temperate climate. Tamina led them off the path and down into a mist-covered valley. It was in this valley that she would return the Dagger to the stone that it had come from.
Dastan’s eyes were wide. From a hundred yards away, the valley had been impossible to see. Yet, here it was, a beautiful place with a few simple farm houses made of stone.
“I was expecting golden statues and waterfalls,” Sheikh Amar said disappointedly.
While they rode, Dastan had been thinking of Tamina and the stories she had told him.
Looking at her now, as she gazed at the valley below, everything fell into place. “You’re descended from her, aren’t you?” he asked. “The girl who ‘won man his reprieve.’”
Tamina nodded. “Her descendants are Guardians. It’s a sacred obligation, passed down through generations.”
She looked at the young, handsome prince beside her. There was a reason he had been brought into her life. She knew it. The Dagger was as much a part of his calling as hers. She smiled, and Dastan returned it. They were in this together.
They continued down into the valley. But when they reached the first farmhouse, they sensed that something was wrong. The village seemed abandoned.
“It’s quiet,” Dastan said.
Behind the first house, they discovered the reason. Four of the priests who protected the temple were dead, their bodies slumped against the back of the house.
“They have been dead a long time,” Seso said, examining the bodies. “Tortured first.”
Tamina began to tremble with fear.
“These wounds aren’t from normal weapons,” Dastan said to Seso.
“Hassansins?” the Ngbaka warrior asked.
Dastan nodded. “They were here,” he said quietly. “Nizam knows.”
Just then, Sheikh Amar came up to them after surveying the other houses. “All dead,” he informed them. “The entire village.”
“Tamina,” Dastan said, “if Nizam knows this place, we have to get out of here.”
Before they could even move, they heard a noise. It was the sound of horses charging.
An enemy was approaching.
Chapter Thirteen
the sound of men charging on horseback filled the valley. Dastan grabbed Tamina, but before they could even make a move toward Aksh, they were surrounded by Persian cavalry— led by Garsiv.
Within moments, Dastan, Tamina, and all of Sheikh Amar’s men were lined up side by side, guarded by soldiers who had their crossbows poised and ready to shoot.
Garsiv dismounted his horse and strode directly toward Dastan.
“Give me your sword,” he said furiously.
“Listen to me,” Dastan pleaded.
Garsiv didn’t want to hear any of it. “Give me your weapon!” he commanded as he reached for his own sword. “Or do you forsake even that honor?”
Dastan looked into the eyes of his older brother. “There are four dead priests over there,” he said, motioning to the bodies. “Murdered by Hassansins on Nizam’s order. He’s the traitor.”
Garsiv laughed and drew his sword out of its scabbard. He pressed its blade up against Dastan’s throat.
“Hassansins no longer exist,” Garsiv said with a snarl. “You always thought you were so clever.”
“This is no trick,” Dastan said. “Nizam wants me dead. Wants me silenced. A trial is too public.”
Garsiv thought back to the meeting he had with Nizam and Tus. Their uncle had stressed that there should be no trial. He insisted that Dastan should not be brought back alive. As Garsiv remembered this, there was a slight flicker in his eye and he eased the pressure of the blade just slightly.
Dastan read his brother’s reaction. “He said as much, didn’t he?”
Garsiv didn’t answer.
“I know it’s never been easy between us,” Dastan told him. “But still, you and I are brothers.”
“Touching words”—Garsiv sneered—“with my sword at your throat.”
“Before he died, our father told me ‘the bond between brothers is the sword that defends our empire.’ He was praying that sword remained strong.”
Garsiv thought back about everything that had happened since their father had died. “Nizam recommended your death,” he said. “Tus disagreed and ordered you brought back alive.”
“Don’t you see? Nizam’s using the Hassansins to make sure that never happens. He’s afraid of what I might say. Who I might tell.”
Garsiv considered this for a moment and slowly, finall
y, removed his sword from against Dastan’s neck.
“Tell me, Dastan,” he said, ready to listen to his little brother.
Dastan was relieved. But just as he was about to explain everything, they heard an eerie whistling in the air, then three metal spikes punctured Garsiv’s gleaming breastplate.
“Garsiv!” screamed Dastan as he watched his brother fall to his knees.
From the mist rode a new set of men on horseback. Men far more dangerous than the cavalry.
Dastan knew who they were in an instant.
“Hassansins!” he yelled as he drew his sword.
Within moments a battle erupted between the Persian soldiers and the Hassansins. Amar and his men, captives just moments earlier, were now fighting alongside the soldiers who had captured them.
The Hassansins were the embodiment of cruelty. Each was the master of a different method of killing. One lashed the air with bladed whips, while the one who attacked Garsiv had a row of spikes protruding from his armor, making him into a human porcupine.
The Hassansin leader had more of his deadly pit vipers hidden in the sleeves of his cloak. It was pandemonium. Dastan had one thought. “We have to protect the Dagger!”
He turned to find Tamina, but she was gone.
Amar moved next to him to help fight off the Hassansins. “Find her, Persian.”
Dastan frantically looked everywhere. This was NOT the time for the princess to play her stubborn games. Finally, he spied her climbing up onto the roof of one of the stone houses.
He followed her, and when he got to the top he realized a secret passageway was hidden from view in the rocks above the house. This must be the location of the hidden temple.
He knew exactly what she was planning. She had told him as much. She was going to save the Sandglass by returning the Dagger to the gods and offering herself up as a sacrifice.
Tamina was trading her life for the lives of all humanity.
The thought shook Dastan to the core. Now he was no longer concerned with protecting the Dagger. He just wanted to protect Tamina. Following her into the cave, he saw her standing in a natural pool. She looked determined, resigned to her fate.
“There’s another way,” Dastan said quietly. “There has to be.”
“There isn’t,” she told him, turning at the sound of his voice.
“Then let me do it,” he said, stepping into the water and reaching for the Dagger.
Tamina shook her head. “Only a Guardian can replace the Dagger. One trained to embody man’s goodness before the gods,” she explained. “This isn’t something you can do.”
They looked deeply into each other’s eyes. Shielded from the raging battle, they could still hear the sounds of steel against steel and the screams of pain echoing through the temple.
“I’m ready for this, Dastan,” Tamina said.
Dastan shook his head defiantly. “I’m not.”
Suddenly the battle reached them. The whip-blade Hassansin appeared at the temple entrance and instantly went for Tamina and the Dagger.
The whip wrapped around her wrist and yanked her against the stone wall, knocking her unconscious.
The next whip was about to cut her in half when Dastan blocked it with his sword. He engaged the Hassansin in a fight to the death.
Dastan had never battled an enemy like this one. The whips came at him from every direction with expert accuracy.
Likewise, the Hassansin had never faced an opponent as skilled and acrobatic as Dastan. They continued to go back and forth, sword against blade, speed versus muscle.
Dastan pushed the fight away from Tamina and the temple and back out onto the roof of the farmhouse. They struggled to maintain their balance as they clashed. Dastan could see the battle still raging below; dead bodies were strewn across the ground.
Just then, Dastan saw an opening and used an acrobatic maneuver to run and push off of the chimney. He flipped into the air and landed behind the killer.
The Hassansin spun and used his leg to knock Dastan off his feet.
Dastan tumbled down the roof and crashed to the ground, the wind knocked out of him.
Before Dastan could catch his breath, the Hassansin leaped down and started to choke him. Dastan frantically tried to break free from the attacker’s deadly grip, but the killer just stared down at Dastan with blank eyes that registered no feeling or emotion.
Just as Dastan was sure he was about to take his final breath, the Hassansin’s grip suddenly loosened. The warrior fell to the ground.
Gulping for air, Dastan saw that the Hassansin had been killed by a sword which still protruded from his back. Dastan turned to see who had saved him.
Garsiv had managed to summon the strength to climb up on his knees and strike a blow to save the brother he loved.
“Garsiv!” Dastan cried as he reached down and cradled his head. “Hang on!”
“The sword is strong, brother,” Garsiv said, his face pale. “Save the empire.”
Dastan knew there was nothing he could do for Garsiv but try and keep him comfortable. He gently laid down his brother’s head and then said a silent prayer.
Then he realized how quiet it had become. It shouldn’t be quiet. Unless . . . the battle was over, and the Hassansins had disappeared as mysteriously as they had arrived. Dastan’s eyes flew open. That could mean only one thing.
He went to check on Tamina, who was standing by the cave entrance, a look of tremendous sadness on her face. “The Dagger?” Dastan asked.
Tamina shook her head. “It’s gone.”
Dastan looked down at his brother and considered the pain and suffering that his uncle had unleashed. Anger and rage fueled his determination.
He looked back at Tamina and made a solemn promise to her: “We’ll get it back.”
Chapter Fourteen
Beneath the faint light of a crescent moon, three cloaked figures rode through the empty streets of Alamut. These were the three remaining Hassansins. They maintained a fast pace until they reached the palace.
The three killers entered through a hidden doorway that led directly to Nizam’s chamber. There they found their master sitting at a large wooden table.
“Did you bring that which I seek?” Nizam demanded. The three sat down, and one of the deadly vipers slithered out from the lead Hassansin’s cloak. The snake hissed as it moved across the table, its tongue flickering in the candlelight.
The Hassansin pulled out a gleaming blade, causing Nizam to flinch. With lightning speed the killer grabbed the viper and sliced it open.
The Dagger had been hidden inside the reptile’s stomach.
“Dastan lives,” the Hassansin warned Nizam.
Nizam considered this for a moment. “In the end, it won’t matter,” he said. “Time will erase all.”
“Death stays with you, my lord,” the Hassansin hissed. “As does Prince Dastan. He’ll keep coming for the Dagger.”
“He won’t be in time,” Nizam said confidently.
They were on the verge of discovering the Sandglass of the Gods. Once they did, Nizam would have access to the Sands of Time. Then, he would be able to rewrite history.
The next morning, Tus stood on a balcony that looked out over Alamut. He was king, but not without cost. His heart ached for his father and what he thought was the treachery of his brother.
“We’ve uncovered tunnels beneath the street, my king,” Nizam said as he joined his nephew on the balcony.
“Tunnels or not,” Tus replied, frustrated, “we’ve still found no forges.”
Nizam gave Tus a knowing nod. “The crown weighs heavily, nephew?”
“More than I ever imagined,” Tus replied.
Nizam tried to reassure him. “The forges are here. Be patient.”
Tus nodded. “Any word from Garsiv?”
Nizam shook his head. “Not yet, Your Highness,” he lied.
Nizam wasn’t the only one who knew of secret entrances in and out of Alamut. Tamina had used a secret gateway t
o enter the city and was now speaking in hushed whispers with her trusted maidservant. Dastan, Amar, and Seso stood a bit off to the side.
“Her friends in the palace say the Persians have broken through the first level of tunnels. They’ll reach the Sandglass within hours,” she told them when she was done talking to the maid.
Dastan shared a knowing look with Sheikh Amar and Seso. After the battle in the valley, the one-time thieves had fully joined Dastan and Tamina’s noble cause.
“Nizam is keeping the Dagger in the High Temple,” Tamina added, pointing to the building at the center of Alamut.
The woman spoke some more, and Tamina’s reaction caught Dastan’s attention.
“What is it?” he asked.
“She says it’s guarded by some sort of demon,” Tamina translated. “Eyes of coal, skin creased as the desert. Coated in spikes.”
Dastan knew exactly who she meant. “The Hassansin.”
The woman spoke some more, and Tamina translated for the others: “He casts a curse of death over the sacred chamber. No man can stand within twenty yards of him and live.”
Seso spoke up. “Some don’t need to stand that close.”
The man had a point. Quickly, the four of them concocted a plan. For it to work, the knife-thrower needed to reach the High Temple.
Once Tamina had carefully described the layout of the place, Sheikh Amar and Seso approached the Persian guards at the entrance gate. They did their best to look weak and needy.
“Spare some water?” Amar asked pitifully.
The Persian guard smiled—and then spat on him. The other guards laughed at this. As they did, Amar and Seso pulled shovels out from beneath their cloaks and in a flurry, knocked the guards unconscious.
Just for good measure, Amar leaned over and spat on the guard who had spat on him.
Seso opened the gate to the temple, but before he could go through it, Amar reached up and took him by the shoulder.
“Are you certain of this?” Amar asked him.
Seso nodded toward Dastan. “I owe the boy.”
Amar couldn’t believe it. “You’re an Ngbaka, scourge of the Numidian plane! This nobility business, it’s not the cloth that we’re cut from.”