Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  No, thought Tariq, as he glared at his adversary; let it be done now, once and for all. Only one of them would walk away from the match this night, and that one would lead the tribe to its destiny. Let Allah’s will be done.

  “I accept your challenge,” he replied softly, keeping his gaze steady.

  Yasir’s smile broadened. He was bigger than Tariq, older, more experienced. Five others had been slain at his hand in the circle, he proudly recalled, and his reputation with the curved dagger was unmatched. Without a word, he stripped off his robe and raised his weaponless hands to the sky. Tariq, five paces opposite, did the same.

  Carolyn looked briefly at her brother, suppressing a sigh. She knew from the start that Tariq would meet the dare. How could it be any other way? Solemnly she called upon the judges to remain at their places and make certain that both combatants fought fairly, with neither seeking advantage over the other.

  A torch was brought and the oil-soaked rags lit by a single spark of her hint. At once shadows pranced, dodging the brightness and seeking refuge behind the ledges. Carolyn handed to Roskovitch a piece of shale, and the barbarian from Rus proceeded to draw a circle in the ground roughly seven meters in diameter.

  Zadek pulled Sharon and Asif back, nudging them closer to the smooth rock walls.

  “What is going to happen, teacher?” she asked, breathless and shaken.

  “A time-honored custom that cannot be broken,” replied the mullah with a frown. “A test of leadership, as ancient as the Kazirs themselves.”

  Sharon’s heart was beating wildly, her mouth parched and tongue swollen, as both combatants were stripped of all weapons and, wearing only tunics, brought by Carolyn into the center of the circle. Roskovitch held the torch while another man brought forth a long piece of hemp, tying one end to Yasir’s left wrist and the other to Tariq’s. At his signal, they both pulled it taut, making certain the hemp was well secured. Carolyn snapped her fingers, and another Kazir brought forth a wrapped cloth of silk, which he opened beside the light of Roskovitch’s torch: Two curved daggers gleamed, and he displayed them high for all the watching judges to see.

  Carolyn turned to her brother. Tariq stiffened, his focus on the man he would face. “You have been challenged,” said the saya, “so the choice of blades is yours.”

  Tariq nodded stoically. It seemed to Sharon that the younger man was clearly at a disadvantage. The broader, well-seasoned Yasir kept a mocking look upon his face, seeming almost eager as he picked up his dagger and fondled it slowly, assessing its balance, its weight. He was no stranger to such weapons, it was plain. He wiped the flat edge of the blade over his tunic, grinning as metal reflected golden flames from the torch; then he stepped back lithely, like a preying panther, yanking gently at the hemp, making slashes into the air.

  For Tariq, the matter at hand remained more somber. It was not that he had not killed men before; he had, many, all enemies of his people. But, unlike his opponent, he had yet to spill the blood of a Kazir, a kinsman, and Yasir was such a kinsman, cousin of his cousin; despite mutual hatred, they shared the same bloodline.

  The saya sighed deeply, looking first to one, then to the other. “No man may cross beyond the line,” she said, indicating the marks Roskovitch had made. “And neither shall keep the blade in other than his right hand.”

  Tariq nodded; Yasir scowled. They both knew the rules of the match well enough: one against one in a vendetta duel that every Kazir boy is taught about by the time he reaches the age of nine. Yet they understood that it was the saya’s solemn obligation to repeat it for them now, before all, so that no doubt or question concerning the fairness of the circle’s rules could ever be raised, or its outcome be suspect. Once the challenge had been met and the fight done, it was forever finished. There would be honor in defeat as well as in victory, neither shame nor blame, the integrity of the saya unblemished, for the slightest infraction of the strict rules meant instant death to the offender.

  From a goblet filled to the brim with sweet water, each of the fighters drank a long draught. Then to their opposite corners they silently marched, awaiting the signal. When Roskovitch held the torch above his head, Sharon flinched. Flames leaped when he swung it down, and, like tigers, the two ready combatants moved toward the center, pacing each other, stalking, tugging lightly at the hemp.

  Yasir feinted a lunge, and Tariq deftly back-stepped. Yasir knew his ploy had worked; he pulled hard at the cord, forcing Tariq toward him, and while the youth plunged forward, dragging his heels to regain his balance, Yasir struck. The curved desert dagger whistled by Tariq’s scalp, slashing downward and tearing through the rough fabric of his tunic. Tariq twisted away smartly, the way Roskovitch had taught him, parried, and forced Yasir to resume his guard, but not before a thin crimson line spread slowly along his left arm.

  Carolyn winced with the blow, not daring to breathe until it was certain that no serious damage had been done. As saya, it was her sworn duty to be certain the match was fair; she must not show the slightest favoritism. This she would surely do, for she also lived by the harsh code of the Steppes. Still, seeing her brother’s plight had taken its toll, it was all she could do to mask her growing worry.

  “Yasir will kill him,” whispered Sharon as the two men continued to thrust and parry, aghast at how easily the larger man held Tariq at bay.

  Zadek frowned characteristically, saying in a low voice, “Sometimes the wolf must play the bear’s game. But the match is not yet done.”

  While the gloom of night thickened, Yasir lashed out again and again, forcing Tariq to turn with a spin, ducking swiftly from the glimmering blade. The outer rim of the circle stood only inches from his feet; he must not cross it, he knew, but must keep as close to the center as he could, for just one step outside the arena would give his foe the right to claim victory.

  The hemp tightened; Tariq gripped it fiercely with his left hand, managing to counter the quick succession of blows intended to stun. Then up went Yasir’s arm, just as Tariq had regained a measure of free movement. A powerful uppercut of steel thrusted toward the younger man’s jugular. Sharon contained a squeal of horror as Tariq stumbled, knees almost buckling with the strain as he caught Yasir’s knife hand by the wrist and the two men grappled like wrestlers. With sandaled feet scratching against gravel, Tariq yanked the hemp with all his strength. Yasir, caught off guard, was momentarily dragged forward and toppled over. Sharon was amazed and thankful when the smaller man’s knife slashed furiously. The sound of ripping fabric was coarse in the still night air. Yasir pulled back, grunting; a stream of dark blood ran along his shoulder. Leaping to his feet like a wounded animal, he let loose a wild torrent of harmless slashes in the air that kept Tariq from further advance.

  Tariq crouched; Yasir jabbed. They paced each other for long moments. Each had underrated the other, it was now clear, and there was no more room for mistakes. When Yasir feinted, Tariq’s knife chopped, his arm fully extended. The tip of his dagger played at the hairs of Yasir’s exposed belly, and the larger man once more was forced to back-step, for the first time finding himself now pushed toward the line of the circle.

  Roskovitch could not contain a small smile. Unlike the saya, he was not sworn to impartiality, and his grin only broadened when Yasir, now panting, successfully dodged the whistling lashes.

  A flash of blows and counterblows ensued, so fast that it was impossible to count them. Yasir used his greater weight to full advantage, constantly pressing, leading Tariq in a backward dance. But the youth was aware of such tricks, and with one of his own he struck a piercing blow, the tip of his blade only at the last instant blocked from driving into Yasir’s heart. The larger man cursed, beads of sweat glistening on his darkened face. The hemp twisted when Yasir pulled it taut, and he quickly loosened it. Sharon gasped: Tariq had begun to stumble again, his foot twisting over a rock. A laugh of triumph bit through the air. Yasir’s knife came down for what he was sure was the death blow; but as his arm swung down, Tariq�
��s own came up, like a hammer, splitting through flesh and ribs, the cold steel probing deeper and deeper. Yasir stood unmoving, his eyes wide, staring in disbelief at the semi-fallen, younger man, his own knife forgotten. Then he grimaced, gurgled, dropped his blade and clutched instead at the knife stuck straight through his gut. Blood pulsed over his fingers and hands, and he fell to the ground, groaning.

  “The death blow, lad!” cried Roskovitch, his anxious features hardened in the shadows.

  Tariq stood over the writhing body; he bent over, pulled out the bloodied blade, and lifted it high, ready to plunge into Yasir’s heart. The beaten foe stiffened; through glassy eyes he looked up at Tariq, showing no fear. But the awaited blow to end his life did not come. Tariq wavered, then dropped his knife arm to his side. Sweaty, out of breath, he grimaced with pain and rubbed at his left arm, the wound beginning to throb.

  Yasir cleared his throat. “Well?” he grunted. “Do it! You’ve won. Do what you must!”

  The saya watched pensively; the judges above, satisfied that the match had been fair, tensely waited for the son of Shoaib to take the life of his haled rival. Still Tariq made no move.

  “You must do it,” whispered Carolyn.

  Her brother looked at her harshly. “No!” he said. And, to the shock of the judges and the saya, he threw the knife down, the handle of the blade wobbling as the shaft struck upright in the dirt. “I shall not kill you,” he told Yasir. “You are a good fighter, too badly needed to have your life wasted like this.”

  Yasir was stunned. Holding his wound tightly, he rose to his knees and gazed up at the man before him. Tariq’s eyes were cold and impassive. “Had it been you upon the earth, I would not have hesitated,” he rasped through his pain.

  Tariq nodded. “I know. Perhaps that is the difference between us, then. But my decision is made. Leave the Stronghold, Yasir. Return in peace to your clan. No man shall harm you, I promise it. Nor do I ask favors of you in exchange, only that your life be spared in return for the girl.” His gaze rested on Sharon, who was standing breathlessly beside the rock wall.

  Yasir looked to her as well and nodded darkly. “I accept your bargain.”

  Only Zadek smiled when Tariq said, “Then go. Allah’s will has been done. She has been given sanctuary among us. Let those wiser than you or I decide if truly she bears the Mark.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Glumly the Persian physician stood up, candlelight flickering from the table beside the huge bed. Scarfaced armed men guarded the door of the once opulent chamber, their hands firmly at the hilts of gleaming scimitars poking through their belts.

  The physician ignored them, directing his attention instead to the mute slave girl standing meekly at the foot of the bed. “Open the curtains,” he directed, and the girl nodded and complied. A wash of brilliant sunlight swept through the room, bathing the gloom with a golden glow. The physician rubbed the aching muscles in his shoulders, sighed, and let his gaze linger upon the cloudless blue sky outside. The shattered public buildings of the city stared back, broken and scarred, blackened by smoke, twisted and misshapen by flame.

  A hand, large and powerful, touched the physician’s arm. He turned and looked evenly into the eyes of the sinewy man at his side, then he shook his head.

  Osklath slitted his eyes; his lower lip twitched. “Your procedures have failed?” he asked.

  Upon the bed, the sleeping man stirred briefly. The physician kept his voice low so as not to wake him. “There was little I could do,” he admitted with a shrug. “I told you before: The eye is beyond repair; he will never see from it again.”

  Osklath grimaced. This butcher of Persia was playing games with him — not to be trusted, like all the others. “And the pin?”

  Again the long-faced physician sighed. He was weary, more weary than he had ever been before. For eighteen hours he had worked on the eye of the khan, his instrument tray soaked with blood — grim proof of his efforts — but what had been asked of him was impossible.

  “No man of medicine could remove the golden pin,” he said truthfully to Kabul’s aggrieved son. “It is too deeply embedded. It would damage the brain, perhaps causing hemorrhage, perhaps even killing your father.”

  Osklath looked away. He could have this Persian racked for his failure, make him squirm like a worm as every centimeter of flesh was torn from, his bones, but what good would it do? It still would not make him cure the khan.

  “Listen to me,” said the physician. “The worst of the torment is over. The optic nerve has been shattered, deadened. The terrible pain shall diminish, to recur only upon occasion. Already the eyelid has been sewn over the inflicted eye. A patch will cover the disfiguration.”

  Kabul turned from his side to his back. The slave girl immediately brought another goblet of strong wine to his lips, hoping it would put him back into his fitful sleep. For weeks the khan had been in indescribable agony, out of his mind with suffering. Many physicians captured in Samarkand as well as India, had tended him, but not one had been able to do anything. This Persian, famous throughout the East for his skills, was the last hope. And now he too had been unable to put Kabul out of his anguish.

  The khan gulped down the wine greedily, the only pain-killer he had found. The slave made to fill the goblet again, but the physician stopped her. “More is useless,” he said. “Let him be.” Then he bent over the agonized body, his hand forcing the khan’s head back on the pillow. One eye stared back blankly, the other, pus-laden and badly swollen beneath the stitched lid, a hideous sore like a festering cancer.

  “Your fever has broken, great khan,” said the physician.

  Kabul’s single eye cleared; he studied the face of the man hovering over him, noting the bloodied surgical robe. “Who … who are you?” he asked weakly.

  The man of medicine bowed. “Your servant, my lord, brought to Samarkand only a day ago to tend your ailment.”

  Kabul listened, only half aware of what was going on around him. His good eye looked to the solemn guards, then to his son. Osklath showed no emotion.

  “Have you much pain,” asked the physician.

  Kabul shook his head slowly.

  “Good. I have done all I can. Now I shall return home.”

  The khan glanced at his son; Osklath nodded. “He is not a slave, Father. I paid him in gold to come to Samarkand. He is free.”

  Kabul’s fierce eye dimmed from the effects of the heavy doses of wine forced into his body. Deep lines threaded his tired face. His forehead was bathed in sweat, and the slave girl, at the physician’s command, wiped it away with a silk cloth. With great effort he lifted his head. He gripped the physician’s collar tightly, froth from his twisted mouth dripping over his matted beard. “Where is she?” he hissed.

  “My lord?” The physician seemed perplexed.

  “She is gone, Father,” said Osklath.

  The khan’s features changed dramatically, becoming cruel, as he peered venomously at his son, his swaggering son, who he knew must have relished this moment.

  “We searched the city for fully a week, Father,” Osklath continued. “Every alley was combed, every street and every byway. Our soldiers went through the palace in full force, seeking her down in the cellars and catacombs —”

  “And?”

  Osklath paused before answering. Was there a hidden smile behind those impassive eyes? Kabul wondered as his son gazed down at him plaintively. “And the woman you seek has escaped.”

  Kabul balled his hands into fists; he tried to rise. Veins were bulging from his thick throat and forehead. “I want her!” he boomed, the strength in his weakened body coming only from sheer hatred. “Do you hear me? I want her found!”

  Osklath folded his arms across his vest and lowered his head respectfully. “We are trying, my lord. Already troops have been dispatched into this accursed countryside. Some days ago word reached me of three fugitives who fled Samarkand — two men and a woman, I was told.” He shrugged. “Perhaps the woman is she, but
we are not yet certain.”

  Dark spittle was flying from the khan’s purpled lips. The Persian physician tried to calm the agitated man, but Kabul brusquely pushed him away. He lifted his hand and pointed a bejeweled finger that shook with rage toward his son. “I warn you, Osklath,” he sputtered, “fail me not in this matter. Find her — and find her now!”

  “I shall, great khan, I give you my word. I shall bring you her head.”

  Kabul pounded a fist at his side. “No!” he bellowed, “not her head! Alive! I want her alive, do you understand? She must be brought here to me so that I can —” He was making to get off the bed as he spoke, but suddenly, inexplicably, he was thrown back and his body began to quiver. Osklath looked questioningly at the silent physician.

  The khan put both his hands to his swollen sewn eye and started to scream, loudly, frightfully. It seemed his lungs would burst from the pressure. Then his pain-racked body convulsed uncontrollably and he swayed back and forth, twisting and rocking, howling and screeching in his agony.

  “You assured me that the pain would leave!” barked Osklath to the man of medicine at his side.

  The physician grimaced. “Yes, my lord, and so it shall, but always it may return, at least in brief spasms. There is nothing anyone can do.”

  And as Osklath and the physician looked on helplessly, the rages of Kabul’s tremendous torment heightened, a ghastly sight to see. The great khan of the Huns was now a man demented by his terrible pain; he would be so until the last day of his life. The Persian stepped back and shuddered. He wondered about this Samarkand girl, who she was and what the khan must have done to her to make her seek such a horrible revenge. And it frightened him to think about what Kabul would do if he ever succeeded in finding her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  What bothered Sharon the most was that no one had told her just where they were going. Led away from the Stronghold in blindfolds, she and her uneasy companions had waited nearly nine days before the saya came to their tent and announced that on the morrow they would be taken on a journey. When questioned, Carolyn had said nothing, only that Sharon and Zadek had better prepare, for it would be a long ride before they reached their destination. The boy, Asif, was given into Roskovitch’s hands for training, that he might be a Kazir warrior.