Her right ankle shot with pain, tears rolling down her dirt-streaked cheeks, she forced the breath into and out of her labored lungs and kept the swiftly dodging saya at bay. The children were no longer looking at Sharon mockingly; mutely they kept their places, moving slightly only whenever the combatants came too close. They knew that the stranger could never hope to defeat the skillful saya, yet no one could deny Sharon’s courage or will. She fought with zeal and renewed energy where there should have been none, taking her blows without complaint beneath the torture of the unrelenting midday sun and hiding her hurts as a Kazir would do, never letting the enemy know the full extent of the damage.
“Well done!” cried Roskovitch as Sharon parried and blocked a new and furious attack. And when Carolyn, chagrined, grew impatient with the wearisome length of the match, Sharon allowed herself the small luxury of a smile.
She had not beaten the saya, she realized, and with her exhaustion only rising, she knew that Carolyn would soon regain the upper hand. Yet, there had been victory in this moment, sweet victory born of the knowledge that the next time would see her do better still.
*
Everything ached. The wool blanket felt rough and heavy against her bruised flesh, and Sharon pushed it aside. She couldn’t remember when she had fallen asleep, only that the brief walk to her tent had seemed endless. She had reached her bed in a state of near collapse and could not recall if she had had supper last night.
She groaned as she propped herself up, eyes blinking from the streams of brilliant sunlight pouring past the partially opened flap. The sounds of morning were in the air — barking dogs, herders leading sheep to pasture, cowbells clanging — and the smell of cooking fires long since lighted. For an instant she forgot where she was, recalling instead pleasant childhood memories of the countryside in summer, where her father had taken her to spend happy weeks away from the shimmering heat of the city.
“Are you awake?” It was the saya’s voice. Carolyn stepped inside; she stood with her hands on her hips, bare, well-tanned arms jangling with bracelets. She breathed deeply of the early-morning air and peered down questioningly at the stiff form of the girl on the bed. “Where does it hurt?” she asked.
Sharon gritted her teeth. “Everywhere. When I —” She lifted herself and moaned, falling back against the pillow, her forehead beading with perspiration. She sucked in air and let it out slowly, angered to have the saya here, seeing her like this so she could gloat over her.
Carolyn sat at the edge of the blankets, pushed Sharon slightly, and with strong, knowing hands massaged her shoulders and neck. “You did well yesterday,” she told her. “Tariq was very pleased, and so was I.”
It took all the effort Sharon could muster to turn and face her. Carolyn’s face glowed with the sunshine. There was no hostility, no hint of suspicion, in her eyes. “Zadek says that you’re a fighter. I didn’t believe it.”
“And now?”
The saya looked through the flap to the cotton clouds rolling swiftly above. She shrugged. “We’ll see.” She stood, reached inside her colorful tunic, and handed Sharon a tiny vial of palm oil. “Rub this in,” she advised; “it will make you feel better. You can have breakfast if you like, but I’d advise you to eat sparingly. It’s difficult to keep food down.”
Sharon stared at her uncomprehendingly.
Carolyn laughed lightly. “I’ll be waiting in the yard in one hour. Be there.” Then she spryly breezed from the tent, walking out into the sunlight. Sharon felt her face flush crimson with rising anger; she yanked the pillow from the bed and threw it toward the open flap, her mouth tightly pressed in consternation.
Bitch! she cursed after the saya. Someday I’m going to pay you back for all of this! She swung herself off the bed and grabbed the vial of palm oil. She loped to the flap and pulled it shut, pounding a fist into her thigh in frustration. Then she rubbed herself down, grudgingly conceding that the palm oil worked, put on her desert tunic, and made ready to face the arrogant saya again.
*
She spit out the dust, lifting her head slowly, noticing that a trace of blood was mixed with the spittle. She had been doing well this morning, she knew, better than expected; that’s why this time Carolyn had hit her. They had been grappling, each trying to wrench the wooden knife from the other, when unexpectedly Carolyn had drawn back a fist and hit her squarely in the face. Sharon had toppled, hitting the ground heavily, dizzily seeing a night sky of stars swim before her blurred vision.
She rose to her feet to find Carolyn defiantly glaring at her with her balled fists set upon her rounded hips.
“You cheated!” snapped Sharon. “That wasn’t part of this lesson!”
The saya sneered, wiping perspiration from her brow. “Tell that to an enemy,” she flared back, eyes slitted in the bright light. “Or would you expect a rampaging Hun to obey the rules and fight you fairly?”
The point was well taken, Sharon knew. Still, the saya was continuing to treat her with disdain, and Sharon knew that she wasn’t going to take it much longer.
Pursing her lips, she came on again when Carolyn beckoned. They fought each other well, going over the motions step by step, scuffling at times, stalking at others. When the saya lunged, Sharon parried; when she stabbed, she sidestepped away, careful not to allow herself to be caught with the sun in her eyes. All morning they fought and well into the afternoon, observed at times by not only the children but many of the adults as well, come to see this stranger with the Mark stand up against the fiercest woman in the Stronghold.
“Enough for now,” said Carolyn as the sun had begun to descend in the west. She dropped her knife to her side, panting, her body greased with perspiration and dust. Sharon proudly ambled to her side. The two women faced each other evenly, and Sharon casually handed over her wooden weapon. As Carolyn took it unsuspectingly, Sharon drew back her right hand and let loose a powerful fist, hitting the startled saya forcefully. Carolyn tumbled backward, falling against the low stone wall. She recovered quickly but, stunned, returned gracelessly to her former stance, her eyes widened with anger.
Sharon looked at the thin stream of blood curdling down from her nose and over her mouth and grinned openly. “Everything’s fair in war, right?”
The saya, flustered, looked about with embarrassment. Off to the side, standing in the lengthening afternoon shadows, Tariq smiled. Sharon glowed with her own special pride and pleasure as she handed Carolyn her handkerchief, saying, “You’re still bleeding.” A large black-and-blue bruise swelled on her lip when she wiped the blood away.
Sharon waited until the soiled piece of cloth was given back, poised for a counterblow that was sure to come; it didn’t, though. The saya pulled off her sweat-band and let it fall to the ground. “You’re learning,” was all she said.
Chapter Eighteen
The night sky was perfect, the constellations trailing away across the horizon while a hazy blue moon hung low, a crescent above the silver cliffs of the enclosed Stronghold. Supper fires were gaily flickering, the sweet smell of skewered lamb filtering slowly through the air. The people sat around the fires waiting in anticipation of the celebration to begin, while beyond the field, high along the parapets of the ledges and the chalky cliffs, somber guards stood watch.
A cool summer breeze softly sifted through the trees, carrying away the dank, arid air of the day. Shadows cast by the flames climbed high above the tents and stone structures, shifting along the rock walls, covering the massive Stronghold like a protective blanket, keeping its presence well sheltered from unwanted eyes.
Sharon and Zadek took their places beside the fire, greeting in traditional Kazir manner those already seated. The flames licked hungrily into the night, the turning slab of shank dripping its juices, causing the fire to hiss and burn more brightly. Sharon glanced about at the faces of the young couples gathered round her; a few she recognized, most she didn’t. Some would be guests to the Stronghold this night, she knew, recently arrived from other f
ar and distant clans across the Steppes and the deepest reaches of the forests. But Roskovitch was there, with young Asif by his side.
It was the Third Eve of the Ewe, Zadek had explained, a time-honored and traditional night for rejoicing, dating back countless ages to the Kazirs’ earliest foundings. Sharon had listened intently, learning more and more every day about the strange environment of which she had now become a part. In recent days the mullah had taken great pains to begin to teach her the many and often contradictory Laws upon which the Kazirs based their lives. They called them simply the Word of the Book, taken exactly as the Prophet himself had spoken them centuries before, only now molded to blend with the harsh existence of the Steppes and the deserts. And in this short time, Sharon had found herself beginning to understand a little better the deep emotions that bound these diverse tribes together: It was the land, the love of the desert, the love of the endless plain, even as they recalled the love of Samarkand, the city they had founded long, long before her own ancestors had taken it and claimed it for themselves.
And so on this sacred night, here within the confines of the secret gathering place called the Stronghold, the Kazirs came, putting aside the many small rivalries and feuds that plagued them, united in both religion and common history, together forging the beginnings of a new dynasty that she would somehow be a part of.
“Welcome, Sharon,” said Tariq. Dressed in his finest robes, his head wrapped in a white turban, making his features seem all the more golden, he bowed and greeted her. “Welcome, Zadek.”
The mullah folded his hands and bent his forehead against his outstretched fingertips. Then, one by one, the others around this fire were introduced, everyone interested in meeting the stranger, the outsider who claimed to bear the Mark. To Tariq’s side came a tall, stocky young man, broad-shouldered, with a patrician face and classical features that indicated to Sharon a Greek bloodline. Ami, he was called, and she quickly learned that his own clan, the Fuliwas, were the closest by blood to Tariq’s.
Close by, Kazir musicians had started to play — strange, wild desert music, rooted not here among the Steppes of Asia but south, in the Indian subcontinent. They sat cross-legged upon skins of tigers, dressed in simple cloth robes, adorned with arm bracelets, bronzed images of coiled snakes that shimmered and danced almost with a life of their own as they reflected the firelight.
The tablas, mellow hand-held drums set between their knees, began to beat a slow, driving rhythm, while the strings of the sarod plucked ethereal notes that echoed across the sheer walls of rock. Added to these came the whining drone of the tamboura, its bagpipe-like coarse sound almost a plaintive cry, a strongly accented undertone that set the mood.
The Kazirs were a somber and serious people, even when festive, and the slow movements of their dancers writhing before the flames only increased the sense of severity. Conversation remained proper but informal as they waited for the lambs to be readied. Hot loaves of pita bread, circular and hollowed, were passed around and dipped into dishes filled with spicy houmous. When the hissing fires indicated that all was ready, the saya stood and, against the backdrop of stars, recited the traditional prayer. All heads bowed in humility, for this night was perhaps even more important than the occasion in years past. And although Sharon did not yet fully grasp its meaning, the momentousness of the evening was not lost on her. The air had begun to crackle with excitement, the gathered leaders of the clans leaning forward expectantly.
Sharon leaned over, dipping her greasy fingers into a water bowl and wiping them clean on waiting towels. “Why is this night so special, Zadek?” she asked.
The mullah greeted her with one of his mysterious smiles. He placed a betel nut in the palm of his hand, folded a small betel leaf around it in quarters, then placed both leaf and nut between his gum and cheek, enjoying the satisfying taste. He did not have a chance to answer. Ami, chieftain of the Fuliwas, his veiled and beautiful wife Sara beside him, stared at the Samarkand fugitives. He opened the cap of the goatskin vessel and filled the clay goblets placed beside each guest. Opposite him, sullen and silent, sat Yasir, his wounds fully healed but his scars remaining.
“Does she have a Name yet?” Ami asked of Tariq as he filled his cup to the brim.
Tariq’s features were all but lost in the shadows; he swallowed the well-chewed piece of meat and shook his head. “No, cousin, not yet.”
Ami seemed surprised. He sat back, listening to the sounds of the dancer’s finger bells as the veiled askrat twirled before him, her perfect body swaying seductively with the music.
“She is not ready,” broke in the saya.
Sharon felt her discomfort rise; it dawned on her that it was herself they were discussing. Eyes downcast, she picked a piece of lamb from her bowl and put it into her mouth, chewing the sweet meat gingerly as Ami said, “She must be ready; the hour is close at hand.”
To this Tariq nodded. He looked at Sharon. “I know,” he whispered faintly. A silence ensued between them.
Around the other fires, though, the mood of the night had become more joyous, the atmosphere heady. Downing their wine in drinking bouts, some of the men had risen to join the askrat in her dance, snapping their fingers and clapping their hands, spinning while their desert robes flowed behind, voices lifted in song with the music — happy folk tunes rarely sung these bitter days — while tambourines kept time with the steadily increasing beat of the tablas.
Ami downed his wine and gently placed the empty goblet at his side, refusing Sara’s offer to refill the cup. His dark eyes flickering as the flames licked before his face, he glanced first at his friend Tariq, then at the saya, and at length at the others seated comfortably around the small fire. The pungent smell of meat was thick in the air still, skewered kabob being passed around. “She must be given her Name,” he insisted, looking now at Sharon directly.
She shifted uncomfortably. They were talking about her as though she were no more than chattel, she thought, as a herder might speak of a prize sheep or goat, or a trader discuss the price of a young foal.
Tariq made a quick, impatient movement, then, clasping his hands around his knees, leaned back against the jut of a great rock. “Her strength has not been put to the test,” he pointed out.
“Then why are you waiting?”
“The clans are growing restless,” interjected Sara.
“Aye,” agreed Roskovitch. The burly man from Rus tore off a piece of meat from a leg of lamb and tossed the bone into the fire. The flames crackled. “The Huns are on the march.”
Sharon tensed; her eyes grew wide and frightened at the mention of her sworn enemies. They were coming after her. Kabul would make good his vow …
Carolyn toyed with her antelope horn, her face growing dark. “What have you seen, Ami?” she asked.
“Huddled like sheep, a column of the khan’s cavalry has moved west from the city. They skirted the edge of the forest, burning everything in their wake. I gave the order for fields to be destroyed before we evacuated.” Here he bit at his lip, intense eyes betraying his concern. “They are moving toward the Steppes.”
“So it has begun,” Tariq murmured under his breath.
Yasir glared meanly at the young son of Shoaib. “And where is your promise they would never attack our lands?” He spat into the fire. “Our forces should have moved weeks ago — aye, upon the very day these outsiders were found.”
Tariq minced no words: “We are not ready yet,” he insisted. “We must have more time.” Then, to Ami: “Can you buy us some?”
The chieftain folded his arms and sighed. “A little, perhaps, but not much. Forays are already spreading across the desert, near the perimeters of my land. I cannot keep my men in check for long. They wish to fight.”
“I understand,” said Tariq. “But our heads must remain cool. A direct confrontation now could spell disaster.”
Yasir sneered. He cracked the thick, meaty bone in his hands and threw it toward the resting dogs, which yapped and raced for
it. “I say we muster at once, send the signals to every clan, have our forces prepared to ride with a day’s notice.”
“You are impulsive,” said the saya. “My brother is right. Our strategy must be to wear the enemy down — badger him, strike lightly at his flanks, his patrols, run him dizzy until his army is in disarray. Once they are helpless within our territory …” She smiled grimly, letting there be no mistake about her intent.
Yasir gruffly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Grease covered his fingers and he wiped them into the soil. “Talk, talk; talk is easy. We need action — now! And this one” — he turned to Sharon — “this one you claim bears the Mark, she does not yet even have a Name!”
Anger etched into Tariq’s rugged features. “She will earn one,” he said quietly, “I promise you.”
The wail of a horn blared through the night, above the music and the singing, catching everyone by surprise. Suddenly the music stopped and the dancers froze in their places. The lonely wail was heard again, urgency in its shrill blast. All at once soldiers of the Stronghold leaped to their feet, Tariq in the forefront.
A terrible rumble, like thunder close by, came from behind. Sharon turned, and in the distance she could see the high walls, black in the shadows, begin to move, groaning as they split, and two riders gallop through the entrance of the Stronghold. They rode low on their saddles, not pausing before the sentries, racing through the city of tents, along the edges of the looming walls of rock, past the guarded ledges and cavernous recesses without breaking stride, reining in fiercely when they reached the brightly burning fires.
The first rider expertly jumped from his saddle, sweeping grandly and low before the waiting saya and her brother. “My lords, the enemy advances,” he announced, wiping grime from his beard. “Advance units have been sighted as close as the approaches to the Green Pool.”
Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2 Page 18