Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  At the mention of the oasis, Tariq looked darkly at his sister; her own brow was knit in apprehension.

  “Are you certain of this, man?” cried Roskovitch. “What is their number? Which direction do they ride? Speak!”

  The rider rose from his position, still panting to catch his breath, while his steed nervously whinnied behind. His arm shot out toward the south. “Only a small advance guard has reached the oasis,” he told them, hastily adding, “but you can see the glow of campfires lit across the desert. Their number I cannot say, my lords, only that surely a large force will soon follow.”

  “By the Prophet’s beard!” grunted the barbarian from Rus.

  “You see?” chimed Yasir, a finger pointed at Tariq accusingly. “While we sit idly and spill words, our enemies have begun to mount their attack.” He glared at the younger man standing in dancing patterns of shadows. “Will you take action now, or must we wait until they bang upon our doors?”

  Tariq ignored his rashness, knowing this was the time for calm heads and sensible decisions, his eyes fixed on the fire. A knot in the dry wood exploded with a loud crack, and the leaping yellow-blue flames danced higher and higher, wisps of smoke rising into the crisp night above their heads. Beside Tariq, Kazir warriors, hands within, clutching at the hilts of their swords and scimitars, waited for his response.

  “Well?” growled Yasir, ready to jump into a leadership role the moment it seemed Tariq might falter.

  But Tariq didn’t falter; he cast his gaze upon the scalp-locked barbarian. “Roskovitch, prepare to ride!”

  The burly man’s eyes squinted; he grinned sourly, spinning on his heels and seeking out his bold Arabian steed, Asif trailing him.

  “And you, Ami, as well,” the young chieftain said. His hand darted out. “And you, and you, and you …”

  One by one the chosen Kazirs bolted for the stables. Whooping, shouting war cries, the Kazirs mounted, ready to ride and to fight. Desert horsemen all, they calmed their anxious animals, stroking the flowing manes, easing onto the saddleless backs.

  “We go,” said Tariq, satisfied. The eyes of the saya caught his attention.

  “She must earn her Name, brother. Take the outsider with you; let her fight.”

  Hand to his bearded chin, the handsome Kazir paused to consider. His horse was swiftly brought, and he mounted the mare with a single movement of his body. Then, peering down as he took the reins, he said, “Is she ready?”

  Carolyn’s smile surfaced slowly, enigmatically. “Every wolf must test his teeth,” she observed, and then she unstrapped her curved dagger from her waist and handed it to Sharon.

  Zadek gasped; protective of the Samarkand princess, he stepped between the two women. “No!” he cried. “She is not ready.”

  The saya sneered as if she expected this response, but Sharon reached out, took the extended blade, sheath first, and, opening her robe, tied it securely around her slim waist, not looking up to gaze into Zadek’s disbelieving eyes.

  “Are … are you certain?” he stammered.

  She lifted her head, pushed back her hair, and smiled. “I am, teacher,” she assured him.

  Zadek, pained to see her depart like this, so untested, took her firmly by the shoulders. “Tonight shall be no mere game, child,” he warned. “The blade you carry is made of steel, not wood. And if you err, there shall be no second chances.”

  Sharon nodded; she understood — perhaps too well. But, if indeed her destiny was what the holy man had claimed, what Tariq had put both his life and reputation on the line for, then she must prove it, one way or the other. “The saya is right,” she said, glancing Carolyn’s way. “It’s been long enough. Let tonight be my test.”

  “Then find your horse,” called Tariq roughly, hiding a pleased smile at her response. “And perhaps this very night you shall earn your Name.”

  *

  With the speed of thieves and outlaws, the small band of Kazirs rode between the mighty opened walls, guided toward the oasis by the stars in the same manner that mariners are guided upon the sea. Across these waters of sand they raced, swirls of dust clouding behind them, Tariq and Roskovitch in the lead, the bold barbarian heaving his scimitar above his shaven head as he sang the songs of war. Even Asif was there, astride a pony, small dagger at his side. They hurtled through barriers of dune and rock, scrambling down into the folds of darkened wadis, then up and out again, regaining footing upon the endless flat of the plain. In the distance behind, the walls of the Stronghold disappeared, the light of the fires within no longer a telltale giveaway to prying eyes searching the sky. Like the wings of a condor they spread out over the parched earth, hooves clattering thunderlike over rock-strewn terrain, tramping weed underfoot, gaining slow progress against the grim vastness ahead.

  Sharon could feel the rush of wind whistling past her face; she pressed herself forward on the horse, both hands grasping the loose-fitting bridle, her veiled face feeling the relentless beat of desert-blown sand. She kept steady pace with them all, boots digging into the stallion’s flanks, reining the animal in, then kicking again to make him leap gracefully and high over the narrow winding stream before her, like the wind itself, leaving those behind her to splash in the muddied, dark waters.

  The Green Pool was dim and still when the riders silently approached. Tariq and Roskovitch dismounted. Together they peered into the distance. There were no fires lit, no sounds of drinking soldiers to be heard — only faint rushes of a breeze pushing through the leaves of the palms and the restless patter of horses tethered beyond the trees, where a sole sentry sleepily stood midnight-to-dawn watch.

  Tariq signaled for his men to fan out; they all dismounted and took well-concealed positions along the heights of the dunes. Ami led one group of men off to the left, Tariq another to the right. Roskovitch, Sharon at his side, held the center group in place. Silhouettes of slow-moving horses stood out against the sky; once into position, both groups mounted again and awaited the signal for the charge. Asif was ordered not to take part but to hang back. If anything went wrong, he was to return to the Stronghold with the news.

  Roskovitch spat into the wind. He peered down at Sharon in a kindly way, the first time she had ever seen the gruff barbarian treat her with deference. Disturbed and fretful, he instructed her in a low voice to stay close come what might.

  “You needn’t worry,” she replied. Sliding the dagger from its sheath, she felt its weight, admiring the steel’s glow in the moonlight. She collected her thoughts slowly, trying to recall every moment of training she’d been given these past weeks, remembering the saya’s words and seeming cruelty.

  A terrible cry resounded through the chilled air, the cry she’d heard Samarkand soldiers try to describe after they had come into combat with the desert Kazirs — a war cry like no other, they had said, and as Sharon listened to it now, piercing the night and sending shivers along her spine, she at last knew what they had meant.

  Rising from heavy sleep as though in drunken stupors, the small group of Huns jumped up in disarray. From both sides charged the Kazir horsemen, hollering and whooping, brandishing curved swords high over their heads, spinning them round like tops, and the closer they came, the more furiously pitched were their cries.

  Roskovitch blew his horn, calling for the attack from the front. Her own cry lost amid the screams and terrible moans from the beset Huns, Sharon charged into the frey; each man she saw took on the hated countenance of Kabul, him and his sneering son Osklath. The Huns raised their rounded leather shields in self-protection. They staggered and fell under the blows of fast-moving stallions and swinging blades. Reeling, falling to their knees, they tried to scramble and dodge the onslaught, but, shrieking the name of the Prophet, the Kazirs cut them down, lopping off limbs, kicking spinning bodies into the deep waters of the pool, tearing apart the camp completely.

  Lost in the melee, no longer aware of who she was or why she was here, Sharon fought as well as a Kazir woman had ever done, fending off attac
kers on both sides, slashing her knife through soft fur vests and leather armor.

  “For God!” cried the Kazirs, the shout above the awful din. “For freedom! For Samarkand!”

  Fire raged through the Green Pool, the tents of the enemy ablaze, dark smoke billowing. The last mournful cry faded into nothingness, and the Kazirs regrouped slowly, leading their horses to safer ground. Sharon peered back in a daze at the carnage she had helped create, shaking her head at the numbing sight, not able to control her shaking. She had killed this night, taken human lives. Faceless men they had been to her, without identity, but the image of Kabul had burned in her vision, and when she had plunged her dagger into their flesh, it had been his flesh, not another’s.

  At the edge of the swaying grass, she paused, wiping blood from both her knife and her hands by sifting them through the cool sand. She was not aware of the figure behind her. It was Tariq, his face dirtied with smoke and blood, his fine robe splattered like that of a butcher — and twenty-three slain Huns gave testimony to the slaughterhouse the oasis had become.

  He put a gentle hand upon her shoulder and felt it tremble beneath her robe. “You needn’t be frightened,” he told her softly. “It’s done; we can go home now.”

  Sharon raised her head, her eyes red and blank. “I’m not frightened,” she answered truthfully.

  Tariq nodded and sighed. “But it’s still not easy killing a man, is it — even an enemy.”

  Her eyes suddenly became alive. She sheathed her dagger with a single stroke, the way Carolyn had taught her. “No,” she said in agreement, “it wasn’t easy, but I’ll do it again and again — until I slay the khan.” Tariq drew back. The vengeance in her blood had not been sated, her deep hatred barely touched by this brief encounter. Little more than months ago he had first seen her in the marketplace of Samarkand; it seemed more like years. Sharon was hardly the same girl he remembered. She had changed much over these weeks, perhaps more than anyone, including Zadek, had realized. She was no longer a frightened child gazing out into a world she could not understand. Now she was … what? He shook his head, not knowing what to think.

  Roskovitch wiped the edge of his scimitar on the sandy earth and kneeled beside the outsider with open pride.

  “Did she fight well, Bear?” asked Tariq, using the barbarian’s bestowed name.

  The man from the cold lands of Rus looked up at his chieftain, wise eyes that had seen much slitted like a snake’s. “She fought like a panther, this one,” he said. “The holy man did not lie; she is a leader, all right. Mark or no, I for one would follow her anywhere.”

  Tariq cocked a brow. “Even into hell?” he queried of the Christian.

  Roskovitch grunted. “Aye, Tariq, even into hell.” He looked once more at Sharon. “She has earned her Name among us.”

  The young chieftain listened and nodded slowly. Silver light gleamed down and cast the three of them in tinted shadows. “And so you have named her,” he told the barbarian. “The panther.”

  Sharon began to wake from her foggy haze of hatred and murder. She was grieved for the first time at what she had done — grieved but not sorry. If need arose, she would do it again.

  “Return first and give word to the saya,” Tariq commanded one of his men. “Tell her that the Samarkand princess is dead and in her stead we return with her successor, the One who bears the Mark: the Panther of the Steppes.”

  Part Four - Claws of the Panther

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was twilight; winter’s sudden onset was in the air, fields withering across the hills, leaves turned to brown, crimson, and gold as they tumbled from the branches and scattered to the dark soil below. A gusty wind whipped through the empty streets of Samarkand, causing shutters, tightly bolted, to clatter and dust to swirl high above the rooftops, while stray cats and dogs hunted for shelter among the dark alleys and crumbled bricks of once grand homes. Through breaks in the cloud cover, evening stars glimmered down bleaky upon the nearly deserted ominously silent city.

  In a mood as bleak as the sky, Kabul, great khan of the Huns, peered past the thick drapes of his opulent throne room, scowling as his gaze fixed below across the unbroken view of his domain.

  “’Tis time, sire,” said the Chinese physician.

  Kabul turned to face the little man with slanted eyes and a perpetual smile that played across his yellow face. The physician bent over in a deep, respectful bow, then gestured toward the velvet divan. Kabul took his place, not bothering to give a second look at the dozen hair-thin needles laid side by side upon a tray. Shirtless, although it was cold, he sat silent and sullen, letting the physician poke his needles through his flesh while he stared grimly at the dancing flames in the fireplace opposite.

  With delicate, almost feminine hands, the physician took the longest needle, twirled it lightly, then plunged it through Kabul’s bulging bicep. The khan winced.

  “Did you feel pain, my lord?” questioned the well-trained physician from Cathay.

  Kabul shook his head. No, it didn’t hurt, it never did. He’d been receiving these strange Oriental treatments for months now, his last hope of diminishing the terrible pain that came almost daily in spasms. Acupuncture, the Chinese called it, or so he was told — needles stuck through various vital points of his body at weekly intervals, poking unseen holes all over his body, hardly drawing blood, in an effort to release him from his torment. Grudgingly he had to admit that sometimes these treatments worked; at least his suffering was less. But he never had trusted these strange Orientals, always smiling, always so polite, even when they invaded your body with their instruments, making you feel more like a pincushion than a man.

  The second needle went into his leg, the third into his belly. The physician wiped perspiration from his forehead, then proceeded to stick in the fourth and fifth. For almost an hour Kabul sat like this, still and unspeaking, while the diminutive man played games up and down his flesh.

  “How do you feel, my lord?” asked the Oriental after the last sharp needle had been sunk.

  Kabul grunted in response. His eye was burning again, a sure sign that a spasm was close. He put his hand to the heavy eye patch, fingertips needing to yank off the fabric and scratch at his sewn lid, satisfying the terrible urge; but slowly the burning sensation dissipated. The needles were working, as the physician had assured. The spasm had been controlled, and for that Kabul was more than grateful. The Oriental was worth twice his fee, twice his weight in gold for the service he rendered. With him here to cure the ailment, Kabul could feel almost like a man again, the ruler of his empire, and not a howling animal forced, as in times past, to writhe upon the floor insanely, unable to think, unable to see, unable even to rise to his knees and beg.

  The needles were removed with as much care as they had been put in. Thin bloodstains spread over the white towel on the tray. “Rest now, my lord,” said the physician, cleaning his hands and bowing. “Your affliction shall not disturb your thoughts tonight.”

  The khan rested back on the divan, rubbing his biceps. Across the stone ceiling danced patterns cast by the flames. A night without misery; perhaps two, or even three or four … His dark god had indeed blessed him with the coming of the Oriental. He thought back to the butcher of a Persian who had operated on his eye, and felt his temper rise. He had actually let the swine leave Samarkand freely, as Osklath had promised, before changing his mind. And he did not regret having had him dragged back, racked and scalded with boiling water, allowed to die slowly and miserably for failing in his task. It was just punishment for the Persian. How much Kabul had enjoyed watching as the dog’s own eyes were blinded, driven through with pins, so that the butcher could at least feel what the mighty khan was forced to suffer.

  “Rest well, Chinaman,” said Kabul as the physician withdrew. Then he sighed, stretched out on the divan, and pulled a blanket over his body. He fell asleep swiftly this night, his dream a sweet nightmare in which he finally caught the girl who did this to him and paid the bitc
h back in kind. How she would scream when he repaid her! How she would beg and moan and squirm and plead …

  And how he would enjoy seeing her die with the tortures that a thousand demons in hell itself could not inflict.

  Chapter Twenty

  The freshly driven snow was knee-deep, and Sharon and the saya led their horses slowly through it, stepping carefully along the rutted and white-blanketed folds in the land, making their way among the limbs of thickly crusted trees that dripped icicles knifelike from overhead boughs and pushing deeper into the forest. The lake was frozen solid. Over the ice, dismounted, they continued on, tightening their cloaks about them while a nasty wind sliced across the lake and cut to the bone. The ice glimmered pale blue in the last vestiges of dusk, and as night took over, they reached the other side and started the long ascent up the dark hill, burrowing a path through the snow until they reached the crest and the clearing where the Three Hooded Witches waited.

  Flame and smoke from the fare beneath the cauldron seemed to hang motionless in the frigid air of Grim Forest. Catching her breath and pausing, Sharon unconsciously brushed wet flakes from her heavy fur collar and passively stood while the hags upon the mound, behind the vat, cackled among themselves, the liquid of the cauldron ceaselessly bubbling.

  “She comes, she comes, hee-hee,” gloated the tallest, the one in the middle, as she fixed her glowing eyes upon the cold, tense strangers.

  Her sisters bobbed their heads in agreement. Bundled tightly in their robes, faces hidden within their cowls, so that only their glowering eyes could be seen, they beckoned for their guests to step closer.

  Carolyn tethered the horses, fixing the reins firmly beneath a large rock, and while the mares restlessly snorted and stamped, the two women made tracks toward the mound. The night sky was flawless, a pure velvet backdrop against which ten thousand stars twinkled. A loon cried from a distant tree as Sharon and the saya stopped at the foot of the mound, hands folded before them, heads respectfully lowered. Sharon’s chestnut hair glimmered red in the glow of the firelight as she pulled down her hood. Chin raised, eyes fixed straight ahead, body poised, she seemed a different person from the frightened girl they had seen only months before.