“Forgive us, great khan,” muttered Frizul, glancing at the naked girl and then at his father.
A vein throbbed in Kabul’s thick neck; he toyed with the gold bracelet around his bicep. “I left orders not to be disturbed,” he hissed at them both. “Get out, both of you! See me in the morning!”
Frizul nodded, half turning to leave, but his brother stopped him. A slight smile broke across Osklath’s desert-tanned features. “We have news, sire,” he said, “that perhaps will make your displeasure at least understanding of why we came so hastily.”
Kabul cast his treacherous son a baleful eye. “Well? Speak, then — and get out when you’re done.”
Osklath lowered his head. “We have received word from the Steppes, sire — word, possibly, about this renegade, this Kazir woman who has rallied her people against us.”
The khan took another draught of wine and then spit on the floor. When he snapped his fingers, the slave girl scooped up her garment and hurried from sight behind a screen, and the musicians quickly left the chamber.
The khan was sick to death of the tales of this unknown woman. All through the winter she and her band of ragged hillmen had one way or another thwarted every thrust upon the Steppes his armies had tried. Like demons these hillmen came, it was said, sweeping out of the night, from the edges of the forests, and pouring down upon his men like swarms of locusts. They struck swiftly, horses tearing down upon his unsuspecting legions, then disappeared back into the desert and the darkness, unscathed by his best troops. He had begun to suspect the worthiness of his own sons; after all, they were in charge of his armies now, and if they were stupid enough to fall prey to this … this woman, how could he blame the hapless soldiers who had failed to find her and her thieves?
“What is it this time?” he asked gruffly. “Are you here to report another failure?”
Osklath and his brother seemed embarrassed.
The khan sighed. “I thought as much.” He shut his good eye and leaned back, crossing his legs casually, ignoring the sting in his arteries where the Chinese physician had stuck his needles.
“You do not understand,” said Frizul haltingly. “These hillmen fight like no others we have ever encountered. They say that their leader, this Panther, has been given special powers by witches and that —”
“Enough!” boomed the khan, his deep voice echoing down the palace corridors. He wiped sweat from his brow and peered meanly at his youngest son. “Did I sire a fisher woman?” he barked. “You call yourselves commanders of my men? Ha! I could do better with a host of jabbering Mongols to lead my forces!”
“But, my lord,” stammered Frizul, “the tales are true!”
Kabul pulled at Osklath’s hair as he removed his helmet. “First you told me that our last expeditionary force was halted by a plague of frogs — a plague of frogs!”
“That was true sire,” panted Osklath. “They were set upon our forces at night while our men rested in their tents. Thousands of them came over us, frightening the horses, kicking over the campfires —”
“Until you were in such a bloody panic that you couldn’t even see the hillmen until it was too late and their horses came charging over the dunes!” The khan was livid as he finished the story. “Am I right?”
Frizul gulped and nodded.
Kabul spat again. “Frogs! Five hundred men turned back by frogs! And now what? Again these lame excuses about witches in the forest, spells and demons, ghosts and a woman who calls herself the Panther and cannot be caught by my ablest soldiers?” He leaned forward and pounded a fist into an open palm. “I’ll not have any more of this, do you hear? My own sons, no less! I’m told that the troops laugh at me, treat my name without the fear and respect it took half a lifetime to command!”
Osklath stuck out an arm. “Not true, great khan. Everyone knows that these matters are out of your control.”
“Nothing is out of my control, boy,” seethed Kabul, flexing his jaw, “nothing. Now, give me your news and get out. I don’t want to see either of you again tonight!”
Both sons bowed deeply, and when they rose, it was Osklath who spoke: “As you know, since the onset of spring, five of our caravans to the east have been attacked, their goods stolen, slaves freed —”
“Yes, yes, I know all that. My coffers are the poorer for it; you needn’t remind me. What else?”
“And, at your instruction, we sent a small, light force to trail behind another caravan, hoping that it would be attacked and our men could confront the Kazirs by daylight.”
“And?” growled the khan.
“And we were right. The caravan was attacked, as it reached the edge of this Grim Forest. The hillmen led a daring charge across the slopes of the dunes and overwhelmed our forces. We lost all our goods and a hundred slaves in the bargain, although many, we are sure, shall surely die as they try to make their way across the desert on foot.”
The sixth caravan! Kabul felt his face flush with anger. When would it all stop? He, the greatest conquerer the world had ever seen, was being pricked to death by a handful of pesky mosquitoes. Wild men from the Steppes, who by all rights should have been wiped out days after Samarkand had been taken, had instead hampered his movements, successfully hid from his legions, been the worst thorn in his side he had ever known, and all because of the woman they called Panther.
“Is that all?” he asked wearily at last.
Osklath smiled enigmatically. “Not quite, sire. You see, although our escort troops were beaten back, this time they successfully took a prisoner — a hillman, but a man he hardly is, merely a boy, my lord, though several of our best warriors swear he fights more like a demon.”
Kabul’s brow rose in speculation. “And you bother me now with this?” he snorted. “The capture of a wild child of the hills? Do what you must, Osklath. Drag him below to the dungeons; rack him, scald him, flay his flesh layer by layer. Exact any and all information you can and then be done with it. Of what interest is it to me that you have caught him?”
Now it was Frizul’s turn to smile, and he did so wryly, his thick lips turning sharply upward, reminiscent of the khan’s own smile. He rubbed at the edge of his thrice-broken nose in a nervous habit and said, “We have already done all you say, Father. He has talked, although at times we thought he never would. Indeed, he’s been near death on several occasions these past hours, but our torturers are highly skilled, my lord, and were each time able to revive him. Hide as thick as leather, but in the end he saw things our way. He pleaded for his death, begged. Of course, we have denied it — at least until we are finished. A curious matter, though …”
“How so?” The khan’s curiosity was roused now, and he regarded the unwelcome visit of his sons in a new light.
“It seems, great khan,” said Osklath, “that this ragged urchin is not of the Steppes at all.”
Kabul stood, roughly reached out, and grabbed Osklath by the collar of his tunic. The younger man did not flinch. “What does that mean?” growled the khan with agitation.
“It means, sire, that the boy was a fugitive — a fugitive from Samarkand itself — the day the city was taken by our forces. And” — at this point his eyes danced with amusement as he stared into his father’s puzzled face — “he is known to this woman they call the Panther of the Steppes, as she is known to him.”
Kabul let loose his grasp, and sank back onto the velvet divan again. His burly hand grabbed a bunch of purple grapes in a bowl, and he stuffed several into his mouth, spitting the pits on the floor. “Are you certain of all this?” he asked.
“Quite so, my lord,” responded the eldest son. “Believe me, it took breaking nearly every rotten bone in his fragile body to uncover what we did.”
“Well, rack him again!” barked Kabul, outraged that his son should be here before him now with but half the story to be told. “By the living gods, here is our chance to find out who she is, from where she gains her authority, and why these hillmen fight at her side the way they do!”
Osklath, his leather helmet safely tucked between his armpit and elbow, sauntered slowly over to the bowl of grapes, plopped one between his molars, and chomped down slowly, savoring its sweetness. “We have done all this, my lord, I assure you. Have no fear on that account. But, alas” — and here he sighed, wiping his soiled fingers on his cloak — “the boy will not divulge more than he already has. We tried, sire; believe me, we tried. At this very moment he lies unconscious, incoherent, on the verge of death. It is far too perilous to question him further; I fear the pain may have caused him to lose his mind.”
Kabul frowned. “And so you have turned him into a babbling idiot, I suppose?”
Osklath stiffened. “The youth Asif has served his purpose, great khan; have no fear of that much.”
Kabul swung around, biting at his lower lip, glad at least to have learned something of this insufferable woman who had caused so much misery. “Then what have you to tell me?”
The slave girl poked her head out from behind the screen. Osklath hesitated, but his father’s wave of the hand told him to proceed; she could be trusted.
“The Kazir main force, sire,” Osklath went on quickly, “lies hidden in some unknown compound they call the ‘Stronghold.’ Though we cannot yet be sure of its exact location, from the pieces we have put together, we have an idea where it may lie. It might still take some time — these Kazirs must be dealt with slowly — but I give my oath before you now that it will be sought out and found and razed to the earth when it is. Without this Stronghold, Kazir power shall diminish; their source of strength will be gone, and the wild clans shall be far easier to deal with.”
Frizul chuckled softly. “Tell him the rest,” he whispered.
Kabul peered questioningly at both his sons. “Well? What more? Speak, damn you both!”
“Only a small matter, my lord, but one that we, er, knew should be brought to your attention without delay. It is true that we do not yet know the true name or identity of this so-called Panther, but we have learned far more than we hoped.” He paused, letting his father’s curiosity boil with his rising anger at the slowness of his response. “It appears, great khan, that this very woman who leads the Kazirs against us and vanishes like the wind is someone you yourself are personally acquainted with.”
“I?” Kabul was more than puzzled. “How in the name of hell’s demons would I know her?”
Osklath was abrupt in his reply. “Because, sire, she is the one who stole your eye.”
The khan stopped chewing his grapes and rose once again, looking at his sons with disbelief. The silence that followed was frightening, and Frizul shuddered. “You are making a poor jest, Osklath,” Kabul sputtered.
“I do not joke, Father.” Osklath’s face was drawn as tight as a drum as he spoke, and Kabul searched his eyes and his soul. “She is the one. The boy has sworn it, sworn it by his Prophet.”
In that moment the great khan forgot all about the pleasures that awaited, forgot about his son’s too-plain gloating, forgot everything in his empire save his relentless hatred and desire for revenge. Could it really be so? he wondered. Could she actually be one and the same? Or was this some clever Kazir trick, a ploy to arouse his anger and have him send off his armies in a futile chase across the desert, while the Kazir tribal elders plotted some ingenious plan to regain their lands? Still, how could he let this moment slip by? What if she was the one?
“Find her,” he rasped, veins popping from his forehead and neck, his mouth twisted almost as hideously as his sightless socket. “Find her for me and bring her back, and I give my word, before all our gods, before all I hold dear and sacred, that if you do, I shall reward you beyond your wildest yearnings.”
The glitter of half an empire and more ran through the minds of both sons. What wonders they might do with it, what new and even greater empires they might carve. Kabul was getting old; his judgment was clouded by his hatred. Satisfy the venom and he would only be weakened further still.
Osklath believed this; so did Frizul. Silently they plotted against both the khan and each other, thinking also of ways to mollify or be rid of the eight other brothers who would demand their share of the booty.
“Your will be done,” answered Frizul, bowing deeply to his shaking father. “Tomorrow I lead my own army of Immortals to the Steppes to route these hill-men once and for all and to bring you the prize you desire most.”
Kabul nodded his approval, his one eye suspiciously cast at the mute Osklath, who was obviously biding his time for a more opportune moment.
He put his hand on Frizul’s shoulder, smiling as the youngest of his brood beamed. “Trust me, Father; I won’t fail you this time.”
“I know you won’t. Go. Bring her quickly. I have waited too long for this debt to be repaid.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
It had been easy — too easy, perhaps. The silent battlefield was putrid with the stink of death. Overhead the carrion cackled, black wings fluttering in the first rays of dawn’s light as they circled in broad sweeps, patiently waiting for their time to feed off the remains.
Torches were still ablaze, flames fanning wildly as the desert winds blew cold. Standards and banners of gold and crimson, proud flags of the invincible Immortals, stood stuck in the dirt, broken and bloodied, scattered along the full length and breadth of the shallow wadi. Across the towering dunes the red sand barely hid the pools of blood that spilled down over the rocky crevices and cracks in the arid earth, seeping slowly beneath the surface of the dry riverbed, turning the top layers of sand into mud. There were mules, horses, and camels on their sides, gasping for air, their bellies riddled with snubbed arrows shot by keen-eyed Kazir marksmen. All along the sandy terrain lay the still, grim corpses of hundreds upon hundreds of Kabul’s staunchest warriors, smashed and twisted, all having well paid the price in full for Tariq’s carefully laid ambush.
For days the khan’s army had ridden and marched, through blistering heat by day and frigid cold by night, drawn unknowingly deeper into this hostile country where only a special few had ever survived. Kazir scouts had done their duties well, spying from safe distances, giving Frizul’s forces encouragement with false luring hints of quick victory, all the while leading them on, forcing their lines to run thin, their supplies to be too swiftly drawn upon. And they, when the time was right, they struck as they always did — silently, swiftly — severing the army in two, catching half defenseless in the wadi, the other half stretched out along the hills and dunes. They had had no chance this night against the swift Kazir horsemen, as any observer to the grisly scene would quickly testify.
Tariq, flanked by the Bear, Roskovitch, on one side and the Panther on the other, walked a long walk through the human debris. Helmeted corpses stared glassy-eyed everywhere, their cloaks aflutter in the breeze. There were no survivors of this short, bitter campaign — no survivors save one, who, bloodied and out of his mind with shame and disgrace, now waited with his head hung low on his chest while desert riders held his arms outstretched behind him.
Tariq approached slowly and cautiously. One of the men pulled the Hun by his hair and forced him to look up. Through swollen eyes that trickled with blood, he stared at the rugged face of the Kazir chieftain, having no idea who he was. His burnouse covering most of his features, Tariq studied the man intently, as a good leader always will do with his captured enemy.
“Well,” gasped the Hun, his lungs filled with desert dust, “what are you waiting for? Kill me!”
Tariq turned away; Roskovitch shook his head. The soldiers holding the prisoner threw him to the ground, drawing scimitars and nudging the tips of their blades against his throat. Frizul gurgled.
Another figure, dark in the graying shadows, came forward and stood over the postrate Hun. Frizul strained to clear his vision, to get a glimpse of the Kazir leader in flowing robes, bloodied dagger firmly sheathed inside a loosely linked belt. The face was veiled, but he could see the eyes narrowed and smoldering — a woman’s ey
es.
Sharon put her hands to her hips, contempt clear in her gaze. The youngest son of Kabul fidgeted beneath the stare, for the first time feeling afraid. He did not have to ask who she was.
A pulsing smear of brilliant red crossed from the eastern horizon and spread upward in the sky. All at once the blue shadows of night faded, leaving the stark sands of the wadi and the dunes almost blinding in the early-morning sun. The woman arched her face upward in greeting of the day. Under her veil of silk, Frizul could see her smile.
“Your army is defeated,” she announced, looking down at the warrior-clad man at her feet. Frizul made no reply; seldom had he heard a woman speak with such authority in her voice, as though she were a queen and this terrible desert her domain.
Frizul’s eyes watered from the brilliant light. “What … what do you want of me?” he croaked. The peal of laughter from her surrounding companions made him cringe. “Is it ransom?” he cried. “Spare me and my father shall pay you well for my return,” he promised.
Sharon unclasped her veil and peered down at him scornfully. “We seek no payment, son of Kabul.”
“Then … then what?”
“Where is the lad?” It was the gravelly voice of Roskovitch that spoke, the barbarian from Rus personally prepared to tear the heathen apart limb by limb, if need be, to regain the youth he had grown so fond of. He kneeled beside the Hun and forcefully grabbed his leather collar, his breath hot upon Frizul’s anxious face, hissing, “Asif, where is he? What have you done with him?”
A knot tightened in the pit of Frizul’s belly; he dared not tell them. “I … I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered.
“Bah!” The Bear of the desert pushed him gruffly and spit into his eye. “Take him back with us, Little Panther,” he urged. “He’ll make us all good sport.”
“Aye,” chimed the mad mullah, suddenly at Roskovitch’s side. “Perhaps there can be an exchange —”
Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2 Page 21