Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2
Page 22
Sharon looked at her companions sharply. “Ten of him won’t replace Asif,” she flared. “No, we won’t take him back. No prisoners, remember? That is the code of the Kazirs.”
Roskovitch’s dagger glinted as he pulled it from its sheath. “Then there is no more time to be wasted. Leave him to me.”
Frizul squirmed, petrified of the wild barbarian. He would have bolted from the ground, preferring the shafts of Kazir arrows to being left alone with the scalp-locked warrior from Rus, but the tips of the scimitars pressing at his jugular kept him firmly in place.
Sharon pondered for a brief moment, then shook her head. Her short-clipped hair caught sunlight as she threw off the hood of her aba. “No,” she said. Then, to Frizul’s guards: “Let him up; release him.”
“You cannot be serious.” Roskovitch was aghast with bewilderment. “Why would you do this?”
Ignoring her friend’s protest for the moment, Sharon snapped her fingers, and the sturdy soldiers hovering like leopards over the confused Hun stepped back, scimitars still in hand but no longer threatening. The Samarkand fugitive beckoned him to rise, and Frizul, disbelieving his own eyes, did as commanded, climbing dumbly first to his knees and then to his feet. He rubbed at his aching and swollen wounds, standing wobbly and suspicious before her. The two enemies locked eyes in mutual distrust.
“Then what is it you intend to do with me?” Frizul asked at last.
Sharon did not conceal her smile. “Allow you to return to Samarkand,” she answered simply.
If her companions were surprised, Frizul was stunned. His brows furrowed in the same manner Sharon recalled in his father, and he gasped, “Do you mean what you say? I am … free?”
She toyed with the tassel dangling loosely from her desert headdress, her tanned face impassive, her eyes cold and unmoving. “No Hun can ever consider himself to be free while our lands lay beneath your father’s yoke,” she told him acidly. “But yes; I do give you the freedom to return to your khan, so that you may tell him what happened here this night — and all you have encountered. Go.”
Frizul looked about, started to move toward the bank of the wadi, then stopped. A thin, almost wry smile broke over his cracked lips, and he stared grimly across the burning sands. “Ah, I see,” he mumbled. “So you condemn me to death not by your hand but by the desert itself.” He gestured grandly, almost arrogantly, about him. “It is some fifty leagues to Samarkand,” he remarked bitterly. “Alone like this I’d never survive the journey.”
Sharon cocked her head sideways, eyes squinted tightly against the sun. “My offer was genuine,” she insisted. Then, to her lieutenants: “Fetch the Hun a waterskin filled to the cap, and a swift horse as well. I want him to reach his destination quickly, before his presence fouls the desert.”
Frizul watched tensely as both provisions were brought to his side. He uncapped the waterskin and took a long draught, swilling the water around in his mouth and spitting it out. “You really do mean to let me go, don’t you?”
The desert woman nodded. “I gave my word. No one shall follow; no arrows shall sail at your back. As you said, you’re free.”
Frizul bowed his head, an expansive, mocking grin written into his dour features. He took the waiting reins in hand, limped to the saddle, and mounted. Leaning forward, he peered down at the strange leader of the Kazirs. “Perhaps we shall meet again, Desert Panther.”
Sharon grasped the neck of her cobra, the metal coiled around her belt. “Perhaps we shall, Hun. Remember, though, this meeting, and serve Kabul my warning: He must not dare to set foot upon the Steppes again. These are our lands and ours alone.”
The ungrateful Hun sneered at the group of Kazirs staring at him; he kicked sharply at the horse’s flank and broke quickly onto the open sand, swirls of dust clouding behind. The Panther, he knew, made few mistakes; letting him live had been one.
Chapter Twenty-Three
In the silence of the tent, Zadek, sitting cross-legged with eyelids tightly drawn, spread his palms slowly across the burning colored stones. The Glowing Rocks of Babylon shimmered, strange light intensifying, sending a rainbow of hues rippling across his features. Opposite, also in the same stony silence, sat Sharon, Tariq, and the saya upon cushions.
Zadek bent forward and began to sway, back and forth, back and forth, while his lips soundlessly mouthed the secret words to call upon the stones’ power. A strong desert wind brewed outside, reaching over the high Stronghold walls, whipping down below in furious frenzy. The sandstorm had lasted for three days now, with no sign of abating. A bad omen, Carolyn had said, tight-lipped, gripping her antelope horn — a foreboding of the struggle that lay dangerously before the Kazirs. And when she had spoken, no one had scoffed, for the saya knew better than any who had come before her the lore and legends of the Steppes.
The mad mullah’s face broke out in glistening sweat; his lip curled; his nostrils flared. Sharon stared at his haggard, anguished face, noting the ever-deepening lines. Age had sapped his vitality more quickly in these climes, she knew, and although he would never speak openly of it, she was fully aware of the lung sickness that steadily worsened.
Zadek cried out suddenly, a short, muffled cry. His shoulders shook mightily; then his whole frame dramatically sagged. Tariq made to rise, but Sharon’s §quick hand stopped him, her eyes urging that he return to his place and remain as still and silent as before.
A patchwork quilt of color bounded across the walls of the tent, first darkening it, then lighting it briefly. The stones seemed more alive than Sharon had ever seen them as they danced upon the mat, tints unevenly blended. She gazed into the shadows with widened eyes. Inexplicably, it looked to her as though the reflections of the stones were battling one another, each hue at war with the next, and the harmony they had always projected before was missing. Her heart began to beat savagely; something was wrong — very wrong!
Zadek put his hands to his heart and grabbed fiercely at his tunic. His body shook, he groaned, and then he slumped forward. The glow of the pebbles vanished as suddenly as it had come. The sounds of wind once more rushed to their ears, and all was now the same as before this séance had started.
Tariq bolted from his place and tended to the mullah. Zadek’s lips parted to take the sip of wine and he coughed strongly, regaining his senses.
“What’s happened?” cried Sharon, her brooding eyes large with worry.
Zadek lifted himself slowly, a hand to his throbbing temple. He shook his head as if to clear foggy thoughts, then said, “He is dead.”
His companions stared at him in total shock and grief. “Are you certain?” demanded the saya. “Did your vision actually see him?”
Taking a deep breath to fill his aching lungs, Zadek hung his head low on his chest, sadly, like the man who learns that his favorite son has been lost in a war. “No, saya,” he whispered, “I did not see him, but the stones never lie, never deceive.” He shuddered. “They spoke of death, of a great loss to us all.” And with great effort, more than his companions could ever know, he forced himself to look at them. “Asif is gone. His earthly form could take no more of Kabul’s torture.”
Hand to her mouth, Sharon gasped. Tariq winced, sucking in dusty air.
“Would that I were wrong,” continued the mullah, himself close to tears. His eyes lifted to the ceiling of the tent, but he was staring far past it, far past the sandstorm that raged above; he was looking to the sky, to the heavens themselves. “Praise be the name of the Prophet,” he mumbled. “Asif has no more pain. He rests easily, in the arms of God.”
Tariq’s shoulders sagged; he leaned forward and put a hand on Zadek’s arm. “Then he is at peace, holy man; for that much we must be glad.”
“Aye,” agreed the mullah. “The khan can hurt him no more. He has fallen a hero of the Kazirs”
“And a hero of Samarkand,” added Sharon quickly. She looked away so as to hide her welling tears. She did not want Tariq to see this sign of woman’s weakness.
Sharon glanced up sharply. “No, never forgotten. To me he was like a brother.”
“And to me as well,” admitted Tariq. He smiled warmly at the teary-eyed princess, hoping to give comfort and assurance; but then his features darkened as he thought of his friend Roskovitch and how much the Bear had come to love the boy. To him, Asif was like a son, and now that son was dead. Telling him what had happened would be the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. The barbarian from Rus would be wild in his grief.
“Who … who bears direct responsibility for his death?” Sharon said, catching the others by surprise.
“All our enemies,” replied the saya glumly.
Sharon’s expression was hard and cold. “No,” she said simply, “I want the name of the man whose hand did this. One man, Zadek, only one. Which?” Her gaze was as piercing as it was frightening.
The mullah swallowed. “It was … it was Osklath. I saw him in my vision.”
Osklath!
The Samarkand princess glowered with hatred. Osklath — she despised the very name. How well she recalled him, his swagger and his arrogance, how well she remembered his own lust when Kabul sent him from the emir’s chamber. Osklath — she would never forget. Next to Kabul himself, there was no man, no Hun in all their armies, she craved revenge against more.
“The eldest son will pay for his crime,” she vowed. “Asif’s blood shall not go unpaid.”
Tariq cast a worried look at her. “I feel as you,” he told her, “but we must move with caution. Haste will not serve our cause — or Asif’s either.”
Sharon folded her arms around her knees, turning her gaze away from Tariq’s. If Asif was dead, she thought, it was because of her; under her banner he had so bravely fought; shielding her name, he had withstood the terrible injuries Osklath had inflicted. She shut her eyes and pictured the lad, the enormity of his loss heavy upon her shoulders. “You are right, Tariq,” she whispered. “Personal, grief must not color my actions.” She shivered and started to cry. “But leave me now, all of you. I need to be alone.”
*
She woke to the sound of wind pushing at the flaps of her tent, woke from a formless dream filled with dire forebodings she could not remember. She lay still for some time, knowing by the silence that the hour was late; it was nearly dawn. The fury of the sandstorm seemed to have passed at last, and now the wind, although strong, was no more than common for a summer’s night.
The wax candle flickered; Sharon threw off her heavy wool blanket, leaned over, and made to blow it out. It was then that she heard the wail; animal-like, deep and mournful, it sounded as though some gravely wounded beast was on the prowl. Unconsciously she reached for her dagger; the eyes of the cobra glowed in the light. She lifted herself up and listened again. The painful cry was as loud as before, this time in human voice lifted to the gods. Sharon moved to the flap and pushed it aside just enough to peek through.
Amid swirling gusts and thickly rising dust, she saw the burly figure of Roskovitch, the scalp-locked barbarian on his knees, balled fists pounding the ground. He was drunk, drunk out of his wits with the pain of Asif’s death. She saw the sinewy warrior raise an arm and curse to the heavens, asking why the youth instead of he had been the one to be taken that day. Then he fell to sobbing again, oblivious of the silent world around him, caring not for anything in this life to relieve his torment.
Sharon veiled her face from the onslaught of wind and forced her way out of the tent. She wanted to comfort him if she could, perhaps let his grief somehow be added to her own, but what could she say? What could she do?
“Leave him alone,” came a voice from behind.
She turned, startled, to see another figure lonely in the night, a silhouette against the shadowed backdrop. “Tariq!” she exclaimed. “Why … why are you here?”
The young chieftain met her questioning gaze. “I could not sleep,” he told her truthfully.
“Nor I,” she admitted. Then she looked again toward the giant of a man humbled like a dog upon the earth, biting her lip to stifle sobs of her own.
“He took the news very badly,” said Tariq, drawing to her side. His face seemed haggard; there were dark rings beneath his eyes. It was as if he too had aged far too much in the past year. “For a time I feared I could not constrain him.”
“He’ll be all right,” said the Panther. “He needs time, that’s all.”
“You do not know him as well as I, Sharon. The Bear is too proud, too stubborn.”
Through her tears, Sharon somehow was able to smile. She reached out and brushed her fingertips against Tariq’s cheek. Proud and stubborn — how very much the same Tariq had been that day long ago when they first met.
“It is better to leave him,” Tariq said, not realizing her thoughts. “Go back to your tent, Little Panther. Time enough to console the Bear tomorrow.”
Sharon nodded; there was nothing she could do to ease Roskovitch’s grief. Turning to leave, she suddenly shuddered.
“Is anything the matter?” asked Tariq. “Are you ill?”
She shook her head. “No, not ill, only frightened.” A hound barked and she jumped. Tariq took her arm and turned her to face him. “Are you sure?”
Her large eyes were filled with tears now. Tariq pulled back the flap of her tent for her to enter. It was with total surprise that she looked up at him and said, “Don’t leave me yet; I’m afraid of being alone.”
He followed her inside, eyes picking out the sparse furnishings. Sharon could have commanded much of the booty stolen from the Hun caravans, he knew — enough in gold or silver or precious stones to one day make her a woman of wealth again — but the princess had chosen to take nothing. She seemed more than content to live with the most basic necessities — the old way, the way of the Kazirs.
She sat down near the banked fire, still shivering.
“Perhaps you have fever,” said Tariq, concerned. He could not recall having seen her behave this way before. “I can send for Zadek. He has many medicines —”
Sharon stopped him with a shake of her hand. “No, nothing. I’ll be all right. This will pass.”
Moonlight slanted through the tent flaps, silver rays casting down over her cheek, sliding from her shoulder to the soft mounds of her breasts beneath her tunic. Her skin seemed strangely tinted now, fair, almost milk-white instead of desert tanned — the way it had been when she was brought as an outsider to the Stronghold.
Tariq felt a stirring from deep inside. He wanted to reach out and touch her, hold her in his arms. Oh, this feeling for her was not new; he thought he might have felt it even that day he first laid eyes upon her, and again when he’d stood before the judges and elders, ready to kill Yasir, if need be, to save her life. He was in love with her, had been all this time, though until this very moment he had not let himself admit it.
A strong gust of wind pushed its way inside the tent, causing the curtains to dance and the candle flame to blow out. Tariq made to relight it.
“No, don’t.” Her voice was a whisper.
In the darkness he looked down at her, heart throbbing so loudly he was sure she could hear it.
She lifted her arm, extending her hand to him. He took it slowly, closing his fingers around hers, feeling the sweat of her palms. She gave no resistance as he pulled her down beside him; not touching save for their hands tightly held, they gazed deeply into each other’s eyes. Then he let his fingers gently explore the side of her face, pausing in their search to wipe away a fallen tear. “You know how I feel about you,” he whispered. Her own fingertips rested on the shallow curve of his neck. “Shhh … you needn’t say it. And need I tell you that I feel the same?”
Tariq smiled as he pulled her to him, and their lips met softly in a lingering kiss, a lover’s kiss, stolen now in the few moments th
ey had found to be together. Sharon settled her head against his chest, awash in the glow of feeling his strength around her. It almost made her able to forget, to forget it all, the suffering and pain, the torment, the fear …
As his lips caressed the side of her neck, she pulled away, panting. “No, Tariq, don’t,” she pleaded, out of breath and suddenly snapped back to reality. “You mustn’t ever do that again.” Her eyes were aflame, narrowed and burning. “Promise me; promise!”
“But why, girl? I love you, and you just told me you feel the same.”
She looked away, ashamed, unable to greet his forlorn gaze. “It … it can never be, Tariq. You of all people should understand.”
His voice was a growl. “I don’t understand — any of this.” She tried to tear away when he grabbed her by the shoulders, and sobs rose as she fiercely shook her head, denying not only him but everything she had dreamed of and yearned for as well.
“Don’t you see?” she cried. “It can never be! Not you and I, never you and I!” Her hands beat at him, and he pulled her closer again, letting her weep into his shirt. Soothingly he stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. This time when she looked at him her eyes were dry, although puffy and red. She sucked in a long breath and held it. “How can I explain to you?” she said softly. “It’s not that I don’t care, because I do; you know I do.”
“Then what?” He was as perplexed as ever.
Her face darkened and she shut her eyes, wishing she were dead. “I am unclean,” she stated flatly, emotionlessly. “I can never love honestly, not after” — and here she faltered — “not after what they did to me.”
Tariq forcefully made her look at him. His face was warm, loving, his eyes kind and devoted. “It makes no matter, Sharon. To me you are the same as when I first saw you.”
Her smile was bitter. “That girl is dead, Tariq, murdered by the same dogs who slaughtered my people and my family. Like Asif, she fought them, struggled to the best of her ability …” The words were painful for her. “God, how I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t; he wouldn’t!” She was crying again, her hands to her ears desperately trying to drown out the echo of Kabul’s laugh, the laugh that still haunted her dreams. And in her shame she buried herself against Tariq, seeking the peace and forgetfulness she’d not yet found.