Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  I’ll slit that pig’s throat before I die! Mufiqua cried out without being heard. I’ll have his head displayed on a pike for all to see and...

  He gurgled and slumped forward, nose smacking harshly on the bare stone floor beyond the edge of the carpet. He twitched spasmodically three or four times, and then he moved no more.

  Sharon jumped to her feet, quickly covering herself with the scattered veils. Karim stood over the limp, drugged body with a large curved knife in his hand. The metal glowed in the lamplight; he made to kneel and run the blade through Mufiqua’s gut.

  The dancer pulled at his arm, caught his gaze. “No, Karim!” she flared adamantly. “Remember the bargain — he belongs to us!”

  The wily merchant spat into the pale face profiled against the floor. “My daughter,” he seethed. “This animal enslaved my daughter for the palace.” Tears flowed openly as his mind flashed back to the terrible day the child was taken. Whisked away to Kabul’s brothel by soldiers who only laughed when the girl’s mother fell on her knees before them and begged, pleaded that she be allowed to remain. But no, the cruel and sadistic Hun king and his lecherous sons needed a constant supply of new flesh to sate their heathen appetites. His daughter, like so many others, had been dragged from her bed, screaming and wailing, desperately trying to break free. It was a useless and futile gesture. For over a year now his Lina had been gone, for over a year she’d been used and used again by numberless men, savages who had conquered Samarkand more than half a decade before. Lina was a whore. Defiled, turned into a painted harlot to service any man at any time. To Karim she was better off dead. By the holy name of Allah, had his precious child been before him now, he would have used the knife on her as well.

  “Why do you want him?” croaked the merchant to the strange woman from the hills who had posed as a common street dancer. “What good is a man like this to you? Kill him now! Rid Samarkand of at least one vile son!”

  The woman was adamant. “We don’t want him,” she corrected. “We need him. My friends have use for Mufiqua.”

  Ruefully the aging merchant in caravan goods sighed, turned away. He did not know exactly whom this woman was. Nor whom her peculiar friends were, those who had contacted him through Amar the slave dealer. But their enemies were his own, and when he was told that a son of Kabul was the prize, he had had few qualms in assisting them.

  The woman put her hand to his shoulder, looked at him kindly, with more than a spark of understanding. “Your plight is no less just than our own,” she told him, speaking rapidly for time was running out. “But trust that this man can be invaluable to us all in the future.”

  Karim’s face underlined his astonishment. “You intend to let him survive?” he asked. “After all this? After putting both me and yourselves into such peril?”

  “There is no time to explain,” Sharon replied curtly, eyes darkening again. “You have done your part better than we hoped. Now leave us, merchant. Come back at first light of dawn.”

  Karim hunched his widely-set shoulders, walked away in a pronounced stoop. A broken man, a lost man. Careless of the raging wind of the hamsin he opened the door and wandered off into the night.

  Sharon waited only a few seconds after he had gone. She knelt beside the stricken prince, drew a small vial from the folds of her veils, opened it and pushed it before Mufiqua’s nose. The seventh son’s nostrils flared at the sting of the salts. He began to come around, his eyes growing.

  From the lace curtains slipped another figure, this one dark and hooded, with intense dark eyes that took in much. He had once been a mullah, a holy man of the palace itself, schooled in the world’s secrets and mysteries. Called by many a madman, a lunatic, he alone, had foreseen the fall of the once-mighty empire and had vainly tried to make them listen while yet there had been time. Zadek, he was called. Zadek, son of a Kazir, that tribe of wild and fiercely-free hillmen, who had once called Samarkand holy but who now fought against the scourge of Huns more furiously than they had ever fought their predecessors. Zadek, a mystic and a prophet, as cunning as he was insane, whose knowledge and powers had become renowned and revered among the Kazirs as much as Sharon’s own.

  Sharon bit her lip pensively as she turned to the approaching mullah. “Hurry,” she said. “I’ve brought him back to consciousness, but it won’t be long until he falls asleep.”

  Zadek grunted in response; he bent before the groaning Mufiqua, yanked his head back by the hair, forced the younger man to look deeply into his eyes. With his cowl pushed back, a shock of gray-black hair atop his head and a sharply-pointed goatee of similar hue, the mad holy man seemed more a devil than priest.

  “Can you hear me?” said Zadek in a low, soothing monotone.

  There was no response; Mufiqua’s eyes rolled in their sockets. Sharon peered worriedly at her mentor, the man to whom she owed so much.

  The mullah pressed a heavy thumb over Mufiqua’s eyelid, forced it open. “Can you hear me?” Zadek repeated. It took long, agonizing seconds until a flicker of life showed in the eyes. The son of Kabul slowly nodded, transfixed and nearly in a hypnotic trance. Sharon shuddered and stepped back. Zadek’s sorcery always frightened her, from her earliest days while yet a princess in Samarkand’s palace. Teacher, she had always called him. Teacher. A respectful title that lingered even until this very day.

  “I...hear...you,” said a sluggish voice.

  The robed priest smiled. “What is your name?”

  The younger man had difficulty answering. “I am...the seventh son of the Khan, the great and magnificent Kabul, ruler of half the world...My name is...”

  “Your name is Mufiqua,” Zadek told him. “As you claim, son of Kabul...” He glanced briefly over his shoulder when another figure entered between the parted curtains of lace. She was dark-skinned, with short, clipped hair and large, intelligent eyes. Dressed in similar garb to the mullah, simple and worn. Were it not for the piece of antelope’s horn at the end of her knotted-leather necklace, no one would have suspected her true title: saya of the Kazir Stronghold, Clan leader in her own right, who could call forth a thousand loyal horsemen at the snap of a finger.

  The saya lifted the lamp from its place, brought it closer until the light burned brightly into Mufiqua’s eyes. The prince of the Huns winced at the brightness; Zadek’s thumbs forced him to stare. “Look at the light,” urged the mad mullah gently. “There is nothing to fear. Look at the light.”

  The saya began to rock the lamp, slowly at first, side to side in the same motion a mother might use to rock her infant’s cradle. Mufiqua’s eyes had trouble at first in following; Zadek’s instruction, though, made it impossible to turn away, and after a very short while he was completely unable to.

  “I am Zadek,” said the cowled holy man, “and from this day my voice alone shall command you.” He waited for the words to sink in. “Do you understand? I alone am your true master, Mufiqua. Never forget that...When my instruction is given, you shall pay any price to carry it out.”

  Mufiqua nodded, swallowing feeling the burning sensation in his throat. “I...I understand...master.”

  It was a dark and shudderingly frightful smile that crossed Zadek’s mouth; he looked up at the two women and held out his palms in a smooth gesture. “He is prepared,” he announced flatly. “What is your will?”

  Sharon fidgeted, cast a long fretful glance at the saya. Carolyn masked a small smile of her own. “I am ready,” she said. “Instruct him well, holy man. We have much to do, and little time.”

  Chapter Two

  Le-Dan was a large man, well-trimmed despite his advanced years. He toyed with the apple in his hand, taking his first bite savoringly, relishing the juices as they swilled over his tongue. The hammock in which he rested, slung carefully between two great cypress trees, remained perfectly still, even when he leaned over the side and spat a seed onto the grass.

  His companion, equal perhaps in age but certainly not in physical fitness, belched loudly as the last of his grape
s were swallowed. He wiped his hands on a soiled napkin, rested his head back against the trunk’s bark, squarely facing the man in the hammock. Sunshine, gay late afternoon light, filtered glowingly through the leaves and boughs. It was a most pleasant country setting, peaceful and tranquil, and to see these two men now no one could have ever guessed the reason for their meeting.

  Le-Dan drew a breath, let it out in a long blow of his puffed cheeks. At first glance there was nothing striking about him; he seemed stern yet jovial, like an uncle who loves dearly his nieces and nephews but is constantly in need of exercising authority lest they take advantage of his disposition. A strong man of independent thought, but a fair man as well — as many of his troops had reason to be thankful for.

  The second man, portly and balding, was far more the ambassador than he ever was the soldier. Outwardly aloof, even disinterested, but inwardly studying and noting his adversary’s every move, recording it in a perfect memory. Lucienus never forgot — anything.

  He folded a betel nut between his fingers, placed it gingerly in the back of his mouth, resting it beside gum and cheek. The flavor delightfully spread, and Lucienus smiled.

  “Well?” said Le-Dan. Hands at his sides, eyes closed beneath white, bushy brows, he listened to the singing of the birds nesting among the branches.

  Lucienus smacked his lips. “Well what? What else is there to say about the matter, my dear fellow? You and I have been friends for more years than I suspect either one of us wishes to recall. We’ve seen kings like this come and go, time and time again.”

  Le-Dan peered over at his companion. “Not kings like this one, we haven’t. Not like this devil. What we’ve seen over the years have been washerwomen by comparison.”

  The portly man chuckled. “You always overestimate everything. Your emir was weak — a pushover, if I may be so bold as to speak it openly. Never had a chance, none of you did.”

  “How could we?” answered Le-Dan with a shrug. “The Khan’s forces were overwhelming. You know it’s true when I say that not one of my legions fled. To a man we stood our ground and fought: in the valleys, along the plains, why, right into the rivers themselves. Anything, anything at all to halt this maniac and his scourge.”

  “That’s why I was amazed when I received word that you were still alive; you have no idea how wonderful it made me feel. I tell you, right then and there, in the middle of court, I fled the scene and ran to pray. Down on my knees, exactly like those beggar mullahs your land is so famous for. Yes indeed, there were real tears in my eyes. Genuine tears of honest relief and joy.”

  “You were so positive of my death, then?”

  “Hard not to be, good fellow. If memory serves, the Huns conquered both your ill-fitted armies and entire empire in a matter of weeks. Ran amok like a bull let loose in the field...”

  “Hmmm. An interesting analogy. I certainly let down all those who put their faith in me — not to mention their lives.”

  “Be pragmatic, dear fellow. Pragmatic. The devil with your honor, your noble sense of duty.”

  “Don’t forget that I’m a soldier. Always have been, always will be. It’s the only decent trade I know. You needn’t laugh, Lucienus. Well enough for you to retire and live like a country squire. It’s not your land that’s been so, so —”

  “Raped?”

  “Raped. Yes, fitting enough. Those are not your people under the yoke of such incredible tyranny.”

  “Tyranny, bah! Already you sound more like a politician. Listen to me, old friend, tyranny is a word that opposing sides too often hurl upon each other. Why, look about you, man! From the Great Wall of Cathay, to the borders of the Turks, this ripe apple of a world is well carved and apportioned. Sad but true, this beastly Hun does indeed reign across your beloved steppes and homelands. But why press the fight? You are safe at last. Persia offers you a home; it always does to men of such high caliber. Stay here among us. Even as a soldier, if you insist — if you’ll take my advice you’d be nothing less than a gentleman. A man of breeding and quality. A scholar, or even a damned poet, if the fancy strikes you. Anything at all; my country will lay it at your feet. We respect you, my childhood friend. We like you.”

  “You have an ambassador’s way about you, all right. What you’ve said, in too many words, is that the answer to my request is no. Persia will not lift a finger against these Huns, even though you fully know it’s in your own self interests.”

  “Ah, but is it? The last thing my king wants or needs — and I readily agree — is to make an enemy on our northern borders. The Khan may be a barbarian, but experience has well taught me that even among heathens there is a cunning. If he were a fool, how would he have come so far so fast? No, strange as it may sound to you, in some ways I can only admire him.”

  “Admire a butcher?”

  “Admire a man who with nothing, came out of the mountains half a world away and successfully gained himself an empire that spans all the way from China to the Black Sea.”

  “And Samarkand is his seat of government. My home, Lucienus. I shan’t forget.”

  “Don’t go sentimental on me, Le-Dan. It’s most disconcerting to see a soldier talk about a place he hardly ever saw — or have you forgotten that your duties took you away from the city for far more of your valuable time than you were there? Chasing shadows, if I can quote your last letter dated, oh, more than five years ago.”

  “Chasing Kazirs, Lucienus. A tribe of the steppes scattered across the desert and —”

  “My dear fellow, I know about as much as I want to! These Kazirs were considered bandits, were they not? Renegades of Samarkand that called your city holy and swore an oath to wrest away the throne from your very leaders.”

  “They had some legitimate grievances, don’t forget. After all, Samarkand truly once did belong to them. My own ancestors banished them...”

  “Banished them — and proceeded to spend the next one hundred years trying to rout them and cut them down. Rather like the farmer whose horse has fled in the middle of night and then shuts the door, wouldn’t you say? A poor way of dealing with one’s enemies, I should think. You should have slain them all in the beginning.”

  “Perhaps. At least it would have been easier that way. But my people are not savages, Lucienus. We would have been happy to find some accommodation with the Kazirs — it was they who demanded all the pie and not just a slice.”

  “So an ally became an enemy.”

  “Kazirs are bound to Samarkand by blood, don’t forget. The same as I. Still, I must give credit where it’s due. Never have I seen such savage and brave a band of fighters. They really believe in this holy war of theirs, this jihad, to regain what was lost. No matter how many of my troops I’d commit to the effort, no matter how many of their villages I’d razed or fields I ordered burned, always they sprang back to life. Like phantoms. I tell you it was uncanny.”

  “Maybe God was truly on their side.”

  “Don’t think I’ve never considered the notion. ‘Shadows’ was a good analogy, Lucienus. You can’t defeat a foe that stands before you one moment and vanishes the next.”

  “Wisely said. If these loose reports we receive from the north hold any validity, these very outlaws of yours now lead the only fight to free Samarkand from its conquerors.”

  “True enough, and I’ll be the first to admit it. Doggedly they continue the struggle against overwhelming odds. I know I couldn’t do it. Not without Persia’s full support at any rate. Any attack is begging suicide.”

  “All the more reason to accept an appointment here, good friend. But what you ask, as you know, is not in my own power to grant. However, even if it were, I’d still harbor grave reservations. Granted that these renegade Kazirs have been able to keep their heads intact so far, how much longer, in reality, can they persist? Gnats biting at an elephant, dear fellow. One good swipe of the elephant’s trunk and what’s left?”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, Lucienus. At the beginning I would have said the v
ery same thing. Now, though, I’m not so sure. They’re an odd bunch, these Kazirs. When the conflict first began, all sorts of strange rumors floated my way, to the mountains and the rag-tag army I was trying to regroup.”

  “Oh? What sort of, er, rumors?”

  “I know you too well, old friend, to believe you haven’t heard them as well. My spies spoke of an ancient prophecy. Mumbo-jumbo that the Kazirs devotedly believe in, but that nevertheless bears some semblance to the truth. For instance, I know for fact that Kabul’s eldest son led an entire legion through a place called Grim Forest to lead an assault upon the Kazir stronghold. What happened to them is too incredible to take as true, but this much I do know — only one man, the Khan’s son, returned with his life. And he was turned into an infantile idiot. The hillfolk are a superstitious lot, but it can’t all be the gossip of fisherwives and holy postulants who babble secretly in Samarkand’s bazaars and plazas.”

  “Were you not my friend and distant cousin, I’d swear you half believe this nonsense. Look here, man; it’s said that the Kazir rebels are guided under the influence of a woman — a woman who bears what they call a gift and serves as rallying point for all the Clans. Also that she has received the blessing of this forest’s witches and been bestowed the titular leadership of every campaign. Magic, sorcery, and I don’t know what else. Even that this woman, the one named Panther of the Steppes, is herself a royal princess of the very nobles whom the Kazirs fought for a hundred years!”

  “It does sound far-fetched, I’ll admit. But she would not be the first to be guided by the stars.”

  “No; I daresay this Kabul is guided by his own stars, his own barbaric logic. As was the great Alexander, whose visions changed our own world forever.”

  “The reign of Alexander is long since passed, Lucienus. Now we find ourselves confronted with another set of visionaries and zealots. As I said, I am a soldier, not a politician, not a soothsayer. If all I sought for the rest of my life was a nice lucrative appointment to your court, I would have come begging for it long ago. What I ask of you, of Persia, is a chance to fight — and die, if necessary — upon my own soil.”