Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

The captain felt an arrow glance off his helmet; he regained his saddle and managed to swing his mount enough around to get into the center of the fray. His men had been attacked on three sides by clearly superior numbers; the only way clear was the route by which they had come, back toward the dunes. The captain swore foully as an arrow ripped through his sleeve and tore into the flesh of his bicep. Blood streamed down his arm; he careened forward, thrust his blade and speared a rushing attacker. The Kazir tumbled; the captain trampled him to death. “Retreat! Retreat!” he shouted, clearing a path through the mêlée.

  Fully half his force lay dead across the avenue, back to the square and the poisoned well. The Kazirs still had the distinct advantage no matter how well his own men were fighting, and it was then he realized they were hanging back, not closing off the single remaining route of escape, but rather purposely herding what was left of the patrol toward it. The fools, thought the captain. They have us! Why aren’t they pressing the advantage? What are they waiting for?

  Still, this was a fortune he wasn’t about to question, not with two hundred Phantoms at his back. He hunched in the saddle, broke his way free by hacking a few more running Kazirs, and with a handful of his best men beside him, broke onto the square. Riding like a demon, he made his way away from the well. A group of fresh Kazirs on horseback charged down bravely from the dunes. With the sun in his eyes the captain could not tell their number; he swung his own horse again, retreated to the relative safety of the field. A few stragglers were bolting horseless from the village. The Kazirs cut them down like rag dolls, swooping in low, lopping off heads, blood spraying like a summer shower. The captain urged his horse on, listening to the terrible screams of the dying. Nearby he saw one of his best men hurled as his horse crumpled from a barrage of Kazir snubbed arrows. Another Hun, a brute of a Mongol, stopped the advance of a Kazir, fought brutally with others who streamed from the dunes. The captain took quick assessment of the situation. Of his force of fifty men, at best there were a dozen who had made it out of the village. Of those, except for several pinned down by advancing riders from the dunes, the rest seemed free of the enemy. Strange, he mused; he’d been fighting these desert men for years, and this was the first time ever the Kazirs had not tried to gain their victory to the last man. A tenet of a Kazir warrior was to slaughter the enemy, leave not a single survivor to tell the tale; yet these Kazirs now seemed in no hurry to give chase.

  “Behind you!” someone shouted.

  The captain grunted as his sword met the thrusting blade of a shaven-headed Kazir, a sinewy, scalp-locked horseman who looked like no Kazir he’d ever seen before. The man snorted, blazing fire in his eyes as he pressed closer to the Hun, slashing, cutting. The captain hacked away, more concerned with breaking free than killing his foe. As their horses straddled one another, the Kazir inexplicably hurled himself from the saddle, lunged for the captain, whose sword came down sharply, gashing the desert man. The Kazir slumped, sheltered himself from the onrushing hooves of other Hun riders.

  “Don’t kill him!” yelled the commander hoarsely. “Take him alive! We need him alive!”

  The fight in the village was done; as could have been predicted, the Kazirs were rapidly taking to the dunes on horse and by foot, vanishing, blending among the shifting sands so perfectly it seemed as though they had never been there. The village itself, though, spoiled any illusion that this fight had been imaginary. Slain Huns lay scattered everywhere. As for the Kazir slain and wounded, they had all been quickly dragged away, leaving only the corpses of Huns to give testimony to what had happened.

  The captain sucked in air to quell the punishing pain of his wound; he broke the shaft of the arrow embedded in his arm, then surveyed the silent scene around him. The Kazirs were gone, all right. He knew their tactics well enough to know they would not be back. The village was again deserted.

  A Hun sprang from his saddle, examined the wounded Kazir. The captain leaned hard from his saddle, peering darkly down. “Is he dead?”

  “No, sir. He’ll live.” And with a glint in his eye the soldier pulled his dagger and made to slit the Kazir’s throat.

  “No, you fool!” barked the captain. “I want him tended to — now! As quickly as you can!”

  The inexperienced younger man was perplexed. “But, sir —”

  Wincing with pain, the captain raised an exasperated hand into the air. “This man is worth his weight in gold! Don’t you see, any of you? We’ve caught ourselves a Kazir! Alive! Only once have we done so before — and then we had to torture him until he died — and still didn’t get any information out of him.”

  “What makes you think this one will be any different, eh? Buzzards, they are. Desert vermin.”

  The captain blew a long breath into the sky. “What? And tell the Lord Khalkali that we had a Kazir fighter in our hands and let him go?” Inwardly he thought, This man is a prize among prizes. He fights fox the Kazirs but he’s not one of them. I’ve seen his kind before, when I served the Khan in Rus. Khalkali will be well pleased with my fortune today. So will my Lord Jamuga when I recount what’s happened. We have to make this Kazir well, turn him over to Krishna. Who knows what secrets he’s got locked in that shaven head of his? A Russian who fights for the Kazirs! They’ll make a general of me for this little coup — if these idiots can keep him alive until we get back to Samarkand.

  “Careful,” he called as they bandaged the Kazir’s wound and slung him onto a riderless horse. “He’s lost too much blood as is and I’ll bleed each of you a double amount if he doesn’t live to reach the dungeons of Samarkand!”

  Then off they rode, twelve survivors of fifty. They trotted slowly, backs to the fully-risen sun, completely unaware of the solitary figure who rose trembling from the dunes and observed them.

  “Go with Allah,” Sharon whispered. Her robe flapped in the wind as she climbed the sanded crest, tears flowing. “Go with Allah, Roskovitch. You played your part too well. I only pray you are as strong as we think; Krishna’s tortures have broken the most powerful men alive.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was in the grimmest hours of the night, that black time in which men hold their breath, stir in their sleep, listen to the strange sounds carried upon the breath of the wind. The hags and washerwomen of the city spoke of nightthings, dark demons of the netherworld, ghouls and ghosts come to prey upon the living. In daylight hours men scoffed at these superstitions, these foolish tales of the feeble, yet on a night such as this, with the stillness broken by the dreaded whistling of an approaching hamsin, only a fool did not shudder or wonder what terrible event portended.

  The assassin’s face was smeared with soil to conceal his features; his abba was black, blending perfectly with the falling shadows of the walls and towering edifices. Almost invisible to wakened eyes, he pulled the cowl over his head and slipped noiselessly along the side of the long, low outer wall of the palace keep. Silently he waited among the hedges, observing the battlement of the great wall soaring beyond the courtyard and hanging garden, where the changing of the guard was now taking place. Dour, helmeted sentries saluted one another glumly, one group taking positions in the lighted tower and crenelated wall, the other group wearied from their tour and making their way down toward the inner keep.

  The assassin smiled mirthlessly; from inside his robe he drew a thin length of hemp with a small grappling hook that was wrapped in cloth to dull its sound. He stepped into the open, tossed the rope high, listened with satisfaction when the hook firmly caught the embrasure of the stone ledge. Hand over hand he pulled himself up, muscles taunt, until he reached the top, some ten meters above the garden. His eyes shifted quickly, ever mindful of the guards on duty until dawn. From the highest tower a grim bell tolled twelve times. Midnight. Deftly the assassin hauled up his rope, wound the cord tightly, and placed it carefully in a crevice between the large stones. Save for the lusterless, muddy-yellow flame of the torch pulsing in rising wind, there were few lights to be seen within the many wi
ndows of the multi-winged palace. For a second time the assassin smiled, hurrying on his way, out of sight, bounding the steps onto a lower level, then opening an unlocked iron door and creeping inside the passage. It had taken him a very long time to study his route, time the changing of the guard, and determine how long he had. His work had been well-rewarded, though, and now he was ready for the second stage, the moment he had waited for, the time when he would get revenge against those who had dishonored him. This night would live in memory, he told himself. Whether he escaped or not alter the deed was immaterial; he’d forfeited his right to life long ago. Death would be sweet — if he succeeded.

  The corridor was narrow and long, unlit except for the glow of a brazier in a distant chamber. The assassin strode briskly but quietly until he came out from the passage and upon the threshold of an enormous vestibule. There were many doorways leading to and from this hall and he knew, he’d have to be careful in selecting the proper one — the one leading to the Khan’s private rooms on the highest level of the tower.

  There was a guard on duty in the hall, of course; he’d expected and been prepared for it. The man had taken off his helmet, stood stifling a yawn as he patrolled back and forth, back and forth, up and down the series of bolted doorways. The assassin was grinning fully now, watching the heathen Hun rub sleep from his eyes, stretch tired muscles. When his back was turned, the man in shadows pulled a small curved dagger from the folds of his sleeve, let it slip into his hand. The edge of the blade was smeared with a colorless substance, an alchemist’s invisible poison guaranteed to kill within seconds.

  The assassin surveyed the chamber one last time, then like a leopard he sprang, catching the hapless Hun unaware. The knife’s point cut through the small of his back. The sentry froze, the poison racing through his bloodstream. He slumped silently to the floor, flesh turned a sickly, bluish pall, eyes bulging, mouth hanging limp, lips soundlessly quivering. By the time he dragged the Hun away, the corpse was stiff.

  Beads of sweat broke out across the assassin’s forehead. He didn’t pause to mop his brow as he raced for the correct door, slid open the bolt and slipped inside. So far everything had been perfect. A few unhampered minutes more were all he needed. Enough time to reach Kabul as he slept.

  Ephemeral flickers of light danced at the height of a winding set of stone steps. The assassin wiped his sweaty brow, took the steps two at a time. At the landing a vestibule greeted him, his nostrils affronted by the sweetly pungent smell of incense. No guards. Once more fortune rode with him. Another door, wooden, heavily reinforced, was before him. Unbolted. He eased it open, peered cautiously through the slit, gawked in amazement at the plush chamber, the greeting room of Kabul’s most private apartment. He could hear murmurings from another room; a woman’s voice, followed by the guttural tone of a man’s, then a few broken giggles as the woman laughed.

  The Khan is with a whore, mused the assassin. So much the better. I’ve poison enough for two.

  A quick silent prayer followed; he burst loudly inside the apartment, wild eyed, and leaped for the entrance to the bedroom. The room was black as night. The assassin lifted his dagger high, came screaming, crazed. The woman in the bed bolted upright, naked. She put her hands to her face and wailed.

  “Death to the heathen!” shrieked the assassin.

  Kabul jerked up, rolled deftly to the side as the dagger ripped the feathered mattress. The assassin made to lunge again. The woman was howling, scrambling from the bed. The dagger slashed out. She moaned, rolled her eyes and slumped, blood pulsing from her lacerated belly. One-eyed Kabul grabbed the closest object, a brass candlestick, and heaved it. The assassin took the blow and fell backward. Kabul leaped, grabbed his sword, wheeled it high. Before he could strike, three soldiers burst into the bedroom, tackled the assassin, and knocked him to the floor, beating him mercilessly.

  “My lord, are you all right?” stammered a guard.

  Kabul glanced to his consort, whose cold hands clung to the blood-splattered quilt, then to the moaning intruder who lay pinioned between gleaming scimitars. Kabul rubbed his hairy, naked chest and stared down at the assassin’s poisoned dagger.

  Tupol, sleep clouding his vision, hobbled into the chamber. He looked to the dead girl and gasped.

  “It was that close!” boomed Kabul, snapping a finger at his youngest son. “That close! How did this dog get inside?” He was livid with rage at the almost-successful attempt on his life.

  The soldiers shied their eyes from his wrath. “He must have scaled the wall during the change of guard, Sire,” one stammered. “He killed the sentry on duty in the hall, and he —”

  Kabul roughly pushed the soldier aside, in no mood to listen to excuses. “Who,” he said seethingly to Tupol, “is behind this?”

  The deformed son shook his head. “I don’t know, Father. Let me have this man to question.”

  Kabul hovered over the beaten assassin, kicked him, then stared through his single, hateful eye. “You’ll rue this little ploy,” he vowed.

  Wild with the knowledge and terror of what was in store, the assassin made a sudden attempt to lunge for his knife, cut himself quickly and let the poison do its work. Tupol kicked the blade away as the closest guard stomped the assassin’s outstretched arm. The assassin yelped with pain. Tupol knelt beside him, put his hands around his throat, and started to squeeze. “Who paid you, swine? Whose money bought your knife, eh?”

  The assassin choked for air. He struggled to fill his lungs, speak. Tupol released his grip and waited. “Not...not for money,” rasped the assassin. “For...for honor...”

  “Honor?” Tupol glanced up at the menacing bulk of his naked father. Kabul stared at him long and hard, then snapped a finger and commanded the guards to wipe the mud from the assassin’s face.

  “I know this man!” gasped the deformed son. “I recognize him!”

  “What?” barked the Khan. “Are you sure?”

  Tupol weakly nodded. “Positive, my lord. No question. He is a dealer for Amar. In fact, one of his daughters serves us here in the palace...”

  “You turned my Lina into a whore!” cried out Karim, shaking as he lay on the floor. “You’ll die for it, butcher of Asia! Perhaps not by my hand, but by the sacred name of the Prophet, you’ll die!”

  Karim screamed like an animal as the soldier’s boot slammed harshly between his spread legs.

  “What’s the fool talking about?” demanded the Khan.

  Tupol shrugged, looked away as tears of pain poured down Karim’s sunken cheeks. “He’s mad, lord.”

  Kabul shook his finger. “No, no,’ he said quietly. “There’s more here. How would a common trader like this have been able to learn so much about the palace? Enough to slip inside at will? Eh, my clever, twisted son? Who gave him aid? Or encouragement?”

  “I did it alone!” blurted the suffering Karim.

  Another kick to his genitals brought another shriek, this one louder and more horrible than the last. He rolled at the Khan’s feet, slobbering, sobbing, shoulders heaving, gasping for air.

  “Triple the guard at every station!” commanded the Khan to those around him. Then to Tupol, “Find Krishna, have him take personal charge of this man’s interrogation. And warn him to be careful! He must exact the greatest amount of pain with the least amount of damage. I want this Karim to survive for a long, long time.”

  Tupol sneered at the frightened, groveling man. “As you command, Sire. But I believe the poor beggar did act alone.”

  The Great Khan of the Huns folded his arms, shook his head slowly, stringy hair falling over his patch. “Too many coincidences for that, my son. Too many.” He rubbed at his bearded chin. “A dealer of Amar’s, eh? No doubt a contact of my addicted Mufiqua’s as well, eh?” He kicked Karim again, laughing when the pitiful man moaned. “Who else, slaving-son-of-a-whore? What other contacts, eh? What other agents inside my palace? The Persians? Afghanis?” He paused and sucked in a lungful of hot air, temper beginning to boil. His
sing through clenched teeth he added, “Or is it the Kazirs that you serve?”

  Karim stiffened, eyes wider and more frightened than before. “No one!” he whimpered. “Alone! I acted alone! By Allah, I swear it’s the truth!”

  “And by your Allah you’ll have a good deal more to snivel about,” reminded Kabul, thinking of Krishna’s methods. He turned away, ordering the remaining guards to drag the prisoner out. He didn’t know which of the Hun’s dark gods he would thank for this tide of events, so he thanked them all. Because of the stupid, vengeful act of an outraged father he would, for the first time, glean an understanding of the network of spies serving those opposed to him. Coupled with the Kazir warrior captured in the desert, Kabul realized that for the first time his hope had a very real possibility of coming true. Karim and the Kazir were going to lead him directly to the woman, the bitch who stole his eye, and for whose capture he would pay any price at all.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The odor made Carolyn want to retch; the foul smell tickled her nostrils, a slimy, vile stink that permeated the air. Doors creaked open for her as she passed, the concubine trailing meekly a pace behind. Burly dungeon guards bowed respectfully before the overseer of the whores. Carolyn had rarely been down to these bowels of the palace, these putrid corridors reeking of death, disease and torture. It took all the courage she could muster to make her way through them.

  It was rare for Krishna to request the company of a woman, Carolyn had noted. Often she had wondered about his perversions, asking herself what would make a man, even an animal like him, prefer to dwell in the underworld. The chancellor of the dungeons was a strange man; in many ways the most peculiar of all Kabul’s remaining sons, so it was with some surprise that this morning she had received his request. Carefully she had selected her choice for him, knowing his taste ran more to the dark-skinned beauties of Arabia and India than the yellow and brown-haired women of Rus that Khalkali and Jamuga seemed to prefer. That was why she had chosen Nania, a child of the jungles, seductive but defiant. A woman whose background serving the Rajas made her more compatible to the lustful Krishna than the delicate, sugared girls of Persia or Damascus.