Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  And then suddenly, inexplicably, that wish seemed to become an instant reality. All became still and silent, the grim and smoldering city standing naked in its solitude. Tupol winced, listened to the sound of his own harsh breathing, his heart thumping within his chest. Even the ailing Khan noticed the sudden change in the air and heeded it, picking up his pained head and staring at the limpid sky.

  “It — it’s stopped,” whispered Tupol in amazement. “The storm has stopped!”

  Then he hobbled to the bamboo curtains, pushed them roughly aside, slid open the tall doors of glass and stepped eagerly onto the stone of the portico. His view afforded a grand panorama of the city, and it was with shock that he realized all fighting had ceased. His men stood dumbfounded in their positions along the high walls and battlements. The enemy forces disappeared behind their own barricades and emplacements. The cessation of wind had caught them all off balance, left them gaping in awe at the return of silence. The fires still burned, from one end of Samarkand to the next; but Tupol smiled, knowing that they, without the furor of the hamsin, could be put out readily enough. That is, should he decide he wanted them put out.

  “Now,” he exclaimed, lifting his twisted, deformed hand to the sky and bending the crooked fingers in a parody of a fist, “now all is mine!” He swore loyalty to the foul gods of the Huns, his belief in them renewed, understanding that without the wind against him the battle had surely turned in his favor. The Kazirs would be isolated, trapped within the walls between the fires and his forces, doomed to a quick, savage death. This was the stroke of luck he had needed and it could not have come at a better time.

  “The hamsin is ended!” he rejoiced, his demoniac laughter returning. “Now Samarkand is truly mine! Nothing can stop me now!” And for the moment the grim clouds that had begun to mass beyond the dark forest went unnoticed.

  *

  Carolyn leaned forward and bit her lip pensively. She climbed up to the last step, slid out of the shadows and peered through the slit between the stones. Beside her the scalp-locked barbarian stood motionless. There was not a sound to be heard; nothing. It was as though Allah Himself held breath and waited.

  The saya shuddered, feeling very cold. She tilted her head, turned her gaze from the view and soberly faced Roskovitch. He, too, felt it, felt the sudden surge of chill.

  “It is time,” the saya whispered.

  The Russian nodded gravely, held his bandaged, broken hand as he slipped back down the steps. There was no longer the need to hide. Carolyn peered again through the slit, focused upon the latticed balcony surrounding the tallest minaret of the Great Mosque. A shadowed figure appeared, dressed in desert robes, holding in his hands a shell, a conch shell of the sea. No, it was not a mullah who had come to the balcony, not a holy man calling the masses to prayer, but a Kazir. Tariq, her brother, come to give the final signal.

  Tears of pride came to Carolyn’s dark eyes as she saw Tariq put the shell to his mouth. Then he blew, blew the single whining note that their people had been awaiting these many years. The blast heralded across the city, and those who heard it knew that for good or evil the final thrust against tyranny was here.

  Soundlessly she muttered, “Let the Devil’s Wind blow.”

  *

  Far, far off, amidst the gloom and shrouded shadows of that place known as the Grim Forest, it began. The vortex started to develop, a V-shaped cloud of monstrous wind, wind the like of which had never been seen before, wind that sucked in the air around it, hurling it into its updraft and expanding, ever expanding, as the motion was repeated again and again. When it had become a funnel, a swirling, massive cloud of vapor, it started to move, raking the earth wantonly with devastating force, sweeping up by the roots centuries-old, massive trees, flinging them through the air like hairpins. The winds roared and sucked in more air, increasing in energy, feeding upon itself, whooshing! like a thousand stallions in the direction of the distant city. And even as the moon rises, so it, too, rose, lifting higher and higher, a behemoth of surging power, plowing asunder anything in its path, leaving behind gutted remnants of what had been.

  Then over the forest it scorched, this hot, tempestuous vortex of wind. Then over the dunes, where it tore across the burning sands, altering landscapes that had stood for eons, tearing through wadis with unnatural force. The hideous black funnel contracted, then expanded only to contract once more. It constantly sucked in more wind and sand, pulsing over the mighty desert, this grim reaper of impending death. It flowed with the crimson of the sand, plucking up debris, flinging it out. The turbulence sent shocks humming across the earth. Villagers along the steppes and fertile plains felt the ground tremble, and with whispered prayers they fell to their knees, shaking uncontrollably, knowing now, at last, that all the predictions were indeed true, and that the Devil’s Wind was no mere fancy. Allah help those who got in its way!

  No, this was no hamsin, this was the Finger of God!

  It came smashing onto the plains without warning. Fields were ripped to shreds, the roofs flew off farmhouses, the structures themselves crumbling at the first taste of the howling force. The mounted legions of Kabul, camped and waiting for the expected Kazir thrust from the steppes, saw it coming and sought to hide from its wrath. But what they encountered that unspeakable afternoon has been whispered through the ages only with shivers and fear. For the punishment afflicted was a dread with which there can be nothing to compare, save for the last day of the world itself. Bedlam reigned through the Hun camp; horses, riderless and mounted, were flung into the vortex. Animals and men screamed with panic, hurtled like arrows and crashed among their companions. Crying men ran hither and yon, some gone insane, others crying and begging their gods to intervene, while still others called for their mothers, stumbling to their knees. And the wind roared with laughter. Whole armies were dismembered on the plain, the black funnel devouring them all, eating them alive and puking out lifeless bone.

  And from the high walls, the grim walls of Samarkand, those in the battlements looked on with horror. They saw comrades from afar come flying at them, smashing at the walls and towers, a taste of the scourge that was clamoring for them.

  Along the crenelated battlements the ranks of plumed-helmeted soldiers looked to the distance with gasps. The spin of the funnel was horrific, sending shocks up and down the countryside. The outer winds already were jolting the perimeter of the city. The percussion of the crackling dry lightning and earthshaking thunderclaps caused them to shiver. For never had there been upon the face of the world anything like this, and never would there be again. The cataclysm had come.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Stand your positions!” flared Tupol. “I order you to stand your positions!”

  His cloak flowing madly behind, the youngest and only surviving son of Kabul fought against the wind and ran across the parapet of the inner wall, dodging as cowardly soldiers broke in panic and began to scuttle for safety. The looming black cloud now seemed almost close enough to touch, yet Tupol knew it was still some leagues away. But it was bearing down fast, blasting across the plains, still gaining in size as it sucked more air into its vortex.

  Tupol saw his men panic; blindly he rushed to the fortified tower and confronted the handful of dumbstruck commanders. “Keep your men along the battlements!” he roared above the din of the intensifying wind.

  “We cannot, my lord!” one shouted back. “It is the end! The end of the world!” And before Tupol’s startled eyes they began to break from their posts, even they, these strong-willed and ruthless generals of the Khan’s armies. The frail cripple ordered them to stop; then, as they pushed him out of the way, Tupol drew his knife and plunged it. One soldier wheeled and fell, his hands to his belly. Another caught the thrust in his throat and ambled backwards, where a gust caught him and heaved him over the wall. He fell screaming to the gardens below. Tupol looked on with fear, true fear that now began to seep through his bones. Again he shouted for order, for his soldiers to hold the
line, and again his commands went unnoticed. He could not stop them, could not control them.

  Wildly he hurried back down from the parapet, pushing, shoving, knocking scores out of his way. Within minutes he had reached the portico of the room of state, and there, groveling on his knees, was Kabul, the Khan staring straight at him and laughing. “It takes a man to be a Khan, boy!” he hollered, his voice barely audible above the wind. Scattered objects went flying, pottery and lamps, curtains torn from their rods, silver and gold chalices.

  Tupol stood shaking, knife in hand, his crippled body seemingly more bent over and fragile than ever. Kabul’s glee pounded through his head, and he would have killed his father gladly, had not the next strike of dry lightning so shaken him that he could only run.

  “Go! Flee, you worthless, buggering swine!” the mighty Khan called as Tupol raced through the chamber, tossing away his blade, screaming in fear. “Flee back to your hole! I should have killed you years ago, Tupol. Years ago!” Kabul was frothing at the mouth, his pain still shattering his body, flashing from his scalp into his brain and all the way down along his legs. He couldn’t stand; he didn’t even try. On his knees he crawled, splitting with laughter as the cripple inadvertently banged into furniture and hobbled out of the way of wind-launched debris. “You’re not a man, Tupol! You were never a man! The very sight of you fills me with disgust!”

  The incapacitated son ran as fast as his legs could carry. He reached the long corridor in a sweat, panting, biting on his good hand to stop from screaming. The walls around him had started to quiver; torches danced in their braces as the wind smashed through a distant window and came clamoring down the passage. Tupol was thrown off his feet, sent crashing, against the wall. His deformed hand lunged out and grabbed at a hanging Greek tapestry; the woven mural ripped, yanked off its pinnings. Tupol staggered, threw it aside, fought again to regain his feet. Carried on the blow of smashing air came his father’s voice, mingled with his sardonic laughter. “Save your empire, O Khan, regain the throne you have plotted for!”

  Tupol, his face scarred from flying glass, lips sputtering and swollen, put his hands to his hair and tore it out “Shut up!” he raved, voice careening down the halls. “Shut up!”

  The torrent grew worse; the sky turned an unholy black. Dusk was yet still some hours away, yet suddenly the heavens were like midnight, tinted only by the pale glow of the still-raging fires across the city.

  Through chamber after chamber Tupol hurried, wildly, mindlessly, his hands to his ears to quell the deafening screech of the Devil’s Wind. Across some chambers lay the motionless corpses of servants and slaves. Here and there he heard moans, cries for help. Some soldiers had been buried alive when a fragile wall had given way, and he saw their clawing hands working upward and bloodied into the light. Tupol turned and hobbled away, avoiding a blast of glass that fragmented into ten thousand soaring slivers.

  Down, down through the recesses he hurried, not knowing where he was or where he was going. Torches had been blown out, braziers long since knocked over and their charcoal now scattered and smoldering dully across the polished marble floors. Dry lightning rippled, terrible thunder rolled. Tupol tripped over his own feet, cursing his deformity.

  A familiar stairwell stood crookedly in front of him. In panic a handful of guards came bounding up, shrieking incoherently about demons and black funnels at the edge of the city walls. They banged into Tupol, sent him tumbling. Then they raced out of sight, the echo of their boots reverberating along the halls. Tupol rose to his knees, then managed to stand. He worked his way slowly down the steps and came to the lower landing. A series of recessed, arched doors lay directly ahead, and at once, even through his fever, he recognized them. “My pets!” he chortled, and then dragged his lame leg along until he reached the chamber.

  He shut the heavy door, stood with his back straight against the solid wood, and sighed. At length he was breathing normally again. His eyes adjusted to the darkness of the small chamber, and he listened to the sounds outside. The wind was howling as never before; he could hear screams, picture in his mind’s eye those caught above as they were hurled about like toys, caught beneath the crush of crumbling brick. Gates would be torn from their hinges, roofs flayed off houses. Towers shattered, domes caving in at the pressure of the wind’s awesome weight. The entire city blown away, leaving naught but rubble. But he would be safe. Oh, yes. He would be safe. A clever fellow plans for every possibility and Tupol had been cleverest of all. Hadn’t he outlived the others? Hadn’t he claimed his right to be heir — and wasn’t he at this very moment acting Khan?

  He’d chosen this chamber for his pets with utmost care. Chosen a place well-hidden among the labyrinth of palace halls and levels. A place that it would take days to find. Jamuga knew about it, of course. He was the only one, so naturally he had written his own death warrant. But no one else. Let the Kazirs come when the storm ended. They’d never locate him. Not here, not in time. Let this Devil’s Wind blow for a week; not even that could reach him in this place. Oh, no. The walls were granite. The chamber was locked away, wedged between a dozen other halls and corridors like it. This room was impenetrable.

  He slid the heavy bolt across the door and grinned. Now he was locked safely inside. It would take a hundred men with a battering ram to force this door down. Oh, yes. He’d been clever. The smartest of them all. He alone, against the world. Just him. And his pets.

  It was then that he noticed the glass cages, so carefully placed amid the dampness and the shadows, had been toppled askew. He hobbled from the barred door. Slowly he approached, knelt down. The glass was intact, unbroken. But the cages had been unlocked and opened — and the two remaining spiders were missing!

  A cold sweat broke out across his forehead. It was impossible, he told himself. Somehow the coops must have fallen over on their own, perhaps by some sudden down-rush of violent wind from the vents in the ceiling...

  His brows rose as he tilted his head and peered up. There were no vents in the ceiling. This room was sealed completely. Hadn’t he made certain of that himself?

  Puzzled, he stared, bit at his fingernails. Who could have found this place? Who? He relaxed, smiled. I’m being childish. The answer is simple and obvious. Those soldiers on the stairs, they must have discovered this room by accident while fleeing from the storm. Yes, that’s it. Rushed inside seeking shelter, saw the spiders, knocked over the cages and panicked. All logical.

  He sighed, thinking himself too nervous. I need to think. There’ll be much to do when the storm ceases. Yes, much to do. And I am still Khan.

  Then he frowned. But I’m friendless. Who’ll stand by me after this, eh? What general will have taken up the reins of power in my stead? I’ll have to deal swiftly with the usurper...He chuckled. Ah, but I’m not alone, am I? How could I be — not while I have my pets...?

  But the spiders were gone! Let loose on their own!

  Tupol cursed, banged a fist against his thigh.

  “My pets,” he called aloud, tears coming to his eyes. “Where have you gone?” And he got down on his knees, sticking both arms out across the floor, disturbing the dust as he blindly searched in the darkness.

  “It’s too late, Tupol.” The voice was a whisper, a hideous whisper that breathed venomously from somewhere across the chamber. He snapped his head sideways, gazed deeply into the gloom. No further sound came. He wondered if the voice had been real or a figment of his imagination.

  Then came heavy labored breathing, and the crippled son of Kabul shuddered. This time it was real, this time he knew he was not alone.

  “Who’s there?” he rasped, feeling for his hidden knife and screaming inside at the recollection that he had tossed it away.

  The breathing became louder. “It’s too late, Tupol. Your pets are no longer yours to control...”

  “What are you talking about? Who are you? Come closer, let me see your face!”

  It seemed forever before the black figure emerged. He could
make out the shape, blurred against the backdrop of shadows, but there was no face. Only a cowl covering the head, a long hood that seemed like a mask.

  “What have you done with my spiders?” Tupol demanded, gathering his courage. “I am the Khan!” he cried. “And I command you to answer my question! What have you done with my pets?”

  “They are my pets now, Tupol. And they are close, I promise you. Can you not feel them crawl?”

  Tupol slapped at an itch on his neck; his hackles rose. He swore he could hear the scraping of tiny feet, shot his head around, expecting to find the tarantulas creeping along his legs or arms. The voice chuckled from the gloom; the unknown figure stepped back into the darkness. “Farewell, Tupol. Your pets are waiting...” The voice trailed off into nothingness.

  Wiping his coarse features, Tupol stumbled forward and groped for the mysterious form. It was gone, vanished like an apparition. And once more he was sure he heard the soft patter of the spiders inching their way toward him.

  “Wait,” he called out. “Don’t go!” The response was a grisly chuckle, and Tupol felt his heartbeat quicken, his pulse throb. The air was stale and damp; he breathed heavily. “I — I’m the Khan,” he stammered, “and can make you a wealthy man. Call the tarantulas off!” He spun around anxiously, flinging off his cloak, scratching his back, his ribs and belly, his calves. Suddenly it felt as though the spiders were all over him, crawling up his spine, working their way through his hair, over his arms, onto his face, their hairy legs constantly moving, their bloated bodies overflowing with poison, their claws ready to sink into his flesh.

  “No!” Tupol screamed. “They’re going to kill me! They’re starving, starving, I tell you! Call them off!”

  The itch became worse, insufferable. In his mind he saw a whole army of spiders, hundreds of them climbing atop one another, playing on his garments, swarming. And he remembered Jamuga, the way it was, the cries. And realized that once he was bitten, it would take only moments for the venom to kill him.