The Broken Winds: Divided Sultanate: Book 3

by Baloch, Fuad

  The Broken Winds

  Divided Sultanate: Book 3

  Fuad Baloch

  Copyright © 2019 by Fuad Baloch

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Version: baa

  * * *

  Illustration © Tom Edwards — TomEdwardsDesign.com

  Contents

  World Map

  Map of Istan

  Prologue

  1. Shoki

  2. Nuraya

  3. Shoki

  4. Nuraya

  5. Kafayos

  6. Shoki

  7. Aboor

  8. Shoki

  9. Nuraya

  10. Shoki

  11. Aboor

  12. Shoki

  13. Nuraya

  14. Shoki

  15. Nuraya

  16. Shoki

  17. Nuraya

  18. Shoki

  19. Nuraya

  20. Aboor

  21. Kafayos

  22. Shoki

  23. Aboor

  24. Nuraya

  25. Shoki

  26. Aboor

  27. Nuraya

  28. Shoki

  29. Nuraya

  30. Shoki

  31. Kafayos

  32. Aboor

  33. Shoki

  34. Nuraya

  35. Aboor

  36. Shoki

  37. Kafayos

  38. Nuraya

  39. Shoki

  40. Nuraya

  41. Shoki

  42. Aboor

  43. Shoki

  Epilogue

  The tale continues…

  About the Author

  World Map

  Map of Istan

  Prologue

  “Verily, there is no god but the Unseen one,” Larib chanted weakly, sweeping his rheumy eyes over to the dozen soldiers standing guard in the temple courtyard. A strong whiff of incense made its way through his nostrils and he sneezed. Shaking his head—thankful he couldn't smell the rot of corpses over it—Larib squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers clutching the prayer beads against his chest. “Shower your mercy upon us all. And save…” he popped an eyelid open, then leaning on his other hand that gripped his walking stick, looked around to ensure none of the soldiers could overhear him, “Algaria from all those who seek her harm.”

  Before he could wipe his hands over his face, bells pealed from the Atishi temple across the Grand Istan Avenue. Larib tensed, turning toward the dark-skinned soldiers. The men were young, roughly the same age as the Istani city guards who would have stood here before the occupation. Two of the soldiers grumbled, the taller of them waving an angry arm over to the Atishi temple beyond the road.

  Larib licked his lips as he watched the guards from his elevated platform. He’d tried ignoring the prickly sensation that urged him to fight against evil by pointing at his old age. But his heart continued to refuse the excuse. He’d tried arguing that men of his faith, Zakhanan warriors imbued with the fervor of the Husalmin faith, would see the light and turn away from their detestable activities soon enough. Three months had passed, and his eyes had seen no different.

  Yet, the end times were approaching. This was but a little preview of that.

  The soldiers were getting restless, the taller of them gesticulating angrily as the Atishi bell continued to toll.

  Larib couldn't keep quiet. “Erm…” he croaked.

  Unbelievably, the soldier in the middle turned his way. He was a short, handsome man, dark black hair slicked back, standing with the confidence of a salar who knew his place in the world. “Did you say something, priest?”

  Larib blinked, then shook his head, his eyes dropping to the sack at his feet for a second before rising back up. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  The Zakhanan salar stared at him for a long breath. Enough for Larib to feel a trickle of sweat begin to roll down his spine. Curse the infirmity of old age. If only I had the vigor of the youth, the willpower of the strong, the—

  “Priest, is everything alright?” the salar asked, his musical voice doing nothing to calm Larib’s nerves. His eyes dipped to the sack. “Do you want us to escort you to your lodgings?”

  Kind words uttered in pure Gharsi. Words Larib would have expected the Istani city guards to offer him as well, if in Nirdu. Young men willing to expend a bit of their youthful, boundless energy in the service of frail, holy men. An offer he would have taken up without any shame. After all, it wasn’t easy limping three miles to his home past the Mercantile Quarter, especially not when the streets of the city continued to be littered with debris and dark spots staining the cobble pathways.

  But he had a job to do today.

  “Waqama, see the blessed priest to his home,” said the salar, pointing to the taller man who had been grumbling at the Atishi bells.

  “No,” said Larib before either of the soldiers could say anything. Feeling their curious eyes on his skin, he flushed. Gods’ guts, he cursed inwardly, angry at the blasphemous words that had made their way into his thoughts and taken aback by the disquiet spreading through his chest. “I’m perfectly capable of seeing myself through Algaria.”

  “But—”

  Larib raised his stick then struck the marble floor with it. “I do believe I have made my wishes perfectly clear, young man.” He glared at the Zakhanan salar, summoning all the scorn he’d seen old Brother Yaqub muster with so much ease. “Now, I must be on my way.”

  Brooking no argument, and ignoring the pain shooting up his leg and hips at the sudden movement after having stood stationary for the best part of half an hour, Larib grabbed the sack, then hobbled down the marble steps. Why in Rabb’s name did the cursed architects have to put so many steps there anyway? The Unseen God lived everywhere, was unrestrained by any spatial concerns. Surely, the temple could have been designed to be more accessible for His priests? But no, the architects had to ensure that the priests got to stand tall over the bobbing heads of the believers.

  Unbidden, his eyes crossed over to the western horizon over the temple walls. Under the fading sunlight, the dozen golden minarets ringing the Shahi Qilla gleamed as they had all seven decades of his life. He choked at the sight. Three months since the sacking of Algaria, and still he hadn’t gotten used to seeing the Zakhanan eagle flying over the Shahi Qilla.

  Oh, Algaria, my sweet, sweet city. Shaking his head, Larib shuffled past the soldiers. One of them raised his hand to stop him, but then let it drop. These men had conquered his city, had looted all temples except those belonging to the Husalmin faith. He was their subject in all truth, but he was also a Husalmin priest—a spiritual father for these Zakhanan believers. He detested them, but there was no denying the greater liberty he enjoyed over the other locals.

  “They do not follow the faith of my beloved Binyom,” Larib muttered angrily. “Nothing but a corrupt, misguided version of the truth.” He struck the ground with his stick, startling one of the soldiers, then increased his pace until he was out of the temple complex.

  Now, he slowed down, casting his head about left and right. No one appeared to be watching him. Clutching the sack tight in his grip, Larib began making his way toward the copse of trees under the shade of the Husalmin temple. Hurry! he told himself, willing his aging body to heed his command. It didn’t, sending more shards of pain to register its protest.

  The city around him was quiet, grave. Larib ignored the dozen or so decomposing bodies swaying on the makeshift gallo
ws over the blue canal water. Noblemen who had decided to mount a counterattack against their new masters and had been caught. The Grand Istan Avenue, where once one could watch the entire world walk by in a single afternoon, was empty of civilians, gawking visitors, well-to-do merchants, and bureaucrats. A few feral dogs roamed about unchallenged, their abhorrent presence ignored by the marching bands of Zakhanan soldiers.

  “Beautiful day,” came a voice behind him. It was cultured and refined. A sonorous voice that wouldn't have been out of place either at a temple or in diwan-e-aam.

  A voice he hadn’t heard before.

  “The day is red and the night darker,” Larib replied, his heart thudding against his ribs even as he continued to make his way forward.

  The man behind him didn’t respond. Larib tensed. He had no way of knowing whether the man was indeed the one Larib had been wanting to meet, or a Zakhanan spy who’d finally cracked their attempts at meeting in secret.

  I’m too old for all this subterfuge.

  Larib bit his lower lip, focusing on putting one foot forward after the next, ignoring the man. At the sound of wailing, he turned his head to the right. Four beggars sat under the shadow of a ministerial building. Spotting his attention, they cried out for alms, rattling their metal bowls toward him. Larib swallowed, shaken by the very idea of these wretched souls having to beg practically a stone’s throw from the Shahi Qilla itself. Algaria was the city of gold, abode of the Istani sultans, center of the whole world. Seeing the beggars outlined against the Shahi Qilla was an ugly reminder of things Larib didn't want to linger on.

  Algaria was no more the Istani capital.

  The thought choked him. He couldn't stop himself from inclining his chin and looking back at the four minarets surrounding the former seat of Istan, each flying a massive Zakhanan flag instead of the roaring lion that should have been there.

  Keep your thoughts clear!

  The stranger was still following him, his boots crunching softly behind him. His breathing growing labored, Larib dabbed at his forehead. So far, he hadn’t been arrested. No soldiers had pounced on him, breaking his body in the process.

  Good signs.

  “The embers birth fire,” the stranger said when they’d entered the copse of trees.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Larib turned around. The stranger was short and stubby, his hood pulled over his face making it difficult to see anything but his thin lips. That was another good sign. The less Larib knew, the easier it would be for him to deny this meeting afterward.

  “Have you got it?” asked the man.

  “Aye,” Larib replied. He glanced left, then right. None of the Zakhanan marching bands seemed too fussed by the idea of an old crooked-back Husalmin priest in his flowing, white robes meeting with a short man. Larib extended the sack. “Here you go.”

  The man nodded, then reached for the sack. “My master thanks you for your kindness.”

  “He’d have done the same had the roles been reversed,” Larib replied sincerely.

  “Still, you put yourself in grave danger to help our priests. May the Gods of the Atish…” the man paused, “and Rabb reward you justly.”

  Larib suppressed the tears that welled up in his eyes without warning. “Wait. You seem like a man of the world. Tell me of the world outside Algaria. Is there… anything to be hopeful for?”

  The short man chuckled, shaking his head ruefully. “Hope is for the deluded. Trust me, all things considered, you’re much better off here than anywhere else.” He turned to leave.

  Larib grabbed him by his sleeve. “The last days are here, young man. Something I can feel in my bones. Yet, I’d hear of them. What of the fourth Istani army under the command of Siphsalar Thonam Aland? Are they still marching for central Istan, aiming to wrestle Algaria free?”

  The hooded figure yanked his arm free. “He is a wise man, this siphsalar. Last I heard, he’s staying in the north-west with what’s left of his army. Either of the three local ameers would pay an arm and a leg to secure his support over the others.”

  “Over the others…” Larib repeated, still finding it hard to believe that instead of pooling their strength together, the ameers who’d survived the invasions were fighting each other. “What of the… djinn? The magi?”

  “No news of the djinn since the Battle of Buzdar. Something to be thankful for.” The man crossed his arms. “You know, I’d have almost believed that tales of their appearance at the battle were mere gossip, had it not been for how every single survivor I’ve met describes them the same way.”

  “Ah,” Larib said, feeling his shoulders sag.

  “You want more, old man? The magi are forming schools!” The hooded figure spat to his side. “Schools to organize and arm themselves. Not long before their battles escalate out of control, mad as they are.” He shook his head.

  “Rabb will put it all right.”

  “Hah! He’d have to do a lot.” The hooded figure leaned forward. Larib sucked in a deep lungful of air, casting his head about to ensure they hadn't attracted attention. “And then there are the strange tales of ungodly beasts roaming through east Zakhanan.”

  “The blight,” Larib replied reflexively. “Sign of the end times. And when the final hour will come, the moment known to no one but the Unseen God, blights will consume the ends of the world and—”

  “Don’t quote scripture to me,” the hooded man interrupted. “If half of these tales are true, then we’re all fucked, pardon my language.”

  “God will put it all right.”

  The younger man laughed, the sound both mocking and spiteful. “Maybe your god was the one responsible for raising this Afrasiab from the dead, eh? Your deliverer who’d first destroy you all, then shape everything anew.”

  Larib didn't let himself rise to the bait. He could see through the brittle, angry shell of this man and into the sea of bitter doubt flooding his heart. “A step after another makes a thousand miles. One brick atop another constructs the temple. Bit by bit, even if we can’t see the long-lasting effects, we will fulfill God’s will.”

  “Mysterious ways your god works, eh?”

  “Aye.”

  “And yet, he can’t even feed his own priests,” the hooded man noted dryly.

  Feelings of doubt and helplessness were contagious. Once birthed, they spread, devouring even the hearts of frail, old priests like himself. Larib held his breath, narrowing his eyes as the man reached into the sack full of cheese and dried meats and breads he had procured. “Tell your priests to hold strong. I’ll be praying for them.”

  The man snickered. A sad, mournful thing this time. Then turned around and began marching away.

  Larib watched him. A man whose name he didn't know, even if they both shared the same fears and concerns. He had lived long decades, yet nothing had prepared him for these times. The great, mighty Istan fractured into a hundred different fiefdoms. Magi, free of their inquisitor masters, tearing into each other now. Zakhanan and Reratish forces carving out chunks of the great sultanate for themselves. The long-dead magus Afrasiab somehow come back to life.

  Had it ever been this bad before?

  Shaking his head, his heart heavy with grief and sorrow, Larib began trudging toward the Mercantile Quarter. There would be more reminders of how much the world had changed once he left the confines of the Temple District.

  Was that to be the way of things? Anarchy and destruction?

  Larib winced, a tear finally streaming down his cheek. As he raised his dirty sleeve to wipe it away, he caught sight of a middle-aged man limping away in some great hurry. Larib stood frozen, taken aback by the gray turban he wore.

  He blinked. When he looked up again, the figure had vanished.

  Larib exhaled, then, offering a silent prayer to the many hundreds of thousands who had perished over the past few months, resumed his slog.

  A step after another after another.

  Chapter 1

  Shoki

  Inclining his chin, Sh
oki squeezed his eye shut and tried to seize his well once more. He felt the soft breeze caressing his hair, heard the muted stamping of hooves of their horses and the thrumming of his heartbeat.

  But the void eluded him.

  I will find you!

  The voices behind him were getting louder. Had these villagers recognized him as the one-eyed man who had almost been the sultan? Would they fear him for being the abomination who’d brought down the fabled walls of Algaria? Or were they going to curse him for watching helplessly as djinn and magi tore apart thousands?

  “Shoki,” came a soft voice from his left, pulling him away from his troubled thoughts.

  No!

  “We need to keep moving.”

  Shoki ignored the voice, more out of desperation than from any expectation of success. He had to keep trying.

  It was useless. He had no well after he’d burned it out at Algaria fighting the queen.

  Nuraya needs me.

  “Shoki…”

  Shoki winced, feeling Jiza’s words like salt upon his wounds. He let his resolve melt away and opened his eye. The brilliant blue sky stared back at him. Already, a clutch of angry, dark clouds was gathering strength. Not long before the Eastern Realm, known for its continuous rain, would be drenched once more, turning the relatively solid ground under him back into a mushy and muddy bog.