The Broken Winds: Divided Sultanate: Book 3

by Baloch, Fuad

  This is the race that received God’s prophets? Kafayos shook his head, then reminded himself of his mission, and put away all other thoughts.

  He would do his bit. Rescue Azar. Return to Nainwa. Help Namam and the other clan leaders put their house in order. And then… then, they would all begin anew on a process to lift this curse. The curse on Nainwa would lift. And he would be the one to do it.

  His thoughts drifted to dangerous avenues—an unpleasant weakness of the human form. Was Drenpa stomping through the human world this very moment? Had he aligned himself with the Ajeeb magus who called himself Afrasiab? Draped in human flesh, shorn of his true form, Kafayos felt the hairs at the back of his neck standing. Whatever he thought of the humans, Afrasiab was a figure known even to the djinn. A terrifying Ajeeb magus whose exploits and tales of brutality formed myths of old.

  Was it really possible that he had returned?

  Why?

  Where was he now?

  Another disturbing thought rose in his mind. If this was indeed Afrasiab, could he be the Ajeeb magus with the ability to lift the djinn city’s curse? Would that be why Drenpa might have decided to fight alongside him?

  What would have Kafayos done if Afrasiab had asked for his loyalty?

  Kafayos squirmed, deciding not to let his mind wander. Hypotheticals were the domain of scholars who had too much time on their hands. He was a djinn of action, one who made things happen. He didn't succeed, his mind conjuring up snippets of time he had spent with Shoki. He squared his shoulders, feeling the familiar discomfort spread within him whenever he thought of the blasted human. Jiza was out there in this world. The silly djinn girl who had cast her lot with a human. A human!

  “Why, Jiza?” he muttered.

  Maybe, once he found Azar, there’d be time to look for Jiza as well. She would’ve learned her lesson by now, and when she came back, asking for his understanding, he’d show his magnanimous side.

  Kafayos nodded to himself, the shadow of the gate falling on him as he walked out into the open fields outside. He could see no lines on the ground that declared sovereignty, but from what he had gathered, this used to be Istani soil. For whatever that was worth.

  He continued, surprised at how quickly the human form—a replica of the form he had taken on for meeting Shoki—had begun tiring. Would he need to eat human food as well to keep this body replenished? A sudden dread gripped him. Even when he returned to his real form, would the stink of human persist with him?

  A dozen priests stood chanting over a small hill overlooking the midan. More out of curiosity than anything else—especially the tiredness that he refused to acknowledge—he stopped beside the rock.

  “Have mercy on their souls,” a tall priest dressed in flowing robes was chanting, his hands reaching for the heavens. “They are all your children, Rabb. Forgive their sins and—”

  Kafayos chuckled. Couldn’t help it. How was asking for the victims to be forgiven the right thing to do?

  Two of the priest’s acolytes glared at him. Not that it affected him much. Kafayos shrugged. Religion was one more thing that the djinn had had no business importing from the humans. True, they had never received messengers or prophets from God, but that didn’t mean they had to go begging the worthless humans for their spiritual sustenance. A part of him grumbled. He shunned the thoughts away. He had no business second-guessing tradition.

  Kafayos began climbing the hill. One of the acolytes tried stopping him, but then thought better of it. His breath caught when he looked out at the midan. Months had passed but even now the vast space ahead was littered with reminders of what had happened there. In the middle of the vast field, a massive crater had formed as if some diabolical monster had picked up a large chunk of a hill and dropped it there. They had taken away the bodies, but the ground around the crater was a darker hue than the surrounding ground. Similar patterns appeared everywhere he looked. Dried human blood.

  More humans had died here than the population of ten djinn cities put together.

  The sheer scale of it all overwhelmed his senses.

  Kafayos watched the midan for a long moment. Humans might be the lesser race, but they were countless like grains of sand. If they had magi like Afrasiab leading them now, what would that mean for the djinn?

  Kafayos gritted his teeth, allowing the priest’s melodic words to wash over him. For all its vices, this world was where the prophets had received word from God. This was the realm where the human prophet Rolomon had forced the various races to sign the compact.

  His eyes fell on the young acolyte to his right. He carried a metal contraption of sorts, one made of iron.

  Kafayos jumped down and headed toward the crater, keeping his mind clear as if bathed by the clean, noble ash. He stopped a foot from the crater, then, closing his eyes, allowed his djinn essence to flood his being.

  Flickers of light. And scent. Ephemeral snippets of those who had walked these lands. Faint. But not beyond the grasp of his Zyadi well. Human world or not, light and shadow were paramount here as well, available for him to harness. He stiffened, then turned north, eyes still shut. Djinn had been here. In their real forms. Drenpa and others.

  And… another djinn whose reflection he wouldn't have expected.

  “Jiza?”

  Shaking his head, he strained, pulling from his well. There… at the periphery of his range, he detected another essence. A flicker of light that his powers allowed him to witness despite the passage of time.

  His eyes popped open. “Azar, you were here!”

  Kafayos turned north-east and began striding toward the distant mountains.

  Chapter 6

  Shoki

  “Slow down,” Salar Ihagra bellowed as he pulled his horse up to Shoki’s. “More misguided up east!”

  Shoki blinked. If he squinted, he could almost see the drop of water on the bridge of his nose. Translucent, solid somehow. Something shunned by the heavens, now moments away from its death. Before others just like it would take its place. They had crossed into Zakhanan now, and the weather hadn’t improved much.

  Salar Ihagra cleared his throat, his horse snorting in unison.

  The trance broke. Shoki leaned back in the saddle, running the salar’s words in his mind. More misguided up east. Misguided? These Zakhanan monsters had swept down to the Istani lands, leaving widows and orphans in their wake. Yet, the salar, just like other Husalmin in Istan, continued to refer to them merely as misguided or deviants, instead of more appropriate epitaphs like killers or bastards. He chuckled. “Are they really misguided when they genuinely believe their faith calls for subjugation of all other faiths and peoples except theirs?”

  Salar Ihagra’s eyes hardened, the fine hairs of his mustache moist with rainwater. Shoki found himself staring, transfixed by the manner in which light played with the salar’s whiskers. He shook his head, then turned his chin toward the horizon. Jutting over the treetops, he could almost see a dozen man-made structures. Towers? Houses? “Is that a Zakhanan village over there?”

  “Kihzoy, a small farming community. We should skirt around it.”

  “Why?”

  Salar Ihagra thrust his shining helmet back onto his head. Two riders were cantering toward them from the right. For a moment, Shoki tensed, then forced himself to relax. If Salar Ihagra wasn’t worried, then they had to be their men. His eye fell on Camsh and Jiza who had pulled up beside the salar, each exchanging a glance. Shoki inhaled. Why were these two talking behind his back? If they thought he didn't know, they were dead wrong. He’d seen them whispering and muttering. Were they scheming? The grand vizier’s son couldn’t help himself, Shoki was certain, but why in Gods’ guts would Jiza get involved?

  A silence had fallen on the group. An unnatural one. The men and the djinn were watching him quietly, their horses’ hooves making squelching noises on the muddy ground. On Zakhanan ground—not that there was anything obviously different here than it had been in Istan. Nothing but the bloody rain, any
way.

  Shoki grimaced, realizing he’d lost track of time once more. “Isn’t the village the quickest way through the river up ahead?”

  Salar Ihagra coughed. “Scouts report some sort of a standoff between traders and soldiers over there.”

  Shoki scratched his chin. “Zakhanan merchants?”

  “Does it matter?” Camsh interjected. His cheeks looked gaunt, large stains of sweat spreading down his armpits despite the cool, damp air. “We’re hardly in a position to be picking battles.”

  The world wobbled without warning. Shoki lurched to his side. A hand settled on the small of his back, arresting his plunge. Jiza. He nodded gratefully, hoping others hadn’t noticed the moment of weakness. Something gnawed at him, an old memory of him falling as he entered the diwan-e-aam, a hand righting him at the last instant. He cleared his throat noisily. “What are our options?”

  “I’ve sent scouts to look for an alternate route through the river,” the salar said, waving an arm eastward, toward the river Shoki hadn’t seen yet, but could hear even from the distance. “There must be another bridge or a narrow bend where we can ford.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Are you alright?” asked Jiza, her voice low.

  “I… think so.” Three uneventful days had passed since they had crossed into the Zakhanan empire. Three days he hadn’t had another… occasion where reality slipped from his grasp. Was that about to change?

  “Lalam and Wegal,” Salar Ihagra snapped at two soldiers standing behind him. “Check our rear. I want no surprises!”

  “Aye, Sahib Salar.” The soldiers turned their horses around and thundered away.

  Shoki licked his lips. He was in Zakhanan. A land he’d never hoped to visit. Yet, the only place he was meant to be in this moment. Hope. Faith. He had to believe that Nuraya was still out here, that he still had an opportunity to make a difference.

  A part of him dueled with another. He was too late, it argued. It was time to turn around. The other voice, one urging him on, was louder. After all, it argued, had Afrasiab already done what he’d intended with Nuraya, how come birds still twittered from their perches? How come the sun continued to rise every morning?

  Nuraya was safe. Unharmed. This, he just knew. No, that was the wrong word. He believed. An article of faith. Afrasiab hadn’t touched Nuraya yet.

  Hopefully.

  Why had Afrasiab gone quiet though? He’d asked his companions this yesterday. Why would a magus who had lured the Iron Sultan’s daughter disappear from view at the moment of his victory? Camsh had been thoughtful, almost coy. A hidden, grand strategy was what he believed. Salar Ihagra had grumbled, urging him to turn back for Istan. Jiza… she had kept quiet.

  Shoki blinked, then looked up in alarm. Had the sun already moved the span of two tree lengths to the right? Panic rose in him. Time was wasting, running through his fingers, unwitnessed, unacknowledged. This couldn’t go on.

  “Jiza,” he turned around, then trailed away. He was the only rider now. Salar Ihagra was barking at a dozen soldiers some twenty paces to his right. Behind them, a lone rider was galloping toward them—probably one of the scouts the salar had dispatched to confirm they weren’t being followed. Jiza huddled with Camsh to his left, both of them talking in hushed tones again.

  Straightening the collar that felt like an albatross around his neck, Shoki turned in the saddle, registering his surroundings. A relative clearing in the middle of the dense Zakhanan rainforest. Fifty men. A djinn. What was he doing? His finger twitching, he raised it to scratch his chin, then froze, his eye glued to the grime underneath his fingernails.

  “Salar Ihagra,” he shouted. “Why aren’t we moving? We can’t stay here forever.”

  Silence fell upon the soldiers. Jiza and Camsh looked up. The salar strode toward him. Though Shoki could tell by the pursed lips the salar was worried, the older man did a convincing enough job hiding the worst of it. “There’s another bridge downstream we can use to cross over.”

  “How far is it?”

  “Ten miles or so.”

  Shoki shook his head. “Ten miles south means putting twenty miles between us and our destination.”

  “Shoki, there is really—”

  “We’re not going to waste a whole day backtracking when we have the opportunity to go through the river now.”

  For a long moment, the salar stood glaring at Shoki. For an instant, an infinitesimally small one, Shoki saw the glimmer of dissent in the salar’s hard eyes. But then the older man nodded. “Very well.”

  “Shoki,” came Jiza’s voice behind him. He crossed his arms over his chest, puffing his chest up, long locks of hair swaying to the side. The ends were wet. Had it rained again? “Do you even know where you’re going?”

  “Aye,” he lied. He had nothing but the rumors of Naila seen across the border sustaining him. That… and the belief that he was headed the right way. Nothing he could point at with any sense of certainty, yet a hope he clung to. A far cry for a man who had relied so much on evidence all his past life. “We need to keep moving. We need to move now!”

  Jiza’s voice was calm when she replied, “We could go south, take—”

  “We go through the village!” Shoki shouted, feeling veins bulge in his neck.

  No one spoke for a long moment. Then, Jiza stepped forward, and began walking toward the horses tied to the trees. She mounted her horse in one smooth, graceful motion, her peshwaz stretching tight on her body. Memories rose of their time in Nainwa. Strange how he’d barely even looked at her the same way since the Battle of Buzdar. She was still the same person, but he had changed.

  Salar Ihagra barked an order and the other soldiers mounted up as well, forming a column two riders wide. A young soldier, probably the same age as Shoki, took his position at the head, then ordered the column to move east.

  Shoki clicked his heels together, then let his horse walk alongside the column tramping through the winding trail. Confusing thoughts continued to swarm his mind. He was moving, was already in Zakhanan, but what if he had been chasing the wrong line of investigation all along? Maybe, it would have been wiser to have received the magi delegation and hear them out. After all, there was every chance they knew more about Afrasiab and his motives than anyone else.

  The magi had deceived him. Twice. They—people like him—were not to be trusted. Nuraya might have been the first one to learn her lesson when she unleashed the magi, but he had fared no better, supporting their cause over that of the inquisitors.

  Shoki shook his head. What was done was done. It was no use musing over what could or should have been. Mistakes had been made, and that… well, that was that.

  “Halt,” the salar called, raising a gauntleted fist. Shoki stopped as the column pulled up. Trees were thinning ahead, offering him a glimpse of buildings. “Lalam, scout ahead.”

  The young soldier in the lead nodded. Then, slipping off his horse, sword clutched in one hand, he ran toward the buildings. Shoki shifted in the saddle, looking around. Two bearded soldiers whose names he didn’t know were whispering to each other. The moment their eyes met his, they stopped, dropping their gazes.

  Shoki turned away. They all knew he was going mad. Becoming the abomination they’d feared all their lives. They were terrified of him. How long before they would turn on him? Knowing how terrible the magi fighting had become in Istan, he wouldn't have trusted himself either, had he been in their shoes.

  The soldier who had ventured out returned, his breath ragged, shallow. “Salar, the merchants’ guards have unleashed their swords.”

  “How many are they?” demanded Salar Ihagra.

  “Around fifty on each side.”

  Shoki bit his lower lip. All this talk was wasting time. Time he didn’t have. He turned his chin up. The sun was burning bright. For the moment. A good sign. If the heavenly body didn't care for this so-called blight plaguing eastern Zakhanan and the gray clouds threatening to overtake it all the time, then nothing would keep him d
own either.

  Shoki clicked his tongue and slapped the horse on the flanks with an open hand. His horse snorted, then shot forward. Someone called out at him. Shoki paid no mind, bursting through the trees, leaving the rest of them behind.

  Zakhanan stood before him. Not just dense trees and bogs and thick forest copy. Actual Zakhanan. A village large enough to house a couple of thousand souls. Narrow streets crisscrossing each other at odd angles. Mud-baked buildings. Two Husalmin temples rising over the buildings at opposite ends of the village as if both were sentinels watching over the village. No ziggurats of the Atishi temples here, of course. Nor those of the Fanna. Rabb, the Unseen God, was a jealous god.

  Twigs snapped behind him, followed by shrieking men and neighing horses. He turned his head around, a hundred yards from the village proper now. From the corner of his good eye, he saw Salar Ihagra riding hard for him. He wasn't pleased with him, Shoki knew. Then again, the salar had asked for leadership, and Shoki had provided precisely that.

  Shoki kicked his horse in the flanks.

  “Stop!” Salar Ihagra cried. Shoki didn’t turn. He was in the village now, his horse riding through a deserted, narrow road. Where were all the people?

  Then, he heard the clamor rising from beyond the Husalmin temple at the end of the street.

  “Turn around,” shouted Salar Ihagra. “Or we will be seen.”

  Shoki hesitated for a second. Then his eye fell on the Husalmin temple at the other end of the village, and at the bridge its shadow spread over. A fragile, rickety looking thing from this distance, but one that still managed to span across the river that would otherwise have delayed him.

  Shoki slowed to a trot, his horse neighing and snorting, shaking its neck left and right as if rearing to break away, trying to pit its will against its master and failing. Shoki rounded the corner and rode into mayhem.