by Baloch, Fuad
Blood burst from the young man’s mouth, his eyes lolling back. Gurgling, he crumpled to the ground, his face landing in the puddle, his limbs twitching uncontrollably. Shoki looked back at his men and raised his bloody sword.
All semblance of sanity had left by now. His men were yelling, Salar Ihagra barking at them to get into formation. The Zakhanan soldiers held their ground though, even as Shoki could see fear taking hold in their faces. The roles had reversed. The hunted were hunting once more, and these bastards had no idea how to reconcile themselves to the change in fortunes.
Shoki smiled, shifting his weight. Righting the sword in his hand, he cocked his head to the side, recklessness coursing through him. “Did you actually think you’d escape our justice?”
“Die, infidels!” shouted the enemy salar, thumping his chest. “All of you. And when you enter the next life, may you find nothing but Rabb’s never-ending torment.”
“Couldn’t be worse than this life,” Shoki muttered. A gauntleted fist grabbed his wrist. Shoki pirouetted around.
“Slow down,” said Salar Ihagra. “There is no need to risk—”
Shoki pulled himself free. “Never lay a hand on me again.” He turned back to the Zakhanan soldiers. All young men, their dark-skinned complexions indistinguishable from those who dwelled in eastern Istan. The armor they wore could very well have been forged by Istani blacksmiths. Nothing that differentiated them much from Shoki’s own people except for the white eagle tabards they wore over their chest pieces.
The anger returned, fueled by the awareness that he was running out of time. Still, a part of him clamored to be heard, pushing him to try Salar Ihagra’s way. His eye fell on the still figure of the man he had slain. Shoki gritted his teeth, then pointed at the Zakhanan salar. “Walk away, all of you, and you live for the day.”
The Zakhanan soldiers exchanged glances. The merchants were still shouting, arguing with the mercenaries. The mercenary salar wearing an embellished cape held his hands out, shaking his head and walking back slowly.
Another wave of crippling darkness washed over him. Shoki staggered, righting himself a mere moment later.
“Cut the infidels down!” shouted the enemy salar.
Before Shoki had a chance to duck, he heard the twang of bows and the whistling of arrows overhead. “Fire at will!” A scream came from behind and Shoki whipped his head back. One of his men was writhing on the ground, an arrow jutting out of his neck. One soldier stood beside him, while another held up a shield to guard them. But it was too late already.
“Men, charge!” Salar Ihagra bellowed, then balancing his curved sword in both hands, rushed forward. Shoki shouted and broke into a mad sprint as well, accompanied by war cries in Nirdu that hadn’t been heard in Zakhanan for decades.
“I gave you all a chance,” Shoki hissed, darting to his right to dodge the arc of a mace. It made a whooshing sound, missing Shoki’s head by mere inches. The mace-bearer snarled, turning around and raising the blunt weapon once more. Gripping the sword tight in both hands, Shoki braced for the attack. Only when the arc began descending did he realize his sword was no match against the heavy, blunt weapon. He jumped to his right.
Just in time.
The mace caught the trailing end of his long robe, thudding into the ground harmlessly. The mace-bearer grunted in frustration, raising his mace again. Shoki darted forward, his sword raised to strike first. Before either of them could react, a shadow lunged toward the mace-holder, followed by a flash of silver.
Blood burst from the Zakhanan soldier’s neck. The mace fell from his hand as he stumbled back, turning around to face the man who had attacked him. More flashes of silver followed. Far too quick to follow by the naked eye. And then Salar Ihagra was turning around, keeping a wary eye out at the fighting around them. “Keep behind me.”
“No,” replied Shoki. Again, the wave of darkness rose, washing over him so completely and utterly that he yelped. The ground shook, setting him spiraling to a side. Dimly, he heard something whistle by his ear. He shouted, blinking in confusion, but the darkness didn’t give way. More shouts rose. Someone was calling him. A female voice.
Nuraya?
Hope, desperate and impossible, coursed through his body. Had he finally made it to her? Had he actually—
“… seize your well!” the voice shouted, the words finally transcending the noise around him. “Before it’s too late!”
Jiza.
Shoki opened his mouth, his feet still unable to find purchase underneath them, his mind between wakefulness and slumber. His skin broke out into a thousand wounds, each leaking pus running down his limbs. In the utter darkness, he saw faces snarling at him. Neither human nor like the djinn who had descended upon the Battle of Buzdar. Silhouettes of flickering smoke framed by a halo of darkness so pure they stood out in the gloom all around. Shoki screamed, unable to comprehend the horrors beginning to surround him.
Over it all, he heard a whisper. “… have to figure out how to…”
Floundering, Shoki felt his knees buckle, his body falling forward, even as his mind continued to see the harrowing images.
“What’s—” he shouted.
Hands fell on him. The terrible spell shattered. Gasping, Shoki opened his eye, and this time found light. Jiza stood over him, her brown locks falling in cascades along her face. Her brows were furrowed, worry clouding her large eyes. “Seize your well.”
A stupid idea. Hadn’t he been trying all this time to find his well, only to come up short?
“Try!”
Shoki squeezed his eye shut, letting the shouts of men and horses recede to the background. Unlike the dark he had found himself in moments ago, this time he struggled to banish the harsh light filtering through his closed eyelid. He strained, groaning with the effort to locate his well.
Nothing.
Not even a whiff of that immense power that had once thrummed through him.
He opened his eye. Jiza extended a hand. He accepted, allowing her to pull him up. He had tried, and failed once more, but neither of them acknowledged the fact, as if it were a common enough occurrence warranting no extra attention. A toddler trying and failing once more to stand on his own feet.
Shaking his head, Shoki stepped forward. Somehow, he still held onto his sword. He raised it, his eye seeking enemies.
The only men standing around him wore Istani helmets. Beyond them, he saw the merchants huddling behind their mercenaries. The ground ahead was wet with water and blood, bodies and their gory bits strewn about. “What happened?”
From the corner of his eye, Shoki saw a thin man approach him. He stepped over a dead body, its leg twisted around the wrong way, an arm hanging by a strap of sinew. “We won the battle,” came Camsh’s voice. He sounded distant, worried. “Half a dozen of the enemy soldiers fled but our soldiers are pursuing them.”
“We lost three of our men,” said Salar Ihagra, coming to stand beside the grand vizier’s son. He didn’t say anything more, his accusatory eyes watching Shoki’s face as if expecting some sort of a reaction.
A flicker of shame raced through Shoki’s chest. Maybe he had been too hasty, and there could’ve been a better way.
He looked up, casting his gaze past the dead and the dying and at the land just beyond the bridge. “We need to keep moving. There’s no time to lose.”
“As you say.” Salar Ihagra turned around and marched away.
“It… might be worthwhile to question the merchants, Sahib Shoki,” Camsh drawled, rubbing his hands together. “They might carry news that could be of use.”
“There’s only one matter that I care for,” Shoki said.
“I agree with Camsh,” declared Jiza. “Forewarned, forearmed.”
Shoki pursed his lips, guilt giving way to restlessness. He wanted to keep going, knowing full well that time was short. Yet, his men had lost three of their own. Maybe, waiting a bit would give them a brief respite to patch themselves back up. He nodded.
&n
bsp; Camsh shouted at the half a dozen soldiers who had formed a protective bubble around them, and they stepped aside. Just beyond, an old man dressed in bright green robes, his skin the color of copper, stood flanked by two tall mercenaries draped in leather cloaks fashionable in Polino and Fojoro. The merchant was most probably Kur’shi, Shoki guessed by the expensive cut of his tunic.
“Come on through,” Camsh motioned him forward with his hand. “But just you. The mercenaries stay where they are.”
The mercenaries exchanged a glance, not looking greatly worried by the manner in which the Zakhanan soldiers had perished. The merchant was shaking his head. One of the mercenaries whispered in the merchant’s ear, but the older man continued to bob his head.
“Approach,” Camsh ordered again.
“Go,” one of the mercenaries said, his Nirdu accented with the familiar far western lilt of the distant islanders. “We’ll be here.”
The merchant wiped his brow, then warily he walked up, his mercenaries staying put. “Blessings of Rabb and the Atishi Gods be upon you.” His voice was silky, belying his age, the accent confirming his Ku’rshi origin.
Camsh nodded appreciatively. “You do know your manners.”
The merchant flashed a false smile, offered a deep bow when five paces away from them. “I wish to thank you for saving our caravan from the greedy Zakhanan bastards.”
“Bastards who you were most willing to trade with?” Jiza noted, sounding amused.
“Well…” the merchant floundered, trying to summon righteous indignation, and failing at that. “Fleecing more like.” He grinned. “Besides, we’ve got families to feed. Trivial concerns that might get forgotten under the grind of the wheel of time but still need to be addressed.”
“Have you heard anything about Naila, the Ajeeb magus?” demanded Shoki, impatient to get any useful information he could, and them moving on.
“I’m afraid not,” the merchant said, not looking up to meet his stare. “We only landed at the nearby port two days ago. We did… encounter another Kur’shi merchant caravan fleeing the Reratish Kingdom, but they carried no news of this Ajeeb magus either. Nor of… the one who calls him Afrasiab.”
“Fleeing the Reratish Kingdom?” asked Camsh.
The merchant nodded. “Word is that the Reratish king has gone mad with fury. Prince Sabrish was his only son, and with news of his body being used by the magus Afrasiab, his people are lashing out at all foreigners within lands they control.”
The world trembled. A quake no one but Shoki felt. Raising a hand, he stepped back. “Leave us, merchant.”
“But it might be—” protested Camsh.
“Question him then to your heart’s content,” said Jiza, following Shoki. She took Shoki by the hand and began guiding him away from the rest of the soldiers. Salar Ihagra’s clipped voice rose over the rest, ordering his men to prepare for the march ahead.
“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” she asked when they were out of earshot.
He nodded.
She cocked her head to the side. “Might be time to share a secret with you.”
“What secret?”
“Not here,” she said, shaking her head. “Twenty miles to the east, there are ruins we need to visit.”
“Why?” Shoki demanded. “If you’ve answers, tell me now!”
“I will,” she said, turning around to look east. “Once we get there.”
Chapter 9
Nuraya
When the doors burst open, Nuraya sprang to her feet. She might not have succeeded yesterday, but she’d be damned if she’d give up that easy. The familiar whiff of stench wafted over.
The ghoul entered and Nuraya knew straightaway something was wrong. First, it continued to lurch forward as if both oblivious and unaffected by the ghastly wound on his head. Secondly, it carried no tray, both its hands empty. Before Nuraya had the chance to question him, another figure entered after the ghoul.
A girl. Comely, dark-skinned, her ears pierced with a dozen large silver earrings.
“Who are you?” Nuraya demanded, swallowing her surprise.
The girl didn’t respond, shuffling toward the far wall. She carried a wooden tray laden with fruits, a dark stew of some sort, and a pitcher of water.
The ghoul stayed by the doors, its inhuman red eyes boring into Nuraya. “Annndoooo.”
Nuraya ignored the ghoul. The girl—a maid, most probably judging by the way she kept her thick dark hair tied up and away from her shoulders and her brown, rough-spun tunic—seemed afraid of the ghoul. She turned about, never looking up once at the towering monster, the tray set out neatly on the floor behind her. Without ceremony, she started for the door.
Nuraya stepped in front of her. “Where am I?” she snapped. When the maid didn’t respond, Nuraya swept a hand toward the open windows. “Why are the djinn here?”
“I… d-d-don’t know,” the girl replied in Gharsi, her accent thickly accented, slinking from Nuraya.
“Andoooooo.”
Undeterred, Nuraya crossed her arms over her chest, very aware of the invisible cord still pulling at her heart. “Tell me what’s going on.”
The ghoul made a coughing noise and turned around. It pointed at the door as if waiting for the maid.
The girl nodded, then hugging herself tight, tried walking past Nuraya.
Nuraya grabbed her by the wrist. “I demand answers, Rabb damn you. Tell me where I am!”
The young girl raised her chin, her eyes moist. “Sehlour, my lady.”
Nuraya racked her brain. She’d heard the name once, the memory making her stomach drop. “Sehlour? Is that… in Zakhanan? That’s who your master is working for?”
The girl swayed on her feet, her arms still wrapped tight around her frail torso. She dropped her gaze.
The terrifying memory returned. Once more, Nuraya was ripping off the prince’s hood, finding a horror staring back at her instead. The prince pleaded again, begging her to help her, the other grotesque face smiling.
Nuraya clenched her fists. “Is the magus here?”
The girl licked her lips, still looking at the ground. The ghoul grunted behind her.
Nuraya considered the maid. She was young, probably the same age as herself. What was her life like? Nuraya had no personal experience to draw from, but the past few months had given her a much better understanding of the world. She drew from it now. A young Zakhanan girl, one likely marked for an unremarkable life, serving a magus who must have wielded untold terrors on her army, wilting under the glare of the last Istani royal still alive.
Nuraya bit her lower lip. She had to soften her language and try to extract as much information as she could from the girl. “What’s your name?”
The girl raised her eyes. “Vhali.”
Nuraya nodded. “Vhali, can you tell me if your master, the magus, is here in this castle?” Behind her, she heard the ragged, gasping breaths of the ghoul, but she ignored it. Whatever its nature, it seemed to keep a distance from her—something that suited her just fine.
“Afrasiab is…” Vhali trailed away, her voice growing thick with fear. “Here… and not here.”
“What does that mean?”
“Annndooooo!” The ghoul stomped forward, its heavy, bare feet thumping the floor behind Nuraya. Vhali screamed. Nuraya swatted at the ghoul’s extended arm with the back of her own hand. She cringed at the feel of its skin on hers—coarse and rough like sandpaper—and wheeled about to face it instead.
Loathing and anger spread in her chest, overriding fear for the moment, at the manner it terrified Vhali. What was this… thing anyway? A nightmare breathed into existence? Was that a show of strength from the magus—Afrasiab as the maid had called him? His way of projecting power even if he refused to see her in person? The name Afrasiab felt familiar—something her Kur’shi teachers had taught?
“Stay away from her!” she warned the ghoul, meeting the hellish eyes without flinching. “Or… or, your master isn’t going to be
much pleased when I lose my temper.”
The ghoul stood still, glaring at her, the monstrous mouth working silently, drool gathering at one corner of its mouth.
“Why am I being kept here, Vhali?” Nuraya asked, keeping her tone measured even as her heart was thudding.
“The master… wishes to…” Vhali shivered, her knuckles growing white. “Perform some sort of ritual.”
“Ritual?”
Vhali said nothing more, shaking her head vehemently.
Nuraya’s mind was racing. She had been imprisoned by a magus. And if she hadn’t been harmed yet, that gave her opportunity. She heard Vhali’s words once more. The magus wanted to carry out some sort of a ritual. On her. A harrowing thought that filled her with dread.
Nuraya ground her teeth. She had to get out of here. No matter what it took. Subconsciously, she rubbed her forefinger and thumb as the maid whimpered softly, the ghoul grunting. What would Mother have done here? A part of her resisted appealing to the memory of the woman who had betrayed her, had killed Abba. It felt wrong. She didn’t shun her line of thinking though. She was in a bind. And she had to seize any advantage she could.
Even her mother’s devious ways failed to offer her a way forward here.
Another idea arose. The magus wasn't done with her. That made her… important.
“Vhali, you’re to come alone tomorrow.” Nuraya raised a finger toward the ghoul, going through with her instinct. “If it accompanies you, I will throw the food out the window. And myself, after that.”
“But—”
“I am not arguing, merely telling you.”
Vhali blinked, her gaze turning toward the ghoul. Nuraya fought the urge to look as well. She would stand her ground, ensure both Vhali and the ghoul realized she’d made up her mind and wouldn't budge. Yet, a part of her wondered whether the ghoul even had the capability of understanding what was being said.