The Broken Winds: Divided Sultanate: Book 3

by Baloch, Fuad

  Chapter 18

  Shoki

  It was late afternoon when Shoki and Jiza finally staggered back into their camp. Two of the guards at the perimeter broke away when they were still some distance away, presumably to announce their arrival.

  His thoughts dark, his fingers twitching, Shoki allowed Jiza to guide him through to the tent set aside for him. The dozen or so men gathered around a cookpot bowed their heads, one of them even raising a cheer. They might have feared him for his growing madness, but by shedding blood together, they had bonded like men did after facing death together and coming out alive.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Salar Ihagra watching them coolly. He still wore his helmet and armor, ready should there be a surprise ambush. Though, who would attack them with the Zakhanan armies swarming the Istani realm, he had no idea.

  Silly questions rose in his mind. The entire continent was called Istan, named after the country in its center, which in turn was named for the famed line which had governed it for centuries. What were these lands called under the Malik kings? The Maliki Kingdom?

  What did it matter? But it did matter. Shoki shivered, realizing the abstract question felt more intimate than it should have.

  “Almost there,” Jiza said, her hand pulling him toward the tent. His sides still hurt as he moved. How ironic was it that he was letting the very person who had stabbed him, lead him to rest?

  She had her reasons though. And by Gods’ guts and glory, as much as he disliked what she’d done, he couldn’t quite argue with her results.

  Shoki allowed his restraints to melt away, letting his well find him once more. Jadu filled his veins, slowly this time. The world he saw now was covered with dark spots. A massive tide of dizziness rolled over him, myriad essences and energies jumping out at him. The world of men and their weapons and the trees gave way to the hidden realities at work within them all. The screen was still present—a miasma that marred the otherwise purity of objects surrounding him.

  Jiza barked at someone and Shoki raised his chin, letting go of his jadu.

  Camsh stood outside the tent, his eyes wide. “Is everything alright?”

  “Out of the way,” Jiza replied.

  Camsh didn’t listen, his dark brown eyes skittish. He moved to block their entrance, his long arms hanging loosely at his sides. “I need to know if anything’s the matter.” His nose wrinkled as he turned his gaze to Jiza. “We need to talk.” He straightened, rubbing his hands. “As the second in command to Sahib Shoki, I demand—”

  “You’re not my second in command!” Shoki cut in. He cocked his head to the side, something in his gaze making the grand vizier’s son flinch. “And I don’t appreciate you and Jiza planning behind my back.”

  “I… I… But—”

  “This was the last time you did that, this business about the letter,” Shoki said, his voice hoarse but coming out harsher than he had expected. For a moment he wondered whether he should ask both of them to keep the letter a secret. Men liked to talk though—something he’d seen plenty enough. Besides, even if he could get these two to shut up, there was no way he could keep the word from getting out. Once the fire built up, there was no sucking back the acrid smoke. A problem he didn’t want but didn’t have a choice about.

  Camsh’s face had gone pale. The young man stood rigid, a tremor having crept into his hands. Shoki tapped his feet. Did Camsh have any inkling that Jiza had an agenda of her own? Had he known that she planned to stab him in the chest once they got out of the camp? No, he decided. There was no way someone like Camsh would have entrusted her with the letter had he known that. Being his father’s son, he would have suspected her for harboring reasons of her own, but probably not to the level of having her risk his agenda for the sake of a city he’d never heard about, would never get to see.

  Shoki wheezed, his mouth growing dry. The world swayed. Thankfully, the moment passed. Camsh was watching him closely. Shoki felt a stab of guilt. He was an abomination—feared, detested even by those who wanted to follow him. Shoki turned around slowly. Wherever he looked, men dropped their gazes.

  He heard Camsh’s boots move on the loose gravel.

  “Get inside,” said Jiza. “A bit of rest will help clear your mind.”

  Shoki forced a chuckle. “That’s highly optimistic!” His eye traveled east, seeing not one but two objectives. Sehlour, where he’d hoped to pick up Nuraya’s trail. And the void, gaining strength, in distant Kippur. Both to the east, but the road ahead was forked, and he was but one man. He could take one path, but not both at the same time.

  Those were far from the only strings pulling at him.

  His pulse slowing, he faced the west. Whoever had sent him that blasted letter wouldn't sit still. And even if he ignored them, the realm faced a hundred different threats. Hundreds of thousands had perished at the hands of this or that army. Standing crops had been burned, vast tracts of farmland destroyed. Drought was but one season away. In the midst of all that, even he’d heard of the battles between inquisitors and magi. And of magi fighting other magi. Any day now, Reratish and Zakhanan armies would be facing off at each other, homes and lands of the poor peasants acting as their battlegrounds. When the hyenas fought, more joined in. How long would other neighboring nations merely watch on? Would the armies of Kur’sh, Xin, Zersia, Polino, Fojoro be landing on the continent at some point as well?

  He was but one man. Someone who’d had a clear objective up until now. Survive the madness until he could help Nuraya. If the madness had been put off, for the moment anyway, ought that change what he was meant to do?

  He felt Jiza’s eyes burning a hole through him. How many others expected him to act as their blasted deliverer? “I am but a man,” he mumbled.

  “What?” Jiza asked. He shook his head in annoyance.

  I have my jadu!

  Nodding to himself, he allowed the currents to wash through him again. He welcomed the torrent, scalding to the touch, refreshing when swallowed, a sensation that lacked any metaphors or similes he could think of. After all, how did one try to explain what they saw when seeing red? The color… simply was. The world beyond the world, was and he had just regained the privilege to not just view it but interact and harness its potential.

  He hadn’t waited long enough though. He was still weak, the wound leaking blood in his chest, his head reeling after the awful discoveries he’d made at the burial ground. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to meet the pain head-on. He wouldn’t let himself be overwhelmed. Like the persistent traveler lost in the middle of the vast desert, he would find his way through. He would! He had to!

  Shoki whirled on his feet, the world readjusting itself in order of the dominant essences. There, to his immediate right, stood three towers of bubbling courage, continually being stabbed by fingers of gray fear. Up above, the night was beginning to vanquish the sun and the last remnants of its empire.

  East!

  The invisible barrier in the distance resisted his attempts at focusing on it. Shoki retreated, examining the darkening horizon instead. At first, little differentiated it from the essences in other directions. Forests teeming with wildlife. Stalks of grass and wildflowers swaying under the evening breeze. Nocturnal predators stirring, readying themselves for the cover of darkness. Heavy clouds preparing to unleash their payload. A thousand different essences all united by one purpose—survival.

  He concentrated, ignoring the spots of darkness gaining strength.

  Something was tugging at him. A gentle pull. One he had felt before. Where had that been? A forbidding presence surrounded the barrier, his powers failing to comprehend it, flailing whenever he redoubled his efforts. For an instant, a small one, he felt another essence… trapped within the barrier. A magus? How could that be? That didn’t make any sense.

  Jadu slipped through him. He made a halfhearted attempt at regaining it but didn’t allow the failure to rankle him. He was tired.

  “So much to do,” he mumbled, then
turned away from the tent and began walking toward the copse of trees to his right, his head downcast. “I’ll have to…”

  Someone said something. Mere words carrying no meaning. He continued, ignoring the voices and eyes of those watching him. Did they really look up to him to provide them a path forward? How stupid were they to repeat the same mistake over and over again yet expecting a different result?

  He stepped into a puddle, felt himself grin, aware of the physical act in a vague, abstract way. Splashing through the muck, he entered the dense trees. The branches hung low, heavy with fruits of intoxicating smells. A paradise of wet and green for a desert dweller like him.

  He continued, heading deeper into the jungle, letting the lengthening shadows claim him as one of their own.

  Funny how new fears transplanted the previous ones. First, it had been the terror of losing his sanity like the severed magi. Now, he feared what followed because he’d won a reprieve, having reclaimed his well.

  A well that had been corrupted.

  Shoki stuttered to a stop, his eye drawn to his shadow spreading out in front. If he were to seize his jadu in this moment and focus on his shadow, what would he see? A pale reflection lacking an existence of its own, incidental to his movements and agency, or did that dark mirror image carry an essence of its own that could be harnessed?

  You’re dithering! Refusing to make a decision.

  Shoki exhaled, sweat gathering on his forehead despite the chill wind.

  A weight fell on his shoulder. Shoki tensed, his fingers curling into fists. The hand was heavy, masculine.

  “Son.”

  Shoki blinked, a tear streaking down his cheeks. “Salar Ihagra.”

  For a long breath, the salar said nothing, the hand staying on his shoulder, heavy but comforting. It carried memories as well, of a past, of days when a bumbling teenager looked up to his salar for guidance, of a world that was much simpler and less bewildering than the one he found himself into.

  “Caught between the hurricane and the sandstorm?”

  Shoki smiled. Like a worn, well-used pair of boots slipping on without effort, Salar Ihagra had needed no time getting to the heart of the matter. “Something like that.”

  Salar Ihagra stepped forward, crossing his arms over his massive chest. He had grown old, Shoki realized. The salar still stood tall and straight, but a slight bend had crept into the rigid posture, the evening shadows lingering deeper into the lines on his face. “What needs doing needs doing.”

  Shoki kept quiet.

  “You’ve always done the right thing, son,” the salar said, his voice soft. “Even when it came to choosing between mercy and justice, you managed to eke out a middle path.”

  “There is no middle path here, Salar. Either I turn my back from a promise I made to myself, refusing to rescue the person who’s in a bad place because of me. Or… or I turn my attention to the threat that, unless checked soon, risks the lands of all humans. An easy enough choice, among many others, but I cannot make myself do it.”

  “Hmm.” Salar Ihagra exhaled. “What if you’re not looking at it right?” He pointed a finger toward his shadow creeping toward Shoki’s. “Two different things?” He stepped in closer, their shadows assimilating into one big blob. “Or one?”

  Shoki blinked, addled thoughts rattling through his mind. He’d never been great at understanding analogies, but maybe the salar was correct. There was no blight before Afrasiab had gotten his hands on the Hejar stone, after all. Could it be that the two events were connected? If so, could he get to the bottom of this, regardless of how he approached it?

  “A wise man also uses all weapons in his arsenal,” the salar said. “No matter his personal feelings about them.”

  Shoki stiffened. So, the news had spread. Faster than he’d expected. “What do you mean?”

  “Shoki Malik,” the salar said softly, “we need allies. We need them and they need us. Doesn’t matter if they are magi, inquisitors, djinn, factions of the Reratish or Zakhanan. We need them, for no war is won by two score men.”

  Shoki kept quiet.

  “Camsh recommends meeting the magi delegation first. He thinks they’d make good allies, considering, well, you know why.” He paused. “Shall I tell him to go ahead?”

  Shoki exhaled. Already, his hands were being tied. But the salar did have a point. No matter which direction he struck from, he needed to do it right.

  He nodded.

  Chapter 19

  Nuraya

  Sitting up tall in the saddle, unbowed by the slight, ever-present drizzle, Nuraya took the lead as they rode toward the band of soldiers on the road ahead. A sorry-looking bunch, all twenty or so of them wearing ill-fitting uniforms emblazoned with a silver falcon, damp under the soft rain. Sigil of the Ameer of Danda, the province in the north-east that had missed the Zakhanan invasion if she remembered it right.

  Seeing them approach, the soldiers broke into a frenzy of activity, a dozen of them nocking arrows, another half-a-dozen taking to their horses.

  “Halt!” shouted one of the soldiers in Nirdu, his singsong accent betraying his eastern heritage. He spurred his horse forward, wielding his sword out in front. “State your names and business.”

  Nuraya narrowed her eyes, pulling on her reins. “Since when did the citizens of this great nation have to state their business for taking the Imperial Highway?”

  The salar arched an eyebrow, taking in the djinn as they stopped beside her. He had a pockmarked face, his brass helmet rusty, the few unblemished bits dented. “State your business or turn around!”

  “Can’t we just get on with it?” muttered Kafayos.

  Nuraya ignored him, her attention drawn to the salar. He wore the local ameer’s sigil on his breast—an honor granted by the sultan to all ameers—but that was the only sigil she could see. No roaring lion of the Istani sultan anywhere.

  “Step back!” the salar wheezed, brandishing his sword, his voice growing churlish.

  “I am Nuraya Istan,” she announced, pitching her voice loud, as much as for their sake as for herself. “Take us to your ameer. We have need of him.”

  The salar blinked, his gaze settling on her yellow eyes. He stared, transfixed for a long breath. Then he swallowed, fidgeting with his tunic with the hand holding the reins. “N-Nuraya Istan, daughter of the late Iron Sultan?”

  “One and the same,” she replied, now forcing her voice to grow softer. She had no quarrel with the soldier who was merely doing his job. These were tough times, and it made sense for them to be suspicious of possible Zakhanan and Reratish scouts passing through the territory.

  The salar didn’t give way though, a mental anguish of some sort playing out visibly on his face. Mara coughed, shaking his head gently.

  “Turn around and leave… my princess,” the salar said finally, raising his chin to meet her gaze. “That’d be best for us all. I’ll ensure my men keep their mouths shut about having come across you.”

  Nuraya cocked her head to the side. “Leave? This is Istan and I am—”

  “You are passing through the free land of Danda,” the salar cut in. His words were sharp, but she could feel the barest hint of pain within. “The Sultan of Danda reigns over these lands now. And his… orders are to capture the former princess of Istan should she pass through Danda.” He shook his head. “Turn around. For the sake of all that’s holy, do not prolong this!”

  “The Sultan of Danda!” Nuraya exclaimed, unable to hide her shock. Then, fury, terrible and severe, raged through her. “Has the ameer forgotten his rightful place as a lapdog of Istan’s sultans?”

  The salar didn’t reply to her immediately, his eyes flitting between her and his band of soldiers behind him. Had they heard her declaration? Should she raise her voice, demand their allegiance directly?

  “Algaria and the Peacock Throne are under Zakhanan occupation,” said Mara gently. “Times have changed.”

  Times have changed. Nuraya gritted her teeth, allowing the wor
ds to pass through her. Mere words but they carried a bite to them, hollowing her from the inside, drawing blood from her entrails.

  “Word has come to us of the speech you made before the Battle of Buzdar,” the salar said, his voice tight, his brow furrowed in defiance. “You gave hope to our people. For that… and for all the sacrifices you’ve made for the realm, I beg you to turn around.”

  Nuraya stayed still for a long breath.

  The rain picked up, fat drops falling on her, around her. She was in Istan, the land of her ancestors, that she’d thought herself destined to rule. A land she was being turned away from.

  Nuraya swallowed the tears that threatened to gather in the corners of her eyes. Good thing it was raining, and her cheeks were already slick with wet. She exhaled. She wouldn’t break. Not like this. Not in front of these people who’d never understand the terrible adversities she’d faced for this land.

  Instead, she narrowed her eyes, locking her fierce gaze upon the young man in front of her. The salar tried to match her glare, but gave in, his chin dropping. Kafayos muttered under his breath.

  Nuraya considered her options. Her blood boiled with rage and shame. Wasn’t right that a salar commanding less than a dozen soldiers could so openly challenge the heir of the Peacock Throne. She could call the soldiers behind the salar, appeal to their sense of pride and history and duty. And if that didn’t work, and they continued to deny her place, she could just take out her sword and cut down any that stood in her way. As for the djinn, they could stand and watch, or could join in on her behalf.

  They are my people!

  Nuraya felt her anger dissipate, lose its venom. What fault was it that this man found himself in the world that he did? What choices could he, or the soldiers behind him, have made? Weren't they simply trying and making the best of what little they had? The world they’d been born in, had been ripped away from them. Algaria, the city of cities, was under enemy control. She, the last living heir of the Istani line, had been taken captive by a magus who was meant to be dead. What would a common man do when they saw their local ameer assert some semblance of control?