The Broken Winds: Divided Sultanate: Book 3

by Baloch, Fuad

  Over the past few days though, he’d begun seeing the reality beneath the surface. A fact that belied the promise of vigor as a thing to be cherished. If humans saw it too, they seemed intent on denying it.

  Decay.

  He considered the word and its ramifications, his horse leading him through yet another path that led to only Rolomon knew where. He’d lived more than two hundred years in Nainwa, all his life under the curse. Azar had a part in bringing that upon their people, but no one liked talking about it. He shook his head, focusing his thoughts. Two hundred years where the landscape of the djinn city had barely changed from the day he gained consciousness to the day he left it for this miserable world.

  He longed for Nainwa. For its sky that retained its eternal sheen. For the peaceful streets where no children ran about causing havoc. He was free there. Himself. There were no armies sporting a hundred different sigils marching across its territory that he had to hide from upon instruction from Azar. Time and age both stood still in the unchanging Nainwa, allowing the djinn to live peaceful, long lives within the grand city.

  Yes, it was cursed. But was it really all that bad?

  His horse snorted and Kafayos snapped out of his brooding for a moment. “Curse it all,” he muttered, adjusting himself on the saddle to sit more comfortably. Travel was one more thing he’d never had to worry about in Nainwa. All djinn, regardless of their magical wells, could float between different destinations throughout the city, never knowing the painful monotony of travel the humans had to put up with through necessity.

  He raised his chin to the riders ahead of him. Azar and Yahni were in the lead, their voices too low for him to pick up. Yahni had been through this land before, and still seemed to remember enough of the landmarks to guide them through to Algaria.

  Why were they bothering with Algaria in the first place? He’d tried and failed to wrap his mind around it. Sure, the girl human said she wanted to get there, to do whatever it was that failed humans like her did, but couldn’t Azar see there was nothing for them to gain there? Azar had already tried recruiting a human magus to help them before, had brought him back to Nainwa, and what had that achieved except escalating matters enough for Drenpa to break ties with them all?

  He grabbed his left wrist with the right hand and squeezed it. He cringed. By Rolomon, even the perception of pain was different when shrouded in this false, repulsive skin.

  Yahni was pointing at yet another mountain, her voice high and excited. Kafayos rolled his eyes. His first time in the human world hadn’t given him any incentive toward committing any of the cities or landmarks to memory. If he ever returned here—something he truly didn't think would ever happen—he wouldn't be able to tell one town apart from another.

  His eyes settled on the swaying figure of the human princess astride her horse. Two days had passed since the altercation with the guards and the girl hadn’t spoken much since. A good development from Kafayos’s perspective. Even for a human, she was particularly deluded with a false sense of grandeur. With her mouth shut, he finally had some peace.

  Or so he liked to believe.

  A fly buzzed close to his left ear. He slapped the air in annoyance. As was the way of things, that one fly soon became a dozen, all of them taking great delight in aggravating him with their incessant noise. Whatever in Rolomon’s name had Jiza seen in this world to come here voluntarily? A dull ache throbbed deep within him at her memory, but he let it go unacknowledged.

  Nuraya turned around in the saddle, her large yellow eyes wide and quizzical. Kafayos ignored her, making a shooing motion with his hand. The features hardened, the lips pursing, but she didn't turn away.

  “What?” he asked brusquely.

  Her gaze grew distant, a hand rising to her chest. She was there physically… but, for a moment, it struck Kafayos that a part of her had left them. He watched her cautiously. She wore a pendant of sorts within her peshwaz, a large stone that was clearly outlined even if she seemed to be taking care not to draw attention to it. He chuckled. As if there was anything he wanted from this world. Humans!

  The kinslayer, one who had tried taking her father’s place as the Keeper of the Divide, turned away from him. Kafayos grunted. Despite the cool breeze, his shirt was sticking to his back. His ancestors were the ones who’d agreed to the pact, requiring djinn to travel through the human world using human guises. Why was he obligated to meeting those conditions when Drenpa and others were obviously flouting them openly?

  Then again, by giving up Nainwa, the rebel djinn had consigned themselves to exile in this miserable world. A punishment in itself.

  “Enough,” Kafayos seethed as a fly settled on his left cheek, unperturbed by his rising rage. Swatting at it with the back of his palm, he spurred the horse. It burst into a canter with a neigh, almost throwing him back.

  He heard someone laugh. “Watch out!” the princess called.

  “Argh!” Kafayos pulled on his reins, thankfully stopping right beside Azar and Yahni.

  Their chattering stopped, their quizzical eyes turning toward him.

  Kafayos cursed inwardly. “Erm… so… where are we going?” Kafayos asked, raising his chin at Azar, hoping neither of the djinn had noticed the cursed horse bolting on him. “We’ve lost the trail of this human magus for good. Is there anything to be gained by meandering through these blasted lands except for exhaustion and,” he pursed his lips, “dirty flies?”

  “Nothing builds up character quite like traveling,” Yahni said, a little smile playing on her face. “Something all djinn should go through at least once in their lives.”

  Kafayos snickered. “You certainly know how to jest.”

  “We are not meandering, Kafayos,” said Azar, his deep voice booming over the soft twittering of birds from the surrounding treetops.

  “We are not?”

  Azar seemed to consider his words. “News of the blight concerns me, young one. Immensely.” He paused for a breath, the princess watching him intently. A shadow crossed over his features. “He should be in the castle. He should have been.”

  “Who?” Kafayos asked. “The human magus?”

  Azar, the djinn humans called Mara, grew quiet for a bit. “You know what I do not see when I talk to both humans and djinn about the blight?”

  “What?”

  “Concern.” Azar clicked his tongue, shaking his bald head sideways. “They’ve all heard tales of what happens when the blight runs through lands of the living, how the rot hollows out bodies, withers souls, destroys life in its wake. They know it all, but they do not fear it.”

  Kafayos arched an eyebrow, not believing what he was hearing. “How is that our problem? Nainwa has been battling its own curse for far longer. Azar, we need to return. If Drenpa has gone quiet, you can be sure he’s plotting. We need to destroy his network before he makes his next play.”

  “That… worries me too,” Azar replied, exchanging a glance with Yahni. “Why has he gone quiet? Him and the human magus? Something isn’t right.” He shook his head again, muttered, “He should have been there. He had to. He should be!”

  Kafayos waited for an explanation, but Azar kept sputtering to himself. Gibberish, from what he could tell. Yahni rode silently, her eyes watching the winding road ahead that seemed to go on forever until the distant trees swallowed it. “Let’s take to our forms, then. Finish whatever business we still have left in these lands, and then we can go back to Nainwa.”

  “We change forms, and the inquisitors will sniff us out,” replied Yahni. “Even other magi too.” She paused. “Your beloved taught the humans many tricks it seems.”

  Kafayos glared but found himself without a valid argument for once. True, Jiza had been most foolish in what she had done. Surely, no need would have been greater than keeping secrets of the djinn, well, secret.

  He tried forcing thoughts of her out of his mind, annoyed by the pitiable longing that accompanied it. Yes, he had wanted her for a long time. A natural state of affairs. Y
es, she had rebuffed him every time he’d approached her in Nainwa. He hadn’t cared much before. What explained this urgency in his heart now?

  The human form. That had to be it. Not only had the form weakened him physically, it was also wreaking havoc on his control over his own impulses. One more reason to shun this pathetic body fashioned from dirty clay and return to the noble, cleansing fire.

  When he came to, he found Azar and Yahni had overtaken him. He watched them sullenly, then was struck by a realization. Both of them were getting old, even by djinn standards. Not just that, both of them had spent considerable time in the human world as well, living in these human forms for long stretches of time. If the little time Kafayos had spent had begun changing him, how would that have impacted these two?

  How much of the djinn self had been eroded by the human?

  Yahni raised her hand to the left, cocking her head toward the distant mountains as if divining their location. “We should come upon the highway in another five miles,” she said, her voice drifting over to him.

  “What do you intend to do in Algaria?” asked a soft but determined voice behind him.

  Startled, Kafayos turned his head around. The human princess was glaring with those piercing eyes of hers. She sat comfortably enough in the saddle, an ease that grated at him. He opened his jaw, then realized the question wasn’t meant for him.

  “Mara?” she called out. Kafayos bit his tongue. For all her vices, she had asked a question that he, too, sought an answer to.

  Azar turned around, hesitated, then nodded. “The inquisitors still maintain their headquarters in the capital. From what I hear, the Zakhanan empire appears to respect their order, not only allowing them free passage within the territory they control, but also approve of their mandate.”

  Kafayos cocked his head to the side, slapping his ears to ensure they still worked. “We are going to the inquisitors?” He shook his head. “Why in Rolomon’s name would we do that?”

  “To warn them,” said Azar, “and ready them for what’s coming. Currents run below currents in the human world, young one.”

  Kafayos blinked. Nuraya Istan met his glare evenly, confusion reigning on her face as well. Regardless of what she thought of Azar’s explanation, she kept quiet, her fingers growing slack on the reins.

  Kafayos felt a shiver come on as he watched Nuraya. A sensation he’d never experienced, one that left him reeling, trembling.

  Gritting his teeth—another human affliction—he allowed Nuraya to overtake him. His thoughts turned dark. Neither Azar nor Yahni were seeing the real danger that stood staring at them. Drenpa was planning something truly terrible against Nainwa. The more time they wasted here, suffering in the human world like blasted humans, the greater the price their kin would pay for it.

  By Rolomon, he couldn't just stand watching from the shadows!

  Kafayos raised his chin defiantly, his gaze settling on Azar, leader of their little expedition. The clan leader had lived a long time. And he had spent a considerable portion of it within human lands. His instincts had dulled, lost their bite.

  Decay was a strange thing. Though one might presume its existence only in the human world, there was no denying it existed in the djinn as well, working away until its stink was unmissable.

  Sooner or later, he’d have to take things into his own hands.

  Chapter 22

  Shoki

  Istan spread out in all directions as Shoki surveyed the surroundings from his vantage point atop the hill. Mountains to the north, dense forests of Zakhanan behind him in the east, plains turning to arid desert land to the west. The perfect meeting place. One well worth retreating to from the Zakhanan lands. Yes, he’d added more distance between him and Sehlour, but sometimes to leap ahead, one had to step back first.

  Despite the heat of the day—he’d come to quite like the constant chill in the far east—he shivered. Istan! The land that had been taken from his ancestors. Strange how it continued to be called that even when divided between Reratish, Zakhanan, and a dozen ameers who had declared independence. Almost as if, in their heart of hearts, everyone knew that like the sun rising after the darkest of nights, the Istani crown would be restored once more. And that the present arrangement was a mere aberration, slated to be wiped clean soon enough.

  He adjusted his eye patch, rocking sideways on his feet. Boots scrunched behind him and he forced his nerves to settle.

  “They are here,” came Salar Ihagra’s calm, collected voice.

  “How many?” Shoki asked. A silly question that meant nothing, would change nothing.

  “Twenty. Ten each.”

  “Not just the magi then?”

  “They’re joined by representatives of those who penned the letter.”

  Shoki scoffed, his attempt coming out as a petulant whine. “Representatives of the Malik kings.” He shook his head, still not used to the idea. It was one thing grudgingly coming to accept a fact, but quite another to accept the burden it offered. Gods’ guts, what was he going to do?

  He did know one thing. He did need all the help he could. His well was weak, his connection tenuous with the corruption seeping in. He’d tried prying through the barrier in the east over and over again but failed. Besides, for all else that needed doing, he was forced to lay the groundwork now.

  Exhaling, Shoki turned around. Salar Ihagra looked resplendent in his freshly polished armor, cutting a dashing figure outlined against the grimy soldiers milling about behind him. Five hundred of them now. Strange that despite how many men died in foolish wars, more always came forward to take their place. Not even a week since his visit at the cemetery, and already the land was brimming with more able-bodied men, willing to lay their lives at his command.

  Most of the men were young, quite a few younger even than Shoki, judging by the teenage acne on some of their faces. Men—no, boys really—who’d heard of him and decided to come seek him. He’d tried shunning them away at first—wanting seasoned warriors instead—but they persisted, refusing to go away.

  Salar Ihagra wasn’t too pleased either, Shoki could tell, but at least the salar saw an opportunity. He was still holding out for mercenary companies from Fojoro and Polino to join their cause. But like Shoki, he seemed willing to wait for the moment.

  Doubts gnawed at Shoki. Not too long ago, these soldiers of fortune, the youth looking for glory, would have been following Nuraya. Her brothers before that. Now, they answered his call. Whose side would they fight on tomorrow?

  He began marching toward the tent they had set aside for him. A vast, gaudy thing fit for the queen mother herself. Appearances were important, Camsh had argued when Shoki had complained. It was imperative that Shoki met visitors from a position of strength. No matter what excuses Shoki had come up with, he’d found them all useless against the grand vizier’s son.

  Salar Ihagra peeled off toward a coterie of soldiers, leaving him by himself for the moment. For the so-called leader of this little army, Shoki couldn’t quite shake the feeling that others held his strings taut, making him jump and dance to tunes they knew best. His stomach churned as he went through his options once more. Was he certain he was making the right decision? Was there a better way? His eye found Jiza, glaring at him underneath a palm tree. She had warned him against making grandiose plans, ironically not realizing what she wanted him to do at Nainwa was precisely that.

  Salar Ihagra agreed with his approach though. When night fell, it fell everywhere indiscriminately. A war against night could be fought anywhere. One might as well choose a ground of their choosing.

  Conversations trailed away as he neared the tent. Three men stood outside the flaps on guard duty. More men he didn't recall seeing before. Ten yards to their right, two groups of soldiers and mercenaries, their cuirasses dented, their helmets rusted, glared at each other. They were definitely not his men, Shoki decided. Salar Ihagra would never have tolerated such open hostility. Those who had accompanied these delegations then.

 
; “Let me paint the picture of how it’s going to go,” Camsh said, rushing in to stand in front of the guards. He was puffing, his hair matted on his scalp. “They are going to demand actions from you to meet their goals. Naturally, we would listen, but promise nothing back in return. They are to offer their alliance to us unconditionally. This is key. Unconditionally! They need to see and accept the difference in station between subjects and royalty. No matter what group they represent, our attitude doesn’t change.”

  Shoki grunted.

  Camsh raised a hand. “Now, of course, that’s not quite how alliances do work between feudal lords and their vassals. Sooner or later, we would have to follow through. But first, let’s have the grass bend to the whims of the wind and prove its willingness to keep doing so.”

  Shoki clenched his jaw, one hand rising to scratch his chin. How had Nuraya ever put up with this man? Did he ever think of anything normal people were wont to, or did he start all his days planning political maneuvers, falling to bed evaluating what worked and what didn't?

  Jiza still stood in the trees, watching the goings-on with the cool detachment of a snake. Shoki felt guilty. She’d helped him discover his well, conspired with Camsh to spring his heritage on him, helping his cause in attracting more followers. All that, and he had offered her nothing in return. Not yet, anyway. He raised a hand toward her. Her eyes shot daggers at him, ignoring him like she had been over the past week.

  The guards lifted the flap. Nodding to himself, putting all thoughts aside for the moment, Shoki entered the tent and immediately gagged at the strong flower-based scents within. It was like someone had broken the glass vials of every single perfume vendor on Algaria’s Flower Street, then poured even more on top.

  His hand rising to his nose, his eye fell on a familiar figure. Shoki blinked, then mumbled, “You survived the battle!”

  “As did you,” replied the tall, smug man who had once been Shoki’s arch-nemesis. Jinan, the mercenary salar, Nuraya’s siphsalar, the Butcher of Buzdar, offered a tight-lipped smile. “How the fates change, huh!”