The Broken Winds: Divided Sultanate: Book 3

by Baloch, Fuad

  “How many?”

  “Lyari did a count as we were leaving. Counting us, just seventeen of us left.”

  “That means, seventeen inquisitors died,” Aboor said softly, his voice cold as if coming from the depths of some crypt. He shook his head, fighting and failing to control his rage. His fingers twitched on the hilt of his sword, his feet urging him to pounce. “Nizam, do you have any idea of the irreplaceable damage you’ve caused?

  “You’re going to die a death worse than the torment awaiting you in the next life!” Kadoon shouted. Aboor grabbed him by the sleeve.

  “The m-magi did you no harm,” said Zahoor Mangi, nizam of Cababad, his hands still raised, the voice trembling. “Nothing whatsoever. You would have severed them for no crime. They’ve helped us. They even promised to keep us safe from the ghouls if they ever ventured this far. T-that’s not how justice is meant to be administered.”

  “Don’t talk about justice!” Kadoon shouted. He dashed through the room, and before Aboor could call him back, jumped across the table. Zahoor staggered back, but he was no match for the young nobleman with a rage murderous enough to rival Aboor’s. Grabbing him by his shirt, Kadoon punched the nizam in the face. Bones crunched—the nizam wailed, hands rising to the ruin that had been his nose. Kadoon kicked him in the belly. Zahoor crumpled, wailing, whimpering.

  “Stop!” Aboor ordered. “Bring him out. Now!” Kadoon raised his fist again. “Justice needs to be witnessed.”

  Kadoon’s fist wavered for an instant. “By the gods, this bastard deserves to be hanged until almost dead, then pulled apart limb from limb.”

  “He shall meet his just reward.”

  Kadoon punched the wall beside the nizam, extracting another whimper from the bloody man. Grabbing him roughly by the arm, Kadoon dragged him out of the room. Aboor followed, his biceps twitching, heat pulsating through his body. The enemy had been careless even as they had found his men unprepared. They could have done a better job, sending mercenaries instead of villagers armed with sickles and maces and rusty old swords. The numbers were stacked against the inquisitors, but the nizam’s men had seriously miscalculated the effect of righteous fury and the favor of Rabb for his cause.

  Two city guards stood at the bottom of the stairwell. “You,” he shouted. “Rouse the village.” Then, he waved an arm toward Kadoon. “Make him stand under the torches.”

  As Kadoon dragged the sniveling nizam down the stairs to stand underneath the light of three torches, Aboor tried in vain to impose order on the wild thoughts racing through his mind. They had been attacked. In an Istani village by Istani locals. His mind reeled with the implications, his eyes finding the nizam. Here was the man who’d practically admitted to being in bed with rogue magi. Not just a sympathizer. A murderer. A traitor.

  Lights flickered into existence throughout the village as he stood at the top of the stairwell, the night wind cold against the blood on his skin. He had no idea how much of that was his own. So long as he remained standing, he didn't really care though. More inquisitors were making their way through to the nizam’s office now. Survivors. Wounded, most of them, snarling like wounded, enraged animals.

  The locals, terrified and crying, men and women all, emerged from their houses, crawling toward the central courtyard and the nizam’s office. Aboor waited. The nervous chatter became a din, followed by the wailing of an infant not used to being out and about this hour of the night. Women were crying, the men weeping, their heads bowed.

  “They are all accomplices,” Kadoon shouted from the courtyard, sweeping his sword at the swelling crowd. Gasps went up. “They had to have known what the nizam was planning. Instead of stopping him, they joined in his plan, sending their members to ambush us. Torch the village, Sahib Inquisitor. Give the order and I won't rest until every single one of them has been cut into pieces.”

  More shouts went up. Aboor caught movement as men tried to shove their way out of the group and flee.

  “Everyone stay where you are!” Aboor bellowed, his loud voice ringing true in the night. The same voice he had used when leading the vanguard through the breach. Voice of a commander who would trudge through hell and back for glory and duty.

  The surviving inquisitors were spreading out, their swords unleashed, pushing back all those trying to slip away. Some of the nizam’s soldiers joined them, penning their own kin in an attempt to win favor with him.

  Aboor waited for a long breath. A hundred or so of the villagers shivered, trembled in front of him. He turned his gaze toward the nizam. He was quivering, a wet spot spreading underneath him. He was mumbling, whimpering, turning his hands up to the skies as if pleading to the divine deities to show him mercy.

  Justice would be done tonight.

  Balancing the sword in his right hand, Aboor descended the stairs, the crowd cringing, shying.

  He paused on the last step. “Kadoon, bring forth the accused.”

  “Move!” Kadoon shoved the nizam roughly. Zahoor shouted, collapsing at Aboor’s feet.

  “Rise!” Aboor ordered, surprised by the calmness in his own voice. He was furious, but the rational, cold part of him was already reasserting itself. He was no animal, ruled by base instinct. He was better. Honor. Dignity. Duty. Those were the principles that differentiated true men from the blind herd.

  “Zahoor Mangi, Nizam of Cababad,” he said. “Do you admit to the allegation of aiding and abetting an unsanctioned and unlawful attack on the inquisitors of the Kalb?”

  Zahoor howled, shaking his head.

  “Answer and be aware of the eyes of Rabb watching you.”

  The nizam shuddered, then raised his head. “I… I did what was right.”

  “Do you admit the charge?”

  He dropped his head.

  “Bastard!” Kadoon growled once more, but before he could strike, Aboor stopped him by a shake of his head. The young man wasn’t one to obey, but something in Aboor’s demeanor made him freeze.

  “Why did you authorize that attack?” Aboor asked, pitching his voice loud so everyone could hear. “Did the magi put you to it?”

  The nizam shook his head, refusing to meet his eyes.

  Aboor exhaled, tightening his grip over the hilt. “For your previous service to the Keeper of the Divide, I offer you the honorable death. Kneel and bow your head.”

  A murmur went up through the crowd. Zahoor looked about, hope fading in his dark eyes as no one stepped out to help him. His shoulders slumping, he stepped forward, then knelt slowly.

  “Bow your head, you camel dung!” Kadoon barked.

  The muscles in Zahoor’s gaunt jaw moved, but he did drop his head.

  Aboor raised his sword, letting the moment stretch. He was no savage, taking life idly, despite the accused’s crimes. He was an instrument of justice, one tasked for ensuring the great balance. His actions demanded to be witnessed, internalized, passed down generations.

  He bore his sword down with all his might.

  A jolt ran down his arm as the sword cleaved through Zahoor’s head.

  A clean hit.

  The nizam’s head fell onto the pebbled courtyard like a ripe melon falling off a merchant’s cart.

  The crowd gasped. Some started wailing. Kadoon stayed where he was, the nizam’s blood spreading toward his boots.

  Aboor cleared his throat. “People of Cababad, you witnessed the administration of justice for the high crime of treason. Now, go to your homes, and spread the word of the fate that awaits all those who hinder the rightful path of the inquisitors.”

  The crowd began dispersing. Kadoon was grumbling but Aboor ignored him, his mind already planning ahead. Yes, he had been attacked. But as impossible as that might be for other inquisitors to understand, truth be told, he wasn’t really that surprised. “Mountain’s breath! The world has changed.”

  Instead of letting the blind, directionless currents of rage ensnare him in their grip, he had to break through. He had to use this to his advantage.

  S
eventeen inquisitors had survived.

  Enough for what he had originally set out to do. Aboor crossed his arms.

  Seventeen inquisitors. Just the right number he needed.

  Chapter 27

  Nuraya

  They could see the wailing women from half a mile away. They beat their chests, their arms flailing, angry fists raised toward the gray heavens. Too far to actually hear them, but Nuraya could almost imagine the snap of glass bangles as they rained on the ground below. A memory from when she had first heard of Abba’s passing.

  “We could go around the town,” Yahni said, standing in her stirrups. “No need to get ourselves involved in whatever happened there.”

  “Agreed,” said Kafayos, turning his horse around.

  “No,” Nuraya said. “If we don’t cut through the town, we’d be adding days to our journey.”

  Mara rubbed his chin, his eyes thoughtful. As he moved his head toward her, the brass earrings glinting, she caught the glimmer of doubt in his eyes.

  “Look, there’s no fire,” Nuraya said, pointing at the town. “Nor any besieging armies. Maybe someone important died.”

  “We can backtrack and take the north-eastern highway,” Yahni said. “Would only add a couple of days to our journey back to Algaria.”

  Nuraya shook her head, swallowing and hoping no one would notice the rush of color in her cheeks. They couldn’t backtrack and risk bumping into that strange man once more. She scoffed. The man was a liar, a magus no doubt, and hell would freeze over ten times before she’d have a good reason to meet him again and listen to his rambling. “We go through.”

  Without waiting for the djinn, she spurred her horse forward. If this was the time the djinn decided to break away from her, then so be it.

  The town was of a modest size, surrounded by fields. Its mud-baked buildings were arranged in a hexagonal pattern around temples that jutted out toward the sky. A most unremarkable eastern town, except for the number of teary-eyed people who looked up at them when she rode into the village.

  Nuraya felt a flicker of fear in her chest. No army had marched through the town, something she’d used to argue for it being safe, but as she ventured deeper toward the town center, her stomach felt rock-hard, her adrenaline levels spiking.

  Why was that?

  She raised her hand to touch the smooth stone against her damp skin, an almost reflexive gesture by now. An old woman looked up at her, shouted something Nuraya couldn't hear. She rode past her, shooting back a tight-lipped smile.

  “You make for a terrible traveling companion,” Kafayos said, pulling up his horse beside hers. “Or maybe that’s just how all humans are.”

  Nuraya gritted her teeth. “I’ve traveled with members of your race before. Neither they, nor I, had any complaints from each other. What does that say about you?”

  When Kafayos didn’t reply for a while, Nuraya turned her head around in surprise. It wasn’t like the arrogant djinn to not rise to the occasion. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mara and Yahni riding toward them. Kafayos’s features had hardened. Had she said something the djinn hadn’t expected?

  Realization dawned on her. She’d mentioned Jiza. She scowled. Djinn or not, it appeared even Kafayos wasn’t completely immune from charms of the better sex. A pang rose in her own heart. Would she ever meet Shoki again? She shrugged, trying to shake off the painful memories, and all the time she had wasted. She didn’t even have the right words to describe her… relationship with him. Instead, she watched Kafayos from the corner of her eye. Did he know how close Shoki and Jiza had gotten? If he did, how would he react? Jealousy spread in her own chest at the thought. She’d hated admitting it, but the sight of the pretty djinn girl hanging with Shoki all day and night had never ceased infuriating her. Angered by her inability to control the feelings roiling within her, Nuraya forced her mind on the village.

  Locals stood in clumps at the edge of the narrow street they were riding through. A Husalmin priest stood in the middle, his eyes shut, arms spread wide, his lips moving at a furious pace. Three women beside him were weeping loudly. A man looked up at them, his shoulders slumped, the eyes heavy with devastation.

  They rode out onto the town’s central square. A wide courtyard that no doubt acted as the nexus for the locals. Today, it crawled with people. Nuraya pulled up the reins, spotting red stains near the steps leading to an official-looking building.

  “There’s been fighting,” Kafayos observed.

  Mara grunted as he and Yahni pulled up alongside her. Nuraya leaned forward on her saddle. A dozen exhausted looking city guards stood beside the stairs, trying to push the crowd back from what looked a headless corpse. The air was thick with grief, and fear.

  “—the tavern—” an old woman was mumbling to her companion as they rushed past them, their thin, wispy hair spilling out in all directions.

  “—my poor son and his—”

  Nuraya followed their direction. There, to the left, a large wooden board hung askew outside a wide, squat building. The Prancing Flame. Was that the tavern the women had mentioned?

  A strange sensation washed over her, the stone growing warm against her chest. Nuraya bit on her lower lip, unable to draw her eyes away from the building. Another half a dozen guards stood outside the tavern, arguing with a gaggle of women shouting back at them. The doors to the tavern were bashed in, the windows smashed. Through the little she could see inside the hall over the bobbing heads, furniture within was strewn about, the walls stained with red splotches.

  Nuraya turned her horse and began trotting toward the tavern.

  “Human, where are you going?” Kafayos demanded, but she didn’t bother responding.

  “Let her have a look,” Mara said behind her.

  Nuraya slipped off the horse when the crowd grew too thick to ride through. She touched a middle-aged, stout woman’s shoulder. “What happened here?”

  “A terrible curse has befallen us,” the woman moaned. She turned, her eyes widening, lingering on Nuraya’s face. “Rabb be praised… golden eyes!”

  “What went on inside the tavern?” Nuraya demanded once more, pitching her voice over the growing buzz of voices.

  “Our… the nizam… he tried surprising the inquisitors…” she mumbled, her eyes still glued to Nuraya’s. “I told my Pasan to not be a part of that misguided ambush. The inquisitors are anointed by the prophet himself, I told him. Over and over again, I did, Rabb as my witness. Did he listen, though?” she whimpered. “No… no!”

  “Inquisitors?” Nuraya jerked her head back and looked around reflexively. “Are they still here?”

  “They l-left. After they’d—” She broke into sobs.

  Nuraya touched her throat. “Who did they fight?”

  “The villagers ambushed them at night,” the woman squeaked, squirming. “And a couple of them were magi as well. Abominations, I called them, I did. Rabb’s cursed. No matter what little good they might have done for us, they’re wild animals, and beasts always bite back.”

  Nuraya let go of the woman, leaving her to her whimpering. More and more fingers were being raised toward her, curious faces turning and watching her.

  “—golden eyes—”

  “—sultana—”

  Nuraya shook her head, wincing as the stone grew even warmer. She placed a hand over it through her peshwaz, then yanked it away at the sudden flare-up of heat.

  She had to get in there.

  Exhaling, she shuffled toward the doors. Shouts went up. Men and women clambered to get out of her way, even more fingers pointing at her, the smell of unwashed bodies overwhelming her senses. They knew her.

  She had no time for them for the moment.

  The city guards looked startled as she marched through them unchallenged and entered the tavern.

  Viscera and guts and dark puddles of blood greeted her. And the terrible scent of death. To the left, a dozen bodies had been piled on top of each other. Faces frozen forever in the throes of their final
torment.

  Nuraya shivered, straggling forward. Two women, carrying bloody rags, called out to her. A man’s voice boomed.

  She ignored it all.

  Death was the one true fact of life—something not even the monarchs of Istan could ward off—and nothing she shirked from anymore. Each man and woman died. Sometimes, they knew the manner and timing of their death, often they did not. The bodies lying ahead were united in death, even if other aspects like the cut of their clothes, the complexion of their skin, differentiated them.

  Her pulse was racing, something about the massacre in front of her ringing wrong.

  Nuraya stopped beside the unmoving body of a young man who would’ve been in his early twenties. Not that far removed age-wise from her or Shoki. One eye had been reduced to pulp, the other dangling on his cheek, connected to the barest bit of flesh of the socket.

  Nuraya stared at him. She didn’t know the man, nor could she make any reasonable guesses on what he would have done in his life based on the clean, simple clothes he’d been wearing before death found him.

  The man was different from the rest though, the air around him shimmering, twisting about itself. A magus? Next to him, another body lay on his face. An inquisitor, his gray turban dyed black with blood.

  An inquisitor and a magus embracing in death.

  The stone against her chest grew hot, began pulsing.

  Nuraya yelped, her hand rising to her chest as she staggered back.

  The stone throbbed painfully against her.

  With a cry, Nuraya pulled the stone out of her peshwaz, then looked down at it in the center of her palm. Ruby red, reflecting the dim light in hues of orange and red.

  A strong gust of wind blew through the open windows, setting the clothes of the dead rustling even as her own peshwaz didn’t stir an inch. What was with this unseemly wind anyway, following her all her life?

  Her heart was beating hard, a cold dread settling into the pit of her stomach.

  Memories rose without warning. Abba seated on the Peacock Throne, his wise eyes taking in the thousands of petitioners. Mother cackling on horseback, revealing her magus self.