The Broken Winds: Divided Sultanate: Book 3

by Baloch, Fuad

  “Of course he does,” Aboor replied softly. Riyan was moving faster than he’d expected. Or had Puhana taken over in all but name? Getting rid of Aboor from the council had been a masterstroke, and he was only realizing its full ramifications now. Damn these cursed bureaucrats and politicians. The Riyan he remembered would have sat on his ass for months before deciding to take action either way. No wonder he’d presented such an easy target for the grand vizier.

  The grand vizier.

  Aboor swallowed the surge of painful memories that floated up. The day he’d been at the diwan-e-aam when he’d been paired off with Shoki Malook felt like an eternity ago. It was an eternity ago, back when the world worked the way it was meant to. The Istani sultan sat firm on his throne, the inquisitors carrying out their duties just as they were tasked to, the realm’s borders safe from incursions from their weaker neighbors, and no ungodly magi or djinn harassing the public.

  An eternity ago, he reflected with a mixture of sadness and longing. Would it ever be possible to return to that world, or was that gone like an old man’s memories of his youth? Would the generation after Kadoon grow up believing the Kalb inquisition as a glorified legend? Would Algaria, the city he had fallen in love with, ever return to the splendor that it had acquired over an existence spanning a millennia?

  The world was larger than just the continent, he reminded himself. There was every chance that the balance between magi and inquisitors might persist longer in Kur’sh and Xin and the other great powers. Maybe the next wave of inquisitors would hail from those regions. Cyclical nature of history and all that.

  Kadoon was still mumbling, though Aboor had stopped paying him attention quite some time ago. For better or worse, Kadoon remained an important part of his forces for the moment. He and the other fifteen inquisitors who had survived the nizam’s ambush in cahoots with the rogue magi.

  Riyan could dance as much as he wanted to the tune of others, but Aboor could no longer sit back and let the weak-minded fool stop him from carrying out his duty. He turned his head around, spying Yasir and the other two magi sitting slumped over their horses.

  The three magi who had turned their back on their own brethren. Some might call them traitors to their kin, using Aboor’s own words against them, but he knew theirs was a special case. These three men, much like him, were driven more by the overwhelming sense of righteousness and duty than any superficial bonds of tribalism.

  A fine distinction Aboor wasn't sure he’d ever be able to explain to Kadoon.

  Again, it didn't matter.

  They were headed east, still on the trail of the rogue magus that Yasir was tracking for them. A magus so powerful that it was almost impossible to mask his presence. Yasir had been puzzled by the residue the last he’d spoken with him. Something about the magus in the east not quite right. A misalignment of sorts was Yasir’s judgment. Aboor shrugged. At least, Yasir and the other two magi didn't look any more crazed. Maybe all this tracking was actually good for them.

  “—the ghouls!”

  “Say what?” Aboor asked, whipping his head around to Kadoon.

  “The scouts confirm increased ghoul presence outside the castle of Sehlour,” Kadoon said. “Thought you might be interested.”

  “Hmm,” Aboor said, not admitting the immense weight that had begun gathering in the pit of his stomach as the first reports had come in two nights ago. The religious texts talked about the ghouls—mangled, corrupt forms of men—as harbingers of the darkness that followed in times of blights; words that a young Aboor had heard plenty from the priests visiting his father.

  Shouts went up behind them. His thigh a smoldering flame of pain, he squinted. Two riders rode a half-mile ahead. Black turbans, clear even from the distance. Two of his inquisitors thundered past him.

  “Inquisitors, brace yourselves!” Aboor shouted, dropping the reins, and gripping the saddle with his thighs.

  “Sever them!” Kadoon shouted.

  “Belay that!” Aboor bellowed, shooting a baleful glance at Kadoon. The younger inquisitor turned his face away.

  Aboor considered his options. They had already been deceived before. True, inquisitors couldn't be harmed by a magus’s magic, but they were just as susceptible to weapons as any other man. They’d seen that much in Cababad. “Prepare your swords!” he shouted, taking out his own sword from the sheath.

  The air rang out with the sound of metal sliding against leather behind him. Kadoon followed suit as well, this time not asking any stupid questions. He, too, after all, had seen what happened when one turned their back to danger. Their three magi slowed down, putting distance between them and the magi ahead.

  The two inquisitors had apprehended the magi and were arguing with them. Neither of the two inquisitors had their sword out.

  “Mountain’s breath! Even after all this, they continue to blind themselves!” Aboor muttered. “Kadoon, with me!” He spurred his horse, breaking into a gallop toward the group ahead, Kadoon a stride behind him. They covered the three hundred yards in a matter of breaths, Aboor praying—not something he was used to—that he wasn't already too late. Losing just one more inquisitor would set him back for good, making it impossible to sing the Divine Chant. In the back of his mind, he made a promise to put out a call for mercenaries at the next town they set up camp at. In this shitty world, even the inquisitors needed protection.

  His eyes fell on one of the magi and he felt his grip loosen on the sword. He shook his head, doing a double take.

  “You!” exclaimed the magus as Aboor pulled up next to the two inquisitors.

  “Take out your swords!” Kadoon ordered as he came to a stop beside him in a muddy puddle.

  Aboor didn't belay that order even though there was no need for it. “I didn’t expect to see you, Maharis.”

  Maharis, the cursed magus, one Aboor had almost severed not too long ago, offered a tight-lipped smile. “The world’s turned a smaller place, it seems like.”

  “Sever them,” Kadoon barked. “Isn’t he the one who escaped us before?”

  “Where are you going?” Aboor demanded, waving his hand at the rucksacks tied to the magi’s horses. The other magus, a middle-aged woman wearing an all-enveloping black dress, bit her lips even as Maharis ignored her.

  “Toward the man who I owe a debt.”

  “Don’t speak in riddles, old man!” Aboor snapped. “There’s nothing out here except Zakhanan soldiers at their border.”

  “Oh, there’s one more army in the making,” Maharis said softly. He chuckled. “The world changes, yet it seems to be turning back into something it used to be. The dog’s crooked tail returning to its original shape.”

  Kadoon raised his sword, the tip pointed squarely at the magus’s weak chest. “Try dodging the question one more time, and you’ll be meeting your Maker.”

  “I’m off to see the Malik army.”

  “The… Malik army,” Aboor repeated, feeling the dread that had been growing in within him suddenly expand and take over. He’d heard the muted whispers at Cababad even if he had decided to ignore them. “So, the news is true.”

  Maharis chuckled, the ghastly sound feeling wrong in the fresh air. “Bet you didn’t expect that.”

  He hadn’t, if Aboor were feeling like admitting anything. He shook his head. “That boy is mistaken. The Malik line is extinguished, and—”

  “Let us go in peace, Inquisitor,” Maharis cut in. “We have no quarrel with you.”

  “We have no quarrel?” Aboor mocked. “You seem to have a pretty selective memory.”

  “Inquisitor, I meant what I said in Nuraya’s tent,” Maharis said. “The time has come for us to stand together. And for the trust that Shoki showed me, and as part of atoning for my previous crimes, I intend to do my bit.” He paused. “Accompany me north-east if you will. Let’s see this through together.”

  “See this through together?”

  “He’s deceiving us,” Kadoon said through gritted teeth. When Aboor turned to
ward him, the young inquisitor was shaking with rage. “Who’s to say he wasn’t a part of the cabal of magi who conspired with the nizam to attack us in the first place? He could be part of their second wave, intending to take us out unawares once more.”

  “I’m part of the Merhan school,” Maharis said, spreading his arms as if to show he meant no harm. “We’ve already reached out to your leaders to resume peace talks between our peoples.”

  The Merhan school. Aboor narrowed his eyes, recalling the last set of reports he’d received from his contacts in the inquisitor council. A small school, making overtures to inquisitors, getting nothing back.

  “Besides draining the east of all mercenaries, men I could have used, what does he intend to do?” Aboor asked.

  “To do the right thing,” Maharis replied.

  The right thing. Aboor had tried doing the right thing, not letting anything sway what needed to be done.

  “Sever him, Sahib Inquisitor,” Kadoon repeated.

  The right thing took on various guises. The most difficult of them was placing one’s trust in one’s enemies and seeing if they could discover a common cause together. Help each other establish an equilibrium, a resting place for the balance to birth.

  Aboor chewed on his lower lip. Out there in the east was the enemy they were seeking. Was there a chance that Shoki’s alliance had something to offer him?

  Shoki’s men. The thought was preposterous, unbelievable.

  Then again, the world had changed so much that nothing seemed to faze him too much, it seemed.

  Aboor nodded at the two magi, then spurred his horse, continuing his journey east.

  Chapter 33

  Shoki

  His thoughts dark and bleak, Shoki trudged toward the stream that ran a mile east from the camp. Restlessness and the dark sense of foreboding stayed with him even when he couldn't hear the camp noise anymore.

  Overnight, his numbers had grown to a shade over ten thousand. Not all of the delegates had paid heed to him—not that surprising considering the terrible way he’d made his argument—but even the few he’d won over had delivered beyond his expectations. Or even Camsh’s for that matter.

  Six thousand footmen. Five hundred archers. A thousand horsemen and camel riders. Two mercenary companies from Polino, each a thousand strong, commanded by men who refused to talk about the past and resisted naming their price for the moment. Thirty magi from the Selhani and Merhan schools, representing two of the Jaman and Zyadi groups.

  No inquisitors though. No one from the Sultana’s Hands either—though that wasn't really that surprising. Still no representatives from either the Reratish or the Zakhanan armies. If the Zakhanan empire was aware of the goings-on at Sehlour castle, and was worried about the ghoul activity, it gave every impression of wanting to deal with it on its own terms. Something Camsh understood even if Shoki couldn't.

  The victors didn't beg for alliances from those they had vanquished, Camsh had surmised. But we are all on the same side, he’d argued. Camsh had smirked.

  Birds twittered from their high perches. A fine day in the Eastern Realm for once. Not that this region was still considered east after the fall of Algaria. The fates of the hundreds of thousands living in these lands had changed beyond recognition, along with the titles of those who continued to rule over it in one shape or the other, but in the wild here, nature persisted in its own way, oblivious to the misery that had fallen on its human residents.

  Branches broke behind him. Shoki didn't turn around. He hadn't bothered telling Salar Ihagra and Camsh to stop their men from following him. They both did what they thought best. Gods’ guts, for all he knew, it could be Jinan, who despite his festering hostility, had supported Shoki’s calls at the summit.

  He began whistling, his fingers twitching to pluck a lute. An old tune Mother used to hum when he was a ten-year-old boy as she cooked on the baked-clay stove. He couldn't recall her actually singing out the words though. Probably something she had heard when she herself was a child in the north. A peasant song in the northern-most reaches of the realm, now committed in the memory of one whose real family line should have been eradicated centuries ago.

  I am a Malik.

  Shoki felt a tremor creep into his fingers and he opened and closed them deliberately. Even that name meant nothing to him, really. Not when the real fight was no longer between men and women clamoring for supremacy, but between those who stood on the right side and those who dared to oppose it. Did he have the right side though? Was he making the right decisions? His sides ached as the invisible cord tugged him eastward. What was it he wasn’t seeing? What was that figure he’d seen through the barrier at Sehlour through his Ajeeb sight?

  Twigs snapped as heavy boots trampled to Shoki’s left. He whipped his head around, then relaxed when Salar Ihagra emerged.

  “Thought you could do with some company.”

  Shoki grinned, feeling genuine warmth spreading through his chest. “You know me too well.”

  “Known you long enough,” the salar replied, smiling through the thick mustache, his brass helmet gleaming as it always did.

  The smile on Shoki’s face faltered. The salar might not have meant it, but his words had once more rekindled the old wound. “Aye.”

  Salar Ihagra stepped in beside him, his back straight, the leather creaking as they continued toward the stream.

  “Do you think we can prevail over the ghouls?” Shoki asked after a few moments had passed.

  “Undoubtedly.” The salar coughed. “The question though is, what are you going to do after?”

  “Eh?”

  “You are binding disparate strands of Istani—erm, this society together for a purpose. Once that’s done, and you’ve pushed back the ghouls, then what?”

  Shoki shook his head. “We won’t be done after Sehlour.”

  “No?”

  Shoki exhaled, resisting the urge to reach for his well. “This is just the start. All that we have faced so far, the battles of Buzdar and Algaria, the fall of the capital, pales in front of what the pari folk are planning, and the darkness that’s making its way to us.”

  The salar made a gurgling sound at the back of his throat. “You think they’re behind the blight?”

  “Aye.”

  Salar Ihagra grunted. “I’ll follow you to the ends of the world and back, boy. And I’ll whip anyone straight into shape that refuses to do the same.”

  Mist gathered in the corner of Shoki’s eye. He dabbed it away with a sleeve, neither man acknowledging it. “Feels strange to have you say that, Salar. All my life, it’s been the other way around. Doesn’t sound right somehow.”

  “The sun is weak when it’s rising, young and vulnerable, but once it comes into its own, there is nothing brighter.”

  “As is the case with the lion cub,” Shoki said, rubbing his hands together, recalling something he’d heard at the castle about the Iron Sultan’s children. Nuraya was still alive, his heart called out. The lioness.

  “As is the case with the lion cub,” the salar agreed, giving a tight nod.

  Thoughts drifted through Shoki’s mind. It was highly unlikely that Afrasiab wasn’t aware of what he was planning. If he was still there, was he really counting on them to attack him there? If so, that’d be fighting on a battleground of their enemy’s choosing. If he wasn’t there though, then Shoki would have to start his search for him all over again. Him and Nuraya.

  His insides squirmed. How would she react to hearing how others treated him now? He’d renounced his claim to the Peacock Throne once already. Would he have to do it again if they were to find her?

  “That girl,” the salar said. “Watch out for her. I still cannot read her.”

  Shoki felt his heart twist in pain. “Aye, and…” He turned his head around. “Wait. Who’re you talking about?”

  “The djinn girl. She doesn’t talk much. Not a very woman-like thing.”

  Shoki frowned. “She, too, like the others, has a price for foll
owing me. She’ll demand her payment again soon enough.”

  “Camsh is a good lad,” the salar said as they emerged from the rows of trees and out onto the stream’s muddy bank, the waters twisting and turning like a slithering snake. “I see a lot of his father in him. He’s capable, dependable.”

  “And thoroughly lacking a sense of humor.”

  “Most definitely.”

  The two of them laughed. Shoki felt his spirits lift a little, as he watched the whites of the salar’s teeth. Salar Ihagra had never been one to laugh easily, but when he did, the act was so gregarious, one couldn’t help but drown one’s melancholy.

  They came to a stop a few steps from the stream.

  “Remember the first time you learned to swim?” the salar asked.

  “You mean, when you pushed me in the pond and watched me drown with your arms crossed over your chest?” Shoki replied sarcastically. “Oh yes, a defining moment of my childhood.”

  The salar chuckled, once more forcing Shoki to grin alongside him. The hardness returned to the salar’s old face a breath later. “An instruction that has stood you in good stead.”

  “Well, I guess… I survived,” Shoki replied, thumping his chest with his left hand, smiling back at the salar.

  Salar Ihagra leaned in closer, the suddenness of the movement catching Shoki by surprise. “We’re all in the deep end. Me. The realm. You. Everyone. You see that, don’t you?”

  Shoki blinked at the heat in the salar’s words, at the slight twitch in his left eyelid. The salar leaned back, crossing his arms just as Shoki remembered him doing all those years ago. A lot of time had passed since that fateful day when a thirteen-year-old boy had been shoved into the deep end of the pool to force him to learn how to fend for himself. The entire gods’ damned world had changed in the meantime.

  Yet, it had also remained the same in many ways, the sun and the moon and nature still going about their business unhindered.

  “Aye, Salar,” Shoki replied, feeling dread creep right back into his veins. When he had been the boy, the salar had been the one watching over him, ensuring his safety. This time, there was no one but himself.