The Broken Winds: Divided Sultanate: Book 3

by Baloch, Fuad

  “Good,” the salar replied. “I must get back to the camp. Another troupe of whores arrived in the morning along with two merchant caravans. Camsh will need a hand dealing with them.”

  “Make a man out of him?”

  “Some things are more difficult than conquering nations.” Salar Ihagra chuckled, then marched back, leaving Shoki to his dark thoughts.

  Chapter 34

  Nuraya

  Nuraya reached out for her power once more. Her back tensed, the tightness settling back into her stomach. She waited as the surge of power gathered within her core.

  She was a magus. A most remarkable, unbelievable fact.

  She cast her eyes on the trees surrounding her, at the tall stalks of grass and shrubs in front, at the birds singing their songs above her head, at the clear blue skies just beyond. She even tried concentrating on the breeze that was flowing in from the north.

  She perceived it all yet found nothing for her to use. She recalled Mara’s words when he’d first tried training her in the valleys of Nikhtun. Something about letting her senses free and finding the one element that responded. She tried reaching out, allowing herself to be discovered, claimed by that which belonged in her domain. Nothing jumped out at her, no force of nature taking hold of her. Frustrated, she turned her focus inward, examined herself.

  What she saw of her physical self in the daylight repulsed her.

  Her peshwaz, tattered and dirty and looking browner and grayer than the original blue it had once been. Her feet, blistered, bloody against broken leather sandals. A thin rucksack she had grabbed in Cababad before rushing into the surrounding forest.

  Gritting her teeth, the power still coursing through her, she tried delving deeper. Could she see her soul, her emotions, her strengths and weaknesses, and tame them?

  Nothing.

  Nothing but that strange tug that pulled at her.

  Nuraya shivered and allowed the power to leak away. The real world returned with a vengeance, overwhelming her senses for a good breath before she managed to regain her orientation.

  She did know what her well was, as much as she hated admitting it. In her altercation with Kafayos, she had seen his well. She’d instinctively reached out for it, her claws pouncing as if a tigress going for the deer’s beating heart.

  She had restrained herself at the last instant, disgusted at herself, still holding onto his well, knowing she could extinguish it. Kafayos had screamed, howling like a babe, snapping her back into the real world with the magi and inquisitors lying dead at her feet, the shocked expressions on the faces of the local residents, and the terrified look on Mara’s face.

  She had fled, and neither the djinn nor the villagers had dared stopping her. How many days ago was that? Two? Five? The blisters on her feet screamed, reminding her she needed to rest.

  Rest for what, though?

  “What’s happened to me?” Nuraya whispered, whirling around on the spot, her arms spread to her sides. She turned her chin up to look at the bright sky—a rarity in these lands, she remembered. “Oh, Unseen God, oh my Rabb, what have you done to me?”

  A part of her warned her that the words she was uttering were blasphemous. It wasn’t God, but her actions at the tavern that had brought this upon her. She’d had all this time to confer with Mara, to trust him with the stone she had grabbed from Afrasiab’s castle, and she hadn’t. Instead, she’d allowed her darkest inclinations to lead her astray.

  The urge built up to tear out her hair.

  A part of her had feared what would happen if she gave in to her dark impulses. Had tried warning her, and yet, she had gone through with it.

  Nuraya Istan was a fool. One so deluded by her sense of worthlessness, washed over by helplessness, that she had decided to risk her very soul for any slight edge that she might gain. Mara’s words floated in her memory; was this a ploy from Afrasiab?

  Nuraya screamed out in frustration, setting off two birds from their nest overhead. Whether the stone had been planted for her, or something ordained by kismet for her, there was no denying she had found power through the ritual. Even if it wasn’t the kind she had wanted.

  She reached for her power once more.

  Blotches of inky blackness pressed in on her from the ground and the sky. She ignored them at first, but they continued their relentless advance. Her control slipped and she allowed her concentration to collapse altogether.

  Something snapped in her chest.

  Nuraya fell on her knees, whimpering. Tears flowed from her eyes, streaming down her grimy cheeks, snot covering her upper lip. She didn't bother cleaning herself up. Her nails were all chipped. Her arms and legs were scratched and discolored. Her hair was a matted, greasy affair. Her feet felt two times their normal size. Her body stank like a soldier’s after a week-long hard march.

  No matter what her old memories held, she no longer felt like Nuraya Istan of old. Yes, she remembered the past well; all those hours spent in the diwan-e-aam, the times she and Mona had snuck out to spy on the handsome guards, lessons from her Kur’shi masters on horse-riding and sword-fighting, even those rare moments when Abba had beamed at her with pride.

  But this, this wretched girl she had turned into, bore no resemblance with the Nuraya Istan of her memories.

  She had made mistakes. So numerous she didn't even know where to begin her lamentations. Not all were her fault, a part of her tried to argue back. Her intentions had been honorable when she’d set out to rescue her mother and fight Ahasan. Others had betrayed her, using her for their nefarious, evil purposes. Even later, when she had sought to do the right thing, fighting back against the invaders plaguing her realm, it wasn’t her fault that the ancient, piece of dried camel dung had returned from the past to doom her cause.

  Was there nothing she could do now to right her wrongs?

  Guilt settled in her gut now. She had been content living out her life in the comfort of the Shahi Qilla. Had either of her brothers taken the throne after Abba’s death, she wouldn’t have cared.

  That was how her life was meant to have transpired.

  That was not how it had turned out.

  Why?

  Don’t lose yourself!

  An idea rose from the dredges of her mind. Yes, she had been given a horrible hand in life, and a power that was of no real use for her allies. But it was something she could use against her enemies.

  Nuraya lingered on the intuition, her breath catching as she steadied her unsteady heartbeat. Her power would terrify magi allies, if she could do to them what she’d done to Kafayos.

  Could she not use that against the one who had captured her, decimated her army?

  Nuraya exhaled. Where was she anyway? She stood, trying to make sense of her surroundings. She’d taken the first road she’d come across when she’d left Cababad. For all she knew, all this time she had been walking toward Kohkam. That wasn't the direction she sought though.

  Her eyes fell on the birds flying overhead, their outlines highlighted by the falling sunlight. The sun was setting behind her. She had been walking eastward.

  Was that a sign that Rabb agreed with her intuition?

  She wiped her eyes clean and began marching with a spring in her feet.

  Chapter 35

  Aboor

  They arrived at Kulna four days of hard march later. Aboor had visited the village some three decades ago when he had been a young jawan in the Sultan’s Fourth Army. He was reckless, restless, and didn't wait for the scouts’ reports before venturing into the village. Ignoring the local nizam who ran toward them from their office, Aboor led his forces through the village square, paying no attention to the state of panic that had gripped the local residents.

  Kulna was built atop a small hill—a rarity in the Eastern Realm, allowing an opportunity that the early settlers must have taken gleefully. As they exited the village proper, a gentle rain pouring down from the skies, and got their first view of the massive plain outside, Aboor pulled on his horse’s rein
s, gaping.

  The plain swarmed with soldiers, easily swollen five times the size of the village. Flags of a dozen different ameers fluttered over the hundreds of tents. Some of the flags were variations on previous designs—the light green of the Ameer of Danda’s flag changed to a darker version whilst keeping the sigil. Some, he’d never seen before. A few, he realized with a growing sense of trepidation, were black. A color no Istani would have ever flown for its association with the abominations.

  “They have magi,” Kadoon said, shaking his head in distaste. “Yasir confirms. Powerful ones, too.”

  “Hmm,” Aboor replied. He’d made a mistake approaching the village without carrying out his due diligence, but he doubted the army ahead was as reckless as him. They would have known they were approaching ten miles out, and if they had been allowed to pass the village without being challenged, it was what the leaders of this army wanted.

  Awe gripped him. Not since the mighty host that had marched out with the two Istani kids, had this many armed men and women of Istan gathered together.

  “Who are they preparing to march against?” Aboor wondered out loud. “They’re too far from Algaria. Taking local provinces would fast become battles of attrition. And these plains, rich as they might be for foraging, hardly provide defensible positions.”

  “They have magi,” Kadoon repeated.

  “Yes, they do,” Aboor agreed. “Although…” He paused, unsure of the impact his words would have. “Well, you do know that the Zakhanan have magi of their own as well.”

  Kadoon whirled about, his eyes narrowing into dark slits. “They use magi to fight these battles?”

  Aboor shrugged. “Last I heard. Truth be told, I’m surprised it took them that long to weaponize their magi.”

  “Does the Inquisitor Council know?” Kadoon demanded. “We must send—”

  “They do, and there’s nothing they can do about it.” Aboor exhaled, feeling the familiar pain return to his knees. “The council has reached out to the Zakhanan inquisitors to formulate a response. But when the plague starts, it must take its toll before dying out.”

  “Abominations cannot be reasoned with. They must be severed if they refuse their bondage.”

  “Kadoon, you’ve spent weeks with the magi,” Aboor snapped. “You’ve worked with Yasir, who’s been helping us find and neutralize any magi who have dabbled in blood magic. You met Maharis, a magus who has a good cause against us, yet is one who encouraged us to join him against the greater evil plaguing these lands. Mountain’s breath, what more do you need to see before coming to your sense?”

  “Speak of the devil,” Kadoon muttered, looking at someone behind Aboor’s back.

  Aboor exhaled, then turned his head around. “Maharis Yeone in the flesh.”

  The magus seemed to be in a great state of agitation. “Did you see the flags? The yellow sun on white?”

  Aboor had missed that. He squinted at the camp. There, in the very middle of the camp, fluttered the flag with the yellow sun. He felt his heartbeat quicken. He’d seen the symbol before, of course, but only in ancient military texts they forced all patedars of the army to study as part of their training.

  “The Malik flag?”

  “The news is indeed true then,” Maharis said, breathing heavily. “The old Malik line has survived. Nothing better to unite the various factions of the realm at this time.”

  “Perhaps,” Aboor said slowly. “Great upheavals can both destroy equilibriums and set up new ones.”

  Shouts went up behind him, followed by clang of steel. Aboor sighed, not bothering to take his sword out. A dozen heavily armed riders were trotting up the road toward them, led by a weak-jawed man, his receding hairline moist under the rain.

  Another man he recognized.

  “Stand down!” Aboor ordered, then plastering a smile on his face, spurred his horse forward.

  “Halt!” shouted the soldier beside their leader, holding up the sun flag.

  Aboor ignored him, pulling up his horse a dozen steps from them. “Camsh, son of Madhu Ghiani, the grand vizier of the Istani Sultanate.”

  “Greetings, Inquisitor Altamish Aboor,” replied Camsh, his voice calm even as his eyes continued to dart at the inquisitors behind him. Aboor resisted the urge to turn around and shout at his men to not do anything stupid. “You rode harder than we expected.”

  Aboor shrugged, feeling his chest tighten. “Why delay the inevitable, as they say, eh? You knew we were coming. And honestly, all this letting-us-come-to-you piqued my interest.”

  “Follow me,” Camsh said, turning his horse around.

  “Who commands this army, Camsh?”

  Camsh paused. “Shoki Malik.”

  Rumors were easy things to dismiss. After all, what one hadn’t seen, hadn’t witnessed, could be just as much true as false. He was fast running out of excuses for dismissing the inconvenient ones. “By the gods. Shoki Malik?”

  “Mysteries of the divine ways and all that.”

  “Of course,” Aboor agreed easily, his mind swirling with wild thoughts. They’d passed a couple of villages during their march just as rife with rumor and intrigue as Kulna about the boy who had returned to resurrect an imperial line long dead. A line of kings instead of sultans. An heir that Altamish Aboor had made the mistake of dismissing way too quickly when they’d first met in diwan-e-aam in a different world. “Are rumors… about him finding his well true too?”

  Camsh’s gaze was cold. “Follow me. As you said, let’s not delay the inevitable.”

  Aboor motioned his men and together they marched down the road and into the heart of the camp. In many ways, this camp was no different than a hundred others he’d seen before. The way they pitched their tents facing the sun. The latrines dug up downwind. What he hadn’t expected though was the overwhelming sense of being in a mercenary town, wanting to keep looking over his shoulder lest someone stabbed him. Each man seemed wary of the other. They wore different sigils, different styles of armor, each giving him and his inquisitors an eyeful of hatred.

  “Merhan and Selhani,” Aboor heard Maharis mutter behind him as they dismounted, following Camsh on foot to the massive tent in the middle.

  “Magi schools?” Aboor asked

  “Aye.” Maharis took another sharp intake of breath. “Zyadi and Jaman both.”

  Aboor turned his head around, then, finding Kadoon, motioned him to join him. He wasn’t going to let the young hothead remain by himself.

  “Pray, enter,” Camsh said, standing outside the tent. The flaps stirred and two figures emerged.

  “Jinan. Salar Ihagra,” Aboor drawled, plastering a grin on his face.

  Both men eyed him suspiciously, then stood to either side of the tent.

  “Aboor,” said Salar Ihagra, “twice now, you’ve betrayed the trust Shoki placed in you. Just so you know, I’m not going to allow a third time.”

  “And it’s a pleasure to see you, too,” Aboor replied, forcing his grin from turning into a sneer. The weathered salar was a true adversary, just as decorated a soldier as he was. One to keep an eye out on.

  “Let’s not tarry,” Camsh said.

  “Aye.” Aboor placed his arm on the back of Maharis’s back, his other hand dropping down to his sleeve where he had hidden his dagger. “After you.”

  Maharis coughed, then entered the tent, offering the briefest of glimpses inside of a dozen or so men sitting in a circle, their outlines lit by torchlight. Aboor filled his lungs with air, then drawing strength from the cold metal of the dagger against his skin, entered the tent as well.

  His eyes took half a second to get used to the torchlight. Despite the clamor of men outside, the mood within was decidedly somber. Two women clad in black turbans sat together to his right, their faces twisted with hatred and hostility toward him. Aboor didn't need Yasir to tell these two were magi, members of their cursed schools. Maharis wheezed beside him, then fell to his knees.

  “I thank you once more for the great clemency you
showed me, oh wise one,” said Maharis.

  Blinking, Aboor turned his eyes toward the center of the tent. There, his features half-shrouded in shadows, sat the man whose eye Aboor had gouged not too long ago. A shiver of fear ran down his spine as he looked up at Shoki.

  Shoki Malik!

  “Sit down, Inquisitor,” said Shoki, pointing at an empty spot to his right. “We’ve been awaiting you.” His features relaxed. “And Maharis, I see you’ve not yet lost your flair for flowery language.”

  “Lines carved on a stone never fade away,” Maharis replied.

  Aboor swallowed, calculating his odds on fighting his way out of the tent and using the village to mount a defense. If he were to use his dagger, he’d have—

  The curtain flaps rose behind him and he heard the familiar, cursed rasp of Salar Ihagra. Mountain’s breath!

  Aboor smirked. “Truth be told, I didn't expect to see you again, young man.”

  “It gives me great hope to see you traveling with magi, Inquisitor.” Shoki inclined his chin toward Maharis. “And with Maharis, of all people. You have changed, then?”

  Aboor shook his head. “Just because I allow the cat to rid the mice doesn't change my feelings about its feral nature.”

  “That’ll do,” said Shoki Malik, one being held as the descendant of the famed Malik line of kings. “For now.”

  Yanking Kadoon by the arm, Aboor sat down. Not at the place Shoki had pointed out for him. He was Altamish Aboor, inquisitor and a decorated former patedar, and he would damned well sit where he so desired.

  “Quite an impressive gathering you’ve accumulated,” Aboor said, pitching his voice lightly. “A far cry from how I left you the last time.”

  “Inquisitor,” said Shoki, leaning forward. “Ghouls and blood magi are gathering strength in Sehlour. It’s entirely possible Afrasiab is still there, setting up the next part of his plan. Even as we sit here, waiting for more allies to join us, the blight is spreading in the far east. We need to unite, all of us, and drive back these evil forces of the dark.”