by Baloch, Fuad
A soldier, his metal armor rusted and dented, separated from the rest of the armed men making ready to ride out, and headed for him. In his left hand, he carried a missive.
“Mountain’s breath!” Aboor swore, sweat breaking out on his brow.
Yasir didn’t say anything, quietly taking a step forward to stand beside him. Beside him! Aboor curled his fingers, deciding to let the moment pass. There were far more important matters to attend to for the moment.
“A message for you, Sahib Inquisitor,” said the soldier, huffing, thrusting his arm forward.
“Hmm.”
“The messenger who bore this,” continued the soldier, looking up, his manner suitably deferential, “insisted I bring this to you with all haste.”
Aboor was in no haste. Felt no need for it. However, if he continued to pout, the infernal soldier would never leave. “Give it to me!” He yanked the parchment from the soldier, annoyed at the slight tremor that had crept into his fingers. Age. Another marker of changing times he’d yet to make his peace with. “Now, go!”
The soldier bowed, touching the tips of his right hand to his heart, then retreated.
The parchment clutched in his left hand, Aboor stood still for a long while. Well, as still as his bad leg would let him. He might have been the first one through the breach at Kohkam, but there had been a reason behind that—one he’d never shared with anyone. A preternatural sense of danger had awakened him that day, setting off alarms in his head. If he stayed still, he was going to be surrounded. And so he had charged ahead—not heading into a battle, more trying to get away from it.
The parchment carried nothing good.
The world it had arrived in was beyond saving.
“Haven’t you got something better to do?” Aboor snapped, jabbing a finger at Yasir.
The magus blinked. “What am I to do?”
Simple enough words, but they shook Aboor to the core. The dread that had been growing in his gut ever since the princess had turned up on the battlefield grew tenfold, threatening to crush him. He opened his jaw, found himself at a loss for words—one more thing he hated. “Hmm.”
Again, the inquisitor and the magus stood, the air ringing with shouts and braying animals and clanging armor. The battle had been won. The war was beyond them all, even if they didn't recognize it yet. In between, there were other wars waiting to be waged. One of them to win back Algaria. Upon the orders of one Shoki Malik.
Despite the sun’s heat, Aboor shivered.
“I don’t trust him,” Yasir said suddenly.
Aboor looked up. There were at least a hundred soldiers directly ahead. But he knew the one the magus referred to. “You’ve a problem with mercenary salars now?”
“Just him.”
Aboor considered the handsome salar. He had changed a great deal in the past few months, this Jinan Hoshbar. Changed too much. That was never a good thing. “Not going to argue on that. With the… girl back in the picture, there is no telling what he is going to do.”
Yasir crossed his arms, then, muttering to himself, began to rock on his feet.
Aboor exhaled. Jinan Hoshbar had called for Nuraya of Istan. That was an age ago. The world had changed since then, though hearts often had a way of not keeping pace. The parchment in his hand was growing heavier by the minute. He couldn't ignore it for long.
Shaking his head, Aboor turned his gaze toward the distant gates. He’d come this far only to find they’d been playing into the hands of their enemy. Like the sand snake of myth birthing a dozen different heads whenever his head was struck, Afrasiab had created a dozen wars in his wake.
Where was Shoki? Aboor grunted. Wherever he was, the boy was far too young, far too naive to recognize the world he found himself in. He needed guidance, a steady, pragmatic hand urging him toward what needed doing. Too bad the boy had surrounded himself with weak loyalists who would never see past their limitations to do right by him.
His eyes fell on the two djinn. Kafayos and Jiza. Djinn magi. Aboor stiffened. “I don’t trust them,” he admitted.
“Hmm,” replied the magus.
“Mountain’s breath, do you need anything from me?”
“Aye.”
Aboor checked himself. Not the reply he’d been expecting, but one he’d been dreading. “Everything has changed.”
“A magus has the power to sever magi.”
Aboor nodded slowly. “A magus doing the work of the inquisitor.”
“The world has changed.”
Aboor chuckled without humor. “The whole damned mountain and its bedrock of our history has shifted.”
Again, the magus fell silent, his eyes sweeping the soldiers once more.
Aboor exhaled heavily, forcing his frayed nerves to calm down. What was done was done. There was still opportunity to be had, even if… even if… “Gods’ glory holes filled with pus and blood! I don’t know what to think anymore.”
The magus didn't reply. Not that he needed to. It was one thing to quip that the world was changing, but quite another to see it do just that. This was a time where everyone was at once allies and enemies with each other. A great time to be alive in. An age for the young.
“I’m not yet done,” Aboor declared, puffing his chest out. His leg complained as he put the extra weight on it, and a moment later, he relented, allowing his back to acquire the stoop that had crept into it.
A cheer went up. Aboor raised his chin. Shoki Malik, the newly minted king of the land Aboor had always known as Istan, was riding out of Sehlour. On his one hand rode that old fool Ihagra, and to the other, the young upstart Camsh. Which one of them would disappoint the new king first?
Soldiers who had been slacking off sprang into life, their movements suddenly sharp, alert. The sight of a monarch tended to do that. Aboor would know—he’d seen bent backs straightening plenty of times when the Iron Sultan approached. His thoughts drifted, recalling his last visit to Algaria. Shameful, the ease with which the Zakhanan forces had taken the city. A part of him chided him for considering such trivial matters when everything he’d known had been thrown into chaos. There were loftier goals for the likes of him to concern themselves with. Fate of the world. This darkness that the magi sensed growing stronger.
He recalled a Husalmin priest he’d seen in Algaria, an old man, limping even more than Aboor, dragging a sack through the deserted avenue of the grand old city. Of the many things that had pained him on that visit, he wondered why that one particular memory stuck out so. Perhaps, because that was a potent sign of how much the world had transformed, and how the old were withering away.
Gritting his teeth, Aboor raised his hand carrying the parchment and unfurled it. He read the contents once, then twice, his eyes widening.
He winced. “Mountain’s breath, here we go again!”
The tale continues…
Hope you’ve enjoyed reading ‘The Broken Winds’.
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About the Author
Fuad Baloch is an emerging author of fantasy and science fiction novels.
To keep up with Fuad, please visit fuadbaloch.com and join the subscription list.
Also by Fuad Baloch:
The Hard Choice
The Lost Prophet
The Faithless Prophet
Lady of the Sands
Blood of a Sultan
Lions of Istan
War of the Sultans
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