by Fuad Baloch
“I didn’t know that,” said Nuraya.
Mona exhaled. “It’s a feeling others in the merchants’ guild seem to share as well. Even talk of my marriage has been put off for the moment. The Guild leader has already started steering his caravans away from the main trading routes until the prophet Binyom’s birthday.”
“Princess…” wailed Ghansi once more.
Nuraya kept quiet. The prophet’s birthday was still a good three or so months away. No matter how much Ahasan might wish to crown himself now, he had to follow the official mourning period of two months, then wait for an auspicious occasion like the holy day before declaring himself the next sultan.
Three months.
An awfully long time to live in a state of constant confusion and fear.
Angry voices rose from the garden. She veered toward the commotion. The gates were wide open, the guards talking animatedly with someone on the other side. One of them stumbled back as if shoved, hands pressing down on his stomach. His mouth opened. An instant later she heard his scream. His handsome partner drew his sword, took a step back.
“Rabb, bless our hearts,” lamented Ghansi behind them. “Keep us from evil in the hearts of men.”
“Quiet,” Nuraya hissed.
Something shiny reflected the sunlight for a fraction of a second. The handsome guard crumpled to the ground, the sword falling from his hand, red liquid gushing from his stomach.
Mona shrieked. Ghansi howled. Nuraya stared, unable to look away from the sight of the man losing his lifeblood in front of her very eyes.
She should do something.
But what?
The dying man’s partner gaped, blood pooling around his own fingers still clutching at his stomach. Through the open gates, half a dozen armed guards marched in. She recognized the man leading them. The same ugly dog she had slapped outside Ahasan’s chambers. He grinned, raising his sword dripping with red. Behind him, three men in loose Zakhanan robes emerged.
The first guard shambled back, raised a bloody hand. Ahasan’s guard thrust his sword at the surrendering man’s throat. A geyser of blood erupted.
The women around her screeched. Nuraya blinked, too shocked to take in the import of events happening in front of her.
“My princess,” cried Ghansi. “You cannot stay here!”
Nuraya wheeled over. “These are my chambers, sacrosanct, inviolate. These cursed ones will pay for what they’ve done.” Shrugging off Mona’s outstretched fingers, she stomped toward the doors. Blood pounded against her temples, fingernails digging painfully in her palms. None of these men would escape her fury.
Beside the door, she paused for a second, trying to remember where she had put her practice sword. Then, she shook her head. She was an Istani princess. It wasn’t for her to elevate vermin by granting them death by her hand.
“My princess, I too would urge you to reconsider!” came the rejoinder from the magus.
“Ghansi, call for more guards,” said Nuraya, resuming her march toward the door. “Tell them it’s time to earn their keep.”
Heels clacked on the floor as Mona ran past her and blocked her way. “My princess,” she said, her face streaked with tears. “Ghansi is right... We should consider leaving.”
“An Istani princess never runs.”
“Then you will either be imprisoned at their hand or die if you resist,” came a shrill voice. The magus stepped up beside Mona. “You neither have the numbers nor the strength to face them in your current state.”
Nuraya chewed her lower lip.
“Run away, my princess,” came Ghansi’s strained voice. “These are Ahasan’s men, come to secure his claim no matter what.”
Once more, the bloody history of her family floated up. She had no interest in pursuing anything but the resumption of her life. But maybe Ahasan didn't quite believe it.
Both Ahasan and Kinas had studied under the same tutors as her. Being a woman, she was obviously denied any status greater than a princess or queen consort, but the fact she could throw her weight behind one of the warring brothers meant neither would rest until they had secured her support for good.
Nuraya clenched her fist. “I only seek to free my mother. There is—”
“Run away, my little girl,” said Ghansi, stepping forward, her round face flush red. She leaned forward, pulling her into a tight embrace. “While there is still time.”
“Get off me,” Nuraya protested weakly. The maid must have sensed the conflict in her voice, for instead of obeying her, she embraced her even tighter.
“You cannot fight them,” repeated Maharis.
“Mona, where is my sword?” Nuraya said, finally pushing the maid off her.
“Don’t be silly,” barked Ghansi, her voice suddenly as authoritative as it had been when Nuraya had been a little girl. “Just because your teachers let you win occasionally in practice jousts does not mean you can face men forged in battle and casual murder.”
“Come with me,” croaked Mona, reaching out for her hand. “I know a way out of the Shahi Qilla and the walled city.”
Nuraya was shaking her head again when she heard screams and the sounds of furniture being smashed outside the chambers.
Time was short.
Her heart racing, she pulled on her braid, furious at her mind’s inability to guide her to the right decision.
“Mona, if you're going to the eastern postern gate,” said Ghansi, her voice urgent, “go through the servant’s wing.” Stepping forward, she pulled Nuraya away from the door.
“Don’t touch me,” growled Nuraya.
“Or what?” growled the maid. “You’re going to have a stern word with me just before they butcher you?”
“I...” sputtered Nuraya, shocked, furious, terrified.
“Run, damn you!” Ghansi shouted as another scream floated through the window. “For the sake of Rabb and the Atishi gods, run!”
Crying, Mona grabbed her hand once more, urging her forward. Nuraya finally relented and allowed her feet to follow her friend.
They entered the small, unassuming door in the eastern wall. The servants’ door. Mona led her through, the magus following them closely.
As she passed, the door snapped shut behind her. She turned around, frowned. “Where’s Ghansi?”
“Doing her job,” declared the magus. “We must keep moving.”
“But I cannot let her face those cursed ones by herself.”
“Princess, every man and woman must play their part,” said the magus. “There will be time to avenge her.”
“Avenge her,” she said, tasting the foul word on her mouth. Blood for the crime of spilling blood? Shaking her head, she opened her mouth. No words came out.
Mona yanked at her hand and they began moving through the cramped quarters again. Nuraya squinted and held her nose as they shuffled past shut doors in the narrow windowless corridor. Was this where her maids lived? Did one of these rooms belong to Ghansi? A room she might not be returning to?
Nuraya had expected the corridor to be swarming with maids. Instead, they continued to rush ahead without seeing anyone.
Where were they all? What was going on? Nuraya exhaled, the full weight of emotions and pent-up frustrations finally crashing into her, leaving her reeling and breathless.
“Keep up,” said Mona. “Please!”
Nodding, Nuraya shook her head clear, quickened her pace. She was the daughter of the Iron Sultan. Fleeing or not, she must not be seen to be running away in disgrace, more a princess in a tactical retreat.
“To the left,” pointed the magus when they took yet another turn. “A quicker way to get to the postern door.”
“Are we leaving the Shahi Qilla?” asked Nuraya, her breath heavy now.
“Aye,” replied the magus calmly. He huffed too, but not as much as she would have expected considering every minor effort seemed to exhaust him. “If we are to provide any assistance to your mother, we can’t do that from within these walls.”
“My parents… They will be waiting for me,” whimpered Mona.
“No time for that,” said the magus, taking the lead.
“But—”
The magus held up an almost imperious hand, and her friend shut up. Nuraya wrinkled her nose but kept quiet for the moment.
Minutes later, they emerged into a part of the Shahi Qilla Nuraya hadn’t seen before. Not one meant for her eyes, judging by the laundry hanging on lines, cook pots simmering with a thick, foul-smelling soup with animal bones sticking out.
“Can both of you ride?” asked the magus.
“Why?” demanded Nuraya. She looked ahead. They were thirty yards from another unassuming gate. One that presumably let them out of the Shahi Qilla’s boundaries.
“Can’t walk all the way,” said the magus, turning to the left.
Nuraya exhaled, squeezing her eyes shut even as she followed the magus.
“We don’t need to ride for long though?” asked Mona, dragging her feet now.
“Long?” said Nuraya before the dark-turbaned magi could respond, the realization crushing her. “We cannot stay in Algaria.”
The magus snapped his head toward her. “Precisely.”
“L-leave Algaria?” repeated Mona, her eyes growing wide.
“Follow me,” said Nuraya, urging her on with a hand. Mona said something, but Nuraya had already turned away, her mind diverting to what lay just ahead.
They clambered toward half a dozen horses that were already saddled and munching on bales of hay.
The magus motioned her to mount up. Nuraya hesitated for a second, then her eyes found a dark warhorse who looked up at her. Smiling, she approached it, her heart thudding within her chest, a premonition of all the evil that was still to come stirring within. “We have a long ride ahead of us.” She tore slits into the sides of her peshwaz, then in one smooth motion, mounted the horse. “A long journey ahead, Vengeance.”
Vengeance neighed. When the magus and Mona had mounted up as well, Nuraya kicked her heels and the warhorse jerked away and made its way toward the postern gate. Inhaling, Nuraya adjusted herself on the saddle. Her fingers brushed against the smooth, cold metal of the sword strapped to the side.
“When we ride out of the Shahi Qilla,” said the magus, “we do not stop until we’re past the outermost Western walls.”
Again, Nuraya nodded. Then, realizing the postern gates in the walls encircling the Shahi Qilla were unguarded, frowned. Mona said something, but this close to the lapping sounds of the southern ocean beyond the cliffs made the words nothing more than a buzzing sound.
Overhead, the sun dominated the wide, clear skies. Maharis turned right, heading toward the southern end of the perimeter wall running along the Shahi Qilla. Nuraya followed the trail she’d never known existed. They rode in relative silence for half an hour, the horse hooves clacking against the faint patches of grass that grew over the hills, the one part of Algaria not naturally predisposed to the vagaries of sand.
What was she doing? Nuraya considered the question through the haze of frustration and anger beginning to assert control over her once more. Why start fleeing rather than taking on the challenges the world threw at her like she always had?
Abba was dead.
They were almost at the summit of the squat hills now that separated the Shahi Qilla from the southern ocean. To her right rose the glittering minarets and spires of the diwan-e-khas. To her left, the southern ocean glittered like expensive bolts of Kur’shi silk.
The trail wound its way along the diplomatic enclave, the mansions of foreign ambassadors and dignitaries falling under the Shahi Qilla’s elongating shade.
They kept trotting. Again, Nuraya frowned. She’d seen no one on the trail either. First, the servant quarters. Now the trail.
Maharis rode a few paces ahead, the end of his turban swaying behind him.
The Western Wall loomed ahead now, the main gate that led out to the roads connecting the capital with the western realm a good two miles away. Nuraya squinted. Another gate, a much smaller one, lay directly ahead, guarded by a small contingent of soldiers wearing the city guards’ livery.
They trotted down, the magus maintaining the lead.
“Halt!” came a voice from the left as they approached a row of tents to the side. “Who goes?”
Nuraya pulled on the reins, glared at the young subedar, a salar’s lieutenant, who emerged from a tent. “I’m Princess Nuraya of Istan. Get out of my way, soldier.”
The commander blinked, his mouth hanging open as his eyes found hers. He didn't step away though, instead, producing a whistle. He blew hard. Half a dozen guards emerged from tents, drew toward them forming a half-circle. Just ahead, she spied two guards take up positions in front of the gates.
“Princess Nuraya,” said the young Subedar, his voice hoarse, strained. “Please, dismount.”
“Subedar, your princess commands you to step away,” said Nuraya once more, this time steeling her voice in the best impression of Abba she could muster.
The commander paused, a shadow of doubt crossing his features. Then, he shook his head. “My apologies, my princess, but my orders are to escort you back to the Shahi Qilla.”
“I am Sultan Anahan’s daughter,” growled Nuraya, shocked at how much the world seemed to have changed overnight. “You will step away and let us pass.”
The subedar shook his head, stepped forward. “I really cannot, I’m afraid.”
Gritting her teeth, Nuraya scowled at the officer, yet he took another step forward. Leaning forward, Nuraya rummaged through the rucksack, then with a grunt, drew out the sword.
“Get out of my way,” she declared, “or I will cut my way through.”
The subedar shook his head sadly, then made a gesture with his hand. Three city guards withdrew their own swords.
“You dare brandish weapons in front of me?” asked Nuraya disbelievingly. Had the sun risen in the west today?
“Princess,” whispered the magus, bringing up his horse close to her. “Do you know how to wield the sword?”
A stupid question. But Nuraya neither had the time nor the inclination to answer, so she merely grunted.
A blasting cold struck her from the right. She yelped. Before she could say anything, the cold permeated through her skin, spread through her limbs. A surge of vigor and power ran through her, set her teeth chattering with an energy that threatened to consume her.
She turned back to the magus, feeling her eyes go wide in surprise, wonder. “What... was that?”
The magus nodded, his head lolling as if half-asleep. “Charge,” he groaned.
Nuraya shook her head. Whatever did he mean? She might have been trained by the best Kur’shi tutors, enjoyed divine favor for having been born into the great Istani family, but even she could tell they were heavily outnumbered if it came to a physical altercation.
The power surging through her veins assuaged her doubts, wiped away all concerns. She raised her sword, pointed at the two guards blocking her way. “Move!”
The men didn't step away, three more joining in to form a wall between her and the gate.
She shrieked. Not the cry of a little girl calling for her father. A warrior’s call, one she’d heard many a time but never unleashed herself. Spurring the horse forward, she lurched, her sword arm moving faster, quicker, swifter than she could have ever imagined.
The first guard stepped away.
Too slow.
Her sword took out his left arm, sending a spray of blood into the air. The second guard was quicker, but still not quick enough. The thrust of her sword found home in his stomach, sent him staggering back.
The other two jumped out of her way, trading wild looks. She slashed wildly at them, sending them scurrying back.
Unleashing another howl, she slapped her horse on the neck. “Gallop, Vengeance!”
The horse responded immediately, sending her reeling back in the saddle. The guards blocking the gates glanced at the bloody mess sh
e had left behind, then stepped to the side.
Their horse hooves thundering and clattering in the relative quiet away from the main thoroughfares of the city, they exploded out of the immense walls that bounded the great city of Algaria and out into the vast desert that surrounded it on three sides.
Chapter 11
Shoki
The air sizzled without warning.
Just like it had four nights ago.
Before Shoki had a chance to turn around, his horse neighed and bolted without warning.
Shoki yelped, his fingers clutching the saddle as he held on for dear life. The day was sunny, but the trail was overgrown, and going this fast with low-hanging branches was asking for trouble.
Altamish was shouting. Shoki caught only snippets of it over his own screaming, not that he would’ve understood the Hinan words they spoke in the realm’s north-east anyway.
“Faster! Faster!” came the scholar’s voice. Shoki forced his neck to the right. Mara rode comfortably as if he was born in a saddle, a lazy elegance that came with a lifetime of practice. He shook his fist in the air, sun glinting off his sweaty head. “We’ve got to outrun the djinn!”
“T-the d-d-djinn...” stammered Shoki, more to himself than anyone in particular.
Again, the air crackled, a static energy gathering around them, setting his hairs to stand on end. Shoki closed his eyes.
The horse jerked its lathered neck. For a terrifying second, Shoki lost control of the reins, the straps slipping out of his fingers. Letting out a scream, he lurched forward, his fingers catching them at the last instant.
“I’m going to gut them!” shouted the inquisitor, the usually neat folds of his gray turban a messy, gnarled mess now. The sword still hung by his side, but he didn't draw it. What good would that have done anyway against—Shoki shook his head again in disbelief—magi who happened to be djinn as well.
Djinn!
Shoki trembled. Living, breathing djinn. An ancient race that rarely ever dealt with humans. And now these beings of myth and nighttime lullabies, monsters meant to be ten feet tall and heavier than mountains, their skin part smoke, part fire, had risen out of the tales and were giving him chase.