Lions of Istan

by Fuad Baloch

  Life. The very word conjured up the face that had landed him in this. Nuraya, her head tilted back, the beautiful lips parted as she laughed. Not the savage warrior she had been at the gates of Buzdar, but the dainty princess beside the silk curtains whose very sight was a great honor denied the common man.

  He tried to laugh, ended up choking. Despite all that had happened, far from diverting his mind from the misery of it all, his subconscious continued to torture him with regrets.

  How much time had passed since the night he got captured? Had they found the message he’d dropped on the road? Why had he allowed himself to be captured so easily, a lamb happily walking to its own slaughter?

  A rustling sound just outside froze him to the spot. Was the inquisitor back? He waited with bated breath. Long moments later, he allowed an exhale. Another worry rose within him. If they hadn't been back since... they took his eye, did that mean they had little use for him now?

  He licked his lips. If enough time had passed, had they figured out where the sultana was and her movements through other means? He considered the idea and deemed it feasible.

  If that was true, where did that leave him?

  The mind of the idle was a plaything of the devils, Salar Ihagra used to say. One worrying thought led to another. If they knew where the sultana was, why were they still camped instead of being on the move?

  Was it because... they awaited an opportune moment to strike? Would Nuraya and her men ever realize he had never made it north? Would the inquisitor lead these bloodthirsty men and ambush the Sultana’s Hands?

  Would that be another failing on Shoki’s part?

  His heart strained in his chest, growing so large it threatened to consume him. For a moment, he feared he’d lost control, an urge to lash out so strong, it twisted his sense of color and touch and feel. When he looked out, the yellow torch looked a bright gray, somehow drained of color.

  He shook his head.

  The colors returned.

  As did the pain with a vengeance, the curtain of darkness falling upon him once more.

  When Shoki came to again, the night was just as dark outside, but the voices seemed to have quietened. His eye half-cocked, he struggled up to his feet. The world swayed and he stood still for a long, gasping breath.

  He trudged forward, his shadow dancing against the tent’s wall. He had to escape, get out of this den of beasts who fed on innocents, then had the audacity to call themselves men of honor.

  Where would he go though, even if he could escape the camp? Horse or no horse, half-blind as he was, how in gods’ guts was he meant to dodge Ahasan’s men and scouts littering the way from here to Nuraya’s location?

  Assuming Nuraya was still there where he’d left her.

  Boots squealed on loose gravel outside his tent. He froze, his body shuddering. What part was it going to be now? The other eye? A hand? Fingernails?

  The boots walked away, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  Inquisitor Altamish Aboor had done this to him. The man he had once traveled with, broken bread with, killed alongside, had taken his eye.

  The idea hurt more than it should have. What’d happened had happened, and nothing would ever change that. Yet, a part of his mind quailed at the wrongness of it all.

  The inquisitor had known he was telling the truth about not knowing Mara’s identity as a magus—something plainly obvious in the manner in which he himself had never challenged Mara. Yet, for all his calls for honor, the inquisitor had refused to accept Shoki’s ignorance, openly admitted to slaying the Iron Sultan’s only daughter for the so-called greater good.

  As he inclined his head, the burnt skin around his socket stretched. Groaning, he placed a tentative hand over it. Honor and rules and laws were things one employed when around civilization. Things meant for loving display in the diwan-e-aam in front of other ministers and dignitaries.

  For men like Shoki—the nobodies of the world—those concepts didn't apply. Like the hundreds of thousands of sacrificial cattle the Atishi priests slaughtered each year to please the gods, he too had no choice in what the masters of his destiny decided to do with him.

  Another thought that should have irked him more than the mere pinprick he barely felt.

  Shoki forced his feet forward. The ground below him still shook but didn't jolt as violently as it had earlier.

  He slowed down as he got close to the entrance. Beyond the flaps, he heard the guard they’d set outside mutter under his breath, fart. Shoki squeezed his good eye shut to let the wave of pain wash through.

  He took another labored step forward. His foot brushed against something metallic, the clanging noise loud in the night.

  Shoki’s heart lurched to the throat. Trembling, he stood still, waiting for the guard to come charging in.

  Instead, he heard a burp, followed by another fart.

  Shoki exhaled.

  A second later though, boots scrunched outside, the footfalls coming closer, ever closer. Unable to stand anymore, Shoki dropped to a crouch. Gods, what am I to do?

  His fingers brushed against the cold metal he had stepped on forward. Smooth, cold, sharp. The sword he’d had a lifetime ago.

  Breath coming in ragged gasps, he forced his fingers to curl around the hilt, pulling it toward him. Then, he waited. He’d never been good at sword fighting, and even if that weren't true, in his state, it would be suicidal to take on an armed man, but he didn't have any choice.

  The guard outside grunted. Laughs floated up, leaving him shaking as a dry leaf against the wind.

  If only he had the power, the strength, the will to overcome the man standing outside. If only he was like the sword he now clutched, sharp, merciless, an object with a clear purpose.

  Stab. Perforate. Kill.

  He was worse than even the inanimate sword though. A man drifting through life, aimless, purposeless, scared shitless.

  Another laugh. Then the men fell silent.

  For a long time, Shoki stayed where he was, his body a ball of misery. Another wave of dizziness crested, but he forced himself awake.

  He brought the sword closer, glided a finger along its edge, gasped in surprise.

  How could it be dull? Shaking his head in frustration, he ran his finger desperately along its length. Dull as a hammer.

  No!

  He staggered back.

  This was his lot in life, the fates all conspiring to prolong the misery before they finally came to collect his soul.

  A horse whinnied outside, the sound carrying loud across the calm camp.

  Shoki felt fear and pain overtake his senses once more. Before he had another moment to lament, darkness fell upon him once more.

  Chapter 26

  Nuraya

  The Istani flags flapped over the distant ramparts. Kark was a small but well-fortified castle in the middle of open plains, waiting for her to swoop down from the hills.

  Nuraya squinted. Maybe she could have asked for the eyeglass, but it really wasn't needed from this distance. The castle gates lay open, a stream of carts flowing in and out freely. Either Ahasan employed men just as inept as himself to think they’d never be attacked, or the salar commanding the fort really didn't know she was here.

  Vishan shifted heavily in his saddle beside her. Nuraya ignored the urge to look at him. The thickset man might be another mercenary salar like Jinan, but they were both worlds apart. Where one was dynamic and smug and full of bluster, the other was plodding, thoughtful, and slow. Vishan coughed, the mail stretching over his body. Nuraya licked her lips, ignored the urge to look for Mona who went west with Jinan. Something she herself had asked for, a request Nuraya had not been able to turn down.

  “The men are ready,” declared Vishan in his halting voice. “Did you want to consider sending a delegation to the salar commanding the fort, sue for peace?”

  Nuraya shook her head, her heart impatient, blood boiling in her veins, every fiber of her being itching for revenge, for justice. “Why would
I do that?”

  She spurred Vengeance. The roan, just as eager as her, broke into an easy canter until she came to a stop in the clearing before her men. Two thousand pairs of eyes turned to look at her. The Sultana’s Hands, men who fought in her name, for her, beside her.

  The sun was bright today, not a common sight in this region. It blazed against her eyes, too harsh to not squint. She refused to look away. Image was everything—something every woman learned in the harem. Let these men see not even the sun held any power over one divinely anointed by Rabb to lead the world’s greatest nation. Directly ahead her, the Istani lion roared on a black triangular flag, the symbol her men had adopted for themselves.

  She stared at these men for a long breath. The iron mail she wore over her dress clanked, threatening to bend her back with its sheer mass. Yet, she kept her back straight, the saddle creaking underneath her. They all watched her silently. A pregnant pause shared by two thousand souls on a righteous mission of justice. No other noise but the sounds of men coughing, sneezing, their horses snorting, the hooves kicking up tufts of grass.

  Nuraya stood up in the stirrups, her heart soaring, raised the sword in her right hand, expectant eyes following her movements.

  “Men, we don’t just ride to support my claim to be the sultana,” she roared, feeling, for the very first time, her voice escape the bounds of mortal flesh and take on a transcendental quality. “We fight here to stop evil men in Algaria from besmirching the name of Her Majesty Queen Aleena.” The mercenaries directly ahead nodded. One thumped his chest with an iron gauntlet. They might have been motivated by greed all their lives, but now in her, and through her, they had a nobler destination ahead. “This day, we establish ourselves as the true guardians and defenders of the Istani Sultanate and her people!”

  A roar of approval went up. A horse whinnied. Men thumped their chests.

  She smiled, seeing the effect her words were having. Her heart stirred at the clenched jaws, the angry eyes, the snarling mouths. They were hers, these men, those who had left their wayward ways behind to cast their lot with her and lay down their lives for her cause.

  Was this what Abba felt when he’d led campaigns in his younger days? Was this what Kinas felt when he led battalions up in the far north?

  She kicked Vengeance a stride forward. Jabbing the air with the sword, she bared her teeth in the manner she’d seen Jinan do. As one, all her men grinned back, iron gauntlets striking armor.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  “Sultana’s Hands, our target lies directly overhead,” she shouted, pointing at the fort. “Kark isn't expecting us. All the better for us. Let’s give them the biggest fright of their lives.” The men bellowed, halberds, swords, and shields held up high.

  She turned her horse around to face the fort and the castle within it. Many siphsalars would be stepping away right about now, ordering jawans to imperil their bodies and limbs for the cause, a group of elite soldiers forming a protective circle around them as they stayed back.

  Not her.

  She may not have men as well-trained as did the opposing side. But her men had her. The Sultana of Istan. She would not deny them the talisman they needed for victory and good luck. Rabb would protect His own.

  Grinning, ignoring the weight settling in the pit of her stomach, she pointed at the fort.

  “Sultana’s Hands, attack!”

  She kicked Vengeance with all the might she could muster. The horse neighed and lurched forward, immediately breaking into a gallop. Wind whipped against her face as she thundered down the slope. She smiled, closing her eyes for a second to savor the thrill of blood pounding her veins.

  She’d been in a fight before at Buzdar, had even killed a man or two there, had attacked men when they had been fleeing Algaria. But nothing, absolutely nothing had ever felt quite like this. A bird of prey, swooping down from the heavens to take what belonged rightfully to her.

  Justice.

  Forcing her eyes open, she put her mind to what lay ahead. Behind her, more horse hooves thundered, her men keeping close. She raised her chin. Somewhere, up ahead in that castle, Ahasan’s men held her mother.

  Someone who even the grand vizier thought had been behind Abba’s death.

  She shook off the thought, knowing this wasn’t the time, then tilting her head back, let out a bloodcurdling roar.

  Full-throated cries answered hers.

  The fort was closer now. A mere two hundred or so yards. Two of her riders pulled up beside her, unbelievably began to gain on her. “Faster!” she shouted, giving Vengeance an almighty kick.

  The guards had seen them now, were forcing people off the bridge that led into the city over the moat.

  Again and again she kicked her horse, willing it to go faster, ever faster. Vengeance whinnied, the neck lathered with the exertion. Nuraya didn’t care. She was the wind, the fury, the lightning rod of Istani justice, and would not be restrained.

  Realizing they didn't have enough time, Ahasan’s guards began taking positions beside the gate, their spears and halberds pointed toward them.

  She screamed, bracing for the moment where all differences of gender or station in life ceased to exist. Battle is the great leveler, her Kur’shi tutor had taught.

  The sky overhead darkened. She looked up in surprise. A cloud of arrows blotted the bright sun for another second, then began to rain over, and around them.

  Cries and screams broke out behind her. She didn’t care, didn't duck. The sword in her hand, a war cry on the lips, she was vengeance itself, not to be sated until she was finished.

  Someone was shouting at her. A loud voice. She turned. Vishan rode beside her, a hand pointing at the gates. She couldn't really hear him over the rush of wind and pounding in her head.

  So, she grinned, pointed her sword at the guards beside the gates. Men who had made the wrong choice, would now pay for it.

  Nuraya rode toward them.

  She was the first one on the bridge, and the first one through, her sword held out in front. A guard held out a spear as she galloped past and her sword sawed through his arm cleanly, sending a slight jolt up her own at the impact.

  The guard screamed, his voice drowning in the sea of thundering horse hooves and cries of his colleagues. Nuraya rode through the pathetic circle of the guards, coming to a stop when she was halfway through to the vast plaza within the fort.

  She turned Vengeance around, her sword at the ready again.

  No guards where she stood now. Just a gaggle of women, children, older men, beggars, and merchants shrinking from her sight. She paid them no mind. She was their sultana regardless of what they thought.

  More of her men thundered through into the plaza, their horses snorting, the swords bloody as they hunted for targets.

  She wanted to laugh at how it easy it had all been. Why had she wasted so much time in the woods waiting for help she didn't need?

  “Sultana’s Hands,” she bellowed. “To me!”

  The shouted back their ‘ayes’ and war cries. More guards poured from the inner castle toward them even as the guards at the gates fanned outward.

  Once more, she kicked her horse forward. Her mercenaries had already engaged the guards by the time she got close to the killing fields. Better trained and armed the opposing men might have been, but hers held two major advantages.

  That of surprise.

  And the sultana leading them personally.

  Nuraya leaned to the side, slashed her sword at the head of an unfortunate soldier who got in her way. Her momentum and the sharp sword decapitated the man, a geyser of blood erupting from the stump.

  “To me!” she shouted again, turning her horse around.

  Up ahead, two unarmored guards blocked her way. An old man, possibly in his seventies, his back bent with age, the eyes narrowed. Beside him, a young man, thirteen or fourteen, clutching a broadsword, his knees shaking.

  Despite the heat of the moment, she saw it a
ll, a part of her mind saddened by what a sultana had to do. Mercy without justice was no mercy at all. She pulled the spear buckled to her saddle, then without pausing to take aim, flung it with all her might at the young boy.

  Before either of the two had had the chance to react, the spear was through the boy’s chest, clean as a whistle. One second the boy had been standing, his legs shaking. The next, he was skewered, pinned to the ground.

  Nuraya let out another howl. Ahasan would pay for all this. Kicking her horse forward, she aimed her sword at the older man’s chest. He might have been a seasoned warrior once, but between shouting and a hand gripping the dying boy’s hand, he stood no chance.

  The sword sank into his weak chest, slicing through cleanly. Another shudder climbed through her arm and she too screamed.

  When she turned, the old man lay atop the younger one, their blood mixing, flowing down into the gutter to the side in a single stream of red.

  She blinked, anger rising through her chest even as other emotions clambered from the recesses of her heart. This wasn't even a fair fight. Anger and fury had their place, but once utilized, they needed to be boxed away.

  Chewing her lower lip, she adjusted her mail, sweating profusely under its bulk. Her men were roaming idly now, instruments of death hunting for targets.

  Vishan rode toward her. “We captured one of the guards.” He pointed at the castle. “The queen is kept at the harem inside. Unharmed and unmolested. We—”

  “Tell the men to cease their attacks on the unarmed,” she yelled, then turned her horse, galloped toward the castle. The locals stepped back as her cadre of men rode in to join beside her.

  Word must have reached the guards for when they arrived, a dozen armed men stepped forward, throwing their swords into a heap, raising their hands.

  Nuraya leapt off Vengeance, marched up to one of the older guards who looked to be their leader. “Where is my mother, the queen?”