Lions of Istan

by Fuad Baloch

  How long had he been riding? Two hours? Three days?

  Shoki had no idea. But luckily the roan seemed to share some of his own fears, continuing to follow the deserted trails and roads of its own accord. Where the roads led, Shoki had no idea, but so long as it was away from the inquisitor’s men, it was all good.

  His belly growled. Grimacing, he rubbed it, the djinn’s bangle making a soft clinking noise. Freeing a hand, Shoki rummaged through the saddlebags.

  He found two hard strips of dried beef, and a half-finished flagon of water. He popped the strips in his mouth and began chewing without much thought.

  Each movement was labored, lethargic, almost as if he was wading through quicksand. Shoki’s gaze fell upon his hands. At the dark stains that hadn't faded away yet. Blood of the second man he’d killed. Shivering, he looked away. If the bandit’s death accompanied by the inquisitor had scarred him mentally, the second death at his hand seemed to have marked him physically as well.

  Shoki found it hard to think straight. A cold, dark bubble had fallen in place, ensconcing him from the wider world. Blessed oblivion lurked at the side, calling out to him in soft whispers, offering promises of release from worries and concerns of the world that had no place for him.

  A most tempting offer.

  But a part of him, some stubborn area beyond his control, continued to resist the oblivion, fighting it, keeping him in this never-ending moment, prolonging the misery of existence.

  A sob escaped his lips. He turned his chin to the east, toward the sun peeking over the treetops. Lord of the sky. The most brilliant object in the heavens. Perfect in its majesty. Did it have eyes? What did it think of the woes and misery of someone as puny and pathetic as him?

  Shoki chuckled mirthlessly. The sun was like the Iron Sultan. Master of his dominion, brooking no challengers. A being as powerful as that had no time for the likes of him.

  More misery spread within his chest. He was weak, insignificant, riddled with fears and worries, his path unchanging even as he crisscrossed the realm. Was there anything he was semi-competent at?

  Music? He shook his head. He could pluck the lute and do a satisfactory rendition of The Blessed Istan, but the masters at diwan-e-aam wouldn't have taken him on even as an apprentice. As a city guard? Except for a couple of flashes of intuition, he had nothing to show for all the months he had spent beside Salar Ihagra. He hadn't even learned how to wield the sword or ride properly.

  He had failed as an errand boy too, failing to deliver a simple missive to some Ameer in some gods-forsaken province he’d known nothing about, and couldn't have cared less for.

  Self-loathing.

  Shoki chuckled, having finally found the one thing he was good at.

  Nuraya’s face drifted up. Was he hallucinating or dreaming? Not that it mattered. Once more, he saw her laugh, saw the petal-like lips move. The image transformed. Now, he heard her words commanding him to leave her.

  He shook his head, banishing the miserable thoughts. While the world might know him to be a failure, he didn't have to decry himself within the court of his own mind as well.

  Another wave of dizziness washed over him and Shoki drooped in the saddle.

  Time passed. Hours. Minutes.

  When he came to again, the horse was still walking, and he was still on the saddle. The sun had risen high in the sky, its rays warm against his clammy skin.

  His mouth was parched. He reached for the flagon. Half empty. Sighing, he lifted it to his lips. Warm, blessed water sloshed in his dry mouth and he swallowed it greedily. In his haste, some water leaked, ran down his mouth and hands.

  Conscious he didn’t have enough water, Shoki brought his hands forward, licked the water clean. Then his eye fell upon the red spots on his hands, at the dried blood of the dead man.

  Jerking the hand away in disgust, he gagged, felt his stomach heave.

  The horse snorted.

  Shoki forced himself to look ahead. Nothing but the empty road. The largely empty stomach still threatened to rise up his gullet, but he ignored it. What had happened, had happened. A matter done and dusted could not be reasoned with or argued about.

  The mist that had settled in his good eye cleared, the world acquiring more color. He was still weary to the bone, the ruined eye still unable to see, but at least now the pain was beginning to subside into a constant, aching weight, no longer the center of his existence.

  He reached for the beef strips again. The hand came out empty. Squeezing his eye shut, he willed himself from crying out in despair. One more thing that just was, and beyond his ability to change.

  Then he heard a series of clanging sounds coming from his left. Shoki yanked on the reins, each fiber of his being straining to hear clearly. Not unlike the constant hammering at a blacksmith’s forge accompanied by the buzz of bees.

  A camp?

  That meant people.

  He swallowed. Was it possible the horse had been traveling in circles all along, bringing him back to the inquisitor’s camp? He scanned the surroundings. The trees looked denser, the trail more run-down, the distant mountain ranges to the side a bit farther than he remembered.

  For long breaths, he remained frozen on the saddle.

  He ought to have waited longer, planned his next series of actions better. Then again, prudence and patience had never been his strong suits, nor did he have any inclination for long-term thinking. So, he waited for his gut’s reaction, and the elusive flash of intuition, to guide his path.

  A foolish man never learns from his mistake. Another of Salar Ihagra’s teachings drifted up. A wise man would not rush forward until he was absolutely certain.

  Shoki sighed. When had he ever been accused of being wise?

  He clambered off the horse, led it by the reins toward a tree half-bent with age. The beast snorted as he tied the reins to the overgrown roots.

  Shoki turned away and took his first step toward the sounds. Then, he stopped. There was every chance that he wouldn't be coming back this way. If this wasn't the inquisitor’s camp, it could have been any of the other foes the sultana seemed to have acquired overnight.

  If he couldn't come back, what would happen to this beast that had ferried him out of trouble without complaint? He hesitated. There was also a chance—a very slim one—that if he ever came running back from the men ahead, a ready horse would be extremely useful to aid his escape.

  He chuckled. Who was he kidding? There would be no running in his state. Like before, if he got accosted, he would just give himself up. Even if he tried resisting, even a child would be able to put a stop to his feeble attempts.

  Shaking his head, berating himself for what he was doing, he stripped the bridle off the horse. “You’ve been a good girl,” he said, leaning in to pat the beast’s long neck. “Go. Enjoy your freedom.”

  Instead of trotting away, the horse raised its snout, the nostrils flaring. Shoki sighed. “You're free. Now hurry on before I change my mind.”

  He slapped the roan on the rump, and it snorted. After a moment, it took two steps to the right, turned its long neck around. Shoki nodded, made a shooing motion. “Go on!” The horse neighed one final time, then trotted toward the dense trees up ahead, the brushy tail wagging until Shoki couldn't see it anymore.

  “Well, that’s that then,” he muttered.

  Wincing at the pain in his ribs, Shoki started trudging toward the clamor. Each step made the weight in his stomach grow heavier. He blinked, dabbed at his forehead to wipe the sweat trickling down his good eye. Summers in the west weren’t as severe as Algaria, yet his tattered shirt stuck to his back, his palms growing moist.

  Memories of his escape wafted up.

  How in seven hells had he found the strength to consider fleeing, then to actively engage in a fight? Shoki licked his lips. Whatever had come over him, that moment of madness had well and truly passed, leaving behind the man he did know well.

  The clamor grew louder.

  Not a small camp,
Shoki judged. A few hundred, perhaps a thousand men. Slowing down to a crawl, he inched forward, his heart thumping in the chest. There was no telling which side these men belonged to. Not that it really mattered. If these were mercenaries, they were on everyone’s side, all at once.

  He was close enough now to hear individual voices in the buzz. Could it be the Sultana’s Hands? He placed one wary step after another, all the time flinching at the twigs breaking under his feet.

  Slipping in behind a thick tree, he peeked ahead.

  A sea of tents and red pennants flapped in the breeze. Men in various states of dress moved around a camp that could have been anyone’s from this distance. Cook pots simmered at one end of the camp. Latrines were dug up at the other, the stench wafting over even this far.

  His eye fell upon the large tent in the center and the green pennant flying proudly over it. The roaring lion in front of the rising sun. Breathing a sigh of relief, he made to step away, then froze. Something was wrong. The roaring lion stood on a bed of swords and spears.

  Prince Kinas’s sigil, Ahasan’s younger brother.

  What were his men doing here?

  Shoki’s heart sank. Like an idiot jumping from the pan in the raging fire, he’d run all this way from Ahasan's men only to find Kinas’s.

  The clanging sound came again. Shoki arched an eyebrow. The sound felt wrong, something one expected to hear when metal was worked upon in massive forges. But that couldn't be right.

  He scanned the tents to the right. Three men, dressed in long flowing robes and voluminous black turbans, stood around a heap of armor. Shoki squinted. The armor was dented, some of it rusted. The thunking sound came again. Shoki felt his eyes widen as he saw a dented iron gauntlet closest to him straighten out as if smithed under a hammer.

  A hammer he couldn't see.

  The three men, magi Shoki realized with a shock, nodded as more unseen hammers struck the broken, dented armor.

  Shoki’s legs trembled.

  Prince Kinas’s army carried magi, who seemed to be actively involved in the war effort. Wasn't there some prohibition against the magi’s participation in affairs of men?

  Is this what the inquisitor had been warning about just before he took his eye?

  “Are you Kiani?” came a sharp voice behind him and Shoki jumped. A portly man, his thin, wispy hair sticking out at odd angles peered at him, his cock dangling from his breeches. “You’re late!”

  “I... erm—”

  “Get a move on!” snapped the man, tucking himself into the breeches. “The meat isn't gonna fry itself on the spittle.” The man chuckled, his words heavily accented in the Kohkam dialect. “Not until we find some more glory-damned magi who can work with fire as well.”

  “Y-you got it,” stammered Shoki, shaking his head. Then remembering the northern manner of acknowledging the superiors, he cupped his right hand, brought it to touch his forehead.

  Muttering under his breath, the soldier waddled forward. “Don’t be late!”

  Shoki watched him for a long breath, cursing himself for not being more careful. When the man was finally out of sight, he turned around, broke into a sprint.

  He ran like the aimless wind, smashing into branches and twigs, barely dodging the tree trunks that kept appearing in front of him.

  Panting, his breath a rasping mess, he stumbled out into a clearing. He continued forward, not looking at the path directly ahead. His left foot caught onto something. With a cry, he flew forward, a hand thrusting out to soften the blow for when he fell.

  The hand did little to soften the blow. He landed with a thud on a fallen tree branch, screamed at the pain in his sides.

  Someone laughed behind him.

  Shoki bolted upright, whipped his head around.

  Mara Carsa, djinn and magus, scary in equal measures strode toward him. He was half-naked as always, the belly smooth and unmoving as if he couldn't be bothered to keep up the pretense in front of him. Blood curdled in Shoki’s veins. He wanted to scream, would have if he could move the swollen tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  How would his life have turned out had he never had the misfortune of bumping into the cursed djinn?

  How had he found him?

  The answer came straight away. The bangle.

  Mara smiled. Disgust, revulsion, and terror crawled underneath Shoki's skin at the unnaturalness of the act. An extremely good imitation of something people did without much thought, but on his face, off just enough to be all wrong.

  “Like a bad rash,” said the djinn, “I can’t seem to be rid of you.”

  “Funny,” said Shoki, swallowing. “I was gonna say the same thing.”

  For a long breath, the djinn watched Shoki. Long enough for Shoki’s palms to begin sweating.

  “I am heading toward Algaria, one-eyed. Looking for a companion?”

  Shoki licked his lips, surprised he hadn’t wet himself yet.

  No good had come from remaining with the djinn. But then again, was there any good reason for turning down someone as powerful as him as a companion? The sultana would’ve likely moved her men by now. Besides, this was his chance at getting back to Algaria.

  “And oh, you have something of mine I’d like back now as well,” said the djinn, extending a hand.

  Chapter 30

  Nuraya

  From her high vantage point, Nuraya stared in disbelief at the cloud of smoke and ash hanging over Buzdar. Fire lapped at the tall minarets of a Fanna temple. The city walls were gray with soot, the eastern gates thrown wide open.

  “What happened here?” asked Nuraya, turning toward Mona who stood silently, her face bathed in the golden glow of the burning city.

  “I…” Mona blinked, not meeting her eyes. “Jinan had asked me to stay ten miles from the city with a group of his trusted men. I was to remain there until he sent for me. Until—”

  “He was finished with all this?” demanded Nuraya, waving her arm toward the city. Per her scouts, Jinan’s men had triumphed here, had broken through the gates and made their way to the Red Fort itself.

  They had won.

  She had won.

  But it all felt wrong. Not at all what she’d expected to see. Almost like the feeling when one waited a long time for the delicate silk peshwaz to arrive, and when it finally did, the colors were hideous, the size too small.

  This was worse, of course. She was still too high to hear anything from the city itself except the shouts of her men, the snorts of their lathered horses, but her mind conjured voices in agony beyond the walls.

  She had won the battle of Kark five days ago. And every night since, she’d dreamed, not of the jubilation of entering the castle as a victor, but of faces of the civilians that had died. The old man. The boy who had stood beside him.

  That was the price she had paid for victory, a cost no one had mentioned before.

  Had similar scenes played out in the jewel of Nikhtun as well? Had her men, once victorious, plundered and destroyed Buzdar as they had Kark, all in her name?

  “My sultana,” said Vishan, moving his horse over to her. “We’ve got a messenger from Jinan,” his eyes hardened as they settled on Mona’s face, “the man you’ve elevated to siphsalar.”

  Nuraya felt it hard to steer herself away from the burning city, but she could still feel the bite behind the mercenary salar’s words. “First, send message to Jinan. He is to pull his men out of the city right away.”

  “As you command, and oh,” Vishan paused to cough. Nuraya narrowed her eyes, waiting for the barbs he would be readying for her. “We’ve also got another messenger. One from your brother.”

  She forced a smile. “Ahasan fears what’s coming his way and so—”

  “—not Ahasan. Kinas! You should talk with him.”

  “Kinas?” Her brother had been rushing to the capital, pausing only to drain garrisons like Orsa of men and provisions. What would he have to say to her?

  In the far west, dark clouds simmered, threatening
to cover the horizon. Nuraya turned her horse around. There was little to gain from rushing into the city. The fires would continue to burn until they’d had their fill.

  As Vishan rode away, ordering his men to bring the messengers, her eyes fell over to Mona. They hadn’t talked since meeting up at the little village where Jinan had sequestered Mona. Nuraya sucked her teeth. Had Mona known Jinan’s methods? Could she have done anything?

  “I…” said Mona, he fingers fidgeting with the hem of her peshwaz. “This is terrible.”

  Nuraya clucked her tongue, surveyed her men. Having finally caught up, their supply train of seventy horses and carriages was pulling up. Her eyes fell on the gilded carriage Vishan’s men had appropriated from Kark, one that now contained Queen Aleena, murderess of the late Sultan Anahan.

  Nuraya turned away, feeling neither the energy nor the inclination to face the woman within.

  Mercenaries were streaming out the city gates, clambering up the hill now. They grinned, shouted at each other, pulling heavy sacks no doubt filled with the booty they had looted from the citizens of the city.

  Oh, Rabb, what’s going on?

  Nuraya had never been one for prayer, yet in the moment found no one else better to answer the question.

  She spied Rurik in their midst, his round face split in a wide grin. Huffing, he headed straight for them and offered a passable salute, clapping his palm over to the forehead when a dozen strides away. “My sultana, we welcome you to witness our moment of great victory.”

  Anger flared through Nuraya. In a smooth movement, she dismounted from Vengeance, marched over until she stood two steps from the mercenary. “Who authorized you to ravage the city like this?”

  “I... erm...” Rurik blinked, looked around as if looking for help. Vishan, who had joined her side once more, harrumphed. A look of panic and bafflement on his face, Rurik turned back to face her. “You’d be... pleased to know that the Red Fort has been captured. Great booty to be had…” He raised a hand toward Vishan. “For all the sultana’s men, of course.”

  Nuraya pursed her lips. “Where is my uncle and his son?”