In the Shadow of Swords

by Val Gunn

  Their frantic cries continued; they frothed at the mouth, eyes glazed. Finally their screams and struggles abated. The scorpions emerged from the men’s robes and skittered up their bodies and across their faces, crawling into their open mouths. Each man convulsed and then lay silent.

  Now only one enemy still lived.

  Twenty feet away a dark figure slipped from the shadows. Sarn gripped the hilt of his blade and braced himself.

  The Slen Thek assassin drew his saif and advanced toward Sarn. “If you are looking for peace, you won’t find it here. Dassai is tired of waiting for you.”

  “Is he?” Sarn knew from previous experience that Dassai found much pleasure in these tests.

  The assailant struck with lightning speed.

  Blade met blade with a clash of steel. The assassin followed through on his swing and Sarn leaped back, brandishing his weapon in a defensive move. The assassin’s eyes narrowed, seeking an opening.

  The assassin swung his sword again.

  Sarn lashed out with his own, centering all his strength and concentration in the maneuver. Sword locked with sword.

  The assassin stepped forward and lunged. Sarn ducked and brought his blade up, slicing deeply into his assailant’s right thigh. The assassin let out an involuntary cry, and then jabbed with his saif again, narrowly missing Sarn’s neck. Sarn stepped lightly aside and swung low, this time cutting into the back of his assailant’s calves. The assassin stumbled.

  Sidestepping his would-be executioner, Sarn brought his blade around in a quick downward motion, cleaving the man’s head from his shoulders. Body and head separated and fell. Blood spurted from the severed neck, a cascade of scarlet painting the floor.

  Sarn stood for some moments in the center of the nave, listening. Waiting. The imams had not noticed the brutal encounter.

  Sarn edged his way back to the entrance. Peering out, he surveyed the square.

  Deserted.

  Sarn slipped out of the mosque and back into the empty streets.

  This time, he wasn’t followed.

  5

  SARN LISTENED.

  As he prepared to leave, the faint calls of morning prayer drifted above the city, which had already sprung to life.

  Prosperous Oranin had grown well past the established city walls to include hundreds of caravanserais grouped beyond each of the city’s four gates. Among these, one of the largest, Isfahan Caravanserai, rested like a jewel beside Ras’mal Hari—the Cape Cities Road. Here, in this opulent but functional place, Sarn had passed a safe evening. Isfahan was a long rectangular maidan builtof limestone blocks, remarkable for its size, with a broad exterior lined with a single continuous tier of portico, making it both accessible and well-protected.

  The second sun was just beginning to rise; Sarn could already feel the growing heat of the day. It was doubtful he was still being followed. Still, because of the attack at the mosque, Sarn couldn’t be certain.

  As focused as Sarn was on leaving the caravanserai, he was distracted by thoughts of Jannat, his most recent seduction. One of Dassai’s four wives, Jannat ran an extensive vineyard near the Haffal Mountains. Sarn had lived in secret with his very accommodating hostess for nearly a year, seducing and bedding her with pleasure, satisfying his needs with thinly-disguised contempt. Reflecting on the illicit relationship with Jannat, orchestrated for his own personal gain, Sarn realized with continued distain that the cost to her would be greater than she could have imagined.

  Dassai would have to kill her.

  Sarn smiled. Jannat was no longer the mistress of a vineyard, but instead a common whore, an intolerable disgrace in the eyes of her husband. She was of little concern or use now to Dassai or Sarn. Dassai had other wives to comfort him in his loss. Dassai also had pride, which he would not sacrifice at any cost. Sarn was the cause of his scorn and humiliation. Soon after, Dassai had arrested Barrani and put a price on Sarn’s head. Dassai had as much derision for Sarn as he had for Jannat.

  So be it, then.

  Still reflecting on his satisfying indiscretion, as well as the price on his head, Sarn left his room and headed downstairs to the bar. As he passed the second-story landing, the morning light from the hallway window reflected dimly on the wall.

  Sarn continued his descent to the lower floor of the caravanserai, pausing in the doorway as he peered into the dark bar. He canvassed every crevice, examining the shadows beyond the feeble glow of the jasmine-scented lamps.

  He stepped inside, passing through the crowd of patrons. He found himself in the midst of a steady murmur of speculation about a deadly assassin, even as he walked by.

  As Sarn’s presence became known, a hush spread and the voices faded into silent stares. He pretended not to notice and made his way to the bar.

  “Naveen,” Sarn said, smiling as an attractive, dusky woman dressed in an abaya, her hair wrapped in a headscarf, approached the bar. Sarn leaned across and gave her a soft kiss on both cheeks, something that he would seldom have dared elsewhere.

  “Coffee? Or are you here just to waste my time?” Naveen said with a faint smile. She was the proprietor of Isfahan and ran it with her sister, Layyena.

  “Just one cup,” Sarn answered, surveying the room, aware of eyes and ears focused solely on him. “I must go soon.”

  “Two dirans, unless you are going to pay me for the room as well.” Naveen hadn’t missed his mention of departure.

  “Of course.”

  Like her sister, Naveen was no-nonsense and direct. She and Layyena were strong women. Without them and their network of caravanserais, Sarn would have been vulnerable last night after his altercation at the mosque. He might well have owed them his life.

  As he sipped his coffee, Sarn spied the faces in the crowd—mostly locals, but he could see there were a few travelers. He watched the sisters go about their business. What an incredible asset to him they had already become. He could not afford to lose his connection with Isfahan and the two women who controlled it. Sarn’s success depended upon his continued ability to manipulate them.

  Layyena had not questioned him when he’d arrived late last night and asked for a single room at the top of the rear tower. He’d been in luck; one was available, and he was given a key. If any other assassins had followed him, they would have made their presence known. The fact that they hadn’t—coupled withhis observations of the patrons in the bar this morning—told him he was safe.

  For now.

  Traffic was already brisk on the Cape Cities Road outside Isfahan, which was crowded with caravans of horses and camels bearing men and dry goods. Street vendors were busy from the gates of Oranin all the way to the caravanserai, hawking their wares to passersby.

  Time to go.

  Without another word to the sisters, Sarn left behind his unfinished coffee and passed through the crowd, avoiding their questioning stares.

  He slipped out of Isfahan and into the rain-scented morning.

  6

  NOT A WORD.

  Three weeks, and nothing from Jannat. She employed a number of messengers, and he’d left enough of a trail if she felt the need to look for it.

  Sarn had last seen her at the riad. She was leaving for Pashail, where Dassai wanted her in his bed. That never lasted, Jannat had told him. They would enjoy each other for a few days, then Dassai would get bored with her and the sea and go back to Riyyal. But after the traps laid for him, Sarn wasn’t so sure Jannat was safe.

  She might already be dead.

  It was evening when Sarn left the Ras’mal Hari caravans, following a small road eastward, away from the coast. The heavy silence of the night matched his mood.

  He was still being followed.

  Most likely it was either one of Jannat’s messengers or more spies working for Dassai. Sarn did wonder, however, whether Dassai had reached the end of his patience with Sarn’s rebelliousness and replaced the spies with more assassins. Sarn developed a plan to deal with either, his hatred of Dassai and disgust for Jannat
fueling his determination.

  On the road he expected to encounter riders—mostly couriers ferrying information between the misal’ayn and Oranin. Few would challenge him directly, but there were rewards for relaying Sarn’s whereabouts, as well as personal satisfaction. Sarn would study their riding styles, the better to spot those who paid too much attention to him as they passed.

  It mattered little to him. There was a good chance Jannat was gone for good. If not, she wasn’t clever enough to hire new messengers to hunt for him, and he knew most of those she employed.

  Sarn stopped to give his horse a short reprieve, taking refuge at a berkeh surrounded by wild oats. There were better places farther along, but the horse was tired, and though the place was exposed, he could not afford to push his mount.

  Sarn heard the two riders approach. With no time to seek cover, he held his ground, watching as they dismounted on the far side of the pond, conspicuous not only because of the timing—arriving shortly after him—but because of the superb condition of their horses. Not couriers. For Sarn, there was no such thing as being too cautious. He checked his weapons and his options.

  The riders removed nothing from their saddles and packs, further arousing his suspicions—they were not planning to be here long.

  “Six seconds,” he whispered under his breath: the time it would take to reach the saddle, grab the reins, and wheel back onto the road.

  “Ten seconds,” he whispered again, for it would take that long to assault the two before they could respond.

  He chose the first option, clicking softly to his horse. Her ears pricked and she turned immediately, knowing what was needed.

  They’d been in this situation before.

  Sarn ticked off the seconds in his mind as he jumped up, slapped the reins on her flanks and disappeared into the night.

  “Nine seconds,” he whispered to her. “Not bad at all.”

  The riders followed, their purpose unclear, their employer uncertain. But he was definitely the target. Was he to be robbed? Killed? Followed?

  None of these suited him. Sarn would either elude or slay them. Nothing else was acceptable. Nothing would prevent him from facing Dassai on his own terms.

  The pursuers kept their distance. Not thieves or assassins, then. These were trackers—paid to trail, not confront him. His familiarity with the terrain and his riding skill soon separated him from his pursuers.

  Sarn mouthed thanks to them, as any small part of him that had been willing to relax was gone. No man escapes his own deeds, and his were darkest of all. He would always be hunted. The two riders were just the beginning. There would be more once he arrived at the riad.

  Dawn broke as he drew near a stone spire that rose into the pale morning sky. He gazed at the tower crowned with a massive jewel, shimmering in the first moments of sunlight, windowless save for slits ringing the uppermost level.

  The misal’ayn was perched on a ridge in the foothills to the west of the twin cities that comprised the sheikdoms of Oranin and Havar. It provided a sufi—a mystic seer—with a commanding view for at least a dozen farsangs in all directions. From the tower he could see west to the Haffal Mountains, east to the sea, north to Marjeeh and the sheikdom of Tanith, and south to Pashail and distant lands beyond.

  The ashen-hued obelisk of Burj al-Halij had long been in the service of Qatana, one of many scattered throughout Mir’aj. It was said to have been carved by stone-jinn ages ago. Sarn had seen only nine such towers in all of his travels, though he’d heard rumors of many more.

  It was a majestic site; one less encumbered would pause to enjoy it.

  Sarn did not stop.

  And no one followed.

  HIS path took him through deep valleys down to the sea, then up a steep, rocky path nearly washed out by recent storms, forcing him to dismount until the trail leveled out and became more stable. The track soon turned back eastward, wending through the foothills. Sarn stopped near a flowering acacia tree at the edge of a small stream. He pulled the saddle off his horse and let her roam in search of grass and water.

  Sarn retrieved dried meat and hard bread from his pack and, leaning back against the tree, he let his thoughts wander on another path—the dark, dangerous road of his past that had brought him to this place. He thought of his father and his father’s gift to him. Barrani was dead by now, but he’d given Sarn a glimmer of hope before the end. Skirting the edge of real emotion, Sarn allowed himself this moment of quiet reflection.

  In time, Sarn lifted his pack, re-saddled his horse, and resumed his journey home.

  He was ready.

  7

  SARN WAITED.

  he’d stopped for a brief respite. Surrounding him were ancient vineyards, which were among the most highly regarded and most sought after in all of Qatana. Trellised vines of grapes draped the cloud-dappled hills. The wines produced here were excellent—dark and full-bodied reds as well as fruity whites with hints of citrus.

  Am I doomed to forever relive the past? Sarn reflected, gazing out over the land. The scene reminded him of his childhood summers, when he’d toiled in his uncle’s vineyards in Annafi: a distant memory faded almost beyond recall. Until now.

  Where have the years gone? Sarn felt the impossible desire to reverse time to a point when he could have altered the course of his life. But he knew it could never be. There was no going back.

  Sarn stood and listened. There was only the quiet breeze and a falcon’s distant call. His horse had wandered farther than usual, the temptation of incense grass luring her astray. He was alone.

  Sarn tired of waiting he called to his horse, who answered the signal with a ringing neigh. The horse cantered up, and he leapt into the saddle and galloped away. Sarn felt the rush of anticipation course through him, his pessimism sloughing off, replaced by a renewed vigor.

  His fate still lay ahead.

  Racing along well-worn paths that marked the final miles of his journey, Sarn could see the purple-blue silhouettes of the Haffal Mountains in the distance as dusk approached. The twilight failed to dampen his mood. Sarn knew that he would make it to the riad before noon tomorrow, where Dassai no doubt waited.

  Neither killing nor his epithet—Kingslayer—bothered him. Having to kill at Dassai’s orders—that was entirely different.

  The talisman his father had given him was the key to his freedom. But to unlock it, he needed to confront the Sultan, and this would require the aid, willing or not, of the man who held his chains. Sarn relished the thought of breaking them, and afterward looking into Dassai’s eyes as he slit the man’s throat.

  Sarn’s thoughts focused on the coming confrontation. The yearlong affair with Jannat was an effective—and bloodless—weapon he’d relished using against Dassai. What better way to stab a man in the back than to bed his wife?

  But it had not been enough. Dassai had been oblivious. So Sarn had arranged for him to find out; therefore he knew Dassai would be waiting for him at the riad.

  Sorting it out in his mind, Sarn realized that some puzzles still remained. Shortly before he received the cryptic message to visit

  Barrani in Havar, Jannat had disappeared. She simply left. Those she employed had not seen her depart, nor could they give him any information concerning her whereabouts.

  Why? What was the cause? If she knew he’d betrayed her to Dassai, that would be reason enough to leave, to escape a certain and painful death. But he doubted her ability to recognize his true intentions.

  He had no feeling one way or the other for Jannat’s life or death. Yet her disappearance had been inexplicable.

  Now he wasn’t so sure.

  8

  SARN STARED in disbelief at the scene below him.

  The flourishing landscape that he remembered was blackened, scorched, as if efreeti of the Rim al-Saraya had flown over the mountains with a demon-wind and burned the land in their wake.

  Everything was gone.

  Dry winds carried black streamers of smoke, streaking the h
orizon with long fingers of darkness.

  His mount reared up as he pulled the reins tight and stared at what had once been his refuge—now razed to the ground.

  This had not been part of the plan.

  Sarn cursed, spurring his horse forward, hooves pounding the sun-baked earth.

  As he descended the hill, he was met by the powerful, acrid odor of burning grapevines. Some grapes still clung to the vines, their once plump bodies now withered and bled dry.

  Sarn slowed the horse to a trot, his eyes scanning what was left of the riad. The house showed no signs of life.

  His nose detected a different scent on the wind. He knew it all too well.

  The sweet, sickly stench of death.

  Sarn slowly led his mount through the ruined gates of the estate, toward the burned-out riad. A grisly horror lay before him.

  The reek of charred human flesh hung in the air. Vineyard workers had been cut down in the fields and left for the fire to consume. Most were scattered amid trellises and stone debris. Some had been hacked, some speared; arrows protruded from others’ bodies. Others had been beheaded, or disemboweled.

  Sarn jumped from his horse and approached the qoos, which still stood in the aftermath of the fire that had engulfed the house.

  Some of the stone and brick from the riad had held firm against the flames. Most of it, however, lay in a pile of blackened rubble, still smoldering. The panes of lead-crystal windows were gone. Two lower walls and a tall chimney remained intact. But otherwise, everything was gone.

  In the gloom of dust and ash that dimmed the light of the second sun, Sarn perceived movement within the ruins, a long shadow creeping across the smoldering wall.

  It was Dassai.

  9

  “IT IS a shame that it had to come to this.”

  Fajeer Dassai stepped forward, facing Sarn. It was the same man Sarn had known for years; yet it wasn’t. The fierce brown eyes still gleamed above the sharp nose. But his hair had retreated to the farthest reaches of his scalp, cut short and graying around small-lobed ears. Lines grooved his cheeks, intersecting the caverns that extended from the tip of his nose. Time had not been kind.