by Stewart Ross
But by the second moon his men had grown restless. The Grozny flourished by plundering Constant settlements for their food and women. Camped beside the No-Man for days on end, they laid waste to the countryside far around. The men grew hungry and bored. Insubordination crept in. Kamal responded with still harsher punishment, and on the swampy banks of the slime-green stream resentment festered like a disease.
It came to a head one morning when Gawlip, a broken-nosed warrior of sixteen winters, was arrested for abusing one of the female prisoners. These Constant women were needed to maintain the tribe’s population, but it was long accepted, even among the most uncouth, that a mother with a child of two winters or less was not to be touched. Timur punished those who broke this rule with a whipping and, sometimes, the removal of a few teeth. Kamal went further and ordered that Gawlip be flung into the No-Man. It was a capital punishment – as the river’s name made clear, no one entering that sulphurous swamp ever came out alive. If by some miracle they avoided the ravenous crocodiles, they fell victim to the lethal water-snakes.
When Kamal gave his order, the accused was lying on the grass at his master’s feet. Noticing that no one had come forward to carry out his instructions, Kamal looked up angrily. His expression froze. At least half the tribe had formed a furious circle round him.
Quietly at first, they began the deadly chant: “Zed blood! Zed blood! Kill! Kill! Kill! Zed blood! Zed blood! Kill! Kill! Kill!”
With each repetition, the circle closed in around the doomed leader. It was no more than three paces from him when the chanting was interrupted by a tremendous roar. “Timur say no!” rolled down like thunder from the crest of the bank.
Startled, the Grozny looked up to see who or what dared to take the name of their leader in vain. It was Jamshid. Beside him, looking rather less imposing, stood Giv. Behind the ridge, out of sight of the Grozny, Zektiv Yalisha and six Kogon warriors crouched in the undergrowth to observe what went on. They were under strict instructions to kill Jamshid and Giv immediately if they showed any sign of deviating from Xsani’s instructions.
Kamal was the first to respond. “Jamshid? You back?”
“Back and mighty, Kamal!” boomed the Captain. “With Giv.” His companion nodded eagerly.
“Where, er, where Timur?” asked Kamal anxiously.
“With me,” replied Jamshid, who had been preparing his responses ever since leaving the Kogon camp. “Timur live with me. Timur speak with me. Timur come again!”
The quicker-witted of the Grozny warriors began to chant. “Ti-mur! Ti-mur! Ti-mur!” Before long the whole tribe joined in until the air rang with the name of their former Malik. Above them Jamshid and Giv looked at each other in silent satisfaction.
The rest of the task was swiftly accomplished. Jamshid explained how Timur, now an Over-Malik (a phrase of Xsani’s invention), had appointed him the new Malik of the Grozny. Kamal joined Giv as one of his two Captains. What really won the tribe over was the promise of action. Jamshid would lead them to his new friends and reunion with Timur. After that, there would be fighting and bloodshed aplenty in an attack on the Constants of Alba.
No mention was made of the Kogon, nor of Yalisha and her hidden posse of wardens. Xsani had decided, quite rightly, that the Grozny could manage just one new piece of information at a time. The elevation of Timur to Over-Malik and his replacement at the head of the tribe by Jamshid was enough for the moment. The announcement of friendship, or at least an alliance with flabtoads, would be too much for a Zed brain to assimilate in one go. It could wait.
The migration of the Grozny to the site chosen by Yalisha was soon accomplished. Camped roughly ten thousand paces distant from the Kogon base at Filna, they passed their days happily raiding a small Constant settlement nearby and waiting for further instructions. Jamshid loved his new role. He returned from one of the raids bearing a huge fur coat and matching hat that he insisted on wearing day and night. He also demanded to be addressed as ‘Grand Malik Jamshid’, even by Giv. “Because,” he boasted, “Jamshid speaks with Timur.”
Giv, though happy to be with the Grozny and their familiar ways, was unsure about the grand airs his new leader was adopting. Whenever he saw Jamshid strutting around the camp in his furs, he couldn’t help remembering how Malika Xsani had humiliated him when they first met and how he had fawned before her.
Xsani! There was a leader indeed, Giv told himself. The poise, the elegant blue robe, the bob of fair hair – yes, he missed her! His heart – if indeed he had one – jumped therefore when he was woken one night by Jinsha whispering in his ear.
“Shh! Not a sound.” She had an important message for Jamshid and him. Timur, the Over-Malik, wanted to see them again. Tomorrow night he demanded to speak with ten Grozny leaders.
“Ten?” Giv struggled to remember what it meant.
Jinsha held her upraised hands before his face. “All fingers, dumbman,” she hissed. “Come to where the sun goes down and I will lead you to the Malika.”
“Sun go down,” echoed Giv.
“Yes. And ten only. If you fail your Timur, you die!” With that, she vanished into the night.
The next morning, when the two of them were alone, Giv passed on the message to Jamshid. At first the Grand Malik was suspicious, asking why Timur had not spoken to him directly. Giv decided that it was because Jamshid had been with a breeding slave and not easily approached. He nodded and rolled his shoulders in a self-important manner. Even so, he thought, it would have been good if the Over-Malik Timur had addressed him personally. Maybe he would soon, perhaps even at tonight’s meeting…
The Grozny party set off at sunset. They took a twisting trail through the woods for about five thousand paces until Jamshid, who insisted on leading, found his way barred by a rope tied across the path. At the same time, a low hissing started up in the surrounding shadows. Remembering the last time they had been ambushed, Jamshid and Giv froze; Kamal and the other Grozny swore loudly and gripped their weapons tightly, preparing for battle. When Jinsha’s voice floated out of the darkness, one or two of them started forward to find the speaker. Jamshid called them back angrily.
Jinsha, well hidden in the trees, announced herself as Timur’s messenger. She would guide them to their Over-Malik. They must leave their weapons beside the path, where they would be guarded until their return, and follow her in silence.
“Good flabtoad,” explained Jamshid in a hoarse whisper. “Friend of Timur. Obey and follow.”
On reaching Filna, the delegation was led straight to the sty where a fresh basket of smoke leaves had been prepared. While the smoke was working its magic, the Kogon assembled in the piazza. Inside Xsani’s headquarters Timur’s head was skewered to its spike. At midnight, as a full moon hung like a huge and cruel parody of the former Malik, the Grozny were released. Like children who had just mastered the art of walking, they weaved their way unsteadily towards the balcony.
When all was ready, torch bearers emerged, followed by Xsani and her gleaming bodyguard and, finally, the elevated head of Timur.
“Look!” called Jamshid, pointing eagerly up at the grisly icon. “Jamshid tell you true! Timur come! Timur come!”
Without prompting, the crowd started the slow, rolling chant of “Ti-mur! Ti-mur! Ti-mur!” Jamshid was staring hard at the blackened head. Its ghoulish features, flecked with orange firelight, were even more awe-inspiring than he remembered them. Transported with wonder, he gazed up at the moon, then back at the head. Feeling dizzy, he grasped the stone balustrade to steady himself.
Timur was here … Timur was with him … Wait! Timur was speaking to him!
Without warning, the Grand Malik scrambled urgently to the top of the balustrade. The bodyguard swiftly stepped forward to protect their leader. Jamshid shook his head and waved them aside.
“No, no!” he cried. “Hear Jamshid! Hear Jamshid!” He turned to face the piazza. “Timur speak me! Command me! He go Alba – now I go Alba! Grand Malik Jamshid attack Alba! Attack Al
ba!”
As he finished, the piazza filled with hissing and the grinning Grozny jostled each other in eager anticipation. Most of them didn’t know what Alba was, but the thought of any attack sent them into paroxysms of delight.
Xsani felt the situation sliding out of her control. She couldn’t have this idiot jumping up like that and claiming to speak for Timur. That was her role. She walked quickly to the front of the balcony and called for silence.
“Jamthid ith right,” she said. “Timur told me the dumbman thould lead a party of Grothny againtht Alba. It will prepare for the main attack. I will lead that. But Jamthid’s part ith tho, tho important, thaid Timur. He leadth, we follow. Timur thaid tho.”
The situation was rescued. Jamshid, flattered to think Timur had given him the role of trailblazer, accepted Xsani’s guidance. He returned to his people and told them he would lead a band of twenty-five warriors against Alba the next day. When they had captured and sacked the settlement, Malika Xsani and Timur could enter in triumph. The Grozny roared their support.
Back in Filna, Xsani explained her thinking to Jinsha, Tarangala and Yalisha. If Jamshid succeeded, which was almost inconceivable, he would have done their work for them. His failure, on the other hand, would mean the loss of only twenty-five warriors and get the lumbering fool out of their way. The plan, particularly the latter part of it, met with unqualified approval.
Shortly after dawn on a grey drizzly morning, Sakamir’s small party slipped out of the gate near the fire stone and headed for the arid region between the desert and the forest. They moved with extreme caution. Sakamir took the lead, then Potr, with Sammy and Jannat at the rear. Patrols normally went in a broad arc that brought them back to the gate above the Soterion. By sunhigh, when it was clear they were not following this route but heading out deeper into unknown territory, Jannat asked the leader where they were headed.
“Where I take you,” came the curt reply.
Sammy was not impressed. “So where’s that then, Sakamir?” To get her to come clean about the purpose of their mission, he added, “We goin’ hunting or what?”
She looked at him coldly, wondering how much he knew. “Alright,” she said eventually. “I’ll tell you. Timur’s tribe, the Grozny, are believed to be still in this region. I think you know our evidence for that, Sammy.”
“Yeah. I found it.”
“Good. Well, they’ve probably got something we’d rather they didn’t have. Our job is to seize it. So our first task is simple,” she concluded. “Find the Grozny.”
Sammy exchanged quizzical looks with Jannat. He didn’t like the situation one bit. Although Sakamir had confirmed the purpose of the patrol, he still didn’t understand why she had chosen to lead it. Of course, she might really share Cyrus’ anxiety about how Timur’s head might inspire a Grozny revenge attack. But if she didn’t, then why was she so keen to find them? And why had she brought Potr with her? A short, meagre man of sixteen winters, he was renowned for his feeble physique and lack of courage – hardly the sort of warrior to have at one’s side in an emergency. Yes, Sammy concluded, I must take great care where I put my feet.
The small band moved cautiously in the direction Timur was believed to have come from. Cyrus had worked out the route by studying a map in the Soterion collection. Every half day or so, the patrol climbed the highest point they could find and studied the landscape for signs of movement. Towards the end of the third day, their patience was rewarded.
As they stood in a clump of trees on a low, sandy ridge, they became aware of a loud noise approaching in front of them. They ducked down out of sight and listened. Jannat, who had experienced a situation like this several years before, reckoned the sound was being made by some two dozen men. Its nature – part chant, part song – could mean only one thing. Zeds.
Keeping the enemy to their right, the patrol shadowed the Zeds until they stopped for the night. They believed themselves far from any human threat and posted no sentries. When all was quiet, Sakamir sent Potr and Jannat forward to learn what they could. They returned not long afterwards with astonishing news.
The band was indeed about twenty strong. They were Grozny Zeds and, incredibly, they appeared to be on their way to attack Alba.
Sammy blew silently through his lips. “Well, well, Sakamir,” he asked quietly. “There’s your Grozny. So what does we do next?”
5
The Burden of Loneliness
“I’ll tell you exactly what we’re going to do, Sammy,” said Sakamir in a brisk half-whisper. “You and Jannat are going back to Alba as swiftly as you can to warn them. Potr and I will recce further to find out what’s happening.”
A look of concern crossed Jannat’s face. “Are you sure you’ll be safe, Sakamir? I mean, just two of you out here…”
“Thank you, Jannat, but Potr and I will be fine. You and Sammy will be on your own, too, don’t forget.” Sakamir’s tone was brusque and decisive – it was clear the matter was not open for discussion. Jannat, raised to obey orders instinctively, got ready to leave.
Unquestioning obedience did not come so readily to Sammy. “So you’ll go on looking for this thing what the Grozny shouldn’t have?” he asked.
He was shaken by the ferocity of Sakamir’s reply. “What I do or do not do, Sammy, is none of your business. This is my patrol and it does what I say, got it?”
No one had addressed Sammy like this since the days of his childhood in the Children of Gova community, and he didn’t like it. “Yeah, but you don’t have to go talkin’ to me –”
Sakamir’s hand slid towards the knife at her side. Seeing it, Jannat took Sammy firmly by the arm and pulled him away. “Come on, Sammy! No arguing. We’ve got to return to Alba right now. Duty, remember? Let’s go!”
Reluctantly, Sammy allowed himself to be led off and, without a word of farewell, Jannat and he headed off into the night. They walked in silence for a while, pausing only to check their direction from the stars. Eventually, when they were sure they had put sufficient distance between the Grozny and themselves, they stopped to rest and get some sleep.
“Thanks Jannat,” said Sammy a little sheepishly as they lay down on a patch of dry sand beneath overhanging foliage. “Got a bit carried away with Sakamir, didn’t I?”
“Just a bit, yes.”
“But she’s a nasty piece of work, isn’t she?”
Jannat yawned. “Yes, she is. And I wish I knew what she’s up to.”
“So do I. And I feel sorry for that Potr bloke. He don’t stand a chance, do he?”
Sammy and Jannat made it back to Alba in less than a day. The return of just two members of the patrol caused a bit of a stir, although Yash seemed less worried than most. He said he had full confidence in his copemate and was sure she had a good reason for wanting to continue in the field. “Obviously she wants to find out what’s going on, doesn’t she? It’s her duty.”
Sammy nodded. He wondered how much Yash really knew.
Seeing he had agreement, Yash relaxed further. “I’ve never heard of Zeds dividing their forces before, so we need to know what these Grozny barbarians are up to.”
Sammy nodded a second time.
“Good. So I’ll give Sakamir and Potr another four or five days. If they haven’t shown up after that, then we might start worrying. Meanwhile, we’ve got this warband to deal with, right? Tell us about it, Jannat. All you know.”
As soon as Jannat had finished, she and Sammy went off to get some rest and Yash called a meeting with Bahm, his senior Konnel, and Cyrus, the only Constant with first-hand knowledge of Grozny tactics.
A Zed attack, however minor, could not be taken lightly, and the Emir was in his element. “Step one,” he said crisply, curling his right hand round the forefinger of the left, “is to send out a scout group. They’ll find the enemy and work out when they’re likely to reach our territory.”
He opened his palm and grasped the index finger as well. “For step two we have a choice. Either we set up an
ambush away from Alba, or we trap them up against the walls. Thoughts?”
Bahm wanted to pin the Zeds against the walls. “It’s the obvious tactic,” agreed Cyrus, “but if –”
“No ifs,” cut in Yash. “I agree it’s the obvious thing to do, so we’ll do it. Bahm, you take command of the ambush party.”
Cyrus took a deep breath to calm himself. Once again he was infuriated by Yash’s high-handed behaviour – why invite him to the meeting if everything he said was ignored?
Shortly before sundown, the Emir’s scout group returned with strange news. Yash summoned Bahm and Cyrus again to hear the report. The Grozny, they were told, were just twenty-five strong, as Jannat had said. What’s more, they were making no effort at concealment. Instead, they were advancing in broad daylight, chanting some sort of slogan.
“It’s like they reckon they’re invisible,” the patrol commander said, shaking his head in bewilderment.
“Invincible, eh?” grunted Bahm. “We’ll see ‘bout that.”
Cyrus asked about the chant. It was difficult to make out all the words, the commander explained, but what sounded like ‘Malik Timur’ and ‘head’ were often repeated.
Yash looked away hurriedly. “Cyrus has a theory about Timur’s head,” he said, turning to Bahm with a condescending smile. “Personally, I think it’s nonsense.”
Cyrus ground his teeth but said nothing.
“Anyway,” Yash went on, “what these Zeds are saying doesn’t matter. They’ll be here tomorrow morning, that’s all we need to know. Take your archers out tonight, Bahm – around a hundred should be enough – and divide them in two, fifty on each flank. As the Zeds approach the walls, close in behind them. I’ll shoot an arrow into the sky as a signal for you to attack. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Cyrus did not. On four or five previous occasions he had held back from challenging Yash’s decisions, but not this time. As lives were at stake, he felt it his duty to offer a word of caution. “Shouldn’t we check to make sure there isn’t a larger force behind the small one?” he suggested. “That’s the sort of trick Timur would have used – ambush the ambushers.”