War of the Sultans

by Fuad Baloch

  War of the Sultans

  Divided Sultanate: Book 2

  Fuad Baloch

  Copyright © 2019 by Fuad Baloch

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Version: alif

  Illustration © Tom Edwards — TomEdwardsDesign.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  The “Divided Sultanate” Series

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Nuraya

  Nuraya threw her head back and screamed. A piercing shriek that cut through the din of misery and destruction surrounding her.

  “Hurry!” insisted Jinan, still pulling her forward by the arm toward the darkening streets ahead.

  Howling, she yanked herself free and turned around.

  The Shahi Qilla, her palace, loomed behind her, its outlines shimmering against the gathering gloom. Why in Rabb’s name was she going the wrong way? She shook her head. “We… we have to go back. I can still talk with Madhu. Age has made him forget his place. Once the shock of all he’s seen passes, he’ll come around. Together… yes, together we’ll set it all right!”

  “My sultana—”

  “We have to go back, Jinan!”

  “The usurper will kill us like he did your mother!”

  “The… usurper,” Nuraya repeated slowly, then clenched her fingers. “He cannot be allowed in the diwan-e-khas!”

  “Nuraya!” yelled Jinan, and she whipped her head toward him. “You lost the battle! You’re defeated!” He waved his arm about. “Like it or not, this isn't your city anymore. Stay here and you’ll be imprisoned by men whose friends you slew in combat! Can’t you see that?”

  She blinked, her own siphsalar tearing to shreds her view of her place in the world.

  “We have to get out of here,” repeated Jinan, his voice quieter this time.

  “But… this is my city,” she said, knowing full well how petulant she sounded yet caring little.

  “And you can return to it one day,” he said, reaching forward to grab her arm once more.

  Nuraya flinched at the touch but didn't free herself. She didn’t have to like the words, but the siphsalar did speak the truth.

  Mother was dead.

  Mona was dead.

  Abba was gone.

  And now Algaria, her beautiful city, was no longer hers either.

  She had lost.

  Lost. She retraced the word in her mind, her feet following Jinan of their own accord now. She knew what the word meant, of course, but she had never really tasted it before.

  Rage burned within her, filling her with the desire to return to Shahi Qilla and burn to a crisp all those who had dared stand in her way. That was what she should have done, would have done.

  Something else loomed over the fury.

  Helplessness—a misery heaped upon the defeated.

  More confusing emotions simmered underneath the torrent raging in her chest. Ones she didn’t want to acknowledge, feared would take ascendancy over time.

  Regret.

  Shame.

  The pain of humiliation.

  A jumble of thoughts crowded her mind as she continued to follow Jinan, guiding them through the labyrinthine streets of Old Algaria.

  Not too long ago, she had fled this city. Back then, she had been accompanied by Mona and Maharis, as she had left the capital to stand alone against the terrible darkness.

  Just like before, she was fleeing once more, this time in even more disgrace.

  Nuraya gritted her teeth. After her flight from Ahasan, she had returned stronger than she had been, more sure of her station in the world. And just like before, she’d return, mightier and at the head of an even greater host.

  That was her kismet—her destiny as the daughter of Istan. She’d put it all right… no matter what it demanded of her, no matter the cost.

  As they wound their way through the Mercantile Quarter, the evening shadows assimilating under the flickering torches atop poles and filtering through shattered shopfronts, bloody faces turned to look up at her.

  Nuraya inhaled, forcing her feet to keep in sync with Jinan.

  A hubbub of voices rose around her. She looked back, not slowing down. Soldiers lumbered behind them, but instead of rushing in to capture her, they seemed to be... following her!

  Not all hers either. Amidst the very few still wearing the Sultana’s Hands badges they had sewn in Nikhtun, men in the liveries of her brothers and Algaria City Guard also trailed behind her.

  Despite the sting of shame stabbing her sides, Nuraya felt a tired smile spread on her face. She might be the setting sun, yet the men recognized her true worth, believed in the sun’s eventual rise after the dark night.

  She was the Iron Sultan’s daughter. The true heir of the Peacock Throne.

  Night doesn’t follow night. This was the moment I met my destiny!

  Ignoring the sharp, tingling pain spreading through her extremities, Nuraya turned her attention forward. She wouldn't break down. She was Nuraya Istan, defeated, but no more diminished than the sun might be by the temporary cover of clouds.

  Her foot slipped. She looked down in annoyance.

  Blood, entrails, bits of gray matter that might have belonged to a living, breathing man shone under the pale, flickering yellow light.

  Nuraya forced her gaze away, growing aware of the annoying mist in her eyes, then marched forward once more. How many thousands had died at the Battle of Algaria? How many more would die when she came to wrest it free from the usurper?

  Loud jeering came from her left. She looked up, still maintaining her pace. Three men, standing under the archway of some temple, were shouting at her. One of them, a tall man, raised his middle finger. Jinan turned to a soldier following them. He took out his bow and fired off an arrow. The louts melted away, continuing to jeer from behind the cover of pillars.

  Nuraya raised her hand to order Jinan to stop the archer as he grabbed another arrow from his quiver. What good was quietening some voices when the whole world laughed at her? Her eyes caught the red smeared on the temple wall, the place of worship painted with the lifeblood of its believers.

  Nuraya shivered and turned away.

  Unbidden, she saw Kinas in the periphery of her vision. Her handsome and proud brother sank to his knees again, his blood pooling around him, his bright eyes beginning to dim.

  She had kill
ed him. Her own brother.

  Nuraya blinked.

  Was all she had done truly a selfless desire to serve the realm or had she given in to the baser instincts the priests of Husalmin warned against?

  What had she done?

  Jinan had rushed ahead and was now conversing with a group of city guards. No, not conversing. Arguing. Coming to a stop, Nuraya turned around. The number of soldiers following her had swollen to hundreds—at least half a thousand. A ragtag group of armed men, formerly foes, now standing beside her against some three hundred city guards blocking their way forward.

  Absentmindedly, she reached for her sword and pulled it out of the sheath. Whether she liked it or not, she knew there would be more fighting. There would always be a lot of fighting. Something she needed to come to terms with. What had happened here was a reflection of what the rest of her life would look like from here on.

  Is there no other way? Must so many die? Can’t there be peace without war? Her thoughts took on a darker tinge. What was Mother doing? Why had Shoki—the usurper—deceived her?

  The soldiers behind her were cheering, their boots thumping the ground, their mouths snarling. They could smell blood just as well as she could, parched soil restless for the first drop to fall. Tightening her grip on the hilt, she dabbed at her eyes with one hand and turned back to the city guards.

  Their salar, a wounded middle-aged man, was shouting at her men to give way, his soldiers exchanging nervous glances. They hadn’t attacked her. Not yet. Whether they were scared to take on the Lioness of Istan, no matter how weakened she might be, or simply too tired to fight, it didn't matter.

  Their admission of her superiority was a victory, no matter how small.

  “Let’s go,” said Jinan, waving his arm at her, his lips peeled back in a grin. A false grin, she could tell. Mona had died. Someone he had begun forming a relationship with that she hadn't even picked up on until late. Nuraya nodded, realizing that over his torn shirt, Jinan had managed to pull over some dead man’s clothes.

  The memory of her siphsalar, turned into a monster under the thrall of her magus, washed over her. She had allowed it, the transformation of a well-meaning if naive man into an abomination.

  She had!

  Was this what Shoki, the one-eyed usurper, had been trying to warn her about?

  Gritting her teeth, she shook the thoughts away.

  There would be time to take stock of all that had gone wrong, look at things she should have done and hadn't. Mistakes she had to make sure she didn't repeat.

  Nuraya resumed her march north, the guards making way for her. On the western horizon, the last bits of sunlight were fighting vainly against the strengthening darkness.

  Someone laughed, a gregarious sound, as out of place as a silk peshwaz in the sewers. She turned. Ranal, the young son of some minor ameer, was grinning at Jinan. Noticing her stare, he raised a meaty hand.

  Nuraya looked away, thankful that in the approaching darkness, they couldn’t get a good look at her face and witness her devastation.

  Together, her makeshift army of defeated men, strengthened by another hundred or so that followed Ranal, made way toward the city gates.

  Of course, there were no city gates or walls anymore. Another aspect of the grand city reduced to rubble. How many Nirdu poems had praised these walls for their strength? How many allegories had been written over time referring to their permanence?

  One more thing she had destroyed.

  Nuraya whimpered, a sob finally making it through her lips. Tears burst through. Biting her tongue so hard she tasted blood, she clenched her fingers, refusing to let kismet break her.

  She was Nuraya Istan, daughter of—

  Another sob escaped her chest.

  Throwing her head back, she screamed, her voice ringing in the deserted plaza littered with the bodies of dead men and horses and children and women she was meant to safeguard.

  None of her men approached her, giving her a moment of privacy in the ruins of her making.

  Dimly, she acknowledged a dozen or so soldiers approaching them, a train of horses in their wake. Without waiting for Jinan, she stepped toward a white mare. No Vengeance, of course. She had no idea what had happened to her horse, though there was little doubt about his chances in this war, which seemed to have an insatiable thirst for victims.

  She trotted over the smoldering city walls reduced to rubble with jagged edges and large pieces of ancient masonry sticking out at odd angles. Here, a gigantic iron column heaped over a mound of bricks. There, bronze bits that might have once constituted a long-dead sultan’s statue.

  Nuraya didn't care to dodge the obstacles, letting the horse take her forward and away.

  Jinan was shouting at her to head north.

  North.

  Absentmindedly, she pulled at her reins, pointing the horse northward.

  After all that had happened, it seemed she was finally heeding her counselors’ advice. Was there a lesson there somewhere?

  Biting back the treasonous tears breaking through, she turned around in the saddle one final time.

  Under the clear night sky, outlined by the bright light of both moons out tonight, she could see the ancient walls and minarets of Shani Qilla looming in the distance, standing silent over the broken bodies of Istani citizens.

  I will be back!

  Her heart heavy, Nuraya turned her head and kicked the horse hard in the flanks.

  Chapter 2

  Shoki

  The world came alive with a burst of consciousness.

  “Hey, what—” Shoki began, then blinked. Raising his right hand, he rubbed at his eye, his headache increasing at what he saw. A vast circular room of sorts, its dimensions somehow… off. As he darted his head about, his mind insisted on seeing corners and angles in the round, bright white walls even as his one good eye saw otherwise.

  Shaking his head, Shoki swallowed the flood of terror rising in his gorge. He had been at Matli, seeking the graves of his parents—those he thought were his parents—and then Mara had appeared. The djinn had done something, and he fell unconscious.

  That was the last he could remember. And now, he was here, lying in this strange room bathed in a reddish light filtering through the vast windows looking out onto a sky the color of dying embers. Again, his mind rebelled at the paradoxical walls that seemed to be contracting even as they remained still.

  Shoki tried getting up but found his body unable to obey his mental command. He might have screamed out had he still been the young boy he had been a few months ago. Now, as he waited for strength to pour back into his body, he lay straight, biting his lower lip, hoping his mind would reorient itself, help him make sense of this all.

  At least he knew who would have brought him here. Mara.

  Shoki gritted his teeth. It would help to make sense of his surroundings before the djinn arrived, so—

  “You’re up,” came a soft, musical voice from his left.

  Shoki darted his head around and gulped. A ravishing woman no more than twenty, dressed in a peshwaz so sheer he could almost see past the flimsy material, sashayed toward him, smoke swirling around her feet. Before he’d had a chance to regroup his thoughts, she was standing over him, his eye staring unblinkingly at her heaving bosom.

  Get a hold of yourself, you idiot!

  He forced his eyes up to her bewitching face. “Who are you?”

  “Jiza,” she replied, lifting a hand to brush back the light brown hair falling in sheets across her fair, oval-shaped face. Shoki felt a blush coming on his cheeks. He turned his eye away from her and toward the tall doors behind her, from which she must have come without him realizing. Two solid slabs of dark, polished wood, a gold trim adorning its outlines. “Can you walk?”

  “W-walk?” Shoki turned his attention back toward her, then, realizing his eye continued to get distracted by her chest, scrambled off the bed and onto his feet. “I,” he said, startled and pleased in equal measures to see his body had reg
ained its strength, “can, evidently!”

  “Good, we need to get going.”

  Shoki raised a hand reflexively. Jiza cocked her head to the side, her large golden earrings glinting in the strange sunlight. Again, Shoki was hit by the wrongness of it. Instead of the glitter he would’ve expected, the earrings grew dull under the light, emanating a faint reddish tinge.

  Something wasn’t right, a foreboding washing over him. Similar to what he’d felt when under the thrall of the pari folk.

  “First, I need to know where I am!” he demanded, bracing himself for a confrontation.

  “Nainwa.”

  “Nainwa?” he repeated, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. “The djinn city?”

  “Of course.”

  His heartbeat quickened. “I… I was outside Algaria. In Matli. How did I get here?”

  “You can ask Azar yourself when you see him,” she replied, her large brown eyes scanning him head to toe as if taking his measure.

  Shoki scratched his chin and stole another glance at the world outside. Vast red sky, without a sliver of a cloud—something he’d never seen before. “Who’s—” he started, then stuttered to a stop. Azar was Mara’s real name. His djinn name—the name he’d seen scrawled on a tree bark beside a pari’s.

  Anger flashed through him. “I have work to do. Important work. The Reratish and Zakhanan forces are invading Istan, riots are breaking out, and—” he paused to take a breath, “the pari folk are hellbent on destroying the Divide. I have to get back.”