War of the Sultans

by Fuad Baloch

  “—the sultan—” someone said.

  “—the one-eyed—”

  “—the magus usurper—”

  Shoki cringed, not turning around to face the men who knew of his reputation before his arrival. Would they have expected this wreck of a man instead of the mental figure they might have drawn up? Not that any of that mattered.

  “Are you hungry?” asked the salar. “We’ve got a few northern men who cook a semi-decent stew. Nothing like Shabbir’s from the Mercantile quarter of course, but it’s… edible at least.”

  Shoki laughed again, momentarily forgetting his woes. The world came crashing back in. “Tell me of the magi, Salar Ihagra. When did you last see them?”

  A struggle seemed to be waging on the salar’s face, his features tightening. His eyes continued to flit between Shoki’s eye patch and his companions. No doubt, he, like any other men, also had a thousand questions about what had happened. The salar shook his head, exhaled noisily. “We met them three days ago. At Rezalan.”

  “The magi?”

  “Aye,” said the salar, his fingers clenching. “The world’s turned a darker place with magi roaming these lands and—” He stopped, shaking his head as he watched Shoki. “Anyway, they attacked us without provocation. We tried fighting.” Salar Ihagra waved his arm around. “They’re a sorry bunch, these men. But what they lack in strength and training, they make up for in spirit,” he said proudly. “They didn’t rout, didn’t run away, even when we realized we were facing no ordinary enemy.” He hung his head. “But… I knew we couldn’t stay and fight… so we… retreated to this valley instead.”

  “Who led them?” Shoki asked, his heart sinking. “Did they have an old female magus amongst them?”

  “Aye.”

  Shoki felt his knees give way. He was late. Too late.

  “We were meant to meet up there with Princess Nuraya’s forces before advancing west.”

  Shoki’s eye popped open. “Is… is she alright?”

  “She was when I last saw her,” he said. “Still has the same pompous Istani air about her. The rope might be half-burned but still maintains its knot.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Good thing the Istani family line continues to live on after all that’s happened. Makes one think what our future would be had we lost both her and her brother.”

  Shoki squinted, thoughts racing through his mind. There might still be time.

  “Imagine her not just entertaining the Reratish prince’s offer of marriage, but actually supporting it!” said the salar. “What would that have done for the realm, eh? What if this Prince Sabrish got rid of Prince Ahasan, thus ensuring his children were the only ones with a claim to Istan! The Reratish Kingdom, the heathen people, becoming Sultans of Istan, Keepers of the Divide.”

  Shoki blinked, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck standing up. “Progeny… The Istani line… Heirs… Keeper of the Divide… Blood magic!” He spread his arms, tilted his head toward the heavens. “You knew all along, didn’t you? You bastards, watching me from up high.”

  “Shoki,” said the salar, his voice stern, “what’s the matter?”

  “This Reratish Prince…” said Shoki, struggling to order his thoughts. “Who in the seven hells is he?” He turned toward Jiza before Salar Ihagra could respond. “Do you know?”

  She hesitated. “Perhaps Drenpa would know.”

  “Of course, he would,” said Shoki, his heart thudding against his ribs. “As would Naila. As would I have, had I joined them.” Swallowing, he took an uncertain step toward the west.

  “Boy,” called out the salar in his harsh voice, “what’s going on?”

  Shoki shook his head, turning toward his mentor. “Blood magic!”

  Maharis wheezed even as the salar continued to shake his head.

  “What can I do to help you?” asked the salar.

  “Get me to Buzdar,” said Shoki, his gut twisting inside. “Now!”

  Chapter 43

  Nuraya

  Nuraya clenched her fingers at the sight of the garish Reratish flags fluttering over Istani soil. “See what our actions led us to?”

  “Our actions?” mocked Ahasan, waddling beside her as the Reratish honor guard led them deeper through their horde assembled outside Buzdar. “Had you not attacked Algaria, this prince would have still been begging for an audience!”

  Nuraya pursed her lips, refusing to take the bait. Ahasan was wrong. So very wrong. Even if she hadn’t stormed the capital, Kinas would have eventually triumphed over Ahasan. In a way, her actions had bought Ahasan an opportunity to escape with his life.

  This wasn’t the time or place to engage in a futile debate though, especially considering that both surviving members of the Istani line were under the wrathful gaze of their Reratish enemies.

  The sense of wrongness that had been growing in her heart since she had set out from her camp grew tenfold as she finally saw the massive pavilion set aside to discuss terms for their capitulation, euphemistically named peace talks.

  Had she made a mistake entering the enemy’s den like this? Unarmed, unaccompanied by even a single member of the Sultana’s Hands? She exhaled. She still had the dagger hidden in her peshwaz of course, the very same she had used to take Kinas’s life. A terrible thing that she had found impossible to discard, and yet the only weapon that could come in handy.

  Nuraya exhaled once more, keeping her back straight, her chin held high. Everyone drew caricatures of their foes. Just like the Reratish forces weren’t merely uncouth barbarians with a rudimentary knowledge of battle tactics, they, too, would now witness the splendor of an Istani royal. Their uncultured eyes would see the finery and grace of Istan personified in its sultana, and wonder why they’d decided to fight under the wrong banner.

  Ahasan was almost limping to keep up with her. Sighing, she slowed down. She had made a mistake in coming alone. No doubt about that. Prince Sabrish didn’t even need to negotiate with them. All he had to do was to declare terms. If they didn’t agree, they would never leave his camp.

  How long would her forces fight on without her to lead them? As capable as Camsh had proven himself, could he lead her men after she was gone? What of Ahasan’s men? And when they were beaten back, would that sap the resolve of others intent to defy the invaders?

  She had to win terms for peace if she could. “Ahasan, let me lead the negotiations!”

  “Sure,” he said with irritation, his jowls heavy with sweat.

  As they started up the slope toward the pavilion nestled under the shade of a guard tower, she turned her chin up toward Buzdar.

  Mother’s city.

  The city she had fled to a lifetime ago, seeking refuge with her uncle.

  She scanned the parapets. There, between the two massive guard towers, her men had hung the heads of her uncle and nephew.

  Despite the heat of the day, a shiver ran down her spine. Did kismet repeat itself? What were the odds that by the end of the day, her severed head would hang where she had hung her family’s?

  She forced her eyes away from the ghastly walls and back toward the path ahead. Two long, unbroken columns of tall Reratish knights dressed in fine mail armor stood on either side of the pathway, pushing back the straining mass of curious soldiers.

  “Look at the tits on her!” shouted one of the Reratish soldiers, his Nirdu a series of guttural drawls.

  “The brother’s got bigger ones, I bet!”

  Shouts, jeers, and boos greeted them as they continued marching forward. Nuraya exhaled, forcing herself to not let emotions get the better of her.

  Ahasan was cursing back.

  “Brother, don’t reduce yourself to their level!” she said. He merely grunted, not stopping.

  A distant rumble sounded behind them. Similar to the ones she had been hearing from her campsite as well. Despite herself, Nuraya turned around. Others had fallen silent too. Even the guards that had been leading them forward.

  “Did you hear that?” muttered Aha
san. “Sounded like an earthquake!”

  Nuraya swallowed. They were at a high enough elevation to look past the sea of Reratish heads. The Reratish stood their ground though, not rushing toward the Istani forces. She turned to the distant hills, worried that perhaps her men had done something to attract their attention. All she could see were Istani flags—hers and her brother’s. Their forces weren't rushing down either.

  “Keep moving,” ordered one of the guards.

  Two Reratish soldiers lifted the flaps outside the pavilion, motioning them to enter. Nuraya stood still for a moment. The pavilion was huge, large enough to house a couple of hundred men. Yet, unlike the other pavilion she had set foot in not too long ago, this was sealed off on all sides.

  “They’re not going to imprison us here,” said Ahasan, noticing her reticence. “The Reratish prince doesn’t like sunlight.”

  Nodding, she entered the pavilion before Ahasan.

  She stepped onto a thick carpet. Not as rich as the Zakhanan ones, of course, but luxurious regardless. Torches flickered at regular intervals throughout the cavernous space, sparse except for wooden chairs crammed at one end, and a massive table directly ahead behind which sat a hooded figure.

  The flap dropped behind them, leaving just the three of them.

  Just the three of us? Nuraya looked around. Her heart began to beat fast. Had the Reratish prince made a mistake here? What if she could be the one to overpower him, force him to agree to her terms instead? A shadow moved in the corner. Nuraya turned her head but saw no one.

  “You may approach!” called out the prince, his voice loud, his Nirdu carrying a strange lilt, one that reminded her of classical Gharsi.

  Ignoring the curiosity bubbling in her chest, Nuraya motioned to Ahasan and they shuffled toward the prince. He sat on a high-backed chair, his hood drawn so low that his face remained shrouded in darkness despite the two torches flickering to either side, his pale fingers interlaced over the desk bereft of parchments or maps.

  “Prince Sabrish,” started Nuraya, hoping she sounded more diplomatic than infuriated, “the time has come to cease these hostilities immediately. We are fully prepared to accept an unconditional surrender and allow you to depart the Istani lands with the lives of your soldiers intact.”

  “Nuraya!” jeered Ahasan.

  She didn’t acknowledge him. Another lesson that Ahasan had obviously never learned. When one was at their weakest, that was the time for making the most audacious demands. She’d sue for one of the moons and settle for anything close to it.

  “You did well,” said the prince, sitting still as a statue.

  Nuraya shrugged. “We are children of the Iron Sultan. We’re blessed by his legacy and the Unseen God and—”

  “You may leave now!”

  Nuraya blinked, tilted her head to the side. “What—” Again, a shadow moved in the periphery of her vision.

  “Aye, as promised, I’ve indeed fulfilled my bargain,” said Ahasan, rubbing his hands, not looking her way. “Our deal still stands?”

  “It does.”

  “Ahasan,” she growled. “What’s going on?”

  “Your brother has sold you out for Kohkam,” said Prince Sabrish, his voice just as calm and hollow as before.

  Nuraya forced out a disbelieving chuckle. “Nonsense. Even Ahasan isn’t fool enough to—” She rounded at him. “Tell me this bastard is lying! Trying to sow division between us!”

  Ahasan stepped back, holding up a hand. “You’re the one who divided our family in the first place. Had Abba never married that witch of a woman, he’d have still been alive. And had that she-devil died in childbirth, we’d not have to contend with the likes of you, kinslayer!”

  The world swayed underneath her feet. “Ahasan, you—”

  “Abba would have wanted one of us to survive, Sister.”

  The ground rumbled again, shaking as if a giant had rattled it. Yelping, Ahasan fell. Nuraya shook her head, fighting to keep her balance. Shouts rose outside the pavilion. A bugle sounded. A moment later, a hundred more responded.

  “No!”

  Distantly, impossibly, she heard the faint challenge issued by her forces.

  Before she’d had time to process it all, the clang of metal and steel and whinnying horses sprang up around her. A terrifying press of noise that threatened to overwhelm all other senses.

  She had been betrayed. By her own brother. The Reratish forces were marching for war.

  She had failed to save even a single soul.

  “You may leave,” repeated the prince, still unmoving in his chair.

  “T-thank you,” said Ahasan, rising with a huff. He bowed. Nuraya blinked, shocked to see a son of the Iron Sultan bow to a son of the pauper Reratish king. Ahasan turned around.

  Hatred and pity filled Nuraya’s heart. How low had the children of the Iron Sultan fallen? “Ahasan!” she growled, reaching for the dagger in her bosom.

  He turned, his eyes growing quizzical. She lunged. He caught sight of the dagger and screamed, raising a hand to ward off the arcing blade.

  The dagger cleaved through his stubby fingers.

  Before he could scream again, shrieking, she sunk the dagger in his fleshy throat. Nuraya pulled it out, then stabbed him in the chest. “Traitor! Kinas was a hundred times better than you!” Again, she stabbed him in the gut. “It’s a blessing Abba can’t see you right now, or he would have died of shame!”

  She broke into an incoherent stream of cries and shouts, stabbing him over and over again. At some point, his bloody gasps stopped, his face ceasing to look like anything more than a pulp of smashed bone and bloody flesh, but she didn’t stop.

  Only when her arms grew tired did she turn around to face the Reratish prince. “Your turn now.”

  “Sit down,” he said, motioning at the chair in front. Nuraya shook her head. Had the chair been there before? She heard the horses whinnying once more. Further out now. Closer to her men.

  “Call them back!” she shrieked, waving the bloody dagger at him. “Now! Then leave my realm!”

  “Sit down!”

  Screaming with rage, she rushed toward the Reratish prince.

  He raised a hand. A gust of wind slammed into her, sent her flying halfway across the pavilion.

  She fell with a thud, the dagger falling out of her hand.

  “I’m… I’m going to kill you!” she screamed.

  A shadow stepped out into the torchlight, coming to stand beside him. An old woman carrying a large stone. A familiar woman. “We are here, at last,” she cooed.

  Fear wrenched Nuraya’s guts. “Naila?” Shaking her head, she rose on shaky feet, then sprinted toward them.

  The prince raised his hand. “I’ve need of your womb but do not force me!”

  Shrieking, she lunged for the prince. He jerked his head back. Not fast enough. Her fingers caught onto the hood and she yanked it.

  The fabric ripped open.

  Nuraya raised her fist and froze.

  Two heads stared back at her. One belonging to a young man, his dark eyes wide, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Beside him, an ancient face—the skin so thin and stretched so as to resemble parchment, the nose caved in, lips almost nonexistent, and with bright green eyes—glared at her.

  “Help me,” croaked the young man, the Reratish prince.

  “I have need of you,” said the older voice, the unblinking eyes still focused on her.

  Nuraya turned around, just as Naila cackled.

  Was this what Shoki had warned her about?

  Another fist of air slammed into her, and the world grew dark.

  Chapter 44

  Shoki

  “It’s a full-blown battle!” shouted Maharis, turning in his saddle to look at them, his cantering horse keeping pace with them easily.

  “I can see that!” replied Shoki, awed by the specter of the entire valley outside Buzdar swarming with soldiers.

  “Men,” bellowed Salar Ihagra beside them, raising his swor
d up high. “Time has come for you to earn your keep.” The mercenaries shouted back. Though the din of the mayhem ahead was increasing as they cantered toward it, Shoki could still hear the salar’s voice loud and clear. “You bastards lacked purpose, had no direction. Well, now you do. Whether you fight as mercenaries for the love of booty to be had once we beat back the Reratish, or as soldiers hoping to protect your motherland, the time is now!”

  “For Istan!” shouted one of the soldiers.

  “For Istan!” they all thundered in unison.

  “Attack!” bellowed Salar Ihagra, waving his sword forward.

  Shoki pulled on his reins as the salar’s men streamed past him, their faces snarling, their horses whinnying, all of them rushing toward the great bloodbath ahead.

  Salar Ihagra whipped his head around. “Maybe I’ll see you again. Maybe I won’t.” Shoki raised a hand, but the salar continued to speak over him. “No matter what, know that I’m proud of you… my son!”

  Shoki’s eye misted. The salar spun around, kicked his horse hard, and joined his men. Even as Shoki turned his horse north toward Buzdar itself, he craned his neck to watch the salar. The salar’s men were fewer than twenty thousand, a mere drop in the ocean, but they were under the command of one of Istan’s finest salars and would do well.

  “Are you certain you’re going to find her there?” shouted Maharis.

  Shoki nodded. Blood was pumping through his veins, a rush of adrenaline that seemed to cast everything around him in sharp relief, his heart pulling him toward the distant Reratish command tents. Jiza rode with them, her lips pursed, her long hair streaming behind her, the tight folds of her peshwaz digging into her curves.

  Shoki shook his head.

  He was late, having failed to warn Nuraya to flee.

  Was there a chance she wouldn’t be foolish enough to lead her forces personally despite the odds? Surely, her salars would have counseled her to retreat, to not perish under the grind of bone and flesh.

  He knew her though. Better than she might have known herself. She wouldn’t be one to turn away. That wouldn’t be the Nuraya he had come to know and love.