Midnight

by Joshua Rutherford

  No matter their color though, all stood or sat behind their bars. Desperate. Broken.

  Some clawed through their bars as Ashallah passed, as though any random body from the outside could have saved them. Others glanced up with soulless eyes, ones not caring whether death or salvation came. Then there were those in darkened cells, beyond the faint touches of sconces or torches. Ashallah saw not their faces nor bodies. Their sounds she heard, though. More than a few screamed as her wagon passed. Others spoke of the woman on the cart, whether to themselves or cellmates she did not know. Many more just cried.

  Such noises from the broken blended into the grinding crunch of the iron-rimmed wheels on loose cobblestones as Ashallah’s cart lurched forward. Random commands from guards and dungeon servants permeated the hall, as did the growls from animals unknown, from cages and enclosures beyond the cells of the damned.

  I need to ready myself, Ashallah thought. Darya needs me. I cannot fall apart like them. I need to stay focused. I have to remain strong.

  Ashallah’s captors would make such a goal the ultimate challenge, for her cell placed her directly across the interrogation chamber. At least that was what Ashallah heard it was called. Within minutes, however, she discovered the label of interrogation was an inadequate one. For there was no questioning. No inquisition of the captive. All who made it to that room soon learned of the horrors imagined by the most depraved minds. The screams and cries of the victims matched the intensity of the suffering they endured, allowing Ashallah no reprieve. She slept only in spurts. Her appetite became suppressed so that she desired no food, especially the spoiled remnants the jailer gave her. Though parched, she even had difficulty keeping down water, for her stomach churned with every shrill.

  By the third day, Ashallah felt weakened, though her years of training and discipline continued to serve her well. Moreover, the remnants of the jinni she had consumed days before had stayed with her. Her strength somehow endured. Most importantly, she could still fight.

  Then Ashallah saw it. The one scene that could break her:

  The torture of a turquoise.

  A female turquoise.

  Although not Darya, she bore enough of a resemblance that Ashallah could not help but relate the two. The jet-black hair, cut shoulder length. The lines of her face. The streaks of turquoise across the base of her neck.

  The girl could not have been more than twenty, younger than Darya. She struggled against the iron grips of her captors, who hauled her to an upright table. There a dungeon master secured the turquoise with a series of heavy leather straps and brass buckles. With her arms and legs spread, the turquoise looked like a five-pointed star.

  The captors stared at the girl. The thin hairs on Ashallah’s back stood up, as she realized they were not going to leave. Behind them, the dungeon master readied his tools. Dull, rusted blades, some thin, others wide and thick. In the shape of leaves, spades and fine points, they rested on the table.

  With each clank of their metal on the wood, Ashallah winced. More than ever, she resisted the urge to bark and scream. No, she reminded herself. They do not know that I can speak. That is my one advantage over them. I cannot break. I will not.

  Then the torture began.

  It started with woman’s most striking feature: her stripes. The master took a dull blade and carved the stripes at the base of her neck. The turquoise shrieked, her cries reverberating off the stone walls of the dungeon. They reached Ashallah’s cell as though a gale. Ashallah retreated to the back of her cell yet found no relief.

  The wailing continued as the dungeon master cut away four more stripes. Then he nodded to one of the captors, a towering brute, who turned back to the table to select his blade. The master stepped aside to a small round table and chair, where he sat and sipped from a wineskin, watching as the captors took turns peeling away the skin of the turquoise.

  From the base of her neck. Down to her breasts. Then her torso. Her legs. Even the stripe that crossed her precious valley. The master and the captors left no trace of turquoise left on her body. Dark crimson fluid streamed from her fresher wounds, while the older ones had crusted over. Somehow, the woman had survived and remained conscious. Though as Ashallah looked upon her - fighting her urge to avert her gaze - she knew it had come at great cost.

  By that time, the dungeon master had flattened his wineskin. He rose, unsteadily, as he sauntered to the tables where his blades laid. His hand fumbled over a few, finally settling on a rusty short sword with serrated edges.

  “Now, about that hair,” he slurred.

  The turquoise’s eyes went wide. She gasped, seemingly wanting to scream. But with her strength robbed, no sound escaped.

  Ashallah gripped the bars. She knew what would happen next. Her scalp would be cut from her head, and with that, more bleeding. All leading to a slow, excruciating death.

  Matching the woman’s contorted face, Ashallah opened her mouth. Her lips parted. She could feel the muscles of her throat strengthen, ready to emit the cry the woman could not.

  Thud! The heavy sound of iron-rimmed wheels on the cobblestone floor diverted all of their attention. As did the clopping of an ox’s hooves. The clamor of bronze scales over steel chainmail. Along with the purposeful steps of the janissaries.

  “Are you still at this?” asked a slender janissary as he came into view of the dungeon master. The oxen-pulled wagon crawled after him, escorted by his four brothers-in-arms.

  “Still? We just started our fun,” the master retorted as the other two smirked.

  “Fun? You had two directives: to torture this traitor and...” as he pointed to Ashallah, “... to make sure she witnessed what was to come.”

  “She was watching,” the master said as he nodded to her.

  “No matter. The Grand Sultan wants her above. The festivities are to start.”

  “Already?”

  “Haven’t you been listening? Nearly the entire city has gathered at the arena. Their sounds are deafening. Even here, I can hear their murmurs.”

  “She was wailing,” the dungeon master said bluntly.

  The janissary, having lost his interest in the dungeon master, turned to the wagon. With a snap of his fingers, the other four janissaries who had accompanied him moved to Ashallah’s cell. Ashallah stepped back as the barred door creaked open.

  “Do yourself and us a favor. Cooperate.”

  Gladly, Ashallah thought as they clasped her wrists in iron shackles. Just take me away from here.

  The janissaries urged her along into the wagon. Unlike the cage she had known during her desert journey, this transport had no mounted cage. Rather, thick iron rings rested at its corners, with heavy chains attached. Each janissary ran a chain through one of the smaller rings of Ashallah’s shackles before securing the other end back to the iron ring. The result was four tightly-bound chains, any one of which pulled Ashallah back to the center of the wagon if she swayed too far in one direction or another.

  “That ought to do it,” confirmed the slender one. He patted the ox on its hindquarters. The beast lumbered forward, the wagon wheels creaking forward again.

  “What about her?” the dungeon master asked.

  “That...” the slender janissary started. “She was given to you to make an example out of her.” He glanced at Ashallah, who stood over him, silent. “I suppose she served her purpose. You may do with her what you pleased.”

  An icy chill ran down the length of Ashallah’s spine. It remained as she eyed the dungeon master and the two captors, who grinned with devilish intentions set in their minds. The turquoise, her head drooped but her gaze on those around her, muttered.

  “Enough... enough... enough...”

  Stop repeating yourself, Ashallah wanted to shout. Do not give them the satisfaction.

  But she did not shout. And the repetition did not stop. Not for Ashallah. The word echoed through her mind, replicating in her thoughts.

  Yes, enough, Ashallah told herself as the wagon carried he
r away.

  Enough, as the dungeon master reached for a new tool.

  Enough, as she moved past cell after cell, the screams of the turquoise drawing the attention of those down the hall.

  Enough. Of the torture. Of the brutish men who served this empire. Of the Grand Sultan.

  Enough.

  Chapter 26

  The sun had never been brighter.

  It hung directly overhead. Whatever the event, those who had organized it on the Sultan’s behalf had timed it perfectly with the midpoint of the day. For it shone with the strength that an empire should have.

  Ashallah’s eyes adjusted to the radiance a few moments longer than expected. This is his doing, she knew. From midnight to noon. Darkness to light. That demon of a man intends to weaken me at every turn.

  Stay strong. Remain dark.

  The outline of the arena was the first thing she saw. Then the arches of the top level. Followed by the masses, which appeared like wave after wave of men. Many were soldiers not at their current duties and rotations, but no doubt compelled by their commanders to fill the seats of the arena. There were so many that Ashallah thought they overlapped one another.

  The sand of the arena grounds was the last sight to come into focus. Whiter than milk, it reflected the midday sun as if a mirror. Ashallah wondered if from their seats the crowd had difficulty watching. Judging from their murmurs and stares, it appeared not.

  The wagon wheeled into the center of the arena, crawling to a stop. No sooner than it did, the crowd fell silent. Ashallah looked about her, at planks she stood on, the oxen and the janissaries, wondering what made their presence so captivating.

  However, the sudden silence was not for them. For on the marble gallery, partitioned from the rest of the crowd, stood the Grand Sultan with all of his court. He held up his hand before him, his palm quieting the audience, as though his gesture alone controlled their voices. Every eye gazed upon him. Those of men and women. Guards and janissaries. Turquoise and jinn.

  Jinn.

  Ashallah stared at the servile followers, the ones who formed the columns of the Grand Sultan’s power. She spotted only ten amongst Jalal; five lined on each side of him. Of them, only one garnered her attention: the dark-eyed demon who flanked the Sultan’s right side, closest to his raised hand. The one with gold script emblazoned over blood-red skin. He appeared just as he was on the day he hovered over the arena in Yasem.

  More were among the Sultan’s entourage, including Hyder and a great many of his viziers. They reclined on pillows and rugs of the finest cloth as concubines and servant girls stood by, ready to provide every earthly pleasure. All manner of luxury surrounded them, from bowls of candied dates, burning dishes of incense, crystal pitchers of the finest wine and every jewel and treasure of the finest craftsmanship.

  Ashallah studied it all, wondering how many servants and slaves it took to furnish the gallery with such decadence. The treasures were overwhelming in their grandeur, so much so that one could not help but blink to look upon them too long. Amongst the exuberance, Ashallah spied a lone item to draw her focus even further. A horn of antique cedar. The one Darya had shown her. The very horn she and Rahim had used to summon a jinni to save the three of them. Ashallah shifted her stare to the Grand Sultan, who was seemingly unaware of his captive’s interest in his newfound treasure.

  He has her, Ashallah affirmed to herself. Here. Perhaps just out of sight.

  The Grand Sultan finally lowered his hand. At that, the crowd took their seats. The janissaries then formed a line, with the slender one at the head, and marched to the nearest gate.

  Ashallah glared at the Grand Sultan, not caring if her scowl offended him or his minions. For his part, the Sultan expressed no disapproval. Rather, he took his seat, amongst a dozen silk pillows, as Vizier Hyder rose and clapped his hands.

  “You, Ashallah, of the midnight warriors of Yasem,” Hyder began. “Daughter of one Niyusha. Father unknown.”

  Some in the crowd chuckled. Ashallah’s nostrils flared, knowing the mention of her origins was not standard in such public trials but meant as an affront to her pride, to embarrass her. Obscenities and profanities bellowed through the recesses of her mind. Yet hiding her strongest weapon, she quieted her soul, choosing to save her voice.

  I know who my father is, Ashallah thought but dare not say. He is that dog sitting beside you.

  “Once again, you are charged with insubordination, abandonment of your post, treason, conspiring with the Shadya – known enemies of the state – and three counts of murder. Furthermore, your accusations include conspiring to assassinate the one delivered from Our Watcher in Heaven, Jaha, his earthly son and our divine ruler, the Grand Sultan of Greater Dyli.”

  Jeers and boos erupted from the crowd. From men and women alike. Ashallah held her breath, closed her eyes and listened. Many of the cries and calls in response to the vizier were genuine in their hatred for her. Their degree of malice was overwhelming. Ashallah opened her eyes and held her head high. Somewhere out there Thwayya must be standing, Ashallah assured herself. With others possibly. No, definitely with comrades. She must be there. She must.

  “The Grand Sultan does not consider traitors lightly,” Hyder continued. “Those who sin against him and Greater Dyli weigh on his conscience. Such souls, who he thinks of as his children like all his subjects, burden him with a heavy heart.”

  Like he has a heart.

  “Yet like any great father, The Grand Sultan cannot withhold punishment from his citizens. He must discipline them, to show them the error of their ways, so as to set them up as examples that all of us can learn from, Jaha willing.”

  Jaha’s will is not present. Only this man’s.

  “Citizens of Greater Dyli, this woman before you has sinned against heaven and earth. Therefore, let the wrath of Jaha consume her!”

  An uproar erupted from the crowd. Ashallah nearly raised her hands to her ears, yet stopped herself from giving the Sultan the satisfaction.

  For every thousand voices, there must be one supporter, a woman, a midnight warrior dedicated not to the Sultan but her own kind. Like Thwayya. Deserters of men. There has to be.

  “Her punishment will not be swift though, for neither were her sins. And she will not suffer them alone.”

  At that, Ashallah raised her head higher, considering the vizier’s last word.

  “For unfortunately, this one had help in her treason.”

  More jeers followed. Ashallah ignored them all, not caring whom among the audience could be her saviors. She considered none but one.

  Darya. Will she be put to death alongside me? Will she suffer my fate?

  Chains clanked as the portcullis to her right rose. Ashallah looked to find a handful of women escorted by four dungeon guards. The lot of them were from varied backgrounds. Every one of them was disheveled no doubt from having been abused by the Sultan’s henchmen. An Aliya struggled to cover her face despite her veil and the rest of her white garments being in tatters. Two Rosil limped forward, with one embracing the other for support and vice versa. Other appeared as peasants or Shadya, women inconsequential to Ashallah except for one: Thwayya.

  Unveiled, she marched forward. Every few steps or so, her left leg buckled. She ignored it, not allowing her gait to affect the last moment of pride she probably had.

  To Ashallah’s left, another portcullis rose. Again, four guards appeared. However, this time there was no group to behold, only the singular captive that deserved their undivided attention: Rahim.

  Thank Jaha, Ashallah nearly whispered. He lives.

  Layers of sweat and grime masked his natural skin colors of alternating turquoise and white. Dried rivers of blood caked his bare chest. As he neared, Ashallah could see puncture marks on his flesh, precise and deliberate in their placement to inflict maximum pain. His bloodshot eyes hinted at the suffering he had endured. Still, they glimmered. Not as brightly. All the same, they shone. Because he was there, before her, approaching. At onc
e, Ashallah felt both grateful and afraid. Grateful for seeing a powerful friend, one that could fight, once more. Afraid for the fact that he was in chains, ushered forward by the tips of four spears.

  “Behold your sinners!” Hyder proclaimed as the crowd erupted again with deafening shouts and cries. “Now, behold their punishment!”

  The audience barely had a moment to erupt further when a large crack thundered through the arena. Ashallah bent her back and lowered her shoulders, looking behind her to find the other portcullises that ringed the arena – all of them – rising.

  The heavy crack broke the air again. From the portcullises emerged a hideous sight.

  Turquoise of poor breeding trudged onto the sand of the arena. Unlike Darya or Rahim, their stripes of rich blue skin exuded no brilliance, especially given that the whole of their bodies were unwashed and grungy. Even compared to that turquoise she had witnessed in the catacombs of Yasem, these specimens had somehow fared worse in life. Had it not been for their eyes, Ashallah would have mistaken them for tortured prisoners nearing death.

  The turquoises in the arena first slogged over the sand as though through a bog. Ashallah hardly considered them a threat, until from the dark recesses of an arena tunnel a giant whip snapped at one. The leather plowed into his back, sending the absent-minded turquoise forward. He stumbled, somehow avoiding falling. As he regained his footing, Ashallah could see the violent motion had awakened a deep instinct: an urge to kill.

  The turquoise bellowed at the prisoners. Those nearby, as though stirred from slumber, answered the cry with their own. More whips snapped at the emerging turquoise, rousing an army of raging beasts from their dormant state.

  From behind the angered monsters came the masters with their whips: the Firstborne. Almost as tall as their ancestors, their lean bodies bent as they stooped under the portcullises, only to arch and straighten once within the arena. Their arms ricocheted back as they extended their leather over the air, the tips finding their marks on the backs of their bastard kin. Several more turquoise riled. However, none dared to look back.