Prince of Persia

by James Ponti

  He figured she was bluffing and ignored her. Dastan took a deep breath, pressed the button, and waited.

  Nothing happened . . . except that Tamina started laughing at him.

  “This sand,” he demanded. “You have more of it?”

  “Of course not,” she replied.

  Dastan studied her carefully. “How can I get some?”

  “Try standing on your head and holding your breath,” she offered with a sly smile.

  He realized it was pointless to argue with her. Instead of pressing her for information, he remained quiet and they continued to walk in silence.

  The desert trek was difficult for both, but harder on Tamina. Dastan was no Bedouin, but he was used to desert living. Tamina, though, had lived her entire life in the lush Alamut Valley.

  “I’m thirsty,” she protested after they’d been traveling a while.

  Dastan rolled his eyes and tossed her their lone canteen. She grudgingly accepted it with thanks.

  As they continued walking, Tamina tried to figure out what was going on in Dastan’s head. She wanted to get the Dagger back. To do so she needed to fully understand Dastan’s thinking.

  “If you can’t show your uncle how the Dagger works,” she asked eventually, “why in the world would he believe you?”

  “That’s not your problem,” Dastan replied, giving her little to go on.

  Again, silence descended. This time, it was broken when Tamina said, “You know, you really walk like one. Head held high, chest out, long, stomping strides.” She imitated him. “The walk of a self-satisfied Persian prince.”

  Dastan did not respond.

  “No doubt it comes from being told the world is yours since birth—and actually believing it.”

  Dastan had finally heard enough.

  “I wasn’t born in a palace like you,” he said, whirling to face her. “I was born in the slums of Nasaf. I lived if I fought and clawed for it.”

  He let this sink in. “Then how—?” Tamina asked, stunned.

  “The king rode into the market one day and found me, took me in, gave me a life, a family, a home,” he answered. “So what you’re looking at is the walk of a man who just lost everything!”

  Tamina was speechless. There was more to this prince it would seem, than she first realized. Sharaman must have seen something special in Datsan to pluck him from the street.

  Not much was said again until they came upon a group of skeletons mounted on stakes.

  “Who were these people?” Tamina asked, her voice tinged with fear.

  Dastan motioned across the expanse of desert before them. “Years ago, this valley held the biggest salt mine in the empire. Until its slaves rose up and killed their masters.”

  Tamina nodded slowly, her face turning pale. These skeletons must have been the masters.

  “I heard they boiled them alive,” he added. “Welcome to the Valley of the Slaves, Your Highness.”

  The sight of the skeletons silenced Tamina for a while. She tried to keep up but started to fall behind his steady pace.

  “I’m desperate for a drop of water,” she gasped.

  “Well, that’s more than we have, since you emptied our canteen hours ago,” he answered without bothering to turn around and face her.

  He waited for one of her typical responses, but she was quiet.

  “A miracle,” he said mockingly. “I’ve silenced the princess.”

  But she was too quiet. Turning around, he saw that she had collapsed.

  “Tamina!” he called out as he rushed to her. Rolling her over, he saw that she was unconscious.

  “Tamina! Can you hear me?” He tried to shake her awake.

  He reached to get a blanket to help prop up her head. When Dastan’s back was turned, Tamina’s eyes opened. She smiled.

  This was just what she wanted to happen. Taking advantage of the opportunity, she whacked him across the back of the head with a large bone that she had slyly picked up and hidden in her cloak.

  Dastan reached behind and felt the bump on his head. A look of bewilderment came over his face. Then, a split second later, his eyes rolled back and he passed out facedown in the sand.

  “Yes, Dastan,” Tamina said mockingly, “I can hear you.”

  With Dastan unconscious, she reached down and pulled the Dagger from his belt and stuck it into her own. She quickly hopped up on Aksh’s back and spurred the stallion into action.

  Dastan had no idea how long he had lain in the sand beneath the sweltering sun. All he knew was that when he finally began to regain consciousness, he was not alone.

  First he glimpsed a shadow pass over him, then another. He squinted as he looked up into the light and tried to make out the figures standing above him.

  Although the bump on the back of his head continued to throb with pain, his vision began to return. When it finally came into focus, he wished it hadn’t.

  A dozen men on horseback surrounded him. They wore a mixture of Persian finery, Bedouin cloaks, and other styles. Each carried an assortment of weapons, and not one betrayed the slightest hint of compassion for the poor soul abandoned in the desert.

  Dastan knew immediately—these must be the bloodthirsty slaves that gave the valley its name.

  Dastan tried to scramble up onto his feet but was stopped when something landed on the ground between his legs with a mighty thwack.

  He looked at the object, a tri-bladed throwing knife with African markings.

  He gulped.

  “Do you know where you are, Persian?” a voice demanded.

  Dastan looked up at the speaker. This was the leader, a man named Sheikh Amar, whose face was as craggy and wind-ravaged as the land he controlled.

  Dastan nodded.

  “And yet you enter still?” Amar said, shaking his head with disapproval.

  Dastan remained silent, but nodded again.

  “In the heart of Sudan, there’s a tribe of warriors called Ngbaka,” Amar said, his voice dark, “striking fear into all they cross. Ngbaka are masters of the throwing knife.”

  Amar motioned to one of his riders, an African who wore a bandolier of tri-bladed knives across his chest. They looked just like the one currently on the ground between Dastan’s legs. The rider had another blade in his hand, ready to throw.

  “This is Seso of the Ngbaka,” Amar went on. “I had the good fortune of saving his life, which means he’s enduringly indebted to me. So tell me, Persian who enters our valley uninvited, is there any reason I shouldn’t ask him to put his next throw just a bit higher?”

  Dastan looked up at the man and smiled. In fact, he did have a reason. One he thought the sheikh would be very interested in hearing. . . .

  Chapter Nine

  Unaware of Dastan’s meeting, Tamina rode Aksh through a narrow canyon of rock and sand. She checked the position of the sun in the sky to make sure she was still heading in the right direction. The Guardian Temple was hidden in the mountains to the north. Nobody else knew of its existence, so the Dagger would be safe there.

  She stopped for a moment to give Aksh a rest, and when she did she pulled the Dagger from her belt. The handle was now empty, but around her neck she wore a small amulet filled with more of the glowing sand. Dastan had been right to doubt her.

  She went to pour the sand into the handle. But before she could fill it, a group of cloaked riders appeared from all sides, trapping her. It was Sheikh Amar and his men.

  She quickly slid the amulet back out of view and looked for an escape route. There was none.

  Sheikh Amar approached on his horse and looked her over. He smiled and nodded to another rider. Lowering his hood, the man revealed his face. It was Dastan.

  “You’re right,” Amar told the prince. “She’s not bad. Could smell better, but we have a deal.”

  Dastan smiled as he pulled up next to her and took the Dagger from her belt.

  “Clever princess,” he said bitingly.

  Dastan had traded her—as if she were a camel!


  With Tamina in their grasp, the group rode out of the canyon and across the desert to the site of an abandoned salt mine. They entered it through a tunnel.

  “Such a noble prince,” Tamina hissed as they walked. “Eagerly leaping to assist the fallen beauty.”

  Dastan looked her up and down. “Who said you were a beauty?” he asked.

  Seething, Tamina practically stammered her reply. “There must be some reason you can’t take your eyes off me.”

  Dastan laughed out loud. “I don’t trust you,” he said simply.

  They continued to walk. The walls rumbled disconcertingly, and there was the sound of shouting up ahead. Pulling Tamina aside at an opportune moment, Dastan reached toward her neck. Quick as a wink, he pulled off her amulet. Flipping it open, he saw the glowing sand inside. With a satisfied grin, he filled the Dagger.

  “When my uncle sees the power of this Dagger, he’ll believe our invasion was a lie. Thank you, Your Highness.”

  Tamina’s hands clenched. Dastan had no idea what power he was dealing with. And she could not risk telling him. Not yet. “That Dagger is sacred,” she said instead, trying to keep her voice down. “It’s only allowed to leave Alamut if the city falls. Dastan, if the Dagger falls into the wrong hands—”

  Raising a hand, he silenced her. “I’ll keep your knife safe,” he said.

  “This is a matter for the gods,” she replied. “Not man.”

  While they were talking, Amar’s men had been leading them further and further down the tunnel. The sound of cheering had grown even louder. Suddenly, one of Amar’s men grabbed Tamina and dragged her away, kicking and screaming. Dastan was helpless to do anything.

  A moment later, sunlight appeared. They had reached the end of the tunnel—the heart of the old mine. Dastan could not believe his eyes. It had been converted into a track where ostriches competed in races and spectators bet on the outcomes, hidden from outside eyes by the walls around the mine.

  “Ostrich racing?” Dastan said.

  “Every Tuesday and Thursday,” Amar replied. “What they lack in beauty, they make up for in fighting spirit. And the races are easy to fix.”

  After all the terrifying stories Dastan had heard about the Valley of the Slaves, it was simply a home for unregulated gambling?

  “Not what you were expecting, Persian?” Amar chuckled.

  “I’ve heard stories,” Dastan replied, shaking his head.

  “The bloodthirsty slaves that murdered their masters?” Amar offered. “A great story but, alas, untrue.”

  “What about the skeletons we saw?” asked Dastan.

  “Bought from a Gypsy in Bukhara,” he explained. “I crafted our lurid reputation to fend off the most insidious evil stalking this forsaken land—taxes.”

  Amar looked at the crowd. “Of course, there is the small matter of blood feuds,” he said, almost as an afterthought. Then, his gaze shifted to the stands surrounding the ring. Dastan followed his look and saw Tamina.

  With sudden clarity, Dastan realized what Tamina’s role would be here. The stands were filled with young women serving food and drinks to the spectators. Tamina was one of them now, dressed in a rather revealing outfit. Perhaps Dastan had been too hasty in his dealings with the sheikh.

  “It’s odd, Persian,” Amar said, looking thoughtful. “You bear a remarkable likeness to the disgraced prince who fled after murdering the king.”

  Seeing the glimmer in the man’s eyes, Dastan realized that Amar and his men had had their own plan all along. He turned to run, but a knife flew through the air and pinned his cloak against a wooden post.

  Dastan looked up to see Seso standing there with a proud smile.

  “Have I told you about the Ngbaka?” Amar laughed.

  “Yes, you have,” Dastan answered.

  Amar shook his head. “Your brother Tus has offered a reward for you that, between the two of us, borders on the obscene. I’d turn in my own mother to collect that gold.” Amar turned to his men. “Take him to the Persian outpost.”

  Seso reached over and took the Dagger from Dastan’s belt.

  “Nice knife,” the Ngbaka warrior said before tossing it to Amar. The sheikh looked it over for a moment before handing it to one of his men.

  “Melt it down for the jewels,” he instructed.

  From her place near the holding pen where the ostriches were kept between races, Tamina saw everything. She saw the Dagger get taken from Dastan and watched as it was passed along. This couldn’t happen! Suddenly she had an idea. Kicking open the gate, she freed the ostriches, who immediately began to run wild through the crowd.

  In the confusion, Dastan broke free and managed to grab the Dagger—and Tamina. Together, they raced across the track, leaving pandemonium behind them as fights erupted and weapons were drawn.

  “Get to the tunnel!” Tamina shouted, pointing at the path that led back to the surface.

  With Amar and his men in hot pursuit, Dastan and Tamina managed to make it to a gate in the tunnel. Once they ran through it, Tamina pulled a lever, slamming it shut and locking their very unhappy pursuers on the other side. They were safe—for now.

  Out of necessity, Dastan and Tamina had once again become partners. They rode Aksh across the Valley of the Slaves until they reached a plateau that overlooked Avrat, the funerary city of the Persian Empire.

  From their position on the high ground, they had a full view of the endless line of people winding across the desert floor to enter the city.

  “They’ve all come for my father’s funeral,” Dastan said sadly.

  “There’s got to be a hundred Persian soldiers watching those gates,” Tamina pointed out.

  She had no choice. She had to fill him in— a little. “There’s a Guardian Temple hidden in the mountains outside Alamut,” she said urgently. “Only the priests know of it. It’s the only place the Dagger can rest safely.”

  Dastan ignored her. His stubbornness was driving her mad. Looking at the emotions running across his face, she knew she had to try to appeal to him once more—and hopefully get through. “Dastan,” she said gently, “why do you think your father took you off the street that day?”

  Finally, Dastan turned to look at her. “I suppose he felt something for me,” he answered.

  “It was something far greater than love— the gods have a plan for you—a destiny.”

  Dastan threw back his head and laughed. “I believe in what I can hold in my fist and see with my eyes,” he said.

  Tamina sighed. She wasn’t getting through to him, and time was running out. “I’m begging you—stop thinking about what you used to be and ask, ‘What are you supposed to be?’”

  Dastan was silent as Tamina’s words ran through his head, reminding him of his father and the last words he said to him. Could he become a great man? To figure that out, he needed Nizam. “If you want to stay close to your precious Dagger,” Dastan informed her, shaking off his thoughts, “you’re going to help me get into Avrat.”

  She had no choice. Tamina was going to Avrat.

  Chapter Ten

  As dangerous as it had been in the Valley of the Slaves, sneaking through Avrat was even more terrifying. There were soldiers everywhere, and if anyone recognized Dastan or Tamina, they would be captured immediately.

  While Tamina cracked nuts and served them to a particularly large dignitary, Dastan daringly wove his way alongside the funeral procession and managed to slip a note underneath the saddle of his uncle’s horse. The note directed Nizam to meet Dastan at an out of the way stable near the bazaar entrance. A few hours later, he arrived. Tamina stayed hidden in the shadows, eager to overhear the conversation.

  “You should not have asked me here,” Nizam said when he saw his nephew appear out of the shadows.

  “I had no choice, Uncle,” Dastan responded, relieved to see the older man’s familiar face. “I didn’t kill my father. You know I would never do such a thing.”

  “Your actions speak otherwise,” N
izam replied.

  “I had no choice but to flee. It was Tus that gave me the cloak. It was poisoned by his hand.”

  Nizam listened skeptically as Dastan told him his theory.

  “The invasion of Alamut was a lie!” Dastan continued. “Tus is after power. He searches not for forges, but for the sand to fuel a mystical device.”

  Nizam’s eyes narrowed. “This is why you brought me here, Dastan? Mystical devices?” His voice was filled with disdain, but his eyes were oddly excited.

  “The Dagger is why Tus invaded Alamut,” Dastan said. Reaching into the sleeve of his cloak, he pulled out a bundle. But, when he opened the bundle, the magical weapon that was supposed to be inside was missing. In its place was a nutcracker.

  “Is this some sort of joke?” Nizam demanded.

  “I had it, Uncle,” Dastan said. “I swear.”

  “Then where is your so-called evidence?” he asked.

  His heart pounding, Dastan turned to confront Tamina. But she was no longer standing lookout. He stifled a groan of rage. She must have taken the Dagger and headed for that Guardian Temple she had been going on about! Then he noticed something about Nizam.

  “Yourhands, Uncle,” he said. “They’reburned.”

  “Yes, from trying to pull the poisoned cloak off your father,” Nizam replied.

  Dastan thought back to his father’s death. Every moment of the terrible scene was seared into his memory. At no point did his uncle try to get the robe off Sharaman. That meant his hands could have only been burned by the poison—if he had been the one who poisoned the cloak in the first place!

  “Is something wrong, Dastan?” Nizam asked.

  Nizam was the traitor. Dastan had revealed the plot to the person who was behind it all. Dastan turned and started to run. As he did, an arrow grazed his side. He looked up to find soldiers everywhere. It was a trap!

  Dastan didn’t have Tamina’s help the way he did in Alamut. But here he didn’t need it. Avrat was a royal city of the Persian Empire, one that any prince of Persia knew inside and out.

  He quickly made his way to the rooftops, a place he could navigate easily while others could not. Just as when he had been a peasant messenger, Dastan skillfully ran along the rooftops. Archers fired at him, but with his amazing speed, he not only avoided the arrows but managed to pluck two of them from the air.