Prince of Persia

by James Ponti

  Dastan’s mind went back to the days when he was a boy living in the streets. Then, he survived by stealing food to eat and stayed one step ahead of trouble by outrunning an earlier generation of soldiers. Now, he just had to do the same.

  But one soldier would not give up the chase—Garsiv. Clued in by Nizam, Garsiv had quickly gotten in on the action.

  When the brothers met up, anger over disobeyed orders in Alamut and vengeful fury over the murder of their father had Garsiv ready to teach Dastan the ultimate lesson of life and death.

  At first, Dastan tried to deflect Garsiv’s blows with his sword, but the older prince’s ax was too strong and Garsiv was too skilled. Dastan realized he needed to outsmart his brother.

  In desperation, he moved over to an ornate wooden stairwell in the courtyard. With each swing, Garsiv’s fury grew. In fact, the swings were so hard that they were knocking out chunks of the stairway.

  “We’re not fighting with sticks anymore, little brother,” Garsiv said menacingly.

  “I didn’t kill our father!” Dastan yelled.

  “Then God will pardon you,” Garsiv raged, “after your head rolls!”

  Garsiv moved for the final blow, but at the last moment, Dastan slid out of the way and the ax dug deep into the wood and stuck.

  Unable to free the blade, Garsiv was now trapped and exposed. Dastan grabbed a support beam, pushed off the wall, and spun through the air—landing a powerful kick to the side of Garsiv’s head.

  Garsiv stumbled to the ground, certain that his brother was about to kill him. But Dastan could do no such thing. He loved his brother and could never hurt him.

  Instead, Dastan turned his back on his brother and raced out of the city, his heart breaking with every step. He needed to find Tamina—and the Dagger. He had to prove his innocence.

  Garsiv angrily paced around the royal dining tent while Nizam ate off an elaborate place setting.

  “He won’t get out of the city,” Garsiv declared.

  Nizam took a bite of his dinner before responding. “I’m sure he already has.”

  Garsiv realized Nizam was right. “I’ve let you down, Uncle.”

  “Eat something,” Nizam replied, motioning to Garsiv’s plate of untouched food.

  Garsiv shook his head. “I’ve been thinking,” he continued. “Why would Dastan come to Avrat, where he knows it’s dangerous?”

  “I’ve been wondering the same thing,” a voice boomed.

  They looked up to see Tus entering the tent, resplendent in the robes of the king of Persia.

  “I thought you were staying in Alamut,” said Garsiv.

  Tus winked at his brother. “Changing one’s mind is a king’s prerogative.”

  Nizam forced a smile. “A wonderful surprise.”

  “Tell me about Dastan, Uncle,” Tus said.

  Nizam shook his head. “I hoped to spare you this.” Nizam looked into Tus’s eyes and lied. “Dastan hopes to stir a rebellion.”

  “He wants the throne?” Tus asked, surprised.

  “I fear so, my lord,” Nizam replied. “This is difficult to say. But putting Dastan on trial would only give him a stage. My advice would be to avoid a trial.”

  This seemed odd to Garsiv, and he shot his brother a look. Tus nodded. He had noticed it, too.

  “Your advice is always welcome to us, Uncle,” Tus answered. “But whatever Dastan’s crimes, a public trial will best communicate the king I hope to be. Strong, but honoring the rule of law. We are not savages.”

  Nizam was quiet for a moment and then smiled. “You grow more a king every day,” he declared.

  “Not without your wisdom, Uncle,” Tus responded. Then he turned to his brother. “Dastan must be found. He must be brought to justice.”

  Garsiv nodded. He would not allow Dastan to escape him again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dastan’s search for Tamina and the Dagger turned out to be much easier than he expected. In the middle of the desert, he came across a cluster of camel tracks left by Bedouin nomads. The fact that there were tracks was not uncommon, as Bedouins often traveled the desert in caravans. What caught Dastan’s attention were the tracks of one particular camel in the group. Unlike the others, which all followed straight lines, this set veered wildly back and forth. One of the riders apparently had no experience riding a camel.

  He followed the tracks throughout the night, and by early morning they had led him to what had recently been a camp. There he found a single person asleep on the ground.

  Tamina. Just as he expected.

  “Where did the tribesmen go?” she asked, panicking when she awoke.

  “Bedouins set out early,” he said with a smile. “Especially if they’re trying to ditch someone. Judging from your tracks, you were slowing them down.”

  Tamina closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “I had no choice but to leave,” Tamina said. “I take it your uncle didn’t listen to you.”

  Dastan shook his head. “Worse than that. While we spoke, I saw his hand had been burned. He said it happened trying to pull free the cloak that killed my father.” Dastan took a deep breath. “My uncle made no move to touch that cloak.”

  “So the burns?” Tamina asked.

  “He handled the cloak before then,” Dastan reasoned. “He must have been the one who poisoned it. It wasn’t Tus. It was Nizam.”

  Dastan looked out over the dunes, his face lined with pain.

  “I’m sorry, Dastan,” Tamina finally said.

  “I thought he loved my father. But he didn’t,” Dastan said softly. “He hated spending his life as brother to the king. He wanted the crown for himself.”

  Still, Dastan could not figure out how killing Sharaman helped Nizam. Tus was next in line for the throne, not Nizam. Nizam would still not be king. What purpose did all this violence serve, then? He looked at the princess. “What aren’t you telling me?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she pointed behind Dastan. A sandstorm was coming. Using her distraction to his advantage, Dastan snatched the Dagger back from her. “If you want it back, tell me everything. No more lies.”

  Tamina’s eyes darted from the Dagger to the storm and then back again. She had no choice. She nodded.

  Quickly, Dastan pulled Aksh to the ground and used the saddle blanket and his sword to make a temporary tent to shield them.

  As they sat huddled together, Dastan turned to Tamina. “I know Nizam needs the Dagger,” he said. “He’s got our army searching Alamut for more of the sand. But what else? What secret lies under your city?”

  Tamina looked deeply into Dastan’s eyes and decided she needed to trust him. Some force continued to bring them together— perhaps he was destined to help her.

  “In Alamut rests the beating heart of all life on earth,” she began softly. “The Sandglass of the Gods.”

  She paused, collecting her thoughts. This was a story that had never been shared with an outsider before. For a moment, the only noise was that of the wind howling outside their makeshift tent. Then Tamina told Dastan the story that had shaped her destiny.

  “Long ago, the gods looked down at man and saw nothing but greed and treachery. So they sent a great sandstorm to destroy all, wipe clean the face of the earth. But one young girl survived.

  “The gods looked down on her and, seeing the purity within, were reminded of man’s potential for good. So they returned man to earth and swept the sands into the Sandglass.”

  Aksh whinnied, afraid of the storm outside. Dastan and Tamina both reached up and rubbed his stomach. Dastan waited patiently for her to go on, realizing how much this meant to Tamina . . . and possibly to him.

  “The glass embodies our existence,” she continued. “As long as the sand runs through it, time moves forward and man’s survival is assured. The Sandglass controls time itself— reminds us that we are mortal.”

  “What about the Dagger?” Dastan asked.

  “Given to the girl whose goodness wo
n man his reprieve. The blade is the only thing that can pierce the glass and remove the Sands of Time. But the handle only holds one minute.”

  Her words echoed through the small space. “If one were to place the Dagger in the Sandglass and press the jewel button at the same time?” Dastan hedged.

  Tamina’s eyes opened wide. This was her greatest fear. “Sand would flow through, endlessly,” she said.

  “You could turn back time as far as you like?” Dastan thought back to his father’s favorite story. “When my father was a boy, Nizam saved his life while hunting,” he told her. “My uncle means to go back in time and undo what he did—not save my father. That would make him king for a lifetime.”

  Outside, the storm was quieting. But inside the tent, Dastan’s own storm was only growing.

  “The sands contained within the Sandglass are volatile,” Tamina warned. “That’s why it’s sealed. Opening the Dagger while it’s in the chamber breaks the seal. The Sands of Time would no longer be contained, and all mankind would pay for Nizam’s lust for power.”

  Dastan considered this as the storm finally died down. Shaking the sand off the tent, they stepped outside into the sunlight.

  “The secret Guardian Temple outside Alamut is a sanctuary,” Tamina told him. “The Dagger must be delivered back to the safety of this sacred home. Give me back the Dagger so I can take it there.”

  Dastan shook his head. “I’m sorry, Princess. I can’t do that,” he told her.

  Her mouth dropped open at his next words: “I’m coming with you.”

  “You’re going to help me?” Tamina asked.

  Dastan smiled as he climbed up onto Aksh’s saddle. He reached down and offered his hand.

  “We can sit here and chat, or you can get on the horse,” he said. He was no longer worried about using the Dagger to prove his own innocence. He just wanted to make sure Nizam never got hold of it.

  Smiling, Tamina took his hand.

  Tus and Garsiv were determined to capture Dastan and put him on trial. This worried Nizam. It was not part of his plan. To ensure that did not happen, he needed to enlist . . . help. To do that he travelled to the city of Bukhara, where he kept a sprawling private estate.

  As he entered the large marble hallway of his mansion, he was greeted by the head servant.

  “I need to speak to our guests,” Nizam informed him.

  “About them, my lord,” the servant answered, trying to remain tactful. “Their practices are unusual. The servants have seen things, heard strange sounds. Last week, one of the horses vanished.”

  The servant obviously expected this news to have more of an impact on Nizam. But the man only smiled.

  “Just make sure the servants keep their mouths shut,” he informed him. “Or, I promise you, they will vanish as well.”

  Moments later, Nizam was carrying a torch as he descended a giant stone staircase to a place deep below the estate. At the bottom of the stairway, he reached an ancient wooden door with the image of a griffin carved into it.

  Opening the door, he entered a dark chamber filled with dense smoke that made it impossible to see the walls. The floor was carved lattice, and through it Nizam could see glimpses of a second chamber below, where a mysterious ritual was taking place by firelight.

  A figure stepped out from the darkness and smoke and stared at Nizam with deathly pale blue eyes. It was the “spy” from the war council who had helped Nizam convince Tus to attack Alamut. But, here in this haze, he didn’t seem to be a spy at all. He barely seemed human.

  “I have another task for you Hassansin,” said Nizam. “But you’ll have to be quick. Your prey has a head start.”

  The servants had a right to be fearful. The Hassansins were an evil sect of killers that had been banished from the kingdom by Sharaman. They were numb to reality and lived in an almost sleeplike trance. They derived great pleasure from practicing their deadly arts. Yet despite their outlaw status, Nizam had been protecting them for occasions such as this— unbeknownst to his brother or nephews.

  “It doesn’t interfere with your skill?” Nizam asked, referring to the dizzying smoke that filled the chamber.

  “In the smoke we see visions of our future, visions of death,” he informed Nizam. “In the trance we can find anything, including your nephew.”

  Nizam smiled before saying, “Then I hope you will see more death soon.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Far from Bukhara, Tamina’s eyes widened in delight. After riding hard for what felt like forever, it seemed she and Dastan might have a break. Up ahead, she spied an oasis of lush green plants and sparkling blue water.

  “Our journey is blessed,” she said with weary satisfaction. “We’ll stop for water and push for the mountain pass by nightfall,” she instructed Dastan.

  “I think you’re enjoying telling me what to do a little too much,” he said with a laugh.

  Surprisingly, the joint task had brought the two closer. As they traveled toward the Guardian Temple, they had become a team, working together. Dastan had been impressed by Tamina’s ability to withstand and adapt to such an unforgiving journey. And she was taken by the obvious goodness in his heart and the strength of his character.

  Now she ably led Aksh to the water, and Dastan began filling their canteens. The oasis seemed almost too good to be true, a thriving island in the middle of a lifeless sea of sand.

  Much to their surprise, they were not alone. Also drinking from the oasis was an animal that seemed misplaced in the middle of the desert— an ostrich.

  Dastan stared at it for a moment before realizing this meant trouble. The oasis was too good to be true. Spinning around to get his sword, he came face-to-face with Sheikh Amar.

  The sheikh flashed a devilishly crooked smile as his men emerged from the brush.

  “We parted under rushed circumstances,” he said with mocking sincerity. “I never got to say good-bye.”

  Dastan and Tamina shared a nervous look as Amar’s men surrounded them.

  “We’ve been tracking you for days,” he said proudly. “The little riot you started kept going for two days. Bathsheba here is all that’s left of my gaming empire!” He motioned to the ostrich. “So, it occurred to me, the only way to recoup my losses was to track down the young lovers who cast this dark cloud upon me. I need the price on your heads.”

  Despite the dark undertone to the sheikh’s words, Dastan was not listening. He was looking at the dunes near the oasis. There seemed to be sand funnels swirling atop them. This was not good.

  “Sheikh Amar,” Dastan pleaded, “listen to me.”

  “I’d rather not,” Amar said.

  He signaled some of his men, and they grabbed Dastan and started to tie him up.

  “Noble sheikh,” Tamina implored, “we are on a sacred journey.”

  Amar laughed. “What’s more sacred than Persian gold?”

  He signaled once more and some other men began to tie her up as well.

  Seso, the Ngbaka knife-thrower, walked up to Dastan and pulled the Dagger from his belt.

  “Nice knife,” he said with a hearty laugh.

  Dastan strained against the ropes that bound him, but there was nothing he could do. He and Tamina were prisoners—again.

  Amar and his men had ridden through the desert for days, tracking Dastan and Tamina. They were exhausted. He decided that they would make camp in the oasis and enjoy its comforts before heading off the next morning to turn them in to Persian officials.

  But that night, while everyone slept, a group of hooded riders raced across the desert toward them. There were seven in all, riding with amazing precision.

  The Hassansins.

  When they reached a bluff overlooking the oasis, they finally came to a stop. Silently they dismounted their horses.

  The pale blue eyes of the lead Hassansin looked down on his target. Only two of Amar’s men were standing guard while the others slept around a campfire.

  This will be easy, thought the Ha
ssansin.

  He lowered his arms toward the ground, and there was a flash of green as something crawled from each sleeve and burrowed into the sand. Pit vipers.

  Amar’s two guards were trying not to fall asleep as they scanned the horizon looking for any potential threats. Suddenly one of the guards flinched and then collapsed onto the ground.

  Before the other guard could even begin to figure out what was happening, he spied something moving beneath the surface of the sand.

  He stepped back in horror. Just as he was about to scream, a pit viper launched out of the ground like an arrow, sinking its fangs into his neck.

  The dead man collapsed in a heap next to his partner, and the snake slid across his body. It disappeared under the sand again as it went in search of its next victim.

  The vipers raced toward where the others slept. One moved right past Aksh, causing him to whinny.

  The sound of the horse woke Seso. He was fully alert in an instant, ready to attack any intruder. Scanning the area, he didn’t see anyone.

  Then he noticed the furrow racing through the sand toward him. As he watched in horror, a pit viper emerged from the sand, looking for a target. The viper set its sights on him. Then it flicked its forked tongue in the air and began to coil.

  Just as it went to strike, the snake was smashed by a smoldering log and knocked away into the darkness.

  Dastan had just saved Seso’s life! Even with his hands tied, the prince had managed to grab a log from the fire and use it on the snake.

  “Give me the Dagger!” Dastan urgently demanded.

  Seso didn’t know what to do. He looked over at Dastan’s tied-up hands. Then he saw the undulating ground.

  “If you want to live,” Dastan pleaded, “give me the Dagger.”

  Seso didn’t argue. He used the Dagger to cut the ropes that bound Dastan’s hands and passed it to him just as three vipers launched from the sand directly at Dastan. When they were in the air, he hit the jeweled button on the Dagger’s handle and everything froze. One viper was only inches from his face, its jaws open wide.