“Sharon,” he mumbled. “Forgive me. I did … my best …” And then he felt nothing, not even the searing heat of the fire as it encompassed and consumed him.
The roars of the invaders continued. Resistance at the broken walls had all but ended, the last gatherings of defenders being systematically isolated and killed. Then, as the afternoon sun blazed at its height, through the smashed and twisted main gate came the king of the Huns himself: the mighty khan, Kabul, stoic and fearsome in his horned helmet, powerful arms tanned and golden, red beard flowing halfway down his swollen chest. He rode upon a fine white Arabian stallion proudly, reining in the snorting horse as he crossed over the smoldering piles of rubble and ash.
His followers wildly cheered his presence, inspired by their lightning victory. They raised their blood-soaked weapons and shouted his name over and over again. Kabul smiled grimly; he lifted his own brilliantly shining scimitar and howled like a jackal the name of Ulat, dark god who had delivered unto his tribe this glorious day.
Charred and limbless bodies were trampled underfoot by the khan and his flanking sons. They laughed lustily, clasping one another in gleeful embrace, victoriously marching through the smoke-filled streets where humbled citizens of the world’s most fabulous city stood in chains.
Kabul halted, looked about at the carnage, then fixed his stony glare to the front. Behind him the machines of destruction were being rolled inside the gates. “To the palace!” he cried. “And let no one survive!”
Chapter Seven
The attack on the palace had so far lasted well into the early hours of morning, the palace guard doggedly giving the invading hordes the fiercest resistance they had yet encountered. Red-hot light from the flaring flames slashed against the high, gray, thick walls, pushing back the glowing night. Fiery javelins still sailed overhead, grim, death-stalking missiles tearing across the sky until they hit their mark. The teardrop towers were a shambles, loose stone crashing down as though from a volcanic eruption; steeples and domes were bathed in leaping flames, each shooting higher than the one before it, sending servants, slaves, and wounded soldiers scurrying from one end of the enormous compound to the other in a frantic effort to save their lives.
Shivering with terror, Sharon clutched her arms and stared as the familiar walls, so safe, so protective, now gave way under the blows of iron balls and boulders. A hail of arrows crashed into the double windows, sending slivers of glass flying through the air. Around her, troops hit the floor while servants huddled tightly together, weeping, as the carnage came ever closer. To the tallest spire she and other members of the royal family had been led in the search for safety; but now even this last stronghold was about to be overrun. Outnumbered and exhausted, the last of the palace guard had made a strong stand along the throne and chamber rooms, manning the walls and guard posts up to the lofty tower zenith. From here any who dared look could see the immensity of the wreckage and the slaughter.
She pressed herself tightly against the wall as another arrow slammed past the torn curtains and hit against a tapestry, sending it askew. The floor was littered with fragments of glass, smashed vases, crumbled stone.
“We’ve got to find other shelter,” the wounded captain of the soldiers told them.
Sharon dared a quick peek from the open window, shuddering at the sight of a cohort of barbarians clambering over the walls of the garden below — her garden, now a blood-soaked battlefield where scores of defenders lay scattered and unmoving. The brave soldiers had taken their positions stoutly, a desperate last attempt to at least keep the inner chambers free; but it was as futile a task as trying to hold back the tide of the ocean. The Huns had already domineered their way into every building of the compound save this one, and it was only a matter of time until they captured it as well.
A last defender cried out from the garden; Sharon saw the hatchets bury into his chest, saw him cartwheel backward and sprawl across the rosebushes.
The ceiling shook; thunder like an iron ball crashed into the chambers directly above. Panicked, Sharon spun and dived for the balcony just as the upper floor gave way and crashed down on them all. The defenders and huddling servants were instantly buried beneath mounds of rubble, many instantly killed, some writhing to free themselves, softly moaning.
Sharon crawled on her knees. She put her hand to the side of her face and felt something warm; blood was trickling from the corner of her eye. She stood up shakily and picked her way across the room. A hand stuck out from the piles of stone, fingers beckoning. By the time she was able to reach the injured soldier and clear away the debris, he breathed his last breath. Tears filled her swollen eyes. There was nothing she could do — not for him, not for any of the others, not even for herself. Crying, she stood up again.
There was moaning from somewhere behind her, and she turned to see a hand emerge slowly from the smashed brick, fingers crooked and bleeding. She ran toward it and frantically worked to clear away the fallen wreckage. At the sight of the bloodied face she gasped. The old servant recognized her and tried to speak, but she hushed him and helped him to stand. Noises were coming from the balcony. A barbarian had climbed up from the garden and was hunkered atop the wall, peering into the destroyed chamber. He saw her and grinned.
The old servant blindly stood in front in an effort to protect her. “No!” she cried. In the blink of an eye the Hun drew back his arm and flung his ax. The blade wheeled and ripped through the servant’s neck, sending him spinning.
Sharon screamed; her attacker laughed with the fire of lust raging in his dark eyes. He came forward, drawing a knife from his belt. Sharon turned and ran, not daring to look behind. The folds of her draped dress encumbered her as she struggled over the rubble, lungs choked with dust. She broke past the shattered doorway and came panting out into the open corridor. It was deserted and silent, an eerie ghost of its former self. Doric columns stood cracked and groaning, the walls and ceiling slowly caving in; the tiled floor was cracked, and braziers lay where they were knocked over by servants in flight, causing tiny fires to smolder in every direction.
Down the grand, opulent hallway she raced as fast as she could, knowing her pursuer to be close behind. Heart thumping savagely, she dashed dumbly to the darkened hall at the left, close to the imperial chambers of the emir. At the recess of an arched entrance she stopped to catch her breath, not looking back but hearing the heavy trampling of boots. Behind a torn curtain she took refuge, sweat glistening over her golden skin, and bit her lip hard to squelch a scream.
The Hun paused in his search. Through the shadows she could see his silhouette dimly. He toyed with the knife, squinting as he examined the corridor in an effort to discern which way she had come. He started one way, then inexplicably turned, heading closer to her. Sharon shut her eyes and prayed: Merciful Allah, don’t let him find me!
Lizardlike, from a black chamber across the hall, a hiding servant scrambled. The Hun saw her and gave chase. The woman tripped over a smoking brazier and begged for mercy. The Hun laughed loudly, threw her to her knees as she tried to stand, and then pushed her far into the shadows so that no one could see.
Sharon’s flooded eyes could not bear to look. While the frightened servant girl moaned and pleaded, Sharon discarded all thoughts of somehow trying to save her and, ignoring the tightening knots in her stomach, bolted from the curtains, following a twisting stairwell to a low level of the imperial chambers.
A single torch burned in its sconce. These rooms were as silent and foreboding as those above, only here the maimed corpses of several palace soldiers blocking the way gave grim testimony to the fight that must have taken place only moments before.
Sharon swallowed hard and fought down her terror. The Huns were already loose, probably combing the palace chamber by chamber. She knew she had to find someplace to hide.
A weapon, she thought; I need a weapon.
But there was nothing. A fallen soldier still held his bloody sword; Sharon lifted it and groaned with the w
eight. Too heavy; she could never use it. She brushed aside loose hair wildly falling in front of her eyes and felt the pin that clipped her hair at the nape. She pulled it loose slowly and sighed. The gold pin glimmered in the darkness, its tip as sharp as a razor. It wasn’t much, but at least it was something. She grasped it tightly in her right hand and started to move forward again, cautiously stepping into the shadows.
She was more afraid than she had ever been in her life, only this time there was no one to call to help. She was alone — totally alone in a world gone insane. Where was her father? she wondered. Still upon the battlements, struggling to keep the city alive? Or had he been captured, perhaps at this very moment facing a torture worse than death? Death — the word made her shudder. Was Amrath already dead? She shook her head and pushed down the thought. No, he was alive, probably looking for her at this moment, coming to rescue her and whisk her away. Deep in her heart she knew this wasn’t so, knew it to be only a frightened girl’s prayer; yet it was something to cling to, a ray of hope in an abyss of darkness. Only that thought kept her going.
Long minutes passed in total silence. Nowhere was safe — nowhere. She had to keep moving … She reeled around at a peal of sudden laughter. Then she froze, her eyes adjusted to the dim light. At the very end of the hall a door stood slightly ajar, needle-thin streams of light spilling out into the corridor. She drew a deep breath and took a single, agonizing step closer. The laughter came again, shallow, strange.
Huns? Or something else?
One part of her told her to run, to flee from here as quickly as her legs would carry her. But something else gnawed, an instinct assuring her that this was not the enemy; there was no need to panic.
The door was only paces away. Crying was mixed with the peculiar laugh now — deep sobs, a voice curiously familiar. Drawing courage, Sharon went to the entrance and kicked the heavy door open wide. Brightness flooded her eyes and she shaded them with her hand; then she looked inside — and gasped.
The room seemingly had not been disturbed. On the thickly piled rug sat a man cross-legged, back arched forward, face grinning like a court jester’s; if he saw her, he paid no attention. In his hands were several gaily painted toy soldiers, one holding a sword, the other a chain and spiked ball. The man played with the toys in mock combat, hitting first one, then the other, and making low sounds of make-believe battle. When the head of one toy was lopped off clumsily, the man roared, then began to cry.
Filled with despair, Sharon stepped farther inside the chamber, stopping beside a brightly burning brazier. “My lord!” she cried.
The emir of Samarkand turned around slowly, lifting his chin and staring at her coldly. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Who brought you here?”
Sharon gulped and curtsied respectfully. “My … my lord,” she stammered. “Don’t you recognize me? Sharon, my lord. Daughter of your cousin, Amrath …”
The emir twitched his nose. “Amrath? Amrath? Oh, yes — our ambassador. How is he? Does the Persian court delight him as I suspect it does?”
Taking another step, she gazed into the emir’s eyes, noticing that they were glassy and reddened. “My father has not been in the Persian court for more than three years, sire. You recalled him yourself. Don’t you remember?”
The emir frowned and sighed. He waved a hand in the air imperiously. “Detail, detail; why must I always be bothered with such trivial matters? And what are you doing here, anyway?” His gaze became more quizzical, more strained.
“The fighting, sire. Surely you know —”
“Fighting? Yes …” His mouth turned down distastefully. “Leave,” he commanded in a regal tone. Sharon backstepped. “Go on!” he shouted. “Get out! Get out!”
“But, my lord, you are not safe here. The enemy has invaded the palace; your guard is no longer here to protect you.”
Her words must have triggered something within his fever-racked brain, for the emir of Samarkand suddenly covered his face with his hands and began to weep openly, unashamedly, deep, unbridled sobs. He looked at Sharon between his fingers and asked, childlike, “How did this happen, Princess? What is going to become of us?” And as he moaned in his agony, his head bobbed up and down uncontrollably, like an apple in a barrel of water.
Sharon lowered her gaze respectfully, pained to see the once mighty emir appear before her like this, an empty shell of a man. “We must flee at once, my lord — seek some hidden shelter where we won’t be found. Come with me, sire. Perhaps together —”
He shook his head sorrowfully, resplendent crown askew. “It … it’s too late for that,” he sniveled, trembling.
“But there’s no other choice, lord. Please …” She held out her hand for him to take and he stood slowly. His shoulders sagged; the torture in his face was pitiful for the girl to look upon. “Then all is lost,” he said, sighing. Lifting his face to the ceiling as though to the sky, he said, “Am I to be found and captured by the barbarians, dragged before this king of Huns like a dog in chains?”
There was noise from outside; Sharon could hear muffled calls of enemy troops as they raced the length of the labyrinth of hallways. Every minute was precious, she knew — every second. To delay was to be found for certain. “We must leave, sire — now. Follow me out.”
“No!” the emir said, stamping his feet, his voice echoing across the chamber. “I shall not run away!” He spread out his arms grandly. “This is my empire! I am the emir!”
“There is no empire!” flared the young princess. “Look about you, sire. Are you blinded to the truth? Samarkand has been taken; we are a people defeated.”
“Liar!” She jumped back as he pounded a fist into an open palm. The madness had overcome him again; he was no longer rational. “Never will I leave!” he raged, spittle sputtering from his lips. “Do you hear? Never! Speak to me not of it!”
She lowered her head. “No, my lord, I shan’t.” Her voice was a whisper. The trampling of boots was getting closer. She could help him no more.
The demented liege of the all-powerful city grinned broadly; he bent down and picked up his toy soldiers and played with them as before, acting as though nothing had happened, as though she were not even there.
Anger surged through Sharon, uncontrollable and instant. She wanted to grab him, shake him, beat him, throw him out of his world of make-believe and force him to see the shambles that remained. While he had played games, the city had burned, had been overrun and destroyed. Didn’t the fool understand? The empire was smashed. His life had become as meaningless as her own. They were both trapped, trapped like drowning rats on a sinking ship.
Her mouth was dry, her hands wet with perspiration. She shut her eyes to clear her confusion and felt her body shake. Then she turned and walked back to the bleak corridor, suddenly no longer enraged, not even caring if she was found and captured.
“I no longer hold you responsible, sire,” she said. “The guilt belongs to us all.”
The emir was smiling, lost in his crazed thoughts. “Send in the servants,” he commanded to no one. “Hurry; I think I shall bathe before I take my ride.”
Sharon kicked aside a velvet cushion blocking her path and stared into the gaping blackness of the corridor. Which way? she asked herself. Which way —
The shove sent her sprawling. As she lifted her head, she gasped; she was looking directly into the face of the Hun. It was the crudest face she had ever seen: grim, pockmarked and scarred. Thick brows of devilish scarlet slanted over mean, desperate eyes — intelligent, filled with animal cunning. The man wore a breastplate dented from the tips of Samarkand arrows. His frame was awesomely powerful; he seemed as big as a tree and strong enough to yank one out of the ground by its roots. A nerve twitched malevolently in his cheek as he laughed loudly, taking his hand from the hilt of his bejeweled dagger sheath and running it along the side of his red brush mustache.
He glanced briefly at the emir, then faced the girl again. Sharon felt his eyes pour over her; a purple tongue ran
over cracked lips while he admired the suppleness of her exposed thighs. She pulled the hem of her khafti down to cover her legs, and the Hun laughed once more.
“Who … who are you?” stammered the emir.
A golden tooth glinted as the barbarian sneered. Moments later another Hun stood behind him, this one as large, only older, with a flowing crimson beard.
“See what I have found, my liege,” bellowed the first intruder, gesturing toward both captives.
Unspeaking, the second Hun strode boldly inside, his eyes reflecting the dim light like hot fires in a pool of black. He pulled off his leather horned helmet and dropped it to the floor. “You have done well, my son, very well indeed. I shall have to reward you most grandly. Name your prize.”
The younger man grinned and bowed. “I shall find something worthy, Father,” he replied, his gaze still upon Sharon. She turned away and cringed.
“Be gone!” cried the emir. “I did not send for you! I don’t even know you! Are you from Le-Dan’s army?”
At the question, the two Huns roared. The older man pressed his face close to Samarkand’s liege. “I have waited a long time for this moment, Emir.” He said the title with open contempt. “For years I have dreamed of it.”
The emir frowned at the stench of his breath. “Go away,” he said, fondling his toys. “I have no need for you. Find quarters in the barracks.”
Kabul, khan of the Huns, looked at his eldest son and winked. “But, sire,” he mimicked, mockingly bowing low before the liege, “I have traveled so long to meet with you, to give you my gift …”
The emir’s eyes widened; he stared at the fearsome barbarian like a small child. “A gift?”
“Yes, sire, something for you to play with, to keep and appreciate.”
“What is it?” The emir seemed no longer frightened, only curious.
Kabul lifted a jeweled dagger from his belt. The gems sparkled in the light, sending cascading starlike images across the wall. The emir opened his mouth and gasped. “The blade is for me?”
Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2 Page 8
