Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  Kabul nodded gravely. “Aye, sire, for you and you only.” And he lifted it for the emir to see.

  “No!” screamed Sharon. “Don’t do it!”

  But her words fell upon unhearing ears. As the emir of Samarkand opened his palm to receive the gift, the king of the Huns swung back his arm and brought it up sharply, the blade tearing through flesh, ripping straight through to the emir’s lungs. Kabul pulled the blade out with a single stroke; the emir gurgled, stared. He stood frozen in his place, blood dripping from the side of his mouth. Kabul pushed him lightly and sent him tumbling backward, where he fell dead across a pair of twin black-laced pillows. Then the king of the Huns spat on his corpse.

  Sharon, hands to her mouth, whirled and started to run. Kabul’s son put out an arm, blocked her passage through the door, and sent her reeling against the wall.

  Kabul laughed. He wiped the blood from his blade onto the emir’s fine robe and sheathed it, then looked over at the girl; she was trembling from head to foot.

  “What shall I do with this one, Father?” His own knife glinted unevenly. Sharon huddled in the corner, eyes wild with fright. Mutely she waited for the king’s answer.

  “A woman should never be bruised,” Kabul chastised. He lifted the collar of Sharon’s khafti, exposing a purple welt from where his son had hit her. His eyes examined her like so much horseflesh. “Do you like her, my son?”

  The mustachioed barbarian frowned. “Too delicate, Father. See, her skin is white as milk beneath her robe. Her back will be weak, no good for working the fields.”

  Kabul’s mirth grew. “You have no refinement, Osklath. This woman is of the court, a lady of quality. She must be treated as gently as a flower, otherwise she may wilt.” And they both chuckled.

  Sharon squirmed, sickened by the feel of his dirty fingers pressing up and down the nape of her neck. She flinched when his hand slid lower, glancing over the firm skin of her breasts. Kabul’s mouth curved upward with desire. Osklath, watching intently, slitted his eyes. “Perhaps you were right,” he growled. “Give the woman to me.”

  “Not so fast,” rejoined the khan.

  Sharon drew back, feeling her terror increase like a sharp weight in the pit of her stomach. She had the sensation that none of this was really happening to her, that it was all a nightmare, a terrible nightmare from which she could not force herself awake; but it was real, all too sickeningly real.

  Kabul yanked her forcefully by her hair. “My son has taken a liking to you,” he hissed. “Would you prefer him first — or me?”

  “I’d rather be dead!”

  He pulled her to her feet, ripping the fabric of her khafti, and propelled her forward, thrusting her into the now open arms of Osklath, whereupon the barbarian began to maul her. Sharon wrested to break free, but it was no use. Osklath held her in his viselike grip, his head lowered, his thick lips wetly kissing her neck. She pounded at him with her fists and kicked wildly. Osklath howled as the toe of her shoe bruised his shin. “You Arabic vixen!”

  The back of his hand slammed across her mouth; she moaned and staggered backward, blood trickling onto her laced dress.

  The chisel-featured king put his massive hands on his hips and guffawed with delight. “A wildcat, this one. Be careful, my clever son. Are you certain you want her? A woman like this will take a firm hand to train.”

  The younger man seethed with anger, outraged and humiliated by this palace bitch, made to look the fool in front of his father. His lips pursed with froth and he glared at the shivering girl with clear hatred. As she gasped, he made to draw his knife. “I’ll teach you manners, Samarkand whore,” he vowed, stepping toward her.

  Sharon pulled away, desperately searching for someplace to run. There was a small doorway at the far end of the room, behind the thick curtains. If only there was some way to reach it; but Kabul stood in the way, unyielding.

  Osklath juggled his knife from hand to hand, pacing her slowly, faking stabs and cruelly laughing when she whirled backward. The blade lashed out, missing her face by mere inches.

  “Don’t scar her!” bellowed the khan. “Do you want to see her ruined? Then she’s no good to anyone.”

  “But she insulted me!”

  “Bah!” The king spat at his son’s boots. “I trained you well to be a warrior, to kill men; taught you to hunt, to fear no man and no beast, but I regret never having taught you more about women. You disappoint me, Osklath.”

  The younger man reddened at the rebuke. “One day, old man,” he hissed, and the venom in his eyes was unmistakable. The rivalry between the khan and his eldest son grew more intense with each passing season.

  Kabul swelled his chest in a stance that dared Osklath to turn the knife on him. “Issue your challenge, boy … if you think the time has come.”

  Their eyes locked, neither man flinching. Slowly, though, Osklath began to waver. Kabul towered over him, twice his age but still with the strength of a mountain bear. The younger man sheathed his weapon with a scowl.

  More noise came from the corridor, first the running steps of Huns, then a few low, distant screams. Sharon knew that other palace guards or servants had been found and put to death.

  “Leave us,” rasped Kabul. “Go; find your brothers, secure the palace. I want no man left alive by dawn. Take the women, bring them to the courtyard, and divide them equally.”

  Osklath looked suspiciously at his father. “And this one?” His eyes darted to Sharon. “You intend to keep her for yourself?”

  The king made no reply; a severe warning crossed his features, one that told his eldest son not to press him further.

  Osklath hesitated, then crossed his hands over his chest as he bowed. Then he turned around and strode in a huff from the room. The moment they were alone, Kabul faced Sharon again. His tongue ran lightly over dry lips and he snapped his fingers. “Come here.”

  The girl did not move.

  Kabul looked at her sharply, forcing her eyes to stay fixed with his. She was terrified of this man, frightened as she had never known fear before; but, at the same time, she found herself almost hypnotized by his cold, piercing eyes, transfixed, unable to turn away no matter how much she tried.

  The khan sensed her inner turmoil and, seeing it as a passive surrender, grinned with pleasure. He put out his hand, fingers tightening as he grasped her bare shoulder. The fabric of her khafti hung limply over her supple breasts.

  Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she knew that this was his way of deliberately taunting her, proving his prowess and her own weakness to stop him. She heard herself stammer, “If you touch me, I’ll kill you.”

  Kabul tilted his head, amused greatly by her boldness. “I enjoy a woman who fights,” he whispered. Then he chuckled. “Perhaps the emir” — he glanced at the corpse, so frail, so effeminate — “was more to your liking? Half a man instead of a whole one?”

  “Haram’zada!” she spit at him. Son of a bastard!

  He grabbed her by both arms, pulling her fiercely toward him. His eyes were burning into hers now, callously, like black fires, but his voice remained even, almost soft. “I can do with you what I want, Samarkand tramp — make you my concubine or my slave, give you to my sons, let them share you with the captains, even throw you with the other women, the whores who service the lowest of my soldiers. Is that what you want?”

  Sharon pulled to break free, tears streaming down her cheeks, hair wildly tossing as she struggled. Kabul, his desire risen to its most heightened pitch, ignored her whimpering pleas for him to stop and forced her closer, his hands sliding down her arms, clamping them at her side. Then up against his firm body she was taken, stifled and suffocated by his smell, his brute weight, the feel of his mouth harsh upon her own. She compressed her lips, shaking her head. His hand squeezed at the sides of her mouth, forcing it open so that his tongue could ravish it. With all her effort she fought to push him off, but he remained as solid as a rock, unyielding, hard, mocking.

  He threw her to the
floor roughly, peeling off his armor before she could regain a single breath. Off came his furs, his belt, tossed haphazardly to the side. Slightly slitted Mongol eyes glared at her appreciatively. His breathing was heavy and laborious, the bulge of his manhood thick against the cloth of his breeches.

  Then he was on top of her, immobilizing her with his weight, laughing while she cried out when his foul hands caressed her, insolently squeezing her breasts, his mouth closing over her nipples, teeth hurtfully sinking into tender flesh. His legs pushed hers open; he pressed all the harder as she squirmed and sobbed, crying with her shame, her fear, her loathing of both him and herself. She clawed at him with her fingernails, causing long, needle-thin cuts to crisscross his back. But Kabul was by now too immersed in his lust to pay any attention to her writhings.

  She screamed loudly, a shriek that echoed from the chamber and down the dark hallway. He had penetrated her, robbed her of all virtue, disgraced and shamed her forever. His body heaved, lunged, attacked. She shut her eyes and moaned. The pain was excruciating, like a terrible fire racing through her loins into her belly and through her entire system, and anguished wails issued from her throat. Still he showed her no mercy, no pity. His thrusts became faster, sweat gleaming over his hairy body. His heartbeat pounded against her own, two wild drums, one in the throes of ecstasy, the other in abject horror.

  “I’ll kill you!” she cried. But the khan of the Huns paid no attention. She was helpless against him, a lamb against a wolf. Sharon clutched her hands together, feeling suddenly numb. A sharp pain dug into her palm and she winced. The hairpin! She still had her weapon!

  Kabul’s shoulders began to shake with fury. A low, gurgled sigh came from his throat, and he swelled in the joy of his savage pleasure. Deeper he thrust, but only momentarily; then he sagged, fulfilled and spent.

  In that split instant between ecstasy and reality, Sharon was able to wrench herself almost free. As the khan rolled his head to the side, away from her, Sharon brought her arm up high, holding the golden needle like a dagger. With all her strength and courage she thrust it deeply into his right eye, pushing it clear through the pupil and past the optic nerve. The eye instantly contracted into a bloodied mass, spouting crimson, oozing from the socket like a river and staining his chest, her khafti, and the floor.

  He screamed an unearthly scream, a terrible wail of excruciating agony. Dazed, wild with the convulsive lancination, he tried to scramble to his knees, his hands to his face. The pin was deeply embedded, stuck right through the soft matter inside his skull, and he couldn’t pluck it out no matter how much he tried. He rolled about insanely, flailing his arms and moaning in unmitigated misery.

  “My eye is blind!” he howled like an animal. “I can’t see!”

  Sharon hoisted to her feet, shocked by what she had done. The mighty king of the dreaded Huns groveled at her feet like a dog, aimlessly tossing to and fro. On the floor, blood spread in small pools and streams, racing through the cracks in the tiles. Kabul groped to grab her, cursing, frothing at the mouth. He cried for his sons, then for his generals and captains, finally for anyone, anyone at all, to come and release him from his agony.

  There was clamoring outside; his men had heard the pitiful moans but had yet to find from which of the hundreds of chambers they came. Numbed, Sharon watched him suffer; but the clatter of boots growing louder snapped her back to reality. And the knowledge of what she had done hit home. If she were caught, if Kabul was to name her as the one … The consequences were too real to contemplate. She shuddered at the thought of the tortures she would have to suffer.

  The hidden secret chamber behind the curtains!

  She had to get out, and get out fast. She bolted over the motionless body of the slain emir and across the chamber. Kabul’s shrieks rang in her ears, his wails becoming louder. Past the drapes she pushed, reaching wildly for the brass catch, turning it and flinging the door open.

  She found herself in another hallway, this one also dark and extremely narrow: the emir’s secret chambers — a labyrinth of dim corridors and rooms that led deep down beneath the palace to the drainage system and catacombs. As fast as she could she ran, her own pain intensifying. Confused and exhausted, she passed the hall, dived into a tiny closet of a room, and paused breathlessly. She could still hear Kabul’s cries. He had already been attended; the shouts of stunned barbarians calling out to one another assured her of that. She clutched at the terrible soreness between her legs, wincing at the smears of blood staining her dress. He had hurt her, more than she realized; she could barely stand, much less walk or run, but what choice was there? She must not be caught — at least alive.

  She filled her aching lungs with the dusty air and darted back to the hall. It angled downward, first gently, then sharply. Silent and dim, these chambers made her more afraid than ever. She pictured herself being cornered, trapped by surging Huns running wild after her, and a low scream escaped from her throat. Shaking, she took hold of the rusting handgrips embedded in the cracked walls of stone and pushed herself forward, ever forward, hoping to find some invisible corner where she might rest and tend her wounds.

  Advancing Huns had already found the hidden doorway and were now leaping and bounding through the corridor, darting into every room, every recess, every archway in their effort to seek her out. And each and every one vowed an oath to find this girl, find her and bring her back, for she had done to their khan what no man on the face of the earth could have succeeded in doing.

  Sharon followed the course, her eyes barely adjusting to the light. It was cold, strong drafts of wind pushing down at her from ancient air vents somewhere above. She wrapped her arms over her breasts and continued on. Shouts behind were growing louder, the march of boots closer. Ahead, the passage divided. Without thinking, she ran to the right, not knowing which level of the subterranean chambers she was on. After a few moments she was forced to stop again; once more the hallway divided, this time into three more passages, one darker and more dismal than the other. She chose the darkest, thinking it the safest. Footsteps raced off to the other side; she knew that the Huns were continually being forced to follow in smaller numbers as they searched every one of the entrances.

  I’m going to make it, she assured herself. They’ll never catch me here. I’m safe. I’m going to be safe.

  Strong hands grabbed her from behind and pushed her down. She started to scream, but her attacker blunted the sound by thrusting his fingers into her mouth. Sharon bit hard, trying to force him to free her. He didn’t, though; instead, he wrenched her head backward and spun her around, his frame pinning her against the wall. Sharon sobbed; she had been caught! After getting so close, she had been taken!

  The man’s breathing was loud; he held her pinned, not speaking as she lowered her head and sobbed. It seemed like forever until she stopped crying, although it had been only a few moments. Then she lifted her face and dared to look at her captor. His own eyes gazed deeply in to hers and she gasped. She knew that look; she knew those eyes, brooding, dark, tranquil.

  Sharon put the back of her hand to her mouth and whispered the name, “Zadek.”

  Chapter Eight

  The mad mullah stood silently, observing the girl with startled eyes. He stared at the stains and rips in her soiled khafti, grimacing at the thought of what must have happened. Sharon felt uncomfortable under his knowing gaze; she leaned back against the wall, inhaling deeply until her breathing flowed smoothly.

  Zadek put his hands on her shoulders and smiled. “Allah be praised! I never thought to see you alive again, child. How did you manage to escape?”

  Her eyes flickered wetly and her voice started to crack at the memory of the brutal scene. She went into as little detail as possible, but the mullah gasped loudly with unbridled shock when she related what she had done to the king of the Huns. He slapped his hand at the side of his face, brows lifting almost to his scalp.

  The young princess, shamed and fraught with despair, nodded gravely. “It�
�s true, teacher. I had to do it; there was no other way.”

  She was crying again, and Zadek took her into his arms. “Hush, child. It was Allah’s will that you escape from this brute. You did only what fate had long ago ordained.”

  “But when they catch me, Zadek —”

  “They’ll not catch you, Sharon. They’ll not find either of us.” He peered darkly over his shoulder. Down the bleak passage came the soft dripping of water into pools. They were well below the last palace level, on the edge of the dark catacombs — secret chambers long in disuse, constructed centuries ago by men whose names and faces had long been forgotten.

  “I know these tunnels,” said Zadek somberly. “There is a way out of the palace, leading beyond the walls and into the city streets. Your forefathers used them long ago to slip away unknown, and for us they shall provide our best escape from the city.”

  Sharon looked up at her companion with disbelief. “But the Huns have captured everything. The city is burning, people are running wildly to flee from the waiting chains —”

  “All the better to give us cover. But come; we must be gone from here swiftly, before dawn, before we are missed.” He took her hand and urged her away. Sharon hobbled with pain as he led her quickly along the slanting corridor and deeper inside the chilly shaft.

  The tunnel reeked with the foul smell of palace sewerage seeping slowly into the drainage channels at the nearby shallow river. As they ran, the heavy resentment of her bitterness gnawed at her; the thought of Kabul’s evil seed implanted in her womb sickened her. She was unclean, forever unclean, and no bath, no soap, no warmth or love would ever wash it away. She was scarred by the king of the Huns every bit as much as he had been scarred by her. And in that strange way, their two lives would somehow always be entwined — a deep and acrid hatred that would follow them both till their dying day.