Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  A hawkish wind was cruelly blowing from above, catching in the shafts and whipping to a frenzy. Zadek removed his cloak and put it round the shivering girl. Wordlessly, eyes grimly studying the black world of the catacombs, he brought her from one shaft to the next, crossing places where no footsteps had passed in generations. Rats squealed and fled between their legs as they hurriedly ran; finely spun cobwebs tickled at their faces; hideous water bugs, all but unseen in the shadows, scurried over muck and slime-infested walls of damp rock. And all the while it became harder and harder to breathe.

  How long they had been running, Sharon could not tell. All sense of time had been lost within the confines of these foul catacombs; but the echoes of chasing soldiers rushing through the tunnels had long since ceased. She well knew the veritable maze they were in, one from which there might be no escape at all if Zadek chose for them the wrong passage even once. More than one hapless soul had been lost here and doomed to death in these gloomy quarters, as the crumbling skeletons about gave grim and positive proof.

  Zadek, though, seemed to be as sure-footed as he was swift, never once faltering or even hesitating no matter how dim the passageway. He had been this, way before, Sharon knew. He was familiar with each and every turn and twist, every nook, every cranny, every cesspool. But for what purposes the mad monk had been here before, she could not say, nor did she dare to as much as hazard a guess.

  Down, down, downward they ran, on and on without a stop. Breathless and aching, at the next turn she tugged at his sleeve. The mullah looked over his shoulder at the girl. Her eyes begged him to pause, to let her rest her wounds if only for a moment, but Zadek would have no pity; he roughly grabbed her and forced her on until she kept up with him by sheer will alone. Of strength, there was none left.

  Ever farther, ever deeper, ever colder; soon the last glimmer of light was completely gone and they found themselves thrust into a world of absolute blackness. Clinging to Zadek’s tunic, Sharon held her breath while the monk stretched his arms out stiffly before him and, with groping fingers, felt his way inch by agonizing inch, groping for hidden obstructions. The wind was still whistling, the kind of sound that had always aroused fear in the superstitious servants. For a long while she wondered if Zadek had lost his way, as his somber face turned only more dour with the passing minutes and no evidence of light ahead.

  His voice was a thin whisper, like that of a ghost or nightthing, when he turned to her at length and said, “Walk softly, girl; we’re almost there.”

  Her hands and feet were numb with the terrible cold; she nodded at his words, all the while blowing hot air from her mouth across her fingers. She looked about slowly, carefully. Zadek took a single step in front of her and stopped. “This way …”

  “How do you know, teacher? I can see nothing.”

  She could make out his sly smile, the glow of his strange eyes. “Nor I … but listen carefully.”

  She strained her ears; no sound came. She was ready to question him again when the first distant noise shattered the eerie silence of the labyrinth. An animal in pain? The cry was ghastly to hear. Or perhaps some demon from the bowels of Grim Forest? At this point Sharon was about to believe anything. But no, the sound was all too human; it was the cry of men — tortured men in pain, dying upon the rack slowly while their backs broke and limbs were crushed.

  Zadek put a finger to his lips and bade her follow carefully. Soon the screams were closer and now too the shouts of crowds. Sharon listened with anxious trepidation. She could imagine the mobs of panic-stricken citizens rushing helter-skelter through the streets above in a desperate attempt not to be caught, not to be rounded up and herded like cattle by the rampaging, slave-taking Huns.

  Zadek took her to the end of the tunnel, where the concave ceiling lowered dramatically and a new shaft to the side slanted sharply upward. The monk raised his head to peer into the darkness above. “There is an open sewer beyond,” he told her. “It leads past the Square of the Prophet, beyond the temple. With luck and darkness on our side, we might yet break free of the palace compound and reach the Lower City streets.”

  Sharon bit tensely at her lips. Breaking out from these tunnels would be a welcome relief, she realized, but to what end? Every alley of the Lower City by now was crawling with looting Huns bent on taking as many slaves as possible. No one could hope to be safe in the open streets, and she told him as much.

  Again the mullah gave her one of his mysterious smiles. Saying nothing in reply, he took her hand — more gently this time — and led her up. Suddenly the air was becoming thick; they both began to cough loudly. Wisps of heavy smoke had filtered between the slats of the grating and were lowering to the tunnels. A red glow brightened the passage, and Sharon saw that Zadek was leading her into an open inferno of hell itself, where blazing whirlpools of fire were whipping through the once beautiful Lower City.

  Covering their faces with open hands, they stopped at the wide grating roughly dug into the earth and peered up toward the street. Huge tongues of flame seared above. Nearby, there was screaming and pleas for mercy as trapped residents of the quarter cowered from the heat that was about to envelop them.

  “We can’t go out there!” cried Sharon.

  “We must wait,” answered the mystic. “In minutes the fires shall pass; only rubble and charred ashes will remain. Then we can make our escape.”

  Sharon found herself shivering with chills despite the wash of perspiration broken out over her abused body. The nightmare was still far from over; in many ways she fully understood that it was just beginning. But Zadek had been correct again, though. The flames of the flash fires were sweeping above in a frenzy, now fueled by sultry gusts of wind, whirling down the war-torn streets with dizzying speed and color, orange and yellow changing to amber then crimson as they whipped along the byways and crossroads, searing the magnificent edifices of stone, statues of marble, and cobblestone pavements, only to die among the valleys in deep shades of indigo and dancing purple. Within the space of a few heartbeats the once busy street was still and empty — empty save for the heaps of smoldering bones and the blackened walls of the temple.

  Zadek wrung his hands in rage and extended his arms upward. His neck popped with blue veins as he heaved at the well-fitted grating, grappling with all his strength to loosen it from its place. The iron grille, slightly bent out of shape, was scalding hot from the heat of the fire. Zadek’s eyes slitted catlike, and he groaned softly as he pushed and pushed again. Sweat poured down his bony face; Sharon could almost feel his pain as the heat burned his ill-protected hands. With all his effort he pushed again and this time the grill gave way, leaving a space barely wide enough for a man to crawl through.

  “Quick! To the street!”

  Fixed in her crouched position, Sharon stared at his hands; they were badly blistered, the flesh raw and bleeding between his fingers.

  “I’m all right.” Zadek grimaced.

  “No, you’re not! Your hands —”

  The mad mullah’s mouth turned down distastefully. There was no time for the niceties of tending to wounds, only the dire urgency to get out of the tunnel and out of the city — fast. “My hurt can wait, girl,” he snapped, openly angry. “Now, do what I tell you!”

  Sharon gulped. “Yes, teacher.”

  “Wait for me,” And with agility that astounded her, the gray-haired priest of Islam pulled himself up and out, leaping to his feet as easily as Majesty had ever done. His swollen hand reached down into the space as he bent toward her. “Take it! Hurry!”

  She did as he asked, not daring to question. It was a struggle; the hem of her dress caught on the twisted grill, the fabric singing and smoking as she yanked herself up. Zadek pushed her to the ground and doused the small flames; then he pulled her beside him, and the two lonely escapees from the palace looked about in awe. Their faces were cast in scarlet shadows spreading from the nearby raging fires across the Square of the Prophet. Everywhere they looked, charred corpses, faces in the
shuddering death-mask smile of the dead, greeted them. Sharon drew back, frightened. Zadek put his pain-wracked hand on her shoulder, urging her away. “Come,” he said softly. “Do not look too long at the carnage.”

  She shied her gaze from the awful sight, nodding, her nostrils filled with the burning stink of death. “What now, teacher?”

  He grasped her hand fiercely. “Come.”

  Over grisly remains of fallen citizens and enemy soldiers they bolted, picking a path between the rubble and hulking forms of dead and dying mules and horses, riderless, sprawled hither and yon, flesh aflame and foul. As the stricken animals writhed and moaned, the predators had already begun to circle above. Sharon looked up at the sky; tens of dozens of large vultures glided, waiting for the opportune time to descend. The carrion were illuminated in their flight, not by the glow of stars or moon, but by the reflection of the fires, the terrible licking tongues of flame that had encompassed the famed teardrop towers and steeples.

  They scrambled away from the broad bypass, beneath the desolate series of arches that led to the public plaza. Beyond the smashed and twisted gate stood the high wall of the temple. A hundred and more palace guards lay dead across the length of the parapet, and a handful of laughing, looting Huns were already busy robbing the corpses of whatever struck their fancy. They wrenched rings from fingers and displayed the plumed helmets of Samarkand’s crack guard proudly, tossing them about like toys, hurling bodies over the wall and roaring with glee as the mangled corpses smashed onto the stone streets below.

  A few stray dogs barked and scurried out of sight witlessly. From the distance sang the trumpets of the enemy, announcing to all their forces that the day had been won. Zadek paused in his tracks momentarily and pulled Sharon behind the largest of the crumbling arches. They cowered in the shadows.

  “What is it, teacher?”

  His hand roughly fell over her mouth. As the sound of trumpets grew louder, her eyes widened. Up the street, passing right before them, came a cohort of mounted Huns. Stern-faced, bloodied, but riding proudly, they heralded the advance guard.

  Zadek lifted his gaze toward the heavens and sighed deeply. Tears rapidly fell from his tired eyes and rolled down his cheeks, washing away some of the grime. “The war is done,” he mumbled sadly. “There is no more resistance. Kabul reigns.”

  His words weighed heavily on Sharon. For all she had seen this bitter day, no matter what the event or what she had been eyewitness to or partaken in, it was still too incredible, too unreal to believe. But in her heart she knew it was true: Samarkand, her beloved home, home to her family and ancestors, was no more. In its place stood little but hollow ruins of the world’s most beautiful city, ruins of what had been the center of a mighty empire. But from these ashes and corpses, she knew, another Samarkand would arise, alien and barbaric, the new capital fortress of Kabul and his hordes, from where he would govern his blood-soaked domain.

  The hoofbeats of horses clattered slowly, echoing as they passed through the line of arches. Behind them, bound with rope and chain, staggered a hundred or more captives — women mostly, faces ashen and blank, eyes swollen from crying but crying no more, now fixed straight ahead and staring into empty space. Sharon gasped at the sight, feeling overwhelming pity and grief for these young girls and mothers who had already been brutally beaten and raped, had watched helplessly while their husbands and parents were put to the sword, and now were forced to face a life of misery as slaves to the conquering army. Slowly the gang of prisoners passed, urged to move faster beneath the taskmaster’s whip.

  “Is there nothing we can do to help them?” she asked as they disappeared into the shadows.

  Zadek shook his head, and Sharon said no more.

  Dawn was getting nearer, and the mullah knew they must make their move before first light. He half dragged the frightened girl away from their hiding place and they dashed as fast as they could to the battle-scarred wide boulevard. From here, with luck, they could reach the old bazaar, a tangled cluster of houses and twisting alleys from where they might be able to elude the Huns a while longer. Twice more as they ran they were forced to seek shelter, fleeing more soldiers, these on foot as they crossed the avenue in search of spoils. Some held high the black banner of Kabul, others long spears, the heads of slain Samarkand soldiers firmly affixed to the tips.

  The roving bands were rampaging at random, barging into every home, looting and pillaging, drunkenly sacking everything in sight, putting to the torch the small houses when they were done. Sharon and Zadek watched as a young girl was found hiding in a basement, dragged into the street kicking and screaming, raped, and then butchered. Sharon could no longer look; with trembling lips she buried her face and wept, Zadek unable to comfort her.

  At length the avenue was clear again, and while the Huns moved on, laughing and shouting, Zadek pulled her to a nearby alley. It was pitch black, the high walls on either side well protecting it from the light of the fires. Blindly they rushed to the rear, hoping to find a low wall they might scale. Suddenly Sharon stumbled; at her feet lay the body of a young child, a girl not more than eight or nine, in a pool of blood.

  A figure jumped from behind; Zadek spun, drawing his curved dagger. The silhouette made to run, and the mullah tackled him from behind, pinned him to the ground, and brought up his dagger.

  “Please, no!”

  Wide, frightened eyes stared up at him — the eyes of a boy. He was shivering under Zadek’s weight, his arms and legs thrashing in an effort to break free.

  “Please don’t kill me!” he cried. “Spare my life! Take me prisoner!”

  Sharon shared a quick glance with Zadek, and the mullah relaxed his hold, putting away his knife.

  The boy was surprised. “You’ll … you’ll let me go?”

  Zadek grimaced. “We’re not Huns, boy. No harm will come to you. But who are you? What are you doing here? Speak quickly!”

  The boy lifted himself slowly, eyes darting back and forth between the priestly-garbed man and the tattered girl. “My name is Asif,” he said, wiping dirt off his hands onto his ragged shirt. “And I was hiding here all day with my sister.”

  Sharon turned to the lifeless girl. “Was she your sister?”

  Asif nodded. “Yes, my lady. We fled our home after the Huns breached the walls, and came here before darkness fell, hoping that the enemy soldiers would not pass this way.”

  With a frown, Zadek said, “But they did?”

  The boy hung his head on his chest. It was then that Sharon noticed that his black, curly hair was matted with dried blood from an oozing wound across his scalp. “They found Iona first,” Asif said quietly. “Two roaming barbarians, drunk with honeyed wine. Iona tried to run, but it was too late. Before I could protect her, they …” He did not finish the thought; the frail body gave evidence of the Huns’ brutality. Then Asif smiled. “But they paid for their crime, I promise you,” he told Sharon. He pointed to a dark doorway near the edge of the alley; inside lay two bodies, each with its throat slit from ear to ear, one straddling the other.

  Zadek’s heart grieved deeply for the boy, and he put his hand gently on Asif’s shoulder. “It was a brave act, boy. Your father would be proud of you if he knew.”

  “But he will never know, will he?” And Asif began to weep.

  “Where is your father?” questioned Sharon. “Your mother?”

  Asif looked up at her, his urchin’s face marred by the scars of this bitter day. He was no more than eleven or twelve, Sharon saw — an age when he should be learning a trade, playing games with other boys his own age. Instead, the youth had seen his home destroyed and his sister ravaged and had killed two men to save his own life — a heavy burden for one so young.

  “My father is dead,” he said softly. “I don’t know what happened to my mother — perhaps dead also, perhaps taken prisoner. There was no way for my sister and me to reach her when the fires began.”

  “I understand,” said the princess. She held out her hand fo
r him to take, and Asif did so reluctantly. Then he pressed himself against her and sobbed. She kept him close, his face buried against her breasts, and ran her fingers through his hair. “We have much in common, Asif,” she whispered. “You and I have both lost everything we had this day. We are both orphans.”

  Zadek turned to Sharon, his nervousness increased by the sound of running boots and raucous laughter from down the street. “We must not tarry, Princess. Time is precious.”

  Sharon nodded; she took the boy stoutly by the shoulders and forced him to look at her. “Listen to me, Asif. You cannot give up hope. My companion and I escaped the palace just as you escaped your home. Stay low; keep hidden as long as you can. Maybe Allah will smile upon us both.”

  Asif nodded with understanding of what she was telling him; then, as they turned to leave, he blurted, “Can’t you take me with you?”

  Sharon turned her eyes to Zadek, but the dour mullah seemed reluctant. “Having the boy with us shall make our efforts all the harder,” he said. “Alone we could travel more swiftly —”

  “And leave him here to his fate? No, teacher. Let him come. Perhaps together we can find a way out of Samarkand.”

  There was a pleading in her eyes that Zadek could not deny. He glared sternly at the hopeful boy. “You will do everything we tell you?”

  With a single bob of his head, Asif agreed that he would.

  The mullah smiled. “Very well, then. Come, we’re going to try and slip past the enemy troops in the bazaar.”

  “You must not go that way!” cried the boy; “The area is being used as a gathering place for the slaves.”

  Sharon grew tense. “Are you certain of this, Asif?”

  “I am, my lady. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  Zadek sighed; he folded his arms and gritted his teeth in despair. “Then we are lost. The bazaar affords the best way to the city gates. Without it we have no chance.”

  Here Asif smiled a knowing smile, one that told his companions it was wise of them to let him come along. “I know another way out,” he said boldly.