Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  And so it was already late afternoon of the tenth day that they left their guarded tent high upon a windy ridge, received fresh horses, and were brought by Roskovitch to the nearby open uplands. Alone in the field, sitting expertly upon an unsaddled fine stallion, the saya waited. The gray sky for days had been forever threatening, though the rain had yet to begin. The horses lined up, Carolyn in the lead, then Sharon, then Zadek, the rear brought up by the ever-dour Roskovitch, with the awestruck Asif sitting behind him. The Rus had taken a liking to the boy instantly.

  “We shall have to travel fast,” the saya told them all mysteriously. “But word has come that we are expected.” And without further explanation, she kicked her heels sharply into the stallion’s flanks, and the bold steed raced off over the rocky terrain.

  Below lay a vast plain, stretching hazily into the distance, dry but scattered with patches of grazing land, laced with wadis, whose banks swelled only during the brief rainy season that was almost upon them. Winding streams, shallow and dark, merged and crossed the sweep in a crescent, running beside lakes of sand, hilly mounds, poking out of the endless flatlike islands. Behind stood the cliffs and rock walls of the Stronghold; high above, both the savanna and the grassy hills where they had found the oasis known as the Green Pool. But of sight of the Stronghold fortress itself, there was none; it was completely hidden by the natural surroundings, so much so that an entire army could pass it and miss it entirely without anyone even suspecting it was there.

  No wonder Le-Dan could never find these Kazirs, Sharon thought as they passed from the rocky heights and onto the plain. And she could only admire these strange hillmen for their hard-learned desert abilities. Very much like the old city saying:

  Blink an eye and a Kazir stands before you;

  Blink again and he has gone.

  Once on open ground, they heard the first malevolent rumbles of thunder in the distance, and within moments a harsh rain was pouring down upon them. Before long the soil had muddied, hooves clomping through thick, wet sand. Carolyn led the way; she pulled the hood of her aba over her head, not pausing or breaking stride as her companions tried to keep pace. Here and there huge trees grew rigidly out of the ground, tall as steeples, with thin branches that all too easily bent with the furious gusts of wind. The trail led them constantly west, and it was not long before the first line of faraway mountains and forest appeared on the horizon. They rode on in single file over narrow defiles, in some places slippery and dangerous. And through it all, right up till the descent of night, there was no talk or communication of any kind between them. The few times Sharon had purposely slowed her horse to allow Zadek to catch up, she found the mullah now seeming as secretive and silent as her other companions. Of the saya and Roskovitch, the sturdy, trustful watchguard for the journey, she could properly understand it, but not of her teacher. Had he changed so much these past days? Or was it her? All she knew was that the gloomy and stoic lifelong friend would not reply to any of the questions she posed, as if he also understood far more than she about where they were going and for reasons unknown was unwilling to share it.

  It was well into night before the rain slackened, and after Roskovitch had carefully scouted ahead for a time and returned, Carolyn called for camp to be set. They ate meagerly, without a fire, and Roskovitch stood guard while Sharon slept. She was awakened, just before another gray dawn cracked, by the saya gruffly shaking her by the shoulders and telling her to prepare to ride. A few cold biscuits served as breakfast, and Sharon, cold and scared, forced them down miserably to help ease the rising tension in her belly. Again she asked the saya where they were going; again Carolyn ignored the question. And minutes after the pallid dawn had begun to light up the sky, they were on their way once more.

  By midafternoon the outline of the horizon had become more pronounced and definable. Thick forests of trees rose in the distance like the billowing sail of a ship against the sky. They were headed toward Grim Forest — she needed no one to tell her that — but for what purpose she still had no inkling.

  Without explanation, Roskovitch was suddenly riding beside her. Although he didn’t speak, she saw him make the sign of the horns with his hand, warding off bad luck and evil. Superstition ran deep in the hearts and minds of hillmen; but the barbarian from Rus was a man who didn’t seem afraid of anything. Thus, the realization that even he feared the spells and enchantments made her shiver, for soon they would all be entering the place where no man ever goes.

  Night was pressing in once more, shadows looming over the muddy trail from the branches of the great clustered trees. Over roots gnarled and twisted they slowly made their way, deeply into strange bogs and mires, where the wind whistled strangely through the leaves and reeds and the slow but constant drip-drip of water off the leaves sounded like the soft tread of tiny footsteps. Not a bird sang from the trees; not a bullfrog croaked from the ponds. There was only the occasional hoot of owls high in the branches, whose eyes seemed to follow them every step of the way.

  Sharon closed the aba she had been given more tightly about her and bit her lips to stop them from trembling.

  “We stop here,” Carolyn said unexpectedly, swinging her stallion around and dismounting. She tethered the reins beneath a huge moss-filled rock and waited while the others did the same. Sharon could see little in the darkness, only that ahead there was the reflection of water — a lake, sunken in a bowl-like descent, surrounded heavily by bush and tree, tall grass, and undergrowth.

  While Zadek and Sharon stayed behind, the saya moved down to the lake’s edge, pulling off her hood. With hands on hips, she seemed to study the place; then, satisfied that all was well, she cupped her hands around her mouth and uttered a low, discordant cry that carried across the water, like the call of some waterfowl, only somehow more forbidding and lonely.

  Zadek’s calloused hand closed over Sharon’s. She looked at him and was relieved to see that his eyes were kind and loving again. Reassuringly he said, “Bear yourself well, young princess; there is naught but your own fear to be afraid of.”

  The horses stopped feeding; they picked up their ears sharply and began to stamp their feet restlessly. Sharon squinted hard and gazed over the lake. A dark shape — a log, it seemed at first — had begun to float over from the other side. The moon peeked out from the overcast for barely a moment, but in that time Sharon could see that it was a boat coming their way, rowed in long sweeps over the silver water by a single silhouetted figure.

  It took a very long time for the boat to reach the jetty, and when the oars were pulled in, they could see the rower stand and beckon to them. Face covered in shadows except for his eyes, the rower wore a long, heavy robe that covered all but his hands.

  Carolyn pulled her necklace from within her tunic and displayed the antelope horn. “I am the saya,” she said. The stranger looked at the charm briefly and nodded; then he gestured for them all to climb into the boat. There were two slat benches spread across the middle; Roskovitch, Asif, and the saya sat together on one, while Sharon huddled closely to Zadek on the other. The oarsmen returned to his own place and dipped his oars below the waterline. The first long stroke pulled them cleanly away from the jetty, and in a few moments they were far from land.

  The opposite bank lay some three hundred or so meters ahead, Sharon reckoned, but it seemed a long way indeed as the tiny boat inched its way forward. Sharon dipped her fingers into the water, pulling them out as fast as she could; it was frigid, cold as ice, and her gloom only intensified.

  A greenish slime dripped from the oars, breaking across the ripples around the prow. Sharon looked ahead, trembling. The dark water stretched on and on, and even bleaker was the stark outline of shore, a tall hillock cutting high into the black sky. As they drew close to the mossy banks, they saw a dim glow of light, a small torch, its orange flame casting lumbering hideous shadows. Who or what was holding the torch, she could not see.

  Panic was closing in upon the young Samarkand princess, as if the
realization of where she was was finally beginning to dawn. It was all she could do to stop her hands from shaking, while the silence covered the boat like a black cloak.

  The oars splashed more loudly, the torch now more defined. A hooded figure was holding it as a beacon, guiding the boat to the small jetty — a figure almost identical to the oarsman. And at last the journey was reaching its climax. The boat hit against land and came to a bobbing halt. The figure with the torch pushed the light toward them. Sharon could see no face within the hood, only two beady eyes studying her and her companions.

  Carolyn was the first to stand up and reach land. “I am here,” she announced enigmatically. The hooded figure greeted her with a hand placed on her shoulder.

  The saya glanced behind as she started to walk the weedy path away from the lake. “Follow me,” she said sharply. “The boy stays behind.” Asif turned back and went to sit in the boat.

  The torch guided the way as they tramped over soft tuft, upward along the tall hillock Sharon had noticed during the journey. They negotiated the way between the trees and shrubs over a comfortable bed of dampened earth until the summit was in sight. As Sharon gazed skyward, she saw another glow, this one a soft hue of amber that ran from one end of the crest to the other, even shooting faintly upward above the gently swaying tops of the trees. There was also an odor in the air; she wrinkled her nose, trying to identify it: something sweet yet also sour, pleasant but also foul. It made no sense at all.

  With eyes glued to the trodden path before them, Carolyn urged them on with swift motions of her hand. Zadek was puffing from the long climb, Sharon exhausted, but at last they reached the top and, side by side, stared out at the weird sight.

  There was a large clearing ahead, surrounded in part by the densest forest they had yet encountered, partly by a dark palisade. Undefined trees, large and bent, hovered over the grassy open land like apparitions, and when an owl hooted from somewhere near, Sharon nearly jumped out of her skin. In the center of the clearing was a patch of soft, weedless soil, and upon it, slightly elevated, was something dark and sinister, a vat or a great cooking bowl; Sharon could not tell which. Made of iron, set on stubby legs, the cauldron had been placed over a small fire, which popped and crackled loudly, sending fiery shoots of embers high into the air. And there was the low sound of something bubbling — Percolating, boiling liquid that sent off the peculiar odor she had been smelling. Another hooded figure, the third so far this night, stood in shadows above the black vat, stirring its strange contents with a thick ladle larger than a shovel.

  Carolyn prodded Sharon forward. The princess took a deep breath and then froze. “No,” she said. “No! I’m not going!” Petrified, she pulled away as Zadek tried to calm her, and raced away into darkness, hoping to get back down the hillock and far away from this gruesome place.

  A fallen oak, massive and blackened, uprooted by a strike of lightning during a storm long before, blocked her path. She tried to run around it but drew back in fear as a dark form appeared before her. The torch pushed its flame toward her face and Sharon gasped; it was the same hooded figure who had led them from the boat. Licking shadows caressed her; before she could turn to run again, another hand had reached out and grabbed her shoulder, the hand of the oarsman, a hand softer than she would have imagined.

  “Come,” said the soft, barely audible voice of the oarsman. “There is nothing for you to be afraid of.”

  Sharon shook her head vehemently, her amber hair flying in front of her panicked eyes. “Never!” she cried. “You can’t have me! You can’t —”

  It was Zadek’s hand now that took hold of her. He pressed the terrified girl closer to him and forced her to gaze into his lined, haggard face. Looking into his eyes, black as coals, black as the night, she found herself again transfixed by him, by this pervasive power the mad mullah held over her. Without uttering a word, he gently nudged her forward, his strength assuring her that everything was going to be all right.

  “Do you know where you are, child?” asked the hooded figure carrying the torch.

  Sharon was still shaking. She moved her head slowly from side to side.

  The figure turned in the direction of the bubbling vat, a hand sweeping across the clearing. “It is called the Place Beyond the Northwest Wind, the Shelter of Fire and Oak.”

  Sharon gulped. She had heard of it, at least references to it, but long ago, very long ago; she could not recall where or when.

  “Why … why have I been brought here?” she asked weakly. The hooded figure gave no response; it was Carolyn who said, “To learn if you truly bear the Mark” — she glanced at Zadek with open skepticism — “as this holy man claims.”

  Sharon frowned. “I have no such Mark,” she insisted. “I don’t understand …”

  The saya smiled cryptically. “We shall see, Samarkand princess; we shall see.”

  A muggy drizzle had begun, with a thin fog swiftly descending. All traces of sky were soon blotted from her vision, and Sharon felt her heart pound quicker and quicker as the torch-carrying figure put a clammy hand upon her arm and led her slowly toward the cauldron. Dancing apparitions bounded along the trunks of the trees, awesome shadows leaping across her path. The ground beneath her feet was soft and murky, and she imagined it to be a quagmire sucking her down, down, down into the hellish bowels of the earth.

  At the foot of the mound she was ordered to stop. One by one the dark-robed oarsman and the torch-bearer joined their companion at the cauldron. A hue of purple glowed about them as they stood together, sparks from the fire still shooting up from behind, and Sharon gasped as she remembered the forgotten words, taught her long ago by the palace servants:

  In the Place of Oak and the Place of Fire,

  Hidden in the Shelter from the Northwest Wind,

  Lies the coven where the hearts of men cry in anguish,

  And the laughter of Three Hooded Witches rob their souls.

  This secret clearing in the forest — it made sense to her now! Unbelievable, insane, yet all too true. The legends were real; what better proof could there be than her own eyes? Sharon had come face to face with the witches of Grim Forest!

  “Why has the girl been brought here?” the croaking voice of the witch with the ladle asked.

  Carolyn crossed her arms and bowed her head low before the inquisitor. “So that the claims of the holy man may be proved or disproved.”

  The witch looked sideways to one sister, then to the other. They all nodded in agreement. Then the one in the middle, the eldest, shot a glance toward Zadek. For the first time in her life, Sharon saw her teacher behave as though he were truly frightened. His knees were wobbling when the eldest asked, “And what is your claim?”

  He cleared his throat and forced himself to look squarely into the witches’ penetrating eyes. He gestured toward Sharon. “That the girl bears the Mark of the expected One.”

  Shrill laughter filled the gloomy night — fearful, malevolent laughter that made Sharon’s flesh crawl.

  But Zadek held his ground. “It is no jest. She is the One.”

  The eldest witch glowered at the tall monk of Islam. “We shall decide that, holy man,” she said, sneering. A long, bony hand lifted from her sleeve. “Go!” she commanded the mullah and the barbarian from Rus. “The eyes of men are unwanted here. Cloak your faces and return to the lake. The girl shall be brought to you when we are done.”

  Roskovitch, sworn to the protection of the saya, looked hesitantly at Carolyn. Carolyn nodded, assuring him she would be safe; no harm would come to either her or the young princess. Zadek bowed deeply and turned to leave of his own accord. As Roskovitch followed on his heels, Sharon tensed. When they had vanished into the shadows, and she felt herself alone with these three dreaded conjurers of nightthings, she trembled and hung her head, not daring to look up.

  The eldest witch grinned toothlessly. “So,” she whispered, a whisper that brought chills to Sharon’s soul, “you would claim to be the One.”
/>   Sharon shook her head. “I claim nothing,” she replied, the words forced from her throat.

  “Remove your robe.”

  The princess complied, too frightened to do otherwise. She untied the loose belt around her waist and let the dyed woolen garment fall to the ground at her feet. The witches stared and mumbled among themselves. “And now your tunic,” uttered the eldest.

  Fear flickered in Sharon’s eyes; she looked briefly, quizzically, at the somber face of the saya. Carolyn nodded.

  Sharon pulled the cotton blouse over her head and dropped it. Naked and ashamed she stood before them all, shivering in the cold and the steady drizzle, her supple young skin strangely colored by the dim reflection of the cauldron’s fire.

  The eyes of the witches poured over her, a syrup descending thickly along every inch of her body, every curve and fold of her flesh, seeping into the very pores of her skin, and all the while they cackled and whispered to one another, speaking in a tongue so ancient and forgotten that no other person alive could have identified or understood it. Sharon felt unclean, humiliated.

  The eldest dipped the ladle into the bubbling brew, and the old hag Sharon had known as the oarsman took a sip. Next it was passed to the one who bore the torch. She also drank from the foul-smelling brew, her gnarled hands rubbing together while she smacked her lips in delight.

  The eldest dipped her spoon again and, carefully holding it out, bade Sharon come forward. The princess did as asked, too petrified not to obey. The hazelwood ladle was put to her mouth.

  “From the mysteries of the Seven Planets and the Sun that revolves around them,” chanted the eldest, “so has this potion been culled. Drink, Sharon, princess of Samarkand. Drink and share all we offer.”