Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  “I do understand, Little Panther,” he comforted. “Cry; it’s good for you, good for all of us. I know and I understand how you feel.”

  “Then you must also know that our love is forbidden. Kazir law would never allow a chieftain to wed a woman once violated by the heathens.”

  Tariq stopped stroking her hair. Sharon was right in this much, he realized: Such a love was strictly against custom and law. The saya would be the first to tell him as much. “But you are one of us now,” he protested, “the One foretold by the Prophesy. Our clans ride beside you, follow you blindly, even into the face of death. Surely, then, you and I can —”

  A finger to his lips hushed him. “I may well be bearer of the Gift,” she acknowledged sadly. “Even your sister cannot deny me that. But marriage, Tariq?” Her sigh was wistful. “How can it be? An outsider from Samarkand, who once carried the seed of the king of the Huns …”

  The young chieftain shifted his gaze from hers, sadly realizing that what she said was true. It could cause great divisions among the clans; many would demand his removal, saying that Shoaib’s son was no longer fit for the title he bore. Perhaps at some future time, when the Steppes were free again, the Prophesy fulfilled and Samarkand returned to the Kazirs, he and Sharon might yet find a way to share their secret love; but not now, not while the khan pressed so closely, not while some of the elders still harbored suspicions about the girl he held in his arms.

  “We shall find a way, Sharon,” he said at last. “No matter what anyone says …”

  She reached up and kissed him lightly, fleetingly. A smile worked its way around her mouth, but it was not a happy one. “Someday, yes,” she told him, not believing a word of it although her heart wished for nothing more. “But until that time, my love, no one must ever know. No one must even suspect.”

  Again she was right; there was no denying it. Their secret must be kept, through trials and separation, though their hearts might break for merely a glimpse of each other. Anything less could tear asunder all they had worked so hard to begin.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Frizul, disgraced, slunk away from his father’s wrath like a mangy hound. The khan, a scowl of contempt burned into his face, watched his useless son slither from the throne room. Failure again; it was too much to bear. And this time it had been a force of his best warriors, the undefeatable Immortals, men who had boldly scaled these very walls of Samarkand with impunity, taken the city and the palace, defying everything that the enemy could throw at them. Now, before some ragged band of thieves and shepherds led by a whore of a Samarkand bitch, they had been destroyed completely, and he, Kabul, khan of khans, ruler of an empire such as Asia had never seen, was forced into abject humiliation. At this very moment other kings in faraway places, such as Persia and Cathay, would be laughing at him, secretly jeering and snickering, saying that a mere woman, ill-armed and desert-trained, had successfully cut off his balls.

  Kabul pounded a fist upon the ornate ivory arm of his throne. Had Frizul not already disappeared from the chamber, tail between his legs, the khan would have killed him with his bare hands.

  “She makes me a laughingstock!” he boomed.

  His many aides, advisors, and ministers shied their eyes, looking disconsolately at the marble floor. A slave appeared from behind an arabesque screen to offer the agitated khan a goblet of honeyed wine. Kabul knocked the silver tray out of his hands, and as it clanged against the floor, he kicked the servant in the belly, sending him sprawling at the feet of his courtesans.

  “I’ll make eunuchs of you all!” he blustered to them. “Spineless dimwits! Scum of the earth!”

  “But, sire,” protested one, a hawk-nosed soldier who had served his master well these many years during every campaign, “how can we fight those we cannot find? Show me this desert Stronghold … aye, give me its location and five thousand men, and I’ll wipe this scourge from your memory forever! But” — he frowned deeply with his own displeasure — “how may we — any of us — fight an army that remains as elusive as the wind?”

  “The wind? Bah!” Elbow on the rest, chin upon the back of his fist, Kabul looked away with disgust. “If I had both my eyes,” he seethed, “if only I had both my eyes …”

  “You would still be blind.”

  The words shocked every man in the chamber. Who in his right senses would dare to speak to the mighty khan thusly, especially at a moment like this, when his rage was so great?

  “Is that you, my son?” said Kabul, not even bothering to look up.

  Osklath stepped over the shivering slave on the floor and smartly marched to the velvet rug before the throne. There, helmet tucked in his arm, he bowed respectfully. “Yes, my lord, it is I.”

  “You,” muttered the khan, spittle flying, “I should think you would be halfway across the city by now, beside that asinine younger brother of yours.”

  Osklath smiled, unperturbed by this fit of temper. “Ah, Father, you do me an injustice. Certainly Frizul failed you, even with his legion of Immortals. They were bound to fail; anyone could have told you that.”

  Kabul peered up through his good eye, hating the very sight of his arrogant, cocksure eldest son. “If that is so,” he rasped, “then why didn’t you tell me?” Osklath’s grin remained. “You didn’t ask.”

  Fuming, veins popping, the khan began to rise from his cushioned chair. Osklath had gone too far this time, many were thinking. He’d taunted his father for the final time. Kabul’s fit of anger would surely cost Osklath his life, and good riddance, or so thought many, including his brothers.

  Indeed, for a moment it seemed as if the mighty khan was about to strike his son the blow of death; but, as his hand clasped the hilt of his scimitar, he started to laugh, loudly and boisterously, like a man deranged. His belly was shaking and tears rolled down from his one eye. Then he plopped back into his seat and sighed.

  “Have I underestimated you again, my son?” he asked.

  Osklath shrugged; it would not be the first time.

  Kabul reached for an apple and took a large bite, the juice dripping down his chin and onto his flowing beard. Then he said, “Tell me, boy, if you were me now, what would you do? How would you handle this matter?”

  Osklath rubbed at his own beard, rocking from toe to heel as he pondered. “If I may say, sire,” he answered at length, “our armies can never defeat the Kazirs upon the Steppes.”

  A sudden rush of whispering ensued. Once more Osklath was playing this dangerous game of cat and mouse with his father, toying, perhaps, with his very own life. The khan ran a sleeve threaded with gold over his mouth; he narrowed his good eye, nostrils beginning to flare, a sure sign that he was nearing the end of his patience. “What did you say?” he hissed.

  The chamber hushed at his words, silently crackling with expectation as all waited for Osklath’s reply.

  “That the Steppes cannot be taken,” said the eldest son boldly, hastily adding before Kabul could draw another breath, “The desert has been both home and mother to these thieves and rogues for more than a century, as I understand matters. Forced into exile by the rulers of Samarkand themselves, they have had to adopt the ways of the desert as their own. They cling to the dunes like lizards, camouflaged by the very sands, unseen yet observing all, defiantly proclaiming their domination …”

  Kabul listened with a scowl. “Excuses,” he muttered.

  “It is so, Father. Our armies are lost upon these lands, marching across the infernal Steppes like sightless children, unaware of these silent Kazirs who prey upon us like carrion, attacking our lines in quick forays, then disappearing into the sands themselves.”

  There were murmurs of agreement from across the hall, but Kabul faced off opposite his son, feet wide apart, legs like massive columns, thick arms bulging as he stood with fists upon his hips. “Dare you tell me that all our forces are useless against these … these Kazirs? That we have been defeated by a bunch of scoundrels and mindless savages? Sons of pigs and whores,
they are!” His eye blazed with madness. “I still command ten armies, Osklath,” he warned, arm shooting out, index finger shaking at his son, “and each of them shall be committed to ridding my empire of these pests! The time of excuses is past, do you hear?” For effect, he peered slowly about the room, looking from general to general, while they lowered their gazes in fear. “I want the Steppes rid of this woman and her vermin! Bring me the heads of the Kazir chieftains — or I shall claim your own!”

  The courtesans shivered with the knowledge that Kabul boasted no empty threat. He would tolerate no more failure, they knew. Only Osklath remained defiant, undaunted by his father’s tirade, and while the khan rattled on, reminding all that his dungeons yet had plenty of room for them, the eldest son folded his arms and met his father’s burning leer evenly.

  “The Kazir Stronghold cannot be reached by crossing the desert,” he told the khan brazenly, “no matter how many armies you intend to commit.”

  The mighty Kabul turned crimson.

  “But” — and Osklath smiled — “perhaps there is yet a way.”

  Kabul came closer to his son, his breath hot on Osklath’s face. “How?” he rasped.

  “These Kazirs are a strange folk, sire — superstitious and steeped in their religion. They revere the place known as Grim Forest.”

  Members of the court began to whisper among themselves, as surprised as the khan to hear him speak of it.

  “A place of bogs and mires,” called a soldier from the back.

  “Aye, and of witches and ghosts as well!” said another.

  Osklath laughed, noting the fear in their sweaty faces. “The finest soldiers in the world,” he mimicked scornfully, “shaking at the very mention of it! Do you see, my father? Are these the men you would entrust your armies to? Cowards!” Then he spat on the floor.

  A dozen hands lowered to the hilts of their swords. Kabul bade them hold their anger and turned back to his son: “You know as well as I that this accursed forest is unapproachable. Each time our patrols have entered, they have never come out.”

  “So, even you, my father, have fallen victim to these tales of washerwomen?” He gazed out past the veranda to the distant landscape shimmering at the edge of the horizon. “Our great empire is sent reeling in the face of the threat of witches and goblins.”

  “And you, Osklath,” said the khan, screwing his eye tightly, “you do not fear any of these things, even though my finest generals swear to their truth?”

  Osklath replied with a contemptuous sneer.

  “I lost three hundred men in that dark forest,” shouted one of the generals in the forefront, “a cohort of our finest troops — brave, fearless men, O great khan. But that night we camped near the bogs” — and here the soldier’s body began to shake with the awful memory — “I could hear the cries, the screams of pain, as they were set upon by demons.”

  Many heads nodded in agreement, but still Osklath sneered. He turned to the agitated soldier. “And did you see these ‘demons’ yourself?” he demanded.

  The soldier sadly shook his head. “It was not possible. A dense fog had settled no sooner had the sun set. A man could see no farther than the tip of his nose. Like a blanket we were covered by the haze, setting our horses to panic and our stoutest men to shiver. But those poor souls who had billeted out of sight with the advance guard, their screams were not shrouded by the mists, I tell you — nor the cries of the demons as they set upon our men. It was terrible, my lord khan, the worst thing I have ever heard. And I and my own men, camped near the forest’s edge, were unable to help them in any way.”

  “Evil gods must dwell in that dark place,” attested another of Kabul’s fiercest warriors, and he quickly went on to recount his own brush with the devils.

  The court listened in horrified silence, and when he was done, Kabul turned again to Osklath: “Well? What do you say to that?”

  The eldest son frowned. “I say that we have been duped. I say that the effects of wind howling through the trees and animals crying out in the night have played a part in tricking our minds. Aye, and the Kazirs have, because of it, been given many a victory. They have played to our own superstitions. It was they who attacked our forces, they and they alone, cleverly using both the fog and our own active imaginations to rout us. And like children we fled, daring not to enter the wood again, believing the folktales of Samarkand as much as the hillmen do themselves.”

  “And what of the tales of the witches?” asked the general. “With my own eyes I have seen the glow of their burning cauldron. Above the treetops, aye, and over the sky itself the shadows of their flames dance. Will you tell me I am mad, Osklath? Was this nothing more than a vision implanted in my mind?”

  “I saw the glow as well!” called another in the chamber.

  Osklath shook his head. “I know nothing of witches or of cauldrons; nor do I fear them,” he chastised. “A hag’s blood runs as red as your own.” He looked again at the khan, letting out a long, angry breath. “Cannot you see that the Kazirs play us for fools? They keep us well away from the forest for their own shrewd purpose. They concoct their wizardry to hold us at bay, my lord; that is all, no more. There are no demons.”

  Kabul chewed tensely at his lip. Tales of Grim Forest were rampant throughout Samarkand, and he was most disturbed at his officers’ reluctance to sweep the wood once and for all. Yet, superstitious as they might be, he also knew his generals to be no cowards. If they fled the forest, it was with good reason. And he, like they, had begun to curse the day they had taken the ancient empire of Samarkand.

  “Of what importance is all this to you, Osklath? Why do you stress the forest so? Up till now we have done well to ignore it. There is little value in it one way or the other. If it be true that demons dwell there, so be it; we need not arouse them. And if as you claim, all this is but a ruse, what care I? Leave the forest be, Osklath, and let us return to the matter of finding this Kazir Stronghold.”

  His son’s lips curved in a small, tight smile. “Exactly, lord khan … exactly.”

  Kabul’s face soured. “You puzzle me, Osklath. Speak your thoughts.”

  Osklath bowed, then flung his cloak behind him. “Before the boy Asif died, he spoke loudly in his delirium. I listened carefully to all he said, lord, and this much I learned: that the Stronghold lies less than a day’s hard ride from the forest. Its approaches can be found by an old trail, a wadi, that crosses the land at the forest’s edge.”

  The chamber fell to its former silence. Kabul ran a finger over his fat lip, listening, occasionally nodding. “Go on,” he said.

  Osklath grinned from ear to ear. “The forest is the Kazirs’ weakness; pass through it and we can reach the Stronghold in full force. Bypass the desert entirely and catch their fortress unaware, smashing them once and for all.”

  “How can you be certain of all this?” questioned Kabul most cautiously; “The boy was delirious, as you said.”

  “But cunning like a fox,” Osklath went on. He grinned often as he recounted the rest of the story. “Late that night, as he lay delirious, I slipped beside him. Asif’s eyes opened wide, although his fevered brain did not let him recognize me. ‘Tariq,’ he said, ‘is that you?’ ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Yes, Asif, it is I.’ Then he leaned back and sighed, telling me he was glad I was there. ‘What have you told the enemy?’ I asked. ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Not even how the Huns may reach the Stronghold?’ ‘Not even that, Tariq, not a word about the forest.’ It was then, Father, that I realized I was on to something. Bit by bit I coaxed him and urged him to speak, and bit by bit he told me these things. Putting together the pieces was easy, my lord. He died in my arms, thinking me to be his friend Tariq right until the last moment.”

  Kabul listened with awe, knowing now that he had severely underestimated his treacherous son. Osklath had deviously gleaned more secrets about this enemy than could ever have been hoped.

  “Exactly what is your proposal, Osklath?”

  He bowed swe
epingly, “That we waste no more time, great khan. Send out your best army immediately. I shall be the one to lead them through this Grim Forest of theirs, through its very heart, and burn everything in my wake. Ashes shall be my legacy, that and the bones of those who dare oppose us. Then I will seek out and take the Kazir Stronghold.”

  The khan thought quickly. “And what reward do you seek?”

  The reply was curt but honest: “Half, my father, half of everything … for now.”

  “This is foolish talk, my lord!” cried the general, with open hostility toward the crafty Osklath. “Your son speaks of committing all our forces to deal with a minor threat. Listen to me, sire, forget this forest and the Kazirs; aye, and forget the desert as well! What are they to us? Pests, thorns in our sides, nothing more. At this very moment our legions await the march west. The Turks already have put up defensive forts all along their border — yes, and the savage Christians as well. If we are to gain all of Europe, we must strike now, not stand idly by, wasting our time with a gang of pitiful hillmen.”

  This was a strong argument, Kabul saw. It was true: His best legions were daily growing more restless, awaiting the long march toward the rich city of Constantinople, where half the world’s gold lay ripe for the taking. These Kazirs at best ranked far too low in priority to be dealt with in such a strong fashion.

  Kabul turned to his son with a sigh. “Time presses me, Osklath. I have not enough years left to me that more urgent matters cannot be given their due.”

  A small sneer broke across Osklath’s features. “And what matter could be more urgent than the woman who stole your eye?”