Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  Hezekiah had ended his tale on a harrowing note. Lost for words, the band of outlaws passed long moments reflecting upon their own thoughts. Then Roskovitch snarled, his barbarian’s eyes flashing. “We must … meet this army head on,” he growled, “stop them before they press too deeply into the wood.”

  Tariq quickly agreed. “Word must be sent to every clan to gather our horsemen and cut them off before the forest is reached.”

  “Too late for that, cousin,” said Ami with a sigh, looking glumly at his lifelong friend. “The Huns crossed the perimeter of the wood a day ago, razing the forest behind them with fire as they passed.” The Fuliwa chieftain visibly shivered. “My own ride to reach the Mound here tonight was fraught with peril; Hun advance units have been fanning out along these very hills, seeking to encounter my men, while the main body presses on deeper into the bowels of the wood.” His head shook ruefully. “By sunset tomorrow they will have passed the thickets, well on their way to finding the trail to the Stronghold.”

  Sharon and Tariq gaped in shock. “Then we are all in dire peril,” Shoaib’s son said at last.

  “They must not be allowed free rein,” hissed Roskovitch, darting his head from side to side, looking to each of his companions. “If we move quickly, word can be spread to the clans by midnight tomorrow.”

  Sullen and anxious, the handful of desert outlaws turned to Sharon, who sat silent and contemplative. The enemy was closing in too swiftly for debate, she realized. Action could not wait for all the clans to gather; something would have to be done and right now.

  “Can the Fuliwas engage these advance units in the hills, pin them down?” she asked of Ami.

  For the first time this night the chieftain smiled; she could see the glitter of his teeth as his lips parted in a bitter grin. “We can hold them,” was all he said.

  “Good.” She sighed, then turned to Tariq. “Go back to the Stronghold,” she told him. “Tell the saya what has happened; prepare our forces to ride. We must be at the side of the Fuliwas by darkness tomorrow. And send for Zadek; tell the mullah I have need of his wisdom and aid here at once.” Next she looked at the troubled barbarian from Rus. “Bear, I need you tonight. Make all haste to the tents of Yasir; he must be convinced that the time is at hand.”

  “Yasir will not come,” replied Roskovitch sourly. “He still mistrusts you.”

  Sharon balled her fists. “There is no time to argue!” she flared, eyes smoldering as she stood and took command. “Make him come — one way or another. And get word to the other clans as well. Time is of the essence; we cannot afford to lose even a single moment.”

  Roskovitch stood, ready to go. “And what of you?” he asked.

  The Panther bared her teeth. Her very soul cried with the quest of the moment. She alone knew what had to be done; she alone understood what might result should she fail.

  Her companions looked on startled as she pulled the coiled cobra from her belt and held it fiercely in her right hand. Cloak swirling behind in the night wind, she lifted her arm toward the starry heavens. The eyes of the cobra glinted in silver light. “By the power of the Gift,” she swore, “I am going to repay Osklath for what he has done. The witches have unleashed my power. Pray, good friends, that I may use it well, for the hour of decision is here at last.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Osklath ran a hand along his sweaty forehead, grimacing as the noon sun filtered through the branches of the twisted trees, golden light pouring over his horsemen and the trampled grass. Knotty pine, tall spruce, greeted his eye in thick clusters before him. He arched around, neck craned, and then glowed with satisfaction as he saw the distant smoke of the burning wood behind. Systematically his men had put the torch to this accursed place. When he was done, passed through the wood and once again on the rocky soil of the plain, there would be nothing left save smoldering heaps of charred brush and deadened stumps, a grisly reminder to all of the once great forest that had stood.

  The horses, single file, followed the lead of his scouts, and while above the wind hissed, signaling the approach of a summer storm, his army trampled across the verdant terrain, bold invaders crushing the forest life underfoot. Moss and heather grew wild; thick vines twisted round the massive trunks of trees that became more dense the deeper they rode; huge gnarled roots shot up everywhere, deformed, causing the horsemen to grumble and curse this foul place as they were forced to slow down and hack and slash at the growth blocking their path.

  “Damn this forest,” hissed Osklath under his breath, watching his forces stumbling between thornbushes, lumbering around boulders and slimy turf. Again and again hooves stomped over sharpened rocks and pebbles, causing the animals to recoil with pain and rendering many of them lame and useless. If Osklath had been a superstitious man, he would have thought these petty hindrances placed purposely, set there by demons or goblins or god knows what to encumber him, force him to take twice as much time completing his journey than anticipated.

  Bent, misshapen trees, unidentifiable, loomed ahead, blocking his careful route as if by design, branches writhing with the ever-increasing wind. Osklath peered up at the sky, still cloudless, wondering at what point the storm was going to strike. The rain would only compound matters, he knew, leave his army to push forward in a sea of mud, knee-deep in muck and the strange ooze that somehow seemed to seep from everywhere in this infernal place.

  “Keep moving! Keep moving!” barked his commanders to the already weary men. And Osklath, sucking in air between clenched teeth, cajoled them on even more, forcing them to plow through the shoots and undergrowth and not slacken for an instant in this spongy mire.

  The line faltered only briefly among the thick rows of scrub oak and hazel, armed men in the forefront again using swords and hatchets to slash wider paths through the densening foliage. Dulled weapons struggled against the creeping tide that stood before them, and again Osklath cursed mightily. Daylight was slipping by too fast; the angles of the shadows assured him that soon the sun would be gone and they would be forced to camp along the bogs, as they had the night before. And what a night it had been — clammy and cold, the incessant buzzings and chirpings of a thousand species of dreadful insects in their ears, stinging and biting with no end, and the wind, the terrible, weird wind that had frightened the picketed horses half out of their wits even as some of his best and fiercest men huddled like frightened children, making the sign of the horn and mumbling darkly among themselves about the strange tales of Grim Forest still whispered in Samarkand.

  An army, though, needed rest, Osklath knew, and no matter how much valuable time might be lost, there was no way he could force his men to hack their way through this dizzying jungle without a few hours’ sleep. His only hope was that nothing else would come along this night, nothing more to prevent his forces from making their way out of the forest entirely by dawn at the latest.

  Osklath shook his head uneasily; the pervading silence was most unsettling, more so the deeper they marched. As the sun at last faded, the sky aflame in washes of brilliant azure and indigo hues, he doggedly pressed his army on, marching them until the very last glimmer of light had vanished. Then, as the eerie sounds of night in the wood replaced the silence of the day, he ordered his commanders to halt the line and set their camp as best they could along the rugged, boulder-studded terrain, hoping for his own tent to be set and secure before the first rain of the brewing storm fell.

  *

  There was a great chill this night, unusual for the time of year. Sharon sat motionless and cross-legged, the coiled cobra held in both palms, openly displayed. Opposite her, Zadek stared forlornly up at the starless night sky. The wind was blowing with a frenzy, clouds of dust roaring across the Steppes with untold ferocity. In the distance was the hazy outline of the forest, thick cumulonimbus clouds black and low hugging the line of giant oaks and hickories.

  The hourglass lay between them, its sands no longer trickling but now rushing to the lower vial. The mad mullah turned
his attention back to it, then reached out and touched Sharon lightly. “’Tis almost midnight,” he said.

  As if woken from a trance, the Panther lifted her head just far enough to meet his eyes. She could feel the cobra beginning to stir in her hands, feel the cold steel bend of its own will as she called upon its power as the witches had told her to do. But what that power was, what form it would take, what havoc it might wreak, no one, not even they, could say.

  Amazed, eyes slitted with intense focus, Zadek saw for himself the Gift come to life. The snake’s forked tongue darted out as its head lifted, gazing about at the darkened terrain of the Mound.

  “Strike,” hissed Sharon, returning to the witches’ incantation. “Strike down our enemies; rid the forest of its evil host.”

  The snake danced, curling up her arm, wrapping its scaly body around her neck. Sharon sat frozen, awed and terrified at what she alone had unleashed. Whether the cobra was a force of good or a demon from hell itself, she knew only that now the strange Gift bestowed upon her had been called to life, and there was no stopping it.

  The cobra hissed, tongue lashing, venomous fangs glinting in the blackness. Sharon held her breath, not daring to move a muscle. The snake coiled, then slowly slithered to the ground, burrowing deeply into the earth.

  “It’s vanished!” cried Zadek.

  Sharon shook her head. Her eyes saw that the last grain of sand from the hourglass had fallen. This was the precise moment of midnight. “It has not gone,” she told the mullah, watching now the desert sand shifting below the surface, marking the path of the winding cobra. “It follows my command — and sets to strike at our enemies.”

  Zadek wrapped his arms about himself and shivered, and for a brief moment he felt both fear and pity for Osklath’s army camped within the wood.

  Forked lightning flashed above the forest, setting the world alight for an instant. The wind howled more strongly, and both he and the Panther sheltered themselves with their robes against its wrath. Then to the sky they gazed again, peering from the recesses of their hoods, watching while more lightning ribboned hither and yon, beading in zagged lines from one end of the horizon to the other. Swiftly followed the rumbles of thunder, but thunder neither of them had ever experienced before. So powerful was its shock that even here, leagues away from the storm, they could feel the ground beneath their feet shake.

  Zadek quickly mumbled a prayer, sensing the unhallowed nature of the violence unleashed. A ball of flaming, white-cold luminosity leaped before their eyes; a miniature sun it seemed, blinding to gaze upon, shattering the shadows and replacing them with a full-colored spectrum of blinking hues. “In the name of the Prophet,” cried the mullah, “what has happened to the world!”

  Sharon fought against the wind, her eyes searching the sky. A giant bolt of lightning, channeling its way over the forest, made her recoil in fright. What indeed was happening to the world? she wondered. Where was Osklath now, at this very moment? And was he aware of the reasons for this?

  Hair blowing wildly, Zadek fought his way to Sharon’s side and pulled her away harshly. She was in a trance, he saw, transfixed by the powers of the Gift, unable to shift her gaze. But seeing all this could be dangerous, he realized; and while she dumbly stared, he threw her down upon the shaking earth, covering her with his own body. Above their heads, boulders were moving, ready to dislodge from the places in which they had rested for centuries. And while he sheltered her, certain the rocks would at any time come crashing down over them, he could only guess at the events that were transpiring inside the forest itself.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The wind was a beastly holocaust, a tempest blowing so cruelly that even the roots of the trees themselves were being torn from the soil, agonizingly uplifted. Amid the high-pitched wails of hysterical horses and anguished cries of his men, Osklath managed to push his way forward through the shattering tumult, now wrapping his arms tightly around the trunk of a spruce, clinging to it for dear life as a sudden powerful gust swept down from above. Before his startled eyes a giant oak was literally wrenched from the ground, branches whipping, breaking off and flying like missiles, and hurtled through the night across the bog and straight through the swirling mists, crashing unseen on the other side with a deafening roar.

  Colder the air became, and the turf soggier with the worsening rain. Like tenpins the supply mules and picketed horses were sent bowling over, screaming, kicking, their lungs bursting while the pressure of the raging wind tore around them, scattering them about like toys. The entire camp had fallen into total disarray. Stout-shouldered Hun commanders fiercely held to their ground, bracing themselves to anything that didn’t move, barking terse orders to panic-stricken soldiers who could barely hear above the din. Had there been safe shelter to reach, there would have been total bedlam among the superstitious ranks. But here, trapped as they were, there was no refuge, no haven in which to hide and wait out the storm. They were caught in it as sailors were upon the sea, hanging onto their possessions, fighting their battle against the ravages of nature unleashed upon them.

  Left and right, loose weapons and camp utensils came flinging through the air, followed on occasion by some unfortunate fellow whisked up from his place by the furious wind and sent hurling high until his bones smashed against the trees or boulders. Men were lashing themselves as best they could to trees and rocks, to bushes, to anything secured; rain, with renewed fury, slanted down savagely from the highest branches, coarsely beating at them with relentless blows. And through it all the electric-charged bolts of lightning continued to strike again and again, flashing across the sky like the fingers of demons, tearing into wood, rendering ruthless blows upon everything helpless below. The rumbles of thunder were like low, wicked laughter, as if some unseen eyes were watching the carnage gleefully, enjoying the grisly scene.

  As the lightning blazed, rippling from one side of the heavens to the other, stroking with barbarity from cloud to ground, the rising mist from the bogs grew thicker, obliterating from view the distant foliage and scarred terrain that had marked their route.

  “Run! Run!” cried Frizul, bolting from his place and dashing like a wildman among the stricken ranks. “We are doomed … doomed!”

  The shouts of the khan’s youngest son sent those around him into a panic, for if Frizul himself so feared the wrath of this Grim Forest, how were they, mere, soldiers conscripted to fight under Kabul’s banner, to do any less? And so many untied their bonds and recklessly began to run, darting through the trees and haze, flinging off their mail and discarding their weapons as they ran off helter-skelter into the night.

  Osklath ground his teeth and tackled his youngest brother, beating him to the ground. “Hold your places!” he commanded, hair hanging lank, beard dripping.

  Frizul stared at him through frightened eyes. “No, no, we’ll be killed, slaughtered! The devils are upon us!”

  Osklath whipped out his curved sword and stuck its tip against the quivering Frizul’s jugular. “Are we to retreat like cowards?” he shouted. “Panic from rain and wind and lightning?” He spat in his brother’s face.

  Frizul whimpered.

  Osklath faced all those who could see and hear him and bellowed above the wind, “I shall kill the first man who runs!” He wiped the rainwater from his face and glared angrily about. “The storm shall pass, and we will move on!”

  “We’ll never find our way out of this quagmire!” cried Frizul. “You are leading us to our deaths!” And from everywhere, there came frightened shouts of agreement.

  Osklath lifted his sword higher, holding the hilt with both hands; Frizul’s eyes grew wide with horror as the blade slashed down, cutting through his gut, his bowels, pinning him to the earth. He moaned, then slumped. Osklath deftly pulled out the blade and held it out for all to see. His brother’s blood dripped onto the earth, seeping into the soil. Osklath’s men looked on in abject horror. Their commander had murdered his own flesh and blood; certainly he would do no less to
them if they dared disobey.

  “Who else would flee?” he demanded.

  The soldiers of the khan lowered their eyes, apparently more willing to face the wrath of the gods than that of the fiery eldest son.

  “Now, back to your posts,” called Osklath, replacing his sword in the scabbard with a single stroke and stomping through the mud back toward the trees, boldly daring another bolt to strike him down in the open. None did, and his men watched in awe. Osklath’s swagger and bravado had more than impressed them; they would do as he commanded, follow him into the depths of hell itself if that was where he led.

  Osklath scornfully lifted his gaze toward the sky, bitterly vowing a double revenge for the agonies of this day. Once the rain ceased, they would march again — oh, perhaps a bit more ragged for wear, but with an army still intact. Only this time there would be no more pausing within the wood. They would march straight through the day and all the next night if necessary, face all this again and more, if need be, for now that the deed was half accomplished, no power on earth would cause him to turn back.

  *

  The view was disquieting. Before them stood a valley, hills sloping sharply away on either side, so thick with trees the roots and branches seemed to join. The wind had shifted hours before, and that had been the first good sign that the storm was about to abate. Osklath had bullied his commanders into speedily readying the army even while the rain continued to sting their flesh. Browbeaten, in dire fear of his mighty anger, they had swiftly done all that he had commanded, and within an hour before the new dawn, tattered though they were, they were on the march again.