Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  As the sky lightened, the rain subsided. Soon they could even see the sun, a pale, watery yellow ball, pushing its rays past the thin, pervasive haze, and while they sloshed in and out of the bogs and mires and soggy terrain, Osklath kept a steady gaze on the way ahead, determined to meet his goal and attack the Kazir Stronghold no later than tomorrow night.

  For a time, all had seemed almost well; but now this strange valley lay before them, silent and deep, winding and twisting like a road through dense foliage for as far as they could see.

  Osklath mopped his brow, turned, and grinned at his commanders. “We’ll cross this valley by nightfall,” he told them with a feeling of certainty. “And look” — his hand went out, pointing to the farthest images upon the horizon — “the Steppes! Can you see the hills?”

  The dour soldiers peered into the distance. It was true: From the heights on which they stood, they could clearly see past the end of the forest, right to the doorstep of the desert. Osklath had been a good leader, properly assessing the situation even when they had cowered. The journey was almost complete. Cross this hidden valley and they would be free, rid of the wood, able to set it ablaze once and for all.

  Osklath made ready to remount; he glanced behind at his vast army fanning out along the narrow path, winding up and down across the wet, grassy hills. At his instruction the horns blasted, shrieking through the damp air and frightening the birds; he watched soaring flocks take from the trees to the sky, and grinned.

  “Should we not camp tonight in the valley?” asked one of the generals at his side.

  The son of Kabul scratched at his chin, staring down at the dense foliage. “No,” he said with a shake of the head. “The sooner we cross, the better; I want to be rid of this place as quickly as we can.”

  And so the Hun’s forces moved on, angling downward into the deepest, thickest of the forest yet encountered. Something, though, nagged at the back of Osklath’s mind, something he could not quite put his finger on. The wood seemed the same, he thought, glancing about at the lumbering trees and glistening grasses, yet something was also different. Daring not to speak of it, he wondered if his commanders felt it also.

  The sun had approached its zenith; overhead the clustered boughs had begun to filter out the light, leaving the forest dark and filled with ominous shadows. The way through the valley seemed to constantly narrow until no more than two horses side by side could negotiate the way. Hooves clomped over muck and thin layers of slime that covered the verdant topsoil. And, inexplicably, even though the hour was barely past noon, the mist from the ever-present bogs was rising again. The horses, nerves already frayed from the storm the night before, began to nervously whinny and refuse to go on. Angrily the riders whipped their steeds, tempers shortening as the trees grew even thicker and taller at every side and the wood seemed to be literally closing in.

  Talk ceased. Osklath’s vanguard dismounted, taking to their hatchets and cutting loose the tangle of vines and reeds that now blocked the trail entirely. They hacked and slashed, splitting reeds and casting them aside, yet for every one they rid themselves of another two sprang in front in quick replacement.

  At the edge of his patience, the hefty eldest son dismounted again, holding the line up behind him and swaggering to the front. His boots sloshed ankle-deep in mud. Thistles from hanging branches tore at his vest; mosquitoes buzzed about his head. He flailed his arms to chase them away, hardly aware of the creeping mist closing in from both sides.

  Exasperated, he cursed loudly at the shirtless men still chopping their way between the clinging vines, vines that suddenly had wrapped into a barrier of combined undergrowth and exotic brush.

  “We can do nothing, my lord!” moaned the commander in charge of the detail. Osklath stared grimly ahead. It was like nothing he had ever seen before: The forest had turned into a jungle, a jungle of creepers and crawlers, slime and quagmires, all constantly pressing in on his army. And the trees themselves … He glanced about in utter confusion, realizing now that he could barely see the tops, so large they loomed.

  “It’s no use, Lord Osklath,” panted the commander, wiping his sweaty hands over a hirsute chest.

  The leader of the legions huffed, enraged at the slowdown. “Then bring more men!” he barked. “As many as you need! A hundred! A thousand! Only cut us out of this valley! Get us across to the other side!”

  By the score they worked, vainly gaining inches instead of miles, pricked by barbs and thorns, attacked by swarms of dragonflies and hornets, while beetles and giant ants crawled over their flesh, burrowing and feeding in the men’s sweaty pores. Hour after hour they struggled; the sun was on the wane again, and the air so close and dank that many could hardly breathe. The army had long since stopped moving entirely. Exhausted, frightened, both men and beasts waited tensely as fully five hundred men continued to hack and slash at the vines, blundering forward whenever they made the way forward at all.

  Night was coming. Osklath berated them all, and only their fear of him kept them going. But it seemed that they were worse off now than before; the trees encompassing them swayed with a growing hot wind, almost moving from their places; roots, gnarled and contorted, seemed to grow before their eyes, taking on different and more terrifying shapes. In a beady sweat from head to foot, Osklath pushed a staggering soldier to the ground and swept up his fallen ax. The son of Kabul cut a wide swathe in the vines, cajoling those at his side to do the same. Many, though, were falling now from sheer exhaustion; they rolled into the mud, almost swallowed by it, gasping for a single breath of fresh air. And still the haze was deepening.

  Someone screamed, and Osklath spun to see one of his ablest soldiers suddenly enwrapped in the very vines he had been chopping; they were squeezing him, tightening round his chest, tying his arms, twisting round his legs. The soldier fell, a purple tongue hanging from the side of his mouth as breath was sucked out of him. Osklath stared in disbelief. What was happening to him? Was he losing his mind? Could he really have seen what his eyes had told his brain?

  The scream was repeated, this time from the other side. Another valuable soldier had fallen, this one tugging at the choking reed with all his might. But the reed would not give; it closed about his thick throat, and he staggered to his knees.

  Knotted trees of all description joined together; branches closed in from above, blotting out the sky completely. The ground beneath their feet was shaking, and from beneath the mossy and slimy rocks vipers had started to crawl, long, fork-tongued cobras, coiling and striking, causing the terrified horses to bolt and throw their riders. Osklath threw down his ax and dashed from the onslaught of encroaching vines. He could not see very far, as the bogs had settled everywhere, but the faraway cries of horses and men assured him that the same terror he faced here had spread along the entire length of his army.

  A warrior beside him reeled as a bush pushed its way up from the soil, growing before his eyes at amazing speed, and impaled the soldier upon its long, needlelike thorns. Warped branches swept down like carrion from above, the boughs hideously bending askew, wrapping themselves over breathless horsemen who vainly fought to break free of the deadly grips.

  The wails of his men became a nightmare. Osklath put his hands to his ears and started to scream himself. He was going mad, he knew, losing all control over reality. What was happening around him could not possibly be true; yet it was, as true as anything he’d ever encountered, as true as the Legend of Samarkand.

  He threw off his helmet, drew his sword, and began to swing it wildly and savagely above his head; but the branches and vines paid no heed. Pitiful cries for mercy ringing in his ears, he sawed and hacked, trying desperately to run from this bedeviled valley. Stumbling, picking himself up, he watched comrades fall into the mud, looked on dumbly as their hands reached out for him to grab, their bodies swiftly sinking, sucked down into the deepening pool of foul muck.

  In those moments an idiot he became, recognizing no one or anything, shrieking laughter at
the top of his lungs, falling over corpses and rising up from sticky slime. He tore at the walls of weed with his bare hands, wrenching it aside, running berserkly forward, bit by bit throwing off his armor, his belt, his scabbard, his tunic. Nakedly he dodged the attacking foliage, his flesh pricked in a thousand places, pinpoints of blood dabbing his body from head to toe. The quagmire gurgled, hungry for more humanity, and by the tens of dozens foot soldiers were falling into it, even as the lowering branches swept up others and crushed the life out of them.

  Nauseated, hammers pounding inside his feverish brain, heart pumping at three times its normal rate, Osklath covered himself with his arms, bending low, squishing through muck and insanely growing grass, laughing to himself maniacally while his entire army slowly choked to death all around him, calling upon the names of all his evil gods, as if to purge himself of the disaster. His head was swimming; he no longer knew even his own name. When the blackness of night overtook him, he stood stock-still, whimpering like an infant, wiping his tears and sucking his thumb.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “We can only guess at the ordeal he must have endured,” said the solemn-faced Chinese physician. He gestured to the sniveling heap on the floor, the man-infant cringing, biting his fingernails, clutching at the robe thrown over his shoulders. “Mad beyond saving,” he went on. “Exactly like this when your patrol found him, shivering and laughing at the edge of the forest.”

  Kabul tightly clutched the armrests of his throne, sickened at the sight. He turned toward several of his other sons, wondering which of them would be the next to plot treachery against him now that Osklath was removed. “Can’t any of you relate the tale?” he asked weakly.

  The sons, bedecked in their furs and armor, shook their heads and hid their eyes from Kabul’s wrath. “No, sire; as far as we know, he was the only one to come out of the forest alive. What fate really befell Frizul and the rest is a matter of little consequence, all we can be certain of is that they are dead.”

  The great khan of the Huns pounded a fist, his heart heavy and grieved not for his eldest idiot of a slobbering son — who now needed to be fed and changed like a newborn — but for the loss of his army, the bulk of the war machine that was to march against the kingdoms of the west. All his plans were shattered, his dreams and ambitions smashed like surf against a reef. What remained was merely a remnant of what had been before. And again other kings would laugh and scorn him. He rued the day he had taken this desert city of Samarkand, cursed the vanity that had led him to choose it for his capital. But it was too late for such misgivings, he knew; now he must try to pick up the pieces and begin again.

  “Take him from my sight,” he hissed.

  Several burly guards put aside their weapons and dragged Osklath to his feet. The eldest son grinned and started to laugh, loudly, idiotically, his eyes ablaze with his madness. Down the ill-lighted corridor he was dragged, the sound of his laughter echoing off the stone walls, the shuffle of his feet harsh against the worn tile.

  Kabul turned away in disgust and squinted his good eye: The bitch had won; the Kazirs ruled freely upon the Steppes. He rose from his throne and banished everyone from the court; then, as he sat down disconsolately in the shadow of the single brazier, he tensed, his eye averted as the Chinese physician took out his tray of needles and prepared to jab them through his pincushioned flesh.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Zadek and the saya dismounted slowly from their stallions, left their escorts waiting along the ridge of the hill, and slowly made their way down. The last rays of the setting golden sun filtered through the trees and over the deep-green grasses and soft-petaled wild flowers randomly scattered about. It was a lovely setting, a beautiful summer’s setting, save for the remains of the carnage in the valley below.

  Zadek stumbled over a rock, and Carolyn took his arm. Slowly they walked down the gentle slope, gazing about silently, even as the score of mountain Kazirs looked on from their vantage point along the crest. Black and gold banners dug deep into the ground, fluttered in the gentle breeze. The soil was still damp from the severe storm two nights before, but apart from that, there was no sign that it had ever taken place.

  The trees had straightened, once again tall and proud, although here and there one remained grossly misshapen, a reminder of the bailed lightning that had so viciously struck. And still clinging to those lifeless boughs were the corpses of Hun riders, faces twisted in death masks, eyes opened wide and disbelieving, staring sightlessly toward the sky.

  Zadek and the saya picked a path between the bodies, stunned at the enormity of the devastation. While the Kazirs had gathered from across the Steppes and ridden like demons throughout the night, all this had taken place before they’d even had a chance to meet the Huns face to face. Now it seemed the fight was finished, without a single Kazir having had to shed blood. As to what had happened here, though, as to why and how the mighty army of the khan had been so totally overwhelmed, they could only guess.

  “The witches played us no tricks,” mumbled the mad mullah, peering dumbstruck at the endless field of strewn corpses and equipment.

  Carolyn could only nod in response. She had never questioned the power of the Gift, or the horror it would wreak once unleashed. She felt a sudden chill as she thought upon this terrible and vengeful wrath, and she was glad at least she had not been the one entrusted to use it. She turned sharply toward Zadek. “Where is the Panther?” she asked. “Where has she gone?”

  “Sharon is safe, saya, with Tariq, the Bear has assured me. Calling upon the cobra’s power has left her drained and weakened, but soon she will be better. She needs rest, that’s all. Give her time.”

  Without another word, sighing deeply, Carolyn turned away from the carnage and walked slowly to the ridge and her waiting companions. She had seen more than enough this morning — too much, perhaps. The Kazir Prophesy had been fulfilled: The Samarkand princess had without question earned not only her place among them but also the full right to claim leadership — exactly as had been foretold a century before at the beginning of the Hundred Year Solitude.

  *

  Tariq reached the obelisk tower of the Stronghold just as a blue-gray half-moon hid behind a rolling cloud. The sky above was bright and nearly flawless, the stars shining in full radiance while the world spun below. It was deeply shadowed along the curved stone wall, and he paused at the top of the steps, straining his eyes until at last he could see her. There she stood, a lonely silhouette forlornly watching the sky at the far end of the sturdy wall. Chin lifted high, eyes wetly aglow, she gazed wearily across the endless desert, in the distant direction of her beloved city of Samarkand.

  He came toward her slowly, not wishing to disturb her private thoughts. She’d been troubled greatly since that night, he knew, since she’d been forced to use her power in self-defense against the khan’s onslaught. No one needed to tell him how great the loss of life had been to keep the Steppes free. Moody and restless, Sharon had eaten little these past days, slept less, and spent most of her time in solitude, reflectively reminiscing upon a life she had lost and could never bring back again.

  It was with this knowledge that Tariq, when he reached her side, whispered softly, “Set your eyes upon Samarkand, and never forget you have seen her.”

  Sharon snapped from her deep thoughts and turned to look at him, a half-smile, sad and wistful, on her lips. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

  He shrugged slightly and sighed. “We are not as un-alike as you believe. My father once said those words to me — long, long ago, before I was a man. He brought me as close to the walls of the city as a Kazir might go, forcing me to gaze at the sight. ‘One day,’ he said, ‘one day soon we shall return.’”

  The breeze was blowing stronger, and she tightened, her desert shawl more closely about her. Lowering her head, she repeated in a whisper, “One day soon …”

  Tariq smiled; he reached out and took her hand. It was cold. He enclosed it strongly w
ithin his own, and she drew closer, finding comfort in the strength of his arms.

  “My own father loved Samarkand as much as any man,” she told him after a moment’s kiss, “and he wasn’t a Kazir.”

  The young chieftain sheltered her again, his eyes lovingly staring into hers. “I know he did,” he answered with a grin. “I’ve been speaking with Hezekiah; he’s explained to me a lot of things I didn’t realize before — about Amrath, about the people of the city we hated so much, about your life …”

  Sharon could feel her face flush, wondering what girlish secrets the Hebrew might have recounted for him. She didn’t mind, though; she returned his grin impishly, memories of that former life coming at her in a rush. It was her father, though, she thought of mostly, and how very wonderful it would be if he were alive, here now to share these victories with her.

  “You know,” said Tariq, “sometimes I think my own clans are even more bullheaded than your people. We spent the past hundred years believing that Samarkand could not belong to anyone except for us, the same way your emirs thought about themselves.” He glanced up at the sky aglitter with tiny baubles. “Now both of us have lost it and learned a valuable lesson.”

  Sharon nodded and sighed. “A pity we didn’t know it sooner. Perhaps together, my people and yours, we could have stopped all this from happening.”

  He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Very wise for one so young.” She laughed, dimples deep in her cheeks. Tariq shared her laughter, thinking what fools they all had been. “We need you, Little Panther,” he said, smile vanishing, face becoming serious again, “all of the Kazirs.”