Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  Her eyes, filled with love for the handsome chieftain, were hopeful as she gazed at him. “And you?”

  “And I? I need you most of all.”

  She threw her arms around him, crying, filled with happiness for their shared and secret love, yet still troubled and frightened by the role she was forced to play and the uncertain future that faced them all.

  Hand in hand they stood watching the silent desert while the fires of the Kazir tents illuminated the sands below, bathing the huge compound in a soft glow.

  “There need be no further bloodshed,” Tariq said, mindful of the many battles. “The Steppes are free. The khan shall never invade our lands again; he knows the price he’ll have to pay.”

  Sharon nodded thankfully for that much; but she knew well that the struggle was far from over. True, no longer would the Kazirs be imperiled by the Huns. Kabul would be far too preoccupied with lifting himself from the shame of defeat. For all intents and purposes, the Kazirs had now gained the most sought-after goal of all — freedom — fought for and won fairly, so that it could never be taken away.

  How many others were not as fortunate? How many still were forced to languish and suffer beneath the yoke of Hun slavery? Sharon thought of the peoples of Samarkand, all those of the former empire, who at this very minute were silently crying out in despair. How could she enjoy the fruits of freedom while they continued to suffer?

  Tariq did not have to ask what she was thinking; these very thoughts had filled his own heart and mind as well. No longer could the Kazirs selfishly act only for themselves; the time for that was past, he knew, vanished forever the day the Samarkand princess came to the Stronghold and brought them all into a new light. The Kazirs would have to do their part.

  Together the couple gazed from one end of the hazy horizon to the other, understanding now that the Kazir Prophesy entrusted to them had to be completed.

  “It shall prove a long and difficult road,” Tariq cautioned.

  Sharon looked at him thoughtfully and nodded. “I knew it would be, my beloved. And it might mean that our love shall still have to wait.”

  Glumly Tariq agreed; the price for justice was never small.

  “But a day is coming,” Sharon went on proudly, her head thrown back, her hair shining in the glow, “a day when we will be together — openly, before the world, with no tears or shame.”

  Tariq squeezed her hand. “Until that time, no matter how distant, we won’t lose hope.”

  “Promise it?”

  “With all my devotion.”

  Their kiss was full and lingering, and when they parted, they did so with the knowledge that soon they would never be parted again?

  “We’re going home, Tariq,” she said confidently, resuming her gaze toward the distant, unseen city, “taking back what is rightfully ours. And no one can stop us, no matter how long it takes.” She shut her eyes, vowing to return. The deaths of all those she loved would not go unavenged. Until then, until the journey before her was truly complete and she was home in Samarkand again, other matters could wait.

  They had set their eyes upon Samarkand, and would never forget.

  Samarkand Dawn

  Part One: The Planting of the Seeds

  Come, O wearied traveler, sit beside me, listen to the tales I have to tell; of that splendored city of long, long ago, where east meets west in the land of fable and magic.

  Come, O wearied traveler, hear and believe of the golden age of Samarkand.

  Chapter One

  Hamsin, it was called. Hamsin. The intolerably hot desert wind that swept down without warning: dry, relentless, bringing with it the swirling dust of desert sands. It struck like a hammer blow, sending men and beasts scurrying, hiding, praying, and often wailing. For when it was done, nothing was ever quite as it had been before. As timeless as the barren sandy wastes themselves, and as vicious. Tales of the hamsin were whispered by the superstitious and by sages alike. Hamsin. Carrying upon its breath an omen. Only fools would dare challenge it.

  Up and along the desolate, dusty street the solitary figure hurried. His cloak was tightly clasped at his shoulders, held before his shadowed face against the onslaught of wind. A simple dyed scarf covered his nose and mouth, draping the snarl of his lips and the downward stroke of his broad mustache. His eyes were as black as the night, deeply-set, cruel like his father’s. Had it not been for the effects of the drug, they would have shown the same animal intelligence, the same malevolent cunning.

  Mufiqua tightened the scarf against a sudden gust that whipped venomously down from the white, flat mudbrick roofs. From some unseen alley a mangy dog, scavenging among the garbage, barked in fright. Other than that, the street remained silent. Ghostly silent.

  Cursing under his foul breath, Mufiqua squinted hard into the flying dust and hastened on his way. He was slowly coming around again, the drug wearing off. He could feel the bite of wind more strongly now, began to forget the hasty rationale that had dragged him from the palace. It was a foolish thing, this midnight traipse during the windstorm, an action expressly forbidden by his father. Not that the Great Khan of the Huns believed the local superstitions of the hamsin. But mingling in the city might invite trouble. Samarkand was a strange place, as alien to Mufiqua as he was to it. A city of religious fanatics and beggars. Whores and whoremongers. Where a marketplace was as filled with spies, assassins, and traitors as much as it was with merchandise. A broken city. A sad city, bereft of gaiety, forever beneath a pall of gloom and shadows as real as the minarets from which the holy muezzins daily called the people to prayer.

  Mufiqua hated Samarkand. It was swagger and adventure that called his thoughts, except for tonight. He would much rather have been somewhere in the field, leading one of his father’s conquering armies against the Persians or the Turks. Five years he’d been forced against his will to wallow in this wretched place with no glory to show for it. Ah, but that would change. As surely as his father the Khan grew more demented every day in his unsated desire for revenge, so Mufiqua would soon come into his own. One day Kabul would die — and if he had his choice, it would be soon.

  Yet it was not thought of patricide that brought him out of his rooms this evil night. As his mind cleared more rapidly, he remembered only the woman. The beautiful dancer whose veiled face he had never seen, but whose charms and enticing loveliness had left a too-strong imprint upon his sluggish brain. She had swept beside him seductively, hips swaying to the rhythmic beat of the drum and melodious tune of the pipe. Supple-breasted, flesh a desert-tanned copper, like cream stirred to gold. And her eyes, almond orbs, wide, smoldering with tiny fires. Thin gold bracelets had adorned her slim arms, dark hair tussling over soft, bare shoulders and down her back as she twirled, around and around in tiny circles, hands clapping, long legs slightly parted while her belly quivered. Then she was gone. Fled from sight among the teeming crowds before Mufiqua, seventh son of Kabul, could call her and reward her efforts.

  He did not know her name, nor from where she came. All he knew was that the woman had obsessed his dreams, night after night appearing before him until he could no longer stand it. He’d sent his lackeys to search the entire city for her, sparing no effort or cost, bribing, threatening, sometimes resorting to punishment to elicit her identity from the close-mouthed fools who bartered in the marketplaces and frequented the smelly taverns. All without success. Weeks had gone by, restless nights passing without gratification, until he could stand it no longer. He must have her! Must possess her once, else sanity be forever lost.

  And then, inexplicably, when hope had vanished, word had come. The dancer had been found. Sharon, she was called; wild daughter of hillmen, a wandering gypsy who danced in whatever street or city she might.

  Mufiqua swore he would return with her this very night, bring her back to the walled palace no matter the objections of the Khan or his older brothers. The dancer was his, must be his! Nothing could alter that fact.

  The name of the cunning slave dealer w
ho had brought Sharon’s identity passed his parched lips: Amar. Completely untrustworthy, of course, as were all the treacherous followers of Islam. Nevertheless he was quite useful upon occasion, possessing an uncanny ability to obtain whatever aphrodisiacal delight in flesh that came to Mufiqua’s fancy. For almost a full year now this man Amar had been in his employ exclusively, even willing to gather gossip and other information about Kabul’s secret lusts, passing it on to Mufiqua for a fair price. Information that one day would bring about the Khan’s downfall.

  Mufiqua chuckled. One day Amar would be dealt with as well. The fact was that the old man now knew far too much. But seeking out and finding the dancer, Sharon, had certainly prolonged his longevity. The seventh son was grateful.

  Disguised as he was in common garb, no prying eyes watched as he turned at the windy alley and made his way to the only doorway beyond the strewn rubble. He stopped, lifted his hand, and knocked upon the aged wood as instructed. Three times quickly, then two more. A sliver of pale-orange light spilled out into the dark alleyway, the heavy oak creaking on its hinges as it slid slightly open. Mufiqua could not see the face of the smaller man barring the entrance, only a pair of steely eyes looking him over carefully, treating him with the same disregard he might reserve for any other commoner.

  Haughtily, Mufiqua flung back his cloak with a twist of the wrist and stood to his full height. The staring eyes blinked when the cowl was thrown from his head; the door opened wide.

  “I am Karim,” announced the smaller man with a bow, hands drawn to a pyramid, fingertips touching the bridge of his nose in a sign of respect. “Welcome, my lord. I have been expecting you.”

  Mufiqua stepped inside, where a dimming haze permeated the air. There were lace drapes before him and he pushed them away with assurance, entering a chamber of velvet pillows scattered atop thick, colorful Persian rugs. A brazier burned incense at both corners, wispy smoke rising to the low mudbrick ceiling.

  A slavegirl swept her arms before him, waited for the son of the Khan to unclasp his cloak and pass it to her. She bowed again as she withdrew, silent and barefooted, and Mufiqua looked after her with lustful eyes.

  “Do you like her, my lord?”

  Mufiqua turned. Karim, a squat, broadset fellow with triple chins and a sweaty brow, stood grinning, gold front teeth aglitter in the pale light of the single lamp. A grunt was his only reply. Impatient, for Mufiqua was as impatient as he was surly, the young son of Kabul sneered at the richly-robed merchant. “I did not come to admire slaves,” he hissed. “Where is she?”

  Karim’s full grin only broadened, which greatly annoyed the young prince. “Sharon has touched the hearts of many men,” Karim drawled, quickly adding, “but I have never known one to brave a hamsin to see her.”

  Mufiqua bit off his curse before it left his throat, drew the small leather pouch that dangled from his corded belt. The coins jingled appetizingly. When Karim’s eyes darted toward the money, Mufiqua hid a small, satisfied smile. His host’s greed was expected but repulsive just the same. These people were all alike, he knew. Pious, sanctimonious, prayer-spouting hypocrites who would sell both mother and daughter to their greatest enemy — if the price was right. Mufiqua abhorred them all.

  To his surprise, the smaller man made no move to grab the pouch. With the same sly, mocking smile he clapped his hands, brought the slavegirl running back into the hazy room.

  “Bring our guest something to drink while he waits,” Karim snapped. Then facing his guest again: “Wild mountain wine, my lord. Strong and heady. A treat for your taste, when compared to the pale city blends you are no doubt used to drinking.”

  “I came here not to sample wine, nor to be made drunk,” Mufiqua hissed. “Only to see the girl.”

  “And so you shall my lord. And so you shall.” He bowed with a long frown. “But even at this very moment she still prepares for you, to greet and please you properly. Surely you would have it no other way.”

  While he spoke, the slavegirl returned, standing before him with downcast eyes, holding a silver tray upon which lay a silver chalice and pitcher. Karim himself poured, and Mufiqua watched expressionlessly as the blood-colored brew splashed into the goblet.

  “Taste, taste, my lord,” urged his host eagerly, gesturing for Mufiqua to rest upon the resplendently tapestried cushions. The son of Kabul took the goblet, and with eyes fully opened and staring warily at the merchant, he drank a long and soothing draught. It was a good wine; the merchant had not lied.

  He sat after Karim refilled the chalice, choosing a double-backed golden cushion against the wall. Years of dealing with the backward folk of Samarkand had taught him never to leave his back exposed. A plunged knife had too often been the reward of carelessness.

  “And now,” said Karim, rubbing one hand over the other, “what other delights may I please you with?”

  “You may please me with the girl, merchant,” Mufiqua rasped. “I want to see the girl. I have waited too long. Can you understand that? I burn for her as no man has ever burned for a woman. Do not play games with me, Karim. Bring her now — or pay the price.”

  “She is coming, my lord. I promise it.” Karim snapped his fingers and the slave refilled the chalice. Mufiqua was momentarily placated, sipping with drooping eyes, face beginning to flush. He began to sweat. It was hot inside this windowless room, unbearably so. He pulled a silk kerchief from his robe, wiped away grime and sweat from his forehead and neck, sucked in a lungful of the hot, incense-laden air. Karim was before him, fat belly quivering with mirth, mirth obviously at the prince’s expense.

  “I’ll make you less than a man, merchant,” Mufiqua swore, “if she isn’t brought to me now. Less than a man — do you follow me?”

  Karim started to shake, hands and knees wobbling. Mufiqua locked eyes with him, and although the merchant seemed frightened, a glimmer of defiance remained behind the treacherous eyes. Mufiqua would have struck him then and there, emptied his gut, had it not been for the sudden tinkling of Chinese bells. Both men turned abruptly toward the parting lace curtains, transfixed by the shapely silhouette slipping silently into the room.

  Mufiqua shook his head to clear it, instantly forgetting his anger. He half rose from the cushion, eyes squinted tightly. Despite the haze and shadows he recognized her; his heart began to thump wildly, loins aching with desire as she appeared. Yes, it was the dancer, Sharon.

  The tanned beauty smiled as her eyes met his, raven-black hair glistening as she unpinned it, letting it fall seductively across her shoulders and over her breasts. Draped in translucent veils of pastel colors, her hips swung slightly as she crossed the chamber and began to dance. A drum was rhythmically beating somewhere. The dancer, aware of her charms and the spell she had cast over the Khan’s seventh son, lifted her arms above her head, fingers weaving snakelike patterns while fingerbells softly tapped. Through the mist she came toward him, supple flesh gleaming in the dim light, firm thighs and belly tauntingly brushing past him.

  The first veil fell to the floor, exposing rounded shoulders and a long, thin neck. The second tumbled through the air, tossed aside wantonly, bosoms now free to quiver with her dance. Mufiqua opened his mouth slightly, thick tongue darting between his lips. A hand made to grab her, Sharon twirled from his grasp, a small, triumphant laugh emitting from her yet unseen mouth.

  Mufiqua stirred. The woman parted her legs, swung her hips in a slow circular motion, arms outstretched and calling to him. Agony and ecstasy were one in the prince’s fevered mind. He wanted her, needed her, would pay any price at all to possess her. Yet still she remained out of reach, even when he stretched to touch her. She was teasing him, he knew, taunting him, increasing his hunger until he could stand it no longer. His craving could not be controlled; like a maddened beast he leaped from the cushion, knocking over the chalice, so that the dregs poured darkly over the Persian rug. He lunged for her and grabbed her roughly, pulling her to him, so that her soft flesh pressed against his bulging muscles. His
face buried itself in the gentle curve of her neck, lips wetly kissing, a hand running through her hair, harshly stroking it.

  The dancer made no move to push him away. Docile and limp she hung in his arms, urging on his passion with guttural noises from deep within her tender throat. Mufiqua yanked her down upon the floor. The dancer’s breath quickened with his animal pants and gasps. Side by side they lay, then Mufiqua jerked on top of her, parting her legs with one hand while the other fumbled loose the belt from his peasant robe. For an instant their eyes locked, Mufiqua’s wild in his torment and lust, hers glassy and tranquil, but burning with fires that never dimmed.

  His lips covered her mouth. The dancer let him fondle her, encouraged his yearning by stroking his brow and cooing in his ear. Mufiqua looked at her and grinned. No word passed between them, no word was necessary. All communication was there in his fiery eyes, his groping hands, his unconscious pelvic thrusts while she clung to him and let him have his pleasure. His robe was all but off and her flimsy veils discarded — when suddenly he stiffened. Mufiqua lifted his face and looked at the girl questioningly. His lips shook as he tried to say something; he felt his head swim, put his hands to his forehead. Something was happening to him, something he could not explain. His body broke out in glistening perspiration; mindlessly he made to grab his fallen robe, draw his dagger. Karim was standing in the shadow of the curtain, gold teeth ablaze with his smile.

  “The wine!” gasped Mufiqua. He glanced at the fallen chalice, its sweet but deadly contents soaking into the wool rug. The wine! The bastard poisoned the wine!

  He rolled off the girl, ready to kill. She stared without expression at him, darting her dark eyes toward the merchant. Mufiqua made it to his knees with his brain spinning. The room was going around, the world was going around. Karim was laughing; he was sure of it.