Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  “You really mean that?”

  “I damn well do. This Panther of the Steppes may be the blackest witch in hell for all I care. She and her cohorts, though, have put a severe cramp in the Hun’s march of further conquest. If not for her and her outlaws, even mighty Persia might now be running for the hills like jackals before Kabul’s advancing hordes. Never forget that the Khan hates this woman, would do anything to have her in his grasp.”

  “Gossip says that she plucked out Kabul’s eye.”

  “After he raped her. Yes, I’ve heard that tale as well. Listen to me, Lucienus; I don’t know where the truth lies, only that she is the fragile thread upon which all our lives now cling. Whatever else she may be, she’s also a woman. Flesh and blood like any other. And were it in my power to be at her side now, this very moment, I would give an eye of my own to do so.”

  Chapter Three

  Although the first flakes had begun to fall less than an hour before, past midnight Sharon found herself ankle-deep in snow. Swirling snow that nearly blinded her as she trekked up the lonely hill, treading over hardened soil until she negotiated the crest. The wind was blowing more strongly; she tightened her desert-woven cloak about her, folding her hands beneath her sleeves. Black hair glistened wetly where it fell from the pinned kerchief that covered her head. With pressed lips and eyes luminous from the cold, she stepped into nits and gutted folds, boots leaving a tell-tale trail behind. She was alone, though; certain she’d not been followed. This hillock was sacred ground, and not even her closest confidant would dare to tread upon it for fear of sacrilege. Sharon, alone among them all, was permitted, and only she would be able to find what she was looking for. Had any other passed this way, he would have been greeted only by silence, that and the unseen eyes of the forest that secretly watched without understanding and said nothing.

  Without fear of nightthings, forbidden and unholy creatures of the black, she reached the gnarled roots of the lumber oak, lifted her gaze and swept it among the snow-laden boughs. Here not a leaf stirred in the wind on this winter’s night. Nor the whistle of the breeze passing between the branches, nor even the dim hoot of some distant owl to break the solitude. The white mass around her deepened with breath-taking speed, pushing up against her calves and the tops of her boots. Shivering, she waited, staring now at the single plant whose stalk had wrapped around the thickest branch, leaves closed as if against the temperature, protecting each other. It was sleeping, waiting to be called.

  As suddenly as it began, the snow stopped. Sharon pulled away her scarf and smiled. It was time.

  Ordinary men would have been frightened out of their wits when, inexplicably, the stalk began to slither snakelike up the bough. The leaves on the stem started to stir, shaking off drops of water like a dog shakes its fur. Beneath the shadows the broadly-veined leaves started to part, one by one, much as a banana peel falls when the fruit is opened. Inside rested a flower. A beautiful and perfect flower, sweetly-scented and with wide petals of bright gold, which in the dark surroundings shone almost like a lamp.

  “The deed is done,” said Sharon to the plant. “Mufiqua’s mind has been altered. When the time is at hand, Zadek shall instruct him.”

  A long silence prevailed, Sharon patiently waiting. She folded her hands before her, bowed her head.

  “Then the bait has been taken.”

  She nodded somberly, eyes weary, sunken from the tense events of past days and the difficult journey she’d made from the desert here to the farthest recesses of the fabled wood. Her life seemed so far away from her now, so remote and distant she sometimes wondered if it were not another being that possessed her body. A new, separate identity that somehow had robbed both mind and form, reshaped her totally into what stood so humbly before this aged hulk of a tree. A woman, yes, but more than that. Far more, far more. Where had it all begun? Where would it all finish?

  In as much time as it took a snowflake to fall from the lowest branch to the ground, her thoughts carried her far and wide. Once upon a time there had been a young girl, naive and foolish, who’d dreamed of lovers and children and happiness; a lost child of Samarkand born into a family of such awesome power it seemed it could never be taken away. But taken away it had been. Abruptly and brutally. That girl had witnessed the fall of her city and home, seen the carnage and mayhem that followed while the Hun legions ran amok across the ancient palace, wheeling death and destruction. How old had she been when her father was cut down like a dog by heathen arrows? How old when, fleeing the grim palace corridors for her life, she’d been caught by Kabul himself and ravished, her will broken, her illusions of life forever shattered? Wildly, in blind fury, she had lashed out with the only weapon she possessed: a golden pin for her hair. A pin that she thrust through the Khan’s right eye, blinding him for all time, causing him periodic fits of excruciating pain that even a brute like he could not bear, earning his terrible, sworn vengeance.

  With Zadek at her side she’d fled Samarkand, found a suspicious refuge among the free men of the hills called Kazirs, until now, little more than five years later, she found herself a leader among them. More than a leader; the living embodiment of a century-old prophecy that to this day she never fully understood or accepted. Panther, the Kazirs had named her. Panther of the Steppes, earned by the spilling of Hun blood as she led their horsemen into desert victory after victory. A measure of peace had been won, of course; an uneasy truce in which the steppes, alone of Samarkand’s once-extensive empire, remained free of heathen domination. Yet what good was this heart without a soul? Until the city itself was reclaimed, all vestiges of the barbaric conquerors overthrown, there could never truly be peace.

  This, then, was the legacy and duty thrust upon that once-fragile, innocent child. A mission and a destiny, forever intertwined with the fate of the freedom-loving hillmen. Her love of those close to her was second only to her love of Samarkand. Zadek, the mad mullah; Roskovitch, the scalp-locked barbarian expatriate from the northern, frigid land called Rus; Hezekiah, aged friend of her father, trusted adviser, a man who once stood beside Samarkand’s emir as minister. Of the saya, Carolyn, there was little to be said. Ever mistrustful, always careful, the woman entrusted as Keeper of the Stronghold continued to doubt Sharon’s leadership and ability. Yet she was also a woman whom the Panther knew she could trust with her life. And then there was Tariq. Tariq, her secret lover, her strength and wisdom. Brother of the saya who guarded the mountain passes and the desert, the man to whom she was faithfully sworn but whose life she could never share. Forced apart by war and by the prophecy itself, stealing clandestine moments for themselves, torn apart all too soon by duty that could not be divided.

  These were Sharon’s generals, the elite of her guard of hill tribesmen, the only ones she allowed close enough to touch her emotions. All the rest were dead. And even of these few, how many more might perish before freedom was achieved?

  A teardrop carelessly fell from her eye and rolled down her cheek. Memories of bitterness came to the fore as she stood alone in the moonless dark, quelling her grief yet again while her body trembled. Of them all, only she knew the terrible events that must first transpire before the ancient prophecy could be fulfilled. It came to her at night, often, amid her tormented dreams, and though never did she speak of it, she knew all too well the reality. Dreams such as these never lied.

  “Yes,” she responded to the flower of the night before her, “the bait has been taken.”

  “How soon, little princess? How soon?”

  The voice came as a whisper on the wind, real yet unreal. In another time, another place, she would have questioned her sanity for hearing it. Not now, though. Too much had passed, too many ghosts cried out their anguish.

  Sharon is dead! she commanded to herself. Killed the day Kabul’s evil seed flowed in my belly. I will not let her live! Only the Panther remains in her place. Only the shell. Only the vision of what must be done!

  “I cannot tell you how soon. But my plans are
all but complete. I shall peel the palace like an onion, layer by layer, until we are ready.”

  “Take care, little princess!” came the voice. “Know thy enemy. Prepare for his treachery.”

  “Treachery will be repaid in kind,” she answered coldly.

  She felt her flesh crawl, felt as though the eyeless plant was observing her, studying her, weighing her responses upon a carefully-balanced scale. Judging her even now to be certain she had acted precisely to instruction.

  “There will be no turning back, little princess. No second chance. Should you fail...”

  Her eyes flashed hotly. “I will not fail! I must not fail! You have guided me well, friend.”

  “I have done little, child. I cannot protect you against evil — only warn you of it. The rest is in your hands.”

  “It was the witches of this forest who bestowed upon me the gift. Now they are gone, and a part of me is one of them. I mourn their passing but rejoice that they left me you. You have been wise and faithful to me, friend. What more can a mortal ask? But you can do no more. Now it is my time. The Dawn of Reclamation is almost here, and I, friend and adviser, am not immortal as you are. To fail now is surely to die, and to bring down with me those I love the best. It cannot be. The Calling must be answered while I am able.”

  The web of intrigue had been set, the flower knew. Carefully nurtured and painstakingly woven with every thread in place. Yet should one precarious thread be cut, only doom might be expected. If the girl, this Panther of the Steppes, did not fully comprehend the extent of the peril, at least she was harboring no false illusions.

  A long, dreary silence followed, the rustling of nearby branches singing with the gusts. “You will come to me again?” asked the ethereal voice softly.

  Sharon was trying not to cry; she put out her hand to affectionately touch the mysterious plant, then withdrew it abruptly, recalling the witch’s warning. Any physical contact would snap like a twig the thin cord, whisking her from this life across the threshold to the inner world, a world she was not yet prepared for. Still, the nightflower of the forest, the mystical flower that appeared only to her, had become more than a friend. Was it insane to love a plant?

  “Yes, I shall come again,” she said at last. “You and I have yet work to do, friend. This task I set out to complete is but the first beginnings of the end.”

  “You must not disobey the prophecy,” it warned.

  Sharon shook her head, knowing full well the flower’s caution. What was it that Zadek had said? Hate cannot be denied...

  “The saya has entered the palace,” she said, turning thoughts back to pressing matters.

  “Safely?”

  “As far as can be discerned. Unlike my own, her face is unrecognized. She shall not be questioned.”

  “Good. Good. And your other spies?”

  “Intact. Awaiting only my command.” With a new and furious gust, snow began to fall from the branches, whipping angrily about Sharon’s silhouetted figure. She stared through it to the glistening petals. “I have vowed,” she went on, “that in weeks to come the Khan shall be repaid for his crimes in kind. An eye for an eye, the Prophet has said. And when I am done...” Her voice trailed off, eyes turned as cold as the frozen waters of the hidden lake. The transformation had been made, once again her heart as hard as the desert stone.

  “Be careful, little princess,” said the sage voice, “lest you be consumed by the same burning fires you cast upon your enemies.”

  Her laugh was as bitter as it was callous. The mirth of a woman who had long before lost all hope for her own safety or happiness. She peered up at the starless heavens, feeling the weight of her people resting upon her shoulders.

  “I am tired, friend. So very tired. I cannot rest; nights are often endless for me...”

  The tone became sympathetic. “Then share your burden, little princess.”

  The piercing glare of her eyes made her refusal more than plain.

  “Not even with Tariq?”

  Sharon pushed down a rising sob as she shook her head, “Especially not him, friend. Our love is too strong. I cannot make the one who means the most to me carry such terrible weight. No; the Prophesy must not be altered. I alone am the One. I alone shall see it through to its conclusion.”

  “Then go with Allah, little princess. What must be done, must be done. Or so it is said.”

  “Or so it is said,” Sharon repeated, letting the sacred words roll slowly from her tongue.

  “Come back when next you need me. I shall be waiting.”

  Even through the sadness of this parting she managed to smile, but turned her back on the strange flower so it couldn’t see the wetness of her eyes. As she stepped away into snowy darkness, the long stem deeply bowed, petals inwardly turning. Then the broad leaves covered all, and the mist of the forest closed over them both.

  Chapter Four

  The narrow and dusty street was clouded with shadows thrown by the plethora of mudbrick hovels lining either side. The closer Tariq came to its end, the stronger became the reeking, familiar smells of the plaza and open marketplace. Past doors scarred with decades of dirt and windswept dust, past the squalor and teeming humanity of barefoot, hungry children, past sightless beggars cross-leggedly lining the way with hands outstretched, the dark-haired Kazir slipped unnoticed. He wore the plain white linen lungi of the peasants, feet sandaled, head wrapped in a desert burnoose, starkly pale against his sun-bronzed face.

  Upon entering the bazaar, he was greeted by the innumerable faces of Samarkand. Traders and merchants, caravaneers from every known land of Asia, all come to this crossroads city of the world to barter their goods. Silks and spices brought all the way from Cathay and camel dung heaped in the gutters pungently vied for attention with the scent of perfumes from the Indian subcontinent. Steel from Damascus, precious stones from Mesopotamia, pottery and leather of quality carried all the way from Tyre and Jerusalem. Glass, linens, and grain from Egypt. Foodstuffs of every description; wines, skins, ostrich feathers from Africa. The scent of herbs mixed with the sweat of thousands, matched only by the din of barter babbled in a score of strange tongues. And the slave market, where dealers in human flesh sold strong men and supple-breasted to the Hun masters. Cobblers set up shop alongside butchers, tapping and stitching leather in the midst of strolling prostitutes and vagabonds. Pickpockets and urchins. Offers and counter offers were loudly bandied while flies and insects crawled the walls and buzzed the canopied stalls. Weavers, medicinal practitioners, masons, and carpenters — the market absorbed them all beneath the outer walls of the palace, within sight of the holy Great Mosque itself, where muezzins along the balconies called the faithful to prayer, letting the ever-present throngs of pilgrims and cripples pass through the sheltered, mosaic arches into the courtyard and sacred gates of the inner temple. All this, while Hun soldiers in vests of mail patrolled the streets and walls, ever watchful and suspicious, ensuring a measure of tranquillity amid the turmoil of Samarkand’s masses.

  Tariq, safe among these pressing crowds, shunned the offers of both wares and flesh, shuddering involuntarily. Was this place, the vital heart of the holy city he loved, its very pulse, all that was shamefully left? He could have wept at the sight of the fleshpots, the whores and drug-dealers, maimed thieves that preyed freely on the poor. This was not the city he knew, not the sacred site where the holy words of the Prophet Mohammed had eagerly been spread so many years before. It was an evil place now, bereft of charm and beauty, a sulking, smelly cesspool of humanity. A disgrace to its people and the eyes of Allah.

  He crossed from a stall of displayed birds in cages; with his gaze cast downward, as a squad of helmeted soldiers passed by laughing and making obscene jokes at the expense of a sightless pauper, he came to the black gate of the formerly lavish mosque. Old men stood in groups, chewing betel nuts, exchanging small gossip beneath a blazing sun. A soldier spat openly nearby upon the tiled floor, a sacrilege that in better times would have brought the wrat
h of the populace down on him. The old men nervously turned away while the soldier glared in open defiance, taunting the religious to utter a protest.

  Tariq was a man of the desert. A Kazir, a chieftain. He was glad his father, Shoaib the Goatherd, tribal elder, had not lived years enough to see all this. It would have broken the old man’s heart, destroyed him. But times had severely changed since those days, Tariq knew, and it would take much to bring them back.

  Beyond the open courtyard where hundreds of the faithful gathered solemnly, Tariq could see the decorated windows of the sanctuary. Made of fine and hard stucco, carved by master artisans while yet wet, the colored clusters vividly reflected strong afternoon sunlight. He walked toward them slowly, not to enter the sanctuary itself to pray but to seek out the one man who stood casually waiting, hands clasped as if praying, eyes seemingly shut against the glaring brightness.

  The Kazir approached him cautiously, his face lifting for the first time, his features sharp and dark, handsomely framed by thin brows and curled black hair. He studied the groupings of worshippers on knees bended and foreheads touching the ground. A man could not be too careful in Samarkand. Not even here. Spies were everywhere, and for a few coppers even many of the devout might set their tongues to wagging.

  “Are you a pilgrim as well?” said Tariq lowly, speaking the first phrase of the signal.

  They had never met before, and the second man acted prudently. “I am a scholar,” he countersigned. He paused, looked over Tariq’s garb, noted the firm and muscular flesh hidden by the folds of the dusted lungi. From behind came the atonal dissonance of a prayer-singing postulant.

  Tariq observed him well, also, seeing in his face more than wrinkles of age. There was a bitterness and mistrust ill-masked in his tired eyes. He was not a Kazir, but a city man. Educated, if his manner meant anything; proud, as shown by his straight back and posture, mistrustful of all hill tribes even though they shared a common enemy.