Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  “You’re not one of Krishna’s men!” exclaimed the prisoner weakly.

  “No, friend, I’m not.”

  His bloodshot, sunken eyes widened. “Then who — ?”

  “One who would not harm you, old man.” She leaned closer. “But listen: There is not much time. I run a dangerous risk being here. Krishna is away from the dungeons, and I bribed one of the guards with a whore...”

  “What...what do you want?”

  “To take you away from your misery.”

  It was a flat, emotionless statement, one that made Karim wince in disbelief. “Then you are not an enemy?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No, trader. I am a friend. Your only friend.”

  His eyes stared in dawning comprehension. “A Kazir! You’re a Kazir!”

  “Shhh!” A finger went to her lips and she glanced around the cell with growing unease. “You did a stupid thing, Karim. You should have known not to try it.”

  The old man, who had aged a decade in the dungeons, whimpered. “I meant only to regain my honor,” he sobbed. “I swear; I was out of my mind with grief for my daughter...”

  “Rest easy, trader. No more harm can come to Lina. I promise you.”

  He drew back slightly, knowing what she would say before she said it. “She’s dead? My child is dead?”

  Carolyn nodded gravely. “Last night. But she died without disgrace. Knowing of your capture, she sought only to make her own mark in our struggle. She volunteered, accomplishing her mission without regret — and died a noble death. A Kazir’s death.”

  Karim reached for her abba, crumpled the fabric with his hand. “There was no pain? She died swiftly?”

  “Instantly,” lied the saya, unwilling and unable to tell the truth.

  “Allah be praised!” He looked sharply to Carolyn. “I am at peace,” he said. “It no longer matters how much the Huns might hurt me.”

  She smiled down at him, thinking how truly brave he must be to have suffered all this in a worthless effort. “I told you before, trader, they will hurt you no more.”

  “You mean you’ve come to plan my escape?”

  “Only the escape of your soul, Karim. More than that even I cannot do.” She forced him to look at her evenly. “I have come to kill you.”

  His head sank back, and he nodded. “Even for that I am grateful,” he admitted. He sighed, glanced around at his hated cell, looking forward to the peaceful oblivion. “I am ready.”

  Carolyn bowed her head. There were no tears and no sorrow. She drew the knife from its scabbard, held it over his pain-wracked body, and plunged the blade with all her strength into his heart. Karim moaned, then slumped. His lips parted in a smile the moment his last exhale deflated his lungs forever. The saya stood up, wiped the knife clean, stole to the iron bars. And there she fumbled for the borrowed key, locking the chamber and hurrying down the corridor.

  One more soul had gone to heaven. There were still many left to be sent to hell.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  In the poor light of an early dusk, Zadek’s profile made him appear no less than the image of Satan himself. His wispy triangular beard pointed sharply beneath a jutting chin, crooked nose seemingly hideously deformed against the backdrop of shadows. He entered the tent somberly, without greeting those waiting for him.

  Tariq shifted uneasily in the presence of the mad mullah. He kept his gaze evenly ahead, bowing his head as the holy man took his place and closed the circle. When finally he dared gaze at the mullah’s dour features, his face was as impassive as the faces of the dead. One of the nearby clansmen made a gesture to speak, but Sharon quickly hushed him to silence. The atmosphere of the Calling was not to be broken.

  Slowly, slowly, Zadek withdrew the small, aged leather pouch and untied the cord. Those closest to him leaned forward with rising speculation when he turned the pouch upside down and let its contents tumble into his open hand. The mad mullah sat cross-legged, oblivious to those around him, and closed his vast hand. Within his grasp rested the Glowing Stones of Babylon, a handful of tiny and seemingly worthless stones, useless to all save the few men in the world who’d understood their power.

  Zadek shut his eyes, mumbled a few unintelligible words in a strange and archaic tongue. Tariq watched in wonder as, abruptly, the former priest of Islam shook his hand and hurtled the stones to the floor like a set of dice. The Glowing Stones of Babylon formed a perfect half-moon before him; Zadek began to sway back and forth, soundlessly mouthing the secret chant. He seemed to be in deep pain, this man who had seen more of the world and its mysterious doings than any other. His craggy face broke out in a cold sweat, his nostrils beginning to flare while he wheezed. Suddenly, miraculously, the small rocks started to glow, each with its own color — crimson, golden-yellow, azure, and indigo.

  The stones began to quiver, to dance and cavort along the edge of the rug at the mullah’s feet. With widened eyes those inside the tent looked on, unable to tear their gazes away from the incredible sight.

  Zadek was staring now, as a blindman stares, into the empty reaches of nothingness — yet the mad mullah did indeed see something. Something denied the rest, a vision across whose threshold only a chosen few had ever trespassed, and then only rarely, for such voyages were dangerous to those who undertook them — even to one such as Zadek.

  For a seemingly endless time, in which the world itself appeared to stop and hold its breath, the mullah continued to sway. The stones intensified their glow, and suddenly burst into blaze, each a tiny bauble of flaming fire, deep penetrating fire that all but blinded those who watched.

  “I...I am in contact,” rasped Zadek, hissing his words through clenched teeth.

  Sharon’s soft whisper broke through the silence. “Do you see him?” she asked.

  Zadek nodded strongly, bobbing forward over the fiery baubles. He spread his large, callused hands above the flames. “He lies in his cell, stilled, unspeaking —”

  Tariq felt a pang of fear. “Speak, monk! Is he dead? Is Roskovitch dead?”

  The mad mullah slowly shook his head. “He is not...dead. He lives, and waits...”

  “Has he been tortured?” asked Sharon worriedly.

  “He is strong, this barbarian from Rus. He accepts their pains and spits in their eyes.”

  Yes, Sharon thought, knowing that would be exactly like him. Suffering any torture the Huns might impose, all the while readying himself for the moment of freedom. Sharon loathed herself for forcing this imprisonment upon him, this much-needed assistance from within the very bowels of Kabul’s dungeons. Roskovitch was her most worthy warrior, unwavering in his loyalty. The barbarian was as valuable to her as half a legion would be to a soldier like Le-Dan, a rallying force for all the Kazirs. His absence in coming days would be sorely noted. Yet who else could she have so readily trusted? Who else to use to put into place the final pieces of her plan?

  “Move on, Zadek!” she hissed to the straining mullah, bringing him out of his trance. “Move on!”

  He complied deafly, leaving the scalp-locked barbarian; then back to the Calling of the stones Zadek returned, back to the depths of this netherworld. Blood drained from his ashen face as he shifted his enormous concentration.

  Tense minutes later he spoke again. “I see him now...” he croaked, speaking each word slowly and dramatically. “The mist is lifting...”

  Sharon fidgeted, sharing a quick and fretful glance with the troubled Tariq. “Can you make contact?” she pressed.

  The insane man of the cloth hesitated. “He remains far, far away from my beckoning, Panther. Lost within the realm of his drugged slumber, his dreams of perverted conquests.”

  “You cannot lose him, Zadek!” she warned. “Summon him again — back from these visions. Regain your control, priest!”

  The mullah’s broad shoulders sagged with the weight of the burden she had imposed. It would not be easy, not with Mufiqua’s mind so deranged, not with the effects of the opium so deeply entrenched
in his vitals.

  Zadek put his fingertips to his temples, feeling his head reel with the pain of his mind transference, and steadily regained his power. Then he smiled.

  *

  Mufiqua tossed about, tightening his hands at. the perspiration-drenched sheet. He clawed and moaned, fought off the terrible intrusion that hammered away at his fevered brain. Again there was the face, that nameless face he did not recognize but knew he had seen before...somewhere...

  Mufiqua, Mufiqua...

  He heard his name called, his being forcefully summoned. The son of Kabul tossed and turned restlessly, but the voice was stronger than he was, the face always there to greet him no matter which way he turned.

  “Who...who are you?” he panted in his delirium.

  I have come, Mufiqua. Have you not been expecting me? Have you not known that I would always be close?

  Mufiqua sightlessly gazed into the darkness. The voice was familiar, he knew. He’d heard it before as surely as he’d been haunted by the face. But where? When? Whose face?

  “What do you...want...?”

  Your obedience, Mufiqua. You cannot escape. You cannot hide no matter how far you may run, how distant your dreams may take you upon your drugged voyages...Do you not know me, Mufiqua? Do you not hear and recognize the voice of your master?

  “Master? Master...” The word rolled weakly off his tongue. And then it came to him, the flooding memory of the night he had stolen into the dim quarters of the city to seek out the dancer, the woman who haunted his thoughts every night, the woman whom he’d vowed to possess.

  “Yes...I remember now...I remember...”

  The satanic face smiled. Good, Mufiqua. I knew you would. Now I have come as I promised. There is work to be done, Mufiqua. Much work to be done. I am counting on you. Hear my instruction — and obey.

  The contact was complete. Zadek had managed to pull the addicted son of the Khan onto the same brain pattern as his own. Mufiqua’s will belonged to him, and him alone. Whatever the command, it would be done.

  “How...how may I serve thee, Master?”

  The words came quickly. In front of your door, Mufiqua, there is a box, a small box that I have sent to you. Go now and find it.

  In a stupored trance, Mufiqua lifted himself off the bed and walked zombielike across the blackened chamber. His bare feet made no sound, his naked body numb to the bite of the chill wind. Mufiqua crossed into the adjoining chamber and, with glazed eyes, came to the oval door and opened it slowly. Aging wood creaked. At his feet rested the box, just as his master said. He knelt down and picked it up gently, and returned to his room.

  “What...shall...I do with it, Master?” he asked, holding the package out in the palms of his hands.

  Zadek’s voice was growing clearer, possessing his mind completely. Open it. Take out the doll and place it carefully upon the mantel.

  The son of Kabul did as instructed. He lifted the lid, discarded it, then he stared at the contents. The doll was tiny, easily fitting into the palm of one hand. It was a soldier, a Hun commander in exact replica down to its perfectly-sewn breeches and minuscule vest of armor. A needle-length sword dangled from a bronze-colored scabbard, the left hand of the doll holding a perfect rounded Hun shield. Atop its head it wore a horned helmet complete with noseguard and eyeslits. Everything was perfect to the slightest detail, so lifelike that Mufiqua shuddered. Then, as the voice instructed, he placed the doll atop the stone mantel and stood back, waiting.

  There is a pin inside the box, Mufiqua. A silver pin. Find it. His hand groveled in the dark; he winced as the sharp point jabbed at his index finger. Carefully he lifted it, twirling it before his eyes, reminded of the needles the Chinaman used for Kabul’s acupuncture treatments, only smaller, down to scale with the doll. He mumbled, “What next, Master?”

  Take the pin, Mufiqua, bring it closer to the doll. Hold it with care and push it deeply inside the doll’s chest.

  Mufiqua hesitated, but the strong will of the voice forced him to do its bidding. The son of Kabul lifted his hand, glassy eyes staring uncomprehendingly at the figurine, and plunged the needle through the tiny links of mail.

  *

  “Noooooo!” wailed Temugin, clutching at his chest as pain wracked him. The would-be commander of all the Khan’s armies rolled off his bed and onto the floor, gasping and moaning. The pain intensified, pounding, ravaging his chest. Like the weight of a wall pressing down over him, the crushing agony seemed to last forever. He flailed about the floor, sputtering and squealing, groveling to his knees. “Stop!” he shrieked. “Stooopppp!”

  “My lord, what’s the matter?” The soothsayer burst into the room, face alight with concern. He hovered above the tormented man with widened, incredulous eyes.

  Temugin stuck out his arm, knocking over a candlestick, forcefully grabbing his trusted seer by his sleeve. Hezekiah deftly knelt beside him. “What has happened to you, my lord?”

  “Pains...My chest —”

  The soothsayer furrowed his brows darkly. “Perhaps I should fetch the Chinaman? He understands the workings of our bodies; his knowledge —”

  At the very mention of the Oriental the stricken Temugin became terrified. He gritted his teeth, gnashed them together, and finally forced his words out. “Don’t trust him,” he croaked. “Can’t trust anyone, anyone...”

  “But, my lord!” protested the bent, hunched seer. “You are ill. Who can say what manner of fits have overtaken you? You need expert attention at once. It is not good to lock yourself in thusly. Perhaps last night’s drink was spoiled. Or the food you ate —”

  “Poisoned!” growled Temugin, spitting the thought. “They’ve...poisoned me!”

  “Who, lord? It cannot be! I myself have tasted each of your meals before they were brought. Again, lord, I beg that you let me send for the Chinaman.”

  Temugin shook his head violently, sucking his air in pain-ridden gasps. “Bring no one, soothsayer! They mean to kill me.” His grip tightened. “Do you hear? I will see no one! Treat me yourself!”

  “But, lord, my knowledge is of the stars. I know nothing of medicines.”

  The battering in his chest worsened, and Temugin was overcome by nausea. His head swam, and he was knocked back as he vainly struggled to stand. “Help me...onto my bed —”

  Hezekiah slipped his arms around Temugin’s shivering body, picked him up and carefully rested him, propping his head against the pillows. “They want me dead!” he rattled. “They will not rest until I am in my grave.” Then he wailed loudly, crossing his hands over his chest, kicking out his feet into the air. Suddenly the pain was gone, vanished as quickly and inexplicably as it had come. Temugin’s breath labored, then calmed. His hands sank at his side.

  “My lord?” questioned the seer.

  “It...it’s gone,” said Temugin. “The affliction has left me.”

  “Are you sure, lord?”

  He took a series of long, deep breaths, turned back to the only man worthy of trust. “This was an attempt on my life, stargazer,” he said. “As surely as you predicted the return and demise of Gamal, so has this been another plot.”

  “I saw it not in the stars, my lord.”

  Temugin reddened. “Then your reading was wrong! Don’t you see? My brothers know the threat I pose to them,” he told Hezekiah, his face drenched in sweat. “They have plotted this together! Ah, what a fool I’ve been! I should have known they’d find some insidious way to be rid of me.”

  The seer bowed his head respectfully. “Yes, my lord. You are wiser than I in unfolding this dire attempt on your life. You alone see clearly the truth even as my own vision has been clouded.”

  With the compliment Temugin smiled expansively. “But I am too clever for these foolish plots, eh stargazer?” He coiled a fist. “From now on I will eat nothing cooked within my father’s kitchens.” He leaned forward, regarding his companion evenly, put a hand to his shoulder. “Tomorrow, stargazer, you will personally supervise a patrol into the count
ryside. Ravish for me a village, find a slave worthy of your bidding, and make him a personal vassal, entrusted to my own kitchen. Set guards at the door and let no man — not even my father — enter, upon peril of death.” His eyes began to glower as he spoke. “They’ll never be able to poison me again, will they stargazer?” He chuckled quietly.

  Hezekiah shared his mirth. “No, my lord. Lord Temugin is too clever. Far too clever. Let them sulk and continue their folly. I shall return to my readings, and report to you every dawn what I have discovered.”

  Temugin lay back, exulted. This time he would be ready for them, he knew. Be ready for anything they might conspire. And he once more thanked all the dark gods of the Huns for the fortune that had brought this soothsayer to his employ.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Morning was close. Sharon stirred contentedly, luxuriating in the glow of her being, the tender touch of the sleeping man beside her, the man she had loved for so long. It had been difficult for them to steal away this single night, to capture once again their love in the warmth of each other’s arms. Difficult and dangerous. For, as they both, knew all too well, the love between her and Tariq was forbidden. Forbidden by Kazir law as much as it was made impossible by the prophesy. But Sharon would not regret these stolen hours, come what may. Nor would Tariq. Least of all Tariq. They had ridden from the safety of the Stronghold in the dead of night, disguised and unrecognized by the loyal desert men who stood lonely vigil. Rode across the steppes, among the shifting dunes until they were well out of sight, alone in their own private world, cherishing these few moments amid the raging fires of their love. Now the night was done, they would be missed, the Kazir fortress a flurry of anxious concern for their safety. Dawn had come all too soon.

  Nestling her head in the crook of his arm, she gazed forlornly at the coming of morning, the glorious desert sky and the endless red sands. She should be crying now, she knew. Should be flowing with sorrowful tears, for when they parted today, it could well be for the last time. Tariq had to go his way to do what must be done, she to go her own. The Law was the Law, unyielding and relentless, denying their devotion to each other coldly, promising only fulfillment of their lives in the acceptance of the Prophesy.