Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  Sharon stifled a sob, miserably wishing she could avoid the flower’s all-knowing, all-understanding gaze. “What is to be, will be, friend. Deny not that to me. The Prophesy ordained my coming and passing long before my birth.”

  With a heavy sigh, her companion nodded, saying, “Or so it is said.” It was a direct quote from the sacred writings.

  “Yes. Or so it is said. The Word of the Book tells no lies, friend. I am resigned.”

  “Then I cry for you, little princess. Aye, and for Tariq also. You shall never know the fruits of the love that binds you, the right of ever mortal woman and man.”

  “Please,” she whispered, swallowing to get rid of the rising lump in her throat, “don’t speak any more of it. I am only human, friend, belonging not to the netherwold. So frail are we humans, so filled with angers and jealousies and hatreds —”

  At this the flower’s petals lifted gaily in something of a smile. “And was it not your own heart that had turned to rock for all these times, little princess? Had not your own hatreds overwhelmed you and turned you from your former self into another.”

  Sharon had to smile at her companion’s insight and wisdom. Yes, she’d been guilty of all this and more. The lust for vengeance had blackened her soul every bit as much as it had the Khan’s.

  “Have you changed?” came the expected question.

  She thought for some time, examining her feelings, her mortal emotions, recalling her former life and her years as the Panther. At her last visit to the forbidden Grim Forest, she’d felt so confident about what had to be done, so certain that once her thirst had been quenched and the Khan slain at her feet, that nothing else mattered. That had changed, she saw now, not knowing when or where or how or even why. But it had changed.

  “I am still the same,” she replied at length, choosing her words carefully. “But yes, friend, I shall not cover my feelings here with you. Things are not the same for me as before. Oh, do not misunderstand — I want Kabul dead, I want my people and my city free —”

  “But also you want life? To live freely as a woman, to love and to cherish?”

  “Your words hurt me, friend. Yes — I won’t deny it. Not any longer, not on this, our farewell. But don’t you see? Reminding me of this only makes it worse!” She bit her lip to stop it from quivering, shook her head to stem the flood of tears.

  “Cry, little princess,” said the flower. “Cry out your heart, here, now. Become a woman again, if only for a short time.”

  With trembling legs she knelt beside the tree, put her arms around the trunk and bent her head against the flower’s leaves. There she sobbed, her whole body wracked and fevered, cried her heart out like the small child she used to be, weeping now not for what had been and was lost, but for the future that she knew could never be.

  “I don’t want to die!” she cried, sniffing, her eyes wet and luminous. “I don’t want to stay buried in hatred, in war, in revenge.” She tilted her head, stared up at the moon, the glorious moon, weeping unashamedly, shudderingly, the poisons in her system buried for so long now rising to the surface and pouring out. “Why me, friend? Why is it my life that has to be tossed away, thrown to the wind?”

  Her companion had no reply for her, but she knew the answer, knew that it was the fate that awaited and could never be undone. When Samarkand was freed, the Panther, the One chosen, would be no more. It had to be that way, could never be altered.

  Her thoughts turned to Tariq, to all those she had come to love, and the weight of it was too much for her. She crumpled at the gnarled roots of the tree, her face buried into its fallen leaves, her fists beating angrily at the earth. Too late she had come to realize the evil of the poisons that had rooted inside her, far too late. Wasted time, wasted years passed before her eyes. She should have listened to Tariq when there had still been time, shared some of her burdens, as the flower had asked of her. But no; she’d been too stubborn, too proud.

  “Cry, little princess, cry. Spill your heart. And when you stand again Allah, in his wisdom, will have listened.”

  “How I wish — how I pray that this can be so! But the Prophesy, friend; it cannot be denied! It cannot be denied! And I alone am its prisoner.”

  “Never lose faith in God,” remonstrated the plant. “Never, for only in His arms shall there be peace and joy.”

  Sharon listened; she sat up, dried her eyes and looked at him, nodding slowly. Yes, that was true. If nothing else made any sense to her, at least that much did. “I won’t lose that faith,” she promised. “Not even...not even at the end.”

  “Then go, little princess; you back to your world, and me to mine. In this life we shall not meet again — but who can say about another?”

  Sharon stood, brushed off the leaves, bent low and blew the flower a kiss. “Farewell, friend. Farewell, brother. Indeed, in another time and another place surely we shall meet again.”

  The dew drop fell from the petals; the flower bent its stalk and with a heavy heart folded its earthly petals for the last time. And as it returned to its own time and world, it whispered upon the wind, “Fate is fate. Never run from it.”

  “I shan’t, friend. And I’ll never forget you. Now I go and do my part, even as the Prophesy foretells. For now I see the truth. Thank you. Let what will be, be — or so it is said.”

  Chapter Thirty

  At the beginning the morning had been bright, fair; then, across the sky, above the distant mountains and steppes, a dulling haze started to form, a dark-mustard shade that fanned out malevolently across the horizon. The air above the city of Samarkand stilled, grew hot and stale, sultry. Citizens peered from their windows, from their hovels, from their farms and fields, putting down their tools and plows, leaving soil untended, water buckets undrawn from the wells, while they gazed at the sky in awe. It was a hamsin brewing, the old hags of the villages said, making the sign of the horn with their hands to ward off the impending evil, scurrying from riverbanks and markets and gardens and pastures, hurrying back to their tents and houses as quickly as possible. Children were called in from the streets, mothers suckled anxious infants to keep them from crying. Herders tending sheep along the fertile hills of the countryside shouted to their dogs, hurried the sheep from their grazing, brought them swiftly away from the open. Fields of wheat almost ripe for harvest swayed strongly in the steadily increasing wind, while particles of red dust blew in from the desert, settling haphazardly over the streets and alleys and roofs in a gentle rain of sand, portending what was to come. All at once the open bazaars were deserted, merchants and vendors closing their shops, tightly bolting their shutters. The beggars and pickpockets fled the streets in search of shelter; they jammed the taverns, mingling at roadside inns with pilgrims and travelers, wearied caravaneers and petty bandits. Camels snorted, mules refused to budge. Horses whinnied in fear, some bolting from their posts. The soldiers of the Khan who lined the city walls peered out in dismay at the approaching storm. And the warning bells rang loudly. Off the streets! Into your homes! The hamsin is coming! Fatigue etched into their faces, the grim palace guards tightened cloaks around themselves, fixing kerchiefs over their face, waiting, waiting for the desert wind to arrive. It was a bad one brewing, they saw. As evil as any they’d ever seen in Samarkand.

  By this time the horizon had been obliterated, the dust swirling gloomily over the distant range of the fearful forest, ever pressing closer, relentlessly smashing asunder any and all who foolishly stood in its way. The banners and flags fluttered with increasing frenzy, here and there a flag pole snapping, hurtling off the walls and down below to the barren byways. Occasionally some brave soul could be seen making his way along the avenues in search of some unknown destination. Stray mongrels barked, ran in packs amid garbage and debris. The wind pushed on, driving even them to find safety. Doors creaked, shutters banged, the sand became thicker, clogging lungs, watering eyes, causing the righteous to kneel and pray and the heathens to grudgingly sit up and take notice. A hamsin had been known to
last for days on end — and this one had barely begun.

  Before noon all of the city sat behind locked doors, waiting silently with bated breath, wondering about the moment when the wind ceased and the dust settled and they ventured outside to see the havoc and destruction. In Samarkand there were few things, both natural and unnatural, more feared than this, the hamsin, the dreaded storm of wind and sand that appeared so suddenly out of nowhere. The superstitious among them were quick to whisper of other storms, some long since passed out of memory, and of the grim happenings that had transpired during those fretful hours, while the gullible listened, clinging to every word, thankful that they had not been there, and wishing now they were a thousand leagues away and more. For each time a hamsin struck, things were never quite the same when it was done. Something, whether for good or evil, had irrevocably been altered, and not a single soul now among the multitudes of citizens did not ask just what might be different this time. The upheaval was no less than an earthquake — and frequently more devastating.

  So it was that no men saw the secret and silent figures who slipped across the dunes in large numbers and made their way through the approaching storm across the steppes, drawing ever closer to the fertile plains and the distant high walls of the city. Zealous patriots, knowing no fear of the hamsin, nor concern for their own lives. Phantoms they had been called, and Phantoms they truly were. Knives sheathed beneath their flowing desert robes, burnooses covering their heads, scarves across their faces, they stealthily moved, ready to be in place for the final battle, the impending Night of Atonement that could no longer be stopped.

  *

  The arachnid walked along the edge of the wall, its shadow grotesquely elongated by the dancing dim flame of the bracketed single torch in the corridor. Against the opposite wall its shadow loomed monstrously, a demoniac behemoth, an atrocity free from hell. Its eight legs moved in perfect harmony, the first and third on one side together with the second and fourth on the other. From behind the Oriental screen at the far end of the ill-lit hall Tupol observed his pet’s movements with growing delight and anticipation. It gave him untold satisfaction to see the tarantula like this, making him realize that all his pains and efforts in training had not been wasted. Yes, it had been worth it; the spider was doing exactly as it had been taught, recognizing which door to stop at, and where it must crawl to reach the other side.

  Dimness showed between the wooden entrance and the stone floor. Before it made its move, the spider paused, flexed open and shut its mouth. Above the mouth, slightly below its pinprick eyes, two hairy chelae jutted, each curved like bone, each ending in a hard, pointed claw — its fangs. Openings in the tips of the chelae connected with the tiny poison glands, and when the spider stabbed with them, the venom would pour from their sacs and into the open wound of its prey, first paralyzing, then killing.

  As if at hidden command the spider lowered its head and spread its legs, quickly scurrying under the door, over the tiles and into the unseen chamber. Tupol lifted himself from behind the screen, stood to his full height and chortled as he rubbed his good hand over the deformed one. It would not be very long now, he knew. A few more minutes at best — no more. Then would come the scream, the horrid scream when his brother realized what had been done. And never again would Tupol be forced to endure his scorn. Besides, Jamuga knew about the existence of his pets, and that was more than careful Tupol could tolerate. Amid the rash of murders would come another, equally unexplainable.

  Jamuga lay awake upon the mat, blankets on the floor, hands behind his head, his short stabbing sword close at hand. Save for the glow of a solitary stick of burning incense in the brazier beside his elbow, the chamber was totally devoid of light. The Mongol son of Kabul liked it this way, enjoyed the darkness, believing that his perfect night sight was far superior to that of other men, thus affording him a ready advantage against some daring would-be assassin.

  It was too hot for sleep, the tiles of the floor cool, giving him a measure of relief from the intolerable heat. Outside, the wind had started to blow viciously; he could hear the patter of sand against his tightly-secured shutters. The worst of the storm was yet to come, he knew, perhaps days away. Once, while on patrol in the desert, he and his men had been stranded for nearly a week, shunted to their tents while nature ran amok outside. It had been a frightening experience for him, and when the hamsin had run its course, he had left his shelter and peered about in shock to find the entire landscape shifted, new and huge dunes where before there had been none, smoothed valleys and snaking wadis where a week ago had lain mountains of sand that even a camel could not have crossed. Jamuga had learned to respect the wind, thinking anyone who held other opinions to be fools. Like his brothers. Like the gutless Mufiqua who had once dared nature’s wrath in search of a woman. A mere woman! Well, what else was to be expected from such a dreg — and to think of it! — that he and the addict shared the same blood. But at least Jamuga was pleased that he no longer would have to deal with the troublesome fool. Karma.

  The tarantula crossed the room in shadows, long legs shifting one over the other, creeping ever closer to the tranquil figure. Jamuga stifled a yawn, shut his eyes. Yes, things were going well enough; uncommonly well. Whoever was responsible for these ghastly assassinations had certainly done his job well. Jamuga could only admire the finesse, the poetic justice of each slaying. Which brother, though? For a time he’d truly suspected Niko, wondering if his gaiety had not been a sham, and that secretly he’d been the one to orchestrate Gamal’s demise. Then, when the lover had been so cleverly done in, he’d wondered about Khalkali. Of course that suspicion, too, had been tossed to the wayside. Rub out Mufiqua as well.

  Who? Who could it be?

  He shifted on his side, unaware as the large spider crawled at the corner of the blanket at his feet. It walked a hairbreadth from his thigh, stopped at the pale flesh of Jamuga’s fleshy buttocks. There it waited, patiently, as it had been taught. Jamuga rubbed at his arms, distastefully listened to the howl of the wind. Perhaps he should have ordered the overseer to bring him a woman tonight, to keep him occupied, to help him while away these long hours. He shook his head. No, a woman would drain him, he knew. Fog his mind with lust and desire. Far better to be alone, to think, to map out the future and the strategy needed to wrest the throne.

  Tupol, he thought. Yes, I’ll have to be careful of that one. Tricky devil. Lecherous. A far greater threat than both Krishna and cowardly Temugin combined.

  The spider was moving again, on the tile but following exactly the curve of his prey’s back. Jamuga put a hand behind his neck and scratched an itch. The tarantula stopped, venom overflowing its sacs.

  What about the Khan? Could it be — Is it possible that our father is the one? The assassin? Could the bad blood between us all have so warped his mind that he’d want all his sons dead? No, that didn’t seem to make much sense. Kabul was Khan. A single command to his loyal aides and the executioner’s axe would come down upon them all — openly, without the need for these games. But what if my father enjoys it this way?

  Jamuga sighed deeply. He would have given anything to know the truth. Anything. It would make his life so much easier. Never mind. Half the army is secretly loyal to me, anyway. And half the Palace Guard as well! I’m safe. The safest of all. Let my slimy brothers fret and wallow in their fear. What have I to be afraid of? Should some assassin ever gain entry to my quarters, fifty of my most trustworthy troops would be all over him in seconds. Then we’d find out the truth, eh? By all the gods of hell, then we’d know who’s responsible.

  He tossed about over the mat, restless, sleepless. He did not see the spider scurry back as he turned. The noise of the hamsin was beginning to eat at his nerves. If only it would stop!

  The hackles rose on his neck as he uncomfortably tried to piece together the puzzle. Then flat on his belly he lay, chin resting over his crossed arms. The spider pushed forward with one leg, made its way unfelt onto the linen of Jamuga’s tu
nic. There it paused again, but only briefly. It quickened its pace and bore down swiftly for the victim’s neck.

  Perhaps Krishna knows more than he’s saying, eh? Perhaps he plots all of this from his reeking dungeons. Perhaps —

  The chelae lowered, the fangs bore into flesh. Jamuga felt the sting, slapped at his neck, expecting to crush an unseen wasp. The spider darted back as he turned, crawling, running down his tunic. Jamuga’s eyes caught sight of the disgusting arachnid and he screamed, hands yanking at his hair. He bolted up from the mat, stomped with bare feet, trying to kill it. The spider zigged and zagged, dashed inside grim shadows. By the dim light of the glowing incense stick Jamuga followed. His left foot pounded against the stone of the floor, then his right. The tarantula skipped between his legs, hurried for the safety of the damp cracks in the wall. Jamuga lunged; with his body crouched he swept his hand low, hit the spider and sent it flying back toward the center of the room. And there he came down hard, his callused heel crushing the life out of it. Panting, lathered in sweat, he looked down at the squashed thing and breathed laboriously with relief. From adjoining corridors he heard the rushing bootsteps of his aides. That was close, he mumbled to himself. Too close...And he thought of Temugin, rage burning in his slanted, reptilian eyes. Suddenly he froze. Gods of hell! I’m bit! The spider bit me! Already his neck and half of his face had become numb. The guards broke into the room and he confronted them with unmasked terror etched into his Mongol features. “Spider!” he shouted, mouth losing its ability to move, tongue rapidly swelling and unable to form vowels.

  “Mercy of heaven!” gasped a sentry, looking first to the crushed tarantula, and then to his stricken lord.

  Jamuga took a single step, found his legs had become lead weights. Paralyzed! he screamed to himself. I’m paralyzed!

  The spider’s rare and potent venom was already racing through his bloodstream, attacking his brain. Jamuga was dizzy; he stumbled, tried to stop from falling. He saw the floor come rushing up at him, felt his face smash against the stone. He stuck out his arm, fingers desperately trying to point in the direction of Tupol’s rooms. The guards looked at each other with anguish and incomprehension.