Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  Jasmine drew a deep breath, met the overseer’s eyes. “There are handholds set into the wall. Here.” She arched herself over just enough to grab one of the hooked bars of metal hammered firmly into the cold stone. “Sing-Li’s used this way before, Mistress. When he’s spied on Krishna. The well takes us to the wall of his quarters; from there we can climb down the pipes and break free. There won’t be many guards on duty at this hour. And if the keys you made fit properly...”

  Carolyn grimaced at the ordeal that lay ahead. They would have to negotiate their way down in total blackness, soundlessly, knowing that the slightest disturbance would arouse the cagey chancellor. Freeing the Russian was fraught with peril.

  “You first, whore.”

  Jasmine let out a long breath, slipped over the side, and hand over hand began the descent into the pit. Carolyn watched her for a few moments, then she stashed her dagger carefully in her belt, swung around and gripped the first handhold. The smell made her head swim; in the darkness her eyes caught sight of tiny hideous winged insects crawling up and down along the chinks within the curved stone. Only the thought of her duty kept her going.

  *

  “My lord Temugin! Awake, my lord!”

  The surly warrior roused from his slumber quickly, his hand automatically reaching for the scabbarded blade beneath his pillow. His eyes cleared and focused upon the face of Hezekiah. The stargazer was panting, sweat pouring from his forehead, his mouth crookedly twisted with obvious anxiety.

  “What — what is it?”

  Hezekiah recoiled as the blade glinted from its sheath. “Forgive me for waking you in this manner, my lord,” Hezekiah begged, bowing deeply and humbly. “But I have matters — pressing and urgent matters — for your ears that cannot wait.”

  The vile son of Kabul sat up, legs crossed, peered questioningly at his trusted seer. “The pain,” he deduced, “you’ve found the one responsible for my pain?”

  “Aye, my lord. But that and more.” And here he moved in closer, his hulking form bent across his lord’s upturned features. “I — I have discovered the plot in its totality. The murderer, my lord. The man who has robbed your brothers of their lives.”

  Temugin’s eyes stared blankly; then they began to glow, dancing with the taste of the news. “Who?” he asked in a hushed tone. “Which one? Tupol? Krishna? Speak!”

  Hezekiah sighed, said, “Neither, lord. The man is — Sing-Li.”

  With shock and disbelief, Temugin pulled the seer closer. “What say you? The Chinaman? Are you insane, stargazer? The Chinaman?”

  “I swear by the stars, lord! The plot has been exposed to me this very night! There is no question of it: The Chinaman seeks to twist the Khan to his purpose. Is it not true that already he holds the power of life and death over your father through his needles and sorcery?”

  “Yes — but — but Sing-Li has no power, no forces in waiting to carry his banner. How could he? How could he ever...?”

  “With Kabul’s sons out of the way his path becomes simple, don’t you see? The Khan shall have no one else to turn to; already Sing-Li has built himself a place within the palace that can never be shaken. Think, my lord. Kabul needs not Krishna to survive, nor Tupol, nor even yourself. Ah, but the Chinaman, yes. Without his magic Kabul will die!”

  Temugin shook his head incredulously, his mouth hanging stupidly open. Yes, the pieces of the puzzle were fitting into place now! Thank the dark gods for this stargazer!

  “There are those secretly in the Chinaman’s employ,” the seer went on quickly, “ruthless souls who care not for the glory of the Huns, but only for their own selfish ambitions. Due to the courage and foresight of the overseer we have uncovered plots within the palace concubines themselves! Yes, my lord! Believe me; Sing-Li’s treachery is widespread!” He glanced gloomily around the darkened chamber. “The walls have ears, my lord. We must not tarry...”

  The son of Kabul scratched his head in perplexity. “Then we must stop him! Warn my father, tell him —”

  “Oh, how very wise you are, Lord Temugin!” Hezekiah bowed with respect and adoration. “Yes! We must warn the Khan. But we must tread carefully! For your father loves and needs this man, and will not lightly take your word against Sing-Li’s.”

  Temugin beat an angry fist into his palm. “You’re right. The Khan will never believe such a story, not without evidence. He’ll accuse me of trying to turn his mind against the one man who eases his pain.” He put his fist to his head. “What are we to do, Stargazer? Speak to me! Advise me!”

  The little smile of triumph that worked the edges of Hezekiah’s wrinkled mouth went unnoticed. He pretended to be lost deep in thought; then he looked to the anguished lord and said, “There is one chance, and only one chance. We must find this Chinaman and prevent him from reaching your father’s ear.”

  “What? Now? In the dead of night?” Temugin was aghast at the suggestion.

  The seer sighed with impatience, rattled by the slovenly, slow-witted, would-be sovereign. “Yes, lord — now. Immediately. This very hour. Rouse your personal bodyguard, my lord, then march with them to the Forbidden Wing, the unholy chambers in which Sing-Li sequesters himself and plots his evil. Then hold him prisoner and make him talk. Make him admit everything!”

  Temugin thought for a moment, weighing the scales. Kabul would be displeased at this little venture. Outraged that he, Temugin, had taken such bold action without authority. Yet does not a commander command? A leader lead? Should not a future Khan of all the Huns take drastic action in the name of the empire?

  He jumped up boldly from his resting place, quickly threw on his tunic and corselet, fastened securely his knife onto his leather belt. “Yes, Stargazer,” he hissed, face growing dark with his rage. “Sing-Li must be stopped! We’ll go at once!”

  Hezekiah backstepped and bowed in reverence. “Your will is my law, my lord,” he said, thinking, What is the hour? Has dawn come? Are all our forces in place throughout the city?

  Temugin swilled a cup of strong brew, hurled the vessel against the wall. “Guards! Guards!” he barked as he swaggered through his rooms. “Run when I shout for you, you scrawny dogs! Follow me! The palace is under siege!”

  *

  The wind was howling, the windows pounded with millions of grains of flying sand. The room was below ground level, its single window high atop the stone wall, twin narrow slits barely below the intricate mosaic. Tariq crossed among the shadows, stood tall on his toes and with outstretched arms reached the sill and pulled himself up. The hamsin was blowing mercilessly, smashing against the sand-blasted walls of the Great Mosque’s compound, swirling clouds of biting dust that made glimpsing the sky all but impossible. Still, there were rays of brightness flicking across the heavens, and a dim pall in the west that grew more violent and frightening each minute.

  The Devil’s Wind stirs, he said to himself, mouthing the words in awe. He dropped back to the floor, cast an eye to the hourglass. The last of the sand had all but trickled down.

  By noon all movement inside the city walls would cease, he knew. Kabul’s strongly-armed legions along the walls would be rendered helpless against the onslaught, and his own men would freely slip through the streets and take their positions. By evening the first sign of the awaited Devil’s Wind would become apparent; the hamsin would deceptively still, the air calm. And then, only then, beneath the total black of a moonless and starless night, it would blow. Down from the mountains, over the Grim Forest, picking up speed across the steppes. Its fury would only be fueled as it reached the plains, and by the time it struck the sacred walls of Samarkand...

  Tariq shuddered. He would not think about it now. No. Now was a time for his own concerns. The lamp would be lit from the minaret in the blackness. Then he would leave this chamber, leave and strike quickly at the outer defenses of the palace. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing must go wrong!

  He thought of his sister, Carolyn, where she might be at this moment, hoping that all went as well insid
e the hated palace as it went without. And what of Roskovitch? Had the faithful barbarian been freed yet? How much had he been made to endure during his time within the dungeons? If anything foul had happened to the scalp-locked Russian, Tariq would have revenge.

  A pulse throbbed wildly in his throat, and he shook his head, pulling away from the grim thoughts. No, everything was as it should be. If it wasn’t, he’d have been warned. And Roskovitch had done his job well enough. For days Kazir scouts had been reporting troop movements from the city. The Khan had bitten at the Russian’s false tale. Depleted his forces inside Samarkand at the last possible moment, trying to hide the movement of his legions under the cloak of night. But nothing escaped Kazir eyes. Nothing. And now Kabul would sit upon his throne defenseless.

  Tonight. This very night. The Night of Atonement. What the Kazirs had planned and sacrificed for all these years. Revenge is mine, cried the Lord. Tariq smiled a sinful smile.

  And Sharon? Where was she at this moment? While his own forces shifted across the alleys like ghosts, even amid the lash of the hamsin, where was his lover?

  Tonight, my beloved. Tonight we shall meet. Tomorrow it shall be done. The fighting over, the Prophesy fulfilled.

  Yes, this night even the Panther would come home. For good or for evil, Samarkand’s destiny could not be altered.

  Part Four: The Night of Atonement

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Roskovitch gasped as he heard the lock turn and the bolt slide away from his dungeon door. Gloomy light spilled inside and he shaded his eyes with his hand. Two silhouettes stole into the cell.

  “Saya!” he exclaimed, recognizing Carolyn instantly. The Kazir overseer stared down at him, wincing at the squalor and filth of the place, then quickly drew to the wounded man’s side and knelt beside him.

  “Saya, how did you — Has the time come?”

  She quieted the puzzled barbarian, pulled her knife from its sheath. Then with a single swoop she slit through the leather bonds at his feet and behind his back. “There’s no time to explain,” she told him in whispers while Jasmine nervously guarded the entrance. “Can you walk?” The Russian sucked in a lungful of the dingy air and nodded. He rubbed at his raw wrists, stood slowly and gained his feet. “I can walk,” he replied, adding, “and do anything else asked of me.”

  Carolyn’s face was masked by darkness as she smiled. “Good. We’re going to need you — and quickly.”

  It felt good to the burly scalp-locked barbarian to once more be in control of his body and mind. These weeks in Krishna’s foul cesspools had left him much time for contemplation, time in which he’d vowed to confront the brutish chancellor man to man. Now it seemed that wish would come true.

  “We’ve got to be away from here now, Mistress!” blurted Jasmine uneasily, her dark eyes scanning the dim corridors.

  Roskovitch wiped spittle and blood from his swollen lips, pushed down the ache in his side. “I’m ready.”

  Carolyn sighed, thankful for the speed and ease in which they had found him, made to go. Then, almost as an afterthought, she spun back around and reached her hand deeply inside her dress. A Kazir knife, sheathed in leather, pulled from the cleavage between her breasts. The Russian grinned from ear to ear at sight of his favorite knife, the one he’d always carried. His hand snapped it out of the air as Carolyn tossed it. He caught the blade by the hilt, stroked it lovingly along the side of his scarred face. The steel haft glinted. “Lead on,” he said, feeling his strength return.

  “Listen,” said the saya with concern as they made for the iron-braced door. “Our plans have had to be altered. There’s been another plot underfoot inside the palace, one we didn’t count on.” He peered at her darkly, and she went on, “The signal will have to be given immediately — even though the Devil’s Wind has not begun to blow.” Roskovitch tensed, gleaning an understanding for the first time of the saya’s distress.

  “Our task is to buy the Panther time, barbarian. Do you understand?”

  He nodded. “How much?”

  “From dawn till dusk.”

  His face soured and he drew a long breath, letting it hiss slowly from between clenched teeth. Twelve hours! The plan had been so perfectly timed, timed down to the last second, and he wondered, not daring to ask, what had gone wrong.

  “Hurry!” squealed Jasmine.

  The saya sneaked to the door, peered glumly down the passage. There were footsteps drawing closed. Heavy footsteps. Please, Allah, let the soldiers not pass this way! All three crouched behind the massive iron of the cell’s outer wall, holding breath and waiting. The trample of boots increased followed by a laugh, a roaring demoniac laugh. Carolyn’s eyes met the Russian’s in panic.

  Krishna!

  The huge chancellor planted his feet wide apart at the end of the corridor, massive fists on his hips, a perpetual scowl etched across his pockmarked, cruel features. And there he stood, not moving, not budging a muscle, the sound of his coarse breath breaking the total silence.

  He knows! the saya cried to herself in despair. He knows and he’s waiting for us!

  Roskovitch gathered his courage and drew the dagger, letting the sheath fall soundlessly to the scattered straw on the floor. The belly laugh ricocheted off the thick walls, echoing again and again until it seemed that an entire army stood taunting them and not just a single man. But then the chancellor was indeed more than one man. A giant, a behemoth, with shoulders as broad as a horse, arms as thick as tree trunks, sinewy biceps straining to break from the constraints of his tunic. Larger than life, the sadistic son of Kabul swelled his chest and dared them to take a single step forward. His powerful hands closed on the hilt of his sword, a weapon so heavy and cumbersome that average men couldn’t even lift it. He spat in disdain, smashed a beetle that crept from a crevice in the wall. “Well?” he boomed with scorn. “What are you waiting for, eh? The escape is clear, I promise you. The only thing that stands in the way of your freedom is — me!” Then he roared again.

  Roskovitch leaped from the cell, shrieking a Rus war cry. The edge of his knife slashed upward at Krishna’s face. The chancellor deflected the blow with an open hand, as a man swipes at a gnat, then howled. With his left hand he seized the barbarian, callused fingers wrenching at the soiled shirt, and jerked Roskovitch up into the air as if he were a rag doll. The Rus’s arms flailed helplessly, and stars flashed before his eyes as he was thrown, his head slamming hard against the pale limestone of the closest wall. Then Krishna loosed his fearsome blade from its scabbard, swung it mightily above his head and brought it down angrily with both hands, a blow meant to slice the barbarian in two. Roskovitch rolled; the blade clamored against the rock, sparks shooting in every direction.

  Roskovitch got to his knees, cut wildly through the air, hoping to draw the bigger man off for just enough time so he could regain his feet. Krishna’s head snapped to the side, his frame immobile. With one hand he scooped the Russian up again, flung him a second time down the passage. Roskovitch hit the stone, his arms outstretched. Krishna came pounding forward. It was then that Carolyn jumped from behind the door. Her own knife lashed with frenzy across the chancellor’s face. Blood pulsed from the wound, spilling down his cheek, into his beard, dripping over his mail. Krishna straightened and blustered like an animal. His fist struck out, slammed against the door, threw Carolyn back. The saya felt the fabric of her garment tear as Krishna’s hand lurched for her. She spun, chopped with the knife, burying the tip of the blade three times into the joints of the chancellor’s fingers. Enraged, Krishna howled, stamped his feet so viciously that the floor seemed to shake, and pushed the woman back inside the cell, nearly tearing the door from its braces as he charged inside after her.

  Jasmine kicked high. Her foot caught the chancellor squarely in the groin, and as he winced, turned to face this new threat, she deftly threw herself to the floor, crawled between his enormous legs, then swung her knife hand high, catching him in the small of the back. The son of Kabul lifted his arms a
s he turned, stared down at the stumbling whore. His shoulders hunched and he swung his arms like a bear, catching her by her flimsy dress, hauling her to her feet, then heaving her all the way across the cell, where she came crashing down on the straw mat.

  The scalp-locked barbarian came surging inside, began to circle the chancellor. A glint of pleasure rose in Krishna’s eyes as he realized he’d have the chance to kill all three at the same time.

  Roskovitch studied his prey intently, not dropping his guard for an instant. Seconds later Carolyn was stalking him also, prowling in a wide circle, barely out of the reach of his elephantine arms. In a daze, Jasmine slowly managed to pick herself up. Some of her ribs had been broken by the brute, yet somehow she found the strength to hobble back to the confrontation and circle the chancellor in the same way her companions were doing. It was like trying to cage a mountain bear, she knew, a wild, crazed, frothing, mountain bear who sought to kill them.

  Roskovitch feigned a lunge; as Krishna spun to fend the thrust, Carolyn struck again. She felt the blade sink into the fat and muscles of his gargantuan thigh. Krishna howled, bolted upright. The saya pulled back, the knife tight in her hand. Blood smeared over her fingers, down her arm. Krishna jumped in wild frustration. His elbow smacked against Carolyn’s shoulder, and the saya staggered backward, feeling as though a wall had toppled over her.

  Jasmine swept in low, the chancellor pivoted, grabbed for her. The whore arched backward, biting her lips to keep from screaming. Krishna took hold of her arm, wrenched her around savagely, the bone snapping loudly. The whore wailed, tumbled to the floor but Krishna would not let go. With a victorious cry he pulled her up, drew her close and started to squeeze one hand around her throat while his sword arm continued to keep the other attackers at bay.

  Jasmine was squealing, turning purple. Roskovitch lowered his head and surged forward with all his might, the crown of his skull cracking into the chancellor’s side. Krishna hardly flinched. Jasmine’s arms swung wildly, scratched at his face, his eyeballs, her fingernails digging into the soft flesh. Krishna yelped, tossed her aside, put a hand to his stinging eyes. In that split second Carolyn advanced and struck, her knife cutting upward against his back, working deeper. The chancellor of the dungeons hollered, blood spluttering from his lips. He danced about the room, dropping his sword, feeling for the embedded blade. Roskovitch dived in closer, plunged his weapon straight through the thin link mail of Krishna’s vest, catching him between two awesome ribs. Staggering, Krishna’s eyes rolled in their sockets. He stared hatefully at the cunning barbarian, then, hissing his breath, crumpled to the floor.