Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  At once he was stomping wildly at the floor, trying to crush that which he could not see.

  Above his head the tarantula was worming along its single, shiny thread of silk. Its craving became greater as it sensed the being below, smelled its fear. Lower and lower it came, one leg over the next, each of the eight moving in unison, head lowered, chelae almost bursting with fluid.

  Tupol bolted for the door; his lame leg gave and he stumbled, hitting his knees roughly. For merely an instant his eyes caught sight of the silk above, and he knew that the tarantula was ready. Desperately he tried to get up; again he staggered, flailing his twisted hand above his head, hoping to ward the spider off, and cursing his fate for being born a cripple.

  If only I could reach the door!

  He charged ahead, collapsed to his belly, arms outstretched, fought to get hold of the bolt. The air was suffocating. “Help me!” he shrieked. “Somebody help me!” But his words went unheard, unable to penetrate through the two-meter-thick granite walls, and the heavy door was immovable.

  The first tarantula hung on its web, groped with its legs, then slipped gently onto Tupol’s perspiring neck. It crawled slowly and casually down his back, selecting carefully a fleshy spot upon which to feed. By the time the second spider crawled from its damp comer, the venom had already spread throughout the body. Tupol gasped for air, heard in terror the beats of his heart slowing. And as the second tarantula sank its claws, his heart stopped completely.

  From the farthest reaches of the chamber the figure shrouded in the cowl stood up. Had there been the faintest glimmer of light Tupol would have immediately recognized the Oriental weave of the dark, flowing robe, known at once just who his assassin had been.

  The figure walked carefully toward the door, stared down for a long time at the white corpse of the youngest son. There was no remorse in the eyes. Only a shameless pleasure that what had to be done had been done. Then the figure pulled from a ledge an oblong black box. A black box of needles. Tupol left behind to rot, the tarantulas taking no notice, the Chinaman slipped from the chamber and walked slowly along the storm-wracked corridor. It made no matter that the Devil’s Wind had crossed over the city, no matter that soon the whole Samarkand palace would come crumbling down.

  Kabul was in pain — and would be waiting.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Everything was as still as death; there came a strong odor, and breathing became extremely difficult. The hissing of the funnel became a deafening roar, the vortex screamed. But here, in the heart of the Devil’s Wind, everything remained tranquil. The center of the terrible storm was vast, half a league in width. Outside of it the city reeled under the staggering blows, the sky black, dry lightning smashing across the sky. Soon the rains would follow, the awful deluge that would pour for three days, three days as the prophesy foretold. And when it was done, the sins of Samarkand would be wiped away.

  Kabul sat cross-legged at the threshold of the portico, his head bowed so low it almost brushed the tiles, his hands tight against his ears. His mouth was pulled back hideously with his torment, and had he any remaining energy or courage at all, he would have taken his blade with both hands and pushed it through his belly to bring the eternal release of death.

  All around him the sobs and mournful wails of the dying mingled with the howl of the wind. Had he been able to lift his gaze, he would have seen the tattered remains of his splendid empire, his glorious city, the might and majesty of his armies. Samarkand had been smashed by the dreaded hamsin, half of it blown off the face of the earth, the remainder broken and tattered. His forces had been broken by the wind, cut down by the Kazirs, ravished by the sweeping fires that still flamed without control. There was nothing left.

  One by one he thought of his sons, remembering their names and faces, shuddering at their singular deaths. Gamal, Niko, Khalkali...On and on without end. Mufiqua, Jamuga...Now ash and bone, buried and cold beneath the earth. Krishna...Temugin...Yes, and Tupol. For although Kabul had not seen his youngest and most-cunning son meet his fate, there was no question in his mind that it had been met. And for the first time he knew and understood the truth. One by one they had died, so carefully, so cleverly. He had blamed them all for the murders, each in his turn, but it was only now that he saw the driving force behind it all. The woman. It had to be. There could be no other explanation. The whore who had robbed him of his eye, the bitch who had fought him, holding his legions at a standstill. Now this, this final blow.

  Yes, Kabul knew he was alone. His generals were gone, his aides and servants, his concubines and slaves. Even the Chinaman had deserted him. Even Sing-Li had left, never to return. This was the solitude he had feared, the nightmare he’d denied time after time. Yet he knew the tale had not quite ended, for there was one last piece of the puzzle that needed to be fitted. The woman, the hated woman who had robbed him of his eye, the woman who had never left his thoughts. No, the tale could not be complete until she came — and that she would come, he had no doubt.

  He heard the squeak of the arched doors as they swung open. This time he lifted his head. The Chinaman came inside slowly, peering about at the wreckage of the opulent hall. The Doric columns had started to crack, the very ceiling was groaning. From the portico the black wall of the funnel continued to twist and weave, but the heart remained calm, eerily so.

  A spark of recognition came into Kabul’s single, inflamed eye. He wiped his mouth, watched in disbelief as the robed figure stepped closer and bowed respectfully before him.

  “Sing-Li!” he gasped. “Is it really you?”

  The head nodded coldly. The arms held out the box, the black box containing the tray of acupuncture needles.

  “You’ve come to treat me? Now?”

  Again the strange figure nodded. The Chinaman turned, placed the box carefully on the floor, brushing away fragments of glass and porcelain, and slowly opened it. The fine needles glimmered in the darkness. Kabul buried his hands in his face and sobbed. “At last,” he cried. “I hurt, Chinaman. Hurt like I’ve never hurt before. I have no feeling below my belly. I can’t walk...”

  The Chinaman’s hand pushed at his forehead, forced his head to rest against the tile. Kabul shut his single eye, sucked in air through his mouth, coughing as dust filled his lungs. “They say you plotted against me like the rest,” he went on, oblivious as the Chinese physician examined each of the needles and drew the longest and sharpest from the tray. “But I never believed it. Never. I knew that of all my vassals, all my court, you alone were loyal to me. Eh, Sing-Li? You were loyal, weren’t you?” The Chinaman hovered over the Khan and nodded. Kabul sighed. “I knew it. Knew Temugin was crazy. Knew Tupol told me all those lies only to further his own ambitions. You’re my friend, Sing-Li. Take away this agony, Chinaman. Make me feel a man again. I have an appointment. An appointment that cannot wait. She is coming, Sing-Li, I know she is. The Panther is coming for me.” The Chinaman stopped scrutinizing the needle, stood perfectly still.

  “It’s true,” Kabul continued. “Oh, I know you don’t believe it. Nevertheless, my single friend, she will come. She has promised me a thousand times. She comes to me at night, Chinaman. Did I ever tell you that? She does. Enters my dreams like a thief, gives me no rest. But I welcome her coming, even as I welcome your needles. So be quick. Do what you must!”

  As he shut his eye, he was certain there had been a smile somewhere in the cowl. The physician lowered himself beside Kabul. A steady, smooth hand held the needle high while the other hand probed at the shut lid of Kabul’s good eye, forcing it open wide.

  The Khan stared up, fear growing. “What are you doing?” he said.

  There was no reply, only the firm, unrelenting pressure.

  “You’re not going to stick my seeing eye?” he cried. Somberly the dark form above him nodded, and whispered, “I must. It is your only cure, O Khan. I must test the orb.”

  Kabul was shaking again, fearful of the pain. “Why? I need my eye! How else am I to greet
the woman when she comes?” He grasped at the Oriental’s robe, but the grip became only stronger, his head now forcefully being held down over the broken tiles. “Please,” moaned Kabul, “don’t do this!”

  The Chinaman was cold and impassive, the needle slowly bearing for his pupil. The swirling Devil’s Wind had come closer, the wall of the palace taking an incredible pounding, motifs and embrasures so carefully carved centuries before now starting to crack and crumble. The physician watched stoically, knowing that nothing could stop it. Yet the operation could not be halted, not now, and so the Khan’s only eye was roughly forced open again. Kabul yowled, seeing the razor-sharp, incredibly-fine needle swung lower. He panted, wanting to scream, finding his lungs paralyzed. Why? Why must he do this?

  The attack through the inner sanctums of the palace began then, in those grimmest moments while the Devil’s Wind screamed across the walls. Wave after wave of dark-robed Kazirs swarmed over the battlements, along the sloping roofs and teardrop towers, hurling grappling hooks, greeting the fleeing-Hun troops with battlecries and desert blades. They cut a broad path through chamber after chamber, sending servants and slaves shrieking, catching loyal guards off balance, slitting their throats. The Kazirs systematically captured wing after wing of the awesome palace.

  Leading the assault across the broad forecourt came Tariq, a bloodied curved knife in his hand, his garments wet with crimson. From the battlements those few Huns with both wits and weapons at command fired a barrage of arrows. The Kazir forces came scrambling across the beautiful gardens, streamed up the winding sets of stairs, reached the first level and dealt with the defenders. Then they rushed forward with cries onto the unprotected verandahs, trampling the bodies of slain Huns.

  Tariq led the vanguard. He heaved a fleeing soldier out of the way, scanned the dim halls and corridors, broke free of his men and raced ahead. “The Khan!” he shouted back to his grouping forces. “Kabul must be found!” And then in a dozen different directions they broke, each taking to a different corridor, each searching for the ultimate goal — Kabul himself.

  Tariq ran past the rows of cracking Doric columns, ran through bounding shadows. Unescorted, he rushed beneath a portcullis, broke through a series of huge, unbolted doors, his eyes slowly growing accustomed to the eerie light. A torch flickered wildly, punishing wind driving insanely along the corridor and nearly lifting him off his feet. In the background he could hear the far-off screams of the dying. He realized that his men had overwhelmed position after position and put the enemy to the sword.

  A grim door stood at the far end of the hall, slightly ajar. Tariq paused, wiped his glittering knife free of blood. He caught his breath, pressed on carefully. Then he pushed the heavy door open. The chamber burst into light, pushed back the black shadows. Tariq heaved, prepared to strike at the occupants. Instead, he stared in wonder. At his feet lay a corpse, stiff and white, but with a face turned blue and purple. He glanced away, shuddered, forced his attention back. The corpse was Tupol’s. Two tarantula spiders playfully crawled under the armpits and back out over Tupol’s chest. Tariq shook his head, feeling pity even for one as hated as the deformed son of Kabul. He would have fled this place, gone quickly and swiftly back to his search, had it not been for another sight. Tucked in the farthest comer was another body. The Kazir chieftain crossed the room, knife at his side. He tightened his eyes, peered down. The lifeless face stared up at him, yellow and pale, slanted eyes wide open, seemingly laughing at him.

  Sing-Li!

  Tariq stepped back, confused. He looked long at the naked corpse, finally understanding. And then, he fled, for now he was certain of what had been done, and what was about to happen. He only prayed that he could stop it in time, stop this cursed prophesy once and for all.

  *

  The physician smiled at Kabul’s distress, needing only seconds more to plunge the needle through the pupil of his eye, to finally do what had to be done, what had been planned for so long. Suddenly there was noise from behind. The Chinaman whirled, stared at the figure breaking inside the room of state.

  Tariq tore inside the high-raftered, immense chamber, aware that he had never seen something so opulent in his life. He ran past the gold-paneled columns, then halted abruptly some paces before the robed physician and the crying Khan.

  The physician turned away from the intruder, knelt beside Kabul and lifted high the needle, ready again to plunge. The Khan squirmed. The Chinaman laughed triumphantly.

  “No, Sharon, no!”

  At the sound of the name Kabul pushed at the robed figure with all his strength. Sharon fell backward, the implement of torture still tight in her grip. She struggled to right herself.

  “Leave him, Sharon!” cried Tariq in despair. “He can’t harm us any longer!”

  Kabul yanked the cowl from her head, stared with disbelief at the face of the woman, the woman he hated, the woman he’d dreamed about every night for all these many years. “You!” he gasped. “So it is you!”

  “Yes!” she screamed, turning on him like a wildcat, tears flooding down her face, the needle beginning to waver in her trembling hand. “Yes, it’s me! Me! Come at last, O Khan; come to you as I promised I would.”

  The pain was worse than ever; Kabul put his hands to his head and wailed, aware now that there was no more hope, no more hope at all. “The Chinaman!” he moaned. “What have you done with him?”

  Sharon laughed bitterly, sobbing. “He’d dead!” She spat out the words joylessly. “Killed by my own hands as he sought to hide within Tupol’s secret chamber. But I found him there — and then I waited for Tupol as well. Yes, Kabul, Sing-Li is dead! They’re all dead! And you and I are next! Together — to wrestle in hell for eternity!”

  And she held the needle with both trembling hands, pushed it down wildly. The wind was blowing as never before. The force of it crashed inside the magnificent chamber, caused the stately columns to groan. The roof began to cave in. Tariq shot across the room, fighting the flailing wind, wrenched the girl away from the writhing, gasping Khan before she could strike. “Stop, Sharon!” he shouted above the screeching wind, his desert robes blowing wildly, the dark wall of the funnel now all but across the portico. Stone and tiles alike were being torn from their places, sent crazily flying, while the entire wing of the palace started to crumble.

  As though possessed, Sharon pushed her lover away from her, sent him reeling backward. “Leave me alone!” she screamed, striking her arms blindly before her, Kabul writhing at her feet, unable to lift himself off the floor. Tariq fought his way closer to her, knowing her grief, her sorrow, her pain. Above all, her terrible pain, which would not let her be. She could never rest until both she and the despised Khan of the Huns were dead.

  Sharon drew her knife, her cloak swirling. Then she wielded it at Tariq expertly, as expertly as any Kazir had ever been taught. “Kabul must pay,” she sobbed, trembling. “He must die!”

  “Yes, my beloved. But not like this! We’ll take him, Sharon. Hold him for trial, show the world that we’re not like he is!”

  She shook her head vehemently. “No! Death is his fate — and mine as well! The prophecy cannot be denied! Now go, Tariq — while yet you can. Go at once — the Wind rises!”

  A black stream of cloud slammed demoniacally into the room of state, the chamber of such beauty, where once Samarkand’s emirs had received tribute from kings and lords from all of Asia. The fissures in the ceiling expanded; stones fell. The first of the columns, those closest to the portico, toppled over. The din became as torrential as a waterfall, so deafening that Sharon put her hands to her ears as she staggered forward.

  “Come to me, my beloved,” cried Tariq in anguish, his arms wide. “Let Kabul meet his own fate! He’s nothing to us now, girl; nothing!”

  She fell against her lover, wildly crying, pounding him with her fists as he pulled her close and encompassed her in his aims. “Please, Tariq,” she sobbed. “Forget me! Forget me!”

  “Never, my beloved —
never!”

  Kabul looked up in horror, frozen. The funnel of the Devil’s Wind smashed through the walls, across the grounds of the palace, sending chunks of granite hurtling high above the city. Windows flew out, glass scattering like deadly rain; minarets ripped, torn asunder as though held together by parchment instead of stone. Walls crumbled and the resplendent chamber caved in, the three figures of Tariq, Sharon, and Kabul immobile while the hamsin wantonly destroyed all vestiges of Hun glory.

  Tariq buried Sharon in his arms, crying with her while the world shattered. “Together, my beloved,” he whispered, keeping her head low against his chest. The floor shook with the impact of an earthquake. Tariq heard Kabul scream an unearthly scream, then shut his own eyes and waited for death. At least now, he and the woman he loved more than life could never be parted again. And for that, Tariq smiled and prayerfully thanked merciful Allah.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The rains that followed the hamsin had been like no other rains mortal men had ever experienced before. Some claimed they rivaled those of the Great Flood itself, as for three full days and three full nights rain swept over the shattered city of Samarkand, over the plains and fertile fields, the mountains and steppes, across the Grim Forest. The torrent had been relentless, soaking the earth endlessly, while blue lightning had cracked across the sky with incredible violence. The rains washed away the rivers of human blood spilled over years, cleansing away the memory of the misery and suffering that had befallen Samarkand, leaving in its stead a purified land.

  And so, as prophesized, after the third night had ended, the rain stopped. Zadek, the mad mullah, climbed alone up the crumbled steps of the palace and reached the broken balcony of the highest tower. He worked his way through mounds of rubble and wreckage, shaking his head sadly. There was a brilliant morning sun rising in the eastern sky, a blazing fiery disc, and beyond, to the west, a great and fabulous rainbow. The mullah stared at the colors, the stunning lightening sky, every known color. It was a beautiful mom; a rebirth, he knew, of faith and trust, as could only be given by the magnificence of God Himself.