The Broken Winds: Divided Sultanate: Book 3

by Baloch, Fuad

  The torches hissed and crackled, the air growing thick with their smoke. Aboor exhaled, aware of the eyes settling on him. His heart rattled painfully in his chest, his knee screaming with the pain at the manner he had plopped down without thinking it through.

  “You plan to attack Sehlour?”

  Shoki nodded.

  Aboor exchanged a glance with Kadoon. The younger inquisitor shook his head, mouthing, sever them. Aboor turned away. Something shifted in his heart. He was an inquisitor, forbidden by his leader to strike bargains with the magi. But he was also a man of honor. One sworn to do the right thing.

  Aboor cocked his head to the side, his eyes falling on the two magi women, then sweeping through Maharis and settling back at Shoki.

  They were men and women of honor as well. Something he had witnessed personally after the time he’d spent with Yasir and his two magi. Inquisitors or magi, at the moment, there was no denying their enemies were one and the same.

  Memories rose of the hot, stuffy day in the diwan-e-aam, back when the world had balance.

  “I was given a task by the late Sultan Anahan,” Aboor said, his words calm and measured. “Seek out what’s happening in Ghulamia. Root out the rogue magi responsible for that.”

  Kadoon stirred. “Sahib Inquisitor, I must really protest—”

  Aboor raised his hand and Kadoon fell silent. “It appears to me that my original order still remains in place. A rogue magus of immense strength is posing a grave danger to the local residents. This state of affairs cannot be allowed to persist. When the Keeper of the Divide gives a command, it is to be fulfilled.”

  Shoki Malik didn't say anything, his one good eye staring intently at him. He looked the same as Aboor remembered him, but then again, he didn’t. A weariness had crept into his features, belying his young years. He was waiting for his answer.

  Aboor nodded, his shoulders slumping. “My inquisitors shall fight with you.”

  Chapter 36

  Shoki

  Shoki nodded absently as the ameer of Nishapa made yet another impassioned plea for his plan of applying overwhelming force. Not for the twentieth time, the elderly ameer shared his anecdote of an Istani battalion of three thousand peasants vanquishing the thousand-strong army of weathered and well-armored Malik knights in the early days of the Istani Sultanate. Once more, the old ameer expressed regret on behalf of the early Istani rebels for fighting against the rightful Malik kings.

  Shoki stifled his yawn. His heart stirred, the pull continuing to grow stronger. Did it really take this long to muster one’s strength for war when it took mere moments to begin one?

  Jinan rose from his chair, his face a dark cloud of rage, his long shadow spreading out on the round table laden with maps in front. “History cannot be allowed to repeat itself. I led all our forces into Buzdar, and when we pulled out, we left no one to guard our rear. You all know how that turned out!”

  “That was Nuraya,” someone said, not daring to rise from their chair and look Jinan in the eye. Not that it mattered, for at least a dozen members of the war council on the table beside Shoki were already nodding.

  Shoki grimaced and shifted in the most uncomfortable chair that Camsh had procured especially for him. The Malik kings apparently used to sit on hard, austere chairs, shunning creature comforts like upholstery and cushions. There were two distinct problems with that idea: there was no real way of knowing what they really used to do all those hundreds of years ago—indeed, Shoki would struggle to recall his own actions from a week prior—and secondly, despite all these habits intended to promote strength, hadn’t the Malik kings lost? Both reasons failed to make headway with Camsh.

  Camsh hadn't stopped there. Whatever old texts he’d acquired also noted that the Malik kings never sat around with their subjects. Yes, they’d attended regular council meetings—increasingly more often as their end came—but even when they did, they sat aloof and separate, rarely letting their voice be heard. They were there, a constant reminder, ever present, their shadow long, but they never denigrated themselves to the level of other mortals by engaging with them.

  Shoki fidgeted with his nails. He was going to have a chat with Camsh. Some old norms weren't worth keeping. A distant thunder’s roar rolled in from the east and he shifted uncomfortably.

  “Those were flawed tactics then,” Jinan said, thumping the table with his gauntleted fist, “and remain so now as well. Send scouts, carry out proper reconnaissance of what’s required, and then commit only the amount that is necessary, keeping the rest in reserve.”

  “Well, you can be a part of the vanguard then,” said the representative of the ameer of Danda. He, too, like the ameer of Nishapa, was an older man, but where the latter had a sense of decorum about him, the ambassador seemed to have no such restraints. “And I’d be happy to keep our forces in this reserve force you feel so strongly about.”

  Shoki exhaled, rubbing his right temple with the right thumb, and looked about. The day was chilly, full of rain—another unchanging day in the Eastern Realm—and despite the marquee they had set up for his council struggling to banish the cold, he was sweating. His eye fell on Salar Ihagra, standing upright just behind him in his brass helmet and leather armor. If he felt the ill effects of weather, he didn't let it show one bit.

  The smell of burning musk and ashen wood wafted from his right, followed by the patter of soft feet. Shoki exhaled, put on a smile as he turned around toward Jiza.

  “They continue to bicker amongst themselves,” she said, her voice low enough to reach his ears and no one else’s.

  “That’s what they do in these councils, I hear,” Shoki said, his guts squirming at what was coming. “If three councilors agree on a course of action without any disagreement, it’s declared they didn't think it through properly.”

  “More of Camsh’s tripe.”

  He shrugged unhappily.

  She stood beside him, standing a couple of paces away from the still figure of his old salar.

  “I agree with Salar Jinan,” Shoki heard Camsh say, and turned around in surprise. Jinan was blinking as well. Camsh ran a hand through his thin hair—one of the only few men Shoki had known to neither favor a turban nor a hat—aware of the attention he’d drawn from the other councilors. “One doesn't send in a dozen executioners to fell a tree. Besides, heroic victories sustain the morale of an army much better than sheer numbers.”

  “Small price to pay compared to the number of lives that can be saved,” murmured an old, wizened mercenary salar from across the ocean, one hand playing with the feather in his leather cap.

  Camsh ignored him. “Of course, Rajano.” He turned away from the mercenary salar. “To ensure any damages are equally and fairly distributed, we’d be drawing lots. That way, we all share equally in the outcome.”

  “We all lose,” murmured the mercenary salar once more.

  “That’s a splendid idea,” said Jinan, thumping the table once more, setting a ream of parchments flying off it. A couple of manservants rushed to grab them, placing them back on the table.

  Shoki forced another grin on his face. Three hours of useless bickering later, it seemed they were all coming around to an agreement of sorts. They would attack, all those who had volunteered to support his cause, and would do so as one cohesive army. That was a blessing that—

  “Battles against magi and abominations cannot be fought using conventional tactics,” Inquisitor Aboor said, rising, a hard smile on his pinched face. He winced as if the act of standing was painful, but any inkling of the discomfort vanished the next instant. “They are vile, crafty creatures. You are facing Afrasiab, an Ajeeb magus who has lived longer than even the longest-living djinn.”

  Aathmik and Purnava, the two female magi representing their schools, glared at the inquisitor. They had remained quiet up until now, but as the inquisitor swept his gaze toward them, the younger of the two whispered in her companion’s ear.

  “I’ve the necessary number of inquisitors,”
Aboor continued. “Cut us a path through the ghouls and we will find the Ajeeb magus and sever him.” At that, the young inquisitor with the cramped expression etched on his bearded face sitting beside him nodded.

  “Of course, we will support you in that,” spoke a wheezing voice to right. Maharis coughed, then struggled to his feet. Unlike the other magi Shoki had seen in the recent past, he was still dressed in the garb he’d been wearing since the day Shoki had first met him. Long, flowing robes and a simple black turban that announced his status as a magus but intended to make no other point. He turned to the other two magi. “I will, at the very least.”

  Shoki adjusted his weight once more. The damned chair was beyond uncomfortable, and all this latent tension in the air was stifling him. If they were this disunited before they had even begun forming their battle lines, how would they fare when they actually faced the ghouls?

  “That’s eminently desirable,” Camsh said, nodding sagely. For a moment, as he stood with his face in profile, the features partially obfuscated by the conical hat of some western nawab, Shoki heard the undertones of his father in his words. Madhu Ghiani speaking in court, expressing his pleasure at two stubborn faction heads finally coming to an agreement. The grand vizier himself might not have survived the Fall of Algaria, but in his son, his ways continued to live on.

  Shoki bit back the melancholy that spread in his heart, mixing with the immensity of all they had lost as a group. What would his legacy be once all this was done? Which of his actions would be remembered and emulated? So long as they don’t mention my decisions at the Battle of Algaria, or what I did to that poor farmer…

  “Does anyone have any other objections?” Camsh asked, his voice acquiring a tone of formality not that dissimilar from what one might hear in a Husalmin temple.

  The dozen councilors shook their heads, then stopped as Pakhmoon, representative from the ameer of Nikhtun, slapped the table. “We know nothing about the terrain that lays ahead. We must send in fresh scouts and ensure we’re not falling into a trap.”

  “Don’t worry on that front,” replied Jinan. “I’m already prepared to take a dozen men and march ahead.”

  Shoki yawned again. If the Malik kings weren't really required at these councils, and they had already agreed on the broader outlines of the battle ahead, maybe it would be alright for him to excuse himself and grab a shuteye.

  He rose, feeling a stab of guilt as the councilors’ eyes moved to him. While these men were busy devising methods in which they would commit themselves and their soldiers to death, and while the ordinary salars were busy carrying out command drills with their thousands a mile to the east, he had no blasted reason to head off for sleep! Except, falling asleep in the privacy of his tent would be a damned better sight than doing so in front of his subjects.

  Camsh raised his hand, then bowed his head solemnly. He still hadn't called him King or Sultan or the Rising Sun—one thing he shared with Jinan, of all people—but he still continued to carry out the requisite forms.

  It worked. The councilors bowed their heads as one. Even Jinan. Even the two inquisitors. Shoki licked his lower lip. Would he ever get used to this deference?

  What would Nuraya make of this?

  Shoki exited the stifling command tent and headed for his tent twenty paces to the right under the shade of an ancient neem tree. The camp felt eerily quiet without the constant din of men and women of various persuasions milling about in the cramped space.

  Neither Jiza nor Salar Ihagra followed him when he let the flaps drop.

  He kicked off his weathered boots—an expensive gift from Chahar Rahane he hadn’t been able to reject—and fell on the bedroll set up against the tent wall.

  Shoki yawned once more as he stretched his limbs, then allowed them to stay still. The day had been long and tiring, but it didn’t really explain the fatigue that had seeped through to his bones. Maybe it was the tension of the past few weeks finally catching up with him.

  Almost immediately, he drifted away, his thoughts melting into nothing, his body relaxing, shedding its weight and tethers to the waking world, setting him free from all worldly worries and—

  “You won’t succeed, Ajeeb.”

  Shoki cried out, somehow instinctively knowing he wasn’t awake but not quite dreaming either.

  “So, you have been hearing my thoughts,” the voice said. It rang out with a screeching timbre, the ancient Gharsi words heavy and stilted, booming in his mind. “We are one, you and I.”

  Shoki raged against the voice. He needed to shove it away lest it scarred him permanently. If he couldn't, he needed to break out of this dream state and return to the real world. There, despite the risks, he would summon his well, and seek out the manner in which the voice had sought him and destroy it.

  Now he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt who he was speaking with.

  Afrasiab, if you hurt as much as a hair on her head, I’ll tear you limb from limb! Shoki shouted even as his own ears refused to hear the words.

  “Do not approach the castle or I will destroy all you hold dear,” whispered Afrasiab, the magus who had captured Nuraya.

  With a gasp, Shoki woke up, his body drenched in sweat.

  Chapter 37

  Kafayos

  Twice now his pride had been wounded. His body burned with shame and rage and impotence at having been beaten back so comprehensively. He had taken to his djinn form, giving himself immense strength and the ability to draw from the innate well of fire all djinn possessed, whilst remaining hidden from the eyes of the ghouls, and still they had pushed him back.

  He, Kafayos bin Qiyas, had been defeated.

  Kafayos snarled, struggling to maintain his human form atop the horse. He almost let go, slipping back into his natural state, but there was wisdom in following what one had learned. The inquisitors would detect him if he stayed in his real form for too long, and that was the last thing he needed at the moment.

  So, he held onto the wretched form, writhing with pain and self-reproach, letting his horse carry him through the deserted human highway. He screamed out in rage, watching the scenery go by. He hated, absolutely loathed, the human worlds, but these wetlands were something on a different level altogether. Wet, muddy, and treacherous in every way possible.

  Through a clearing in the trees, he saw a road leading off to a distant human village. Minarets and spires rose over the treetops. He shook his head. The humans sure loved their vain monuments, as if they allowed them to reach the loftier races. Kafayos turned his gaze away, hoping that no one would see him. He’d had enough contact with the wretched race for a lifetime.

  Where would the horse take him? How much time had passed already since his flight from the castle? Was it raining yet again? Kafayos tried straightening himself but couldn't shake off the wall of darkness that threatened to overcome him. These lands were brewing with resentment and battles, and men seeking enemies. He couldn't let himself be swallowed up in their webs.

  “Take me to the mountains,” Kafayos whispered to his horse, raising a finger toward the mountains to the north. They were far, though distance was still something that gave him trouble. Another human limitation he hadn’t still come to grips with.

  He swam in and out of bouts of consciousness, one moment dreaming he was back in Nainwa, floating between the mountain peaks, then seeing the shrubbery go by.

  Would he die here?

  Fear gripped him, and shaking his head, he forced himself up in the saddle. If he did die here, in these wetlands, in the human body, what would happen with his remains? Would anyone even recognize his true form? Would his last rites be performed as per the formula that prophet Rolomon had set for his kind, or would he be committed to the ground to be eaten by the miserable creatures that dwelled within it? Would he decay in this world?

  Terror of a new kind coursed through his body. Mortality. Something he’d never really thought much about. Yes, all djinn died eventually, but living in Nainwa, one could be excused f
or forgetting the awful truth. Nothing ever changed. No children played along the streets to remind one of becoming older, nor did their old dawdle like humans did with one foot in the grave the moment they entered their sixth decade.

  The horse cantering underneath him, he dozed off, drifting in and out of consciousness.

  He saw the ghouls he had battled. A part of him, a distant, weak one, tried pushing off the memories in vain, even as another part, the one he thought his subjective self, watched it all from its disembodied state. Perhaps it was a good thing to be able to think, no matter how much the effort hurt, if it allowed some tenuous tether to the world of the living.

  The ghouls weren't mindless. He shook his head, reeling with the implications. They were being guided, herded as a boy might coax his fires. Again, he saw the white-haired woman riding hard for the castle. Who was she?

  More time passed, the scenery around him changing, yet somehow remaining the same.

  Azar’s warning rang through his mind. They had been too hasty in moving away from the castle when they had the chance to investigate it more. Another part of him wailed at him to not worry about all these meaningless questions. He was a djinn of Nainwa, and he had nothing to gain by worrying about the goings-on of this world.

  Kafayos gritted his teeth, finally acknowledging the growling his stomach had been making for some time. The human body needed constant nourishment, a fire needing constant fuel. He didn't know how long he could keep on going like this, but he didn't want to wait and find out the answer on his own.

  Despite his best attempts to remain alert, periods of darkness continued to wash over him. Another part of him sang out to him softly, whispering that it was alright to drift away for a bit longer. Just a bit longer.