The Black Khan

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  Because the passage ahead was cut off, a confrontation would be necessary for the Black Khan to reach his seat of power. He’d been a long time away, and the Talisman had been on the move, a wave of infantry, patient and determined, readying themselves for combat against the Black Khan’s army, the forces of the Zhayedan.

  Seldom used to fighting in the open, the Talisman were a guerrilla force, skilled in ambush from the cover of their mountains. As Ashfall’s mountains lay too far to the south for the Talisman to use for this purpose, the only advantage their infantry possessed was in numbers. And the Talisman had bolstered those numbers by recruiting men from towns and villages they had conquered on the central plains. Approaching from the east, their forces expanded west and now had Ashfall in their sights. If the Black Khan was unable to harness the power of the Bloodprint, his capital was doomed to fall.

  But he had other weapons at his disposal—plots he had laid, allegiances he had won—and he would strive to make use of them all before the battle was done.

  Looking down from the pass, to the battle lines far ahead, he dismissed the sight of the Talisman’s forces with a disdainful sniff. Each weapon he commanded, including the Bloodprint, would respond to his need.

  And once he unlocked the magic of the Bloodprint, he would scrub the Talisman from his lands. He would extend his protection to the lands farther west, as far as the gates of Hira. With the magic of the Bloodprint at his fingers, he would realize his long-sought goal: Hira would become a protectorate of Ashfall, unable to stand on its own. He would ensure its survival. In turn, the sisterhood’s gifts would be placed at the service of Ashfall—his service—if he could rout the Talisman approach. Then he would turn his attention to his talents as the Dark Mage. How high he would rise—how much more he would be able to achieve—all of Khorasan would witness. And the One-Eyed Preacher would have no choice but to fear his will.

  Rukh summoned Commander Arsalan, the general of his army, with a whistle.

  A man with glossy back hair and exceptionally refined features rode to the Black Khan’s side. He was dressed in sharp black with no betraying traces of status about his armor. His face was covered with a transparent mask, similar to the Black Khan’s own. He was broad-shouldered and strong, of a height with the Khan, and he sat his horse like a king.

  “Excellency?”

  “The path through the wetlands is cut off by barricade ahead. You’ll need to retreat to skirt their encampment. Once you do, send back a troop of Zhayedan to help us break through the pass. They won’t anticipate trouble from behind—we’ll attack from both sides. I’ll expect your return by midday.”

  The commander nodded. “I’ll send two of my best at once.”

  “No.” Rukh frowned. Ahead on the ridge where the Talisman had set up their barrier, two soldiers changed over their patrol. “Go yourself, Arsalan. You’re the fastest rider among us.”

  Arsalan placed a familiar hand on the Black Khan’s arm. Rukh covered it with his own, drawing Arsalan closer. “You cannot refuse this,” he said.

  “I swore an oath not to leave your side, Rukh. I don’t trust your safety to anyone else. Khashayar rides as well as I, and he thinks for himself besides.”

  Arsalan held up his spyglass, scouting a path a lone rider might risk. It was his turn to frown.

  “It’s too late, Excellency. The men on the ridge are sending out scouts of their own. But not ahead to the walls—they’re doing a sweep back toward our approach—perhaps they’ve had news of the Assassin and want to cover this road. We’ll have to make our stand on our own.”

  “How many men all told?”

  “Forty.”

  “And our company is twelve.”

  “Yes, Excellency. Two archers and ten who ride to battle. There is also the boy.”

  “What is your counsel, then?”

  “To take the pass ahead, we’ll need to face them here before they summon reinforcements.”

  Rukh was reassured by Arsalan’s air of calm, though he’d long since learned his general was ready for any scenario that might confront them.

  “We need to draw them in, then,” Rukh concluded.

  Arsalan nodded. “I’ll send Khashayar to lure them.”

  “They’ll be cautious—they won’t come all at once—which would be better for us.”

  “Khashayar will be wearing the Cloak.”

  The Black Khan’s eyes widened in subtle appreciation of Arsalan’s strategy. Of course the Talisman would come if Khashayar rode into view wearing the Sacred Cloak. They were hunting for the Cloak. They were preparing their siege against the Citadel to retrieve it; they had no notion it was in the Black Khan’s keeping—the first of his betrayals of Hira.

  “Well done,” he said to Arsalan. “But if we should lose this skirmish, do not forget your oath.”

  A signal passed between them—a reminder he impressed upon Arsalan that was met with a hostile silence.

  “I have forgiven you many things, Arsalan,” Rukh said. “I wouldn’t forgive you this.”

  Arsalan’s lips tightened. “You ask the impossible of me.”

  The Black Khan smiled—a slow, seductive curving of his lips that had disarmed many an opponent in the past. He had used it last on Ilea.

  Arsalan’s eyes settled on the smile for a moment before he turned away. “Don’t waste your efforts on me.” His voice was colored by an emotion he didn’t name. “You know I will keep my oath.”

  An oath they had forged in blood—never to dishonor the empire by yielding to the Talisman alive. Arsalan’s dagger in Rukh’s breast was preferable to a public beheading.

  And rather than let them take possession of it, Rukh would burn the Bloodprint.

  You, man, what do you have there?” a Talisman scout called out.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know.” Khashayar’s certainty mocked the Talisman. An angry response followed.

  Khashayar had donned the Sacred Cloak, another stratagem of Arsalan’s. Now he clutched a handful of the cloth in his hand for the Talisman soldiers to see. Some distance back, Rukh recognized the soldiers’ insignia, the black stroke against the field of green. These were not Talisman rabble, they were men of the Shin War, and Rukh had not enjoyed his last encounter with the foremost member of their tribe, the Silver Mage.

  Rukh remembered the sound of betrayal in the Companion of Hira’s voice, the fragile and beautiful First Oralist.

  How unworthy you are of the Bloodprint.

  And he’d mockingly replied, I am unworthy of anything less, though the man who was truly of worth had been standing chained at her side. The Silver Mage, the Authenticate. A name to induce hope in the broken city of Candour. He’d left the Silver Mage and the First Oralist to the Authoritan’s care, and it bothered him now that he dwelt on whether it had been right to do so.

  The deed was done. And nothing he chose to do now could undo it. They were likely already dead.

  But there was still the possibility that Ashfall would survive, and the survival of his city was worth any compromise Rukh had been forced to make. He wouldn’t second-guess himself when he knew he would make the same choice if pushed to the same hard edge.

  Seeming to catch his thoughts, Arsalan gripped his arm. “Are you ready for this, my lord?”

  Rukh smiled at Arsalan again. He was the prince of an empire. He was never anything but ready.

  He took up his spyglass and nodded.

  “Tell Khashayar to make his move.”

  24

  THE BLACK KHAN TRIED TO MOVE AHEAD ALONG THE PASS, BUT ARSALAN blocked his horse as a matter of course, his sword held aloft in his hand. There was no higher ground on which to position archers, but two of his soldiers were in the vanguard of their party, their bows strung, their horses narrowing the entrance to the area protected by the overhang. These were the Zhayedan’s elite archers, the Teerandaz, an all-female company who trained apart from the rest. They would cut down the Talisman’s numbers before they engaged at clos
e quarters.

  Arsalan used his body as a shield to protect the Black Khan. Rukh would have found Arsalan’s protectiveness amusing … if it didn’t diminish his authority before his men. But he’d chosen not to address the tension between Arsalan and himself, reluctant to call his commander to account. At this moment, it served his purpose to allow Arsalan to have his way. He needed to minimize the risk to himself, as the Bloodprint was hidden in his saddlebags. The manuscript was his trust—it was the sole hope of Ashfall against the One-Eyed Preacher’s conjurings.

  They waited for something to break, the air close and cold around them, their horses restless on the higher ground. Wind whipped along the pass, bitter and cruel as it found the openings in their armor. Wafa whimpered as it found him unprotected. The Black Khan sniffed at this evidence of his fear. The boy feared a return to his Talisman masters, when what he should have feared was the destruction of his world.

  With his spyglass, the Black Khan could see Khashayar taking liberties with the Sacred Cloak, stroking its folds with possessive hands.

  “This is mine,” he called out. “I assume lordship over Talisman lands. I command you now.”

  He experienced a moment of anger at Khashayar’s presumption, even though he knew Khashayar’s actions were directed by Arsalan—the Sacred Cloak was his and no other’s—and then all at once, he smiled.

  If it enraged the Black Khan to see Khashayar in the Cloak, the Talisman’s fury would be greater.

  Indeed, the Talisman gave chase. Khashayar outpaced them, drawing them back toward the overhang, a slew of arrows raining down in his wake. Then a voice bolder than the rest commanded, “Hold your fire, you fools. Take him without harming the Sacred Cloak.”

  It was a strange voice, rolling in rhythmic cadences—the words layered over each other, then layered again, a hundred men speaking in one voice.

  The Black Khan’s heart began to race, powerfully compelled by the sound.

  Ahead of him on the path, Arsalan’s horse pawed at the ground. Arsalan held his mount with a hand. He shot a glance over his shoulder at his prince, a glance warm with reassurance. “There is nothing to fear, my prince. Khashayar will draw them to us.”

  But as the dismal tones of the voice rang out, Rukh felt a stirring of dread.

  Arsalan didn’t share his prince’s doubts. He waited with a steady hand, and when the first group of Talisman appeared around the bend, they were taken by the Teerandaz. Then for long moments all was confusion and sound, underlined by the impatient fury of the hooves of the Zhayedan’s horses.

  The archers gave way to the men behind them, and in moments combat was joined. A second wave, a third, their fate invisible to the party of men who held their positions ahead at the barricade. The Zhayedan’s fearless efforts cut the Talisman’s numbers in half.

  No other Talisman ventured forth. And though none had slipped beyond the Black Khan’s party, there were still enough men to bar the road to Ashfall.

  Khashayar gained the safety of the overhang. He let the Sacred Cloak ray out like a banner of war.

  The Black Khan stayed his action, pointing to the Cloak with a deadly warning in his eyes. “Don’t forget yourself, Khashayar.”

  Abashed, Khashayar paused to remove the Cloak, bowing before the Khan. “I wear it only in your service.” He hastened to fasten it over the Khan’s armor, and Rukh gave him an autocratic nod.

  “Stay with His Excellency,” Arsalan commanded.

  Rukh contradicted him at once. “I will ride to the barricade with you. We need every man to fight. None should remain, except the Teerandaz. Send the archers through the wetlands to Ashfall. The army cannot do without them.”

  Arsalan nodded at the helmed and masked archers. They wheeled their horses around and descended.

  “Stay here, Rukh. I have a plan.”

  Arsalan didn’t wait for the Black Khan’s permission or the forthcoming rebuke at Arsalan’s impertinence before the Zhayedan. Instead, he took his cavalry and rode full speed at the barricade. Arrows flew out from behind it. Two of his riders fell. Now the Zhayedan numbered seven, but they had succeeded in closing the distance. They fought the Talisman at close quarters, their horses bearing down the barrier. Though the margin of victory was narrow, the Zhayedan were the superior fighters.

  Hope bloomed in Rukh’s chest, firing him with bold purpose.

  Then a terrible sound pierced the night—pulsing with a thousand overtones, a twisted, occult rhythm, unhallowed and unearthly in tone. The horses of the Zhayedan faltered, and the Talisman wrested the riders to the ground to face a more equal combat. Unhorsed, Arsalan doggedly pressed ahead, roaring for his men to follow. There were seven, there were five, and then there were only three.

  They matched the handful of Talisman who remained, but the noise emanating from behind the barrier was a weapon they couldn’t fight. It attacked from all sides, straight to the heart of them, dulling the precision of their swords.

  The Black Khan waited no longer.

  Arrayed in the Sacred Cloak, he rode forth on his steaming black, gathering up the reins of Arsalan’s horse as he plunged ahead. Nothing could be allowed to happen to his general.

  “See me,” Rukh called to his men. “See the Commander of the Faithful!”

  If they responded, Rukh couldn’t hear—the Cloak was a barrier against the sound. It streamed behind him as he rode. His stallion plunged over the barricade, seeming almost to fly. Arsalan caught the reins of his horse from Rukh and flung himself back into the saddle.

  Abruptly, the sound ceased, the valley below now quiet. Arsalan and Khashayar were to either side of Rukh, dispatching the men who were sheltered behind the barricade. Khashayar vaulted from his horse, striding through bodies, checking each man for signs of life. Arsalan stayed at Rukh’s side, seeking others along the winding path, sword at the ready in his hand.

  “What was that?” Arsalan muttered, craning his head around the overhang.

  Rukh shook his head. He couldn’t say what he’d seen—the illusory image so closely aligned to the sound, smoke rising high above the barricade. And from the smoke and shadows, a piercing annihilation had issued.

  He shook his head to banish the image. Whatever he imagined he’d seen, it hadn’t been able to defeat them—they’d left no Talisman alive. Khashayar and Arsalan gathered the bodies of their comrades and sent them ahead on their horses. Now there was nothing between the Black Khan and the safety of his city. The dead would be received by their own, along with weapons they had taken from the Talisman. His archers would send soldiers to assist them.

  They rode back to their shelter, the Black Khan surprised to see the boy hunched over his horse, his face wet with tears, his feeble shoulders shaking. He had left the Bloodprint to the boy with a murmured instruction to defend it, and the boy had chosen not to flee.

  When he saw the Black Khan seated on his black, the boy gave a shuddering sob. To Rukh’s surprise, there was a look of relief in his eyes. He passed over the manuscript without a word. His teeth were chattering with fear. His hand brushed the Sacred Cloak, and he stared up at the Black Khan in wonder.

  “You wear my lady’s Cloak. You took it from my lady.”

  Khashayar laughed, the notion of a woman assuming the Cloak of Commander of the Faithful an impossible, untimely jest.

  The Black Khan didn’t join in his laughter. He eyed the boy, who had not been present at the Council of Hira—how could he have known about the Cloak? Surely the First Oralist would not have shared its secrets with a Talisman slave.

  “It saved you,” Wafa continued. He pointed down the path. Rukh felt the first pang of pity at his wide-eyed fear. What had this boy’s life been? And what other terrors waited for him ahead? “It saved you from him,” he choked out.

  Now Rukh glanced back over his shoulder, trying to make sense of his words. The road ahead was empty, the smoke dispersed, the barricade borne away.

  “What do you speak of, boy?” Arsalan asked. “We lef
t no man alive.”

  As the boy’s mouth went slack with shock and he snuffled back his tears, an intimation of dread rose in the Black Khan’s soul as he guessed what the boy would say.

  “Didn’t you see him?” Wafa asked. “Didn’t you see the One-Eyed Preacher?”

  25

  THEIR SMALL COMPANY NOW TOOK THE SOUTHERN ROAD THROUGH THE wetlands, riding hard and fast. They skirted the plains of the salt lake, taking care to ride along the shoreline, where the waves would erode their tracks. As they crossed the plains and found entire villages about their business with no sign of preparation for the Talisman offense, the Black Khan’s mood grew grimmer. When they reached the outer defenses, they were met by a party of riders. The rest formed an honor guard that rode at the Black Khan’s side.

  At the approach to the ramparts, the Black Khan reined in his horse. Arsalan halted beside him. A series of horns sounded the return of the Khan to his capital. His standard, a black rook on a silver field, was raised above the walls.

  Arsalan scanned the ramparts, a hand shading his eyes from the stark glare of the sun. “The soldiers I set to regular patrol are absent from their duty. I left strict instructions for the city’s defense, yet look at the ramparts now.”

  A single soldier was stationed at a bell tower. Above the gate, where the heaviest concentration of Zhayedan should have been positioned, there were only two members of the Teerandaz, and those were the women who had ridden with the Khan.

  Arsalan frowned. “I gave the Teerandaz no orders to guard the gate.”

  Rukh considered this before he answered. “They would have seen what we’re seeing now and acted as they deemed necessary.”

  Arsalan’s stallion cantered a short distance away, allowing the Black Khan to take the full measure of Ashfall’s defenses.

  “We aren’t ready. We are nowhere near prepared for the Talisman assault. Send a courier to the Eagle’s Nest. I require the Assassin’s immediate attendance.”