by Astrid Amara
Tarek’s horses trampled over the explosion’s crater and took off at a gallop towards the center of town. He raced for the palace. Once he killed Sahdin and Kadal the war would be won.
Dust blinded the Jezzan soldiers. Many stood, too shocked from the force of the sharta to react. As Tarek’s soldiers poured through the hole, they took advantage of the Jezzan’s surprise, cutting them down like sheep. Tarek had ordered two units to stay and safeguard their exit. The rest of his soldiers fought through the Jezzan defensive line.
Tarek only witnessed the beginning of the melee, as his view was quickly swallowed by the high walls and winding streets of the city. His charioteer rounded a corner and he briefly glimpsed the chaos left in his wake. Arrows clanged against helmets and breastplates. Screams rang through as the points found limbs and faces. Hand to hand combat broke out in a flurry of individual battles around the wall, down the narrow streets. There was no escape for the Jezzans, no ground to retreat to, and as his own soldiers continued to pour through the hole in the wall, the Jezzans, outnumbered, began to die in great numbers, struck down by spears, maces, and swords. The assault was monstrous and fast. Dragewan soldiers charged forward towards the Jezzan Palace, slashing a way through the remaining terrified Jezzan troops and following their lord into the streets of the city.
Jezza’s streets were filthy gray, its buildings coated in decades of dust. Tarek’s charioteer negotiated the tight corners and precarious angles of the stone buildings. Tarek ordered his charioteer up the main avenue while Mazar and the other charioteers split up through the other streets, each of them charging towards the palace. Two units followed Tarek. The yellow banners showed that one of the units was under Anant’s command.
The road opened to a wider thoroughfare. Tarek spotted an enemy chariot racing towards him. Tarek notched an arrow and aimed at one of the two horses pulling the chariot. He loosed the arrow and the horse fell with a scream. As the horse fell, the other steed screeched in panic as the chariot bounded over the dead animal and flipped over on itself. A second chariot behind this swerved to miss the wreckage and charged Tarek. The Jezzan warrior inside shot a flurry of arrows but most flew wide.
Tarek didn’t bother with his shield. He returned his own volley of arrows. The chariot flew past him and then circled around, seconds later coming back to attack Tarek from behind. Tarek took careful aim, bringing down first the archer and then the charioteer.
As Tarek raced to the palace, more chariots charged, but their forces split as they turned down different roads to challenge Tarek and Mazar separately. Chariots flew toward Tarek, but he dispatched one with another volley of arrows. The other chariot was taken down by Tarek’s foot soldiers, who stabbed the horses with spears.
Tarek rushed to the palace gates.
Mazar arrived a moment later, rounding the corner of the other road. He recited over another arrow and shot this at the palace gate, and once again the masonry shattered in a discharge of mud and stone. Tarek’s horses whinnied in fear but continued forward.
Tarek’s chariot was overtaken by Anant’s men, who pushed themselves at a sprint towards the enemy, butchering Jezzans to open a passage for Tarek.
Tarek abandoned his chariot. There were too many bodies, too much chaos to navigate a wheeled car. He slung his bow over his shoulder and grabbed his sword and shield, and jumped to the ground, pushing through the crowd of his men to make his way into the palace. Immediately his own men closed in behind him, shielding him from attack.
The palace courtyard was bricked in and small, with a pool and a statue of Prophet Tarhandi looming in the center.
Skirmishes blossomed across the courtyard, as man fought against man, soldiers falling, clubbed to death. Execution took mere seconds once the soldier was on the ground.
Given the hopeless situation, Tarek expected the Jezzans to run. But now that his forces had penetrated the palace, there was no place for the troops inside the palace to go. So they battled on, hand to hand combat bringing the men together in couples, a gory dance of blades and maces. The walls of the palace closed in the sound of the battle, creating a roaring echo which shook the ground as men screamed, as metal clanged metal, as bodies fell upon the hard stone. The dead lay in piles, especially around their broken entrance, where Tarek’s men killed the Jezzans trying to flee.
Someone grabbed his arm and Tarek spun fiercely, sword raised.
Mazar panted beside him, his armor stained with the blood of his victims.
“Be careful!” Mazar said. “ Sahdin knows the Pezarisharta. If he releases it, he could kill every living creature within the city!”
A Jezzan soldier charged at Mazar. Tarek and Mazar both attacked, cutting down the man in mere moments. Mazar dashed into a nearby melee.
Tarek climbed onto the base of Tarhandi’s statue in the center of the courtyard. He slung his shield behind him and used his bow to cut down men from his vantage point.
To his right, he saw Anant hewing his way through a crowd of men. Two men attacked Anant at once. He dodged and managed to slice the back of the knee of one of them while evading the other. Disabled, the Jezzan fell, and Anant thrust his sword through the other soldier’s neck. Blood sprayed for a dozen feet, covering Anant’s armor in red. Anant wiped his eyes and surged on.
Tarek leapt down from the statue and blew his conch. Anant and his men immediately flanked Tarek.
“I need to get to Sahdin,” Tarek commanded. At once Anant and his cadre of soldiers surrounded him and hacked their way into the palace. Men, both Jezzan and Dragewan, fell. But soon Tarek reached the entrance of the great hall. Few of his bodyguard remained and they spread out, wary of the dim spaces in the hall.
Suddenly a man called out.
“Judge!”
Tarek turned just as a wild-eyed Jezzan soldier, a commander, swung his mace. Tarek had no time to react.
Out of nowhere, Anant sprang between them. The mace smashed into the side of Anant’s head. He crumpled to the ground. Tarek lunged forward, driving his sword into his assailant’s belly.
Tarek heard Anant groan on the marble floor. Tarek knelt beside him.
“Anant!” he shouted. A shrill buzzing filled Tarek’s ears.
“My lord! It’s Sahdin!” someone called. Tarek swiveled to see Sahdin emerge from his throne room. His eyes burned in fury. He was fitted in his armor, his sword in his hand.
“Suya whore!” Sahdin hissed. He raised his sword.
Tarek raised his own. Unlike that evening at Druv’s house in Prasta, Tarek could now fight fairly, on equal terms. Tarek blocked Sahdin’s blows easily. The moment he saw Sahdin’s mouth contort to form a sharta, Tarek swung with all his strength and sliced off Sahdin’s head in one, clean stroke.
Only moments later, Kadal himself emerged. He wore armor as well, but it looked too small for him. He was clearly terrified.
“Royal Judge!” Kadal stuttered.
Tarek thrust his sword into Kadal’s side, in between the plates of his armor. Kadal fell to his knees with a cry. Tarek grabbed his hair and exposed his neck, and then sliced his blade through.
A wail emerged from Sahdin’s nearby attendants. The cry was taken up immediately by the soldiers around them, the sound rumbling into a dark roar, throughout the palace, as the Jezzan soldiers dropped their weapons and bowed to their conqueror.
The buzzing in Tarek’s ears didn’t stop.
Tarek called his general to give the order not to attack the unarmed Jezzan soldiers, and to take them as prisoners instead. But many of Tarek’s men were blinded with blood lust, and it was several hours before the last of the skirmishes abated. Tarek meanwhile removed Sahdin’s diadem and had one of his men hang it on the shattered palace gate, a reminder of what happens to traitors of the king.
In the evening, Tarek ordered torches lit and his soldiers worked to stack the bodies of the fallen Jezzans for cremation the following day. The bodies of Sahdin and Kadal were anointed and prepared for a funeral pyre that eveni
ng. Tarek allowed the lord’s attendants to complete all formal respects for their former liege, who had fallen honorably in battle.
As final preparations were being made to light the pyre, Tarek addressed the mourning throngs. Tarek appointed one of his generals to oversee the safety of Jezza until King Darvad chose a new lord. He assured the people that so long as they were obedient to Darvad, no further harm would come to them.
Then a shriek, piercing and pitiful, came from a young woman, who rushed to Sahdin’s funeral pyre and threw herself upon it, sobbing. One look at her bosom told Tarek that this was Sahdin’s daughter, the luscious Aisa, Darvad’s desired wife.
Aisa’s attendants pulled her from her father’s body as the pyre was lit. She sobbed loudly, uncontrollably, and her grief stirred the people around them. Jezzan citizens turned cold eyes towards Tarek.
“Get her out of here,” Tarek ordered one of his commanders.
“Where should I take her, my lord?” The commander asked.
A cold, dank feeling crept through Tarek’s bones. He looked at the weeping girl. This was his chance to save her for Darvad.
“Take her where you want,” Tarek snapped. “It is not my concern.”
The commander’s eyes glinted briefly, and then he ordered his men to drag Aisa away. People stirred angrily. The situation was growing hostile.
Mazar, who had watched the proceedings by Tarek’s side, stepped forward.
“On behalf of King Darvad, I offer those Jezzan citizens loyal to our beloved king the riches deserved of such fealty.” He motioned to his waiting soldiers. They began to distribute coins—gold, jewels, the coffers of Jezza’s lord. The crowd’s atmosphere changed dramatically. Now a stampede formed, people vying for their share of the booty.
Tarek smiled coldly. “I trust you have saved enough of the coffers to pay the troops.”
“Of course,” Mazar snorted. He smiled at Tarek. “I may be old and weary, but I am no fool.”
“You were magnificent,” Tarek told Mazar, and he meant it. He wasn’t sure how he would have breached the fortifications in the first place if it hadn’t been for Mazar’s shartas. Tarek realized that having Mazar by his side was, in many respects, more of an advantage than Darvad himself.
After the funeral, Tarek discussed securing their position with his general. He then dragged his exhausted body out to the back courtyard of the palace, where his army’s tents were erected. He drank water like a dying man once he got there, and then inspected the casualties. Two hundred of his soldiers had died, with another three hundred wounded. Tarek walked past men with severed limbs, with slashed faces, with shattered bones. Tarek steadied himself, telling himself it was an acceptable level of casualties for a battle.
As he made his rounds, Tarek toughened his resolve against reacting to injury. Each consecutive solider made it easier. Until he saw Anant.
“Oh, God!” Tarek had forgotten. Selfish, conceited idiot, he had forgotten that Anant had saved his life. He rushed to Anant’s side.
Anant was unconscious. His helmet had taken the brunt of the mace swing, but the left side of his face was in terrible shape. His cheek was swollen, his left eye was misshapen, and it seemed as if the distance between his eyes had widened.
The air caught in Tarek’s throat.
The physician overseeing the injuries caught Tarek’s reaction and tried to reassure him.
“He’ll survive,” the physician said. “He’s very lucky—I think he’ll keep his eye.”
“Will he… be disfigured?” Tarek thought of Anant’s deep, masculine handsomeness, so alluring when coupled with his shy blushes.
The physician sighed. “He’ll live. That’s all I can promise you right now.”
Tarek nodded. “Do whatever you can. Help him.” He stared at the physician. “He is a friend of mine.”
“Oh!” The physician seemed flustered. “Shall I take him into the palace then? The other commanders who sustained injuries are there. The accommodations are better.”
Tarek narrowed his eyes. “Anant is a commander. Why isn’t he with them?”
“He said he wanted to stay with his men.”
Tarek stared at Anant a long time before answering. “Bring him to the palace. Do everything you can.” And he left the courtyard to finish his inspection.
WITHIN A MONTH OF BEGINNING THEIR FLUTE LESSONS JANDU realized how he could improve Abiyar’s concentration. Jandu had been initially confused by the boy’s strange split-personality when it came to practicing music. On the one hand, he always seemed interested, and he enthusiastically attempted every challenge Jandu presented him.
On the other hand, he often scoffed at the instrument, calling it a “stupid girl’s toy” and “beneath him.” He glanced nervously at the guard who was assigned to him, and every time the guard looked back, Abiyar straightened, pushing out his chest, tightening his facial features as if annoyed.
Finally, Jandu just excused the guard by asking him sweetly to step outside. At moments like this, Jandu’s feminine body served him well. He fluttered his eyelashes.
The guard didn’t even bother to hide the fact that he stared at Jandu’s breasts. “I am not allowed to leave him alone.” But he looked tempted. For a month, he had stood through Abiyar’s lessons with a bored, pained expression on his face.
“He isn’t alone,” Jandu said. “He’s with me.”
“It’s all right,” Abiyar said. He stood and narrowed his eyes at the guard. “Wait for me outside.”
“As you wish, my lord.” The guard ogled Jandu one last time, and then stepped from the room.
Jandu’s mouth curled into a smile. “Right. Let’s see how practice goes without an audience today.”
Jandu made himself comfortable on the sitting room settee. Abiyar sat beside him, folding his thin legs nervously. His awkward body, his desire to please, and his brash bravado appealed to Jandu. Since meeting Abiyar, Jandu had heard most of the palace rumors that circulated about the boy. People considered Abiyar girlish and weak. His brothers disliked him. Jandu had even heard several of the women in the bath house accuse the boy of being a faggot.
Which, of course, only made Jandu feel more protective of his young protégé. From the way Abiyar nervously glanced at Jandu’s breasts and blushed with any close contact, Jandu truly doubted Abiyar was a homosexual. But his reputation was in dire straits. Jandu wanted to help resurrect it.
“Show me what we learned yesterday,” Jandu said, handing the flute to Abiyar.
Without the guard, Abiyar’s playing improved greatly. Even he seemed shocked by his own performance. Jandu realized that at this rate it wouldn’t be long before Abiyar’s natural musical abilities would surpass Jandu’s own limited skill.
Halfway through the day’s scales, a servant girl knocked quietly at the door and delivered a plate of food for lunch. Abiyar dove into the bread and cheese hastily.
Jandu shook out the flute and cleaned it with a cloth. “You’re very good, Abiyar,” he said. He froze, realizing his error in calling the lord’s son by his first name.
But Abiyar didn’t seem to mind. He smiled sweetly, too grateful for the rare compliment to be concerned with decorum.
“I told you I like music,” Abiyar said. “And you are a good teacher, Janali.”
Jandu smiled. “Tell me about some of your other teachers. Who is your weapons master?”
“Master Devdan,” Abiyar said, mouth full of bread and cheese. “He is the most renowned Triya warrior in all of Afadi!”
“Then you are in good hands.”
“Of course.” Abiyar fiddled with his diadem. “I only have the best.”
A warm, balmy breeze smelling of roses wafted in from the window, and Jandu leaned back, enjoying the feel of the air on his skin. His midriff was bare, and the air tickled his naval.
“Has Master Devdan started training you with shartas?” Jandu asked.
Abiyar’s eyes widened. “Magical weapons? What do you think he is, a pr
ophet?”
Jandu laughed. “Regular humans can use them too.”
“No they can’t,” Abiyar said. “That is a myth.”
“They can,” Jandu insisted. “You just have to concentrate. There are two skills needed in learning a sharta. You must first learn how to summon it, and then learn the counter-curse, to withdraw it. Some are more difficult to recall than others.”
This piqued Abiyar’s interest. He turned to Jandu enthusiastically. “How do you know this?”
Jandu burned with a desire to show off in front of Abiyar. His mind was filled with so many magical weapons, it would startle even his own family. The years of training with Mazar formed an arsenal the likes of which most armies in Marhavad had never seen.
But if there was any one thing Jandu could do to completely blow his cover, it would be to unleash a magical weapon. He leaned his head back against his hands and sighed.
“I know a lot of things.” He left it at that.
◆◆◆
In December, Abiyar began an intensive course of archery with his weapon’s master in preparations for the upcoming New Year’s festival. Jandu drilled Abiyar for details about his training, but Abiyar seemed almost shy about his master. Jandu would have given anything to meet this Devdan and to see some sparring. As it was, he was always stuck indoors, with a flute, or in his rooms, listening to Rani talk endlessly. And while Rani was good at giving Jandu the inside scoop on the scandals of palace life and rumors from around Marhavad, Jandu truly missed his old life, talking strategy and weapons and being around horses and swords and other men. Even Keshan, who eschewed violence and was more refined than other warriors, still sparred and shot targets in his free time. This passive life wearied Jandu.
One morning it was too brilliant outside for Jandu to sit indoors any longer. He left a message with Abiyar’s servant, Bir, that he wanted to meet Abiyar outside for a change, and Bir reported back that the boy had archery practice that morning in his private courtyard. Jandu could instruct him there.
Jandu went to meet Abiyar at the scheduled time, but Abiyar was late. Abiyar’s target of hay and cloth stood at the end of the courtyard. There were stone steps that led to Abiyar’s rooms, and on the edge of the stone balcony Jandu found Abiyar’s bow, carelessly abandoned like an unwanted toy.
