Chapter 11 #2
‘Keep up,’ Yabghu barks as we delve into a maze of sandy avenues and quarters surrounded by pale sandstone and sandblasted complexes. Glistening ochre domes and stained-glass mausoleums with polygonal chambers decorated in green-hued geometrics lead to a bone-stone cemetery of martyrs.
‘There,’ Yabghu says, pointing to a tall amphitheatre enclosing a deep sand pit, adjacent to the cemetery.
‘Lines!’ officers yell and soldiers kneel in trios, forming long rows on the hard-packed balconies of the amphitheatre.
My gaze returns forward and—
I slam into a hard chest. A firm hand steadies my shoulder.
‘At ease,’ a smooth voice says from above.
I glance up at an imposing warrior, dressed in a tunic identical to Yabghu’s but ochre and crimson.
His features are elegant from a hard jaw, sharp grey eyes and narrow nose -all of it pleasingly symmetrical.
He steps back and crosses his bulging arms, revealing gold-threading like mine along his sandy skin, a custom from the nomadic borderlands.
But of course, the symbols are motifs of ravens; his tribe from Sajamistan’s slice of the Camel Road.
His dark hair is tied into a small topknot with raven feathers, a tawny shawl tied around his chest, like Yabghu.
When we lock gazes, he cants his head as if unsure what to make of me before his eyes drop to my arms.
‘Who is this?’ A girl steps from behind him.
‘This is the Azadnian initiate.’ Overseer Yabghu waves them toward me, while using his other hand to yank down my sleeves. ‘Surround her. Do not let the others see her yet.’
‘But why—’ I start, finding my voice again.
‘Quiet,’ Yabghu orders in a low snap, ‘unless you have a death wish before you’ve become a proper initiate.’ He faces the two warriors. ‘Move quickly, Katayoun and Cemil.’
Katayoun must be the girl. She’s shorter than me, but her muscles are thicker and corded, her skin a rich, dark brown.
Her henna-stained copper hair is pulled into a braid at her waist, tasselled by bone-pendants.
She wears a similar tunic to Yabghu’s – except hers flows to her calves – and is fitted under a russet vest embroidered in gold swirls akin to Heavenly bonds.
Her joints are covered in mo?pī? martial wrappings.
At her collar, a necklace of raven feathers and lamb-horn bones glistens in the sunlight.
‘Is it wise to shield an Azadnian?’ Cemil presses.
Yabghu uses his dagger to scratch at his neck. ‘I hope you are not so arrogant as to question an overseer’s orders.’ His calm tone is enough to silence Cemil. ‘Might I remind you, she is a comrade. In our trifecta.’ He pauses with his dagger in his grip. ‘Flank her. Now.’
The young warriors jump and hustle to either side of me. Still, Cemil’s lips peel back. ‘Coddling a rukh on her first day. Her accent and dialect are a dead giveaway.’
‘Enough,’ Katayoun hisses at him.
Yabghu gestures to the three of us but looks only at me, now using his khanjar to scratch his dark turban. ‘Our last rukh died – rather tragic – but we have you to replace her.’
I just stare at him. Their last recruit died?
‘An accident, really. Exhaustion from the rukhs’ classes at the institute made her slip up during squadron training and a blunt arrow found its home in her eye.
Anyway,’ he claps, ‘in our trifecta, Cemil has been in the army for almost two years, Katayoun only one, and you have none. Each trifecta is balanced this way, like the Three-Headed Raven.’ Overseer Yabghu then kneels, taking his spot in front of us, facing forward. ‘Do not speak. Watch below.’
Two senior officers enter through a narrow sand-packed tunnel into the pit, dragging two chained bodies to the centre. Instinctively I look away, but Yabghu smacks my head.
‘Eyes forward – no, stop flinching,’ he snaps.
My world blurs, studying the tortured bodies.
‘Of course she would flinch. These are her people, after all,’ Cemil says carelessly.
A hush ripples through the crowd of thousands enclosing the amphitheatre.
A figure descends into the steps, the gold embroidery of his dark tunic beaming in the dawn, the raven curled upon his shoulder.
The crowd bow their heads, lifting their clawed knuckles parallel to their chin, and I follow the salutation sluggishly.
My breaths rattle in my throat; my eyes sting.
My shoulders hunch as I press my knees harder into the sand to remind myself not to flee.
The Sepāhbad nods at the officers to string up the tortured bodies by their feet, upturned in the sand-rimmed pit. Two date palms growing on the perimeter, surrounded by pointy cacti, have been tied together at the top by a flax rope, and the men’s legs are suspended at each end.
It happens quickly. They snap the rope, using sheer force to tear the bodies in two, red remains scattering among the jagged cacti below. Planks of flesh slew off in sloppy chunks, immediately attracting red wasps.
The Sepāhbad’s inflection is gentle, but it carries firmly across the flanks.
‘Live for the dead but bring death to the living. That is what it means to be a Za’skar warrior to our enemies.
Here, two spies from our own ranks dared sell intelligence to an Azadnian governess, costing the lives of garrison soldiers at another Arsduq melee.
We have no mercy thus, for traitors.’ His gaze roams through the onlookers.
Impossibly -kneeling so far from him – for half a beat, our eyes meet: his cold, and mine shaken, my fears unspooled between his fingers.
I reach toward my waistband, brushing the blade he bestowed me and then my melted Zahr blade.
Young warriors enter the pit, carrying baskets of food scraps.
They unceremoniously dump them upon the corpses.
Worms and fat maggots wiggle through the decay; more red wasps dive in, the meat of the dead in the happy bellies of the creatures.
Rot unfurls in acidic fumes under the heat, stinging my eyes.
Everything blurs and the scattered corpses are no longer faceless but terrible imaginings.
The emperor’s onyx eyes stare lifelessly at me from a torn face.
My throat clenches with the urge to vomit.
On the other corpse, I see henna-stained hair strewn around a face gnawed on by crows; sorrow reflecting in her green eyes so like my own.
Uma, my lips mouth, but I stab my nails into the dirt. The corpses return to being merely corpses.
Then I take in the calm, almost eager, eyes of the surrounding warriors. Another violence stirs amongst the army. Their violence to defend this empire and mine to destroy it.
The Sepāhbad bows, and the ranks are dismissed.
Now I look not at the corpses, but at the black shadow that bounds down the amphitheatre pillars and crawls eagerly into the pile of decay, nibbling at entrails with a hunger that makes my own stomach echo strangely in answer.
Yabghu stands and brushes his trousers of dirt, grim-faced. ‘Not the first day I imagined for you, rukh, but welcome to Za’skar.’
Despite the morning heat, a cold sweat breaks along my neck.
Thousands of Za’skar warriors stamp their feet of sand and return to their assignments, with murmurs about the spies and Azadniabad flying between the ranks.
Ignoring the shadow, I rub at my forearms as Yabghu leads our trifecta out of the sand pits.
‘Hiding fresh blood, Fourth-Slash,’ a razor-sharp voice mocks across the dispersing crowd.
‘And what of it, Negar?’ Yabghu doesn’t spare a glance back.
A young woman who must be Negar steps forward with a dark glare, long russet hair swinging with bone-pendants.
Her clothes are like Katayoun’s except in pale shades of linen.
Appraising me with a long look, Negar raises a marbled blade with four slashes by way of a greeting.
At her heels, three other low-ranks study me in equally matched curiosity. They must be her trifecta.
‘More like tainted blood,’ another voice adds with a rough laugh. It belongs to a tall, burly woman – another overseer, perhaps, judging from the low-ranks behind her. Other trifectas pause at this, but my overseer yanks me away roughly, toward sandstone tunnels.
‘If you value your life, keep walking,’ Yabghu hisses.
‘You cannot hide her forever, my overseer. The captain must have told them.’ Cemil shakes his head.
Yabghu ignores him and leads us toward a patch of courtyards behind a cluster of illuminated crypts and ochre stone mausoleums.
When we’re a safe distance away from the amphitheatre, I say, ‘Surely in this city, I’m not the only,’ my voice drops, ‘Azadnian. There must be other warriors descending from its clans.’
‘Yes, perhaps a dozen here; the others are stationed at outposts in our provincial garrisons. There could be more who’ve lived in Sajamistan for over a generation and assimilated quietly and neatly.
’ He slows as we approach a garden of fountains.
‘Outside of the forces supplied from clanhouses, Sajamistan’s monarchy controls three standing armies of normal mortals.
There is only one battalion for Eajīz. For that, Za’skar City looks past clans and tribes in its recruits. ’
A flutter interrupts his explanation, as a large, white-feathered wing sweeps past my face.
I stumble back into Cemil. Unfazed, Yabghu continues, ‘Beware of the Heavenly ababil birds; they linger here in the Little Paradise gardens. On that note, look at the trees full of all kinds of berries. The bounties are forbidden to eat, the reddest berries descended from the Eden.’
Cemil looks slightly amused before shoving me away with the hidden strength of a Za’skar warrior. I straighten with a scowl. He will be a problem.
‘Roughhousing a rukh on her first day. I taught you better than that.’ Yabghu whacks Cemil.