The sun had never been brighter.
It hung directly overhead. Whatever the event, those who had organized it on the Sultan’s behalf had timed it perfectly with the midpoint of the day. For it shone with the strength that an empire should have.
Ashallah’s eyes adjusted to the radiance a few moments longer than expected. This is his doing, she knew. From midnight to noon. Darkness to light. That demon of a man intends to weaken me at every turn.
Stay strong. Remain dark.
The outline of the arena was the first thing she saw. Then the arches of the top level. Followed by the masses, which appeared like wave after wave of men. Many were soldiers not at their current duties and rotations, but no doubt compelled by their commanders to fill the seats of the arena. There were so many that Ashallah thought they overlapped one another.
The sand of the arena grounds was the last sight to come into focus. Whiter than milk, it reflected the midday sun as if a mirror. Ashallah wondered if from their seats the crowd had difficulty watching. Judging from their murmurs and stares, it appeared not.
The wagon wheeled into the center of the arena, crawling to a stop. No sooner than it did, the crowd fell silent. Ashallah looked about her, at planks she stood on, the oxen and the janissaries, wondering what made their presence so captivating.
However, the sudden silence was not for them. For on the marble gallery, partitioned from the rest of the crowd, stood the Grand Sultan with all of his court. He held up his hand before him, his palm quieting the audience, as though his gesture alone controlled their voices. Every eye gazed upon him. Those of men and women. Guards and janissaries. Turquoise and jinn.
Jinn.
Ashallah stared at the servile followers, the ones who formed the columns of the Grand Sultan’s power. She spotted only ten amongst Jalal; five lined on each side of him. Of them, only one garnered her attention: the dark-eyed demon who flanked the Sultan’s right side, closest to his raised hand. The one with gold script emblazoned over blood-red skin. He appeared just as he was on the day he hovered over the arena in Yasem.
More were among the Sultan’s entourage, including Hyder and a great many of his viziers. They reclined on pillows and rugs of the finest cloth as concubines and servant girls stood by, ready to provide every earthly pleasure. All manner of luxury surrounded them, from bowls of candied dates, burning dishes of incense, crystal pitchers of the finest wine and every jewel and treasure of the finest craftsmanship.
Ashallah studied it all, wondering how many servants and slaves it took to furnish the gallery with such decadence. The treasures were overwhelming in their grandeur, so much so that one could not help but blink to look upon them too long. Amongst the exuberance, Ashallah spied a lone item to draw her focus even further. A horn of antique cedar. The one Darya had shown her. The very horn she and Rahim had used to summon a jinni to save the three of them. Ashallah shifted her stare to the Grand Sultan, who was seemingly unaware of his captive’s interest in his newfound treasure.
He has her, Ashallah affirmed to herself. Here. Perhaps just out of sight.
The Grand Sultan finally lowered his hand. At that, the crowd took their seats. The janissaries then formed a line, with the slender one at the head, and marched to the nearest gate.
Ashallah glared at the Grand Sultan, not caring if her scowl offended him or his minions. For his part, the Sultan expressed no disapproval. Rather, he took his seat, amongst a dozen silk pillows, as Vizier Hyder rose and clapped his hands.
“You, Ashallah, of the midnight warriors of Yasem,” Hyder began. “Daughter of one Niyusha. Father unknown.”
Some in the crowd chuckled. Ashallah’s nostrils flared, knowing the mention of her origins was not standard in such public trials but meant as an affront to her pride, to embarrass her. Obscenities and profanities bellowed through the recesses of her mind. Yet hiding her strongest weapon, she quieted her soul, choosing to save her voice.
I know who my father is, Ashallah thought but dare not say. He is that dog sitting beside you.
“Once again, you are charged with insubordination, abandonment of your post, treason, conspiring with the Shadya – known enemies of the state – and three counts of murder. Furthermore, your accusations include conspiring to assassinate the one delivered from Our Watcher in Heaven, Jaha, his earthly son and our divine ruler, the Grand Sultan of Greater Dyli.”
Jeers and boos erupted from the crowd. From men and women alike. Ashallah held her breath, closed her eyes and listened. Many of the cries and calls in response to the vizier were genuine in their hatred for her. Their degree of malice was overwhelming. Ashallah opened her eyes and held her head high. Somewhere out there Thwayya must be standing, Ashallah assured herself. With others possibly. No, definitely with comrades. She must be there. She must.
“The Grand Sultan does not consider traitors lightly,” Hyder continued. “Those who sin against him and Greater Dyli weigh on his conscience. Such souls, who he thinks of as his children like all his subjects, burden him with a heavy heart.”
Like he has a heart.
“Yet like any great father, The Grand Sultan cannot withhold punishment from his citizens. He must discipline them, to show them the error of their ways, so as to set them up as examples that all of us can learn from, Jaha willing.”
Jaha’s will is not present. Only this man’s.
“Citizens of Greater Dyli, this woman before you has sinned against heaven and earth. Therefore, let the wrath of Jaha consume her!”
An uproar erupted from the crowd. Ashallah nearly raised her hands to her ears, yet stopped herself from giving the Sultan the satisfaction.
For every thousand voices, there must be one supporter, a woman, a midnight warrior dedicated not to the Sultan but her own kind. Like Thwayya. Deserters of men. There has to be.
“Her punishment will not be swift though, for neither were her sins. And she will not suffer them alone.”
At that, Ashallah raised her head higher, considering the vizier’s last word.
“For unfortunately, this one had help in her treason.”
More jeers followed. Ashallah ignored them all, not caring whom among the audience could be her saviors. She considered none but one.
Darya. Will she be put to death alongside me? Will she suffer my fate?
Chains clanked as the portcullis to her right rose. Ashallah looked to find a handful of women escorted by four dungeon guards. The lot of them were from varied backgrounds. Every one of them was disheveled no doubt from having been abused by the Sultan’s henchmen. An Aliya struggled to cover her face despite her veil and the rest of her white garments being in tatters. Two Rosil limped forward, with one embracing the other for support and vice versa. Other appeared as peasants or Shadya, women inconsequential to Ashallah except for one: Thwayya.
Unveiled, she marched forward. Every few steps or so, her left leg buckled. She ignored it, not allowing her gait to affect the last moment of pride she probably had.
To Ashallah’s left, another portcullis rose. Again, four guards appeared. However, this time there was no group to behold, only the singular captive that deserved their undivided attention: Rahim.
Thank Jaha, Ashallah nearly whispered. He lives.
Layers of sweat and grime masked his natural skin colors of alternating turquoise and white. Dried rivers of blood caked his bare chest. As he neared, Ashallah could see puncture marks on his flesh, precise and deliberate in their placement to inflict maximum pain. His bloodshot eyes hinted at the suffering he had endured. Still, they glimmered. Not as brightly. All the same, they shone. Because he was there, before her, approaching. At once, Ashallah felt both grateful and afraid. Grateful for seeing a powerful friend, one that could fight, once more. Afraid for the fact that he was in chains, ushered forward by the tips of four spears.
“Behold your sinners!” Hyder proclaimed as the crowd erupted again with deafening shouts and cries. “Now, behold their punishment!”
The audience barely had a moment to erupt further when a large crack thundered through the arena. Ashallah bent her back and lowered her shoulders, looking behind her to find the other portcullises that ringed the arena – all of them – rising.
The heavy crack broke the air again. From the portcullises emerged a hideous sight.
Turquoise of poor breeding trudged onto the sand of the arena. Unlike Darya or Rahim, their stripes of rich blue skin exuded no brilliance, especially given that the whole of their bodies were unwashed and grungy. Even compared to that turquoise she had witnessed in the catacombs of Yasem, these specimens had somehow fared worse in life. Had it not been for their eyes, Ashallah would have mistaken them for tortured prisoners nearing death.
The turquoises in the arena first slogged over the sand as though through a bog. Ashallah hardly considered them a threat, until from the dark recesses of an arena tunnel a giant whip snapped at one. The leather plowed into his back, sending the absent-minded turquoise forward. He stumbled, somehow avoiding falling. As he regained his footing, Ashallah could see the violent motion had awakened a deep instinct: an urge to kill.
The turquoise bellowed at the prisoners. Those nearby, as though stirred from slumber, answered the cry with their own. More whips snapped at the emerging turquoise, rousing an army of raging beasts from their dormant state.
From behind the angered monsters came the masters with their whips: the Firstborne. Almost as tall as their ancestors, their lean bodies bent as they stooped under the portcullises, only to arch and straighten once within the arena. Their arms ricocheted back as they extended their leather over the air, the tips finding their marks on the backs of their bastard kin. Several more turquoise riled. However, none dared to look back.
Over the crack of leather and cries of the killers, Ashallah managed to catch the sounds from the marble gallery. She looked behind her to find two janissaries escort another struggling captive before the Sultan: Darya.
“Asha!”
The janissaries released her as the Sultan embraced her from behind, his right hand on the cusp of her chin.
“Your lover, no?” the Sultan asked.
“Free them! I’m yours!”
“Are you? I need to believe it.”
“Let them go . . . please!”
“Perhaps one will live and you can go on to save him or her. I will allow you to choose.”
“But . . . I . . .”
“Or give me your dreamscapes. All of them. Show me the language of the jinn. The way to control them. Teach me the ways of my enemies, that I may know their actions before they do. I want to know how you have grown your abilities. The source of your powers. Give me your knowledge, that I may conquer the world. Then I will release your brother and your love.”
The Grand Sultan released Darya. She fell to the ground as he withdrew to his cushioned seat to recline.
“I will not ask again. The choice is yours.”
At that, the Sultan lifted his index finger. Vizier Hyder, watching, nodded. He turned to the Firstborne and extended his hand. He motioned his fingers back ever so slightly, as though to invite them forward.
The Firstborne caught sight of Hyder’s command. Rather than approach, they retreated under the portcullises, back to the tunnels of the arena from whence they came.
Ashallah looked back to Darya, who remained on the floor of the gallery, her face painted with equal parts of intrigue and confusion.
Another crack from the tunnel shook the air.
As had been with the turquoise, from the depths they came. No jinn. Nor children of jinn. Only creatures from the Sultan’s personal inventory.
Tigers larger than Ashallah had ever seen. Bears with black-tipped daggers for claws. Oxen bred so large their shoulders stood twice as high as those of their field brethren. Vipers with bodies long and wide, as though serpents pulled from the sea.
All snorted. Hissed. Bared their teeth. And glared forward.
Darya turned to the Sultan. He grinned.
“Her royal blood may have saved her from the turquoise. But it won’t save her now.”
Darya crawled to the edge of the gallery, the blue hue of her eyes ablaze with fear and concern.
Ashallah turned back to the beasts that entered the arena. The turquoise before them parted, clearing a path for the wild creatures. They hissed and waved their arms, not to antagonize the animals but to usher them to the prisoners. One or two even managed to mount the beasts, no doubt to ride them to their intended prey.
“Save us!” cried the Aliya. Her gaze fell on the Vizier, then the Sultan. Finding no show of sympathy from them, she directed her stare to Darya.
“Do something!” she pleaded. “Give him what they want!”
Ashallah extended her hands to the woman in white. They moved but inches before the chains in the wagon held them back. She looked to Darya. Her face contorted as she considered the Aliya’s words and Ashallah’s restraints. Ashallah shook her head slightly, her eyes locking with Darya’s.
Hyder looked over his shoulder to the Grand Sultan.
“I’m growing bored,” he stated.
He flicked his hand to the arena. Hyder snapped his head back to the arena. He extended his arms wide as he raised his chin. “Behold the children of the jinn!” he proclaimed to the crowd, who responded with an uproar. “Behold the beasts of the Grand Sultan, from his gardens and royal enclosures. They will smite the enemies of Greater Dyli, these sinners of Jaha, those who abhor the Law.”
The Sultan sauntered up to Darya, who remained on her hands and knees, peering over the edge of the gallery to the sandpit of the arena below. He took a knee beside her. “Those beasts of mine,” he began. “They were raised by turquoise. Sure, these children of the jinn may be scratched, or worse. One or two may even die from their wounds.
“However, the real danger will be faced by the captives down there. You see, my beasts feed on human flesh. They hunger for it. Even those who are not hungry - whether because they are full or because they eat hay and grass - have been trained to inflict carnage. Mark my words, your brother is in no less danger, for my soldiers and guards dosed him in the blood and stench of his fellow male prisoners. He reeks like they do so that my beasts will not know the difference.”
Darya considered Rahim. The spears of the guardsmen pressed at his back. Reluctantly, he continued forward, with the wagon only feet away. He stopped to swing around and knock a spear point aside, only to be struck by one, then two.
A growl drew her attention. One of the turquoise had managed to mount the large tiger. With ease, the turquoise rode it forward. The tiger, though not quite tame, paid little mind to the one on his back. He crouched, his massive paws carrying it toward his prey.
“Please! Save us!” the Aliya in tatters cried once more.
That was it. The shriek had singled her out. Within the blink of an eye, the tiger leaped forward, throwing the turquoise from its back. It closed the gap between himself and the Aliya with remarkable speed, so sudden that the woman had not a moment to scream before the striped beast tore open her neck.
Darya moved away from the edge of the gallery. Ashallah, seeing her fear, raised her hands towards her as far as the chains would allow.
“I’ll do it,” Darya relented. “Whatever power of mine you desire is yours.”
No, Ashallah thought.
The Sultan could not help himself from grinning. “Good.”
“Unbind me,” Darya said.
The Sultan cocked his head. “So that you may escape?”
Darya looked to the jinn that flanked them. “My powers of dreamscape peak when I am unbound, free.” She held her chained wrists higher.
The Sultan nodded to the janissary nearest to him. The soldier stepped up to Darya to unlock her shackles. The other janissaries braced the hilts of their kilij swords and the shafts of their spears. The jinn, also watching, eyed their kin with suspicion but made no move to reflect their distrust.
Her shackles clanked to the ground. Darya rubbed her wrists. Then, seeing the Sultan waiting, she extended the tips of her fingers to his temples. At first, he did little more than shift his irises. Within seconds, though, the color of his eyes receded, showing his whites.
The janissaries and jinn motioned to stop Darya, but the Sultan extended his arms.
“Do not move,” he commanded. “Do not stop her.”
“Are you well?” Hyder ventured to ask.
“I am beyond well. I can see you, and beyond. I can see into her mind. I can see everything.”
The Sultan gripped Darya’s hands. “Keep going. Give me your dreamscape. Your memories of the past. Your knowledge of a hundred-thousand souls. Everything you have felt or experienced. All. Give me all!”
Ashallah watched all the while, her soul swelling with dread.
Wait. What is that?
From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the tiger, who licked the blood from its lips, its appetite whetted. The other female prisoners withdrew from the wagon as much as the encircling turquoise and their beasts would allow, leaving Ashallah vulnerable, with nothing but the wagon she stood between her and the tiger.
Her muscles flexed, her jaw clenched as she tugged at her constraints. In response, the beast crouched, ready to pounce.
“Yala Hasem!”
Ashallah looked up to see Thwayya waving her bound hands, beckoning the beast toward her. Thwayya paused to tilt her head, to yell to the heavens once more.
“Yala Hasem!” her voice echoed through the pit of the arena.
No! Ashallah wanted to scream.
“Yala Hasem!” Thwayya cried again, against Ashallah’s unspoken wishes. She turned her sights to the tiger. “You ugly thing! Come on, you want a taste? Huh? You want . . .”
From the line of turquoise, a viper struck. With haste, its fangs dug in deep, with one long tooth finding the meaty part between Thwayya’s shoulder and neck, while the other pierced her side.
Thwayya’s mouth hung open as if to scream. The life drained from her too quickly, though, so that she gasped instead. Her eyes, which only before had been lively as she taunted the tiger, lost their vigor.
The viper, a serpent on the sand, pulled its fang from her body. Thwayya slumped to the ground, at once a corpse, as the snake unhinged its jaw, readying itself to consume her.
The tiger, seeing its distraction claimed by another, swung back around to face Ashallah.
Ashallah, her moment to mourn having passed, heaved up her chains up. Up. Up some more. The bolt to her right tilted slightly. It bent towards her. Ashallah eyes lit up with hope.
Then the tiger leaped.
In response, Ashallah knelt. She tilted her head down and turned her back to the tiger, in an effort to shield her face and neck. No sooner had she closed her eyes than she heard the beast scream and thud on the wooden planks.
She looked to her side to find the tiger killed, a spear having impaled its upper torso. She snapped her head, finding Rahim amongst the guards. Beside him laid the fresh corpse of one of his captors, while to his other side another clutched his gut, writhing in pain. The other two stood defensively, their spear points aimed at Rahim, who deflected them with a short kilij. Fresh rivers of blood streamed from his torso. Nevertheless, there he was. Enlivened and fighting.
The others in the arena had taken notice. The Firstborne pointed at Rahim. In unison, they raised their heads and released a fearsome cry. Their whips cut through the air, which exploded with a snap. The turquoise replied in kind with their own hisses and snarls. They urged their beasts of torture toward the blue warrior, descending on him like a squall.
Ashallah turned back to the dead tiger. She reached for the shaft of the spear. With the sum of her strength, she pulled it from the carcass, stumbling back as the spear slid free.
“Ahhh!”
Ashallah closed her eyes. She shuddered. She knew the sound. From her enemies of every known nation. From the poor souls caught in between the sides of a battle. From her departed sisters-in-arms.
Looking over her shoulder, she confirmed her suspicions. Rahim, on both knees. His short kilij laid in the sand as he reached to his back. An arc of blood hung fast in the air, its trajectory having escaped from his fresh wound. Running past was a turquoise, a vile beast with razors for nails and teeth, whose scarlet-colored hand spoke of the victim he had just felled.
Above, the cry of her brother had reached Darya’s ears. Her concentration faltered. Tears welled in her eyes.
The turquoise who struck Rahim slowed before swinging around to approach. He grabbed Rahim by his short, blond hair, wrenching his head back to expose his neck. Rahim clenched his teeth as the turquoise lifted his hand.
A crossbow bolt pierced his chest. The turquoise released Rahim to stumble back. It stared down at its chest before looking up at the nearest gate.
With khukuri blades raised stood Vega, with Badra at her side. Both unveiled. The gate doors creaked open further to reveal a line of eunuch soldiers, armed with crossbows. They knelt before the women to take their positions.
All around the arena, the gates flung open. Column after column of women and eunuchs rushed to the arena. Of all ages, bearing all manner of weapons. Some even brandished butcher knives and clubs fashioned in haste. Nevertheless, they were there. An army to answer the call. An unveiled army.
Vega nodded to Ashallah. “Yala Hasem!”
Ashallah nodded back.
The turquoise before Rahim roared at Vega. In turn, she rushed forward, heralding the others of their cause. Wave upon wave of women and eunuchs spilled into the arena. The Firstborne and turquoise answered the attack with cries and brute strength. The eunuchs responded with bolts of silver palm wood. The women with all manner of weapons.
Chaos, bloody chaos, Ashallah surmised. Now it is time to join the fight.
Ashallah pointed the butt of her spear at the loosened bolt and in one fell move kicked it free from its plank. The chain that had constricted her right arm slackened. She stood, her other bindings intact. However, she could move her dominant arm. She could wield a spear. Moreover, she could throw it.
She eyed the balcony. She spotted the Sultan before Darya, her hands still on his face, their dreamscape continuing.
If she were to move, Ashallah pondered as she gripped the shaft of her spear. I may have a chance.
Ashallah steadied her feet on the wagon, ready to cock her arm to throw, ignoring the chaos around her.
Do not throw it.
That is not me, Ashallah realized. She looked up again to Darya, who had lowered one hand to the marble tile of the balcony. Tears freely streamed down her cheeks, her jaw and onto her neck. The Sultan, still entranced by the dreamscape, paid no notice.
Ashallah, promise me . . .
What? Promise you what?
Swear that no matter what happens, you will save my brother.
Are you saying . . .
Darya dropped her other hand from the Sultan’s temple. Exhausted, the Sultan fell back to his seat of cushions and pillows. Darya, at last free, swept around and placed both her hands on the floor of the balcony.
At that, Ashallah felt the ground move. Along with herself. The planks of the wagon creaked and cracked. The sand beneath her shifted. Even the arena itself. Panicked voices cried and desperate onlookers screamed. The turquoise and Firstborne, women and eunuchs, all paused in their fighting to regain their balance.
Ashallah pulled at her constraints. The rest broke free. She jumped to the ground, rolling to her side as it continued to move under her.
Get up! Get up! Get up!
She did. She steadied herself, drawing back her arm, positioning the point of her spear to its target.
Suddenly, the sand parted. Ashallah lost control of all of her footing. She fell to one knee.
Place your hands to the sand!
Palm fronds swayed in a soft, humid breeze. Wave after wave crashed, white foam disappearing into the shoreline of the beach. The blue of the sea melded into the sky, seemingly disregarding any hint of a horizon.
“Asha.”
Ashallah took a deep breath. She looked down, her sight focusing. She wiggled her toes. The granules of the beach fell between them. Although she had known sand her entire life, with it having been a constant in every desert she visited, what she stood on now was different. Not coarse nor dry, but soft, moistened by the cascading gifts from the sea, and impressed upon by a single pair of feet.
A hand caressed the side of her face, guiding her stare up. Before her, clad in a short white abaya dress overlaid with gold lace, stood Darya. Unveiled.
The late afternoon sun painted her skin in radiance, such that her eyes dazzled and the stripes of her turquoise skin glistened. The sea breeze wafted her hair forward, each strand a thin ebony curtain.
“Where, where are we?” Ashallah managed.
“Nowhere, really,” Darya replied as she looked around, her gaze settling on the waves.
“I don’t understand.”
“This place doesn’t exist. No sultan rules over its shores. You cannot find it on a map. No one has seen it, except you and me.”
“You imagined all of this?”
Darya nodded. “Dreamscapes are a heavy burden. To see into another’s thoughts. To read one’s mind and experience a personal history not your own. It takes its toll.”
“I can say the same,” Ashallah confirmed as her fingertips found her temple.
“So many memories are overwhelming. When I first started to dreamscape, I found the whole process frightening. So I began to imagine my escape, a place I would not encounter in any feeling or conviction.” Darya knelt to scoop a handful of sand. As she straightened, she slowly extended her fingers, allowing it to fall through. “I know there are other beaches, many that are very similar. Though none like this. This. This one is mine.” She motioned to the beach ahead, where a single line of footprints stretched into the distance, curving with the shore of the island.
Darya reached for Ashallah’s hand, her sand-dusted fingers massaging her palm.
“And now it is yours.”
Ashallah felt the warmth, the blood within, the life that made it possible. She felt the power of Darya flow into her. Another dreamscape. This one not jolting, but welcoming, soothing.
“This is all so real.”
“Good. I’m glad you feel that way. I want you to remember this place. In hard times, it has always comforted me. I hope it does the same for you.”
Darya’s grip on Ashallah’s loosened. Ashallah caught it though, not wanting to let go.
“Does this mean what I think it means?”
“It does.”
“No . . .”
“My time has come. I saw my path long ago. You still have a life to live. As does Rahim, if you act quickly enough. Remember when I asked you to swear to me?”
“I do.”
“You can do it.” Darya took her hand. She placed her palm against her own. “I gave the Sultan nothing but visions. He has none of my essence. But you do. From this moment forth, I give you all of my power. My strength. My abilities of dreamscape. They are all yours.”
“How is this possible?”
“Jaha has willed it. I have known that for quite a while. I was always able to transfer all of my power to another. A select few of us turquoise can do that. It requires the right person, one willing and accepting, open to the gift at the right moment. And such transfer of power comes at a great cost to me - my life.”
“No . . .” Ashallah gasped.
“Yes.” Darya caressed Ashallah’s cheek. “My life is forfeit anyway, as you are about to see.”
“I won’t let that happen. I will save you . . .”
“You already have. More than you know.” Darya took Ashallah’s hand once more.
“The moment to act, to move on, is now. I know that, in my heart of hearts. This is your time.”
“Mine?”
“Fulfill your path. You are so much more than a warrior. Than midnight. You are a daughter. Of a loving mother. A turquoise. One who is also of royal blood. A sultana. You know what you need to do.”
Ashallah opened her mouth. Perhaps to agree, or to protest. No matter. Darya allowed not another word. For her lips found Ashallah’s, the tenderness of her skin embracing hers, as wave after wave crashed beside them, a symphony to all their unspoken feelings and desires.
Whether a fleeting moment or a year Ashallah could not venture to say. All she knew is that she wanted more.
Ashallah parted her eyes. The beach, in all its glory, laid before her.
“Darya.”
The quake under her soles stopped. Ashallah found herself back in the arena, kneeling on one knee.
She looked up. Darya, with her hands still pressed to the marble tiles, stared down at her, her eyes no longer filled with tears.
She gasped. Her mouth hung open. The whites of her eyes widened as she arched her back, revealing the blood-soaked blade that protruded from her abdomen.
“No!”
Hyder stood behind, driving the blade deeper. The janissaries at his sides joined his massacre, their kilijs finding Darya’s flesh.
With both hands, Ashallah gripped the shaft of her spear. She bent her knees. She steadied her footing. She narrowed her eyes.
“Yala Hasem!”
All jinn and turquoise turned to her.
“Yala Hasem!” Ashallah cried again. “Yala Hasem!” she yelled once more. Not in her own tongue. In the various dialects of Shaha, the language of the jinn. With each cry, her inflection changed, her cry flowing out of her, perfectly spoken in a dialect she had never understood before.
By Jaha’s benevolence, she knew the words now. All of them. In every dialect of the jinn.
Darya slumped to the ground, revealing the dazed expression of the Sultan, who continued to recline amongst his plush pillows and cushions. He made a motion to rise. Finding his strength failing, he sat back.
Hyder rushed to his side, as did several of the Sultan’s attendants. They struggled to lift their leader to his feet.
Now, Ashallah knew. Now.
“Jinn!” Ashallah shouted in Shaha. “Kill every man that serves the Grand Sultan! Lead your children to do the same!”
Curls of smoke snaked out from the legs and feet of the jinn as they extended their arms and levitated. They rose from the balcony, from the edges of the arena, from wherever they were. All watched in horror as the angels of Jaha hung in the air.
“Grand Sultan! Grand Sultan! Please, stand and save us!” cried Hyder as he frantically shook his shoulders.
The Sultan slumped forward, shaking his head. He blinked, finally coming to this senses.
“What in the Five Doors of Hell . . .” he exclaimed.
With that, the Five Doors of Hell unleashed their fury.
Fallen angels they became. The jinn descended on janissaries and guards alike, along with viziers and the other attendants of the Sultan’s Court. The swept through the finely tailored garments of the attendees, the scaled armor of the janissaries and guards, with wave after wave of blood and flesh erupting in their wake. Most turned and ran, able to take but a few steps before falling by the power of the jinn. Some janissaries ventured to lash out at their assailants, to find their fate fared no better.
Those children of jinn in the arena – the Firstborne with their turquoise descendants – abandoned their assault on the eunuchs and women. They turned their backs in quick succession, giving their would-be attackers pause. Only when they began to scatter, to scale the arena walls, did the women and eunuchs make sense of it all.
The children of the jinn turned their sights to the guards and janissaries, those their forefathers had not managed to touch. Turquoise climbed the walls in groups, clamoring in heaps over one another. The soldiers, seeing the carnage of the Sultan’s Court, abandoned their positions around the arena, joining the panicked crowd fleeing the arena.
As the turquoise and Firstborne abandoned the arena for the stands, Rahim fell forward into the sand. He struggled, his strength failing, as he propped himself onto his elbows.
The roar of a giant black bear garnered his attention. He looked up to find the massive beast baring its yellow-stained teeth, a strand of spittle dangling from its mouth. It swept the sand before it with its massive paws before charging for Rahim.
Rahim rolled onto his back, edging away from the predator as much as his searing pain would allow. The bear made quick work of the distance between them, its huge frame casting a shadow over him as he readied to strike.
The tip of Ashallah’s spear found the bear’s right side. It hollered and wailed as it fell to its left, its mighty presence lessened to a series of yelps and mummers. Palmwood bolts from nearby eunuchs flew in to finish the kill. Rahim, grateful yet in shock, stared at the beast.
“Rahim!”
Rahim, wide-eyed, found Ashallah before him, examining his wounds.
“Can you stand?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s find out.”
Rahim leaned on Ashallah for support as she helped him up. Vega and Badra came to their aid.
“Here,” Badra said as he offered Rahim her shoulder.
“Thank you,” Rahim replied, now leaning on both her and Ashallah.
Ashallah stared at her and Vega, her disbelief suddenly welling within her. “Why?” she asked.
Vega grinned. “The sun feels good upon my face,” she started. “You did away with your veil when you started this quest. We other women couldn’t let you have all the fun.”
Ashallah grinned in return. Vega handed her a set of khukuri blades. “You’ll need these.”
No sooner had she took them that they heard the Sultan from his balcony, his voice booming.
“My children, stop this at once!” he cried.
Ashallah recognized the dialect. “He’s commanding the jinn.”
All around them the jinn, the Firstborne and the turquoise stopped. They turned to the Sultan. Then to Ashallah. Back and forth they went, no one sure of who to obey.
Ashallah stared at the Sultan. Mighty and tall he stood, on the edge of the balcony, which now sported a floor thick with entrails and blood.
She looked around, gathering in her mind the details of her surroundings, surmising the situation as only a warrior could. How far will my voice travel? How many will gather to my side, to my command? How many will I lead?
Beside her, she felt the heat of Rahim’s breath. He inhaled deeply, pushing off Ashallah and Badra to brace himself on his own two legs.
“Are you well?” she asked.
“Well enough.”
“Are you with me?”
Rahim grinned. “For you, my sultana, I am.”
“And I,” stated Vega.
“Me as well,” Badra confirmed.
Ashallah marched forward, shouting her war cry, her lungs burning. “All of those from the heavens of Jaha! You who hear my voice! Jinn! Firstborne! Turquoise! To me! To me!”
The Sultan mimicked her commands. “My jinn! You know me! You do not know her! Follow me now! Come!”
Their commands overlapped. Those closest to the Sultan collected behind him and to his sides. Jinn flew to be with him. The Firstborne, their limbs long and slender like young palms, seemed to saunter, while the turquoise from the depths of the arena traversed the stands and walls to crowd around the balcony.
Ashallah’s voice found those from the other half of the arena. Jinn flanked her. As did the Firstborne. Rahim took to her right, with ranks of turquoise lining up behind him.
“Your army,” Rahim proclaimed, once the footsteps had quieted and the dust had settled.
Ashallah surveyed her amassed force. An array of otherworldly soldiers, it stood half as large as the Sultan’s, as his voice had carried from the balcony farther than hers. More had answered his command, and the Sultan, smiling, knew it.
Still, Ashallah had eunuchs and female soldiers to help make up the difference. Many in numbers they were. However, their crude weapons would be of little resistance to the swarm of jinn, Firstborne and turquoise the Sultan would unleash. All but the best of them would die if the best of circumstances prevailed.
We cannot die for nothing, Ashallah told herself. This must matter. This is it.
Rahim leaned in, interrupting her thoughts. “For all his past endeavors, the Sultan is no warrior. Through my sister’s dreamscapes, you know this. He will send his forces out, to do his bidding, while watching from a safe distance. They will close in, giving you a chance to command them. When you steal them away, they will be ours.”
Ashallah nodded. Rahim moved to straighten, but remembering, he whispered. “Our father, mine and Darya’s, lies chained in a crypt somewhere because of him.” Rahim nodded to the Sultan. “His only daughter – your love – dies because of him. Seek your vengeance, midnight.”
At that, she did.
Ashallah raised the tip of the spear to the balcony. She cried, her scream unleashing her forces forward. In return, the Sultan raised his hands. His army spilled into the arena. The whole of it. Save one.
One with eyes of ebony. Gold script over red skin. The one from Yasem.
Ashallah stepped forward, her gaze on the balcony, when the explosion around her jolted her attention. The Survivors of Heaven collided with each other. Turquoise tore into turquoise, with sister and brother ripping the flesh from the kin. The Firstborne were no less brutal, as their long limbs, kicked and swung, lashing into the mass.
The eunuchs and women responded in kind. Their blades and bolts found many a turquoise. Some fell. Many slowed. Nevertheless, the onslaught caught many a woman and eunuch off guard. Several fell never to rise again.
The ranks of women and eunuchs around Ashallah were the first to break. The most brutal line of assailants, the battle-hardened of the Sultan’s forces, were the first to converge upon Ashallah. From all sides they came. Ashallah spotted two jinn, three Firstborne and dozens of turquoise. Instinct drove her to grip her spear and swing. Nevertheless, it was too late. They were upon her.
Just right before her face, they stopped.
She felt their breath, warm and quick, the stench infiltrating her nose. Their scars and cut, deep and pronounced, were stark and clear. As were their jagged teeth. The dilated pupils of their eyes, as though they were beasts possessed. Still, they remained close but not touching, their assault halted.
I am the blood of the Sultan, Ashallah told herself. They know. They cannot hurt me.
Ashallah’s took her spear, the tip of which hung an inch from the mouth of a ragged turquoise, and pointed to the Sultan. She commanded those around her.
“Turn away from your false sultan. Follow my command. Throw back his attack!”
They turned from Ashallah and obeyed, fanning out to unleash their power. The ranks behind them recoiled in shock. Rahim, seeing their chance, led his force into the center, the Sultan’s numbers seeming to matter little.
Ashallah looked up from the carnage to eye the Sultan above. He appeared to be paying attention but otherwise seemed unconcerned, showing a complete lack of urgency. Instead, he looked up to face the red jinni by his side.
The Sultan touched his shoulder. The jinni bent down to listen to his whisper. He nodded.
The jinni levitated, for a moment reminding Ashallah of the carnage of Yasem. He descended to the arena, the curls of smoke following in his wake as he flew and encircled the battle. He revolved around the whole of the arena, his trail of black smoke growing into a cloud. Soon, dust and sand rose in the wake of the cloud, becoming a storm.
The whole chaos of sound that the battle had created dissipated. Ashallah, her sight blurred, shouted.
“Rahim! Rahim!”
But the resulting storm was too powerful, muting her voice.
They cannot hear me, she realized. My commands. They are lost.
From beyond the storm, the Sultan’s voice resonated, the wall of dust and sand creating halls and ceilings from which it echoed and reverberated. Reaching the ears of the horde, they paused in their tracks.
“Turn from your false commander, the woman who spews lies. Turn and attack! Attack! Attack!”
Indeed, the tide shifted and Ashallah saw those otherworldly beings who had followed her commands only moments earlier abandon her directive. Those toward the front of the engagement, who heard the Sultan first, spun around to fight the same brethren that had followed them. The Sultan repeated his barrage of cries, so that wave after wave of jinn, Firstborne and turquoise realigned themselves to his purpose, until finally only those at the rear – including Vega and Badra, along with Rahim – stood in defiance.
Rahim slashed at all of them. The original assailants the Sultan had sent forth. The new ones that had once collected at Ashallah’s side. Several turquoise fell by his hand. Not enough though. For their numbers were too great.
The Sultan’s voice boomed through the storm. “Bring him to me! So that I may slay him with my own hands!”
Though shielding her face, Ashallah kept her eye on the balcony, seeing the Sultan draw a kilij from one of his fallen janissaries. He studied the edge of the blade as the turquoise cut off Rahim from his supporters to engulf him, their hands clenching his limbs to lift and carry him from the arena. Rahim shook and flailed. The hands that subdued him were too many though. They carried him from the swirling dust and sand.
She trudged through the biting wind toward Rahim, the air and granules lashing out at her. A blue wall – a barrel-chested jinni - suddenly appeared before Ashallah, erect and unyielding, to obstruct her path.
Ashallah hurried to her right to evade the massive Survivor of Heaven. However, to his side she found one of his descendants, a Firstborne. She moved once again, her pace more hurriedthan before. Again, she discovered her path blocked, this time around by a turquoise.
She swung around, searching for an escape. Beyond wave after wave of stinging particles, she saw herself ringed by all manner of otherworldly creatures under the Sultan’s firm hand. She opened her mouth to call out her command, to counteract those of the Sultan. No sooner did her lips part than they filled with sand, choking her efforts to produce but one word.
Ashallah turned to the balcony, to spot Rahim being carried up the abutting staircase, as the Sultan stood by with his kilij sword, waiting. Rahim wrestled his legs free from their grasp. In turn, the turquoise at his arms dug their jagged fingers into his flesh, keeping him subdued and on his knees as they dragged him forth.
They are steps away, she realized. The Sultan will slaughter him. Just as he extinguished Darya. Her family, like mine, will be lost. I have failed.
Baaaaaaaawooooooo!
The heavy horn blast bellowed through the arena as if it was the voice of Jaha himself. It cleared the sand and wind that had engulfed Ashallah, the storm ceasing within an instant. The beings that surrounded her – all the jinn, Firstborne and turquoise – looked to one another, down at their bodies and Ashallah, as though having woken from a long, unforgiving dream.
The Sultan turned to the rear of his balcony. On the ground, blood still seeping from her wounds, laid Darya. In her hands, she held the horn of antique cedar, the mouthpiece slipping down her bottom lip to graze her chin as her strength left her. The Sultan stormed to her, his kilij raised. A crash upon the balcony’s edge thwarted his advance, nearly shaking him from his feet. Jolted by the thunderous sound, he struggled to regain his balance as he stared behind him.
The skin of the being was the deepest hue of turquoise Ashallah had ever seen. Much like Darya’s eyes, yet somehow more brilliant, as though the sea had enveloped his muscles and bones. Thick, jet black hair cascaded down his neck, braided and entwined with gold thread. Taller than every other creature in the arena it stood, remaining both intimidating and comforting at the same time.
Rahim’s eyes glistened with tears. Ashallah saw the hint of a smile, a look of hope, on his face. She required no introduction on who this newcomer was or what he meant to him. She knew. From the visions Darya had shared. He was a jinni. Their jinni. Father.
The Sultan, regaining his composure, cried out in Shaha. “Kill her!” he cried out as he pointed to Ashallah, forgetting that she was of his blood. The remembering, he spewed every command he could muster in his frustration. “Take her from here! Create another storm! Block her path!”
“Do you not remember?” Rahim managed, his mouth turning into a devilish grin. “You have used all your wishes from my father.” Then, Rahim nodded to Ashallah in the arena below. “But she hasn’t.”
The color drained from the Sultan. His sword arm lowered, the realization weighing heavy on him. His stare turned from the jinni to the midnight warrior, his daughter below.
Ashallah returned his look. Not in kind, for hers was not of dread or fear. It was a glare, as she laid eyes on him with the determination and focus of a soldier in heat.
“Jinn!” she announced. “Take me straight to the Grand Sultan! Now!”
Those before her parted, giving Ashallah a clear view of the sand of the arena before her and the balcony that rose above. One by one, the jinn huddled in mass, creating a staircase with their bodies. Ashallah, her body infused by an unknown energy, her vigor refreshed, broke out into a sprint up the stairs. She ascended, her feet finding each foothold just as it appeared, the stairs appearing exactly at the moments when they were needed. With haste, she climbed. Her breath, her steps and the motion of her arms – nay, her entire being – were as one.
The last to assist her onto the balcony was Rahim and Darya’s father, who extended his hand to Ashallah as she leaped onto the marble floor. She glided to his side. He stretched his arm across his torso, knelt his head and bowed.
“Sultana, your wish has been granted,” he said.
The Sultan before her was unlike the man she had seen days before, not as anything she remembered from the dreamscapes that Darya shared. With his jinn no longer at his command, the life that had kept him alive one thousand years seemed to withdraw with each passing moment. His skin sagged. Creases developed where before his skin had been smooth. And veins of red – rivers of trepidation and cowardice – appeared across the whites of his eyes.
The kilij slipped from his fingers. It fell, its blade turning and wavering. The Sultan extended his arms, his mouth agape, in a desperate effort to plea for his life.
No plea or cry came. No word. No whisper. Just a gasp. Then the clang of steel on stone as the kilij sword bounced off the marble tile.
Ashallah, holding the Sultan by the shoulder with one hand and the shaft of her spear with her other, glanced at the kilij. It rested on its side, motionless, the singing of its blade trailing off into the silence that otherwise consumed the balcony, and the arena, at large.
She felt a single point of warmth on her toe. Followed by another. She looked down to find blood dripping onto her foot.
She looked to the source of the red dots, which emanated from the shaft of her spear. Blood flowed freely down its length, to coalesce at her spear hand, which held the long wood shaft firmly.
The spear disappeared into the parted flesh of the Sultan’s torso, just below his sternum. He remained upright, his body unsure of where to go. In his indecision, he reached out to Ashallah’s temple. Instinctively, she did the same to him.
Then Ashallah was there. On a caravan trail in the middle of some unknown expanse of desert, with dunes on all sides save the camels and servants who attended to them. Bound by chains, she saw the Sultan, Jalal, on his knees as the sultana Inci stood before him. She offered him a waterskin.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” she began, her stare and words directed at Jalal, seemingly unaware of Ashallah’s presence. “You and I can do great things.”
In reply, Jalal spat at her feet.
Undeterred, Inci extended the waterskin further, until it was right in his face. “Your father was a brute. I did what I did because he left me no choice. His disdain for women was remarkable, even by a man’s standards. You must have known. He ordered the skin of his concubines cut off in strips if they showed the slightest wrinkle. He would display the least of them, those who had fallen out of his favor, before his viziers before passing them along. He cut out their tongues. He kidnapped their babies. He treated them – no, us – like cattle. Why? Who is to say? But I knew I had to stand up to him, if only because no one would.”
Inci turned in Ashallah’s direction. Perhaps it was to watch the setting sun. Or maybe to meet her stare.
“He was your father,” Inci continued. “You shared a bond. I know. He was half a sister to me. My blood and yours. For all the legacy he established, though, you do not have to follow in his path. You can carve out your own destiny. A better future. For your bloodline. For your people. For every woman in your nation. They do not have to suffer. You can make sure of that.”
Inci turned back to Jalal. He remained on his knees. His look, the one he bore into Inci’s skull, was anything but subservient though.
“As Jaha as my witness, I will fulfill his legacy. Every word he said, every action he committed, I will mirror a thousand-fold. That includes . . . Every woman. They will suffer. As will you.”
“Then know this,” Inci replied, her comforting tone now sharp and quick. “Someone like me will always be there to stop you.”
At that, Inci straightened and stepped away. She turned. This time, Ashallah knew, to look into her eyes.
The Sultan slumped to his knees, dragging the shaft of the spear downward. His eyes, the last vestige of life within, fluttered. Quickly. Then slowly. Then not at all.
Eyes closed, life drained, he fell back. Ashallah pulled the spear out. She stared down at the blood that covered the shaft, as well as her right hand. She cast it aside, jumping over the Sultan to join Darya.
A thousand fallen midnight warriors - women that Ashallah had shared blades, bread, and even her bed – were not enough to prepare her for this. The woman before her laid motionless. The turquoise stripes of her skin glowed with less radiance. Her hair sprawled out beneath her head. Her limbs laid still. Her eyes remained closed.
Darya. More at peace than any other deceased Ashallah had witnessed.
To look upon Darya, in all her timeless beauty, was more than Ashallah could bear. She knelt to her side, wrapping her arms behind Darya’s head to cradle her back and forth, their skin touching, Ashallah not wanting to lose the sensation she knew she would never experience again.
She knew not how long she held her love. Her body was still warm when Rahim knelt to Darya’s other side, taking his sister’s hand in his. Her fragrance was still subtle and sweet when their father put his mighty hand on Ashallah’s shoulder. She did not look up to the jinni as he pulled her away, with all the gentleness of a father, and bent down to lift the daughter he had hardly known. Ashallah watched as the jinni carried Darya in his arms, to the edge of the balcony. Those all around and below looked upon her, the sight of one more fallen striking them harder than those that lay around them, the unfortunate deceased the product of conflicting commands, of an engagement that pitted blood against blood.
Ashallah, her tears still streaming, came to his side, not wanting to be away long from Darya. She joined the jinni at the balcony’s edge, looking upon the lifeless form of the turquoise in his hands.
An unlikely one was the first to bow.
Among his blood, his equals and descendants, he stood. His eyes as black as before, as they had been in Yasem. His gold script, his blood-red skin unchanged. The whole of him was resolute, existing as it had always been.
Yet he bent his knee, then the other.
He laid his head on the ground to display his shoulders and back upward. Prostrated, he remained, as in waves the other jinn, Firstborne and turquoise joined him.
Rahim limped to Ashallah’s side. “Sultana,” he decreed. “Greater Dyli is yours.”183Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqoFxwjpo59
