ARIYA OF Zakariya

Prologue

"Khashayar, they're right behind us!"

Khashayar urged Rih to go faster. True to his name his black steed kicked his legs harder. His hooves barely touched the forest floor, one with the wind. Flushed close to Khashayar's back was Sheba, who had cried in a tremulous voice when she looked over her shoulder.

A baby laid hidden within the folds of Sheba's dark cloak, blissfully oblivous of the outside world. She was barely three days old, quiet and docile in her sleep. Her mother was wide awake, eyes so stark in fear you could see the veins edging them.

Her fear wasn't for her life. Hers didn't matter. She could be dead, but her spirit would never allow the monks of Ulqem to lay a hand on her daughter.

"Don't look back, Sheba, " Khashayar ordered. "Your pale face stands out like a flame in the dark forest."

They heard a whistle flash past their ears. It was the deadly sound of an arrow. The monks had finally resorted to weapons to subdue them, even if it meant risking the child's life.

More whistles, more arrows.

Rih jerked violently. A poison-laced arrow had claimed his left hind leg. The horse gave a dangerous lurch, crying a frightened neigh in panic. In reflex Khashayar grabbed Sheba before he braced the back of his shoulder, tossing themselves to the ground.

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He sprung back on his toes. Rih disappeared into the forest, swallowed by the night's darkness. He would gradually grow weaker, and would not live to see the morning's sunrise.

Khashayar turned. The monks, bearing their flaming torches were covering the short distance between them. He shook Sheba hard as she curled on the grass, hugging her baby tightly.

"Get up! We need to run!"

"...shayar..." she called his name, her voice faint and weak. Her dark hair fell limply across her face like dead snakes. Her cloak unraveled to reveal her sleeping child, the one the whole country rested their fates on. Zakariya's new goddess. But his eyes were not on the baby. Instead they were trained to the arrow sticking out of the woman's back.

Behind them the approaching gallop of the priests' horses increased in intensity.

They called out Khashayar's name as they reached him, and then his new title. "Apostate!" they snarled, as they waved their torches, their horses rounding the pair, dust kicking in their faces.

Khashayar's hand twitched, but he curbed back the impulse to draw out the heavy sword resting by his hip. He thought of the vow he had made. How a long time ago, he had roamed through vast lands with his army, raided and pillaged villages, captured great beasts and women alike. In a bid to redeem back his thread-thin humanity, he left the savage battlefield and in his aimless wanderings as a vagrant, discovered the Temple of Ulqem. His new allegiance was pledged to the goddess who ruled Zakariya. For fifty moons he served the temple, and devoted himself to their holy cause.

But where he was right now, and what he chose to do, befitted his title as an apostate deservingly.

The monks aimed their arrows at him, their bows stretching taut with tension. The child began to shift, before bursting into a wail that pierced the thin air. A pool of blood soaked the cloak she was swaddled in.

"Sheba," Khashayar whispered. She didn't move. His jaw clenched and his face shook.

Khashayar reached for his sword.

To be continued...