Shahla stood in the throne room of her palace, her eyes wide with shock.

The steel of scimitars glinted in the dim torchlight as the city outside was ablaze with the destruction of siege warfare.

Her breath was frozen in her lungs, her legs paralyzed. Shahla reached down, touching the silver, gem-adorned curved dagger that was the only item on her person that had been given to her by her Bedouin family.

“Arhab…” her voice trembled. “Why?”

The advisor she’d come to know and value as a friend stood behind the men with scimitars, unable to meet her eyes. He stood with over half of her husband’s court behind him.

“I am sorry, princess,” Arhab muttered. “But Prince Ahmed was bound to meet this fate eventually. If we go to Prince Ali and show our disloyalty to his brother...he might spare the city.”

“Ali is a puppet of the Nikan,” Shahla choked up, panic overwhelming her senses. “You know this. They won’t spare us.”

“We have to try, Princess,” Arhab said. “For the sake of our people. I was hoping you would understand that, but...I suppose you Bedouins aren’t to be blamed when you have ever only needed to look after your tribe. Nations are different, Shahla. We must make sacrifices to save our people. Now either come with us or we’ll have to subdue you the hard way.”

“Y-you wouldn’t…” Shahla barely whispered.

“I would, Princess. I’d do anything to end this war.” Arhab signaled his men to advance.

Nothing but the noise of whistling wind was noticed as throwing knives sank into the necks of the men closest to her.

Shahla wanted to scream, but couldn’t will her voice to cry out as shadows dropped from the ceiling and plunged their blades into the defectors.

Chaos erupted in the throne room as cloaked men and women clashed with the traitors. The Asasiyun had come to rescue her. But she could only watch in horror at the slaughter before her.

A firm hand gripped her shoulder. She looked up at Najeem Al-Iqbal with trembling eyes. He was an Asasiyun of tall stature, his black turban wrapped around his face to obscure his features.

“Come, princess. The enemy has breached the walls,” her bodyguard said. “We need to leave.”

Shahla didn’t get the chance to respond before Najeem took her by the arm and dragged her away from the fighting. They slipped out the back entrance of the throne room and exited into one of the palace’s many winding hallways.

An arrow whizzed past the both of them, Shahla’s heart seizing in her chest.

“The next one won’t be a warning shot, Hashashin!” a palace guard knocked another arrow in his bow. He was backed by two other men with spears. “Hand over the princess!”

Najeem gritted his teeth, “Can’t even get the name right.”

The Asasiyun leapt into the air, twisting himself while in flight and drawing a scimitar from his hip. Shahla whirled around, as he took down his opponents.

Najeem cut off the tip of one spear, thrusting his blade through the wielder’s throat before turning and throwing the broken spear tip into the other’s ribs. He grabbed his blade slashed at the archer with lethality.

It was over in an instant.

“The splinter faction spreads wider than we could’ve anticipated, princess,” Najeem muttered, cleaning the blood off his blade. “We must flee south to the Al-Kubra desert.”

Practically dragged by the much faster Asasiyun, Shahla made her way through the dimly lit palace halls and down a staircase she hadn’t even noticed existed, exiting into the palace kitchens.

Najeem took a lamp off one of the many tables and ignited the resonant energy of a fire shedim trapped within it. He handed the lamp to her, “I ask that you hold onto this until I can open the passage.”

As Najeem fiddled with a mechanism in the bricks of the wall, Shahla felt her shock calming down.

“Najeem, what’s happening? What splinter faction? Where is my husband? Is Ahmed safe?”

Najeem paused for a moment, “I...I do not know the fate of our prince, princess. He ordered my master and the rest of the Asasiyun to protect you.”

“So then, if the walls have fallen...Ahmed’s been captured? Or killed?”

“Whether or not either of those has befallen the prince, we must get you to safety, princess. That was Prince Ahmed’s final order.” Najeem pulled a metal key from his robes that was far larger than any key had a right to be and inserted it into an opening in the wall.

The kitchens began to rumble as a portion of the floor slid away, revealing a staircase downwards.

“This palace was built on ancient catacombs that have exits all over the surrounding land,” Najeem said. “This will cover our retreat.”

Najeem stepped down the steep, uneven stone stairs that headed underground into the cold, dry air of the tunnel. Dust from sandstone filled Shahla’s throat.

Shahla yelped as the floor segment started sliding into place to block their exit. She quickly followed after him as he strode into the obscuring, almost mist-like shadows beyond.

The staircase ended in a dirt pathway, surrounded by claustrophobic stone walls. Najeem led her through it and into a dark void beyond. The room expanded, gaining stone floors.

The walls were bleached white, with painted symbols and figures of a long dead language. Ruins like these were all over Qahtan and the Northern Al-Kubra. Shahla had never spoken with a scholar on the matter, but her tribe often camped within the still standing outlines of buildings. The walls often depicted art of men with long, pointed ears.

As they were about to enter another hallway, Najeem stopped her, “Hold on. There’s something here.”

Najeem sniffed at the air for a moment, before cursing.

“The ground is laden with mercury. It is not safe to breathe here.” Najeem unwrapped a piece of black cloth from under his left metal bracer and handed it to her. “Please wrap this around your face until I determine it’s safe again.

“So is that confirmation no one has ever used these tunnels before to escape?” Shahla asked as she tied the cloth around her nose and mouth..

Najeem shrugged, “That’s rather likely.”

Shahla sighed, unsure of how else to react.

“We just have to be diligent, princess,” Najeem said, continuing onward into the ruins.

With each corner that was turned, another three pathways seemed to appear.

“How are we meant to find our way out of this place?” Shahla asked.

“Air is flowing out of the catacombs to the surface, my lady. The flame of the lamp is quite literally directing us out. We will reach the exit in only a matter of minutes,” Najeem promised.

Shahla took another deep breath, now feeling more secure. Until she walked into Najeem’s back, who had himself, walked into a stone wall.

Both stepped back, shocked.

“I…” Najeem stuttered. He looked at the lamp’s flame. “The air is flowing through here.”

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Shahla stepped up to it and placed her fingertips next to the cracks between the stone bricks. Indeed, the faintest breeze blew past her fingertips.

“It may be a secret door,” Najeem said. “There should be a trigger somewhere in here.”

Najeem held up the lamp to reveal that they were actually in a rather wide chamber. The dim light of the flame danced on pedestals that lined each wall, every one of them holding a small, oval-shaped tablet with etchings and a single gemstone in the top center.

He handed the lamp to her, “If you wish to assist me in searching, my lady, I can see rather well in the dark.”

“Thank you,” Shahla whispered.

Najeem nodded before vanishing into the shadows. The way Asasiyun could just disappear without a trace always put her off the slightest bit.

Shahla ran the lamp along the walls, looking for any sort of mechanical key to the assumed door. Of course the possibility was still in her mind that they could’ve just hit a dead end, but it never hurt to try. Well, maybe it would hurt a little to try in this time sensitive scenario. Still, she searched.

The walls were coated in glyphs and cryptic paintings of the long-eared men and women. Each one had all four of their limbs always showing, but only ever revealed half a face.

The one she was currently observing depicted the same pedestals and tablets that were in the room with her. The painting showed a man on a throne, with two other, more poorly dressed, men kneeling at his feet. They held one of the tablets between the two of them, as the man on the throne seemingly used some kind of magic to banish or kill some chimeric abomination of animals.

“My lady.”

Shahla screamed and fell backwards, knocking into one of the pedestals. The tablet fell next to her, cracking and setting free the sapphire held in its socket.

She started to cough and hack as she tried to calm herself.

“God’s grace, Najeem! You know I scare easily.”

“My sincerest apologies, my lady,” Najeem said, helping her up. “Are you alright?”

Shahla nodded, gulping down a lungful of air with some effort, “I’ll be fine. Did you find anything.”

“Yes, though I cannot reach it,” Najeem said. “I thought your smaller fingers would be able to get to it.”

Najeem led a still shaken Shahla to the wall opposite of her.

“Within the bricks there,” Najeem pointed to a section of the wall. “There is a small piece of twine or wire.”

The crack in the bricks’ mortar was only about an inch wide. She saw the wire glinting in the light of the flame. It was too far for anyone with even a woman’s hands to reach.

Though Shahla was very slim, especially her fingers, which had grown weaving with the intricate looms the Bedouins used to make their fabrics. She might be able to reach it if she tried hard enough.

Shahla inserted her hand into the crack. She pushed as far as her hand could go. She felt the wire brush against her fingertip.

She felt the wire in the middle of her finger. She pulled on it and heard the wall behind her swing open.

Shahla took a deep breath before yanking her hand out of the crack. The back of her hand immediately blossomed with pain. She hissed as viscous drops of blood were finally allowed to fall from her torn skin.

“Are-”

“I’m fine, Najeem,” Shahla offered her bodyguard a reassuring smile, though it didn’t come across through the cloth wrapped around her face.

Najeem nodded, starting down the pathway that the wall opened up to. It was a dirt tunnel, held up by frail wooden frames, that led to a wooden trapdoor above them. Najeem shoved the trapdoor up, opening it up to the clear night sky of the desert.

As the moonlight flooded into the tunnel, Shahla staggered, the thumping of her heart now as loud as a drumbeat.

“Lady Shahla?” Najeem exclaimed, catching her before she collapsed, “What’s wrong?”

“I...I don’t know,” Shahla whispered, pulling herself to her feet. “I can walk. We need to get out of here.”

Najeem leapt up through the door before extending his hand to Shahla. She took it and let herself be pulled up onto the surface of sand above.

Heart still pounding in her ears, Shahla couldn’t keep her knees from buckling.

What’s happening? Am I the victim of some kind of magic? Shahla thought, her breath becoming heavy and labored as though she had a fever.

“I...Can we rest for a moment?” Shahla asked. “I feel ill…”

Najeem nodded, “Of course, my lady, but not for very long. We aren’t safe yet. You haven’t been in contact with any plague victims, have you?”

Shahla shook her head.

Najeem stood over her, scanning the surroundings or something like that. But as his body blocked off the moonlight, she felt a wave of relief wash over her as heartbeat receded and strength returned.

“Najeem, I think it may be the moon,” Shahla gasped.

Najeem turned, but he yelped in shock as he laid eyes upon her.

“What?” Shahla asked.

“My lady, your face…” Najeem muttered. “You have Scars.”

Shahla frowned. She drew her dagger and looked in the reflective metal. She drew in a short breath. Black lines were branded into her skin, running through her eyes. Moreover, her affected irises were silver. Plague? How?

“Hashashin!”

Shahla and Najeem looked up, finding five crossbowmen aiming their weapons at them.

“Stand down and hand over the princess,” one of the men demanded. “Otherwise, this’ll end less than pretty for your mistress.”

Najeem couldn’t fight all of them, could he? How had they found the exit of the tunnels?

“Drop your scimitar and stand aside. Now!”

Najeem undid his belt, letting his sword fall to the sand. He stepped away, his hands in the air. And the moon shone on her again. This time, it was painful.

Shahla started to wail in agony as her face burned. She started to writhe on the ground in pain.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She has the Plague,” Najeem said.

The crossbowmen stepped back upon his saying that.

Shahla growled, almost like a feral animal as the pain seared the flesh under her brand new scars.

“Prince Ali wants a Plague victim? Why?” one of the men asked.

“He never said it was absolutely necessary to bring her back alive. As long as she was neutralized,” another man said. “It’s better we just put her out of her misery. Fire!”

“No!” Najeem leapt at the men, throwing two hidden knives at them, but getting shot at by the three who weren’t hit in the process. Najeem fell to the ground, bolts in his shoulder and thigh.

Shahla wanted to scream for him, but she was too caught up in her own suffering to even call out to him.

They started to reload. They would kill them both. She had to do something. But the pain…

Despite the crushing pressure on her skull, Shahla stumbled to her feet. With this new resolve, the paint receded slightly. A wave of coldness washed over her, quickly followed by a rush of fire through her veins.

Her skin started to glow with soft white light that grew more and more intense with each passing second. The crossbowmen loaded their weapons and aimed them at her.

But the moment their crossbows were parallel with the ground, they started to lose balance. Their eyelids sagged as they struggled to stay upright.

When they finally collapsed to the ground, unconscious, the pain fully vanished, as did the glowing.

Shahla looked at her hands as the light faded from her skin. Questions rushed through her head, but two tasks stood above them all: Help Najeem and run before more soldiers came looking for them.

______________________________________________________________________

Bjorn rushed as he followed Taya back to the center of the island. It seemed they were going to join the fray.

As they neared the encampment, which was lit up in flames and echoing with agonized cries for mercy, Taya stopped to tear away the bark of a tree, revealing a dug out compartment in the trunk that held a massive greatsword that was almost as long as Taya was tall. She unwrapped the layers of cloth over its blade.

“We have nowhere to go, Stormtamer. Let us get your weapons and try to increase our chances of survival,” she said before charging into the encampment.

Nikan soldiers, in lamellar armor, reveled in the slaughter of plague victims. Blood splashed over the dirt like lapping waves as screams replaced the screeching of seabirds. None were spared in the massacre, not even children.

The Avisilan guards had deployed and were trying to fight them, but their small numbers were no match for the battalion of imperial soldiers.

Bjorn stared at the slaughter only a moment before Taya’s scars crackled with light and she unleashed her strength on par with the gods upon the Nikan. Her sword was used more like a club than a slashing weapon, the force breaking bones before cutting flesh..

He turned away from her and looked to the one building that had been bothered to be constructed in this place: the storehouse.

A triad of soldiers stood between him and the storehouse where he would find the weapons he was dropped here with.

Bjorn glared at them, almost challenging them to approach him.

Drawing on fifteen years of training as a warrior, Bjorn’s mind focused itself completely on his opponents and defeating them as quickly as possible. He grabbed a spear as it was being thrusted towards him. He stomped on the shaft, breaking the wielder’s grip and smashed the butt of the spear into the head. Bjorn spun the spear around and impaled a second soldier through the neck on it.

Bjorn finished them off when he redirected a particularly unthoughtful sword swing into the first stunned soldier before gripping the pommel and shoving the blade under the wielder’s chin.

He aimed his shoulder at the wooden door and burst through it with a single ramming of his body. The room was full to the brim with crates and racks full of clothes, weapons and valuables.

Being the only Ascommani to come to the island, Bjorn recognized his weapons pretty easily when they had been set aside next to his round shield. The wooden shield was painted crimson, with the black insignia of the Valravn on it.

He grabbed the shield, his axe, his sword and a few bolas一heavy balls of wood tied together with rope一along with his iron goggled helmet. He wasn’t going to be caught in anything bigger than a skirmish without being professionally armed.

Bjorn burst through the doorway, his helmet on and his shield and axe at the ready. He ran into the fighting to help Taya, who was starting to be overwhelmed by the Nikan’s sheer numbers. Each time she knocked them away or slashed through their ranks, more soldiers replaced them.

Bjorn toppled five or six Nikan soldiers with a particularly sudden and powerful shield bash into a bunched up group of men eager to take a stab at the Sklaveni.

His tactical mind knew this was insane. He faced tens, maybe hundreds with naught but one useful ally. So he abandoned his reason and drew on his wildness. The center that many Berserkirs said to focus on in the midst of panic or doubt. His inner bear.

The combat became a blur. Where once Bjorn paid attention to everything and anything that might give him the advantage, he now only thought of one thing: Killing.

He buried his axe in the throat of a man before smacking another with the blunt end and kicking him to the ground. He let another man’s sword wedge itself in his shield before tearing the weapon away and hitting him in the ribs with a crushing axe blow. His mind paid no heed to how he killed the men after a while. Just that blood flowed or bone cracked.

There were many enemies, but none appeared to be very well trained. If he had to guess, the most training any one of them had lasted only a few months or so. Up against Bjorn’s extensive experience and proper arms, they were but insects beneath his foot.

Before he knew it, the soldiers started to flee, in accordance with an echoing horn. Bjorn withdrew from the bear, his reason returning to notice the burning sensation in...well, everything.

“You’d better run, cowards!” Taya cackled as the soldiers retreated.

But they weren’t fleeing out of fear. They’d just done their job, whatever that was. Because Bjorn and Taya were the only two Plague victims still alive as far as he could see.

Bjorn took out a bola and twirled it in his hand. He launched the ropes at one of the straggling soldiers. The trap wrapped up his legs, sending him to the ground. Bjorn quickly threatened the man with his axe before he could stand.

Flames crackled softly from what few fires still burned. The waves of the ocean lapped at the shore not far away. The wind whistled as it wove through the trees. But the sound of death permeated every other sound. That sound laid like a thick, suffocating blanket across the island. The sound of death, of course, being silence.