Desert Wind Read online

  A Cerridwen Press Publication

  www.cerridwenpress.com

  Desert Wind

  ISBN #1-4199-0502-3

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Desert Wind Copyright© 2006 Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Edited by Mary Moran.

  Cover art by Willo.

  Electronic book Publication: July 2006

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing Inc., 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Cerridwen Press is an imprint of Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.®

  Desert Wind

  Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Prologue

  At the end of Durrah, the first month of the Second Kahtrane of the year 2458, the peaceful desert country of Kishnu was invaded by a powerful military force from Asaraba, a large kingdom to the north and across the Dingir Sea from Kishnu.

  Thousands of well-trained soldiers led by the infamous General Esqui Hussein descended upon Kishnu and soon overran the countryside. Spreading into farming villages and agricultural towns, the hoards of invaders demolished everything that stood in its way as they steadily made their way toward the capital city of Maskin to the south. Burning farms, salting fields, poisoning wells, the Asaraban soldiers turned the once fertile land to scorched earth.

  Though the Kishnu tried to fight back against the invaders, they were farmers, tradesmen and artisans. They were not schooled in the ways of war and only a handful had any kind of military experience of which to speak. Those male inhabitants who dared take up arms against their attackers and survived the encounter were imprisoned by the Asarabans, and then taken to the northern lands of their conqueror to become forced laborers in teeming factories. Their womenfolk were sold into slavery as servants to the wealthy industrial families of Asaraba. Their children were left orphaned to beg for food in the city streets or to offer their emaciated bodies for Asaraban pleasures. For a people accustomed to life in the peaceful wide-open spaces of the vast desert of Kishnu, such an existence was nothing short of hell and many either died of a broken spirit or found a way to end their miserable way of life.

  On the fifth day of Jehan, the last month of the Second Kahtrane, General Hussein tumbled from his horse on the roadway to Mashkin, felled by a massive heart attack that claimed his life even before he hit the ground. Leaderless, the captains of the Asarabans sent word back to Sultan Eshan Jaleem, begging him to send them a new commander. Sultan Eshan sent his only son Ardalan.

  Held virtually captive in the capital—surrounded by Asaraban troops and cut off from the rest of his homeland—the Maharaja Bhishma Santhanam of Kishnu had decreed a bounty be placed upon the head of the Asaraban warrior who led the invading force. He doubled that bounty when he learned it was the Asaraban Crown Prince who was on his way to lead the conquering horde. Two million daki was offered for the capture of the prince—preferably alive. It was a staggering amount of money and surely an incentive for an enterprising Kishnu warrior—most of whom lived a hand-to-mouth existence—but no one seemed willing to go up against the man the Kishnu had named The Evil One.

  The war raged on for another few weeks and in the middle of Mirvat, the first month of the Third Kahtrane, monsoons scoured the lands of Kishnu, sweeping thousands of hapless men, women, children and animals to their death in the savage overflow of the Banagee River. Famine and disease were rampant—bodies piled up along the shores. To the Kishnu, it seemed as if the Great God Raishu had abandoned them. To the Asarabans, fate appeared to have smiled on them in helping to reduce those who campaigned against them.

  It looked as though the invaders would win.

  But on the twenty-third day of Mirvat, the Asarabans took refuge from the turbulent weather in a vast warren of caves that riddled Mount Canesk. The invading army had no way of knowing the caves were on holy ground—the most hallowed and revered soil in all of Kishnu. Because they—the infidels—had dared to camp in the sacred caves where temples to the Great God Raishu had been built centuries before, the Asaraban army found itself surrounded by thousands of warriors from not only Kishnu but the neighboring countries of Kanaka and Shinja.

  The Asaraban leader sent a messenger to the Kishnu leaders, expressing his regret that his men had unwittingly chosen sanctified land for their encampment but the messenger was savagely murdered and his dismembered body returned to the Asarabans. There would be no forgiveness for the infidels in the eyes of the Kishnu and their allies.

  In an attempt to break through the defense forces hemming then in, Prince Ardalan and his men engaged in a fierce battle on the Plains of Kashshapta that formed the courtyard of the sacred caves.

  The two armies clashed brutally beside the Gidim River until the battlefield ran red with blood and bodies from both sides littered the land. Adding to the carnage of warfare, a brutal storm roared across the Plains of Kashshapta to strike indiscriminately at both warring factions. With lightning streaking down from the heavens and river waters rising to unheard of heights, death was all around the Asarabans.

  Religious sanctions centuries old had long been in place for both the Kishnu and the Asarabans making it impossible to carry on their fight after the setting of the sun. Fearing any life lost in darkness would forever be destined to stay in darkness, weapons were put aside. Neither side was willing to risk the ire of their gods, so as night fell on the Plains of Kashshapta all battle ceased and the opposing forces set about retrieving their dead. Huge funeral pyres were built by the Kishnu—a single mass grave was opened by the Asarabans. When their funeral rites had been performed, the two armies gathered their wounded and retreated—the Asarabans back into the caves of Mount Canesk and the Kishnu to their desert strongholds beyond. Neither army could claim victory on that terrible day and both had seen their ranks decimated beyond belief.

  Neither army could foresee the exacting vengeance their respective gods would mete out for that vicious battle waged on sacred ground.

  Chapter One

  Rain lashed against the overhang, watery fingers scratching across the slanted metal roof and trying to reach into the lean-to in an attempt to drench the three men huddled inside. With deadly precision lightning hit tall trees, snapping them like twigs, forcing them to a ground already strewn with earlier victims. All around the battlefield there were animal and human bodies scattered in the darkness, staring eyes looking accusingly toward the turbulent heavens.

  Beneath the lean-to, Ardalan Jaleem was hunkered down with two of his most trusted men, his wounds tormenting him in the damp but he refused to admit the weakness. Beneath the rain-soaked weight of his desert robes, he could feel blood sticking to his thobe, the long white shirt that fell to his knees. He knew he was running a fever and the wounds could become infected, but there were more important things than his personal health to consider at that moment.

  “Do we have any idea where she is?” Ardalan asked, scratching the close-cropped beard that cupped his cheeks and chin.

  Captain Halim Evren shook his head. “I am afraid we do not, but there are two separate teams trying to find her. Pray to Alel they find her in time.”

  The leader of the Asaraban forces pushed back the hood of his robe and ran a hand through his dark curls and tugged, sighing deeply. He bowed his head and his men glanced at one another. Their leader was bone-tired, worried about his troops and—as one of the men suspected—in great pain despite his ability to hide the telltale sig
ns.

  “What is the death toll now?” Ardalan asked.

  “Just for today? One thousand and ninety-four. We have not had time to count the dead of our enemies,” Major Sabir Asif Masood replied. “My guess is at least three times our own.”

  Ardalan looked up, his red-rimmed eyes boring into Sabir. “And how many wounded were we able to bring into the caves?”

  “Seventy-two, but of those we expect to lose at least half if we cannot find the shamaness within the day,” Halim stated.

  “Merciful Alel,” Ardalan whispered. “Why did we ever invade this cursed land?”

  “Milord, why don’t you go to the caves and rest?” Sabir suggested. “We will call you if she arrives.”

  Ardalan looked up at his captain. “When she arrives,” their leader corrected, his dark eyes blazing with anger. “I will accept no other outcome.”

  Lightning cracked sharply overhead and the lean-to vibrated as thunder rolled across the killing field. The sharp smell of ozone flooded the air as another tree was felled by the vicious electrical discharge, shaking the ground beneath their feet.

  “By the gods how I hate this damnable weather!” Ardalan snarled, and got to his feet. He winced as the worst of his wounds reminded him it was there. He put a hand to his side. “Halim, go fetch Tarik from the caves. Tell him I have need of him and the two of you be careful out there. I’ve no need of lightning-fried soldiers.”

  “Aye, my Prince!” Halim replied, slamming a doubled fist to his heart. Without another word he ran out into the pummeling rain and was soon lost in the downpour.

  “How badly are you hurt?” Sabir inquired. He had known Jaleem since they were toddlers, therefore felt no compunction about asking him something others would consider too private to broach.

  Ardalan shrugged. “A scratch, nothing more. The dampness is playing hell with it, though.”

  “Huh,” Sabir grunted, making it plain to Ardalan that he did not believe him.

  “Don’t start,” Ardalan warned. He swept his gaze over his childhood friend then went to stand just beneath the edge of the overhang where rain was cascading down in sheets, obscuring the blood-soaked field where they had lost many men.

  “Ardalan—”

  “Change the subject,” the prince ordered.

  “All right. Have you reconsidered your father’s proposition?” Sabir asked as he came to stand beside Ardalan.

  “Which one?” Ardalan demanded.

  “The one concerning the princess.”

  “Hell no,” Ardalan snapped. “What do I need with a wife?”

  “A very beautiful, very rich wife with prosperous lands and highly trained vassals at her disposal?” Sabir reminded him. “Many a man would welcome Princess Adala Salahuddin as his mate.”

  “Then let that man have her conniving ass,” Ardalan said. “I would rather become a leprous monk than take that viperous bitch to my bed.”

  Sabir sighed. “Do you believe the sultan will allow you to do as you please, Ardy?” he asked quietly.

  The only son of Sultan Eshan Jaleem ground his teeth so loudly his friend could hear them grating against one another. The possibility of his father forcing him to take Adala to wife was an issue Ardalan refused to entertain. “Leave off, Sabir,” he ground out. “I have other things on my mind.”

  Rain washed over the men as a gust of wind was driven against them. They stepped back just as a bolt of lightning streaked down from the midnight sky and pierced the ground where they had been standing. The flare of brilliant light that accompanied the hit nearly blinded them, causing Ardalan to instinctively throw up an arm to deflect the brightness.

  “God!” Ardalan hissed, snatching his arm down for he had felt the flesh around one of his wounds tear farther apart. He went to one knee in the mud, wrapping his arms around his middle, bending over with agony.

  “You are hurt worse than you’ve let on,” Sabir spat. “Let me see!”

  Unable to speak for the pain was excruciating, Ardalan had no choice as his friend squatted down before him and tugged at the closure of Ardalan’s robe.

  “Let me see, damn it!” Sabir insisted as Ardalan tried to turn away.

  The sound of splashing drew Sabir’s attention as Halim and Kiyan Tarik, Ardalan’s only surviving medical corpsman came running beneath the overhang.

  “By Alel’s beard, we were damned near struck!” Halim croaked, his eyes wide and face a chalky white. “Did you see that?”

  “Your Grace!” Tarik shouted. He rushed forward and knelt down before their leader. He put a hand to the bent head and looked up at Sabir with shock. “He is burning up!”

  “He is hurt but he won’t let me see,” Sabir grumbled.

  “Lay him down, Sirs,” Tarik ordered.

  Sabir and Halim took hold of their leader’s shoulders and gently lowered him to the floor of the lean-to.

  Ardalan tried to protest but even the slightest movement of his body sent white-hot waves of torment through his chest and belly. He had no idea which of his wounds was the worst, but he had a notion he’d never live long enough to argue with his father over being forced to wed the viper-tongued Adala.

  Tarik did not stand on protocol where the future Sultan of Asaraba was concerned. He took out his knife and cut through the wide, black leather belt that held Ardalan’s robes together. Tossing aside the dagger, he grabbed a handful of the white cotton thobe beneath the robe and ripped it down the middle, exposing the prince’s chest.

  “Ardalan!” Sabir gasped, seeing the numerous wounds and the blood flowing from them.

  “Don’t yell at me,” Ardalan managed to get out.

  “When did this happen?” Halim asked, and when his leader did not answer, he turned to Sabir. “How could you have allowed this to befall him, Sabir?”

  “I didn’t know!”

  “How could you not have known, you jackal?” Halim thundered.

  “Not his fault,” Ardalan insisted, panting.

  “Please, Sirs,” Tarik pleaded. “Now is not the time for accusations. May I have more light here?”

  Halim grabbed a torch from the back of the lean-to and held it over the supine man. He flinched when he got a better look at the wounds. “I blame myself for this,” he said. “I should have stayed at your back.”

  “I had his back,” Sabir snapped, “and it still happened!”

  “If you’d had his back—” Halim began, but Ardalan cut him off.

  “Enough! I’ll not have the two of you bickering! You’re giving me a headache!”

  Sabir raised his chin, staring down his nose at Halim—who happened to be his brother-in-law—and gave the older man a smirk. The look on Halim’s face promised retaliation.

  “The shallower wounds need to be cauterized, Your Grace,” Tarik said. “The two deeper ones needs sewing.”

  “Do what you have to do,” Ardalan replied.

  Tarik glanced around at Sabir. “Major, I will need my medical kit.”

  “Why the hell did you not bring it with you, Tarik?” Sabir challenged.

  “I did not think that was why I was being summoned,” Tarik defended himself. “Had I known—”

  “Stop it, the both of you!” Halim interrupted this time. “Sabir, fetch his kit. I will assist him since you cannot seem to take appropriate care with your prince’s life.”

  Sabir’s hands doubled into fists at his side, but before he could punch the other man as he so longed to do, he spun on his heel and stormed out of the lean-to, mindless of the slashing water and flashing lightning that enveloped him.

  “Halim, let it go,” Ardalan told him.

  “You could have died,” Halim protested.

  “I still could,” his leader shot back. “See to it that I don’t.”

  Ardalan closed his eyes for the pain in his gut was brutal. He didn’t fear the needle or the cautery iron—he had endured both in his thirty-odd years. What made him nervous was his inability to lead his men if he were laid low with a debilit
ating, lingering illness.

  “Your Grace, you have lost a great deal of blood,” Tarik said. “We will need to transfuse you. I will need to find a compatible donor.”

  “We are kin and have the same blood,” Halim stated. “He has given his for me in the past. I will give mine to him now.”

  Tarik nodded. There was little he could do until he had his kit. He was staring out into the rain and in a flare of lightning was the first to see the riders racing toward the caves. “Some of our men have returned,” he said.

  Ardalan turned his head toward the lean-to’s opening but could see nothing save the pounding rain. “Halim, go check. It could be the shamaness.”

  Halim was reluctant to leave but when his prince made the request an order, he ran out into the rain, cursing as he went.

  “If it is the shamaness,” Ardalan said, feeling unconsciousness scratching at the door of his mind to be allowed entry, “do whatever she tells you.”

  “Aye, Your Grace,” Tarik agreed.

  “Do not think of her as a woman,” Ardalan whispered. “Think of her only as a healer.”

  “I will do as you bid, Your Grace.”

  Sabir came stumbling out of the rain with Tarik’s kit in hand. “The woman is here,” he announced.

  Ardalan sighed then let go of the tight rein he had on his awareness, falling softly into the darkness that reached up to embrace him.

  “Quickly, while he is asleep!” Tarik prompted. He opened his kit and withdrew the cautery iron. “Heat it until it is red-hot. I will prepare the needle.”

  Sabir did not question the orders of the corpsmen, although Tarik was of a much lower rank and several years younger than he. With the untimely death of the only doctor they had brought with them, the young man was worth his weight in gold.

  Halim ducked into the lean-to, sluicing water from his robe. “She is not the shamaness we sent the men after,” he said with disgust. “They took the wrong one.”