THE GATES OF AMARDHA

IT BEGAN AT DAYBREAK.

When Khalid sent his archers to fire a flurry of arrows at the city’s battlements.

In response, the soldiers of Amardha—the ones tasked with guarding the gates—rained a shower of their own arrows down upon the string of archers below.

A warning. Proceed no farther.

Khalid’s archers dashed back into the desert on horses faster than the wind. Badawi horses borrowed from Omar al-Sadiq.

Later, Khalid’s archers returned.

This time with many more riders. And many more arrows.

Khalid had long known the sentiment that was undoubtedly roiling through the city of Amardha at this moment.

Khorasan had more soldiers. More money. More weapons.

All Parthia had was arrogance. An arrogance Khalid intended to use to his advantage.

The midmorning sun at their backs, his archers fired up into the sky. Alas, those in charge atop the wall could not see well, the sun shining too bright in their eyes. They could not issue the proper orders for their soldiers to fire down at the attackers. Their shots missed, striking dirt and sand and rocks and debris. The occasional shield. But never once striking their targets.

Then . . .

Khalid’s soldiers took careful aim.

Not a drop of blood would be spilled in waste.

The soldiers tasked with issuing orders were felled in a single volley. Some slumped across the battlements. Others fell screaming to their deaths.

The arrows fired at them were marked with the standard of the twin swords. The al-Rashid standard.

A warning: Khorasan would take no mercy on those who continued to fight.

Khalid remained out of view, and his soldiers responded to Amardha’s disorganized defense with a deliberate offense. Still no sign of the sultan. No words of inspiration. No leader at the vanguard.

The unconscionable coward.

A hailstorm of arrows fell toward the sultan’s men. Arrows that continued to miss their marks.

Arrows that were promptly collected. And set to flame.

Khalid issued quiet orders. Only those in positions of power and influence should be targeted. After a time, his soldiers tipped their arrows in oil and set them afire. He watched the spark of chaos catch. Turn into flame.

Still the gates of Amardha remained shut.

Nevertheless, Khalid knew word of these events would spread through the ranks of Amardha’s soldiers. The Sultan of Parthia watched from inside his jeweled palace as his city was set ablaze. And did not retaliate.

Salim Ali el-Sharif was afraid of Khalid Ibn al-Rashid.

That afternoon, Khalid ordered the ballistae to be brought forward. Ten giant crossbows armed with metal-studded arrows able to dispel over two talents’ worth of wicked iron. Heavy iron meant to lay siege to a wall. Each ballista was positioned at a specific distance from the wall encircling the city of Amardha. At a point meant to inflict significant damage.

At a point made with an engineer’s exacting eye.

The soldiers on the battlements began to scurry, cries of warning echoing through their ranks.

Fear running rampant.

Khalid waited to see if Salim would take action. When the sultan did nothing—as Khalid had expected—Khalid made ready to deliver another wordless message.

Structures filled with grain and other foodstuffs were targeted. Khalid hoped they housed very few people, if any. For he did not wish to be responsible for even more lives lost. The loss of any life in this war would be keenly felt. And Khalid did not wish to shed innocent blood.

The ballistae were loosed. They flew on a resounding current of air, crashing into their marks with rippling shudders.

Screams resonated throughout Amardha.

Several bodies fell from a collapsing turret, one impaled on a battlement. Khalid’s chest grew tight. So many had already died so needlessly. For a moment he fought to take in a breath. Then Khalid hardened himself.

Such was the way of war.

Wait to feel when there is nothing left. Wait to feel after you’ve won.

He knew Salim Ali el-Sharif had never thought Khalid would truly attack Amardha. After all, Khalid had never done so. Not in all these years. Not after countless provocations.

But Salim needed to believe he would.

Needed to believe that Khalid would raze the entire city without flinching.

The ground at his back started to shake as the sun began to set. Khalid did not look behind. He knew what was on the horizon. Even Salim would be forced to take notice.

In the distance, a sea of Arabian stallions surrounded by a glittering cloud of sand marched toward the gates of Amardha. The men riding the horses were cloaked and masked, wielding wide scimitars and thick leather mankalahs on each wrist. They were people of the desert. Born and bred in the light of its scorching sun. Fearless and proud. Known to take few prisoners.

Known to have even less mercy.

They were led by a boy with a blue-grey falcon and an old man with a long beard.

The son of emir Nasir al-Ziyad. And the sheikh of the al-Sadiq tribe.

They stopped a quarter league outside the city gates. Tariq Imran al-Ziyad raised his scimitar into the sky. An echoing ululation rippled through their masses. The men lifted their swords as the whooping reached a feverish pitch. As the sand around their stallions’ hooves rose into a dusky haze, mingling with the flashes of steel above.

Khalid could feel the fear amassing above the city. No longer a spark about to catch flame. It spread like wildfire, deep into the darkest alleyways of Amardha.

For just as Artan had said yesterday, wars were won before they were even fought.

Then, as the sun set below the horizon, the winged serpent appeared, bearing a bundle beneath its wings. Artan sat astride him, sporting a wicked grin and a darkly punishing gaze.

The winged serpent screamed as it swooped toward the city gates. The men along the wall began frantically firing arrows at it. Arrows that rebounded off its armorlike scales. In response to the arrows, the winged serpent screamed even louder, and Khalid watched the men below clap their hands over their ears, yelling to one another in terror.

Then the winged serpent dropped its bundle over the city gates. The thick liquid splashed down the grey wall, coating it in a shining viscous fluid.

Oil.

The serpent screamed once more and disappeared into the night sky.

With a click of his tongue, Khalid spurred Ardeshir from the shadows. His battle regalia was encrusted with silver and gold, and his rida’ billowed behind him. A full battalion of the Royal Guard marched at his back.

Several sentries on the battlements above shouted warnings. The soldiers there began scrambling once again.

A quarter league away, Tariq dipped an obsidian arrow in oil. Omar put a flame to it. Then the son of Nasir al-Ziyad fired it straight at the city gates.

When they caught flame, the ululations began anew.

Khalid watched the gates of Amardha burn from astride his black Arabian. Watched the dark wood glow in flashes of blue and white. Dancing flames of umber and orange.

Behind the walls, the city descended into pandemonium.

When Khalid heard the screams and the shouts and the sounds of rising panic, he glanced down at the waiting messenger beside him.

“Deliver the letter.”

The moon hung high in the sky when the Sultan of Parthia rode into Khalid’s camp. He dismounted before the largest tent in silence, the rage on his face as plain as day. Behind him rode Jahandar al-Khayzuran and the two most senior generals of the Parthian army.

As Salim stepped toward the canopy leading inside, the captain of the Royal Guard detained his party. And asked that they leave all weapons outside.

At this, Salim balked in open protest.

Jalal smiled at him with bladed serenity. “Feel free to return to your palace.” He offered him a flourishing bow. “In any case, we shall see you soon.”

With a disdainful sneer, the Sultan of Parthia threw down his sword and the curved dagger at his hip. His men followed suit before they were permitted to enter the Caliph of Khorasan’s tent.

Once they made their way inside, they found Khalid and his party waiting for them, seated at a long, low table. Lamps hung from iron posts at either end, and behind the table stood an intricately carved screen dividing the tent in two.

Khalid was positioned at the table’s center. To his left sat the Shahrban of Rey. Beside the shahrban was Tariq Imran al-Ziyad. At Tariq’s side sat Omar al-Sadiq. The captain of the guard took the space to Khalid’s right.

“Sit.” Khalid gestured to the silken cushions across from him.

Barely managing to conceal his scorn, Salim sank down, his generals at either side of him. Jahandar al-Khayzuran shuffled to a corner of the table, under the watchful gaze of Tariq.

Khalid regarded Salim in silence for a moment. “Now that I have your attention—”

“Where is my daughter, you bastard son of a whore?” Salim said.

“Daughter?” Khalid paused, his disdain all too evident. “You should at least have the decency to say daughters by now.”

At that, Salim’s jaw fell open for the briefest instant. Then his gaze narrowed with sudden wariness.

“For you do count Despina amongst your children,” Khalid continued, stone-faced. “Especially after all she’s done for you?”

The silence hung in the space like a specter. Jalal’s fists were balled tight, his body coiled as though he were ready to lunge at any moment.

Ready to render justice.

“I do.” Salim’s response was sharp.

“Good,” Khalid said. “At least you’ve done right by her in one matter.”

“Don’t pretend you care for Despina,” Salim replied. “Not after she lived as a slave in your palace all those years.” He shifted in his seat. “In any case, I knew you would not treat her poorly.” His smile was caustic. “After all, you reserve that behavior for your wives, not your servants.”

Though Jalal uttered an oath beneath his breath, Khalid did not react to the words. Nor did he bother to defend himself. “You do as you always have done—blame others for your transgressions. And in doing so, you reap the same reward—nothing.”

Salim snorted. “I did not come here to be lectured by a boy. Let us come to it—in your letter, you told me you had Yasmine.”

Khalid nodded, then leaned back, placing his hands on the table. He waited a moment. “Did you bring Shahrzad?”

Salim’s expression hardened. “I will give you what you love in exchange for what I love.”

Another pause. “Again, it is good to know you care for something. Besides yourself.”

“Don’t toy with me, you arrogant—”

“And don’t lie to me, you specious coward.” Khalid’s eyes burned bright.

“How dare you—”

“He does dare, Uncle Salim,” a voice echoed from behind the carved screens. “He dares quite often.”

At that, Khalid’s lips curved in a dark smile as Shahrzad glided into view. She was dressed in simple clothing. A cream qamis and pale grey sirwal trowsers. Her wavy hair fell to her shoulders, and she was unadorned, save for the jeweled dagger at her hip.

But she was, as ever, a queen.

Khalid watched as Salim tried in vain to conceal his shock.

“Are you surprised?” Shahrzad asked, her hazel eyes lambent. “I suppose you’ve tasked many soldiers with finding me. Or perhaps you did not think I would manage to find my way out of your city?” She took her seat beside Khalid.

The Sultan of Parthia managed to mask his shock with admirable speed. He tried to smile at Shahrzad, but his smile lacked the odious surety of before. “I continue to be impressed with you, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran. But it’s clear you had assistance in escaping. Perhaps you could regale me with the story one day, so that I can be certain to address the lapses in my security.”

“Oh, it’s quite the story.” Shahrzad grinned. “And I did have a great deal of help. But if you don’t mind, I think I’ll let your daughters tell you the story.”