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FARUQ
The Baqirian warlord’s palace holds no comfort. Inside this place, too many dreams of hate and abuse rise from within the depths of my heart. They mingle there, intertwined with images of my mother, the sound of her voice as she soothed the wounds of a troubled boy. But it’s all replaced by the constant driving ache radiating from the center of my chest, a remembrance of other good things now gone—a whispered promise to Husniya as we crouched huddled on the street, the way hope once swelled in my chest at the sight of Mila.
No, damnation. Enough of that.
Silks and silver adorn the walls alongside suits of ancient armor, weapons and other military tokens from the world before. Kapka was a fanatic for everything warfare and by the looks of his palace, it was more lifestyle than political interest. An ancient stationary machine gun, complete with cases of ammunition and a tripod that locks into position, sits in the corner. Does that hateful monstrosity even function?
Two mornings ago, I’d marched with my new army through the gates of my home enclave. We were met with caution and general suspicion, but little resistance. Few people here remember their freedom, or at least, what their lives looked like before Kapka or his forbearers rose to power. When we returned without him, the looks of fear on my people’s faces told me they were preparing for the worst—another, maybe even more despicable, power-hungry despot to fear. It will take time, but I will show them who I am. That our future is one we must claim together.
There is just one problem.
Word travels fast to friends and enemies alike in a place like Etyom, and time is of the essence. With Kapka gone, Baqir will be considered vulnerable. The danger lies not with Kapka’s army or even his elite palace guard. They are more loyal to their bellies than any one ruler. And Kahanga was already sacked, so I’m told. No, Baqir’s sister enclave, Alya, is our biggest threat. There, loyalists under the leadership of Governor Abd Al Jabbar, Kapka’s cousin, are planning a coup. When they will strike is anyone’s guess. We must remain ready.
I sit up from my bedroll on the floor in the main hall, my gaze roving across the sleeping bodies of my men, all but the faithful Baral. The young boy sits nearby, reading some old text on our long and turbulent history. He must have watched over me as I slept.
Baral sets his book aside. “Sheikh Faruq. You are awake. Let me fetch your breakfast.”
There is hope in his eyes, a strange glimmer of something better to come. I’d nearly forgotten what it looked like. “No. I can get my own food, thank you.”
“Nonsense,” he says, already moving toward the kitchen. “The prophet does not fetch his own food.”
Standing, I rub my hands and arms and follow Baral, using friction to push the early chill from my limbs. Does he believe such a thing? Do the others? How long can I draw out this fantasy before they refuse to follow the bastard son of one of Kapka’s wives? A man who is more ghost than prophet.
“Sheikh.” A well-built man with ribbons of silk sown to the breast of his sand-colored shirt approaches from my left. He was one of those who had first supported me back at the encampment.
“Yes? Captain Kahleit, correct?”
“It is I, Sheikh.” He gives a salute. Do I salute back? Probably not. “Seven of the men deserted overnight.”
“Deserted? To where?”
He opens his hands with a shrug. “To Alya, Sheikh. Abd Al Jabbar is a ruthless tyrant, like his cousin, but he holds the loyalty of many who supported Kapka.”
“Our people are deserting us?”
“A few of them, Sheikh. They’re scared. They don’t believe in our cause. They do believe in the brutality of Al Jabbar.”
“What can we do?”
Captain Kahleit frowns. “We can capture their families. Show them the error of their ways.”
Is this all they know? “No, Captain we do not do that anymore.”
“Then what will you have from us?”
The question is earnest. The support of even those who are behind me is thin. What am I supposed to do now? I’m no warlord.
“We will fill their ranks with those who wish to join us.”
As I answer, Baral rounds the corner, a steaming bowl of baked tajis in hand. When he speaks, he does so around a bulbous lump in his cheek.
“I taste it first, Sheikh. Make sure it is safe.” He winks and hands me the bowl.
The wafting aroma of a spoonful of taji beans and spice rises to my nostrils, the warmth gracing my cold lips. Baral coughs, sending a wad of half-chewed beans onto my tunic. He coughs again. The rest of the beans fall from his tongue as he grasps for his throat.
Lightning fast, Kahleit slaps the bowl from my hands and catches the boy attendant as he slumps. Baral’s eyes loll white, blood and foam squeezing from between gnashed teeth.
“Baral, no,” I shout.
The boy convulses uncontrollably.
“Poison,” Kahleit says.
“Poison?”
Baral’s fit is short-lived. A final spasm and he exhales loudly, relaxing into Ilah’s embrace. I slide the young boy’s eyelids closed, leaving my fingers resting on his still warm cheeks.
“He’s dead,” Kahleit confirms. “Those beans were meant for you.”
Before I can reason myself from it, I’m dashing for the kitchen. A man I don’t recognize bursts through the back door. “That man, who was he?” I shout.
The head cook appears stupefied. “He arrived this morning, Sheikh. Said you sent him to work under me.”
I crash my shoulder into the metal door to the street. It swings wide, squealing on old hinges. Down the steps two at a time, I nearly slip on the thick ice but manage to keep straight and head toward the courtyard—the only way he could have gone.
“Stop that man! He is an enemy of the cause!”
By the time I round the corner, my men already have him. Held fast, he’s spitting curses.
Must remain calm. I nonchalantly flick the remnants of poisoned food from my tunic and strut forward. The man continues to struggle and spit in my direction.
“You would make an attempt on my life?” I say, trying to keep composure—though my fists are balled, blood pulsing hot and furious through my veins. “You killed an innocent boy to get to me. Have you no shame?”
“Baqir has become impotent,” the man retorts. “The faithful in Alya will lead the way forward for our people now. You are but a dog who bit his master. You are no prophet.”
“I never said I was anything but a man who wants what is right for his people. You and your fanatical brood are the heathens. You mock our people and our faith.”
“You whine like a woman,” the attacker says then spits at my feet. “That is all you are good for. Words.”
I’m so tired of his kind. The only thing they understand is violence. So be it. “I will stamp you out like an insect,” I say through clenched teeth, my nose almost touching his.
A wicked grin is plastered on the man’s face. “Good luck,” he whispers.
Click.
No.
“Bomb!” I yell and fling myself in the opposite direction. My men swell around me, forcing me back as the device detonates in a concussion that seems to split my skull and tear its way through my eardrums.
Lying on the ground, I cough and blink away the dust. A severed arm, still oozing blood, lies crooked across my ankle. I kick it away, my ears ringing, the screams of the dying muffled and muted beneath a constant whistle. I was so close. I should be dead. How am I not dead?
Hands snake under my arms and pull me to my feet.
“Sheikh, you are alive? Ilah be praised. I must get you to safety.” It’s the muffled voice of Captain Kahleit.
“No.” I wrench from him and stand on shaking legs.
The broken bodies of my men lay strewn about the courtyard like wind-tossed trash. So much senseless death and carnage. First the boy, now these loyal souls who used their bodies as a buffer between me and the blast. Stepping forward, I kneel to apply pressure to the flayed chest of one of my men, an open wound that will surely be fatal. Blood pumps in gouts through my fingers. The man grasps my sleeve, bubbles of blood and spittle on his lips.
“We believe. Lead us to victory, Prophet,” he says with a final gasp.
What do I do? What would Mila do? “Don’t compare yourself to some Logosian,” I hiss through a clenched jaw.
Some Logosian? How far I have fallen. She cared for me, maybe even loved me.
“Stop it.” I pinch my eyes. “Stop.” Shaking, I cry out, raising a blood-soaked fist into the air. My anger pouring through a voice amplified by the blast, now too loud in my own ears. “Al Jabbar! I’m coming for you!”
