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The only sign in Dardan that sleeptime had become worktime was the lighting of torches. But here, on the unlit Seventh Hamwar, Abarōz couldn’t tell one from the other. Or when the head guard would decide to resume their “light” torture.
In the meantime, they weren’t permitted to die: twice a day, some unseen body slid two trays under the door, and though the meals were foul—moldy bread and runny soup—they were certainly better than nothing, along with the two cups of water they were allotted each day.
Probably the same as the other parched “inmates” of Dardan.
Over the next four days, measured in trays, she and Shāhpuhr spent their time coating their burns with fat. It did have healing properties, for new skin gradually formed to replace the old. Abarōz found she could now move her arms without groaning, and Shāhpuhr had stopped clutching his blistered thighs. Between meals, they exchanged plans, minds focused on one thing only: Escape.
“The iron bars,” Shāhpuhr whispered. “I know how to make fire—what if we light a torch and try to burn our way through?”
Abarōz sighed.
“That might work if they were gold: my father says it melts quickly. But the iron here must be from ancient days—before Dardan left the Bērūn. In any case, it will likely hold up to flame.”
“And the lock?” asked Shāhpuhr, unwilling to give up. “If we could just make a key that fit—”
“With what?” Abarōz said. “Neither of us are smiths. For that, we’d at least need a shaman—or Peril.” She forced herself upright. “Wait. The Perils—they can’t help us—but they already have.”
“Our plate?” questioned Shāhpuhr, running a hand over his hair. “How would it help against iron?”
“It’s not just any gold,” said Abarōz. “If it can repel flame . . . can it perform other magick?”
Shāhpuhr stared into the darkness.
“I suppose it won’t hurt to see.”
Holding her breath against the stench, Abarōz removed a shin guard. She crawled up to the cell door, smashing it against a bar. Other than a dull clang, her action had no effect.
“Perhaps.” she said, “we need a sharp, straight edge.”
“We have no weapons. Husrav took him.”
“Tengri curse him,” she mumbled. “Do you think . . . that we could make an edge?” She held up her lightweight shin guard. “Take one of these rounded pieces and try to hammer it straight?”
“How?” asked Shāhpuhr. “Something tells me the guards did not leave a knife.”
Abarōz looked intent.
“Then we make the plate of hammer.”
She handed it to him.
“Er—”
“You said you could make fire.”
“Yes.”
“I suggest you do so. Before they bring our next meal.”
Shāhpuhr looked unconvinced, but still searched the entire cell. Over time, its stone had cracked, leaving a scattering of small rocks. He chose two—one harder than the other—and proceeded to rub them together.
“Hurry,” Abarōz cautioned, every sense alert for the guards. She knew if their “god” commanded it, they would make an unscheduled visit. “Anything?”
Shāhpuhr sighed.
“These aren’t ideal,” he said. “Not the kind I use at home.”
“Please,” Abarōz pleaded, holding back her tears. “Try.”
Her secret fear was that the head guard, seeing them “recovered,” would put them to the torch again. She watched, balling her fists, as Shāhpuhr kept smashing the rocks.
“Ah!” he cried, and Abarōz saw he was close. A tiny spark had kindled where the two rocks met—only to flicker out.
“You can do it,” said Abarōz, and she knew that he could. “I–I believe in you.”
He smiled.
“No one has told me that except my mother. May Tengri help me to earn your faith.”
He took up his task again, the muscles in his lean arms straining.
“Look!” Abarōz saw a small spark. Grinding the rocks anew, Shāhpuhr heightened it, and Abarōz approached with care, lighting a fat-soaked torch. Light! And heat! More importantly, not directed toward them. She cradled the torch like a babe as it cast shadows onto the walls. “Your turn,” she whispered, handing the flame to Shāhpuhr.
“Yes.” He seemed puzzled. “Exactly what do I do?”
“Try,” she said, “to melt the gold into an edge.”
He nodded, sheltering the torch with his body as he brought it up to her shin guard. The flame barely smoked as gold drops fell to the floor. Abruptly, Shāhpuhr halted.
“This will not work,” he said. “The plate will end up molten.”
“Very well.” Abarōz seized back the torch. “We must wait for the flame to cool.”
“What?”
“Trust me,” she told him, setting the torch back in its sconce. After an hour, it flickered off, and she went to grab it again.
“We need to mold the gold.”
Wielding the still-hot torch, she touched it to her shin guard, sculpting an edge that was straight. Well, almost . . .
Shāhpuhr looked on, impressed.
“Now,” said Abarōz, we must wait for the gold to cool.”
They watched it as if it were a precious nugget, Shāhpuhr finally taking the plunge by reaching out a finger.
“Ready,” he said, seizing it and kneeling by the cell door.
Abarōz kept watch as he worked at an iron bar near the bottom. Though it probably shouldn’t have, the plate scraped off a few chips, exposing the white beneath.
“Shāhpuhr!” Abarōz cried, throwing her hands in the air. “I love you!” She said a silent prayer that he couldn’t see her red face. “I mean, er . . .”
“I understand,” he said quietly, returning to his filing. “We must hope that the guards don’t notice when they deliver our trays.”
“They won’t,” Abarōz answered, trying to distract him from her hasty words.
What had made her say that? Declare her feelings here? Couldn’t she have done so in the far more pleasant Razūr?
I’ve ruined everything, she thought. He’ll never say it back now. He’ll just think I was caught in the moment and confused love for excitement . . .
She wanted to break the silence, but didn’t know how. Especially here, in Dardan, when such declarations—outside marriage—were not only shocking but banned!
“I–I’m sorry,” she mumbled at last, her face heating up like a torch. “I should not have spoken so. Like a–a . . . brazen harlot.”
Shāhpuhr tossed back his head and laughed.
“From you,” he said, “I have learned that our zand is strange. Torture is gladly permitted but speaking one’s feelings is not.” Abarōz bit her lip. She had to admit he was right. “I’m going to keep cutting. Please listen for footsteps.”
“That won’t be hard,” she said, “since they sound like charging camels.”
Shāhpuhr looked up and grinned. He worked until steel boots sounded, ate his meal along with Abarōz, then continued chipping away.
“I wish I could help you,” said Abarōz, staring down at her arms. Although they were healing, they bore thick blisters, and were still halfway useless.
“Do not worry,” Shāhpuhr said, finishing up for the night. He huddled in a cold corner where Abarōz joined him for warmth, curling into his back. Even though they’d made progress today, her thoughts still kept her from sleep.
Had she meant it? she wondered. Her hastily cried “confession”? Did she really love Shāhpuhr, or had torture shaken her mind?
In-between meal deliveries, Shāhpuhr kept to his task: After just six mealtimes, he’d made impressive progress, breaking one bar in half and working away at a second. Eight more trays, and Shāhpuhr, now practiced, was proceeding at a blazing pace, cutting through three bars total with a fourth on the way. If they could just bend out the rods, this might be a way to escape.
Another mealtime, and Abarōz leaned over, watching Shāhpuhr grind away. With a last scrape of metal-on-metal, the fourth bar sprang apart.
“We need an opening!” she cried, wishing she weren’t so helpless. But Shāhpuhr was determined, lifting Abarōz’s shin guard and pounding the edge against bars. Two began to droop slightly, a space of just inches between them; one completely came off; and the last stubbornly held.
Fueled by anger, Shāhpuhr banged the gold repeatedly, efforts so loud that Abarōz feared discovery.
“Are we close?” she asked, seeing his long hair streaked with sweat.
“Just . . . a . . . few—” He pounded three more times, then rose with a look of triumph. “I’m through.”
Abarōz knelt, arms held stiffly, peering at her prayer made real: a hole, not large, but perhaps just enough for each of them to squirm through!
“Remove your plate,” said Shāhpuhr, and he gingerly helped her, taking care not to graze her burns. Now significantly less bulky, Abarōz first thrust her feet, then legs, between the twisted iron. She felt Shāhpuhr pushing her from inside the cell. “Just—a—little—bit—more . . .”
Abarōz was out, shooting across the floor as if she were greased in tallow. When she made her way back, Shāhpuhr handed over her plate—piece by piece.
“You next,” she whispered, motioning him to join her.
He nodded and shoved out his plate, following it with his feet and long legs. Abarōz bit back her pain, extending her arms enough to help drag him through. They now lay side-by-side, panting, looking up at their former cell. But Abarōz knew time was short: They needed to find the stairway, clamber up seven Hamwars, and force themselves through the hatch.
One look at Shāhpuhr told her he knew this too, since he buckled his plate back on, urged her to do the same, then took off running down the tunnel. Abarōz heard him groan each time his foot hit the ground.
“The stairs,” he gasped, “where are they?”
She abruptly took the lead, knowing Dardan as well as he did the forest.
“This way!” she hissed, seizing his hand and dashing full-tilt in the dark. She practically flew to the staircase, glad to see its torches unlit. The S̆āh must not have wanted his secret dungeons discovered.
“Damn!” Abarōz breathed, barely mad at herself for cursing. On Hamwar Six, they ran into a vintner trundling his wares. “Sorry!” she yelled, pushing him to the wall.
“Warriors!” the man spat. “Always happy to drink my wine, but not a care when you spill it!”
She and Shāhpuhr continued their climb, but it must have been worktime since they kept encountering others: a mother with two small children; a wild-eyed man; and a trembling Ōšmurdan on his way to report a tally.
“Hurry!” Abarōz called to Shāhpuhr. The more people who saw them, the lower their chance of escape. Still, she hadn’t heard guards running after them. But that didn’t mean minions and spies wouldn’t put them in jeopardy . . .
Abarōz felt her lungs strain as they dashed up to higher Hamwars. Thank Tengri this journey hadn’t begun in the zarr! At last, despite their injuries, the two of them reached the top level and were lowed at by a cow.
She reached the rope ladder first, ignoring the pain in her arms as she mounted. Then, she heard a clatter and whipped around. An angry guard was heading straight for Shāhpuhr!
“Stop!” the man shouted, “for the love of our god king!”
“I am his son,” Shāhpuhr said calmly, “and even I do not love him.”
“Blasphemy!” yelled the guard, already hefting his spear. That’s when a body—Abarōz’s—swung over and dropped on his head.
“Ahhh!” the man called, hitting the floor with a clang. “Guards! Help me!”
“Shhh,” Shāhpuhr admonished, pushing the edge of the fellow’s cloak directly into his mouth.
“Your so-called god,” he said, “enjoys binding and gagging.” To press home his point, he retrieved some rope by the pens, securing the man’s arms and legs. “I’m sure they’ll find you,” Shāhpuhr smiled, “after one or two sleeptimes.”
The guard gurgled something but Abarōz didn’t care: She flew back to the ladder, scrambling up its rungs before flinging open the hatch. She crawled out as best she could, making room for Shāhpuhr. As he emerged behind her, she breathed in fresh air and pointed her chin at Mihr. After so many days underground, she felt as reborn as an Axwaš. But there was no time to pause as she and Shāhpuhr helped each other up. Though they did their best to run, their pace was achingly slow as they groaned with every step.
“Shāhpuhr,” Abarōz panted, “we’ve got to go faster!”
They both gritted their teeth, struggling through the pain. If they couldn’t manage more speed, they would probably be caught.
“Look!” Shāhpuhr cried, pointing up to the clouds. A black form swooped down—one with two wings and a tail. “Catanes!” The dragon glided over their heads before landing beside his Aswār. Shāhpuhr limped toward him, embracing his scaly neck. “Thank Tengri!” he breathed.
He turned to Abarōz, seating her gently on the ebren: Taking his place behind her, he roared to Catanes, who promptly took off.
Despite the ache of her arms, Abarōz began to enjoy the feel of wind on her face. She hadn’t quite realized how precious freedom could be. And she was determined to share that feeling with other Dardans.
There was no sign of Sangal’s horde as Catanes arced northwest. Had the red dragon given up after his last defeat? Or was he skulking in his lair, laying plans for more chaos? Abarōz tried not to think of their foes as they landed among their friends.
In the clearing, Bükrek was waiting, one claw raised in welcome. At her side was Rastag, his face flooding with joy.
“Father!” Abarōz cried, sliding to the grass to embrace him.
“Daughter,” he whispered, their tears mingling. “It has been so long . . . I feared you were lost to me.”
“It was no simple task,” she said, “but we escaped the S̆āh. He is far more depraved than even I could imagine.”
Rastag stepped back, eyeing her blistered arms.
“He will pay for this,” he hissed, “in treasure and in blood.”
“That is our hope,” said Abarōz, turning to Shāhpuhr. “He and Sangal must be driven out of Gehān.”
“I think they will be.” Bükrek smiled down at the two of them. “If you can flee the S̆āh’s cruelty, anything is possible
“What did we miss,” asked Abarōz, “while we were away?”
“I’m glad to say very little. Sangal seems intent on waiting for the last Dardan to die before he assaults the city.” Bükrek cocked her head. “What did you observe there?”
“Hard to say,” sighed Abarōz, “since we were mainly locked in a cell. But I noticed that most of the people looked careworn and parched.”
The dragon nodded.
“I’m not surprised. What we must look out for now is a second attack on us. Sangal will be eager now that you have returned.”
“And—the wolf heads?” asked Abarōz, feeling a chill.
Bükrek chuckled.
“The Gurg Kamāl have proved useless in open spaces. But I fear that Sangal will turn to even worse creatures.”
That’s when Abarōz broached a subject that had weighed on her mind.
“What about us?” she asked. Her audience of three looked puzzled. “Why can’t we find other allies besides the Erbörü? Surely, there must be some out there.”
“While you two were gone,” Bükrek said, “I allowed my mind to wander. Who else might we call upon? Who best to aid us? I settled on Şahmeran, whose help saved us before.” Her yellow eyes glinted. “You, Abarōz, are the only living being who has entered her cave. I ask you to return and beg for her intervention.”
“Why now?” Abarōz asked, uneasy.
“It is hardly an easy task.” Bükrek folded her claws. “A last resort, as they say. But, this late in the war, we have very few choices.”
Abarōz sighed, then shot a look at Shāhpuhr.
“Very well,” she conceded. “But your son and I need to heal.”
“Of course! You will need all your strength to enter the gate of Šahr.”
“And luck,” mumbled Abarōz.
“That I cannot deny.” Bükrek turned to Shāhpuhr. “Son, use your store of cooking fat to apply to all wounds. That will speed your recovery.”
“Yes, mother,” he said, linking his fingers with Abarōz’s. Rastag let them move off to settle upon the grass. “I can’t believe,” said Shāhpuhr, “we were able to flee that cell. I honestly thought they’d put us to the torch again.”
“Yes.” Abarōz shuddered, remembering that searing heat. “The S̆āh would torture us ‘lightly’ until we both died.”
“A moment.”
Shāhpuhr rose with a groan before darting behind a tree. When he returned, he clutched a simple clay jar.
“Animal fat,” he said, dipping in his long fingers. “Just like the tallow in Dardan.”
“Don’t remind me,” said Abarōz, starting as he covered her arms with white stuff. As always, it stung, but afterwards would soothe. Then they reversed, Abarōz applying the balm to Shāhpuhr’s blisters. He lay back with a happy sigh.
“Now,” he said, “we have time to relax.”
Abarōz settled beside him.
“Yes and no.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m thinking of Şahmeran.”
“And?”
“Finding her cave will not be like before. We only know where she lies in relation to the zarr.”
“You’re . . . you’re not considering going through Dardan?!”
“By the new god’s beard, no! I will never go back while the S̆āh still reigns.”
“What then?”
“I know as much about entering Šahr as I do of pleasing Al-razi.”
“I too am ignorant—on both points, I fear.”
“Well, I suppose we should walk there—riding a dragon might draw attention.” He laughed. “Then we need to get close to survey their defenses.”
“Simple!” cried Shāhpuhr, though his smile belied his words.
“In the meantime,” Abarōz said, “let’s try not to dwell on the future. Concentrate on healing and enjoying our families.”
“You’ll get no objection from me! I just a need a meal that is neither stale nor runny.”
