Warlord (21 page)

“And?” Bayuan’s eyebrows rose as he eyed his advisor expectantly.

“And a note, my lord. A note was returned.” The man shifted, looking very uncomfortable.

“Returned? How?” The general leaned forward in his large throne-like chair, his great bulk made even more impressive by the heavy bearskin cloak that hung around his shoulders.

Itkul blanched, his dark skin noticeably paling. “I – I will have it brought it for you, General.” He backed out of the pole and skin structure, his head lowered.

Two minutes later, he returned carrying a basket. Ulzhan and Jalus entered with him.

Ulzhan shuffled to a bench, lowering himself to it. Jalus remained standing, pacing, his fists clenched, clearly angry with the message his general was about to receive.

Bayuan arched an eyebrow. “A basket? Itkul, bring it to me.”

“Yes, my lord,” the man replied, walking forward stiffly. He handed the basket to the general and then backed up as quickly as he could manage without appearing too obvious.

General Bayuan removed the lid, reached inside and withdrew a sheet of parchment which he scanned quickly, scowling as he read it, his expression growing blacker. Then he reached further into the basket and held up a small object, consisting of two shriveled blackened balls attached to a floppy, purpled snake-shaped piece of flesh. His jaw tightened, his face white with fury. “Break camp immediately,” he said through clenched teeth. “I want Arystan dead.”

Bayuan continued to stare at the disgusting object in his hands as his three advisors practically ran from the tent and began giving the orders.

* * * * *

Bayuan leaned back in his saddle and gave the young man an appraising look. “Jalus, remind me again why you are one of my inner circle of advisors? Is it because your father was my most trusted servant until his death? The son must earn, not be given, what the father had.”

“Yes, General Bayuan,” said Jalus, deflated.

“See there,” said Bayuan, pointing to a still-smoldering depression in the earth.

“Arystan’s forces were here just last night. He broke camp in one day. A great army cannot break camp properly in one day. Despite his vulgar show of insolence, he is afraid. Afraid of my superior forces, superior strength, and superior bravery.”

He looked around the campsite. “It is perfect. Arystan has unwittingly trampled the ground for us, even arranged wood for our fires.” He gestured to bundles of saplings and stacks of chopped wood bordering the sides of the site. They looked to be hastily abandoned. “Our scouts report Arystan has crossed the river and headed up into the hills.

I tire of the cat and mouse game. Tomorrow, we will find a ford and crush them. But for now, it is late. We will set up here for the night.”

“Yes, my lord,” answered Jalus. He went to do his master’s bidding.

* * * * *

So much was riding on this, so much more than Bayuan’s defeat. He distantly registered the screams of those drowning in the river, the culmination of his planning with Sara.

The damming of the river had been her idea. It had worked brilliantly.

She was his focus now and he must succeed. Yes, Bayuan had killed his family, destroyed his village and his childhood, murdered countless others, and would continue to do so if not stopped, but he was fighting for more than revenge, more than success, more than peace. He was fighting for his own heart. He knew that now.

The witch had told him that he and Sara could be reunited when the timeline closed if their love for each other was strong enough. Sara was worried because she knew he thought himself incapable of love. He had never told Sara that he loved her. Even now, it was hard to even think about those words, but deep down he knew it to be true. He did love her, with his very soul. This had to work.

Arystan readied himself, counting on Bayuan’s arrogance to underestimate him, to assume that his opponent would do no more than charge blindly and stupidly at him. He raised his sword and ran toward Bayuan, holding tightly to thoughts of Sara, her voice, her softness, her breath and life, and then he saw Bayuan’s pole sweeping before him and leaped from his low crouch at the precise second, over the staff, and he drove his sword deep into Bayuan’s throat.

Distantly, Arystan registered the sounds of his men chanting their victory and he knew that he must have given the signal to Sabalak to flank Bayuan’s camp. Now what? He was still here. Was there something more he needed to do? Did it not work? He tugged at the leather armor around his neck, suddenly feeling very constricted, his breath tightening, his hands shaking. A slight flush of despair began to creep over his black eyes as he absently watched several bodies lodge and dislodge against the bank of the river, bobbing in the flowing water, his limbs turning leaden, his heart becoming heavy.

He glanced back at Bayuan’s body and saw, to his horror, black mist rising from the general’s mouth and being drawn skyward. He remembered the witch telling them that they could not prevent Bayuan’s spirit from being taken by the other mists. But the mists would prevent what had happened to Sara in the future. They were not constrained by linear time and would never allow Bayuan to test and take her again, now that they were aware of his motives. Arystan doubted the ‘mists’ would allow Bayuan to do much of anything. He certainly wouldn’t if he were a ‘mist.’ Thank the spirits and gods he was not.

Arystan watched the black mist rise higher in the sky. And then he felt a strange tugging sensation inside him, as if something was wrenching and drawing at his very essence. As the effect increased, he realized with intense relief that the timeline was closing and he was being pulled into it. He desperately hoped to end up where they had planned. He felt as if the cells in his body were shifting and then a horrible, animalistic cry of rage rent the sky. Was this a part of the healing the timeline? Great spirits!

Arystan heard another loud noise, similar to a retching and belching, and then he watched the black ball of mist fall back from the heavens and slam into Bayuan’s body, causing it to jerk slightly upwards and then fall back to the ground. One of Arystan’s soldiers rode up at that moment and began to drag the general’s body away just as Arystan was swept through the restoring timeline. His last thought was that Bayuan, and his spirit, really, truly were dead.

“Sara!” The young woman with long, dark hair snapped her fingers in front of Sara’s face. “Hey! Snap out of it!”

“Knocket off, Ming. Now, if you ask me,” said a man slumped across the table, waving his finger in the air, “Miss Aster’s had one too many margaritas!” He was clean-cut, with curly blond hair and wore a black t-shirt.

“You’re the one who’s had too much to drink, Jasper. Besides, she’s not drinking margaritas. It’s called jazi. A local beverage,” frowned the woman next to him. She was attractive, with soft red curls, offset strikingly by the gold tank top she wore over a floral skirt.

“Well, whaddever you say, Trish,” said Jasper, leaning forward, trying to give her a kiss which she easily avoided. “But issa
potent
‘local beverage’ if you ask me.”

“Which we didn’t,” said Trish worriedly, turning slightly from Jasper to take a better look at Sara. She wouldn’t mind kissing Jasper, but he had the worst timing. There really did look as if something might be wrong with her friend. Sara was staring straight ahead, one hand resting on the table wrapped around a small wooden cup, and the other in her lap, not appearing to be aware of anyone or anything. Over the past several years, Trish had become good friends with Sara. They had the same major and took most of their classes together. Sara could come across as a bit uptight due to the way she focused on her studies, but she had seemed to let down her guard and relax a bit in Tajikistan. Trish knew Sara didn’t drink much. Perhaps she did have too much of the local wine.

“She does look kind of out of it,” said the young man sitting next to Ming. He had dark brown hair and a handsome cast to his features. He looked around the restaurant at other tables, searching for the professor. “Maybe we should let Justin know.”

“Yeah, Felix. You lettum know,” said Jasper, poking his finger in Felix’s direction encouragingly, as he edged his chair closer to Trish.

Sara suddenly stirred, her glazed blue eyes clearing as she looked around the table.

“Shit, Sara,” exclaimed Jasper loudly. “You look like you’ve seen a fuckin’ ghost!”

“Shut up!” hissed Trish.

“Are you all right?” asked Ming, placing her hand on Sara’s arm. Sara jumped.

“Wow! That jazi must be powerful stuff,” said Ming. She took Sara’s cup and peered into it. “How many did you say you had anyway?”

“I’m prettisure I had some too,” said Jasper. “It wasgood.” Everyone ignored him.

Sara looked down at herself. She was wearing a white, sleeveless sundress that looked clean. She moved back in her chair examining it. There was no bloodstain on the right side, no dirt. She felt her hair. It felt clean, normal, hanging loosely around her shoulders.

“Um, what are you looking for? Are you sure you didn’t have some
magic
jazi, Sara?”

asked Trish, the hint of a smile in her eyes, relieved now that her friend seemed to be recovering.

“Oh my God,” said Ming, her hand flying to her mouth. “What if someone spiked her drink?”

“Now why would anyone do that?” asked Felix, scowling. “We’re all here together as a big group. It’s not as if were going to go off and leave Sara.”

“Well, she does look as if she’s been on a bad trip,” said Trish consideringly.

Sara brought her hands to her face. Everything felt normal. Normal? What was normal and what had just happened to her? She forced herself to reality, scooting her chair toward the table. She looked around it and then looked around the room. Yes, she recognized most of the faces.

Still confused, but trying to stem the tide of endless speculation, Sara gave everyone at her table a half-smile. “Guys, I’m fine. I think I might have had . . . er . . . maybe, one too many glasses of jazi, but really, I’m fine. I’ll – I’ll switch to lemon water.” Her voice shook just slightly, but she tried to sound believable.

Felix relaxed, wondering how he could trade places with Ming so that he could sit next to Sara. She sure looked as if she could use some comforting right now. He had always had a crush on Sara at university. And god did she look hot in a tank top and shorts working on this dig. And that sundress? Wow. He knew she and John were having problems before she left. He wondered if she would make up with John when she returned home.

Maybe not if he could help it.

Suddenly, the eyes of every female around the table went hot and the jaws of every male dropped. Sara stared. Everyone was looking above her. Someone must be standing behind her. She didn’t feel like turning her head to look. She was still trying to come to terms with the strangest daydream or trip or whatever it was, she had ever had.

The heads of everyone at the table lowered, following whoever was behind her down to the level of Sara’s head. She looked around irritably. Now, they all seemed to be staring at her.

Then she felt arms reach around her shoulders and hands running down her arms. They were a man’s arms, very dark, muscular and strong. The man wore a gold watch around his left wrist. She tensed, thinking for a moment she was being attacked, but that couldn’t be possible based on the intense, dazed looks worn by her friends. But still, someone was touching her without her permission. She went to fling off the contact when the man suddenly grabbed her right wrist.

Sara sputtered, trying to protest, but he held her firmly against the back of the chair and flipped her hand over, tracing the faint, white scar running the length of her palm gently with his thumb. Then he turned over his own left hand and gently brought it to her right one. She saw the matching scar before tears blinded her and then she couldn’t see anything at all, except a blur of water, the hotness of it scalding her eyes and burning her face.

She slowly raised her head and through the curtain of tears she glimpsed the hazy outlines of her tablemates, the mouths of both men and women now hanging open, shock-dumb expressions on their faces as they continued to stare toward her.

The man behind her gently raised her to her feet, turning her toward him. She still would not look at his face. This could not be happening. She found herself pressed against the muscled chest of a man in a buttoned, collared shirt and fitted pants. He was obviously well-built and filled his clothing to the approval of every female in the restaurant and the envy of every man.

The room fell away as Sara forgot about everyone in it. He drew her right hand in his left again and squeezed it tightly, pressing it to his heart between them. With his other hand, he drew Sara close to him and leaned down to growl in her ear. “You worry too much, woman. I told you it would work.”

She shook against him uncontrollably, her mind still refusing to believe what her senses and her heart told her was true.

“Look at me, Sara,” he said, his breath hot against her ear. She continued to tremble.

“Look at me,” he hissed, impatient now, his voice demanding, not asking.

She slowly lifted her head to him, her face streaked with tears and flushed with emotion, her blue eyes widening as she took in Arystan fully. She gasped slightly. “It’s really you,” she whispered.

“Better me than Bayuan.” He smirked. “For some reason, I ended up here a few days before you. It gave me some time to acquaint myself with Dushanbe as it is now and acquire some ‘modern’ clothing. Things are a bit . . . different, but I can adjust to anything as long as I have you.” He glanced over her head. “Anything, except perhaps your friends’ stares. Are you sure the mist didn’t turn them all into zombies?”