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.