the creed of an assassin

Prologue

The sun was already set, but its light was still in the sky, putting a shade on the grassy hills. On top of a hill, a single mongol warrior had tied his horse to one of the few trees around there. He was sitting beside his fire. From there, he could see the road and all the hills surrounding it. But even from there, no city or village was in his sight.
    The mongol rider took a wool coat out of the saddle. With the coat in his hand, he looked around. Tonight, was nothing like any of the nights that he had spent in Mongolia, where he grew up and definitely not like the cold nights of Khazaria and the Caucasus. tonight was a warm summer night. After all, he didn't expect any less from the plains of southern Azerbaijan.
    He put his coat back in the saddle again and pushed it several times to make sure it's completely inside the bag strapped to the saddle. With his last push, he suddenly stopped. His hand touched something in there. He was once again, reminded. He brought his hand  in front of his face with his other hand. He stared at his own palm. On it, was a scar, from side to side. A very old scar. It was supposed to remind him of the oath he swore when he was still a teenager. An oath to obey the command of the great khan, even if it meant death. He remembered how eager he was to cut his own hand. The great khan, had ordered him to obey the command of khan of the golden horde, as if it's the command of the great khan. His face looked conflicted. Of course he had never second guessed his obedience, and he wasn't about to either. He was conflicted on wether or not he should look at it again. After all, he thought to himself, why not? He shoved his hand into the coat and found the letter. He took it out and opened it from the wood it was strapped to. Then he started to read it again.
    It was from Berke khan, the khan of the golden horde. It was meant for "Ukher, our most loyal and faithful servant". He knew that this wasn't written (or dictated for that matter) by the khan, but rather his grand vizier. A Bulgar and a Muslim. He hated the fact that a Muslim had called him a servant, but he was proud to be in the service of the khan. The letter said "... you are to go to the city of Isfahan, in the domain of the khan of the Il and in the kingdoms of Persia. There, in the first day of fall, go to the northern gate of the city. A man awaits you. He holds a baby. This baby should be cared for and protected, as if the great khan is being cared for and protected. You shall then bring the baby to the city if Derbent on the border of our domains and deliver it to the escort there."
    He put the letter on his forehead as a show of respect for the words of the khan and then he put it back. There was no light in the sky anymore except for that of the stars. He took his weapon off the saddle. It was a stick with a blade on each end. The blades were on sided and in the opposite directions, so that if he hit and then turned all the way around, he would hit again. He took out the wet stone that he carried with him. He held the stick on his leg with one hand and started sharpening it with the other hand.
    He thought to himself - sharpening was when he thought best - that all these hills were under the rule of the Muslims not very long ago. It was less than 70 years ago. Not that this upset him though; his loyalty lied with the mongol khan. It didn't matter if he was Muslim or anti-muslim. He felt pride flood his chest and then go up to his neck. He held his head up as he thought, his people people have conquered all these lands so far from home in such a short time. To him, it was proof that his people were right and powerful, like he always strived to be. It was also proof that the tengri, the gods, favoured his people over others. Because if they didn't, mongols could never conquer half of the world without being conquered. Surely the khan of the golden horde knew this at his heart and he pretended to be a Muslim so that the people would remain under Mongolian rule for the time being.
    Then he thought about the baby. Was it an infant or a kid? Why was it so important? Was it a child of the khan? Was it an heir to the golden topped tent of Berke khan? If it was, what was it doing in Isfahan? An illegitimate child maybe?
    It didn't matter, he thought to himself. He was a soldier and a warrior, obeying orders, if he was meant to learn the answer, he would learn when and where he was intended to. Until then, he would do as ordered.
    His stick was sharp now. He put it near the saddle. He put his head on the saddle. He arrived here in the afternoon, and that wasn't a good time to go to the city of Tabriz; where Hulagu, the khan of the Il was seated. He meant to wake up at dawn and then go to Tabriz. It was a little dangerous to go inside the city, but there he was meant to meet a man who would help him in his quest.