Azzam: The Sword of Samarkand

Chapter 1

Almost three years have passed since the Sultan of Samarkand, hands trembling and tears welling in his eyes, laid his one and only son over the shoulder of his chief bodyguard, Azzam al Turki. He kissed the sleeping form on the forehead, then his eyes turned up towards the heavens and he murmured an inaudible prayer.

Azzam distinctly remembered feeling… unsettled, uncertain, as if the night would eventually unfold some terrible dark secret.

The nights of Samarkand are a refuge from the blazing heat of the majestic desert sun. That night all the people of Samarkand - men, women and children, the young and the old, the weak and the infirm, slept peacefully - breathing in the crisp desert air…

Azzam shifted uncomfortably on the old wooden chair by the bedside - one eye open and one eye closed. His right hand instinctively curled around Furqan, a broad-bladed sword forged from hardened Indian steel. 

Memories flooded Azzam’s discordant thoughts - the same images that haunted his dreams. He raises Furqan high above his head and brings the sword down with all his might on the knight. The sword slices cleanly through armour, flesh, sinew and bone - a blood-curdling shriek pierces the air, warm blood sprays on to the golden sand. Frozen for a moment, he slowly raises his head sweat spouting off his face, on his left he sees Frankish knights, blood red crosses painted on their chests, and to his right, white robed cavalry raising their swords to the sky, an elated roar erupting from their midst.

“Azzam,” the Sultan was suddenly standing by the window, staring out into the desert night. 

“Yes, my master.” Azzam opened his eyes, and struggled to his feet. 

“What is the latest news from the frontiers?”

“No major incidents in any of the cities of the Sultanat. The morale of the people appears to be high. Possibly because taxation remains low and so is the cost of living. 

As for our enemies, the recent death of the Khan has triggered a power struggle amongst his sons. Until that is resolved the Mongol Horde is unlikely to invade foreign lands. As expected, there has been no activity on our eastern borders.

The Crusading Franks on our western frontiers have not stirred from their strongholds. However our spies tell us there have been an unusually large number of vessels docking on the ports. They are certainly stockpiling provisions and perhaps something else? This time I have this ill feeling. They are preparing something for us. Something exceptionally evil…”

The Sultan turned around to face him, his gaunt face lined with concern.  “May Allah protect us from the evil of our enemies and the evil in ourselves.”

“Ameen.” Azzam exclaimed confidently.

The Sultan wrapped his cloak tightly around his frail body.

“Anything else?”

Azzam continued…

“A few months ago our naval forces intercepted a Frankish vessel laden with arms. Among the crew we found a Frankish noble - an aristocrat - supposedly close to one of the kings. He made a big fuss. Threats and curses… nothing out of the ordinary. When reality dawned on him and he realized he would be spending a long time in a Kareemiyan jail he tried to bargain for his freedom. Of course we had already confiscated all the money and jewels he had brought with him. 

But he said he had something more valuable than all of the wealth on the ship.”

The Sultan raised his eyebrows. “What did he say?”

“There was recently a meeting among the kings of Rum, very secret, he doesn’t know what they discussed but they left the meeting with their eyes gleaming.”

The Sultan began to pace back and forth.

“When the kings walked out they each wore a ring, the likes of which he had never seen before.”

The Sultan turned to look at Azzam. “A ring? What kind of ring? Did he describe it?”

Azzam reached inside his robe and pulled out a glittering object. It was a golden ring with a black spider     inscribed on a silver background.  

The Sultan extended his hand, his face turned ashen white and his hands began to tremble.

“Subhanallah”

Azzam leapt forward and grasped the Sultan’s shoulders just as his knees began to buckle. “Steady, ya Sheikh. What’s wrong?”

The warrior helped the Sultan to his bed. He pulled his leather slippers off and placed his turban by the bedside. The Sultan turned to his right side and closed his eyes. Azzam took his regular place on the armchair by the door. 

He listened intently.

His master tossed and turned, his breathing ragged, sweat pouring from his face onto his clenched fists.

Azzam stared at the trembling body intently. Then he stood up from the chair to kneel beside the Sultan’s sleeping figure. In a low whisper the retainer recited the last two chapters of the Quran asking Allah to protect the Sultan from evil and then blew softly on him before returning to his chair. 

The aging warrior waited for his prayers to take effect. Most nights the Sultan would fall into a deep sleep thereafter, his breathing would ease and the night would fade away making way for dawn and the early morning prayer. 

But this night was different. The Sultan arose from his slumber and hurried to the adjoining room. Azzam stood up, his eyes widening as he willed them to focus in the flickering candle light. The Sultan returned with the young prince asleep in his arms. He strode over to the mameluke and placed Omar on his shoulder. 

Then he took a step back and looked into Azzam’s eyes. 

“Azzam… my brother”

Azzam’s throat was dry. He reached up with his right hand and stroked the young prince’s brown hair. He could feel the boy’s heart beating next to his. 

“At your service… my Sultan” 

The sultan continued to gaze into the mameluke’s eyes.

“Listen to me… carefully…

The winds of change have begun to blow and it has brought with it a dark evil. I cannot describe it but I can certainly feel it.

I always knew in my heart that Samarkand will not last forever, but now my heart insists that the end is very near.

I place in your care my blood-line, I entrust you with Omar’s fate as I have trusted you with mine. There is no man that I trust more than you, and no man more skilful in the fighting arts and experienced in secret missions than you. Flee from this kingdom as far as you can and do not return. Do not divulge your destination to anyone, do you hear? No-one!”

Azzam nodded his head ever so slightly in the affirmative.

And with that the Sultan caressed his son’s curly brown locks. He grasped the head of his retainer with both his hands, and kissed his forehead. From inside his robe he produced a leather pouch of coin, which he thrust into Azzam’s hands. 

‘I place your religion, your faithfulness and the ends of your deeds in the trust of Allaah. Salam alaykum – peace be with you.”

And with that farewell, Azzam wrapped his cloak tightly around the young prince and carried him out stealthily from the palace and into the moonlit desert night. The Sultan peered out his window, his countenance firm, not a hint of emotion. From his vantage point he caught a glimpse of a cloaked figure riding Salasil - a dark-haired Arabian stallion sprinting effortlessly over the desert plains.

From the adjoining room came a second figure. She was out of breath, her long chestnut hair strewn around her shoulders. “Where is my son, where is my Omar?” she cried. She looked out the window hearing the sounds of hoof beats in the distance. “No,” she screamed, beating her fists on her husband’s chest. “You betrayed me...Why?” she sobbed.

The sultan embraced his wife with both arms. And he whispered, “May Allah protect Omar from evil, wherever it may be, Ameen.”