Chapter 12: Bahktiar

Bahktiar had been asleep when the bells awoke him, and now just a little while later, he had wandered out of his apartments, wondering what was happening.

People had come, coalescing into the Courtyard of Lilies, and now strange men were atop the minarets and walls throwing smoke and other objects down as a rabble of guards gushed forth with their blades drawn.

Bahktiar took two steps back, his heart suddenly thundering inside his chest, much like those cracks of smoke throughout the courtyard and over the bridge.

“My lord!” called Orizan. “Come back to your apartments. Something is not right here!”

But he ignored his servants and strode forward, glancing about, calling to some of the fleeing people to ask what was happening, but they ran past him to safety. It was then that Bahktiar saw the bearded man in the red robes wielding a sword doing battle with a woman.

And who was that young man beside him without the shirt? He looked like—

That’s Arash!

Orizon took Bahktiar by the wrist. “My lord!”

He turned, jerked his arm free. “Be silent, you fool! Go back if you must!” He ran forward toward the prince. “Arash!” he called. “Arash!” But he could not hear him? He ran forward closer. “Arash!”

The prince was back stepping toward him with a sword in his hand. Bahktiar cupped his hands around his mouth and called the prince again, and this time he turned around, and Bahktiar saw that his eyes were wide, his mouth was slightly open and his hair was mussed.

He beckoned the prince to come to him. “Arash!”

At first it Bahktiar wasn’t was not certain the prince even recognized him, but then he blinked and ran toward him.

“Bahktiar!” he called. “What are you doing here?!’

“My apartments are here!”

“I know—but it’s not safe!”

He laughed, thrusting his chin up at Arash. “And it is for you?”

The prince swallowed. He still could not believe what was happening. Why now?

“Come with me!” said Bahktiar. He put his hand on Arash’s back and corralled him forward. “Come—we must go from here.”

“But what of my uncle?” He stopped then. “Bahktiar, we must help him.”

He felt heat lift up into his face and he pulled the stupid prince’s shoulder around to point him in the direction of the strange skirmish. “Do you see what is happening?”

The high vizier was crossing blades with one of the attackers, and strangely enough, he had two swords instead of just the one—like anyone could fight with two swords, and even so, the high vizier seemed to be having trouble.

“Uncle!” cried Arash, and he lurched forward.

Before he could get away, Bahktiar crabbed him by the arm. “Stop—Prince, what are you doing?!”

“I have to help him!”

“You are here and he is there because you are the prince!” shouted Bahktiar. “You must be protected. Now come with me.”

Arash lingered, but Bahktiar did not wait for him to do something stupid again, pushing and pulling, and finally he followed as they both glanced back at the uproar among the skirl of blades and dying men.

Bahktiar swallowed, but he knew that whatever was happening, those men in black throwing the smoke and the daggers were not here for him—they were here for the the prince.

They followed Orizan back to his apartments and Bahktiar slammed the heavy door shut behind him, rested his back on the door and swallowed. Even though he knew he was not the target, seeing such a furious fight sent his blood racing through his limbs.

Was he shaking?

“My lord,” breathed Orizan, and he moved behind him to bolt the door.

Bahktiar moved into the chamber where Arash fell slumped into the couch and covered his face with his hand. He was clearly stressed beyond anything he could handle. “You are alive,” he said. “That is what mater, Arash.”

“Why is this happening?” he asked, and he glanced up at his friend who was looking at him strangely.

Bahktiar shrugged. “They’re here to kill you.”

“What?!”

“Verily, Prince—this is what I believe they want. Your father has many enemies. These are assassins, sent to kill you. Or take you hostage.”

Arash breathed, nodded numbly. His heart was thumping in his chest and he could hear it in his ears. He tried to grip the hilt of his sword, but it was so weak—so pathetic. He swallowed and dropped the blade on the small table. It clanged heavily against the wood and the ivory inlay. “I cannot believe this is happening—now of all times.”

“Do you speak of the Urutai Sky Steppe visit?”

Arash looked at him and nodded. “My uncle…”

“He is fine,” said Bahktiar, raising a hand for Arash not to get up. “He can handle these assassins—and it looks like he has a lot of the palace guards with him, yes?”

Arash nodded.

“Then do nothing, Prince. It is what your uncle would tell you now. You must remain safe.”

“Is there a way out of these apartments?”

“Why?”

“In case we must get away.”

Bahktiar scoffed wit bemusement. “There is a way through my other chambers, but other than that, my friend, unless you want to jump my balcony and run across the rooftops…”

Orizan ran back to them. “There are a lot of people in the halls coming in from the courtyard.”

“Of course there are,” said Bahktiar. “They came wandering out as I did, and now they run and flee like frightened sheep.”

“Like us.”

“Except, Prince—we did not scream in fright. We came to attain safety. For you.”

Could he sit here, really? And just wait for his uncle to come back? If these assassins are after me—then that means they are probably trying to kill my father and mother even now.

He swallowed thickly and lurched from his sitting position on the couch.

“What are you doing?”

He picked up the sword. “I have to help my uncle.”

“Arash,” Bahktiar said and touched his temples and then bringing his hands away. It was an altogether disrespectful gesture, especially to a prince. “Listen to me—if you go out there… you will be killed. You need to stay here. Give me the sword. Easy! Easy… Just… give me… the sword. There. Good.”

He sat the sword down on a piece of furniture several paces away from the prince.

“I do not like being here,” Arash complained. “I feel like a coward!” And as he said the words, he knew Tamu would be doing something about the assassins—had she not been taken by her brother.

“No,” said Bahktiar, “you’re—“

Something stirred in the chamber over and all three of them swiveled their heads in the dark apartment. Bahktiar put out his hands, indicating a need for silence. He stepped forward toward the sword he had put down just moments ago, his chest rising and falling deeply.

A shadow appeared in the doorframe and a man stalked into the room. He was wearing black garb with leather wrappings around his calves and forearms, his face covered. In his hand rested a scimitar, much like the ones the women had; they were long and more tapered at the points.

Bahktiar took two steps back, then he turned and ran.

“Where are you going?!” wailed Orizan, and before he could run past Arash too, the prince lurched and chased his friend down, who was evidentially trying to get to safety.

As he ran, Orizan cried out his last breath as the assassin cut him down, the sound of his blade passing through flesh and bone like a terrible scream inside his ears as his back shivered and he screamed in fear.

Bahktiar ran through an arch, turned and grabbed the heavy door there, pushing it closed. It was a good idea, but when Arash realized he would not make it through the closing gape his eyes widened and he screamed, “Bahk—what are you doing?! STOP!”

The door was slammed shut and he jumped at hit, slamming hard enough into it to cause bruises, the heavy wood and the thundering bolt on the other side impenetrable. “Bahk!” he screamed, “open this door now!”

His shadow moved on the other side, visible through the decorative cutouts in the wall to the side of the door where he glanced out at Arash. “Sorry, Arash.”

“Let me in!”

He glanced back and found the assassin standing in wait, watching. Why was he watching? By the gods—was he enjoying this right now?

And then something flashed across his mind, a thought, wordless, and yet full on meaning and implication. Arash gasped, turned back to the cutout in the wall. “Did you… did you entrap me, Bahktiar?”

“Would you not like to know, Arash?”

The prince glanced back to the assassin, his heart thundering so hard his chest would have been hurting even had he not been poisoned.

“You always did think you were better than me, Golden Eyes.”

Narrowing his amber eyes, Arash ground his teeth. “I am better than you.”

“We will see.”

And the assassin strode forward, his eyes narrow.

“Stop!” Arash commanded. “You do not know what you are doing! My uncle is the Viper of Dar Shaq! He will have your skin if you harm me!”

Then the assassin actually shrugged. “We,” said he in a gravelly voice full of contempt, “are all of us, Vipers of Dar Shaq, you fool of a prince.”

“Goodbye, Prince,” said Bahktiar from the other side.

Through his teeth, Arash screamed his friends name in fury, a promise of revenge, if not in this life, then the next.

The assassin struck out.

Arash lunged forward across the tiles, slid and rolled. He used his momentum to carry himself back to his knees and he pulled them in against his chest. From there, he sprung into a sprint.

From behind, the movements of the assassin running after him came from behind—quiet, but not completely silent.

Arash reached out for his sword, and feeling he would be sliced across the back, jumped, grabbed his blade and rolled over his shoulder across the floor whereupon he slid into a half pirouette to face his attack who was already bearing down on him.

Lurching backward, he raised his blade, in effect, saving his life as the assassin struck at him once, twice, and then came in for a third attack with a deadly thrust that Arash tried to simultaneously parry while retreating as fast as he can.

His foot hit something and he toppled backwards to the tiles, spilling over a small table and all the items atop it. When he landed, his elbow smacked the hard floor as he went down. It sent a jarring thrust of pain up his arm and the prince grunted as the assassin loomed over him with his black blade.

The prince swing his scimitar, but the assassin barely had to move to stay out of his reach. “Why are you doing this?!” Arash shrieked. “Who hired you to kill me?!”

The assassin narrowed his eyes and pulled back his arm. When his blade came forward to finish the prince off, Arash, in his sudden panic grabbed a gold-gilded ornament and tossed it up at his would-be killer with an overhanded throw. It struck the assassin in the face and he flinched, shook his head and screamed.

When he narrowed the distance to kill Arash, the prince turned his shoulders and hips to make his body smaller as the incoming blade came down, causing a line of red-hot fire to streak across his upper arm as it hit the tiles while he screamed and thrust his blade upward.

The sound of the sword penetrating the assassin’s guts was wet and metallic, and he grunted over Arash, his eyes wide and his face mere inches away from his own. Arash breathed like he would never taste sweet air again as a wail of fear and surprise issued from out of his mouth.

Hot blood poured over his hand and wrist, covering him as the assassin tried to move. Arash, recoiling, pushed at his sword hilt and the man fell to the side, slumped across the floor beside him.

With heavy and deep breathes, the prince moaned repeatedly, his face cringing as his eyes filled with hot tears. He lifted his hand, and it shook like a leaf in the wind. Turning, he touched at his wound with his bloody hand, and because of all the smearing blood, he could not say which blood was his own or this dead assassins. I should be dead right now. How am I alive?

Arash glanced toward the door that Bahktiar had closed on him and he screamed wordlessly, a sudden bark of indignation and seething hatred, and he did this three or four times—he did not know because his whole world was a whirl of confusion and racing thoughts, of fear and of anger and unanswered questions.

He put his left hand down upon the tiles and felt the pool of blood under his hand. It was already cold, and as recoiled from the floor, he lifted his hand and looked at it, at the blood dripping odd.

Another noise came out of him and he smack the assassin with his open palm, rubbing off the blood furiously, but even so his hand remained sticky and stained. How could his friend do this to him? He glanced toward the door again., saw the body of Orizan lying across the tiles in his own pool of blood, his hand outstretched toward the door, utterly betrayed.

Arash snarled as flash of hot rage assailed him.

“BAHKTIAR!”

He turned to the dead assassin, grasped his sword hilt as hard as he could and yanked the blade out of the corps. He looked at the blood, at the streaks of red crimson revealing parts of the gleaming steel blade.

Swallowing frustratedly, he sniffed and got to his feet.

“BAHKTIAR!”

He strode forward on heavy legs unsteadily, and the shadow of Bahktiar behind the ornamental cutouts moved.

Arash shouted his friends name again and ran toward the door.

When he reached it, he pulled his arm back and hacked at the wood. “I’m going to kill you!”

The sword was sharp and did little damage to the hardwood boards, but Arash renewed his efforts to get through as he hacked at the boards over and over, as splinters of wood came off the door with every strike.

He screamed, striking that door until his palm and his wrist and his shoulder throbbed, the skin on his hand peeling off to reveal the fresh and smarting skin beneath. Breathing in exertion and rage, he continued hacking as splinters came off the door.

“I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!”

But then he stopped, realized that Bahktiar had told him before that there was another way out of his apartments from those chambers.

He was no longer there in the apartments with Arash.

Turning, he wiped his face with the back of his hand, and as soon as a thunder of boots came down the hall outside of the front door, he glanced up and gasped, his sword held high.

Someone pounded on the wood. He ran toward the illustriously decorated hall as voices came. “Prince! Young prince—open the door!”

“Uncle?!” asked Arash as he lurched forward and threw the bolt aside. The door swung open and revealed Sahar.

“Arash!” he cried with a smile, and pushed his way inside, whereupon he threw his arms around the prince. “I thought you had taken or killed. What are you doing here?”

“These are…” he said, sounding distraught and confused, even to his own ears, “They are Bahktiar’s apartments, uncle.”

“Oh,” he said, “yes—that is right. Where is your friend? Is he well? What is this blood, young prince?”

“It was him.”

“Who?”

“It was Bahktiar. He tried to kill me.”

“What?” barked Usharad from outside the door. He was flanked by procession of guards and other people.

“He closed the door and—“ he started choking up.

“Shhh!” Sahar soothed as he put a finger to his lips. “Give me the sword, young prince.” He reached back, handing off the weapon as he lifted Arash’s wrist and gave it a pat. “You are well, prince, and there is no longer anything to fear.”

“But the assassins!” he cried.

“Nono!” Sahar said. “We drove them off—“

“And more are soon to come,” broke in Usharad.

Sahar winced slightly. “And on that note, my prince, we must go—we must get you to safety. Please—please come. Yes, there. Good. One step at a time, young prince. You are well. We will protect you.”

“Thank you, Uncle.”

“Now now—there is no need to thank me, Arash. Please—come.”

He swallowed, his eyes full and his vision blurred. Someone led him forward. He knew that his uncle was there, but Arash did not know if it was he who gently pulled the prince out of the apartments of Bahktiar—that traitorous dog!

“I want him dead, Uncle.”

“Shhh,” he soothed again. “There will be time enough for revenge, my boy.”

Arash swallowed thickly, feeling like a rock was stuck in his throat as his chest spasmed and his wrist smarted. Even his arm still smarted from the cut he had sustained.

“We must go from here,” Usharad stressed.

“Yes—yes. Come, Prince. We must hurry.”

Arash nodded, allowing his uncle to lead him from there without question. They went through the apartments, down a narrow alley of steps and beyond, all the while palace occupants and guards ran about.

The place was a swarm, and even so, they moved Arash with alacrity, their path taking them down to the lower levels of the massive fortress to places the prince had never yet seen before, despite growing up in the palace.

As he regained his calm, he wondered where his uncle was taking him. Was the palace not the safest place to be?