Farouq Bashir al-Aziz (1501 – 1543), last Sultan of al’Hadid
A fearsome sandstorm whipped over the sleeping city of Qala’aa as three cloaked riders sped toward its open gates, their garments flapping furiously behind them in the gale. The Balthorvian watchman at the gatehouse, comfortably entrenched in a vodka-induced sleep, was stirred by the commotion only long enough to see three shadowy figures streak like lightening past his post – before the soldier could even peek his head out they had vanished, disappearing like ghosts into the unlit alleyways of the old city.
Safe now in the labyrinthine expanse of the old Haddite capital, the three riders abandoned their horses and took to the city on foot, navigating the countless streets and alleys with uncanny precision. Every now and again the two men at the front would turn and check on their companion, whose unfamiliarity with the dilapidated neighborhood stood out conspicuously in his present company. To his relief, their destination was very close.
Crammed in-between two teetering tenements, the boarded-up windows and sunken roof of the old coffee made the tiny building practically unnoticeable in an area like this to the casual observer – but to the two men leading the way, the dilapidated exterior was unforgettable. After a quick glance to ensure the road was deserted, the party approached the rusted iron slab that served as the front door. No sooner had they stepped up to the entrance than the peephole slid open to inspect them. “Abu, Marwan,” the doorman greeted stoically, “you have returned. But who is this stranger you bring with you,” he added, turning his gaze toward the third man standing uncomfortably behind them. Quickly he pulled his hood tighter about his face.
“A friend,” Marwan assured, motioning for him to come closer. “All will be explained soon enough, Hassan – I promise.”
The bright pair of eyes disappeared again, and was quickly replaced by the lithe form of Hassan beckoning them inward. The three men hurried through the threshold as they heavy door was bolted behind them. “You are late,” Hassan noted as he finished locking the entrance, “the others have already begun without you.”
“We may have been on time if the location weren’t changed at the last minute,” Abu quipped as they started toward the backroom.
Hassan grimaced. “Someone in Mahaat tipped the Balthorvians off about the meeting – they had the entire safe house bugged and rigged with explosives in half an hour. Wouldn’t exactly have been the best first impression for your friend here.”
The third man stiffened a little but said nothing, keeping his head bowed low as he walked behind the group. His right hand constantly fiddled with something under his cloak as the other nervously massaged his arm. Hassan frowned and turned to his friends. “Is he…alright?”
“Yes, he’s fine,” Marwan assured, giving the stranger a friendly smile, “just a little out of his element, is all – and probably wishing he was back home,” he added with a chuckle. “But God has summoned him to an extraordinary destiny.”
Hassan’s bewildered query was cut off as the party pushed through the door into the backroom, where a circle of similarly dressed men sat convened around a long wooden table. Their energetic conversation snapped to a halt as all heads turned towards the newcomers. “Good evening, gentlemen,” the man at the end of the table boomed. “We were wondering if you would show – almost began to fear al-Saif had lost another pair of officers.”
“We were halfway to Mahaat when we heard the meeting place had changed,” Abu explained as they stepped into the chamber. “I hope you were not waiting too long to hear our report, Commanders?”
“That depends on what you have to report,” the Commandant quipped.
Marwan grinned and bowed his head. “As we suspected, anti-Imperial sentiment is growing in the Jaipur Valley. Farmers have been under-reporting their harvests to undercut the Balthorvian tax collectors, and a man in Karfir burned his entire fields to the ground in protest. The area is definitely ripe for rebellion – and if Jaipur goes, the entire country will cascade into rebellion with it.”
“The majority of the nation is with us,” Abu agreed. “I have been putting feelers out with the mountain sheikhs – some, like Iskander, are still reluctant to cross the Empire, but most are beginning to lean toward war. If we can demonstrate the viability of our cause early and decisively, they make break for our side in large numbers.”
“Certainly the energy – the spirit – is there for rebellion,” the Commandant mused as he tugged upon his beard. “But there is no anchor – no focal point around which to base a national struggle. There is no concrete idea.”
Marwan smiled and stole a sideways glance at his silent guest. “That is what I had believed as well. And then, as I was meeting with the shepherds of Al-Kabab, I made an extraordinary discovery.”
Sensing his cue, the third man stepped forward into the light and allowed his hood to fall away from his face. Every one of his chiseled features – from his commanding jaw to his fierce eyes – exuded the regal air of a king. Only his obvious anxiety and nervousness disturbed the sense of authority. “This man,” Marwan began reverently, “is by trade a modest shepherd of the valley folk; but by birth, he is Tamir Ahad ibn’Souq – the born heir to the Sultans throne itself!”
An audible scoff came from the Commandant as he regarded the young man in front of them. “Ridiculous. There is no evidence – he could as easily be the son of Yaropolk,” he dismissed to a general snickering.
Wordlessly, the young shepherd reached underneath his cloak and, with a single motion, threw the cloth back to reveal a jewel-encrusted scabbard affixed to his hip. Before anyone could react, the boy drew the blade and held it before his face – the entire room seemed to light up as the saber gleamed like the sun itself beneath the light.
“No…” the Commandant gasped, catching himself as he nearly fell backwards out of his chair. “Impossible…that’s…”
“This,” Tamir declared, speaking for the first time in his rich warble of a voice, “is the Sword of Uthman, forged by Firouz the One-Eyed in the first year of the first century – the blade which drove the Tatars back to the endless steppe. This is the mantle of the kings of al-Hadid; given to me by my father, as he received it from his father, and on and on until its very creation.”
“You know how to wield a blade?” one of the revolutionaries inquired as he regained his voice.
“It is the first time I have ever drawn it,” Tamir replied, somewhat meekly sheathing the legendary weapon.
“He is only a goat herder,” another man mused, “how will we convince the people of our nation to die for a common peasant.”
Tamir trembled a little; Marwan laid a hand on his shoulder and turned to his colleagues. “For hundreds of years, the heritage and pride of our nation has been stamped out; our monuments have all be toppled, our tombs defiled, our palaces and citadels crowned with foreign standards. Now, for the first time the light of our past glory has resurfaced – a spark placed in our hands with which to light a new flame. This man,” he said, pointing to Tamir, “is not a king – not yet. But the blood of one runs deep in his veins, and I can feel – and you must feel it to – that he has within him the character of a great man; a great enough man to take up arms against the Imperial oppressors and at last expunge them from our country.”
“Perhaps we should wait,” someone suggested, “we can build more contacts and train more recruits, we can give ourselves more time to turn this shepherd into a king-“
“The time is now,” Marwan insisted, crashing his first upon the table. “From the northern mountains to the central valleys, never has the whole nation cried out for freedom as they do at this hour! The Balthorvians are busy fighting Communists and crusaders in the distant marches – we must strike while their back is turned! And we shall do it with the Sword of Uthman in our hands.”
The Commandant kept his gaze motionless, but he could not hide the single tear which ran down the deep contours of his aging face. “Then let us fight with a valor worthy of Uthman’s legacy.”