Assassins of Kantara Read online

  His interests lay not only in the clash of civilizations in and around Palestine, but also in smaller incidents occurring in remoter places. In this particular case, his messenger had come a very long way, from Oman.

  Naudar, after a long and harrowing journey, had approached with trepidation the grim and forbidding fortress that glowered over the long, deep valley. He’d urged his tired horse past the villages of Gazor Khan and Chotor Khan at the base of the huge rock upon which the castle perched, and made his way up the steep path. As he’d approached the gates of the castle, he’d glanced up and inwardly shuddered. There were decaying skulls there on stakes; several were the heads of men he had known, men who had fallen afoul of the Master in one way or another. Naudar was a loyal and brave servant of the Master, but like everyone else, he always felt somewhat fearful when he came within the aura of the man who appeared to have powers far beyond those of a normal being.

  Now he kneeled on the carpet with his hands on his knees, facing his Master, and waited for the man whom he worshiped to speak. The Master looked and sounded unusually impatient. His turban was made from expensive silk, and in the center was a huge emerald of deepest green. Rich robes fell about the lean man, and his eyes probed deeply into those of Naudar.

  “What news do you bring me from Muscat?” he finally demanded. His tone was curt. Despite the years that had elapsed since his sister had run away from the Sultan of Shiraz, the Master was still determined to find her and inflict a terrible punishment for shaming him. Naudar had been sent to discover whether the Master’s sister and her treacherous companions Reza and Talon had gone in the direction of Oman. Not a single clue had surfaced for many months as the deadly emissaries of the Master hunted far and wide, from Isfahan to Baghdad. Some had dared to come back to Alamut to tell the Master of their failure, and now their skulls adorned the archway over the great wooden gates of the castle. Others were sent out in their stead. But it was as though their quarry had simply vanished into thin air.

  Naudar had moved slowly down towards the more Arab world of Yemen. He had managed to avoid the Heyda plague that ravaged the coastline from the tip of the Hormuz peninsular all the way down to Aden, although one of his three companions had died unexpectedly in Muscat. He had arrived in Aden, where a tiny clue had set him back towards Muscat to make an interesting discovery. An offhand remark by a horse trader indicated he had sold horses to a Frankish-looking man from Muscat, who had then sailed for India to sell the animals in that lucrative market.

  Making sure that the information had been accurate, Naudar had remained in Muscat long enough to find out that indeed Talon had sailed to India, and had returned. Having verified where Talon was now living, Naudar left his second companion in the city to keep an eye on their quarry, with instructions to watch their every move until he came back. Then he had set off on the long journey to the towering mountains of the Alborz and Alamut, within which his master sat like a spider in the middle of its web.

  “I found them, Master,” Naudar said, with some pride in his tone. He had succeeded where many others failed. “They were there in Muscat all the time; or rather, the doctor and his wife were there. Our people missed your er … sister because she and Reza, with the Frank called Talon, traveled far but have returned. The rumor is they brought much treasure, from India and beyond—from China.” He sounded incredulous to his own ears, but the Master only nodded, as though he were well aware that ships sailed to and from China every year.

  “So they have settled in Muscat?” the Master demanded.

  Naudar nodded confirmation but said nothing; he waited as he had been instructed since he was a young boy. His eyes, trained to observe from under deep brows, slid around the room, noting the wealth contained therein: the richest of hand knotted carpets, gold and silver ornaments, rolls of parchment, and priceless manuscripts lying casually about on the carpets. His eyes shifted to the heavy silk drapes that kept out the cold at the openings of the narrow windows, then to the beautifully woven cushions. The sumptuous fittings of the room belied the grim exterior of the castle itself.

  After a long pause the Master spoke. “You will take a team with you to Muscat, and you will bring my sister back. If at all possible, you will also bring back the two men as prisoners. I shall deal with them here, and set an example.”

  Naudar nodded, but felt a thin, cold chill trace itself down his back. The Master was still enraged at the affront committed against him by those two elusive former Fid’ai, Talon and Reza. Naudar didn’t envy them, should they live to see Alamut again.

  “What of the doctor, Master?”

  “You will kill him and his family, if he has one. Leave no trace. No one is to be left alive other than the prisoners, whom you will bring here. Take men from the Isfahan castle. I shall provide a letter ordering Husain to join you. Husain will be in charge; you will be his guide.”

  Naudar swallowed. He had expected to be the one leading the mission, but he dared not show by gesture or word that he resented the command. He merely bowed over his hands on the floor, shuffled backwards until he reached the door, then sprang to his feet.

  “Rest for two days,” the Master said. “You may enjoy the women that are available, then be on your way. Go as a pilgrims. There will be many others on the roads now, and all will be going in that direction. Many pilgrims take ship to go to Mecca, so it would not be unusual for you to go via Muscat. No one is to know what you are about, not even the people in Isfahan.” The Master’s tone signified dismissal, but just as Naudar turned to go the Master’s soft voice followed him. “Do not fail. Either die in the attempt or bring back those… people. Should you do this, you will be well rewarded.”

  Naudar bowed again very deeply from the waist. “It shall be as you command, Master.”

  After spending a happy two days availing himself of the wine and women, for the Ismaili did not forbid wine, a tired but contented Naudar mounted his horse and thankfully left the castle of Alamut behind. He turned once in his saddle to look back when he was far down the valley. Even at this distance he could feel the menace of the stronghold and shuddered. Then he turned his animal and cantered away. Two days later he crossed the high Chula pass. A track had been trodden through the snow and ice which allowed passage over the mountains to the high plateau. He spent another night with some Ismaili sympathizers in Ghazvin, after he had slipped into the city through the busy gates posing as a merchant on his way to Hamadan.

  Before long he had passed through Hamadan and was well on his way to Isfahan, passing several lumbering caravans along the way. The weather improved as he moved farther south, until he rode up onto a low hill and beheld the white walls of that fabled city.

  Naudar’s destination was not Isfahan, but out of habit he decided to enter the city and take a measure of any local news which he could then carry with him to the remote castle in the East where his compatriots lived. Before long he was standing outside the large stone archway that led into the bazaar. No one remarked the slim, dark figure other than to take note, perhaps, of his well-bred horse, which looked as though it had been ridden hard.

  After paying a man to rub his animal down and to feed it, Naudar strolled towards the entrance to the bustling bazaar, but stopped abruptly. Propped against the right hand wall of worn stone was a ghastly sight. From a distance it had looked as though a scarecrow had been left against the walls. On closer examination, it was the entire skin of a man who had been flayed, stuffed with straw to a grotesque resemblance of a man, arms and legs spread wide. It stank of corruption and was swarming with flies. From time to time one of the guards who stood nearby would brush the flies away casually with a switch. Someone in a macabre gesture had pushed two white stones into the gaping holes left by the eyes, which now glared blindly out at the crowd moving past. Pinned on the chest of the dead man was a sun-bleached piece of parchment, upon which something was written in faded ink.

  Naudar edged closer among the throng of people moving past the gristly s
pectacle. Few looked at it, and women covered their noses, ducking their heads in disgust as they hurried past. Naudar peered at the writing, trying to make out the words. He was jolted out of his concentration by a loud voice.

  “Can you not read?” one of the sentries posted at the gates demanded. Naudar cursed himself for being so obvious, but immediately adopted a pose. “I cannot read well, your grace. I am a poor merchant from Hamadan. Who is this and what was his crime?” his tone was wheedling and his manner subservient. It would most certainly not be a good idea to attract attention to himself, but he was curious.

  “Why, it’s the leader of those abominations who live in the mountains east of here,” The guard told him gruffly.

  “Who are they?” Naudar asked. Inside he was in a fearful turmoil. What had happened?

  “They are the people known as the Hashashini! Their evil master lives far to the north. This is that foul creature Husain, who was the leader of the group to the east. He was caught on the road trying to rob some merchants, but their guards managed to wound him and capture him. When they found out who he was, they brought him back to stand trial. The Sultan himself attended, and he ordered that the prisoner be flayed alive and stuffed with straw. Ha, ha! Pity he can’t see himself standing there frightening all the women.”

  The sentry pretended to read the piece of parchment for the benefit of Naudar. “It says, ‘To all who would be heretics and abominations and robbers of the innocent, know that this will be your fate.’”

  Naudar shuddered theatrically, at the same time putting his hand half over his eyes as though to banish the sight from his mind. As he turned away, his mind was reeling. The sentry, however, hadn’t finished with him yet. “You are not from this city. You did say you were from Hamadan, didn’t you?” There was enough suspicion in the tone to make Naudar tense.

  He nodded. “I was born in Tabriz, though. Far from all of this,” he waved his hand in a disgusted manner at the figure in front of them. “I have heard of the Hashashini and pray to God I never meet them. I am a pilgrim on my way to Mecca and wish peace upon all men.”

  The sentry nodded his head; his hand relaxed its grip on his spear and he waved Naudar on. “Go with God, and may the rest of your journey be safe. You should join a caravan, then at least you will have protection. The Hashashini are ruthless.”

  Naudar bent at the waist and touched his forehead with the fingers of his right hand in respect. “I came south with a caravan,” Naudar lied. “Insha’Allah, it will be a peaceful journey from here on.”

  He tore his eyes away from the macabre remains of his former companion-at-arms and joined the line of people and donkeys walking into the gloom of the bazaar.

  He found a small Chai Khane deep inside the gloomy bazaar and sat down in a corner of the busy room, nursing a pot of tea. He was shaking with reaction to what he had seen. His destination had been the fortress of the assassins called Qual’a Bozi, where he had expected to convey the orders of the Master to Hussain and then head south with him. Yet here was Hussain in Isfahan: a grotesque parody displayed at the entrance to the bazaar. Eventually he calmed down long enough to make a decision. He would go to the castle and complete the first part of his mission, which would be to take some men with him to augment his own meager force in Muscat.

  It took him two days to reach the hills. Along the way he passed patrols of Seljuk cavalry and was stopped several times by the horsemen who demanded aggressively what he was doing on the road. He replied that he was on his way to a village in the Zagros Mountains to bury an uncle, having come from Isfahan. He could name the village, which seemed to be enough for the Turks.

  His arrival at the gates of the fortress created a stir among the subdued guardians. He was received with suspicion and had to prove who he was before anyone would allow him entrance. No sooner had he entered the fort than his instincts cried alarm. There was a palpable tension in the courtyard. Husain had been a clever and active leader, and now there was a gap in the leadership with a dispute brewing as to who should take his place. Naudar sensed that several men wanted the role.

  Naudar had no interest in any of their squabbles, but he was insistent that the master’s intent be honored. He needed to take some men with him. That proved more difficult than he had imagined, for the Ismaili in the castle numbered only eighty men, and their spokesman, a sly but dangerous looking man named Firuz, informed Naudar they were facing imminent attack.

  Seated on the ground around a fire in the middle of the courtyard and eating roasted lamb, Naudar realized he was on dangerous ground; but he had a mission to perform, and this setback could not be allowed to stop him.

  “You should tell us all why it is that you need men to go with you to Muscat,” one of the men demanded.

  Naudar shook his head. “When I have the men and they are away with me I shall tell them at the right time. This is a mission that the Master will not allow me to discuss.”

  “Why should we give you men at all?” demanded another. “We need every man to protect ourselves from the sultan’s men, who would destroy us! Curse them for what they did to Husain.”

  Naudar suddenly felt the air around him become colder. They could murder him right here and no one the wiser, if they so wished. He glanced around carefully at the dark forms of the men seated all around him. The firelight played on their lean, wolfish faces and glittered in their dark, watchful eyes. Among these men were Fid’ai, trained killers like himself. Despite his own skill at arms he would not last a minute if they turned on him. They were frightened by what had happened to their leader and anticipated worse to come. They were sure the sultan would send a small army to besiege them in this outpost and slaughter most of them; he would flay any of them he should take alive. Naudar’s intrusion was not welcome.

  He took a careful breath and forced himself to sound calm.

  “While I was in Isfahan I heard nothing of a planned attack on this castle,” he told them. “They are pleased with themselves that they caught Husain and might leave it at that.”

  One of the men lifted his head. “Husain was betrayed,” he hissed. “Someone told them he was going to be where he was at that time. Now they will come for us, that is for sure.”

  The reaction was immediate. “You are lying! In God’s name, how could he have been betrayed?” demanded one of the men on the opposite side of the fire.

  Amid shouts of anger and accusation, Firuz bellowed for silence. “No one can make an accusation like that without real proof, Mirza! You were not there, so how can you say that? I forbid anyone to make accusations like that until we know more.” The men subsided into a sullen muttering.

  Firuz turned to Naudar. “You should leave in the morning. I am sorry, but we cannot give you men. Go back to the Master and tell him we have lost Husain. When he gives us a new leader, then we can help him.”

  Returning to Alamut unsuccessful was not an option Naudar wanted to even consider. He was quiet for a long time before he spoke again. “You know that when the Master reaches out, his arm is very long.” He addressed Firuz directly as he said this. “If he hears that despite your problems you refused to help me, there will be … consequences. No matter how long it takes for him to hear the news.” He left the threat hanging in the air.

  There was silence among the men clustered about the fire as the Fid’ai digested this threat. Finally Firuz looked up from glowering into the flames of the fire. His face was unfriendly but his eyes gave him away: he was afraid. Naudar knew he didn’t want to upset the Master, even though the Master would not be able to send help, which they needed badly. He could and would send an unwelcome emissary to punish Firuz for disobedience; of that he could be sure.

  Firuz scowled; he knew that Naudar was right. “You may take four men,” he told Naudar with a shrug. “That is all I can spare.”

  Someone made to protest, but he glared at them and raised his hand for silence. “Go. Take the men with you and be gone.”

  Naudar relaxed a
minute amount. “Give me six Fid’ai so I can ensure the success of my mission, after which I shall bring them back to you. It will take only a month. The Master will reward you well, that I can guarantee.”

  In the end, he left with five Fid’ai.

  Three weeks later, Naudar and his five men arrived in Muscat on a dhow that had brought them from Bandar Abbas. He had told them of their objective and watched their reactions as he did so. Reza’s reputation was known to all of them, so the order was received with apprehension. Most of the men, except the very youngest, had also heard of Talon, the Frank who had killed a lion, although his skills were not such a known quantity.

  “This Talon has kidnapped the sister of the Master,” Naudar explained, “and brought her to Muscat against her will. The Master wishes that she be returned to her family and the man Talon be punished. Unfortunately, Reza is also implicated; so he must be punished as well. They are all three to be taken alive back to Alamut.”

  “Reza alone makes a formidable foe. They say he is one of the most cunning of the Fid’ai,” one of the senior men remarked.

  “Then we shall have to be more cunning than he,” Naudar stated.

  They arrived on a hot day with little in the way of a breeze to alleviate the oppressive heat coming off the beaches and the mountains behind the town. The men were rowed ashore in a small boat, and then Naudar took them to the rented accommodation in the middle of the town, a few streets away from the bazaar. He advised them to change into clothing that resembled that of the Omani and told them to stay put while he went to find his companion.

  He found him watching the discreet villa where their quarry were living. Saquib greeted him enthusiastically.

  “I’m relieved you have arrived,” he said as they embraced, out of sight of the walled villa. “There has been little activity, other than visits to the Mardini family, and the stables where they play Chogan. I am out of money. I hope you brought some?”