A voice breaks the eerie quiet.
‘Suicides, how romantic,’ the Sepahbad begins, and I turn in horror. He examines the corpses in quiet fascination. ‘Is that all? What is one’s defiance but a quiet protest against an army of thousands. It does nothing.’
And within his grip... a man in Azadnian garb, squirming.
The raven is sat on the Sepahbad’s shoulder as he drags forward the captured soldier, treading on the corpses, seemingly uncaring that he is stepping on the dead.
Vomit flecks the Azadnian’s clothes. He stares in disgust, as if sighting an angel before realising it is a demon, but that is the Sepahbad’s allure: a beautiful vision to mask the ugliness.
‘The Great Father will avenge us!’ the man hisses.
The Sepahbad’s shoulders shake in an empty laugh, but his raven does not move. ‘There are worst things than death. I stare it in the face each day; therefore it cannot scare me.’ He grips the man’s chin between his fingers. ‘Let us see how much you fear it.’ The Sepahbad raises a finger my way. ‘Hold him by the legs.’
I shakily grab the man’s feet. How much had the Sepahbad heard, and will I be punished next? A sweltering heat radiates from his body. A deep fever. It must be a consequence of the Gates technique. I quickly notice now how his cheeks are red in flush, and his words sound strained.
‘Act almighty, but we’ve all heard the stories of your cruelty,’ the Azadnian spits.
The Sepahbad looks unworried. ‘I can be worse.’
Without warning, the Sepahbad slices off three of the Azadnian’s fingers in a smooth arc. It takes everything in me not to wince. The man wails; possibilities must be flitting through his mind – if the Sajamistani cut off his fingers, why not cut apart his limbs?
I hastily suggest, ‘We should take him to the encampment.’
‘No, underling, we do this now before he succeeds in taking his life. Or will you let him do that too?’ Then, facing the Azadnian, he nods at the warm corpses. ‘Would you like to follow?’
‘Go to—’
‘Again, how unnecessary,’ the Sepahbad says calmly. ‘I am a pragmatic man. I torture silence, but I am amiable to cooperation. Tell me one thing, and then you may be free in the name of your Great Father. To which outpost was your militia headed with Mitra? You may be a pathetic footman told no intelligence, but it’s also the low who do the dirty work. Today, the apprentices transported thousands of Mitra to a different outpost.’
‘I know nothing,’ he breathes.
The Sepahbad presses his khanjar against the man’s forearm, the squish of skin near my ears making me almost flinch. He slices slowly, back and forth as if sawing the trunk of a tree; every flicker of pain must have been excruciatingly felt. My hand clamps his wet lips as he screams. When the arm is gone, the hand twitches on the clay, dead muscles spasming one final time, blood dripping down black hairs. I stare, almost immune to the grotesqueness of it. A dark thought follows it: this torture could be worse. The Gates technique must mean the Sepahbad cannot access his affinity until he recovers from the fever.
‘You know more, or the other arm will be next.’
Now, words fall out. ‘Y-you are too late,’ his words slur. ‘The melee was a farce. Zayguk has allied with Azadniabad, not Sajamistan as you thought. An invasion is beginning from the eastern front – not Ghaznia -with Zayguk granting passageway into Khor.’
My mind recedes to the last question of the Wadiq tests – it’s as if it was prophetic of this moment.
‘They crossed today?’
The Azadnian struggles to speak, though he cackles. ‘T-this morning.’
‘So, the war has begun,’ the Sepahbad says.
My gut curls in. I must find a way to kill Akashun, who must be in Azadniabad’s wartime capital.
The Sepahbad pats the Azadnian’s only hand. ‘Be free now. You’ve fallen for charm under your Great Father. Now, die by another.’ To my surprise, he circles his fist over his torso in the Azadnian salutation.
The man’s heart is carved from his chest, the khanjar sinking like teeth into skin. For a second, I feel that blade sink intome, like I am the Azadnian sprawled before a Sajamistani.
The Sepahbad stands. ‘You did not capture them.’
I look into his feverish eyes and make my tone steady, so he has no choice but to hear honesty in my lie. ‘Because they took their lives before I could.’
‘If you had moved sooner, it would have prevented the suicides. With their feeble loyalty, they’d have confessed information without much prodding, avoiding this man’s torture.’
I know he is right. My skin crawls as if I’ve been flung naked before him – for all my excuses, he saw my trembles on the battlefield; he knows I am sympathetic. The best martial artists must be familiar with pain to inflict it, and mine is a wound bleeding openly for him to study. And his next words confirm it.
