Midnight

By Joshua Rutherford

Greater Dyli is an empire ruled by men. Women are expected to serve. Until the night comes . . .
At night, women may do what they please. They may say what they want. They may conduct business. They may love one another. They may even fight.
From this society comes Ashallah, a soldier who knows the night. She is part of an elite fighting force of women known as the midnight warriors, a female caste that battles other armies of women only under the cover of night.
Her family – consisting of her mother and sister – have only a general understanding of her dealings. All they know is that Ashallah disappears for days and nights on end to serve her nation, to return the same dutiful soldier she was sworn to be.
A quiet tension exists between the three. The mother, Niyusha, dotes and worries over her daughters. The sister, Orzala, though younger, seeks to chastise Ashallah for serving a country that oppresses them. Ashallah bears their questions and guilt in stride, more concerned with keeping up her appearance as a stoic fighter than with building a meaningful connection to her family.
Amidst the family strife, Ashallah learns her sister is part of a rebel band of women seeking more freedoms for the female citizens of Greater Dyli, a group known as the Shadya. Ashallah does all she can to disband the Shadya’s gatherings and influence on her sister. Her efforts are for naught, though. A near-rebellion leads the Grand Sultan to crush the mob with his most powerful weapon: a jinni. In one fell effort, the jinni kills the mob and all those close to it, including Ashallah’s mother and sister.
With her family gone and herself captured, Ashallah is nearly killed herself. That is until two strangers come to her rescue. They lead her to the edges of the empire as they are chased by the Sultan’s forces. In their plight, the strangers – Darya and Rahim – reveal themselves as turquoise, the children of the jinn. They teach Ashallah of their own struggle of how they, like Ashallah and her family, have suffered at the hands of the Grand Sultan.
Ashallah, motivated by grief and tired of running, resolves to end the one who is responsible for all of their problems: the Grand Sultan himself.
With the help of Rahim and Darya, Ashallah partners with the other oppressed peoples of Greater Dyli to mount a clandestine mission against the Sultan. Many are lost in the struggle, which leads once again to Ashallah’s capture, along with that of Rahim and Darya. This time, though, Darya sacrifices herself to allow Ashallah the chance to finish what they started. Ashallah prevails to finally defeat the Grand Sultan and end the era of misogyny that has plagued the women of Greater Dyli. In her victory, Ashallah becomes the next in line to rule, the Sultana.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joshua Rutherford
• Release date: Apr 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463940631

Joshua Rutherford

Joshua Rutherford has wanted to be a writer all his life. Through college and the more than dozen jobs that he has had, his passion for the written word has never ceased. After crafting several feature film screenplays and television pilots that were never produced, Joshua tried his hand at writing a novel. Sons of Chenia is the product of that effort. When Joshua is not writing - which isn’t often - he is spending quality time with his wife, Elisa. The two currently reside in Austin, TX.

Book preview

Acknowledgements

This novel was a struggle, one in which I learned much about myself as a writer. Along that journey, I had the diehard support of many family and friends I am blessed to have in my life. Rather than name the bulk of them here, know that each will receive from me my heartfelt thanks in person, for sometimes the written word fails to convey what must be said from the living and breathing. However, I will make special mention of the three individuals that form the foundation of my life: my wife and two sons. They are my North Star, my Falcon, and my Compass. Each day, they inspire me to become a better person. I push myself to improve and grow all because of them. To my family I extend my eternal gratitude.

Prologue

I hate the sun. And the flock of birds that fly across it.

I loathe the sea, the fish, and the trident.

I despise the cedar and the axe.

Damn them all.

Jalal.

Jalal glanced over his shoulder. His father, Kiyan, stood a stone’s throw away, beside their personal guard. His beard has so much gray, Jalal considered. Much more than when all this started. How long has it been? Six, maybe seven months since he first gave the army their marching orders? Jalal studied the gray again, which made up more than half the hairs, outnumbering the black. Just as our dead and wounded outnumber our able and ready. Jalal turned away.

Fingers, as though of iron, dug into the meaty flesh of his arm. Don’t you turn away! Kiyan demanded. The guards have been calling you for five minutes. Now you ignore me?

No, Jalal replied, solemnly. I’m simply giving my full focus to them.

Jalal nodded to the dry floodplain that stretched beneath the plateau where they stood. On its banks stood three camps. The first, to the south, was the furthest. Jalal knew its tribe, for even as their battle standard shook and flapped in the wind the burnt orange of its sun was striking. Against the backdrop of the brilliant sphere was sewn five ebony eagles, one for each of the siblings that founded the El Fayir tribe.

Their eagles might as well be vultures, Jalal told himself. The El Fayir men and women - known as the Sands and Winds, respectively – had carved out their meager empire by stalking the Canyonlands for caravans and travelers who were unfortunate enough to cross their paths. They prided themselves on attacking their victims in the heat of the day when they had stopped for rest and water. Descending from nooks and canyon outcroppings, with the sun at their backs, the Sands and Winds would use the blinding afternoon light to their advantage. Their victims would fall, knowing their attackers only by the silhouettes against the burning glow of day.

Beside the El Fayir were the Shoahan. Far from the sea, the Shoahan had somehow managed to muster a force that put the El Fayir to shame. Their tents outnumbered those of the El Fayir two to one. Furthermore, the Shoahan shelters were larger, nearly pavilions when compared to the two-sided khaki tops that housed the Sands and Winds. Ever proud of their maritime history, the Shoahan tents were of wool dyed shades of blue, so that from Jalal’s view the camp appeared to be ponds - elevated and suspended above the ground – with the wind rippling their raised surfaces. Despite the uniformity in shape and color, each tent told a story of voyages past, as every owner had painted on them emblems from the islands and nations they had visited.

At the four points of the Shoahan camp, on poles that also carried weathervanes, flapped their standard. Jalal narrowed his eyes as he looked upon it with Kiyan. Navy blue it was, with nine silver fish representing the Shoahan home islands, surrounding an upright golden trident.

The northernmost camp was also the smallest of the three. The least impressive, whether viewed from the plateau or up close. Nonetheless, it was the one that hurt his father most. Jalal searched his father’s face for but a moment. That was all he needed. Jalal saw the skin around his eyes crease as he focused on the battle standard of a lone cedar against white, with two axes crossed before it.

That camp belonged to the Syniad, the foresters of the Lowland Zajire, led by Inci, a woman of high birth, a gifted general, a wise sultana – and Kiyan’s half-sister.

To the family guards, Kiyan’s actions were nothing more than their leader sizing up the enemy. Jalal knew better. His father focused on each camp a little too long, the smallest and last being no exception. Such pause signaled the pain of loss, apparent only to Jalal, no matter how well Kiyan tried to hide it. His fists unfurled ever so slightly. His shoulders lowered a hair’s length. The creases around his eyes were more apparent. The change was subtle. Nevertheless, it was there.

Then, as though sensing his own weakness, Kiyan swung around to face his son and guards. The creases had disappeared and the stone-faced man everyone in their land had come to respect returned, even if only as a façade.

Ready my war council, Kiyan roared. I expect all generals to be briefed by their scouts within the hour. Until then, I’ll be in my pavilion. He strode a few steps before stopping before his son. A word, he said low, but not so low that his guards could not hear. Kiyan continued past his security detail, who stood at attention and saluted him as he passed. Jalal followed, albeit reluctantly. Each guard he went by kept their salute up, remaining stoic. However, he felt their gaze upon him with a mixture of fear and pity.

The guards in his father’s pavilion were no different when Jalal entered. Although an effendi of the army and a son of the sultan, Jalal nonetheless knelt on one knee and bowed his head before his father, who sat in the gilded throne chair in the pavilion’s center. Kiyan raised the palm of his hand. Leave us.

The guards complied, the scales on their armor clanging as they exited while Jalal kept his head tilted. His gaze found the ruby red and indigo threads of the rich rug before him, the work of the finest tailors in Salek, which dazzled in the morning light as it streamed in behind him. Then the clanging of scales was gone, and a moment later, the morning light as the pavilion flaps closed. With only the subtle light of the coals in the braziers, the rug had lost its luster, its brilliance suddenly faded.

Stand, my son. There is no further need to put on airs and graces.

Jalal raised his head. He found his father off his throne and at a side table, pouring two small glasses of jade tea. Kiyan beckoned Jalal forward and handed him one. Spiced, Kiyan began. With cinnamon and licorice, just the way you like it.

My favorite drink as a child, Jalal replied. That was quite some time ago.

In your eyes, yes. In mine, not so much. Kiyan raised his glass to his son, who returned the gesture. The two sipped, allowing a pause between them. Kiyan looked down into his glass. He looked less confident than usual. Almost melancholy. This is not the sultan I know, Jalal thought to himself. And only himself.

Our position in these lands was so much better when you were a child, Kiyan continued. Our country was more than it is now. Like an empire rather than a single nation under one standard. Foreigners trembled at the mention of our name. Young men joined our ranks assured of victory and riches. Enemies at our borders quaked at the thought of meeting us at battle. I only wish I could say the same of us now.

Then what happened? Jalal asked even though he knew where this conversation would end. His father had told him half a hundred times before, especially upon learning of dire news. He went ahead and inquired, for he knew the sultan before him needed validation at this moment, if only in the form of feigned interest and curiosity.

I’ll tell you, Kiyan took a sip of his jade tea, his son’s pity unbeknownst to him. I gave in to others. I received the counsel of fools. From generals who were weary of war. From viziers at home and ministers abroad who preached peace and humanity above glory and conquest. From imams and mystics who foretold doom if I did not lay down my kilij and my dagger. I put aside my pride, my ambition, for the greater good. Now, look where my forced inaction has led. Kiyan set his glass on the table, his fingers suspended over its mosaic tiles.

Jalal, with the heat of a thousand fires pulsating through his veins, threw his glass onto the ground. Shattered pieces flew in all directions as he stepped up to his father. We can fight our way through their lines! Our horses are well fed and watered; our kilijs are sharpened, our cries louder than all. They will hear us roar and will scatter like jackals before lions. Their lines will break. Their tents will burn. We will route their cowardly hides into the desert to perish under the afternoon sun.

Kiyan raised his eyes to his son, his look a blend of pride and sorrow. Good, he said. Good. You have the blaze of youth. You will need it to find the jinni.

Jalal, not one to show a pause, shuffled back. The jinni? Me?

Is that not why we came here?

Well, yes.

Isn’t that why we crossed two nations into this no man’s land?

Yes. Again, yes. Jalal confirmed.

He turned away from his father, to face one of the tapestries that hung from the horizontal supports of the pavilion’s crown. Stitched and woven into the center of the maroon and gold cloth was the creature he had seen referenced in book and song, in plays and poems: a jinni. The image on the tapestry - an ancient cloth passed down for dozens of generations - had long been his favorite for it was the one that came the closest to his imagination of the mystical soldiers of Jaha. A being, not unlike a man, levitated over the scene of a pastoral village. The scale of the jinni to the village was enormous, as the length of his body stretched vertically from end to end of the cloth, covering the span of the buildings and farmhouses beneath him. The entire village stood in immaculate detail, as each stitch managed to capture some aspect of commoner life: a shepherd amongst grazing sheep, a blacksmith at his anvil, a washerwoman at the communal fountain. For all the beauty of the lower half, the upper part – where the jinni levitated – proved most striking, attracted Jalal’s attention first. Fabric of the most radiant turquoise tone he had ever seen composed the exposed torso and extremities of the jinni. His trousers were a rich burgundy, while the hair of his head and beard were jet black. Above all, though, were the eyes. Two sapphires, each carved in a whirl cut, stood in place of eyes. As a boy, Jalal remembered tales in which the precious gemstones found in mines were once the eyes of past jinn and their children. Jalal had brushed off the notion more often than naught but had always wondered if the legend were true.

You know, father…

Jalal froze. The creases around his father’s eyes deepened. His posture had lessened as his shoulders drooped. Moreover, he had his hand over his heart, a rare gesture of weakness for the Desert Lion of Dyli.

Then his right knee buckled. He leaned forward as Jalal stretched out his arms to catch him.

Father!

Not so loud, Kiyan managed. He pursed his lips, to summon his strength. He glanced off to the side, and then back to his son, who knew what to do.

Jalal gently released his father before turning to the chest to his left. In a few quick steps, he was before it on one knee, its lid wide open as he searched the contents. An array of glass jars, most coated from the inside by a black film, laid stacked within. Jalal shook one after another, tossing the empty jars aside.

Son. Hurry.

Strained, the words skimmed upon Jalal’s ears. They lacked power. If the others heard him now, Jalal considered, they would lose their respect for him. The generals. Their soldiers. All his viziers. Even his personal guards. A legacy created over decades snuffed out by one display of weakness.

Finally, Jalal chanced upon an alabaster jar that offered the hint of weight in his hand. He opened the lid to find it half-full of red and black powder. He turned back to his father, who already had his hand outstretched in anticipation.

The three steps Jalal took to reach his father seemed an eternity in time, a mountain of effort to move one foot, then another. In the span of such difficulty, Jalal’s stare focused on his father’s eyes. They had widened, displaying the anxiety and cowardice of their owner. His mouth was ajar, much like how a soldier contorts his face upon seeing the deathblow that will take his life.

No. This cannot be the man I worshipped. Do not let me remember this as his last breath.

At last, Jalal kneeled by his side. He tipped the contents of the jar into his hand. Even in the low light of the pavilion, the powder gleamed. Kiyan threw his head back as he emptied his hand into his mouth, choking down the red and black flecks.

His chest heaved. His nostrils flared. His eyes – which only moments before held the fear of ten thousand dastards – focused. The look of a leader, of a sultan, returned to his face.

Kiyan brushed his son’s hands away as he rose unassisted. He paced the room, his gaze shifting from the ground he walked on to the treasures of his tent, seemingly never satisfied with what he saw. Then he turned his attention to the jar still in his hand.

When they die – when a jinni passes from this world to the next – their power remains. It is a rare thing for the Survivors of Heaven to depart. Yet it has happened, usually when the jinni’s master wills it, or the jinni is defeated in battle by another supernatural. The result of such a death is this. Kiyan held out the jar. The jinni dissolves into granules, a handful of which can stave off death, extend life. The same has been said of the children of the jinn, the product of a jinni and a woman. Their dust can prolong the days of one, even he who should have fallen a long time ago.

Kiyan paced again, albeit slowly. Jalal knew of the sickness his father referred to, but never admitted openly. A year prior, the sultan’s strength showed signs of waning. It was a difference not apparent to all except Jalal and a few of his brothers. Yet it was enough to shake their faith. Both in their father and in Jaha himself.

Kiyan paused. He looked at his son. Suddenly, rage overtook him. He threw the jar in his hand to the ground with a force that shattered the alabaster into a thousand pieces.

That must be the last time, Kiyan proclaimed. "The last time I fall. That I show weakness. That my blood should doubt our bloodline. Nay, that must be the last time our blood displays anything that is not strength."

Kiyan looked down to his son, who remained knelt on the ground. He extended his hand. Give me the jar.

Jalal held it out. Kiyan took it, then his son’s hand as he pulled him to his feet.

Promise me. Never a moment of weakness. No matter what. Never.

Never, Jalal replied.

Kiyan patted him on the shoulders. Good. Kiyan looked to the tapestry with the jinni, as did Jalal. You remember that. For one day, it will be you who command them.

But only a sultana or sultan can control the jinn...

Jalal paused. Kiyan nodded his head slightly, and but once, as if in answer to the unspoken question Jalal did not pose.

Jalal knew the weight of his father’s decision. As the ninth-born of twenty-two sons, Jalal knew that he was not the next in line to inherit his father’s title. While Inci had made quick work of two of his older brothers, six more remained in line ahead of him to claim the seat of Dyli. Two were even slightly better in combat. Nevertheless, nearly all his siblings, both older and younger, had failed Kiyan in some way, knowing that their position amongst other lands and kingdoms had faded in recent years. Most of the sons of Kiyan either defected to Syniad or their allies or withdrew to their pleasure palaces or pavilions to squander the family fortune. Through all the betrayal, Jalal had stayed faithful. He had become his father’s right hand, his confidant, the jinni to his wishes. Where his brothers had failed, his loyalty had endured.

Still, the mention caught Jalal off guard. The bestowing of the title of sultan was not to be considered lightly. With the glory came the price, which included more tutelage by viziers, more time spent at court and most importantly, more guards present at all times. The last condition was enough to give any man, no matter how delusional or brave, a moment of pause. For few newly appointed sultans survived their first year on the seat, and almost none lived long enough to wither in old age.

Kiyan sensed the weight that his words had on his son. Speak your mind, Jalal. There is no court in attendance to judge you.

The generals and viziers will not be pleased, Jalal said pointedly. Hardly news to his father, but the only thought he could put together in response. Even the most presumptuous heir knows that weeks of conversation and debate must go by once it is announced that the sultan is thinking of naming his successor.

If their counsel were worth even a bushel of grain, then we wouldn’t have woken to find our enemies outside our defenses. Besides, the bulk of them will be dead by sun’s end.

And you? Where do you intend to be by then? That you, my sultan, should announce my succession now?

Kiyan smiled. Jalal was taken aback. There were so few moments when he had seen his father show joy, even when feigned.

Either by your side, Kiyan answered, his old self having suddenly returned, if only for the benefit of his son. Or in Hell, brandishing my kilij against the Devil himself.

Jalal could not help but grin in return. There is the father I know, he assured himself.

***

With a shade of ebony darker than a starless night, Nire was a remarkable sight. A purebred Dylian stallion, he made both Jalal and Kiyan appear as babes as it towered over them. Every curve and ridge, each muscle, looked as though it had been carved from obsidian, for its coat was brushed with olive oil every morning. The stallion’s high tail carriage added to its regal demeanor, a quality that was not lost on Kiyan. Jalal watched as his father strode to his horse, with every guard, horse handler, and servant bowing as he passed.

Jalal, in awe of his command, was hardly without. He marched to the other end of the war camp, where his detail had his horse ready for him. The hue of sandstone, Yaar was himself a grand specimen. More like a gazelle than a horse in appearance, Yaar was of the Ak-Nobl, a breed that dated back some three thousand years to the Dajestani Dynasty. Slender though he was, Jalal could attest to the fact that Yaar was strong and without equal in speed amongst the other Dylian cavalry horses.

Yaar neighed as Jalal approached. Hafez, his grand handler, stroked the length of his nose. Our best mount is eager to carry my effendi, Hafez boasted.

Then I shall not disappoint, Jalal answered. He lifted his foot into the stirrup with ease, motioning away from the squires who obligatorily stood by. As he threw his leg over his stallion, his gaze returned to his father’s entourage, which had swelled since he mounted Nire. With each additional cavalry rider came the glint off of a lance or the sight of a kilij sword in its scabbard. Yes, Jalal thought, join my father. Bolster his pride, his spirit. May he never know weakness again.

My effendi, Hafez said, his head bowed, suspecting that he was disrupting Jalal’s thoughts. What is your command?

Jalal swung his stallion around. His guards, five in all, was much smaller than that of his father. Over the years, they had been ever loyal to him in his missions and campaigns. While the guards of his brothers had become derelicts or drunks, Jalal’s entourage stood intact, even with their trek into the unknown.

Jalal sat a little taller in his saddle as he bellowed. We stay inside the right flank, just as in our marches. If battle erupts and the outer flank of cavalry fail, we are to fall in line with my father’s guards. Understood?

Hafez bowed his head, as did the other four.

***

He stared up at Jalal. The green in his irises was even more striking as the afternoon sun hit them. Jalal only wanted to see them and ignore the strands of flesh that dangled from Hafez’s severed neckline. Beneath the dune that cradled his head, grains of sand soaked the red stream of him and many others, absorbing all of the dreams, desires, and sins of the lifeless.

Only the shriek of an oncoming assailant woke Jalal from his trance. The black strands of a foreign beard were nearly upon Jalal before the tip of his kilij sword found muscle and entrails. The man fell into Jalal, his rage emptied. Jalal slid him onto the ground where he joined the others.

Jalal stumbled back over the bodies to the crest of the dune. An impressive array of corpses encircled him, his father and their eight warriors who remained. Most were either male or female soldiers, although a few horses and camels laid among the newfound dead. Their ranks varied, with the lowliest in mismatched armor while the highest among them bore polished mail over fine silk and linen. No matter their prestige or lack thereof, the dead rested in unison, their social status wiped clean.

A grunt caught Jalal’s attention. He looked over his shoulder to find one of their soldiers gripping his neck as an arrow shaft protruded. The soldier, one of their best, sunk to his knees before his face found the sand.

Ahead of Jalal, an archer lowered her bow as she drew an arrow from her quiver. As she nocked it, other archers crested the neighboring dunes. From all camps they came – the El Fayir, the Shoahan, and the Syniad – to approach the last survivors of the Dylian army.

Jalal turned to Kiyan, who stood at the highest point of their dune. With the agility of a painted cheetah, Jalal hopped over body and weapon to find himself by his father’s side. He scooped leather shield, bent and broken amidst the heat of battle, to provide themselves with some protection.

Then they saw her. A shimmering figure of gold and violet, as though she was a walking jewel. The Sultana. Inci.

She stopped atop the dune directly across from them. Tall and straight she was, with the kilij in her left hand nearly half the length of her body. She raised her left index finger slightly, and that seemed to be enough. All stares – not just those of her Syniadian archers, but the ones of the El Fayir and Shoahan as well – were upon her, for in unison with her finger they raised their nocked bows. And with its lowering, the archers unleashed their fury.

A rain of death it was. Precise without fault, each shaft found its mark. The last of the Dylian soldiers fell, leaving Jalal and Kiyan unscathed.

In disgust and anger, Kiyan threw his kilij toward Inci. It clanged against the scaled armor of a female captain at the base of their dune, the metallic sound echoing. You damn bitch! screamed Kiyan. I’ll peel the skin from your hide for all of this!

No, Inci replied flatly.

You are of my blood. I gave you the highest honor in my court. I gifted you with ivory, gold leaf, and jewels. And this is how you repay me? The eldest son of your father!

Your presents were but testaments to your false glory. Your generosity was a ruse, empty gestures meant to veil your contempt for every woman in your family. Inci’s words were as strong as a torrent yet flowed as silk, the wind carrying them over the dunes to their ears. You never saw us as equals. None of us. Not your mother. Nor me. Nor the rest of my sisters. Not your concubines. Neither your wives nor slaves. None of us. Not one woman.

But our father...

Was the only link between you and me. A man who hated women almost as much as you do.

No Dylian will ever bow to you.

Do you not recognize those from your land? Inci said as she gestured to the ones around her. So many already have. The rest will follow. Especially when they see their sultan as my captive.

Inci made her way through the corpses toward them. Her entourage of warriors did likewise, the men and women of her flock moving in unison to her movements. From among them, Jalal heard the clank of metal on metal. He scanned the ongoing horde to find some with iron chains, shackles and fetters in their hands, no doubt meant for him and Kiyan.

I did this...

Jalal turned to find his father bent over. He went down to one knee as he drew his dagger, looking upon the approaching enemy.

Father, you did all that you could...

No, I didn’t. I showed mercy to my enemies. That was my gravest mistake. I should have been stronger. For my nation. My family. For you, Jalal. For you. No wonder all of my other kin and children have abandoned my side. You should have joined them.

Jalal kneeled before his father. Never.

Defiant till the end. You are my son. Kiyan placed his hand on his shoulder to pull him close. If you should survive this, finish our journey. Find the jinni. This sultana may discover our maps, but she has no full knowledge of the terrain we have traversed or the tales we have heard from the locals. It is up to you to find the Survivors of Heaven, the jinni, the ones who can restore our birthright and save what legacy we have left. Swear to me, Jalal. That until your last breath, you will do all to find the jinni. Swear it.

The long and thin shadow of Inci came between them. Jalal and Kiyan turned to her, disdain written across their faces, pure hatred spewing from their gazes. Inci, by comparison, was emotionless but for the slightest smirk that formed the hint of a curl on her lips.

One more thing, Kiyan began as his son turned his attention back to him. When you survive this, be sure never to show mercy. Never. Especially to her kind. Take everything for yourself. Crush all your enemies, plow through them without haste. You can do it, Jalal. I know you can...

Enough of this old man’s rantings, Inci interrupted. Seize them.

Jalal, Kiyan said as he raised the tip of his dagger toward the heavens while he stared at his son. The enemy around him paused.

Father, Jalal replied.

Conquer the known world.

With that, the dagger disappeared from the blue canvas above. Jalal stared down, finding the blade gone, the hilt protruding from the sultan’s gut. Kiyan fell to his knees. Jalal rushed to his side to cradle him. Blood ran over the links and scales of his mail and gurgled from his mouth. Jalal, having not known his tears for a very long time, cried, turning his face into a floodplain.

The tall, thin shadow found its way over Jalal. Once, when in the yard at his citadel, your father told me that no enemy would ever take him alive. I should have known he would take his own words to heart.

He was a leader of his word, Jalal said through his clenched teeth and tears. Unlike you.

Pity, Inci replied. I would have liked a captive as proud as your father. A true sultan. But I suppose I will have to settle for you.

Inci’s shadow withdrew, replaced by the clank of scales and chains. Jalal managed a few swings of his kilij before a chain coiled around his right arm, then his left. His back found the sand. His tears, having just kissed the desert air, met the rough spun wool of a black hood.

Chapter 1

Drops rolled down the length of her spine. Ashallah saw tiny bumps of flesh quiver in their wake. She shivers, she realized. If only I could be the one to warm her. That would be a welcome assignment.

The rest of the concubine’s body glistened with a thin layer of sweat. Her forearms. The meat of her legs sticking out between the cuts of her skirt. Her breasts.

Ashallah blinked, regaining her focus. Her lips parted as if to whisper the words she wanted to say.

I am the eclipse to the sun of my enemies. I am strong. I am midnight.

Behind the concubine, sprawled across her bed, stirred a customer. For Ashallah, that alone was enough to spoil the sight of young, tight female flesh.

The man threw off the covers and grunted as he sat up. The coarse, black hairs on his chest rose and then fell as he stretched. Like the other men, Ashallah had seen in the brothel; this one was the brutish sort. Older, unbathed, crass. His looks did not betray his demeanor, as he had turned lecherous and rough once the concubine had shown him to the room. The man did not even bother to close the door before he ripped the dress from the concubine and took her, thereby allowing other customers to peek in and watch.

The concubine shivered. Not from fright, Ashallah knew. From disgust. The woman wrapped a towel around her shoulders to cover herself as she turned to perform her tasks once more.

The brute yawned. He looked to the concubine, his conquest. He scratched his groin.

In a bit, he murmured.

He lied back down. Within moments, his chest heaved as his snores echoed through the room.

The concubine’s lip curled into a smile. She turned to her closet, where she threw off her towel and skirt, allowing Ashallah a glimpse of her slender figure before putting on a robe of red silk and gold thread. Ashallah, her lust peaked, stared at the graceful figure as her robe swayed back and forth, silently brushing the marble tiles as the concubine left the room.

From behind the lattice, Ashallah continued to watch the brute on the bed. She had never seen a whale in person, but she had heard of them. The tales of their size, their girth, were well known. Portly creatures Ashallah knew. She imagined that had one washed up on a Dylian shore, dried out and sprouted thick, black hair, that such a beast would be similar to the one before her.

His appearance is of no consequence, she reminded herself. Now he will meet his fate. To remain in darkness. Eternal midnight.

Ashallah extended her foot to the balustrade. The cool stone greeted her sand-covered sole, then the other. Ashallah released the lattice as she knelt on the railing. She leaped into the room, not even bothering to touch the balcony. An unnecessary move, certainly. However, Ashallah had been in waiting for so long that she felt the urge to stretch and jump, if for no other reason than to exercise.

A few long strides took Ashallah to the side of the bed. The transparent silk drapes, perhaps sensing what was to come, parted with the incoming breeze, relenting their cover to become gliding specters of the night.

The dagger in her hand felt light. She had opted for a small, seldom-used piece from her arsenal, one of the few she had procured from the armory of Yasem. Few smiths there knew how to craft proper steel, but her dagger was the exception, being one of the last crafted by the master smith Lazat before his death. With the thin edge and curves of a khukuri blade on both sides, it lacked the heavy, dull edge on its top side. That meant