Escape from Alamut

Under the cover of night, the old servant Sabir led the way as the group of five traversed a stretch of grassland, crossed a low hill, and reached the estate's only dirt road. The lush grass gave way abruptly to hardened soil and scattered stones—a step forward, and they seemed to enter an entirely different world. Halim, the young page, let out a whimper of fear.

Aryan drifted in and out of a dreamlike state. The nocturnal journey, his sister's impending marriage, and the short sword strapped to his waist all felt strangely unreal. It wasn't until dawn broke and light streamed in from ahead that he shook off his stupor, startled to realize the sun rose in front of them.

"Wait, are we heading east?"

Hafsa's new home was in the Western Kingdom; the bridal procession was supposed to travel west.

Sabir gave a noncommittal grunt, as if Aryan's question didn't merit a response. After a pause, he said, "We're heading to Xorazm first. The city's soldiers will escort us."

"Xorazm?" Aryan exclaimed, excitement lighting up his face. Xorazm was the capital of the largest kingdom in Central Asia—a sprawling, bustling metropolis. Though he'd heard tales of its grandeur since childhood, he had never set foot in it.

Gulen, his father, had once held high office in the Western Kingdom, so it wasn't surprising that Xorazm would send soldiers to accompany them. What did surprise Aryan was how modest their own retinue seemed by comparison.

Hafsa remained composed on horseback, showing no objection to the detour. Aryan, now fully awake, rode alongside her, chattering about all the marvels they would see in Xorazm. Drawing his short sword, he practiced a few exaggerated swings. Hafsa, reserved as ever, occasionally advised him to be careful, her tone as gentle as a mother's. Despite being only three years older, she watched over her mischievous brother with a maternal tenderness.

The group moved slowly, accommodating the two young women. By noon, the scorching sun bore down relentlessly. Hafsa and her maid, though visibly swaying with exhaustion, endured in silence. Aryan, feeling for his sister and struggling with the heat himself, began loudly demanding food and water.

It was then that faint hoofbeats sounded in the distance.

Sabir dismounted, listening intently, before retrieving his trusted long spear from the right side of his horse. Standing resolutely in the middle of the dirt road, his white hair fluttered in the breeze, he cut an imposing figure.

The others instinctively retreated to the roadside, all except Aryan. His eyes lit up as he jumped down from his horse, sword drawn, and took his place beside Sabir.

"Don't worry, Sister—I'll handle the bandits!"

Sabir raised his spear horizontally, nudging Aryan behind him with the shaft. "Don't get in my way."

Sabir held considerable authority in the Gulen household. Apart from Lord Gulen, he answered to no one and treated Aryan, his nominal apprentice, with particular strictness.

Aryan scowled, waving his short sword in protest, eager to prove himself. But before he could act, a cloud of dust appeared on the horizon. The pursuers had arrived.

Three riders dressed in black reined in their horses twenty paces away, each unsheathing a blade.

"Those of Gulen's house should return to Gulen's house," the lead rider said, his voice cold and grating like rusted iron.

"Nameless vermin should crawl back to their holes," Sabir retorted, raising his spear.

The Gulen family prided itself on mastering both spear and sword, beginning with the latter before advancing to the former. Sabir, an expert in spear techniques, faced the three foes without a trace of fear.

The black-clad rider on the left spurred his horse forward, blade slashing down.

Sabir assumed a stance with his spear angled upward, knees bent—a posture resembling a farmer wielding a hoe to fend off a wolf.

As the attacker neared, his blade poised to strike, Sabir's spear shot forward in a deceptively simple thrust.

The move lacked any flourish and appeared almost effortless, as though a child could evade it. Yet the black-clad man failed to react in time. The spear struck true, piercing his chest and sending him tumbling from his horse without a sound. His riderless horse galloped a short distance before coming to an uneasy halt.

The remaining two riders instinctively urged their mounts backward.

Aryan, on the other hand, darted forward in exhilaration. He had always doubted his master's martial prowess, particularly Sabir's repetitive spear technique, which seemed overly simplistic. But witnessing its lethality firsthand, he looked upon both his teacher and the family's spear techniques with newfound respect.

The two remaining riders exchanged glances before charging simultaneously, one from the left and the other from the right, attempting a pincer attack.

Aryan, eager to test his short sword, advanced as well. He had never formally learned swordsmanship, only dabbling in a few rudimentary blade techniques. To him, wielding a sword felt no different from using a knife.

Sabir once again nudged him aside with the spear shaft, resuming his crouched stance. Though it seemed he only knew a single move, for Sabir, that move was enough.

He had devoted decades to perfecting the Gulen spear technique, practicing no fewer than a thousand thrusts daily, rain or shine. To the untrained eye, his strike appeared unremarkable, but to him, it was a culmination of countless refinements—simple yet profound.

The two riders closed in.

Sabir struck twice in quick succession. The speed of his thrusts made it seem as though both attacks occurred simultaneously.

One rider fell silently from his horse, while the other let out a scream, swaying precariously before spurring his mount westward in retreat.

Sabir turned, hefting his spear in one hand. After a moment's aim, he hurled it with all his might. The spear flew like a javelin, swift and straight, impaling the fleeing rider through the chest. The man crumpled to the ground like a discarded rag doll.

"Master Sabir!" Aryan cried out, both thrilled and awed. "Teach me the spear technique!"

"Strike a target five hundred times a day for three years to build a foundation. Then, a thousand times daily for a decade. That's how you master it."

"Forget it. I'd rather learn swordsmanship—it's quicker and more impressive."

Sabir merely grunted, retrieving his bloodstained spear from the corpse. Without another word, he mounted his horse and resumed their journey, leaving the bodies to lie unheeded by the roadside.

The journey continued, the air heavy with tension. As night fell, Sabir finally allowed a brief rest. They sat on roadside stones, weary and hungry, while Sabir kept a vigilant eye to the east.

Aryan, still skeptical of Sabir's caution, muttered to himself. With three dead bandits left as a warning, who would dare pursue them further?

Sabir interrupted his thoughts. "Young master Aryan, I have an important task for you. Would you be willing to take it on?"

"Of course! Is it about dealing with more bandits?" Aryan leapt to his feet, excitement rekindled.

"Indeed. But this task won't be easy. If you find it too difficult, you don't have to force yourself."

"The harder, the better," Aryan declared proudly, gripping the hilt of his sword.

"I need you to ride swiftly to Xorazm and request reinforcements."

"Reinforcements? Didn't we just deal with the bandits?"

"There may be more pursuing us, too many for just the two of us to handle. Your sister's safety must come first."

Aryan glanced at Hafsa, then nodded resolutely. "Who should I find? The king?"

"No, seek out Marshal Yang. Tell him Sabir sent you—he will understand."

With Sabir's arrangements complete, Aryan set off eagerly. Yet behind him, Hafsa watched his fading silhouette with a sigh, murmuring, "May the horse run fast—and may he never look back."

Sabir's expression shifted subtly. Though the young lady was of tender age and gentle temperament, her keen insight surpassed her years. Many truths had not escaped her discerning gaze, and in her heart, she had already pieced together much of the situation.

"Forgive me, my lady," Sabir said, kneeling on one knee, his voice laden with sorrow. "After much deliberation, this old servant could think of no way to save more than one."

"Uncle Sabir, rise at once," the young lady replied, her tone calm yet resolute. "To save my brother is to save the entire Gulen family. What crime could there be in that?"

Young servant Halim and the maid exchanged bewildered glances, not comprehending the lady's words but sensing an ominous foreboding settling in their hearts.