Escape from Alamut

Aryan dug his nails into his thigh, desperate to fend off the sleepiness that pursued him relentlessly. He had been riding through the night, exhaustion and dizziness overtaking him, his limbs heavy from weariness. Only now did he fully grasp the grueling ordeal of horseback travel. As a child, during the arduous migration from the Western Kingdom to Central Asia, he had nestled in the arms of his family, blissfully unaware of the harshness of the desert.

Reining in his horse, he faced a fork in the road: one path veering northward, the other south. His master Sabir had only instructed him to head east but had not mentioned which route to take.

Fortune brought travelers along the road, yet misfortune followed: none of the early passersby spoke the Western Kingdom's tongue. Frustrated by the delay and unwilling to wait idly, Aryan arbitrarily chose the northern path. After some distance, he encountered a group of herders, one of whom spoke fluent Western Kingdom dialect. To Aryan's dismay, the man informed him he had taken the wrong path. When Aryan mentioned his search for "Marshal Yang," the herder burst into laughter.

"There's no Marshal Yang in the capital, nor anywhere in the Kingdom of Xorazm."

"My master wouldn't lie. If he says there is, then there must be," Aryan retorted with firm conviction, though he doubted this simple herder had ever encountered high-ranking officials.

"Ha! Your master spins good tales. Xorazm has generals and captains but no marshals. And even if we had one, why would he be a Western Kingdom man named Yang?"

The herders laughed as they departed, leaving Aryan standing alone, bewildered.

Aryan was no fool, merely naive. Having never been deceived, his greatest life challenges had been nothing more than playful bullying from his two elder brothers. But as he began to reconsider the situation carefully, an ominous realization settled in: the entire affair was riddled with contradictions.

A growing sense of dread clawed at his chest.

He turned his horse back and galloped toward the original path, his expression grim. The uneasy realization that he had been excluded from family affairs gnawed at him. What explanation could his father and Sabir possibly give him when they reunited?

By midday, Aryan had yet to find his sister and her companions. A caravan heading east crossed his path, their faces taut with fear, as if they had narrowly escaped calamity. A man, perhaps out of compassion, shouted at the boy racing past:

"Turn back! Turn back!"

Aryan ignored the warning, his heart tightening further. His horse, now foaming at the mouth, was driven relentlessly forward by his unyielding whip.

Half an hour later, a chilling sight loomed ahead: a long spear planted upright by the roadside, swaying slightly in the wind, its tip adorned with a severed head, white hair disheveled and fluttering.

Drawing closer, Aryan's heart sank. It was his master, the loyal Sabir. His wide-open eyes stared into nothingness, a silent protest against his untimely death.

This man, who had once skewered three enemies on his lance, had been reduced to such a humiliating end in a single night. The perpetrator, no doubt seeking to demonstrate their dominance, had displayed Sabir's head atop the spear for all to see.

Nearby lay other bodies—more than one.

Sabir's headless corpse rested near the spear, untouched by any other wounds. Whoever killed him had done so with a single, decisive stroke. Aryan couldn't fathom the level of martial skill required to dispatch him so effortlessly.

Beside him lay the maidservant, her body riddled with gashes, her face and chest marred by savage cuts. Though untrained in combat, her assailants had inflicted far more blows than necessary, as if reveling in her torment.

The third was Halim, the young pageboy, still clad in Aryan's brother's clothing. Aryan recognized him only by his attire; his head was missing, neither mounted on a spear nor left nearby.

Aryan collapsed from his horse, falling to his knees, retching uncontrollably until his stomach was empty. Forcing himself to rise, he turned his gaze to the final corpse, one that struck him as odd.

A flicker of relief crossed his mind—it was not his sister. The body belonged to an unfamiliar boy of his age, battered and bloodied like the maid. Aryan had never seen him before.

Mounting his horse again, Aryan rode westward with renewed urgency. He had to find his sister, uncover her fate, and demand answers upon returning home.

The Gulen family had no known enemies—neither in the Western Kingdom nor in Central Asia.

By dusk, Aryan reached the village at the foot of his family estate. The dozen or so tenant farmers who lived there were usually bustling at this hour, their homes warmed by cooking fires. Tonight, every door was shut, and no smoke rose into the sky.

Looking up the hill, Aryan saw only the charred remnants of the Gulen estate.

He dismounted before the ruined gates and stood motionless, staring at the blackened ruins. It felt like a cruel dream from which he could not wake.

Was his home truly gone? Was his family really dead?

Treading on still-warm debris, Aryan combed through the remnants of each room as if the walls and roof still stood.

This was no battle; it was a slaughter. Every body lay where it had fallen, burned beyond recognition. From their positions, Aryan could roughly deduce their identities.

His father and mother lay side by side, their heads severed, their skeletal remains frail and small beneath layers of rubble. His father, once a paragon of martial strength, had died without even a hint of resistance.

His brothers shared a similar fate, their honed skills utterly wasted.

Servants and guards had been left intact, as if the killers cared only for the heads of the Gulen family.

But his sister was nowhere to be found.

Amid the ash and ruin, Aryan felt only fear. Raised in comfort and protected by love, he had suddenly been thrust into a world of devastation. Who would shield him now? Guide him?

He had dreamed of adulthood as a distant inevitability, waiting until his sister's marriage to step into the world as a man. Now, he was alone, his path shrouded in uncertainty.

Anger soon replaced fear. He would find his sister. He would avenge his family. He would destroy every enemy, no matter how many or how powerful.

Rage cleared his mind. Vengeance required strength, and strength demanded resources.

Searching the rubble, Aryan unearthed a small stash of silver hidden under his second brother's bed. Fighting back tears as he shifted his brother's body, he reminded himself: tears were useless now. What once brought comfort as a child now signified only weakness and disgrace.

Revenge was a long road, and Aryan didn't even know his enemy. First, he had to decide what to do with his family's remains.

Gently gathering the shattered bones of his brothers, he placed them alongside his parents' remains. But this home was no longer a sanctuary. Soon, it would be an abandoned ruin, overgrown and desecrated. He couldn't bear the thought of his family's bones being trampled and defiled.

With steely resolve, Aryan knelt and crushed the bones into ash with a brick. Tears streamed down his face as he scattered the ashes into the wind.

"Damn the heavens!" he cried.

Yet it was the heavens, in their capricious cruelty, that next granted him a lifeline. As Aryan cast the brick in frustration, it struck the charred remnants of a pomegranate tree, breaking apart a clay pot beneath. Within the shattered pot was a small, oilcloth-wrapped package.

Unwrapping it, Aryan found a book—his family's long-lost manual of the Gulen Sword Technique.

Among its secrets was a rapid training method, though fraught with peril. If mastered, the technique promised unmatched prowess.

For the first time, Aryan felt his anger harden into purpose. This was no accident—it was divine will.

But first, he had to find his sister Hafsa. She might still be alive, enduring suffering somewhere far away.

At that moment, a sharp whistle pierced the air outside the ruins, its shrill tone chilling the silent night.