Work Text:
Never as Simple as It Should Be
Fandom: Tracy Hickman and Margaret Weis - Rose of the Prophet Trilogy
Disclaimer: The Rose of the Prophet trilogy of books and all of the characters who appear here or are mentioned belong to TSR Inc, and are the original creations of Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman; they are not mine.
Written for starjette's previously unfilled request in the Yuletide New Year's 2009 Challenge.
They called him the Kafir, he had been with the main vanguard of the Amir's army long enough to have picked up a more than a smattering of the language; even in the rough guttural sort as spoken by the common foot soldiers. The fact that he was an outsider and rode with the cavalry would always set him apart. Achmed had known that from the first.
The word itself meant Unbeliever. Sometimes, at night, asleep in his tent, shedding tears that he was both too proud and too ashamed to allow anyone else to witness, Achmed would wake up in the middle of a sound sleep, screaming and with a chill sweat.
"Why? Why did this have to happen to me? Why did YOU turn your back to me, Akhran?"
Achmed growled under his breath and then cursed. "Listen to yourself, you miserable fool. Akhran is not here. Your brother is not here. I have only myself on which to depend on, and that must be enough; No, that must be more than enough."
His meandering thoughts were as much tangled as the sheep-skin blankets that had somehow wound up somewhere around his bare feet.
Achmed very much wished that he could banish those memories that disturbed his slumber as easily as he could banish the sand from his boots and the grit from his blanket and robes as part of his daily morning and night time routine. Aloud he muttered to himself,
"Back in the Zindan, the Amir's words made sense, "we do not beat the whipped dog." he had said, I believed him then and I truly believe them now. A man who dies on his sword with honor does not save his family. And I truly did not wish to die!
His life in the desert among the nomads of the Pagrah desert was over; he had known that in making the choice he had, he would never see that life again.
The men he rode with, trained in the horsemanship that had been the birthright of every nomad born in the desert since time remembered, they admired and even, allowing a bit of smugness and pride crease his lips, Achmed realized that they perhaps might even envy it. However, he would never be one of them.
It had been more than several months had gone by and the residual memories of the time he had spent among imprisoned in the Zindan in the city of Kich had faded and had ceased to trouble him. Instead, they had been replaced with images of other battles, other cities, and he had begun to feel confident even eager to show the Amir that he had been mistaken in his choice.
It was at that instant that Achmed realized he had made his decision, and now he realized that could live with it. The single time that the Amir had been in trouble: a stray arrow from one of the city's defenders; the name of which had completely escaped Achmed.
The arrow had struck the Amir's saddle directly underneath the girth strap causing the horse to rear onto its hind legs thus throwing the Amir to the ground. Achmed had been the only one able to penetrate through the ring of deadly steel and rescue the general. The fact that it had been a follower, albeit a former follower of Akhran who had rescued Quannadi was an irony not lost on anyone who had been present that day.
**** Now, months later, he stood poised in the whirlwind of war that seemingly had swept up all manners of people and nations into his vortex. This was but a momentary lull before the next big storm. Achmed waited, along with so many others.
Waiting, for what, he could not manage a coherent answer, but he knew that he waited for `something' to happen.
The Imam, however, seemed to have infinite reserves of time and patience. And despite having putting thousands of people just like these to the sword as part of his `jihad', his holy war; people continued to flock to his standard.
Unlike their predecessors the citizens of the city of Meda had put up a fight; he could almost respect them for it but against overwhelming odds and the sheer might of Quar's legions that the Amir had could put into the field at a moment's notice and still leave some in reserve at Kich; they did not stand a chance.
As he had overheard the old soldier remark once, "Sometimes it seems that fighting the damn war is far easier than administering the countryside afterward."
And watching Quannadi don a crown of leaves because of a custom of the Medeans he had seen that the old man had spoken nothing but the truth. Achmed had taken to coming to the place where audiences were held and judgments were dispensed by taking the passage from the outside the walls and taking up a position in the shadows. The guards stationed there had become so accustomed to his comings and goings they no longer even questioned beyond a raised eyebrow or two.
"So this is where you are when you should be out drilling with the cavalry," a husky deep voice remarked.
"I did not... I mean," Achmed nearly stumbled in his haste to get the words out.
"Do not be alarmed. I only drill them to keep the troops occupied. The truth of the matter, that there is nothing more you can teach them."
"I have to go out there soon but it is cool in the shade."
"Can't you stop him?" demanded Achmed even as he did so realize just how young and naïve he sounded.
Quannadi who noticed everything with an almost uncanny sixth sense mostly from decades of experience both as a soldier and a commander shrugged and appeared to overlook this lapse on the part of his young cleverly soldier. "I could, but it would split half my forces. I can ill afford to do that just now."
"Why here? Why these people?" continued Achmed in a more subdued tone of voice.
"The Imam has chosen this city as an example to all the others who still resist Quar's rule. You know the terms of the jihad: convert or die."
"Steady, son!" The Amir added in a grim yet reassuring voice. "Life is never as simple as it should be. And of late, it appears to be a choice between the lesser of two evils." In the back of his mind, Quannadi thought. `Does the boy know the horror he faces. Does he know that one day soon he might very well be facing a fight between the armies of Quar and his own people? Heaven helps him when he does come to that realization. I will save him. If I can.'
For his part, Achmed with a shudder that spread throughout the length of his body that had nothing to do with the rapidly rising heat of the day and everything to do with the sudden wrench in his soul jerked backward until he fetched up against the cool stone wall. He bent over and
The Amir appeared to have half his attention on the Imam and the other on his young soldier and realized with a corresponding wrench on his old soldier's heart. `He knows. If not consciously, but in his own heart.'