KILLING TIME
PART 2
See Part 1 for disclaimers.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm not really sure that this is the sort of story many people want to read on here. Most POP fics seem to steer clear of strong hurt/comfort themes. A big thank you to the extremely kind people who have reviewed so far (Cattaglotisme, Marie, Ruby Fresh, Arcadia Pendragon, Alone Dreaming, Bansheila, Kittykat710, Yami no Yume). Sadly, you seem to be few & far between in enjoying this. If readers want me to continue, please, please review so I can see if there is enough interest to warrant more chapters.
AUTHOR'S NOTE 2 - NEW 17/7/10 : I've had to rewrite this chapter a bit & repost it. Absolutely huge apologies to Arcadia Pendragon – I have had to remove Garsiv from the story again. Apart from discovering that my AU-ness would go a bit too far if I brought him back to life but writing a party of 3 riding to the rescue was just getting a bit unwieldy. It works well with just Tamina & Tus. But if my POP mood holds, I promise there'll be a proper brotherly story for you, Tamina free! Apologies again for a long author's note & for writing out Garsiv – I hope it doesn't ruin anyone's enjoyment of the fic too much.
Dastan drifted on a cloud of oblivion, his mind disconnected from his body. He thought of nothing at first but then dreams gently swept in on the tide, bringing with them visions of home. He felt the warm swell of pride as he sat beside his father, treated with respect and love beyond the young man's imagining. Dastan smiled into the lined and life worn face of King Sharaman, reaching a hand out to touch the old man. But, as hard as he tried, his father was always just beyond the tip of his fingertips. "Father?" Dastan whispered, his voice confused and urgent. Sharaman's smile faded and sadness filled the watery blue depths of his eyes. "Why? My most cherished child...my murderer." A single tear followed the grooved contours of his wrinkled face down to drop onto his withered hand.
Dastan shook his head, the pain of losing everything he cared for most pressing in around him. "No, father, no..."
"I loved you...more than my own blood," Sharaman whispered, innocent bewilderment in his voice.
The desperate desire Dastan had harboured to clear his name grew lost in the confused storm of emotions and he found himself struck dumb as his father faded in front of his very eyes, dispersing like so much sand into the ether. Frozen, the young prince could do nothing but watch while silently his heart was breaking.
Dastan's eyes snapped open, his heart pounding in his chest and his breath coming in uncontrollable pants. He blinked in the darkness around him. Something was pressed against his face and it quickly registered in his mind that his arms were pinioned to his sides. All the while, he was being jostled in the unmistakable motion of an animal moving. A tiny fraction of light seemed to coming from above his head and the musty smell close to his nose smelt like old incense and...dog? The prince wriggled to get the measure of his strange prison and found that he could move his hands a reasonable degree. He pushed the coarse fabric hard with his elbows and was pleased to discover that it sagged a little. He worked the carpet as loose as he could manage and finally got his shoulders free, easing himself into the open air.
Looking around him, Dastan's memories came flooding back to him, Nizam, the hassansin who had drugged him, and now...what appeared to be a desert tour. He was indeed rolled up in a carpet wedged securely between a camel's humps and, fortunately, the hassansin did not seem too preoccupied with his charge at the moment. Dastan tried to pull his upper body free of the carpet but it did not budge. He quickly considered his options – unarmed in the middle of the desert, against one of the deadliest assassin groups in the world. Perhaps he should just go back to sleep. On the other hand, he had the element of surprise now and the hassansin could only have a murkier plan for the prince if he left his escape to the last minute.
The horse was maintaining a steady pace, as fast as it could go with a camel behind. If Dastan could wriggle the carpet off the animal's back, he stood a tiny chance of the hassansin not noticing until he was far enough away. Not knowing how far he was from civilisation and with no water, Dastan knew he was taking a chance, but he would rather face the elements than the knives and whips of his captor. Rocking his body, he dislodged the carpet from the camel's back and dropped to the desert floor where he instantly unravelled himself.
For a moment, Dastan thought he had taken the hassansin unawares but the camel gave a grunt of surprise at the discharge of its load and sped up. The young prince did not wait to see how long it took for his captor to realise he was gone. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him towards the dunes behind them. Dastan had forgotten the injuries to his neck and he tried to breathe through the burn in his throat but, with each passing step, the discomfort increased until he saw grey dots dancing in front of his eyes.
Knowing that he could go no further, Dastan cast a glance back in the direction of the hassansin and cursed as he realised the man had already caught sight of him and was charging back towards him. The prince was resourceful and he knew his options were limited. If he could just unsaddle the assassin, he would have the advantage. A firm spur to the animal's flanks and Dastan would be home free. He turned to face his opponent, every muscle poised for action.
The hassansin charged at him, the camel's lead rein severed where the animal settled, blissfully ignorant of the fight going on around it. Dastan waited until the man was upon him, anticipating the downward slice of the man's scimitar, ducking beneath the blade within a hair's breadth. Grasping the horse's girth strap in both hands, the prince swung himself under the animal's body. He heard the assassin yell in angry indignation as he sliced uselessly at the air either side of his steed, without meeting his mark. Despite the extreme discomfort of the position, Dastan held fast, tormenting his opponent until the horse was sharply reigned in and the hassansin leapt from the beast's back with a war cry. Dastan dropped to the ground with as much grace as a cat , landing on his feet, arms outstretched as if expecting to ward off the blows with his bare hands. Wherever the hassansin swiped, the prince deftly side stepped, finally managing to place a humiliating blow to the back of the man's head with a well aimed elbow.
His aggressor fell forward and the young man managed to kick away the scimitar from the hassansin's grasping hand, picking it up. Dastan's throat stung and he swallowed painfully as he took a second to catch his breath. He prepared to finish the hassansin off but the trainer killer was not so easily vanquished and was already finding his feet. Dastan watched in horror as the man's hand withdrew from the folds of his dark robes to reveal dozens of sharp throwing blades, carefully placed in sequence from large to small on a roll of leather.
Dastan was never afraid to take on a challenge but he was no fool either. Already weakened by his erratic breathing and the diminishing after effects of being drugged, not to mention dehydration, he knew when to turn his back on a fight. Besides, no sword could match flying blades. There was only one option left open to him – run. The young prince made a false move towards the hassansin before quickly altering path and running for the horse, knowing it to be his only passage out of the desert. Dastan heard the grim sound of something whistling past his ear and instinctively pushed himself into a rising somersault, hoping to cut such an erratic path that the hassansin's blades could not find their target.
The Persian hazarded a glance behind him and saw that the assassin had not made a single step in pursuit of him. Dastan knew the man's aim was good but his own self belief spurred him to believe that he was almost home free. Just as his hand touched the horse's bridle, Dastan felt the wind knocked from him followed by immense pressure between his ribs. Within seconds, the pressure built into shattering pain. Looking down in shock, the prince saw the glint of metal jutting from his side. His hand went to the injury but he withdrew it with a hiss of pain when he knocked the first blade and his fingers brushed against a second, then a third.
Refusing to be easy prey and still determined to save himself, Dastan forced himself onwards, roaring in agony as he dragged himself up into the saddle. He could see the hassansin moving in for the kill and gave the horse's flanks a hard kick with his heel. Sending a silent prayer to the heavens, he spurred the horse forwards. He had not gone more than a couple of metres before another of the assassin's blades met its mark, catching the prince in the thigh. Dastan winced in pain, a moan escaping his lips. The horse, suddenly without urgent direction, calmed and slowed its pace. The prince did not notice at first, not until the lash of his aggressor's dreaded spiked whip licked through the air as the hassansin closed in on him. The needle like protrusions lashed out at him, piercing the thin fabric of his shirt as easily as a moth's wings, and sinking into the tender flesh of his back. Dastan roared in pain as the horse's forward movement contradicted the sharp backwards tug of the whip embedded in his back. Involuntarily releasing the reigns, the prince fumbled clumsily behind him, desperately trying to remove the weapon. He need not have bothered as the hassansin's delicate wrist action tore it unceremoniously from his skin, mutilating muscle and scraping bone.
The world tilted sickeningly in front of the young Persian as he fought unconsciousness, frantically trying to hold on long enough to get himself to safety. But the hassansin was relentless and the second crack of the whip found the same target once more, this time bringing even more pain as the spikes sank into already open flesh, this time wrapping around his torso and yanking him from the horse's back.
Hitting the ground with such force took Dastan's breath away and the paralysing pain left him vulnerable to the hassansin. He lay helplessly on the scorching desert sand, feeling hot grains pressing into the wounds on his back and the now throbbing pain of the blades protruding from his side and thigh. He stared blankly up at the bright sun until the dark shadow of his murderer blocked it, peering down at him like a child might look upon an ant before crushing it. Dastan spat in the kneeling man's face, the action taking the last of his defiance. "Finish me. There is nothing more you can take," the young man spoke, his voice hoarse and cracked with fatigue and emotion. "May I be reunited with Father in death."
The hassansin peered down at the injured man, his face expressionless. "You are not destined to die at my hand, Prince Dastan of Persia." Pulling a rag from within his robes, he doused it with a pungent smelling potion and pressed it to Dastan's nose and mouth. At first the prince fought, his hands clawing at the strong arm, but his efforts were in vain. Within moments, the drug had taken effect and the prince's hands dropped limply to the sand. The hassansin collected his horse and camel before pulling the Persian to his feet and securing him with rope to the camel's back. No one would venture out this far into the desert so late at night so there was no need for the secrecy of the carpet any longer. The assassin could only hope that his promise would be fulfilled – Dastan must die at the hands of nature. He must not die yet.
Even when she knew how keen Tus was to set out, Tamina had to control her temper as she waited for him to make all sorts of clandestine arrangements with his immediate household staff. As newly crowned king, he could barely take a leak without someone asking him what he was doing or if he needed assistance. Finally, the young prince donned peasant garb and drew his scarf up to cover his face and the pair slipped to the outer curtain of city buildings. Tus managed to free a couple of horses, both of good calibre but not impressive enough to draw unwanted attention.
The two monarchs had almost reached the city gates when a voice sailed out to them, causing them both to freeze in consternation. "Stop right there!" Tus darted a horrified look at Tamina before turning back to the man stepping out of the shadows behind them. The youthful face did not match the firm, gruff voice, the young soldier's eyes wide with shock. "Sire?...I mean, sire," he repeated more humbly, bowing low in dutiful respect.
Tus wracked his brains to try and remember the man's name. "You did not see me," he instructed, levelling a warning gaze at the wide blue eyes staring back at him.
The soldier began to nod, knowing that whatever his king asked of him, he must obey. Then, common sense belatedly kicked in. "But sire...how long will you be gone? Where are you going?" His eyes flicked suspiciously towards Princess Tamina. "What will I tell the others in the morning?"
Tus looked to Tamina, who remained rooted speechlessly to the spot, then back at the armed man. "You will tell them nothing because you will know nothing. Do you understand me? This is private business."
"Yes, sire," the soldier replied dully.
The king disliked having to take such a grim tone with someone who, on any other day, would be rewarded for his stoicism. But he had no other choice – Dastan's life depended on them leaving immediately without Nizam's interference. He continued to fix the young man with a steely stare until the soldier stood aside for the two cloaked figures. Tus forced a smile of reconciliation to his lips. "I will see that you are rewarded for your loyalty and integrity when I return. Your name, boy?"
"Samin, your Highness," the boy said, bowing low again.
"May the gods grant you good fortune, Samin. You are owed the debt of a king." Tus flashed a grin at the serious, half terrified boy before him. Finally, Samin smiled back, seeming to relax a little. Convinced that he had the soldier's confidence, Tus urged his horse through the gate, motioning for Tamina to follow. He was grateful that the princess had wisely chosen to remain silent throughout the exchange, instead of berating a mere foot soldier for insubordination as he imagined she might ordinarily do.
Instead, when they were clear of the walls and he looked back at the princess' face, Tus noticed a tightness to her features which had not been there before. "Princess? What troubles you?"
"That boy might have been convinced by your smooth, commanding words but..."
"But what?" Tus prompted.
"But come morning, the pressure on him will be too immense. Every man in the city will be looking for you and the soldiers guarding the gates will be the first to take the heat." Tamina looked at the king's unshaken expression. "They might catch up with us...thwart our mission before we have a chance to find Dastan."
Tus nodded, recognising the fear in her, but knowing there was nothing he could say to console her. "Then we must get as far away from here as possible before they realise we are gone." He dug his heels into the horse's side and set their course east from the city gates.
The first sensation Dastan felt was a thirst like he had never experienced before. It hit him before he even knew where he was. His throat was filled with sand and he could feel its rawness as he tried to swallow. His cheek moved against something rough and hard and his head pounded unrelentingly. The prince cracked open his eyes, slowly setting the world to rights around him. He was lying face down on the sand. The whiteness of the daylight told him it must be noon or thereabouts – definitely not the time to be lying out in the desert. Dastan winced as he attempted to lever himself up off the ground, his wounds protesting against any movement. Grimacing through the pain, he paused and looked around him.
He optimistically replayed the last moments he remembered, wondering if he had managed to defeat the hassansin before passing out. Glancing about, Dastan was momentarily grateful to find himself alone. Then, being alone started to become a problem. As a prisoner of the hassansin, he had known his enemy and what he was up against. Now, his enemy was all around him – the desert. Dastan had no idea where he was and, while he had a minor sense of direction from the position of the sun in the sky, the prince felt his relief ebbing away with each passing second.
The prince tried to push his body up into a standing position, squeezing his eyes shut against the agonising pain lancing through his side as he did so. Dastan struggled to remain on his feet with one leg injured and his head spinning violently. Gingerly, he pulled at the fabric around the wounds in his side for a better look. The material was wet with congealing blood and he could already tell the holes were deep, even if they had not pierced any vital organs. The young Persian had seen enough casualties of war to know the odds were against him. A vision of a young man, little older than himself, appeared in Dastan's head. He had taken a sword to the gut but the wound had not seemed too perilous. When they had first set out for home, the man had seemed bright and alert. By the time they made first camp he was ashen and, to the prince's shock, infection quickly took hold and the man passed away before ever seeing the minarets of Nasaf again. The memory made Dastan shudder. He did not want a desert grave with no one to mourn his passing.
Fumbling with the material of his scarf, he made a makeshift tourniquet and tightened it around his chest. He tore some off for positioning around his thigh and carefully tested his weight on the injured leg. Dastan could not contain the cry that was dragged from his throat as he did so. A trickle of blood issued from the spike wound and tracked a warm path down the inside of his thigh. Looking desperately around him, the prince tried to keep calm as the reality of his demise fully dawned on him. He could not walk, had festering wounds in his side, leg and back, had no water and nothing more than the sun to orient himself with. Men had died in the desert on less.
His back throbbed and every movement brought renewed pain. Dastan could feel cake blood gluing his shirt to his skin but he had no way of accessing the wounds. Besides, what did he have to treat them with? More likely he would tear the skin further trying to remove his shirt and present an even greater risk of infection. Hobbling forwards, Dastan started walking, his paces as slow, short and measured as an old beggar's. He did not know which direction he headed but could only pray that the gods would be merciful and deliver him to civilisation.
END OF PART 2 - Sorry it was a short one!
