Escape from Alamut

Aryan sprang to his feet, driven by a surge of impulse—a fleeting desire to confront his enemies in a desperate fight to the death. Yet, reason quickly subdued his fury. Whoever these assassins were, they had effortlessly overpowered his father, Gulen, his master, Sabir, and his two elder brothers. As for himself, he was no match for even the weakest of them. Surviving thus far was a miracle in itself.

Whistles echoed from all directions—long and short, rising and falling—like a cacophony of ravenous birds squabbling over prey. Soon, they surged into the ruined estate. Amidst the clatter of hooves, it felt as though an army of hundreds had descended.

Aryan crouched low, pressing himself against a broken wall for concealment. Just as he found cover, a torch arced through the air, tumbling past overhead.

Before Aryan could make sense of the chaos, a powerful hand clamped around the back of his neck. The hand's owner, mounted on horseback, lifted him effortlessly. His feet left the ground, and he was swept away.

Before the horse's hooves struck the earth again, the grip released him. Aryan crashed to the ground with a bone-jarring thud, crying out in pain. He rolled twice before staggering to his feet, only to find himself surrounded. Mounted swordsmen, illuminated by the flickering light of numerous torches, fixed their predatory gazes upon him—a small and hapless quarry amidst a pack of ravenous wolves.

Such is the nature of calamity: an earthquake gives way to torrential rain, which in turn invites raging winds. Misfortune, like a wounded beast, leaves a trail of blood that lures scavengers, then predators, then carrion feeders, until even the smallest of insects join in, leaving nothing but bare bones.

The massacre of the Gulen family was a gaping wound, and while the first wave of assassins had feasted and departed, a new pack of jackals and crows now descended upon the remnants.

These were filthy thieves and bandits, their numbers far fewer than Aryan had imagined—merely five. Yet, the cacophony of whistles, the thundering hooves, and the blazing torches amplified their presence into something far grander and more menacing.

Aryan had no idea who these men were. To him, they were merely more enemies. Like a cornered cub, he growled low in his throat, baring claws that were neither sharp nor threatening.

A whip lashed out from the shadows, striking him with sudden force. Aryan hit the ground again, eliciting raucous laughter from the bandits. One of them dismounted, grabbed the boy, and slung him over his saddle. Rough hands searched him, soon discovering a small pouch of silver coins hidden in his clothing. Holding the pouch aloft, the bandit sneered, "Look at this little thief! Got here before us, eh?"

Fury ignited within Aryan. At last, he understood what these men were—looters. "Let go of me!" he shouted, struggling to reclaim the pouch.

Their laughter swelled, mocking and derisive. Ignoring his protests, the bandit pocketed the coins, delivering a heavy slap to Aryan's back before snatching a small oilcloth bundle from his possession.

The searing pain in Aryan's spine was nothing compared to the dread that consumed him. The book. That bundle contained the Gulen family's most treasured heirloom—more precious than his own life.

With a whistle, the bandit tore away the oilcloth. Inside was a thin, weathered book. Flipping through its pages, he scowled in frustration, unable to decipher the unfamiliar script. "What is this nonsense?"

"Give it back!" Aryan lunged, only to be struck across the face. Dizzy and near unconscious, he was bound tightly with ropes and discarded as the looters delved into the ruins in search of greater spoils.

Bound hand and foot, Aryan wriggled like a worm, inching his way toward the discarded book. As he neared it, a gust of wind swept through, fanning the flames of a nearby torch. The fire licked at the book's pages, igniting them in an instant.

Watching the flames devour his family's legacy, Aryan's heart burned alongside it. Regret surged through him—why hadn't he devoted himself to mastering their ancestral martial arts? Even an ordinary bandit was beyond his ability to confront.

Desperately, he rolled over the book to smother the flames, only to roll away again to avoid the scattered torches. With the book clenched between his teeth, he dragged himself to a safer distance. He had saved part of the manual, but the first few pages were now irreparably charred.

When he examined the remaining text, his heart sank further. He recognized every character, yet the content was nothing more than a ledger—a record of accounts, utterly unrelated to martial arts.

The realization struck him like a cold wave. The "secret manual" he had fought so hard to recover was not the legendary shortcut to mastering the Gulen swordsmanship. Without it, his modest skills would require decades of relentless practice to stand a chance at avenging his family.

The fabled manual had its risks—rumored to grant explosive growth in power at the cost of a devastating toll. One ancestor who dared to train with it had achieved unparalleled fame, only to die mysteriously three years later in a grotesque fashion. Aryan, consumed by vengeance, cared little for such risks. But now, even this reckless hope had been stripped from him.

The bandits, efficient in their plunder, soon returned, their arms laden with spoils. The man who had captured Aryan seemed dissatisfied with his haul. He approached the boy, kicking him savagely before hoisting him back onto the saddle.

In that fleeting moment, Aryan noticed the oilcloth lying discarded nearby. A corner of white silk peeked out from beneath it. Without hesitation, he bit down on the silk, concealing it in his mouth as he was slung over the horse once more.

The group mounted up and departed, leaving the ruined estate behind.

--

At the foot of the mountain, near a small village, a lone bandit stood guard over a group of captives and over thirty head of livestock. The captives' arms were tightly bound and linked together with ropes, forming a somber chain. Aryan was thrown to the ground, his bindings redone, and attached to the end of the line.

Six bandits drove the captives and livestock eastward. Aryan struggled to keep pace, the white silk still clutched between his teeth, leaving no time to spit it out.

As dawn broke, the bandits halted at a T-junction. Aryan sensed that this place wasn't far from his home, though he had rarely ventured beyond the estate and did not recognize this road. The narrow dirt path from the north wound through a mountain pass, meandering several miles before converging with the east-west main road. At the junction, over a hundred men had gathered.

Most wore tattered, greasy leather cloaks that glistened under the morning sun, as though they had never been washed. Armed to the teeth, their feral eyes burned with hostility, resembling a pack of predators forced into uneasy proximity.

Distinct factions divided the bandits; wary glances darted between them, hands instinctively resting near their weapons, ready to spring into violence at a moment's notice. Curiously, the outlaws all huddled on the western side of the road. The spacious eastern side remained eerily empty, as though haunted by some unseen specter. None dared to even glance eastward; all eyes strained northward, gazing impatiently at the mountain pass, as if awaiting someone's arrival.

Just two hours earlier, Aryan had believed himself guided by divine providence, yet here he was, a prisoner among a ragged assembly of terrified, grimy captives. And of them all, Aryan was the filthiest. Sweat, dust, and ash coated him so thickly he seemed more like a humanoid clay sculpture than a person.

Seizing a moment when the bandits were distracted, Aryan spat out the silk he had held for half a day. Without daring to inspect it, he hastily stuffed it into his tunic. His captors had searched him once—he prayed they wouldn't do so again.

The person they awaited did not arrive, and the bandits grew restless, cursing under their breath. Unused to being so close to rivals, tempers flared; two factions had already brawled, leaving several wounded but, fortunately, no fatalities.

Aryan, still puzzled by his own capture, couldn't fathom why so many bandits had converged near the Gulen estate. Such outlaws were supposedly a relic of a bygone era, wiped out years ago. Glancing at the scar-faced bandit who had seized him, Aryan sought answers in his stony expression.

The scarred man, as hulking and unkempt as the others, wore a grimy leather cloak despite the midsummer heat. His thick beard and the jagged scar running down his left cheek lent him an air of menace. Sensing Aryan's gaze, the man shot a cold glare downward. "Run, then," he sneered.

Aryan wasn't foolish enough to try. Surrounded by bandits, with nothing but an endless expanse of desert around them, any escape attempt was suicide—especially with his hands bound and tethered to the other captives.

"You've got your silver—why not let me go?" Aryan demanded, his tone defiant despite the sinking realization that, like the other prisoners and livestock, he was just another piece of loot in their eyes.

The scar-faced bandit spat on the ground, the glob landing perilously close to Aryan's head. He didn't even dignify the question with a response.

An older bandit with a weathered face and a shadowy gaze scrutinized the newly arrived faction and their captives. "Not much of a haul, eh, Falcon?" he remarked.

The scarred man, apparently called Falcon, spat again. "No prey escapes the tiger's maw," he growled.

Aryan's heart lurched. The "tiger" must be the one who annihilated the Gulen family. Clearly, these bandits knew more than they let on. Aryan had assumed his enemies would be elusive, their identities shrouded in secrecy, yet the truth seemed almost within reach.

The intensity of Aryan's emotions must have shown on his face, for the elder bandit glanced at him briefly before turning his attention back to the northern pass.

Aryan's throat felt as if it were aflame. The bandits ceased discussing the "tiger," leaving him no choice but to probe further. "Quite a tiger you're serving," he ventured.

Falcon's lips tightened, as though he hadn't heard the remark. After a long silence, he finally spoke, his tone icy. "What could be greater than the King of Assassins?"

Aryan's heart sank. At last, he knew the identity of his foe. This enemy had no need for secrecy, but the revelation only deepened his confusion: why? Why would the King of Assassins obliterate the Western Kingdom's Gulen clan?