Fires of Our Fathers' Faith

Prologue (2588 ZRE). Child of the Oath

Mehrzad Behrangzade sat in the warm water, watching his hands ripple beneath the waves as the Caspian desert sun beat down mercilessly upon him. This was the final preparation before he made the oath that would bind him forever to a world that was dying. He dunked his head under the blessed water, trying not to think of drowning. But it may be indeed that that was precisely what he was doing. The words of the mowbed Aram, who would come to him to perform the sedreh pushi and see to it that he went from thence properly clothed with his head properly covered always in deference to the gentle authority of the Wise Lord, still rang in his ears. Along with the recitations from the Vidaevdat exhorting the faithful to good behaviour and to telling the truth, he would always tell the history of the fall of the Empire to which his family had been so loyal for so long.

‘The glories of Tīsfūn were the pride of the Shāhs, Shāh after Shāh after Shāh! The gold and the silver, the silks and the jewels, the grand palaces and parades, the pomp and the vanity! Alas and woe for us Behdinan, the followers of the Daena, but if only they had placed their pride in the Truth – for they fell to their own Lie! They believed in their own farr, their own greatness, and forgot that their greatness rested upon Him who made all good things, our Wise Lord! And the heirs of Ardashir oppressed the people with all manner of cruel taxes and demeaning labour, and left them destitute and starving, while the rulers and their sons descended into indolence and falsehood. No wonder that the people turned from them when the wild-ass riding barbarians invaded with their new faith!

‘When Tīsfūn fell to the barbarians, they took the great carpet “Baharestan”, with its images of the Shāh’s Paradise, woven with threads of gold and embroidered with silver roads and a diamond sky and ruby-and-emerald flowers and pearl rivers, and they took it from the palace and brought it back to their temple of stone in Mecca, where their holy men ordered it shredded to pieces. Such is the fate of all who follow the Lie, even if outwardly they profess the Daena! Under Yazdegerd and his fathers, who feasted on the people’s flesh and drank of their tears, the people thirsted for justice as they hungered for food. Who can blame them when the barbarians offered both?

‘But what a sad fate indeed to be an Iranian, and sadder to be a Behdin! Let us only pray that our fabric does not tear so easily as that of “Baharestan”. Our treasure must never be gold or silver or silk or pearls, but righteousness and the Truth… lest our much more fragile tapestry also end up rent to pieces beneath the sign of the reclining moon!’

Just such sermons were not the sort of fare that the refugee community of Behdinan in the far northeast corner of what had once been their empire wanted to hear. They wanted to hear that they had been victims, that they would be comforted, that they would be saved from the swords of the Arabs and the half-truths they preached from their tongues. Mehrzad could not blame them. Even two hundred years after the fall of the Sassanians, the wound upon the Iranian pride still stung. They and their families had been wealthy under those Shāhs, and now they were poor; they had been powerful and were now weak; they had been happy and now were desperate. They had been forced from their lush valleys into this barren northern desert, wedged hopelessly between Muslim Iranian and Muslim Turk. No man, no matter how pure in the Truth, could fail to feel compassion for the Behdinan now.

But this was just the sort of way they had chosen for themselves: before casting blame upon others, one must first hold one’s own deeds to be judged by the Wise Lord, as surely as one must bring sacrifices before the fires that never die, and as surely as one must recite the hymns of praise to the Mazda and his yazatas. The Sassanians, having tasted glory, could not free themselves of their desires. They had indeed oppressed the poor who enjoyed Ohrmazd’s particular favour. What just lord would not demand an accounting of such greedy tenants, even if that accounting came at the hands of non-believers?

Mehrzad had only a vague impression of what the good mowbed meant when he had meant when he said those words about the lost glories of the Sassanians. He had been only five when his father, Behrang ‘the Grand’ (or ‘Kubra’, as the Arabs had called him), had fled northward with his family. Many of their friends and relatives who had not embraced the new faith had fled with them, and settled on the shores of the Caspian, where alone the sway of the Daena held. Others had taken to the sea, and rumour reached them occasionally that they had taken up refuge beyond the Indush, or as traders in the empire of Chīn to the Far East.

Behrang, however, was in the position of highest importance in this settlement of the scattered faithful. Though he served no Shāh, and no Shāhanshāh, he was nevertheless accorded the title shasab – the ‘protector’ – as a title of honour. Little more than a formality now, it meant a lot both to him and those who called him thus. It was important to him that his son memorise all the prayers, attend the holy fires at yasna with pleasing sacrifices, and wear the sedreh and kushti and cap the way a faithful Behdin, a faithful Zoroastrian, should. However, being pious, he would accept Mehrzad’s wishes in the end if he chose not to go through with the ritual… but with a foolhardy and childish sense of zeal in his heart, Mehrzad had agreed. Even if it meant martyrdom upon a thousand sabres for the Truth, he would face it. Indeed, Mehrzad could not help but feel that it was just such a doom that he faced as he dressed and left into the Temple foregate to meet Aram for the final ceremony, before all the people at the temple of Gasan-Kuli overlooking the Caspian Sea.

‘Khurd Mehrzad,’ the kindly priest began, ‘are you ready?’

A knot in Mehrzad’s throat would not go down. ‘Yes, most learned Mowbed Aram. I am ready.’

Mehrzad knelt before Aram as the mowbed recited the most holy hymn:

‘As judgement shall be chosen by the world, so according to the Truth,
The Judgement of good deeds throughout the world is yielded to the Wise One,
And the Power of the Lord whom they appointed shepherd to the poor.’

The judgement and the rule of the Wise Lord were thus upon him, and the choice of facing oblivion – a shirt to be taken up indeed, with far greater and far more responsibilities than that fifteen-year-old boy could imagine. Mehrzad took a deep breath.

‘I believe,’ he nearly whispered as he knelt to receive the sedreh, the sleeves sliding over his arms.

The rest of the ceremony washed over him just as the sanctified water in which he had bathed had. He recited from memory all of the prayers and the hymns that he had been taught, which now came to him as naturally as walking. At the end of it, he only remembered being welcomed with great applause by the crowd around him as they called him Behdin Mehrzad. A believer at last, of his own will.

Little did Mehrzad understand the course that decision would place him upon, the destiny that Ohrmazd, in his wisdom, would lay out for him. Farr, the glory of kings, is a quality which is strange to comprehend, as is all such Truth. It eludes those who seek it out, and settles, a force inescapable, upon those seeking something higher than itself.

When the Arabs had called his father Behrang ‘the Grand’, they said it with a sneer. When fellow believers called his father ‘the Grand’, it was always with an ironic brow and a sympathetic chuckle. Mehrzad had long since accepted his father’s epithet as the mark of loss. But little could he know then, that Behdinan across all of Horezm would one day shout his name in the streets, in full voice and in its true meaning.

Indeed, Jarren!

Very glad you enjoyed the Prologue; and many thanks for the offer of the link! I've been using modern Iranian thus far, but if I could use Avestan I think that might be a bit more historically accurate.

I'm looking forward to following your own AAR as well. I very much enjoyed your Prologue, and I'll comment more substantially when you have your first chapter up!

Thanks, Steelbadger! Great to have you on board! And now for Chapter One:


One. The Shasab

Mehrzad Behrangzade looked out over the valley near a place the Turks called Ýolöten, through which ran the Morghāb River, a slender band of silver in a great expanse of pale grey; this morning, the late winter air still nipped, though that would change as the sun climbed the sky. The Turks called this entire desert the Black Sands in their own tongue, but he could never quite understand why; the colours were very far from black to him. Perhaps the many long centuries on the steppes to the east had addled their eyes, he mused. Certainly the long years he had spent himself in these deserts had done something similar to him.

He had taken the title of shasab after his father had been taken to Paradise. Even for a man of twenty-nine years, that was a heavy responsibility – the lives of all the believing men and women in Dehestan and these desert regions depended upon him. A new year was dawning; in but one week he would lead his satrapy in the five days’ celebration of Nōg Rōz. But for now, much more pressing and deadly business for the satrapy was at hand, and would not wait. He clucked his tongue and urged his mount forward into a trot.

On the shore of the Morghāb River, the Amir of Samarkand and Ferghana, Nasr Ahmadzade Samani, was waiting at the head of his army. Nasr Amir was some seven or eight years older than the Shasab, but he was of a far newer faith. The two of them met on the bank. The younger man and the older man saluted each other.

‘Salaam aleikum,’ Nasr extended his hand.

Mehrzad sidled up to the Amir and grasped the proffered hand with both of his own; though he feared that his hands trembled with shyness, he did not return the Islamic greeting. ‘Hamazor hama ashō bēd,’ he replied sincerely.

‘You cannot hope to win this fight,’ the Amir told him, ‘for you face the will of the Almighty and his prophet Muhammad. Turn back now and spare yourself the humiliation of defeat. Or, better yet, accept the word of the Prophet, as our family has! Cast off the decrepit trappings of Yazdegerd and join me in uniting our homeland under submission to God!’

‘I can do neither,’ Mehrzad replied ruefully, and carefully to cover up the minor impediment of his lazy tongue. ‘It wounds me to the heart to have to contend with the heir of the mighty hero Shāh Bahrām VI; for I would otherwise revere you and your line. But you have taken up the Lie and aligned yourself with the barbarians who oppress us and desecrate and destroy our holy places. The city of Chashkand must be returned to those whose heroes fought, bled and died there. Azar-i-Asp, from which Zardusht first preached the Good Faith, must be returned to that Faith, and the fire rekindled there which must never again be extinguished. Until that time, I fear there can be no peace between us.’

‘You are a fool indeed,’ Nasr laughed aloud. ‘But a straightforward one, at least – you do credit to your Wise Lord, for all he is a false idol. So be it! I shall give you the honour of a hero’s death.’

There was little more to say between them; as far as Mehrzad was concerned, saying anything more would be vile hypocrisy. Mehrzad rode off to return to his line, where his loyal vassals and bearded spāhbed Khodadad awaited him to give the order to charge. Over three thousand loyal Behdinan, arrayed upon horseback and on foot, stood behind the dune, ready at a moment’s notice to ride down into the Morghāb Basin and put to flight the barbarians who had taken from them their homes and their dignity. Mehrzad regarded them with some sadness as he approached Khodadad.

‘Well, my Lord Shasab? What was his offer?’

Mehrzad smiled thinly. ‘That I join him as a convert to his faith, and stand with him for his God and his Prophet. Apparently I am doomed otherwise.’

Khodadad grinned. ‘What do you make of that, Vandad?’

The older man, of an age with Nasr Samani, chuckled. ‘Look around you – though our Wise Lord may have left the Sassanians to their just desserts, he has not left our people! Here are over three thousand; nearly four thousand more under the hired Turkoman banner wait to march from north of the Black Sands! Can there be any doubt that the Wise Lord is guiding us?’

‘Then ride now,’ the Shasab instructed them. ‘Our faith cannot waver!’

There was a great roar as three thousand men descended the dunes, and the arrows flew like grains of sand in a windstorm. The smaller force led by the Amir of Horezm met them bravely, but were quickly overwhelmed. The Behdinan had the Muslims pinned against the river; many of them stayed and fought, but these were quickly cut down. About a third of the Amir’s force made it back across the Morghāb, and very soon the horn was blown and the order to retreat given. Mehrzad rode to the front of the line with his hand outstretched.

‘Do not follow!’ he told them.

‘But my Lord Shasab,’ Khodadad objected, ‘we have them routed! If we allow them to escape, they will mount an even larger force – one which might equal our own!’

‘Would you have me hunt and kill the heir of Bahrām as though he were no more than a hare?’ asked Mehrzad, an edge upon his voice. ‘False faith or not, he is worthy of that respect. Observe; he knew well he was outnumbered, yet still he chose to fight with us here. Let it not be said of him that he did not fight bravely.’

‘Milord Mehrzad Kubra is Shasab in deed and thought,’ Khodadad replied respectfully. ‘But every Behdin has other duties as well. Will you not hear my advice again upon that other matter?’

Mehrzad laughed aloud at that as Khodadad’s horse saddled up alongside his. ‘You still won’t leave it alone, will you? I am not against taking a wife. But to take her… I believe she hates me for my slow tongue. And she may be a dutiful enough daughter to her father, and she may offer her sacrifices humbly and with reverence, but… I did see her at her sedreh pushi four years ago. She knows no other virtue or restraint! I saw the way she wolfed down plate after plate at the feast. The way she berated her friend for a full twenty minutes for still calling her Khurd – an understandable mistake, surely! And not least the way she looked at the boys at the ceremony. Even if she is a virgin in body, she is certainly no virgin in mind!’

It was an old argument, and well-rehearsed. But Khodadad returned with his own ready answer:

‘But you know, she delivered her prayers much more fluently than when you took your sedreh pushi! Your Lordship is a true follower of asha, who does not let even the thought of the Lie defile his mind, but you must take a wife who is strong where you are weak. Zeynab is a true Behdin who will not lie to you, but she is also a very clever and learned woman, who understands those who follow the Lie. And we cannot pretend that you will never deal with such men.

‘Besides, Mehrzad Behrangzade must provide his late father with a grandson to carry on your name! And believe me, Zeynab will very gladly bear you sons.’

Mehrzad laughed. ‘Or any other man who nods at her, I’m sure.’

‘My Lord Shasab speaks unkindly,’ Khodadad chided him.

‘We shall discuss it later, my spāhbed. We have a war to win,’ the Shasab reminded him.

The army of the Behdinan under Mehrzad held their ground in the south, at Bayram-Ali near the old city of Marv, historically the main stronghold of the satrapy Mehrzad claimed to govern. The army there passed the five-day celebration of Nōg Rōz, the holiest festival in the entire year, in which they gave thanks to the Wise Lord for the blessings and riches of the past year, and welcomed in the new one in a spirit of faith and hope.

The Shasab set up a grand table for the entire army, with sprigs from every different kind of plant they could find, a great mirror and several lit braziers, a lamp, a great array of pomegranates and hand-painted eggs, and some boughs from pine trees (which a few of the soldiers had the foresight to carry with them for the New Year Festival). The hour of the New Year passed with a great cheer from all the assembled host as they began exchanging gifts with each other on the spot. Unfortunately, they could not visit the houses of their friends and neighbours all the way out here in Bayram-Ali, so far away from the Caspian coast; so they simply circulated between the tables in each of the camps. The festival greatly boosted the morale of the men – here in the territory of an enemy which despised, overtaxed and persecuted them, they were proclaiming with joy the blessings of the God from whom all good things flow.

It turned out that Vendad had spoken wisely regarding the Turkoman mercenaries. Word reached the army of the Shasab early in the month of Ardwahisht that the mounted archers had swooped in from the north, utterly obliterating a small contingent of Muslims near Karkuh and proceeding to besiege the Gate, Derweze, on their behalf.

They waited there at Bayram-Ali for three months as the spring warmth gave way to blistering summer heat. The Mid-Summer Festival was close upon them. One of the army scouts returned from the eastern watch with the news of an army, of a size no more than one or two hundred men more or less than theirs – the army of Amir Nasr Samani, no doubt, seeking revenge in the name of his God for his last defeat.

‘Shall we call in the Turkomans from the north, my Lord Shasab?’ asked Khodadad.

Mehrzad pondered briefly.

‘No,’ he said at last. ‘That would hardly be fair to him – and besides, those mercenaries are needed at Derweze. This is precisely the way I wished to face the heir of Bahrām in battle, on equal terms.’

Mehrzad aligned his troops high on either side of the Morghāb, which at present was a mere trickle in a parched and sunbleached bed, and prepared to meet the army which was oncoming. They flew no banner of parley, and they rode tight upriver, in against the valley. Mehrzad rode ahead of the line with sabre drawn, and then dropped his arm. His horsemen charged forward, down the slope to meet the hosts of Amir Nasr.

All was the clashing of steel and the thunder of hooves as the storm of war was upon them again. Mehrzad’s sabre slashed left and right as he dodged the lances of his opponents in the saddle, and sought out the banner of the Amir himself. He rode after it with a loud cry of ‘Nasr! Heir of Bahrām! Face me!’

The fellow Persian obliged him readily, and together they broke free of the deadly circle they found themselves in, where soldiers were falling by the dozens – Nasr’s more than Mehrzad’s, from all he could tell. Or maybe so he hoped. Sweat poured down Mehrzad’s brow from beneath his cap as he and the Amir fought ten passes – now riding side-by-side before breaking away with one pursuing the other. Neither rider could outmanoeuvre the other, but Mehrzad’s mount was caught against the hillside and was slowing down. He saw the Amir riding in at his flank, sabre high and ready to strike.

The moment passed; he had not quite parried the blow, but neither had the Amir’s attack landed quite true. Still, it had laid quite a gash in his mail, and he was now oozing blood from his side. Fighting down the pain and the panic, Mehrzad wheeled his steed about to face the Amir where he was once again riding in hard, sabre gleaming. This time, Mehrzad turned the blade aside deftly, but already he could feel his strength ebbing from the wound. He would not last in this fight much longer.

But then he chanced to look down to his right. The number of his yellow banners emblazoned with double black frawahrs in the riverbed now more than doubled the green-and-burgundy pennants of the Amir, and the latter were thinning rapidly as they were surrounded by Kubra forces. He looked back to the Amir, who locked gazes with him. His eyes were a blaze of rage and frustration as he held his sabre high. But then he sheathed it, withdrew the horn at his belt, and blew mightily, signalling his men to retreat.

Mehrzad raised his index finger and touched it to his forehead, bowing slightly toward Amir Nasr, who returned the courtesy reluctantly. As the Amir rode off to join his retreating troops, Mehrzad finally allowed his body to slack in the saddle, and finally he allowed himself to feel the pain from the gash in his side as his horse limped back toward where his troops had begun collecting themselves. The dead littered the battlefield; already the buzzards were circling overhead.

He had faced the Amir, the heir of Bahrām, in battle and he had been victorious. However, now he merely felt numb and exhausted. He stared around at the blood-drenched riverbed, littered with the bodies of over two thousand dead and dying, and then turned his eyes skyward. There would be much to grieve, and much to celebrate. Later. Now he merely needed to rest.

Dovahkiing, roplox and Tapscott, very many thanks for your comments and support! I very much hope this AAR will continue to be so enjoyable!


Two. e-Dānāg

The armies of Mehrzad Behrangzade marched immediately to head off Nasr Samani’s on a northeasterly route, and soon found themselves in the Zar-Afshān valley around Bukhara. Even looking from afar, upon the high rounded city walls of that Fortunate City with its towers and spires, breathing the very oasis air wafting off the gold-spraying waters of the Zar-Afshān, consecrated to holy life-increasing Aredvi Sura Anahita since time immemorial in this most precious of places, the heart of Sogd and the very cradle of Iranian civilisation, was a balm on the aching souls of his men. And, he had to admit, to the Shasab himself. He murmured a prayer to the life-giving yazata of the river, whose holy place this was.

The summer heat was oppressive and stifling, and the sun an unrelenting foe in itself, but their replenished waters and the soothing presence of Bukhara (for all it might still be in enemy hands) helped the army of the Behdinan to recover their spirits. In the wake of that great and exhausting battle at Bayram-Ali, their numbers had thinned somewhat: now they numbered merely two thousand five hundred men in all, of which the cavalry formed only a small number.

They had come here in pursuit of the remainder of Nasr Samani’s army, which had apparently not yet reached the great city, nor had they retreated within the gates. Mehrzad, alone in his tent and poring over a rough map of the area, called one of his scouts, Abolhasan, before him.

‘What have you found along the road?’ asked the Shasab. ‘Of Nasr Samani’s army no sign?’

‘None, my Lord Shasab. They cannot yet have reached the Fortunate City. We have done our best to hide our numbers, but they too have their scouts and their trackers; they surely know what route we have taken, and are seeking to avoid another engagement.’

‘Abolhasan, you hail from Bukhara yourself, do you not? You know the routes around the great city, and the ways of the Zar-Afshān?’

‘I do, my Lord!’ the young man told him.

‘Is it possible,’ Mehrzad said slowly, ‘to conceal the main bulk of our force behind these hills… here, to the east of this lake? What is the terrain like there?’

‘It is a salt marsh, my Lord Shasab. We could fight on that marsh, but the horses of the cavalry might founder, so the foot-soldiers would decide the day in any battle there. As for the hills… yes, they are high enough and wide enough and have space enough that we could hide most of our troops there, if we are careful. Why, what is your Lordship planning?’

Mehrzad shook his head. ‘Nothing as yet. Just an idle thought. Is there a more direct route that the Amir’s troops might have taken to Samarkand, to save him time and effort?

The scout Abolhasan considered. ‘Your Lordship wants to know if the Amir truly wants nothing more than to retreat to the safety of the city, or to bide his time to make another attack? As a matter of fact, the only more direct route between Bayram-Ali and Samarkand is the portage that goes past Nakhshab, which goes up into the Alai foothills. I would say if retreat was the Amir’s only goal, he would have taken that route… far easier to lose pursuit in the Alais.’

Mehrzad gave the scout a sharp glance. ‘You are too clever by half, Abolhasan. If you aren’t careful, you may not be able to escape command to remain a scout much longer.’

Abolhasan grinned at the compliment. ‘Is there anything else you need, my Lord Shasab?’

‘Not at the moment, no.’ Mehrzad told him. ‘You may go.’

Abolhasan left the tent, leaving Mehrzad to ponder over the maps. ‘I wonder…’ he murmured.

Amir Nasr Samani was in a foul mood, just as he had been for months. That young upstart, that stubborn hard-hearted follower of Yazdegerd with his wicked idols, that enemy of Islam, Mehrzad Behrangzade, had twice bested him in battle! Now the loyal armies of the Prophet were forced to skirt around his army and await a choice moment to attack. In the past few days, though, several of Mehrzad’s cavalry had been pestering his troops, shooting arrows, raiding supplies – it was hurting the fighting spirit of his men. Quick and decisive action had to be taken, and as soon as the opportunity presented itself. The Amir’s scouts had told him that Mehrzad’s raids had always come from the northeast, from somewhere beyond the Fortunate City.

At least he knew where they were, and, Nasr reflected grimly, that knowledge was as golden as the river they camped on. It was only a couple more days before a scout came before him, trembling with excitement.

‘Well, man, what is it?’ asked Nasr.

‘Mehrzad has split his men, my Amir,’ the scout replied breathlessly. ‘His army is low on supplies, so at least one contingent has gone into the countryside to buy rations from the locals; another struck out on the eastern road to Samarkand! The cavalry have been sticking to the high-ground for their raids against us, so there are currently fewer than one thousand troops in the marsh east of the Fortunate City!’

‘Praise to God and his Prophet!’ Nasr exclaimed, grinning. ‘Yes, Mehrzad, you may have gotten lucky at Bayram-Ali, but the followers of the One True God shall be victorious in the end! This time you truly have underestimated the heir of Bahrām. Lure my cavalry into the marsh, will you? Ah, but you leave your own cavalry exposed – very well, I shall know how to deal!’

Addressing all of his assembled host, he shouted, ‘Men – we march! God is great!’

‘God is great!’ they shouted back.

And so they rode out toward Bukhara and past the magnificent city, toward the marsh where the Shasab’s forces were encamped. The army of Nasr Samani charged into the marsh and did battle with the Behdinan therein. Meanwhile, he had sent out his cavalry out to engage Mehrzad’s.

The battle did not go well for the Behdinan. Their cavalry would not directly engage his own on the high-ground, so he merely began picking them off one by one with his archers. And in the marsh, though Mehrzad’s troops were putting up a valiant struggle, they were outnumbered and in a weak position – the stagnant water grew red with the blood of the Behdinan. Things were looking very bright for Nasr’s army. Nasr looked about triumphantly for the Mehrzad’s yellow standard… only, it wasn’t there.

Only then did it dawn on him as he gazed out over the hills to the northeast, where already the glimmer of mail on the men descending the sandy slopes could be seen. Nasr had led his army straight into a trap.

‘Break off, men!’ he shouted. ‘Retreat! Retreat!’

The men his scout had seen depart into the countryside for supplies had, in fact, been lying in wait just north of those hills, and the men his scout had seen on the road to Samarkand had, of course, doubled back to wait in the small valley that lay due east. Mehrzad was now pincering his men mercilessly between two overwhelming left and right flanks.

Nasr led his men to the southwest edge of the swamp, where they met with what was left of their cavalry and ran as fast as possible back in the direction of Bukhara. Nasr gritted his teeth in rage. A third time he had been beaten! This would not stand – if it took him twenty years, he would have his revenge.

Mehrzad watched from the southern slopes of the hillside his men had taken up for their ambush, as Nasr Samani’s army broke into a disorganised rout. He raised his hand, and his men in the swamp immediately pulled together those left amongst them and began to pursue.

It was not the cleanest victory he had won, but it was nonetheless clearly a victory. Nasr’s men had been thrown into utter confusion – in the aftermath it was confirmed that over six hundred of them had perished in the rout. Unfortunately, Mehrzad’s cavalry had been forced to take a large number of the casualties, as had the foot-soldiers in the swamp. In the end reckoning, however, only two hundred sixty-one of his soldiers had had to be sacrificed.

Those who had survived – even those horsemen and men in the swamp who had been left as bait, began openly admiring the Shasab’s tactical ability and audacity. The tale of his appearance out of the north on the hillside facing the swamp, and the Amir’s panicked flight from it, grew more and more exaggerated until he had acquired a near-heroic stature. In this he was aided unasked by the scout Abolhasan, who added his own embellishments to the tale of his meeting with the Shasab before the trap had been laid.

As he made his way to the head of his troops to lead them eastward, past Samarkand to Khavakand, he began hearing whispers amongst them, calling him Mehrzad e-Dānāg – Mehrzad the Knowing, or Mehrzad the Wise. He hid a smile. There were far worse things to be known for.

Three. Horezm under the Frawahr’s Wings

The winds of farr, the divine glory, are mysterious indeed. They light upon the most unknowing of men, and carry them as easily as a sēn-murw bird might, to the top of the highest peaks. But if that man abuses his power, oppresses the common people, follows the Lie, and forgets the righteous will of the Wise Lord whose glory he borrows, that same wind might throw him from that peak and dash him on the rocks below, with all the force of the people’s anger toward him. Thus it is always important for a king to remember asha, the way of truth. Mehrzad, Shasab of the last remaining lands under the Good Faith, was all too well aware of this. Thus far he had been riding a great wind; but with each gust he must be careful to remind himself just how small he was, amongst this land and this history he was attempting to recapture.

Mehrzad ran the last remaining stragglers of Amir Nasr Samani’s army to earth at Khavakand, cornering them just before they fled into the Ferghana Valley. Mehrzad was saddened his own act, and wondered if he was truly doing the right thing – of the five hundred men he had left, the Amir straggled eastward from that slaughter into Ferghana with less than two hundred. He respected and feared the Amir – his fear of the Amir’s vengeance was tempered only by the knowledge that he could not allow the Amir any means to wreak it upon him. And press on he must: Mehrzad rode hard northwest toward the oasis fort of Dashhowuz, the very centre of the Amir’s reign over Horezm, where he and his armies set up a siege camp near the lake the Turks of this area called Sari-Qamish, and settled into the long business of waiting.

Almost a year passed since that fateful day just before the Nōg Rōz festival when Mehrzad Behrangzade had first met Amir Nasr on the field of battle at Ýolöten. One thing which kept convincing him that he was on the right path was the great number of men and women along the way – common herdsmen and their families, farmers, silk-road merchants – who kept his armies fed, watered, sheltered and supplied out of gratitude for trying to deliver them from the oppression of the jizya and the persecution they faced for being Behdinan. Nowhere was that more true than in the Amir’s own centre of power, where most the Behdinan felt the pressure from men in power.

Mehrzad kept his camp open at all times, especially to those who had lost their livelihoods or worse under the Amir. He invited them to share the table of himself and his spāhbed, and made sure that not one of them left hungry. It seemed to him the least he could do – their defeat would have been certain long ago if it were not for this support from below, from the people of the Good Faith who lived in on the land of Horezm.

Now, at last, they heard the news that the Turkoman mercenaries had taken Derweze at last – the Gate had fallen; the great city of Horezm itself would very soon follow! This was very thankful news for all assembled at the camp outside Dashhowuz! It was not often that the Persians, the Behdinan, had any need to be grateful to the Anērān, to the Turkomans, but now was certainly one of the occasions. It may very well have been that the Turkoman riders had saved their faith forever from extinction from the face of the earth; an irony not lost on those mowbeds and literate men who understood the ancient enmity between them.

Another five days’ celebration culminating in a great Nōg Rōz feast came and went, and the siege of Dashhowuz began to take its toll on those within the fort. Dashhowuz – the Stone Pond – was renowned for the stone well at its centre where the fresh water always ran cool and plenty, fed by the rich Horezm oasis. But now, as the spring dragged on into a dry summer, the water was running low, and the garrison of the fortified town had no way to resupply. On the thirteenth of Hordad, the inhabitants of Dashhowuz opened the gate at last to Mehrzad’s armies, and they flooded victorious into the city.

Mehrzad treated the garrison mercifully, and allowed them to return to their homes. The first thing he did was to have a local mowbed (who until this time had been living in the countryside) light a sacred brazier in the rear of the central mosque, to replace the one which the Amir’s ancestor Saman Khuda had had destroyed. This done, the mowbed recited the yasna and Mehrzad knelt before the fire, offering to it the most precious things he had taken from his campaign in humble thanks to Ohrmazd. The mowbed then offered him a vessel of the soul-nourishing liquor hōm, of which he took a long, slow draught. Relief flooded across him as he did so, a calm sense of peace that he had not felt in years. That this city, the very heart of Horezm, had once again been delivered into the hands of the faithful, was the first sign that perhaps the Wise Lord had not abandoned them completely into Muslim hands after all.

He emerged from the newly-reconverted fire-temple, and stood before a large crowd of people.

‘Hamazor bēd!’ he cried to them all, clasping his hands before them. ‘Let us be as one!’

‘Hamazor hama ashō bēd!’ the people assembled returned the greeting. ‘Let us be as one with the Truth!’

‘My dearest fellow Behdinan, I come to you today with a message of joy. No longer are you hunted and persecuted men and women! No longer are you subject to the penalty of jizya, which enriches the powerful at the expense of the weak! No longer are you to be oppressed by laws which demean and humiliate you, which cheat you of the pursuit of honest labour! All slaves taken by the Muslims to be sold at Marv shall be henceforth released from all bonds of debt and labour, and treated as free men and free women. At long last, you are all free. The shasab of the Caspian lands, Mehrzad Behrangzade Kubra, pledges you this, before the eyes of the Wise Lord who sees and judges all, with his very life! Our holy fires will again burn; may they burn forever until the Frashagird!’

There was a great roar of approval from the crowd; many of them hugged and kissed each other, and tears streamed down the haunted faces of man and woman alike.

‘To the servants of the God of the prophet Mohammed, I have this to say to you. You will be subject to no penalty for your Amir’s crimes; you are beholden to no debt either to me or to my fellow Behdinan. Just as Kurush e-Wuzurg in those ancient and glorious days promised the men of Babylon, you may build your holy places and bow to your holy sites in the land of the Arabs; these we shall respect as much as we do our own. Any Behdin who strikes a Muslim, or who desecrates one of their holy places, will be subject to the same penalty that faces those who desecrate the holy fires! All who speak the truth are the friends of the Behdin.

‘However, if a Muslim cheats a Behdin, or if he strikes a Behdin, the punishment shall be the same as for a Behdin who cheats or strikes another Behdin. And if a Muslim raises the sword against the lawful government appointed by the Wise Lord, he shall be flayed alive in the same manner as traitors were in the kingdom of the heirs of Ardeshir. But no Muslim who preaches his faith in peace and in the honest pursuit of the Truth has any need to fear me. Thus speaks your shasab!’

The cheer which followed this pronouncement was deafening. ‘Hail Mehrzad! Hail the Shasab! Hail Mehrzad, Shāh of Horezm!’

The crowd followed Mehrzad all the way to the Amir’s palace, where he welcomed all inside and had his army’s cooks prepare a feast for them.

The enthusiasm with which Mehrzad was greeted by the believers in Dashhowuz was likely a great blow to the Amir, but not so great as the news which came later, after the Mid-Summer Festival, that the walled inner city of Horezm itself, Aychan Kala, had fallen to Mehrzad’s Turkoman mercenaries. He had sent a fast-rider to Horezm in advance to make it clear to the Turkomans that their generous payment and continued employment by the shasab would be contingent on not looting anything inside the city. Thankfully, there had been no news of unlawful looting or murder or any other unpleasantness from Horezm – the Turkomans had kept to their word.

The Amir had been completely beaten. It was not long after that a messenger from the Amir came to Dashhowuz with an offer of a settled peace – the Shasab Mehrzad Behrangzade would have full territorial control over Horezm. This offer he accepted, and sent the messenger back to his master with his reply.

After this was complete, Mehrzad went to the fire-temple in Dashhowuz, again bathed in the sacred water before the temple and accepted the offer the mowbed made to him to have him named Shāh of Horezm. Mehrzad knelt and prayed before the sacred fire, giving thanks to Ohrmazd for the victory; the mowbed then passed over the flame a diadem, wrought specially for Mehrzad in the Sassanian style by a believing silversmith in the wake of Dashhowuz’s fall, to be placed over the head of the new Shāh. The ceremony was well-attended by the Behdinan of Dashhowuz, who saw Mehrzad as their saviour; however, it was reported that most of the Muslims had stayed at home.

‘Hail to the Shāh Mehrzad e-Dānāg, great in farr, blessed of Ohrmazd! Hail to the Saviour of Horezm!’

Again, Mehrzad clasped his hands before them, and bowed to them. Their Shāh he might now be through the deeds of sword and bow, but now he needed to honour that title through deeds of love and justice. The Wise Lord would demand no less.

Whew. Tough crowd.


Four. The Queen of Vice Checkmates the King of Virtue

Mehrzad was taken in triumph from the fortress of Dashhowuz into the marvellous city of Great Gurganj. In the palace there – now his, the Shāh’s – he took the opportunity to bathe, eat and rest before the feast celebrating his return and the end to the war with Nasr Samani. Mehrzad wore a clean, neat robe over his sedreh and donned a suitable red head-covering, before he walked across the courtyard to the main hall. To be honest, he would rather have ridden back to hold this feast in his hometown, Dehestan. But his advisors had all told him it would be wiser for him as the Shāh of Horezm to hold the first great feast of his reign in that historic kingdom. Even better to hold it in the capital.

The feast was already in full swing as he entered the great hall, and he found his entire court already there enjoying the entertainment. His spāhbed Khodadad was already well into his meal. His astabadh Hooshyar was already on a jar of wine which was clearly not his first, laughing loudly with a pretty young girl on his lap. And Abolhasan, that clever young scout who had shown a clear talent for logistics and strategy, was already telling bawdy jokes with several of the other young soldiers.

Mehrzad visibly drooped in his step as he entered the hall. Giving speeches was hard enough with his slow tongue, but the music and the drinking and the shouting which these occasions inevitably aroused wearied him. He took his seat at the head of the table, forcing himself to grin broadly as he raised his jug of wine in a toast.

‘My friends – to victory! May Ohrmazd find us worthy of it.’

A great huzzah met him as he said this. He took a deep draught of the sweet yellow brew, which had come from the East; a true shame that the Muslims had destroyed the trade in Iranian wine with their wrongheaded abstentions. And he sat heavily. As he did so, a pleasingly plump girl – for she could not have been older than nineteen if she was a day – came by to refill his jug and sit next to him, which she also did rather heavily. The Shāh was about to object, but as he took a careful look at her face he found it was remarkably pretty, with a long, straight and elegant nose, cheeks flushed an exquisite red and eyes cast demurely downward. And she was certainly dressed to please, in a way which showed off her plentiful figure to best advantage. Mehrzad felt he should know her from somewhere, but he couldn’t quite place a finger on it. At any rate, she kept both his jug and his lap full, and he could object to neither.

As the evening went on, he began to find the entire affair rather pleasant. Khodadad came by and spoke with him, and cast a few looks at the girl he was with as he did so. Mehrzad noticed this and lay his hand gently but firmly on the girl’s thigh. Khodadad laughed.

‘So you find the company here agreeable, my Shāh?’

‘More than agreeable, Khodadad. Though I am still not used to hearing myself called that.’

‘Your Majesty flatters me beyond my due,’ the girl next to him said. ‘Would you like more wine?’

‘Please,’ Mehrzad said. By now his face and ears felt more than just a bit warm, and his heart was pounding easily in time to the music they were playing. Perhaps this feast was not such a bad idea after all! No, absolutely not. And this enchanting young thing had made the entire thing more than worth the trouble just by her company alone. When she began whispering in his ear the things she wanted him to do to her, in a way that lit the fires in his breast the way no other woman had ever done, he found he could simply not refuse her.

Making some clumsy excuses to retire, he made his way back to the palace of Great Gurganj, where the girl led him directly to his rooms, closed the door after her, and began to disrobe before him. After that…

… Mehrzad awoke to the daylight falling across his face and bare chest, and to one of the worst throbbing headaches he had ever had. He groaned as his protesting arms flopped upwards to shield his bleary eyes from the sun. Somehow his hands found his face and his beard, and he drew them across them with a vague encrusted sound from deep in his parched throat. He forced his complaining eyes open; all was a great blur for a moment. Then he turned toward the window side of the bed.

Amongst the sheets was the tawny bare back and posterior of the girl from the night before, her tousled black hair still draped over her shoulder. Mehrzad grinned drowsily at her – that had been one truly amazing night, for all it had taken its toll on his head! – but then somewhere in his drink-addled mind, upon beholding her quite-serviceable love-handles, something clicked. And then another thing. And then another.

And then his smile inverted itself as the ice-cold water of breaking apprehension doused his heart and instantly quenched the fires of lust that had raged all through the past night.

It was no local miss of Gurganj he had bedded. She was Zeynab Pājnigara of Dehestan.

And this was all Khodadad’s handiwork.

With every tendon in his shoulders and knees screaming in agony at the exertion, he forced his torso upright and slid his leaden feet over the side of the bed, donning with some difficulty his sedreh and a morning robe and descending the stairs with one single thought sloshing around in his head: demanding an immediate explanation from Khodadad. And then possibly strangling the conniving bastard with his bare hands. Okay, make that two thoughts.

Thankfully, Khodadad made himself quite easy to find, greeting him at the bottom of the stairs with a broad grin.

‘Well, my Shāh,’ the despicable scoundrel smirked, ‘how did you enjoy the feast? Looks like you got along well enough with—’

‘How in the name of Ahreman did you manage to get her here?’ the Shāh snapped, as viciously as he could manage.

‘Fast-rider,’ said Khodadad instantly. ‘As soon as it was clear that Dashhowuz was won, I sent Abolhasan back to the Pājnigara family to propose the plan to have her seduce you; naturally they agreed to it. Abolhasan brought her back here just before the feast, got her ready, and the rest we left to her.’

‘I’ve a good mind to throw the both of you out of town by your ears,’ the Shāh growled.

‘Sire, I would not advise it,’ Khodadad spoke quickly. ‘The Pājnigara family are very influential in the trade in silks and other goods from Chīn; Master Pājnigara could make your rule quite difficult if you cross him. Besides, as I have said so many times before, you need her. That you were seduced so easily is evidence of the fact; she knows the arts of the followers of the Lie, and can help you defend against them. Now, as Horezm’s Shāh, you cannot simply ignore the harm your enemies can do to you by stealth. With Zeynab as your Bāmbishn, your Queen, the plans of the Evil One to overthrow you will be much easier to thwart.’

Mehrzad glared at him. What he said was true, of course. But even so… last night Zeynab had even done… that to him, and that, and… ugh, he shuddered even to think of it. He felt utterly soiled all over; he still had the scent of her all over his body. Still, the girl had certainly improved over the years, both in looks and in comportment. And her other skills were truly… well, exhilarating, and they had a persuasive influence all their own.

‘Very well,’ Mehrzad muttered. ‘I shall make her my Bāmbishn. What I did last night was done willingly; I shall not make myself a liar for it. But if I find you ever cross me again, it will be your hide flying from the walls of Dashhowuz. Am I clear?’

‘Very much so, sire,’ Khodadad answered him, with a cavalier flourish. ‘And… there is one other thing…’

‘Yes?’ asked Mehrzad grumpily.

‘The Yabgu of the Oghuz Anērān, who calls himself Kiliç, has sent a rider across the Aral March, proclaiming Horezm rightfully his own. He says he shall contest this by the sword, if need be. Also, the Marzbān Shahab of Bukhara declares that he shall subdue you in the name of God and his Prophet, where the faith of Nasr Samani had failed. The Oghuz have already lay siege to the Inner Fortress by Aral.’

Mehrzad groaned. A war to the north against the Anērān, and a war to the south against the Muslims in control of the Fortunate City. This would not be pretty. And he would spend far less time with Zeynab than he had originally thought… though whether that was a good or a bad thing he could not now decide.

‘Shall we ride north, sire?’

‘No, Khodadad. Southward first; taking the Fortunate City shall take less time than taming the Yabgu, and it shall give our troops fresh heart for the fight ahead.’

The troops left Aral’s Inner Fortress to fend for itself, and rode south to meet Marzbān Shahab’s troops head-on, again entering the Zar-Afshān Valley and advancing up the gold-spraying river toward the fortress at Gizhduvon. Now that the Marzbān no longer swore allegiance to the Amir, he would not be commanding forces as dangerous as he might be otherwise.

Eventually Mehrzad’s armies came to a plain, where the grounds were green and fertile with crops. The Zar-Afshān ran in the distance to the north of them, and the armies of Shahab were arrayed in the south. A strategically unfortunate position, Mehrzad realised – but Shahab had underestimated his numbers. Mehrzad’s armies, he could already tell from this distance, outnumbered his opponent’s by nearly three to one. The pikemen arrayed thinly before Shahab’s main body to ward off cavalry attack would not avail him here.

Mehrzad led the charge personally. ‘For the Fortunate City!’ he cried. ‘For Ērān and for ashō!’

‘For Ērān!’ cried his troops back at him. ‘For ashō!’

The battle was swift and it was decisive. The levies of Bukhara were no match at all for the men of Dehestan; they were very simply run down; the green fields were stained red with Islamic blood, and out of every nine of Shahab’s men who marched onto the field there outside Gizhduvon, only two were left able to flee. Once again, Ohrmazd had led the Behdinan to victory.

However, as the men took up their positions around Gizhduvon, a fast-rider from the north came with news from the north. The defenders of Aral’s inner fortress had ridden out to meet the Anērān, and had been utterly crushed in the attempt; only a couple of stragglers had made it back to the inner fortress. The defenders of Aral would not be able to hold out much longer; certain it was that these Oghuz raiders would by no means be so considerate as the mercenaries they had hired to take the fortress in the first place.

Mehrzad stifled a cry of frustration as he heard the news. It would not do to liberate Horezm from the servants of the Arabs, only to have it fall to pieces before the marauding Turks. But he steeled himself; first they would take Bukhara, and then ride to the relief of Aral.

If, by then, anyone was left alive in Aral to save.