The desert had many enemies. They came from the east and the west and the north to occupy the desert’s cities, enslave its people and steal its weapons to fight other wars in faraway lands.
The Sultan saw his desert was under siege from many a side, and that his own forces were outnumbered man to man. And so he summoned his enemies’ kings, queens and princes to his palace.
He called it a truce.
His enemies saw it as surrender.
It was neither. In truth it was a trap.
The Sultan turned soldiers made of metal and magic on his enemies, and reduced their leaders to dust.
Many of the Sultan’s enemies retreated, but the great empire spreading across the north heard the Sultan’s declaration of war against them and resolved to answer it. They were enraged by the slaughter of their king and their soldiers. And so their young impulsive prince, soon to take his father’s place, ordered his forces to march on the great desert city and destroy it.
The Sultan heard of the approaching threat, and he had no small number of sons whom he might have sent into battle to face the approaching armies. But he had no heir. His firstborn had died at the hands of the Rebel Prince, who was consumed by jealousy and sought the throne for himself.
Or so it was said by some.
There were others who said that the Rebel Prince was no traitor, but rather a hero. And those men and women cried out that the Rebel Prince should be the one to defend the desert, not any of the Sultan’s sons raised in the palace, but his true prodigal heir.
But even as the enemy’s army approached, the Rebel Prince was captured. No matter that the people cried out for him to save them, they could not save him as he was delivered to the executioner’s block. For the people of the desert knew that it did not matter if he was a rebel or a traitor or a hero, all men were only mortal in the end.
And yet, when the axe fell, some who saw it swore that he seemed to be more than a mere mortal, that they witnessed his soul leave his body in a great light and transform into a shield of fire around their city. They whispered that the Rebel Prince had answered their call for succour even in death. Just as Ashra the Blessed had answered the desert’s call in time of need thousands of years ago.
And sure enough, when the invaders arrived, they found a great barrier of fire protecting the desert city. The invaders could not attack, and the people of the desert praised the Rebel Prince for shielding them. The invaders could do nothing except surrounded the city and wait for the wall of fire to fail or for the Sultan to send a champion – a prince and heir – to lead his armies against them.
On the first day of the siege, the Sultan’s eldest surviving son, a great swordsman, came to him and asked that he might bear the honour of leading their armies in battle against the invaders at their gates. But the Sultan refused him. He did not know if this son was worthy.
On the second day, the Sultan’s second-eldest son, a great archer, came to him and asked that he might have the honour of leading men in raining arrows down on the enemies who surrounded them. But again the Sultan refused, unsure if he was worthy.
On the third day, the Sultan’s third son came. And he, too, was refused.
Days passed, then weeks, with no heir chosen to fight the enemies. The people of the city grew restless.
Finally, the Sultan, having rebuffed every one of his sons old enough to fight, declared that a new heir would be chosen by trial in battle. As had been the way of the desert since the time of the first Sultan.
The people flocked to the palace to see the trial, crowding around the steps for a glimpse of the men who each might become their ruler. The Sultan appeared before his people and told them that though he still grieved his firstborn son, he saw now that a new heir must be chosen, for the good of his country and his people.
But the Sultan had scarcely begun to speak when the people watching heard another voice.
He lies.
It was the voice of a woman. She did not shout, she whispered. But they heard her clearly all the same, as if she had spoken in their ears. Or from within their own minds.
The assembled people cast around in astonishment, looking for the woman bold enough to speak of their exalted ruler so. And as they did, they saw a thing that was scarcely to be believed. The woman who had spoken stood not at their side but before them, holding her severed head between her hands, pressed close to her heart.
Where her head should have been, her neck ended in a bloody stump.
Those who recognised her passed on the word to those who did not, and soon it swept through all the onlookers that standing before them was the Blessed Sultima. The traitor wife of their now-dead Sultim, executed by her husband’s order.
Returned from the dead.
Though her lips did not move, they all heard her speak.
He lies, she said again, hair fluttering freely over her fingers as she stared accusingly out across the crowd. And lying is a sin.
Scarcely had she spoken that, the sky darkened. And when the people of Izman looked up, a great sandstorm had rushed in to crown the city and hide the sun, plunging the palace into shadow, even as the Blessed Sultima glowed ever more brilliantly. The people cowered under this wrathful storm, which the dead girl had brought to hang over their heads like an axe that might fall and kill them before her very eyes, just as she had been killed before theirs. They dropped to their knees, praying for mercy, though they did not know if they prayed to God or the dead girl.
But the dead Sultima was not interested in mercy. Only in truth.
It was not the Rebel Prince who killed the Sultim. Her voice was clear even over the rising wind that balanced the sand over their heads.
It was his own father. The Sultima’s bloody hand shot out, pointing towards the Sultan on his balcony high above his people. Her head spilled from her hands and toppled to the ground so that its eyes stared angrily up at him. But her voice never wavered. He killed his son in cold blood, as he did his brothers and his father. And he now stands before you pretending grief while he prepares to send more of his sons to their deaths against the invaders he has brought down on this city.
On their knees in front of this miraculous apparition, the citizens of Izman believed her. For what reason would the dead have to lie?
Then the Sultima lifted her head from the ground where it had fallen, turning it to fix her eyes on the princes behind her. One dropped to his knees. Another drew a bow, firing an arrow towards her already blood-soaked chest. It passed straight through the deceased Sultima, as if through water, planting in the ground behind her.
The Sultima looked at the arrow dispassionately before turning back to the princes, who were helpless against her words.