cable. The beast felt its limbs locked together and frustratingly tried to keep itself balanced. With a powerful tug, Kar-Tyr sent the monster to the ground followed by a thunderous thud.
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The crowd erupted in a roaring applause. Back in the dungeon, Sinbad was amazed by the centaur’s abilities. He wondered how such a bulky specimen like him could have performed such daring feats. What really caught Sinbad’s eye was the weapon Kar-Tyr was using. Small but practical. It probably took a lifetime to master.
The spectators were imparting the “kill” chant. Kar-Tyr moved with the supple ease of a jungle cat, his steely muscles rippling under his grey skin. He slowly approached the beast, which was flat on its back, unknotting his kunai. The monster angrily screeched as its foe pulled his weapon apart. The rope attached to the blade was straightened and it snapped all together to form a spear. The monster showed its teeth to Kar-Tyr before the gladiator shoved the blade into its mouth.
The crowd chanted Kar-Tyr’s name in celebration. Another victory for the last of the Kurwani. The beast took its last breath and succumbed to its wounds. Kar-Tyr retracted his weapon and basked in the approval of the court holding his bloodstained spear aloft. He caught a glimpse between the dungeon’s barred windows and saw Sinbad. Their eyes met and said nothing to each other. Sinbad was impressed with this creature, and thought to himself Kar-Tyr would be a powerful ally. All Kar-Tyr saw in Sinbad was another victim met at the end of his kunai.
Night had fallen; Sinbad is knelt beside Azrak as the sailor said his evening prayers. Azrak stares at his friend as he silently mediates and inaudibly beseeched to his idol.
“Does your god watch over you even here, Sinbad?” asked Azrak.
Sinbad opened his eyes and casually said, “Allah is everywhere, and in all things, my friend. He begetteth not, nor is He begotten; and there is none like unto Him”
“Is that why you pray so much during the day?”
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“Praying five times a day is considered the second most important of my religion’s five pillars, after professing that there is no god worthy of worship but Allah and that the Prophet Mohammed is Allah’s messenger,” explained Sinbad. “It reminds me about Allah throughout my day. At fixated intervals, no matter how busy you are, all of a sudden you have to take out a few minutes and you are remembering why we a really here.”
“In prison?” asked Azrak.
“No,” said Sinbad, “the true reason we are in existence, my friend.”
Azrak stared perplexed at him. “Why do you move so much when you pray?”
“Each prayer includes a series of movements, supplications, and recitations from the Quran—a sacred text for my people,” replied Sinbad. “We consider prayer to be both spiritual and physical. The various standing and bending symbolize my devotion to Allah. My entire being is involved in my prayer, and it is in service to my creator.”
“I have something I must tell you,” began Azrak, trying to find the right words. “There is a prophecy amongst my people. It is written that a stranger from a foreign land will free the Azurians.”
Sinbad broke out of his worship. What Azrak said took him unaware. Something about that last part really alarmed him.
“What—what are you saying?” Sinbad was stunned.
Azrak took Sinbad’s hand as if he was going to reading the palm.
“I believe yours is the hand that will one day slay Akhdar and reunite the Azurians and the Thulians. That’s why I took you in, and that is why you are a prisoner.” Azrak’s face was filled with remorse. His voice was breaking and he hung his head in shame. “I am sorry.”
“There is no need for an apology, Azrak,” assured Sinbad. “You saved my life and treated me as if I were a
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member of your family. For that I am eternally grateful. I fear, however, I am merely a sailor, not a savior. I am not of whom your prophecy speaks.”
The Azurian priest shivered, it was very windy and cold. He pulled his robe’s collar tighter around his neck and scanned his environment. There was a temple far off in the distance, and the holy blue man set off in its direction. He walked for a very long time, and eventually he found himself in the foothills of the mountains, a hazy mist filled the atmosphere. He trudged to the foot of the nearest slope and began the hike upward.
The moon was almost directly above, and the wind had increased in pitch by the time he found a steep, twisting trail and saw a cluster of huts a few hundred yards away. The clouds had completely covered the luminous moon and the mountainside was colder and windier. The priest was panting as he climbed to the top of a stone ridge. The rest of the mountain was covered in clouds and mist. The priest clamped his teeth together to stop their chattering, but he could not control the shivers that racked his body. Wind howled down the slope, driving gusts of dirt into his face and eyes. He blinked, wiped his face on his sleeve, and struggled on.
At the next level clearing, the priest stopped and rested for a moment. The sky grew darker and the wind felt like a razor slicing his face but he did nothing to shield himself. He was completely exhausted.
The priest glanced at the stark outlines of the mountains all about them and shuddered. His soul shrank from their gaunt brutality. This was a grim, naked land where anything might happen.
A remote mountain village was in front of him. It was cut off from the world by sky-high peaks. There was a temple that overlooked a small enclave of thatch-roofed huts. Wooly yaks were tethered outside the dwellings.
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Something was visible through the mist, the silhouette of a temple. Prayer flags fluttered in the breeze, which carried the chiming of wind-bells down from the looming place of worship. Through the cold, blustery night the temple gongs boomed and the conchs roared. Their clamor was a faint echo from within the temple while the priest struggled on his journey. Beads of sweat glistened on his dark blue skin. His fingers twisted the hem of the rich fabric beneath him.
He proceeded to the stone walkway and up a small flight of wide steps to a tall marble door. The priest cautiously made sure he wasn’t followed, and opened the huge door while it gave a creaking and grinding sound.
The priest pulled himself inside. He was in a huge, vaulted hall lit by torches set into iron brackets on the stone floor, forming pools of flickering firelight that melted into surrounding shadows. There were thick, supporting pillars every few yards.
The door creaked and scraped and thudded shut. He locked the doors and took a tour of the temple. He walked down the center aisle past the rows of empty pews. The waning moonlight filtered through the windows overlooking the interior of the building.
The priest squinted, adjusting his sight to the semidarkness. At the far end of the hall there was a raised platform. Numerous candles glowed brightly on the altar, with the scent of incense filled the air. By it stood a robed figure, a person whose features, in the dim glow of the torches, seemed
