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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
The Chronicle Of Young Dastan
Prologue
There once was a harsh land that few survived and none controlled. Only through bold sword strokes and the sheer force of will did an empire rise from its soil.
That empire was Persia.
By the close of the sixth century, the Persian Empire stretched thousands of miles, from the shores of the Mediterranean Sea to the steppes of China. Its warriors were fierce in battle and its leaders were wise in victory. But the empire was only as strong as its princes, the young men who would grow to become its rulers.
One of those young men was Sharaman. The crown prince of Persia, he was in line to inherit the throne from his father and become king.
Sharaman knew his destiny and was thus determined to develop the skills that would make him a great king. He was tutored by Persia’s greatest scholars and trained by its most courageous soldiers. He cleansed his soul with reflection and prayer in the High Temple and honed his bravery by hunting in the unprotected desert that lay outside the walls of the royal city, Nasaf. He knew that these things would help him. What he did not know, what he could not foresee, was how one particular day would change the path of so many lives. . . .
On that particular day, Sharaman silently stalked a desert buck. His attention was so focused on the buck he didn’t notice a lioness stalking him. By the time Sharaman heard her deadly growl, it was too late.
The lioness leaped through the air to attack Sharaman. He would have been killed if it had not been for the courage of his younger brother, Nizam, who jumped between them and killed the animal with his spear.
It was indeed a selfless act. If he had not saved his brother, Nizam would have taken his place as crown prince. One day he would have become king of all the empire.
Instead Sharaman fulfilled his birthright and assumed the throne, while Nizam became his most trusted advisor. Forever united by the bond of that moment, the young king and his brother fought side by side to spread their empire.
As the king’s fortunes grew, so did his family. He had two sons, Tus and Garsiv, who gave him much joy. But his family was not yet complete. . . .
Chapter One
The foul stench of rotting garbage filled the air. It came from a sprawling garbage heap on the edge of Nasaf. This was home to the waste of an entire city. It was also where poor, homeless children scavenged for leftover scraps of food.
One of those children was Dastan.
His hazel eyes scanned the piles of trash until he spotted a half-gnawed piece of meat. It was covered with flies but was the closest thing to a meal that Dastan had seen in some time. He scooped it up, and three other boys tried to wrestle it away from him.
They only stopped when they heard a nearby shopkeeper call, “Messenger!”
In an instant, Dastan and the others scrambled off the heap and raced to the shopkeeper. The man was holding a package and would pay one of them to deliver it. He eyed them suspiciously.
“You’re the fastest one of these scags, aren’t you?” he finally said to Dastan.
Dastan nodded confidently. “That’s why you pay first.”
If this man wanted the fastest, Dastan was determined to get paid for it.
The shopkeeper stared at him for a moment before he relented. Then he handed Dastan the package—and a coin.
Moments later, Dastan was racing through Nasaf. Actually, he was racing over Nasaf. Rather than push his way through the crowded streets, Dastan ran freely across the rooftops, jumping from building to building without fear.
This is what made Dastan so much faster than the others.
He delivered the package to a small shop, where he spied a stack of apples. Unlike the food he scavenged from the dump, these apples were clean and ripe. Tossing the owner of the shop a coin, Dastan grabbed an apple, his mouth watering in anticipation. But before he could take a bite, he heard a commotion outside on the street.
Dastan stepped out into the bright sunlight just as a group of Persian soldiers marched through the marketplace. They were impressive in their gleaming uniforms. This was especially true of their captain, who rode alongside them atop a large stallion.
Nearby, a boy named Yusef was playing with his brother. Unaware of the danger, Yusef ran in front of the captain’s horse. The stallion reared up on its back legs and dumped the man onto the muddy street.
When the captain stood up, his once spotless uniform was covered in filth. Enraged, he grabbed Yusef and slapped him across the face. He continued to beat the boy until someone stepped out from the crowd to challenge him.
“Stop!” commanded the voice.
The captain turned and saw . . . Dastan.
A mere boy? Daring to give him an order? The captain laughed and started to strike Yusef again.
Acting impulsively, Dastan took his apple and threw it at the man, hitting him right in the head. This time the captain was not amused.
He turned his rage on Dastan. “You filthy piece of street trash!”
“I’m not the one wearing horse manure,” Dastan replied.
The crowd laughed, which only made the captain angrier. He charged at Dastan. “Run!” Dastan yelled at Yusef.
Both boys scurried away from the soldiers to the edge of the marketplace. Dastan helped Yusef climb up onto the roof of a shop and they began racing across the rooftops as the soldiers pursued them from the street. They were about to get away when Yusef’s foot slipped on a tile.
Just as he was about to plunge down to the street, someone snatched him out of midair.
Yusef looked up to see that Dastan had grabbed him with one hand and was holding on to a rain gutter with the other. They were dangling from the edge of the building.
Summoning all of his strength, Dastan swung Yusef up to safety on the roof. But when he did, the gutter pulled off of the building and Dastan plummeted to the ground.
Dastan scrambled to his feet and started to climb back up, but it was too late. Within seconds, he was surrounded by soldiers. There was no escape.
The captain grabbed Dastan and dragged him kicking and screaming into the center of the market. “Witness how t
he king punishes those who disrespect his army!” the captain pronounced to the people who had gathered around them.
Two soldiers forced Dastan to his knees and stretched his hand over a gutter.
“In the king’s name . . .” the captain said as he raised his sword to chop off Dastan’s hand.
Suddenly, a hush fell over the marketplace. Looking up, the captain saw the reason. King Sharaman had arrived, riding on a beautiful black stallion.
Unknown to the soldiers, the king had witnessed the entire event unfold from the shadows of a nearby alley. Now that he had made his presence known, every head in the marketplace was bowed—except for one. Dastan stood, head held high.
“Don’t you fear me?” the king asked, more curious than upset.
Dastan nodded. “I do, sire. But if I’m going to lose my hand, I want to look into the eyes of the man who takes it.”
Unlike the captain, who had been angered by Dastan’s boldness, the king was impressed. Here was a boy who was both noble and brave, two qualities he admired greatly.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Dastan, sire,” the boy replied.
“And your parents?”
Dastan glanced away, and Sharaman realized he had no parents.
In that moment the king saw in Dastan, a boy with no royal blood, the chance to have a son with no eye on his throne. A son he could always trust. So he adopted Dastan as a member of the royal family, as his third and final son—a true prince of Persia.
Chapter Two
Twelve years later . . .
A blinding sandstorm raged across the desert, its massive swirl blotting out the sun. Although it rumbled like thunder, this was no force of nature. The storm was created by something far more deadly and far more powerful than weather and wind.
Suddenly a column of horsemen burst through the flurry, proudly carrying the red and gold battle standards of King Sharaman. They continued riding until they reached the desert’s edge. Behind them the storm slowly began to settle, revealing an endless line of soldiers and supplies that stretched from one end of the horizon to the other.
This was the Persian army.
The dominion of the king, it was commanded by his sons.
It had been twelve years since Dastan had been adopted by Sharaman. As he and his brothers grew into men, they had come to represent very different, but equally important, qualities of the empire.
The thoughtful Tus was the kingdom’s brain. As crown prince, he would one day become king. Just as his father had, Tus did all he could to learn to be a wise decision maker. He tried to be deliberate in his reasoning and relied heavily on his uncle Nizam for advice and counsel.
The quick-tempered Garsiv represented the kingdom’s muscle. He knew he would one day be called upon to carry out the decisions his brother made as king. He was eager to win glory in battle and always ready to unleash his fury on any threat to the empire.
The spirited Dastan was the empire’s heart. He was a prince, but he was also a man of the people. He led a group of soldiers who, like him, had come from the streets. He loved the men in his command, and he loved his brothers. But most of all, Dastan loved King Sharaman, the man who had seen the potential for greatness in him.
Now, after a long march from Nasaf, the army had reached its destination. As soldiers began to set up camp, three men in royal uniforms stood apart, surveying a terrain unlike any they had seen before. From horseback, they looked out at a lush green valley that stretched all the way to mist-covered mountains in the distance.
Tucked into this valley was the magnificent walled city of Alamut.
The leader of the trio was Tus, his golden robes radiant in the setting sunlight. “Even more stunning than I imagined,” he said softly. While his words were praising, he wore a look of concern on his face.
“Don’t be fooled by beauty,” warned his uncle, Nizam. The old man’s face was weathered with experience. “It’s a city,” Nizam reminded him. “Like any other.” It was his duty to help the crown prince reach the right choice now.
The third member of the group, Garsiv, adjusted the breastplate of his black armor. When he looked down at Alamut, he didn’t see beauty. He only saw possible routes to attack. “Soft countries make soft men,” he said coldly. “They stoop to treachery and must pay for it.”
“Perhaps,” Tus responded, considering it for a moment. “But Father has made clear that Alamut’s not to be touched. Some consider it sacred.”
Garsiv’s face turned sour. “The king spends more time in prayer than battle now,” he said. “Perhaps he no longer knows what’s best.”
“Enough,” Nizam scolded. “Your father has won honor enough to fill the desert.”
Chastened, Garsiv nodded.
“Since our wise father isn’t here, the decision rests on me,” Tus reminded them. Decisions weighed heaviest on Tus when reason dictated one thing but his heart another. To attack—or not attack—Alamut was one such decision.
“I’ll have one last council with my noble uncle and my two brothers,” he declared. It was only then that Tus noticed his youngest brother was not with them. He looked around, and there was no sign of him anywhere. “Where is Dastan?”
In the middle of a makeshift ring, two men fought using the ancient martial art Pahlavani. As the two clobbered each other with Karela clubs, onlookers cheered and booed in keeping with whom they had bet on to win.
One of the fighters, Roham, had the distinct advantages of size and strength, but the other countered with singular determination. He somehow managed to withstand each blow and remain on his feet. The soldiers let out more cries as the two men exchanged hits. It was only the appearance of a herald calling for Dastan that stopped the fighting. Looking at the herald, the smaller fighter smiled. His penetrating hazel eyes were unmistakable. This was Dastan. The young urchin had grown into a strong and handsome man.
“Your Highness, please,” the herald pleaded. “Prince Tus has convened a war council.”
Dastan took a deep breath and nodded. It was time for him to be a prince again. Dropping his clubs, he quickly started to put on the uniform of a royal officer. He winced with pain as his trusted lieutenant, Bis, helped him tighten his armor over the fresh bruises.
Bis nodded to the men. “About the bets?” he asked.
Dastan rubbed his throbbing shoulder. “Pay them all,” he announced, eliciting a cheer.
“Tell me something, Bis,” he whispered as he pushed his tongue along the inside of his mouth. “Have I still got all my teeth?”
Moments later, Dastan entered the war-council tent. “He was fighting with common soldiers again,” Garsiv snarled angrily when he saw Dastan. “Roham is hardly common,” Dastan corrected with a laugh. “He hits like a mule. Not a bad cook, either.”
“Allow them to strike you,” Garsiv said testily, “and they lose fear of us all.”
“That’s fine with me,” he said defiantly. “Cowards lead by fear.”
Nizam held up a hand to silence the young men. There was much to be discussed, and they did not have time for the sibling rivalry between Garsiv and Dastan.
“You two are brothers and princes,” he reminded them. “Save your fury for Alamut.”
This caught Dastan’s attention. “Alamut?” he asked, surprised. “But the king . . .”
They all knew that King Sharaman had instructed them to leave the city untouched. But the situation had changed. “The king doesn’t know this,” Tus said, motioning to a man in the corner of the room.
Dastan eyed the man. He had pale blue eyes that were cold and nearly lifeless. Opening two giant trunks, the man revealed a collection of deadly weapons.
“Our finest spy intercepted a caravan leaving Alamut, carrying these to our enemies in Koshkhan,” Nizam explained. “Swords of the finest workmanship, steel-tipped arrows.”
Tus handed Dastan several rolls of parchment. “A promise of payment from the warlord Kosh to Alamut,” he explained. “They’
re selling weapons to our enemies!”
Garsiv pulled a steel-tipped arrow from the pile of weapons. “Such an arrow slew my horse during the battle in Koshkhan,” he exclaimed. “Blood will run in Alamut’s streets for this.”
“Or too many Persian soldiers will fall from its walls,” Dastan warned, looking up from the parchment.
“Words won’t stop our enemies once they’re armed with Alamutian blades,” cautioned Nizam. As he had been trained, he was careful to redirect the conversation while still letting Tus make the decisions.
Tus nodded in agreement. His mind was made up. “We attack at dawn,” he announced.
Dastan held his tongue. This was not what his father would have wanted. If Dastan could not stop the attack, though, maybe there was a way to minimize the bloodshed.
“In that case,” Dastan said, deferring to Tus, “I request the honor of first assault.”
Garsiv scoffed. “I ride at the head of the Persian army,” he reminded them. “Dastan leads a company of street rabble. The honor of first blood should be mine.”
As was his habit, Tus fingered his prayer beads while he worked toward a decision. “It’s said the princess of Alamut is a beauty beyond compare,” Tus said. “We’ll march into her palace and see for ourselves. There can be no doubt of your courage, Dastan,” he went on formally, “but you’re not ready for an operation of this importance. Garsiv’s cavalry will lead the way.”
Tus and Garsiv smiled in anticipation of the battle, while Nizam silently nodded his approval.
Dastan, however, just clenched his jaw. He had not been able to convince his brothers to spare the city, but perhaps there was another path. . . .
* * *
That night, Dastan led a daring raid into Alamut.
Rather than charge the fortress directly, as Garsiv was planning, Dastan thought a sneak attack would be more effective. Gathering his men around him, he ran through his plan. Once everyone was set, he climbed Alamut’s outer wall with lightning-fast precision. His company of “street rabble” followed close behind.
“Remind me why we’ve disobeyed your brother’s orders?” Bis asked when they reached the top of the wall.