The boy swallowed painfully, the pit fresh in his mind.

‘I will not fail, master. I swear it.’

There was no breeze in the summer heat. The air was still and the sun emptied the streets for hours around midday. The city of Almashan was not much more than a walled fortress, ancient and dusty, though a shining river ran along its flank. There were no women and children out on the river banks that day. Almashan was shut tight, packed with people and animals from the farms all around. The marketplaces smelled of fear and cesspools that oozed their filth through to the surface and could not be emptied.

In the distance, the city merchants could hear a whispering thunder, growing all the time. Those on the ground could only look up to the guard posts on the walls and pray for deliverance. Even the beggars had ceased their calls for alms.

‘Be ready!’ Ibrahim called to the men at the gate below. He stared out over the wall, his heart thumping in his chest. Almashan was surrounded by thin soil, too poor to farm well. Yet they had never depended on crops for their wealth.

In the heat haze, a black line of riders approached at frightening speed. They were the reason Ibrahim’s beloved city was packed with strangers. Merchants and trading caravans had raced inside the walls for safety. Ibrahim had levied a tax on all of them, fully half of the goods they sought to protect. None of them had dared complain. If they survived the Mongol attack, Ibrahim knew he would be an extremely wealthy man, but he was not confident.

His little city had stood for seven hundred years on the banks of that river. Its merchants had travelled as far as Chin lands and Spain, bringing back treasures and priceless knowledge, yet never so obviously that they excited the interest of kings and shahs. The elders of Almashan paid their taxes on time while they made fortunes on the backs of infidel slaves. The little city had built its walls and granaries on those profits, becoming a hub for the sale of flesh. Farmland would not have brought Ibrahim the wealth he already enjoyed, or even a small piece of it.

He strained his eyes against the brutal glare, his splayed hands gripping dark stones that had been part of a fort more ancient than anyone could know. Before even that, the city had once been just a place for slave traders to rest by the river before heading south or east to the great markets. Almashan had risen from the ground and claimed them for its own.

Ibrahim sighed to himself. From what he had heard, the Mongols did not understand trade. They would see only an enemy city. His turban soaked up sweat, but he still wiped his hand across his face, leaving a dark patch on the cool white cloth of his robe.

Ahead of the Mongol riders, a lone Bedouin raced, looking back over his shoulder as he galloped. Ibrahim could see he rode a fine black horse, the animal’s size and speed barely keeping him ahead of his pursuers. Ibrahim drummed his fingers on the rough stone as he considered whether to open the small door set into the gate. Clearly the desert warrior thought he was running to safety, but if the gates remained closed, perhaps the Mongols would not attack. If the man was allowed to enter, how long would Almashan withstand the assault that would surely follow?

Indecision racked Ibrahim as he turned and looked down. The souks and bazaars still chattered with news of the shah’s defeat and he was desperate for fresh news, but not at the cost of his city. No. Ibrahim decided to keep the gate closed and let the man die. His mind filled with anger at the thought of the infidels snatching a Moslem right before the city, but Ibrahim had many families looking to him for their safety. Perhaps the Mongols would pass by once they had shed blood. Ibrahim would pray for the man’s soul.

The Mongol line had come close enough for Ibrahim to see individual mounts. He shuddered at the sight of the fierce warriors who had undone Shah Ala-ud-Din Mohammed and broken his great host in sight of Otrar. Yet he saw no catapults or carts, no sign of the great raiding nation that had spilled out of mountains to the east. Perhaps three thousand men rode towards his city, but mounted men alone could not trouble Almashan. The stone under his hands reflected the wealth of centuries of slaving. The walls kept that wealth safe, as well as those who lived there.

Ibrahim’s heart was bitter as he watched the Arab rider rein in before the city gate. The man gestured desperately, spinning his horse on the spot as he yelled to those who watched.

‘Let me in!’ he yelled. ‘See those behind me!’

Ibrahim felt the gaze of other men rest on him. He stood very straight as he shook his head. The Mongols were just half a mile away and he could hear the rumble of their hooves. Almashan was independent and always had been. He could not risk the anger of this foreign khan.

The Arab below gaped, darting a glance back at the warriors running him down.

‘For the love of Allah!’ he roared. ‘Would you leave me to be killed? I have news you must hear!’

Ibrahim clenched his fist, shaking. He saw the man’s horse was laden with saddlebags. Was he a messenger? What news could be so important? The Mongols, the infidels, were just heartbeats away. Ibrahim could hear the snorting mounts and the guttural calls of their men as they bent their bows. He cursed to himself under his breath as he looked away. What was one life in comparison to a city? Almashan would survive.

Below his feet, Ibrahim heard raised voices and he stepped back from the parapet to peer below at the source. To his horror, he saw his brother smash a guard across the face with his hand. The man fell and, though Ibrahim cried out in anger, his brother lifted the locking bar and a beam of solid sunlight lit the gloom below. Before Ibrahim could shout again, the door closed and the panting Bedouin was safe inside. Red with rage, Ibrahim raced down the stone steps to the street below.

‘You fools!’ he roared. ‘What have you done?’

The guards would not meet his eyes, but his brother only shrugged. The door in the gate shook suddenly, making them all jump. The bar rattled under an impact and, above, someone fell back from the wall with an arrow in his shoulder. Ibrahim winced as outside Mongol riders howled their frustration.

‘You have killed us all,’ Ibrahim said in fury. He felt the cool gaze of the man who had entered Almashan and ignored it. ‘Send him back out to them and they may yet spare us.’

His brother shrugged. ‘Inshallah,’ he murmured. Their fate was in God’s hands. He had acted and the man was inside their city. The noise from outside increased in volume, making them all sweat.

The messenger was panting at his narrow deliverance. He stood for a moment with his hands on his knees and Ibrahim saw that he had brought the saddlebags with him.

‘My name is Yusuf Alghani,’ he said as he recovered. He had not missed the exchange between the two brothers and his eyes were very cold as he addressed Ibrahim. ‘Do not fear for your city. The Mongol animals have no siege weapons. Your walls are safe from them. Be thankful that you did not earn Allah’s displeasure with your cowardice.’

Ibrahim crushed his rage and frustration to reply.

‘For you alone, my brother has put us all in danger. We are a trading city and only our walls keep us safe. What news is so important that you risked your life to come to Almashan?’

Yusuf smiled, showing very white teeth in his sun-darkened face.

‘I have news of a great victory, but not for your ears. Take me to the shah and I will raise his heart.’

Ibrahim blinked in confusion, looking to his brother and back to this confident young man.

‘Shah Mohammed is not in Almashan, brother. Is that what you thought?’