The Treasure

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HIS POWER WAS WANING, fading like that blood-red sun setting behind the mountains.

Jabbar Al Nasim’s fists clenched with fury as he gazed out at the sun sinking on the horizon. It should not be. It made no sense that he should be so afflicted. Weakness was for those other fools, not for him.

Yet he had always known it would come. It had even come for Sinan, the Old Man of the Mountain. But he had always been stronger than the Old Man in both mind and spirit. Sinan had bent before the yoke, but Nasim had prepared for it.

Kadar.

“You sent for me, master?”

He turned to see Ali Balkir striding along the battlements toward him. The man’s voice was soft, hesitant, and he could see the fear in his face. Nasim felt a jolt of fierce pleasure as he realized the captain had not detected any loss of power. Well, why should he? Nasim had always been master here, in spite of what outsiders thought. Sinan might have been the King of Assassins, feared by kings and warriors alike, but Nasim had been the one who had guided his footsteps. Everyone here at the fortress knew and groveled at his feet.

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