Escape from Alamut

The white silk must have fallen during the scuffle with the bearded man. Aryan clung to the wooden bars of the cage, peering backward, but all he could see was an endless line of ox-drawn wagons. Only when the convoy turned a corner after a long wait did he catch a glimpse of the distant path.

The crossroads were no longer in sight; the convoy had already traveled far. Aryan's grip tightened, his knuckles turning pale as he stared blankly into the distance, unable to believe that the family's treasured manual was truly gone.

"Did any of you... see a piece of white cloth?" he asked, turning to the other children in the cage, harboring a sliver of desperate hope.

Perhaps they didn't understand the language of the Western Kingdom, or perhaps they chose silence, but none of the children responded. They didn't even lift their heads to glance at the newcomer.

"A piece of white..." Aryan gestured the approximate size of the silk with his hands, but his voice faltered. This cartload of emaciated, ragged children could hardly be interested in a scrap of cloth.

"They can't understand you," a voice finally broke the silence after the wagon jolted along for some time.

It came from a boy nestled in the corner of the cage, about Aryan's age, with sharp, delicate features. Unlike the other children, he was cleaner and had somehow managed to secure a small corner for himself, where he twirled a blade of grass between his fingers and studied Aryan with a curious, probing gaze.

"The white silk—a piece of white fabric—did you see it?" Aryan asked, urgency rising in his voice.

The sharp-faced boy pondered for a moment before shaking his head. "No. Is it important?"

Aryan slumped down, his mind blank.

"Where are they taking us?" he mumbled after a long silence.

"Lambsar City."

Aryan knew the name—a bustling hub in Central Asia, where traders converged, vice thrived, and fortunes were made and lost. It was paradise for revelry and hell for the unguarded. He had even stayed there once. Then, with a jolt, he recalled something—Alamut Castle was just beyond Lambsar City's outskirts.

Lifting his gaze, he locked eyes with the sharp-faced boy, who continued to scrutinize him as though Aryan held some peculiar secret worth uncovering.

"Do you know me?" Aryan snapped, his irritation sparked by the boy's unabashed curiosity. They were the only two in the cart who spoke the language of the Western Kingdom, but Aryan, now a disgraced captive stripped of everything that mattered, had no interest in making friends.

"Rich kid," the sharp-faced boy remarked with a scornful laugh, his tone dripping with mockery.

"What did you say?" Aryan's fury surged, though much of it was unrelated to the boy before him.

"Nothing. But when we get to Lambsar City, they'll sell us all. No one will buy you just to let you play nobleman again. I'm doing you a favor, giving you some advice—being a servant is no easy transition. There are rules to learn and ways to survive. Want to hear a tip from me?"

Despite his loathing, Aryan grudgingly nodded, knowing there was sense in the boy's words.

"Keep your ass clean," the boy said with exaggerated seriousness before his expression twisted into a grin. The grin blossomed into laughter, so unrestrained it filled the entire cart.

Aryan didn't immediately grasp the insinuation. When he did, the window for a sharp retort had passed, leaving him to stew in a mixture of embarrassment and anger. His pampered upbringing had offered no lessons in dealing with such crass jibes.

The sharp-faced boy, emboldened by his own audacity, continued. "Relax. A well-kept rich kid like you? Once we get to Lambsar City, the buyers will scramble over you. You're destined for great prospects—oh, your backside won't go to waste!"

The insult was unmistakable. Aryan lunged at the boy, but the cramped cage worked against him. One of the other children tripped him mid-leap, sending the lot of them tumbling into a tangled heap. Their cries caught the attention of a guard, who prodded the writhing pile indiscriminately with his baton.

The children quickly disentangled themselves, each nursing fresh bruises. Aryan had failed to lay a finger on the sharp-faced boy, who sat in his corner, barely touched, his grin unwavering. As soon as the guard walked away, he clutched his stomach, doubling over in fits of laughter until he was gasping for air.

Aryan had never encountered such an infuriating person. In that moment, the sharp-faced boy eclipsed even the assassin from Alamut Castle as the one Aryan detested most.

Yet the boy's taunts didn't spare Aryan alone. He entertained himself by unsettling every child in the cage with vivid accounts of their impending fate as slaves, whether by subtle suggestion or blunt declarations. He had a talent for stirring fear and despair, weaving his macabre tales with vivid gestures and expressions.

"Some masters," he whispered conspiratorially to a teary-eyed child, "prefer their slaves tender and young—like us. Every year, traders handpick the smoothest, softest children to cater to such appetites. They'll accuse you of defiance or trying to escape, tie you up tight, scrub you clean, and start cutting—slice by slice. Some pieces they'll roast, others they'll stew. You'll be alive to watch them eat every bite."

His tongue darted across his teeth, his grin devilish, and his favorite refrain—"Keep your ass clean"—surfaced time and again.

Eventually, an eight-year-old burst into wailing sobs, and only then did the boy recline with smug satisfaction, basking in his triumph.

Aryan soon grew numb to the sharp-faced boy's tirades, his despair numbing him to insults and injury alike. It was as if the certainty of doom had stripped him of the will to resist, let alone escape. Even the "will of the gods" seemed to have forsaken him, offering no signs or solace.

Meanwhile, the convoy moved ever closer to Lambsar City, a journey filled with mounting mirth among the merchants. They anticipated the wealth, wine, and pleasures awaiting them, knowing their arrival in Alamut Castle's territory guaranteed safety from danger.

This final notion was shattered on the third day at noon, just when the caravan was barely more than a day's journey from Lambsar City. The terrain had grown smoother, lush greenery began to surround them, and scattered villages emerged—a setting that seemed entirely unfit for the presence of bandits.

Yet, it was here that a gang of brigands blocked the caravan's path. Those in the rear could see nothing of the situation ahead, but ill tidings swiftly made their way down the line:

"Bandits are blocking the road up ahead."

"Bandits? Here? How can that be?"

"Where's the Alamut Castle assassin? Isn't he leading the way?"

"Don't worry, there are more of us than there are of them—just a few dozen."

"'Iron-headed Demon'… It's him! Oh, God save us all."

Aryan recognized the name "Iron-headed Demon." The figure often haunted the macabre tales of his childhood, so exaggerated and grotesque that Aryan had always dismissed them as mere folklore. He never imagined the man truly existed.

"We're doomed now. The Iron-headed Demon loves devouring children, and he doesn't care whether you've cleaned yourself first."

The sharp-faced boy went pale, repeating the grim declaration in four or five languages, his trembling voice and uncharacteristic seriousness lending the story a terrifying air of authenticity.

Legends of the "Iron-headed Demon of Iron Mountain" were familiar to almost every child across Central Asia. Once reminded, the slaves were thrown into complete despair. The more timid among them cowered in the straw, trembling uncontrollably, too terrified to even lift their heads.

Initially, it was not the Demon himself who negotiated with the caravan. Only when the entire caravan was gripped by unease did a thunderous voice finally ring out:

"Don't be afraid. I've got ties with the 'King of Assassins.' I don't conduct business on his turf. I'm not here to rob anyone—I'm here to buy."

The declaration that the Iron-headed Demon wished to "buy" rather than rob shocked the merchants even more. No one dared respond immediately, fearing it might be some sort of twisted bandit code, and stepping forward might result in a clean stroke of the blade.

Not until the brigands threw two large sacks of gleaming silver onto the ground did the caravan leader muster the courage to ask,

"May I inquire what the great lord seeks to purchase? We have…"

"Slaves."

At these words, the caravan collectively took three steps back, huddling together in panic. Thoughts raced through their minds—who could have offended this fearsome demon so gravely that he would spend silver to claim them?

To everyone's astonishment, the Iron-headed Demon was genuinely there to purchase slaves. A gaunt middle-aged woman dismounted from among the bandits, accompanied by a small retinue, and began inspecting each slave cart, yanking out those she fancied.

The merchants breathed a sigh of relief, but the slaves were gripped by terror. The sharp-faced boy was first struck dumb, then suddenly began grabbing fistfuls of dirt and smearing it over his face.

His desperate attempt to appear as unattractive as possible sparked a frenzy among the others. Even Aryan, sunk in a pit of despair, found himself joining the scramble to mask his appearance in filth.

But the gaunt woman seemed to possess an uncanny ability to see through every guise. No matter how thick the layer of dirt, her gaze swept through the cages and picked out her targets unerringly. When she reached Aryan's cart, two children were chosen.

Summoning all his resolve, Aryan leapt down himself. The sharp-faced boy, still clinging to a faint sliver of hope, collapsed into the corner but was promptly dragged out by one of the brigands.

The woman moved swiftly. In no time, she had selected ten boys and ten girls, all around the same age, including the two who had been hunted by the Snowy Mountain Swordsman Sinan.

"They say the meat of virgin boys and girls is the tenderest. Looks like we're really going to be cleaned up and served for dinner," the sharp-faced boy muttered in the Western Kingdom's tongue, his voice heavy with despair as he clung to Aryan's arm and trudged along toward their new master.

The Iron-headed Demon himself had been stationed at the very front of the caravan. Until this moment, Aryan had only heard his booming voice but never seen him. Summoning what little courage he had left, Aryan lifted his eyes for a fleeting glance—and instantly regretted it.

Despite having braced himself, the sheer sight of the Demon struck him like a hammer blow. Seated atop a massive black horse, the man's upper body alone loomed as large as an average person's entire frame. True to his name, his head was grotesquely oversized, his wild hair and beard adding to its fearsome proportions. It resembled an enormous ancient cauldron adorned with the menacing visage of a gluttonous deity. Each of his facial features—eyes, nose, mouth, and ears—was exaggeratedly large, as if chiseled straight from a statue in the temple.

The man's upper torso was bare, his sinewy muscles glistening in the sunlight like tempered steel. Even the horse beneath him seemed otherworldly, significantly larger than an ordinary steed, its teeth bared and eyes fierce like those of a carnivorous beast.

For the first time, Aryan found himself half-believing the grisly tales of the Demon feasting on humans. Behind him, the sharp-faced boy stumbled, nearly collapsing against Aryan's back.

The Demon's retinue was well-supplied with horses. They quickly brought forth a dozen more, and the newly bought slaves were each made to mount one. Some shared a mount; others rode alone. Aryan and the sharp-faced boy ended up on the same horse, the latter clutching Aryan's waist as though his life depended on it, refusing to let go no matter how hard Aryan tried to shake him off.

Once the transaction was complete, the bandits wheeled their horses and galloped eastward, vanishing into the horizon. They left behind nearly ten thousand taels of silver, an amount sufficient to purchase many more slaves. None of the merchants dared touch the abandoned silver, despite their lingering fear of the Demon's wrath.