The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  Rustam leaned back and Khalid could feel the heat of the lamps again. He could hear Shahin and Zoë breathing. "You surprise me, Prince Shahin. And I am glad."

  Khalid thought his heart would stop, hearing—seeing—honest appreciation in the face of the prince. How... how can... He tried to stop from babbling, even in the privacy of his thoughts. The prince stared at Shahin and the odd, mottled quality of his flesh faded. The queer light in his eyes died, leaving them a pale amber color.

  "You have become an honorable man, Shahin." Rustam managed a half-smile. "You were such a... fop, a dandy, a fool! Zenobia nearly trapped your whole army, because you could not be troubled to set watches, or pay your guides, or keep on the mercenary scouts Chrosoes King of Kings gave you! You prevaricated, you lied, you stole the wages of your troops... you were a coward."

  Shahin's face grew colder and colder with each word, the tendons in his arms stiffening, his face slowly filling with a dark flush.

  "Where is that man?" Rustam raised his hands, amazement clear on his face. "I do not see him now. I see a Persian diquan, a worthy man, a man the King of Kings can respect. That I can respect. Welcome, Shahin. Welcome."

  The prince bowed his head in greeting, and silently Zoë walked forward on her knees, a wooden platter in her hands. Gracefully, she placed a simple bevel-rimmed bowl on the carpet between the two men. Beside it, she laid a loaf of flat, slightly burned bread. Salt trickled from her hand, making a small pile.

  "Water from my wells," Rustam said, raising the bowl. He drank, then passed the cup to Shahin. The man drank. The bowl itself was turning dark with water oozing through the cheap clay. Khalid saw a vein at Shahin's throat throb, then settle. As the Arab watched, tension drained bit by bit from the nobleman.

  "Bread from my fire," Rustam said, breaking the crumbling loaf in half. He chewed the heavy, unleavened bread, then swallowed. Shahin did likewise, his hands trembling for a moment. Then this too passed.

  "Salt." The prince pressed the white grains against his teeth. Shahin did so as well. Rustam offered his hand and the Persian gripped his wrist, still tentative.

  "This is your name: Eran-Spahbodh Shahin Suren-Pahlav." Rustam enunciated the words slowly and deliberately. "Son of Shapur and Erandokht, grandson of Soren-Nersi, scion of the house of Frataraka, let there be peace between us. Let all past wrongs be stricken from the tablets, all harsh words forgotten. Know, Prince Shahin, the King of Kings remembers you and accounts you a friend."

  The big Persian blinked, then released Rustam's hand slowly, as if in a dream. "That is not my name... not anymore. I am only Patik."

  "Yes, it is your name." Rustam drew a roll of fine parchment from his writing desk. A heavy wax seal and Tyrian purple string closed the document. "Here is your name, Shahin, and your family, returned to you by the grace of the King of Kings, Shahr-Baraz."

  Rustam pressed the papers into Shahin's hand. The big Persian shook his head in disbelief. "But... why now?"

  "Yes," Khalid said in a dry voice. "What do you need from him?"

  Rustam's head turned slightly, fixing Khalid with a cold glare. "I did not give you leave to speak, Arab." The prince blinked and the angles of his face subtly changed, a pale gleam entering his eyes. Khalid recoiled, seeing something of the prince's true nature shining through. "But you too have served well. This is why I have summoned you both. Lord Khalid, this man Patik is no longer yours to command. He is, once more, the great Prince Shahin. I tell you this in courtesy, for you are a fine general, and tonight I rob you of an able captain."

  Khalid's nostrils flared and he fought down a reckless urge to protest. How do you deny the moon? Or a meteor?

  Rustam's forehead furrowed and he pinched his lip. He began to speak, then fell silent. Khalid watched in slow, growing amazement. The sorcerer seemed to be at a loss for words. At last, the prince made a gesture with his hand, as if he threw something away.

  "Lord Shahin, here is what you must do," Rustam said. "Gather a few men, no more than five or six. You will take a ship we have lately captured down to Egypt. The ship, and you, and your men, will be disguised as Tyreans. That island city is still in Roman hands—this will allow you to enter Roman territory without undue trouble." The prince grinned, showing long white teeth.

  "Once you are in Alexandria, a man will find you. He is a servant of the king. You will know him, by certain signs, when you meet. He will lead you to a device." Rustam lifted a ragged bit of papyrus from his writing desk. Khalid saw part of a diagram on the ancient paper, some kind of interlocking mill wheel. "This device is buried in a secret place, perhaps a tomb, certainly somewhere desolate and remote. Be careful! In earlier times a rather dangerous order of priestesses watched over the duradarshan. They, or their degenerate cult, may still abide. Regardless, you will secure the device and return to Alexandria and the ship. You will bring me the mechanism as swiftly as you can."

  Shahin looked down at the bit of papyrus, eyes narrowing. "How large is this?"

  "Large." The ghost of a smile flitted across Rustam's lips. "Large and heavy."

  "Can two men carry this... device?"

  "No." Rustam was still smiling. "The duradarshan is made of bronze and gold, and likely affixed to a block of jadeite the size of a chest. You will need assistance."

  Shahin placed the paper back on the edge of the desk. "How many of the Shanzdah will accompany me?"

  "None. They are already busy." The prince grimaced. His thin hands rustled on the desk like large white spiders, finding two clay tablets, each the size of a palm. He lifted them gingerly, regarding them with an ambivalent expression. Then he made a queer half-smile and placed them in a metal box by his side. The lid closed with a snap, and he handed the box to Shahin. "When you reach the duradarshan, smash one of these tablets on the ground. A... servant... will come forth to carry the device."

  "What kind of servant?" Shahin and Khalid spoke as one. The Arab felt a creeping sensation on the back of his neck and turned suddenly, looking behind him. There was nothing, only the door, now closed. He turned back, his gaze lingering on Zoë, who was still kneeling beside the wall. She smiled at him, eyes half-closed, white hands resting on silk-wrapped thighs.

  "Nothing which need concern you," Rustam said. "As long as you hold the other tablet you will be quite safe. Once you reach the port, throw the box and the remaining tablet into the sea. The servant will depart."

  "Very well." Shahin bowed. "I will do as the King of Kings commands."

  Rustam's face darkened. Khalid tensed. "You will do as I command," the prince hissed.

  Shahin regarded him levelly. "I am the king's man, my lord. Not yours."

  "Wait," Khalid said, before Rustam could respond. "I will go in Lord Shahin's place."

  "No," snapped Shahin and Rustam at the same time. The two men glared at one another. Shahin's jaw clenched, then released. "I will find the eye... the device, lord prince. For Persia."

  "I see," Rustam said, but his voice was thick with anger. Khalid, watching the two men, thought the sorcerer might strike down the nobleman. But the creature controlled himself. "Leave tonight. One of the Shanzdah will show you the way to the boat."

  "I will." Shahin stood, pocketing the metal box. "Lord prince, my lady." He bowed courteously to Zoë, nodded to Rustam and left. Khalid flashed a half-smile at the Queen, bowed to Rustam—still fuming, his eyes hooded—and hastily departed.

  —|—

  Zoë stirred and closed the wagon door. The cold air raised goose pimples on her arms. With her face turned away from the sorcerer, anguish showed plain for an instant, then her face composed into a calm mask once again.

  "You taunt the Arab," Dahak said, sibilant anger in his voice. "Why?"

  "Why not?" The Queen turned, settling to the floor in a smooth motion. The sorcerer shed his pleasant guise. The room filled with odd shadows in the corners and the lamps guttered down to a dim, pale flames gleaming on his mottled, slick skin. "If they fear me, they will obey. Your will is m
y will, is it not? If they fear me, they will fear you more, for you are the master."

  Dahak's eyes narrowed and the Queen shuddered, feeling his thoughts upon her like snakes squirming over her skin. She swallowed, forcing down bile, and remained impassive. The sorcerer's eyes gleamed with a feral yellow light. "They look upon you with desire, with lust. You move your body to entice them, you fill their minds with confusion and dreams. This distracts them from doing my will."

  "No," she managed to gasp. "The Greeks and Arabs scurry to do your bidding. They abase themselves before you. Armies and nations move as you command. I only occupy their idle moments—when thoughts of treachery might creep in—yet do not, for daydreams of my lips, my thighs, my breasts are there instead. I am a trophy, a prize to flaunt, even as their desire for the Twin Radiances drives the Persian knights to such furious bravery."

  Dahak's lip curled up, exposing long, chisel-like incisors. "True... but a waste of time! A crude tool. Men are moved by fear best of all. I may seize their minds myself, if they stray!"

  The Queen swayed, feeling tremendous relief as the sorcerer's will receded. She hissed, supporting herself with trembling arms. Her hair came loose; spilling in rich, dark curls around her shoulders. "But, great lord... I am your willing servant. If you are distracted, gone on more important business, then I can control them. Your reach is the greater, your will refined, focused."

  Dahak laughed, the black tip of his tongue flickering between pointed teeth. He leaned back against the pillows. "Yes... you did crawl before me, begging for life. Do you enjoy your new body? Does it please you to breathe, to walk under the sun, to see the living, green world?"

  "Yes, great lord." The Queen pressed her forehead into the carpet. Tears seeped from the corners of her eyes, but she squeezed them shut until no moisture escaped. "Thank you for this gift."

  "A pleasant sentiment," he said, pleased. "But you should not have to rely on these tricks and ploys—this flesh wields true power, can reach into the hidden world. The child you ride has some strength..."

  "Yes, great lord," the Queen said, forcing her voice to sound complaisant. "But these things are new to me. In life, I owned no talent for sorcery. Forcing these secrets from her is difficult. A long road, filled with false turns and trails fading in the sand."

  The sorcerer rose up, anger lighting in his eyes again. One hand curled into a claw. "You chose to live, proud queen! If you cannot master the girl and wield her strength in my service, then what use are you to me?"

  "I am a willing ally," the Queen said, keeping her eyes downcast. "While she will struggle and fight every moment. You will have to drive her with whips, with pain. I go willingly where you bid."

  "Perhaps..." Dahak rose, his attention turned away from her, into the night. "So you gain a day, perhaps two. Make yourself useful or I will discard you." He smiled again and the lights flickered even lower. The Queen began to shiver, feeling all heat leach from the air. "I have many servants, of which you are the least."

  "Yes, great lord."

  Dahak raised his chin. "The King of Kings desires my counsel. Arad! Attend me."

  The air beside the door shifted and a man's shape resolved from nothingness, his head enclosed in an iron jackal mask. Without a further word, the sorcerer swept down the steps, his servant, silent as ever, close behind. The Queen kept her face to the floor, though when they were gone, she slumped against the carpet, shaking with relief. Alone at last, she unclenched her hands, letting tiny points of blood seep from where her nails had cut into the flesh. As she did so, her skin shaded back to an olive tan. Her eyes clouded with brown.

  —|—

  Shahin was already at the edge of the camp, following the swift dark shape of the Shanzdah. Khalid hurried to catch up. Moments later, they trudged together across a sandy plain, squinting in the dim starlight. At least the night seemed very warm after leaving the palisade of iron wands.

  "Who," Khalid gasped, a little short of breath, "are you taking?"

  Shahin was only a vague outline in the night. "Asha, Tishrya, Amur and Mihr. The men who crossed the desert with us."

  And helped us murder Mohammed, Khalid realized with a start. Very wise. I wonder if they will return? He squinted at Shahin, trying to make out some expression on the man's face. "I will miss you at my side. This campaign will be dangerous without your steady hand."

  "I would rather stay, Lord al'Walid." Even in the gloom, Khalid thought the man was smiling. "But I will do this thing. How can I refuse?"

  The young Arab was curious. "Could you have refused, before your name was restored?"

  "Yes," Shahin said. "Then I was only Patik, a mercenary, a man without honor or a noble name. Now..."

  "Now you must do his bidding." The land began to slope down under their feet, and Khalid could hear the surf booming on an empty shore. "Do you know what this thing is? This... eye?"

  There was a soft chuckle. "I made a mistake to say even so much."

  "What is it?" The last of the salt brush fell away behind them and Khalid could see waves glowing as they broke on the wide beach. A light winked in the darkness, bobbing up and down.

  "I do not know... only what the old word means."

  "The dura... dashani?"

  Shahin stopped, his boots sinking into wet sand. Surf hissed towards them, the front edge bubbling white. The water stopped a yard away, then receded. Khalid could see the outline of a mast against the stars, and a single lantern illuminating a wooden prow. "The duradarshan. The 'eye of shadow.' An ancient word, one I have never heard spoken aloud before tonight."

  Khalid pointed at the metal box. "Like the writing on those tablets? You can read the spiked letters?"

  "I can." Shahin began to walk forward again, his cloak bunched in one hand to keep it dry. "My house is very old and some knowledge of the beginning of things has not been lost."

  Khalid stopped, water surging around his ankles. The sea seemed terribly dark, even compared to the abyssal empty sky. He did not want to go any further. He did not like the water. "Perhaps we will meet again, at Pelusium or beyond."

  Shahin turned, his head silhouetted against the lantern. "You're not rid of me yet, al'Walid. I will be in camp later, to gather up those men."

  Khalid wanted to say more, to tell the big Persian he had redeemed his honor with brave service, but could not. Something held him back from saying those things aloud while Rustam's servants waited in the darkness. The Persian turned away and splashed through the waves. On the boat, men lowered a ladder and Shahin scrambled up the wooden rungs, sea foam spilling from his legs. Khalid splashed back towards the shore, throat tight. Then he cursed, muttering in the darkness. There were still accounts and rosters to review.

  —|—

  "Lord ben-Sarid?"

  Uri raised his head, sweat running in thin streams down his neck. He was bare-chested, the sun gleaming on a whipcord-thin body. The lady Zoë stood only a few feet away, her tanned face shaded by a loosely wrapped burnoose. Despite the sweltering heat, she seemed perfectly at ease, long hair tucked up behind her head, slim body shrouded in voluminous desert robes. "My lady?"

  Uri let the horse's leg down and stepped away, out of range of a bite or kick. The mare tossed her head, disgusted. He palmed his hoof pick and flipped a stone off into the sand.

  "Are your men ready to ride?" Zoë's eyes gleamed over a thin lace veil. Uri shook his head, trying to focus on her words. Her eyes were very blue, like the sky, or the deep sea.

  "Yes," he said, wiping sweat from his brow. He squinted across the camp. The noon sun was very bright, among the sandy hills. His men were sleeping under dun-colored tents or sitting quietly in the shade. "Khalid says we're the advance guard and must be ready to ride tomorrow... he wants us to clear the road to Gazzah and secure the town before these Persian sluggards arrive." Uri's lip curled slightly. "Easily done."

  "There has been a change," Zoë said, stepping closer. As she moved, a trim foot in thin leather sandals appeared fr
om her robes, revealing a smooth ankle. Uri wrenched his eyes away, focusing on her chest, which was decently covered. "The matter of the Hierosolyma garrison has come up."

  "What? Did something happen?" Uri's idle daydream of a pert bosom and nut-brown nipples vanished like dew or honey cakes at a wedding.

  "No," Zoë said, eyes crinkling up in a smile. "I fear something will happen. These foreigners are not familiar with the long history of our land. Who knows what might happen if a Persian or Arab garrison is left in the city? Certain holy places... might be entered and despoiled. That would cause a great deal of trouble."

  "Yes," Uri breathed, suddenly feeling a little sick. The temple!

  "You are the best man to watch over the city," Zoë said, putting her hand on his arm. She was standing very close. A faint, sweet smell of orange blossoms tickled his nose. "Take your men to Hierosolyma. You must make sure nothing is disturbed and proper veneration is paid to the temples and shrines."

  "Yes..." Uri felt a cold knot grow in his stomach. I will rule our city, he thought, stunned. For the first time in five hundred years... "Does Khalid know?"

  "I will tell him," Zoë said confidently. "I am the Queen and Shahr-Baraz approves. When can you set out?"

  "Soon," Uri said, frowning and rubbing his noble nose. "We are almost ready. By dark, or morning at the latest, we will be on the road."

  "Well done." Zoë smiled again, squeezing his hand. Impulsively, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek. "The city will be in excellent hands. You must write me if anything happens."

  "Yes, my queen," Uri said, breathing in a heady perfume of spices, oil and sweat. "I will."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Hills Above Florentia, Italia

  Vladimir crept across a drift of leaves, stomach close to the dark earth, nose up, ears flat against his angular head. Despite a thick litter of twigs and leaves under the oaks, he made no sound. Long-fingered hands set down softly on bronzed stones and sharp toes dug into black soil. The oaks were singing softly to themselves, leaves rustling, wrapped in slanting, golden light. The sun was setting, drifting towards the western horizon through ruddy smoke-stained air. Below the hill and west across the river, a city sprawled across the valley. In this deepening purple light, thousands of fires winked, filling the air with tapering gray plumes. The Walach eased to a halt, eyes slitted against the dying light, his nostrils flared.