I could never have managed that backflip, much less a safe landing on a merlon barely a hand’s span wide. I think I probably goggled at him a bit, and as I did, his face writhed like a snake. In but two heartbeats he was another man entirely, an ebon giant who completely filled the clothing that had draped his guise as Tarif.
I knew then I had stared too long. I barely deflected a wicked cut at my jaw. He laughed as he leapt over my return slice at his legs, landing on a second merlon. I thrust again, but he jumped lightly to the battlement on my left.
As I swung to face him he sprang at me.
“Down!” Dabir shouted, and I dropped to one knee, spinning to face the rear as Gazi’s redirected sword stroke brushed my beard. This time the scholar wielded no spear, but the lantern, which smashed and broke across Gazi in the midst of his leap. Flames raced over his clothing. The Sebitti stumbled slightly as he landed, but recovered fast, pivoting to face us. The fire ate at his robes, yet he stood ready with his weapon, looking more irritated than alarmed. I shot to my feet. He paused a moment with narrowed eyes, his mouth turning up in a disgusted smile. His form shifted, though his expression did not change. Now he was an older man, white as a Frank, tall as the black but leaner. He shook his head, once, his face now partially obscured behind the rising blaze, then turned his back to us and sprang for the balustrade opposite me. I ran after, but before I could reach him he had vaulted off into space.
Dabir and I reached the edge in time to see the fire failing as the wind from his descent whipped it away. And then he smashed through the snow-sheathed stable roof. There was a mighty crash of timber and sun-dried clay, and a spray of frost.
I stared down in silence for a short moment, slightly stunned, then turned my head to Dabir. “Was that something to wring hands about?”
He blinked at me, then burst into laughter. He stilled it after just a few moments, then fixed me with a warm but worried smile as he backed toward the stairs. “Come, Asim, I don’t think Gazi’s dead.” He turned, spear in hand, and started down.
I came after. “Not dead?” I called to him. “He dropped eighty feet!”
“He jumped to put out the fire,” Dabir said as he took the stairs two at a time, “and shifted to a form that he valued less.” He turned the corner, winded already from the combat. “Probably he changed again the moment after impact, to an uninjured body.”
“By God! How do you kill such a man?”
“Well, fire might have worked,” Dabir offered.
“How did you know he was not Tarif?”
“His manner. His clothes. His sword.”
“I wonder what Tarif will say when he learns of this,” I said, picturing my friend’s consternation.
We had reached the ground level, and the last window.
Dabir’s expression was grave as he looked back at me. “Tarif is dead.”
“How can you know?”
“Gazi must eat his victim’s heart to assume the shape.”
This cut me without warning. Tarif was my closest friend in Mosul, apart from Dabir, and one with whom I shared more common interests. Perhaps I should have guessed this already, but I’d hardly had time for deep reflection in the last few minutes. “Are you sure?” I asked, hoping Dabir had it wrong.
He made no reply, but pressed his lips into a doleful grimace.
As usual, Dabir was right. We raised an alarm and put the whole palace on alert. After an hour Tarif was found, dead and mutilated, stuffed behind some scrap wood outside the stable. As for a body mangled ’neath the torn stable roof, either that of Tarif’s twin or an old Frank or a giant black warrior, there was no sign.
4
We left Mosul just after morning prayers and Tarif’s funeral, presided over by a visibly mournful governor. He impressed upon us the importance he now gave this mission, specifically as regards to the wizards. They were to be executed on sight—this would have to serve for justice, he said, for he wanted no more of his people killed.
With Tarif dead, I was given command of the forces. I handpicked the twelve men I knew best, including Kharouf, who begged to be given a chance to redeem himself. The lieutenancy I awarded the stolid veteran, Abdul. He lacked Kharouf’s wit and speed, but was efficient and experienced. He and I made a final check of equipment, animals, and men, then I gave the order to move out. Folk in Mosul waved at us in the streets as we left, which always lightens a man’s spirits, but before long we were outside the walls and into the countryside, rendered stark and unfamiliar under the blanket of snow.
Owing to the weather we passed only two heavily bundled groups moving south that morning. Harran, the town where Dabir’s scholar lived, lay upon the main western trade route, and so, while we knew that we would journey many miles in the cold each day, the road was well marked and we knew also that there would be shelter each evening. All manner of caravanserai dot the road up and down which merchants ride every day the greater part of the year.
In addition to all else he had supplied, the governor gifted Najya with a fine chestnut mount, and loaned me a mare so that Noura would have time to heal. The animal was more willful than mine, but responsive enough. I was most thankful, though, for my new hooded robe and gloves, along with the warmth of the horse’s body against my loins, for the incessant wind was cutting and sent the vapor from our breath blowing westerly. Ice crystals soon collected in our beards and the scarves we wore over our mouths.
The wind rendered conversation a challenge, but come afternoon it had died down and Dabir called Najya up to ride beside him. I listened for a time to her answers. She was composed and formal, as I had come to realize was her natural inclination, and, moreover, sat her saddle with the ease of a cavalry officer. It was no wonder she’d wanted a better horse.
I left the two talking and took point from Ishaq, who had good eyes, for a while. Once we were through with afternoon prayers I put another soldier, Gamal, in the lead, and fell back beside Dabir. We rode in companionable silence for a long while.
“I see now,” I said after a time, “that it is spear practice you need, not sword work.”
Dabir had looked just as dour as I’d felt all that day, and it was a pleasure to see a smile cross his face, however briefly.
“I packed The Iliad, you know.”
“Huh. That is strange, for I won the bet.”
“I am not so sure. But I think more time spent on sword work may be in order in any case.”
“Good enough. All joking aside, Dabir, can Gazi be killed?”
“He can be hurt,” Dabir said, “that we know. Presumably if he can be hurt quickly enough to overwhelm his ability to preserve himself through changing form, he could be brought to an end.”
“Good.”
Dabir looked sidelong at me. “I am sorry,” he said, “about the death of your friend.”
I did not wish to dwell on that, though I had sworn to myself that I would see Tarif avenged. “I have another question. Koury can breathe life into wood, and Gazi can take any shape he wishes—”
“I’m not sure that’s true,” Dabir interjected.
I interrupted before he could distract me with a long exposition. “Regardless, these are powerful wizards. Why would they need Lydia? Or have you decided the Greek sorceress wasn’t her after all?”
“Oh,” Dabir said, “I’m more certain than ever that Lydia is involved. Najya tells me she remembers a short, dark-haired woman with large eyes, very pretty, well-dressed with an enameled necklace of some sort. Now while there are surely other Greek magic workers, some of whom are women, how many of them are powerful and beautiful? And do you recall her locket bearing the image of Saint Marina?”
I did not, but Dabir spoke on. “Jaffar remarked on it when he suggested it would pair well with a set of emerald earrings he’d been given by the jeweler Namad in payment for a market infraction.”
“You still have not answered.”
“Just as no warrior is good with every weapon, or no artist good with ev
ery medium, no wizard is master of every spell. Take a poet, for example. He’s unlikely also to be a fine drummer or sculptor.”
I grunted. “So she’s better at something than they, who have had a thousand years to study their craft?”
“More years than that, probably,” Dabir corrected. “But yes, and her expertise may be crucial to their aims in this instance.”
“How do you reason that?”
Instead of answering, Dabir considered the frosty distance and reached down to brush something from his horse. He glanced behind us and I understood he looked to see where Najya was. She rode a full two horse lengths back, among the supply animals. Kharouf was immediately behind, but even he was some paces off.
When Dabir faced forward again, I assumed he meant to answer me in the instant, but he frowned instead, then demurred in hushed tones, “I do not like to speculate.”
“Aye, instead you like to madden me. You must tell me what you are thinking.”
His head tilted minutely from side to side as if he held an internal argument, then finally gave in, his voice low and intent. “We know Najya has been ensorcelled to compel her to track these bones. We know Lydia’s expertise is with spirits, and we saw her put one in another person’s body.”
I did not like where he was going with this. “So?” I prompted.
The breath from his long sigh misted in the air before him. “I fear the spirit of the creature that once used these bones has been bound to Najya, and that is why she sometimes has lapses in memory and strange behavior.”
“What! Are you saying that Greek witch deliberately infected Najya with some demon?” I made the sign against the evil eye and fought against the impulse to look back at the woman. The men riding before us didn’t turn at my outburst, but I whispered back in any case. “Can she be saved?”
“It’s my hope Jibril can safely ‘break’ the spear and cast out the spirit. That should render both woman and weapon useless to the Sebitti.”
“If that is the solution, why can’t we just break the spear now?” I asked.
“No.” Dabir looked at me pointedly. “If it’s some kind of magical tool, that is the last thing we must do.”
“Why?”
“It would be like unblocking a canal while you were standing in its bottom. The water would rush in and surely drown you.”
“I see,” I said, though I didn’t, entirely.
“I can’t predict exactly what would happen,” Dabir explained further, “but it wouldn’t be good for whoever happens to be near the spear. And if something’s locked inside, then … that something would be free.”
“You mean like a ghost? Or a djinn?”
“Something other,” Dabir said. “Something that we do not want to meet.”
“Bismallah. Is this ‘something’ going to kill her? Will it drive her mad?”
“I don’t know.” Dabir measured me with his eyes before deciding how to continue. “Right now she seems to be in control. But I cannot say if that will last.”
“Is your wizard friend powerful enough to fix her?”
“He is more a bookseller than a wizard, but he is well-read.”
“A bookseller?” I felt a stab of worry. I hoped I had not oversold his prowess to Najya.
A smile played at the corners of Dabir’s mouth. “If you expect him to have a long white beard and a turban with woven images of constellations, you will be sorely disappointed. Jibril makes his living as a bookseller, but he is one of the most educated men in the world. And he knows a great deal about magic.”
“What is so great a scholar doing in Harran? You called it a heat-blasted hole.”
“It is a heat-blasted hole, though it may seem less so this season. But fine schools have flourished there since ancient times. I studied at the largest one before being accepted at the House of Wisdom.”
“With Jibril?”
“Jibril and I became friends because one of my teachers sent me to purchase titles.”
“But he knows all about the Sebitti and their magics?”
“Yes.”
I nodded, not entirely satisfied, “I know we’re up against great wizards, but do you think that perhaps they just name themselves after the old Sebitti? Koury did not look thousands of years old.”
“No, he didn’t,” Dabir admitted. “But part of their legend concerns immortality.”
“I thought you said Gazi could be killed.”
“I’m hoping ‘immortal’ merely means ‘ageless.’”
“What is the legend?” I knew only what Dabir had mentioned in passing about the Sebitti that first day.
“Keep in mind the stories are very old.” We stopped briefly as my horse paused to relieve herself. Once we were in motion again Dabir said: “Actually, there is not so much a coherent story as scattered pieces.”
“Well, let’s hear the pieces, then.”
“Fair enough.” Dabir cleared his throat and gathered his thoughts. “Well, there were seven sages whom the ancients thought had been sent by the gods to bring civilization to man. Their leader was Adapa. The Assyrians relate that he had broken the wing of the bird of the south wind, and was brought before the gods for punishment. Some of the gods spoke in Adapa’s favor, reminding them of great services the Sebitti had performed already and swaying the decision of the others.”
“How can any of this be true?” I interjected. “There are no gods but Allah.”
“These stories come from a very long time ago,” Dabir reminded me. “Details get garbled in the telling. It is like the story of the urchin and the gossip.”
I looked at him blankly.
Dabir obliged with an explanation. “One gossip saw a boy stumble in the road, and the tale passed through her, to another, to another, all about the square and down the street, until the boy’s mother came running out from her home, weeping, for she was told that her son was struck by a wagon and lay dying with his leg crushed.”
“The story changed from mouth to mouth. Aye. Men lie and exaggerate, and forget details. So it was that Allah had to inspire so many prophets over the years, may peace be upon them all, for men could not properly remember his true word.”
“Exactly. Perhaps what the old storytellers describe as gods were kings. The problem is learning which parts of any such story are true, and which parts are embellishment. I had always assumed that the Sebitti were a group of long-dead, especially capable warriors, but, well … here we are.”
“You were going to tell me more about them.”
Dabir frowned faintly. “Jibril is the real expert. I cannot remember all the specifics. I do know that Adapa was offered the food of immortality, and that he refused. The others, though, accepted. So that there were in truth only six immortals.” He raised a gloved hand and folded down one thick beige thumb. “Gazi, the heart-taker, was said to steal the shape and physical prowess of any whose heart he devours, though not the mind, so that he grew in cunning but not in wisdom. There is one story about a clever widow who eluded him by feigning dismemberment.” He folded down his first finger, and continued to curl the others as he worked through their names. “There is Erragal, master of the unseen, who was said to dwell in a deep cave beneath the tallest mountain. He used to enslave men to build great walls and palaces, but grew tired of that, and summoned dead men to work for him instead. There is the hideous Lamashtu, dark mother and mistress of the earth’s hidden knowledge. She is said to be torpid and slow, but vicious when roused. When a child died in the night, or when a man was found with his throat slit, folk would whisper it was Lamashtu’s doing. Enkidu was lord of beasts, roaming the woodlands and plains. In some stories he protected travelers from fierce beasts; in others he ran with the lions who hunted men.” Dabir, having run out of digits, lowered his hand. “There is Koury, the master shaper and artificer, who brought a kind of life into clay and wood. It was said he used an army of stone men to build a fantastic bridge across the Tigris. Finally there is Anzu, the watcher of men, the spy an
d ferreter of secrets. He was the ear of the Sebitti, said to be the most generous of all, sometimes coming among men to bear gifts. One legend names him as a wise man who gave presents to the prophet Jesus, may peace be his.”
“And you think we face all of these?”
“Allah preserve us if we do,” Dabir said softly. “Two would be quite enough.”
To that I could only agree.
We traveled until sunset that first day and went straight to bed after prayers. Late during the second day’s travel Dabir pointed out a distant, white-capped peak where, he told me, Nuh’s ark had come to rest after the flood. I had never realized it was so close to Mosul, and I fell to wondering if there might be anything left of it upon the mountainside. Dabir remarked the whole thing had likely long since rotted, but we agreed that in the summer it might be interesting to look for it.
Now those of you who are not travelers may wonder as to what a caravanserai looks like. There are all kinds, large and small, but the best are walled rectangles that can house large numbers of men, horses, and goods, and can be sealed off for the night with thick wooden doors. Many are built around wells, and the very best are manned with guards and staffed with merchants.
The caravanserai that night was of the better sort, and it had a little shop selling both chickens and eggs, which we put to good use, though the prices were high. The shopkeeper, a fat man with a lazy eye, actually sounded sincere when he apologized for the price, saying that his fowl were simply not laying as well in the cold, and he gossiped with anyone who would listen about the bad weather’s effect on business.
Our meal was subdued until Kharouf spoke up from the fireside and asked for a story from me. Without too much reluctance I fell to describing my journey with Dabir through the Desert of Souls. The men all thought this a fine tale and praised me. Afterward, I portioned out the night’s sentinels. There were enough of us that two could be spared for each of the three watches on one night, and sleep the next, so that none of us would suffer overmuch. Najya was excluded from this calculation, of course. You may think me overcautious setting sentinels inside a high-walled caravanserai sealed with thick doors and a great chain, but Dabir and I were uneasy as to the power of the enemies we faced, and there were at least a dozen strangers behind the walls with us.
The Bones of the Old Ones Page 7