Alhazred

by Donald Tyson

  The breaths of the girl lengthened into sleep. In a few minutes my thoughts became random, and I drifted into a similar state. The dark man waited for me in my dreams. He stood in the chamber of the palace where I had killed Yazid. The body of the Caliph lay twisted on the floor, his tongue purple where it hung from his mouth, his eyes staring into oblivion. Otherwise, the room was unoccupied.

  The dark man stood over the corpse and stared down at it in silence. He turned the shadow of his hooded face toward me and pointed a bony black finger at Yazid.

  “You have deprived me of one of my servants.”

  A chill of dread passed over my heart, but I gave no sign of it.

  “How was I to know Yazid served you?”

  “True. I neglected to tell you. Yet how was I to imagine that you possessed the audacity to take his life? By the time I realized what you intended, the deed was accomplished.”

  “In what way did Yazid serve you?”

  The dark man kicked the corpse gently in the ribs, so that it rocked. It was almost a gesture of affection.

  “His mind was weak, and his lusts made him easy to control. I fear the next Caliph won’t be so soft.”

  “He planned to kill all the necromancers in Damascus,” I said.

  The dark man shrugged beneath his black cloak.

  “What do I care about the fate of necromancers? Your kind are an irritation to me, nothing more.”

  “Then have you finished your dealings with me?”

  He chuckled, the hollow rasp in his voice making my teeth clench.

  “On the contrary, Alhazred, I have come to reward you.”

  He stepped over the corpse and walked toward me until he stood near enough to touch. I looked into his hood but as usual saw nothing.

  “It is within my power to restore your manhood and your face.”

  “You would do this?” My heart quickened.

  He nodded, then raised his bony ebon hand with his index finger extended.

  “In return for one trifling additional service from you.”

  I took an involuntary step backward, my suspicions aroused.

  “What is this service?”

  “I want you to murder Harkanos. He defies me, and he is leader of the necromancers in Damascus. I find his scruples an obstruction to my purposes.”

  A dizziness threatened to engulf my mind, and the darkness of his cloak expanded until I could see nothing apart from the corpse of Yazid, its face turned to me with an obscene leer. My thoughts raced. To achieve the end I had sought with such longing for so many months, for the life of a single man. It seemed a small price to pay. Yet Harkanos had offered me friendship and treated me with trust. To kill him would be to cast aside any remaining shred of honor I might possess and be forever damned. A part of my mind argued that I was damned in any case for my dealings with the Old Ones, but this argument did not convince.

  What Nyarlathotep asked of me was so base, I wondered if the death of Harkanos could be his only motive. To submit my will so completely to his purposes, and defile myself beyond redemption, would be to place my soul under his power. At present I was his unwilling servant, but if I did this vile thing I would become his slave. I thought of Martala’s contempt, should she learn that I had done such an evil deed, and to my surprise the opinion of the girl mattered.

  The darkness withdrew, and I found myself standing naked in the desert beneath the light of the moon. Nyarlathotep pointed at my groin.

  “Consider well, fool, for I will not make this offer twice. Serve me in this one small act, and I will restore your beauty and your potency. Deny me, and you will remain as you are now forever, the contempt of men, the mock of women, the horror of children.”

  “I know what I am.”

  Turning my back upon him, I walked without haste across the blowing sands. My heart grew serene within my breast as I left all doubt behind me in my footprints. I heard his roar of rage, was buffeted off my feet, and awoke in the darkness with a jerk, all my muscles rigid and my naked body covered with sweat. My heart raced as though I had been running. I drew deep breaths and waited for it to slow before relaxing my head upon the pillow. The girl continued to sleep. She was accustomed to my nightmares.

  Morning brought the news from the marketplace that young Moawiya had returned to the palace during the night. There had been a brief battle between his personal guard and a small force of the palace guard loyal to Yazid’s chief advisor, after which several of those closest to the late Caliph had been put to the sword. The new self-proclaimed Caliph declared the day to be a day of celebration. A feast was to be held in the evening on the palace lawn for the leading men and women of Damascus. Prisoners in the city jails had already been set free as a display of clemency. I was told by Harkanos that this was not uncommon when a new ruler assumed the caliphate.

  “It bodes well for us,” he said, passing me wine. “If Moawiya wishes to make a show of kindness, he is less likely to have our houses burned.”

  I sat beside Martala on the padded divan in his study. He had dismissed his solemn servant after the man brought the silver tray with the wine, and both doors of the chamber were shut.

  “There is quiet rejoicing along the street,” he said, sipping the golden liquid with appreciation. “With the threat of Yazid ended, we will be able to resume our more serious studies.”

  “What do you know of magic that can restore lost limbs?” I tried to keep my voice careless, but the tremble in my hand as it brought the smoky glass goblet to my lips betrayed me.

  He set down his own glass and regarded me with gravity. There was pity in his eyes.

  “I know nothing of such magic myself,” he murmured. “I will make inquiries, and consult my texts.”

  I nodded and drank to hide my eyes beneath lowered lids. It was the answer I had expected.

  “There is one thing that may interest you,” he said. “When you have finished your wine, I would like to show you something.”

  We followed him from the study and into the cellar with silent curiosity. He led the way to the vaulted chamber. A linen-wrapped bundle lay upon the long table, stained with earth and wound tightly with hemp cord. My nose told me that it was a corpse before my eyes made sense of its shape. It smelled of soil and damp, beneath which hung an odor of putrefaction.

  Harkanos took a knife from a shelf and began to cut the loops of cord, loosening the linen as he went. When he had cut midway down the corpse, he unfolded the linen to expose its head and shoulders. Martala drew a sharp breath. On the table, Altrus lay as though asleep, his face bloodless but unblemished. The same could not be said for his shoulders and neck, which had suffered several wounds.

  “Uto brought this to me last night. The new caliph, Moawiya, had it buried without ceremony or marker in the graveyard where the White Skull Clan dwells. It is my belief that he wished to remove all traces of the assassination as quickly as possible, so that its details could not by any artifice of his enemies be turned against him.

  “They didn’t even bother to remove his clothing,” Martala murmured as she gazed down at his face. “But they stole his sword and armor.”

  “May I have the knife?” I asked.

  Harkanos passed it over and watched while I cut the remainder of the cords, exposing the corpse to its knees. I parted the mercenary’s blue cloak and felt along its inner lining. There were several pockets. In one I found the key. I held it up and smiled at our host.

  “Either they never bothered to search his body, or they thought this key of no significance.”

  He took it and put it on the key ring at his waist.

  “I doubt I shall have occasion to use it again, but who can foresee the future? The new caliph may prove unsatisfactory.”

  “Is the body intact?” Martala asked, excitement in her voice.

/>   “So far as I am aware. Let us examine it.”

  We removed the linen shroud and stripped the corpse. Apart from the many wounds that had caused his death, the body of Altrus was unmutilated. I touched the shoulder of the girl. She turned with a smile, and I knew what was in her mind.

  “He may still try to kill me,” I reminded her.

  “Perhaps, but I doubt it.”

  “We will need to acquire a number of things.”

  “That is the advantage of living in Damascus,” Harkanos said. “All things may be obtained, for a price.”

  “Very well,” I told her. “We will attempt it.”

  “Any assistance that I or my colleagues can provide, you need only ask,” Harkanos said.

  “I have made many enemies in my travels,” I murmured, staring at the face of the mercenary. “I will need a trustworthy bodyguard if I am to continue to live in this city in peace.”

  “You could not find another more capable,” said the girl.

  To my surprise, I realized that in some indefinable way and without my awareness of the change, Damascus had become my home. The desire to wander the world was gone from my heart. Here I chose to live, and here I would pursue my studies. The fancy came that at some future period in my life, I might even write down the events of my travels in the form of a book, for the benefit of other seekers after arcane knowledge, and as a warning to fools. I had acquired much curious lore that would be of interest to serious students of the necromantic arts.

  My enemies would continue to search after me, and would never cease to make attempts on my life. It was dangerous to remain in one city, and dwell in one house. My identity would eventually become known to those wishing my death, and I would need to take stringent precautions to defend myself and my household. I gathered my resolve. So be it. Whether my remaining years were long or short, here I would stay and live the life of a necromancer, enslaved neither to men nor to gods, my own master until the end.