“You won’t be lying,” Matt told the thief. “Out of the clothes, now, before I make them jump off you!”
With alacrity, the thief pulled off his robes.
“Go on, now, get lost!” Matt snapped. “You can keep your knife, if you promise not to use it unless you’re attacked.”
“I promise!” The thief dashed past him and out the alleyway. Angry voices shouted, and boots clattered on cobbles.
“The soldiers have seen him,” Matt told Balkis. “We’ve got to move fast.” He pulled on the dark robe and tunic, muttering,
“Classifications of pesties I do not distinguish!
Let all lice and germs from these clothes be extinguished!”
“You are indeed a wizard!” Balkis said in a shaky meow, “and you cast your spells with such ease!”
“All it takes is a good memory and practice improvising.” Matt patted his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get out of here!”
Balkis jumped onto his shoulder again, and Matt hurried away down the alley. He heard the thief squalling excuses and knew the soldiers had caught him. That meant they’d be running down the alley in minutes—as soon as they could calm the footpad enough to get some intelligible sentences out of him. As he hurried he explained, “I don’t like to sling magic around so lightly, but there wasn’t time to reason with him.”
“Why should you hesitate to work magic?” Balkis wondered.
Matt dodged around a series of close comers, explaining, “Because you never know whose attention you might be attracting.”
Light exploded in front of him, then condensed into a roughly human form.
“Someone like that?” Balkis asked in a shaky voice.
“Yes.” Matt swallowed. “What were you saying about the nearest shadow?”
The glowing humanoid shape shrank in on itself until it was only an ordinary human male, and a rather old one at that, dressed in a midnight-blue robe with a matching cylindrical hat with a curving taper, which contrasted nicely with the white moustache, snowy beard, and bushy white hair falling to his shoulders. He didn’t look Hindu—his face too long, nose too prominent, eyes too light. Something about him reminded Matt of the Ayatollahs he had seen in the newspapers, maybe the eyes; they blazed with anger and fanatical purpose.
The apparition raised an arm slowly, forefinger pointing straight at Matt and trembling with rage. “Who are you who dares obstruct Angra Mainyu from his dominion? Pale, whey-blooded fool! Do you not know it is the Great Khan’s destiny to sweep all before him? Do you not know he must yield all the earth to the reign of Ahriman, that the Lord of Darkness must rule this corrupted world for a time? For if he does not, Ahura Mazda cannot rise to overthrow him and triumph, to free all from the bondage of Evil and rule the world in peace and joy! Would you block all of mankind from this earthly paradise? Do you have the gall and effrontery to stand against the gods?”
“Yes, now that you mention it.” The mad old man had gone on long enough so that Matt had recovered from his first shock. “I always thought that people were perfectly capable of ruling their world by themselves—with the support of God, of course, but everything needs that support, anyway. Nothing can exist without it.”
“Heresy!” the madman fumed. “You have been corrupted by these lingam-worshiping Hindus! Do you not know that the world is balanced between a force of darkness and one of light, between evil and good, between Angra Mainyu and Ahura Mazda? Do you not know they are equally strong, each seeking to conquer the earth, and that man is the key to the struggle, that we must fight it out on earth, for whichever god’s people win man’s war, that god will also triumph over his enemy?”
“That delicate a balance, huh?” Matt shook his head regretfully.” ‘Fraid I can’t agree, old man.”
“You shall speak with respect!” the old man thundered. “You shall call me Arjasp, you shall call me High Priest!”
“I’ll call you mistaken,” Matt said evenly, “for I believe that the God of Good is all-powerful, and the Evil One lives only by His sufferance.”
Arjasp leveled an arm, pointing a trembling finger at Matt. “You are one of these Jewish heretics!”
“Well, I suppose so.” Matt pursed his lips, considering. “I’m a Christian, and I’d say that is a heresy of Judaism, yes.”
“You shall fail, you shall die!” Arjasp ranted. “I shall slay you with magicks, I shall send a sorcerous horde against you! None must stay the reign ofAhriman! No one may prevent the conquest of Angra Mainyu! The Lord of Night must triumph, so that the Wheel may turn to bring once again the dominion of Ahura Mazda!”
Matt frowned. “Where did you get hold of the idea of—”
“Behind you!” Balkis squalled as she jumped from his shoulder. Matt whirled, but too late. The club landed on the side of his head, not the back, and he slumped down into darkness.
The army waited in the outer bailey, knights by war-horses that curvetted and danced, waiting for their masters to mount. The infantry leaned on their spears, sipping at last mugs of mulled ale and gossiping about the shortcomings of their leaders, as soldiers have always done. They waited with growing impatience for their queen to lead them forth.
Alisande watched from the battlements of the keep, clad in light mail, helm, and gauntlets, having a few last words with her viceroy and castellan.
“There are only a thousand of them,” Jimena said, her eyes shadowed with worry.
“They are only my personal guard, Mother Mantrell,” Alisande assured her. “My barons shall bring their own men as they join my banner. Ere we come to Seilmar to take ship, we shall number them by the thousand.”
“The herald told us a week ago that King Rinaldo’s troops were sailing from Gibraltar,” Ramon noted.
Alisande nodded. “We shall meet him at Knossos on the isle of Crete, and Frisson’s troops also.”
“But not himself?”
Alisande smiled. “He has proved skilled at governance, but not at war. His barons vied .for command, and he dispatched them under the Graf von Wegensburg, with lesser noblemen in his train.”
“And thereby rid himself of several of the worst thorns in his side,” Mama said, smiling.
“Even so.”
“So you will not take ship at Venoga?” Ramon asked.
Alisande smiled. “King Boncorro is a congenial neighbor when it suits him—but I am not about to test his friendship by marching an army of thousands through half his land.”
“Wise,” Ramon admitted. “Still, it seems the least he could do to help forestall the horde from attacking Europe, considering that he is not going himself, nor even sending anything but a token force.”
“This, of course, leaves him well-equipped to attack Merovence while you are gone,” Jimena pointed out.
“Yes, but I trust him not to—provided I leave a sufficient force of wizards and warriors to cost him dearly if he tries.” Alisande turned to Ramon with a frown of anxiety. “You will not risk yourself in the land’s defense?”
“Not foolishly, no.”
“Not at all.” Mama glared at him. “Leave the actual leading of the troops to young noblemen eager to prove themselves, and content yourself with planning the battles with me, while Saul plans the magical assault.”
“I would never forgive myself if you were slain or maimed in my place,” Alisande told him, huge-eyed.
Ramon sighed. “What can a gentleman do when the ladies league against him? As you will, my love and my daughter—I shall take all possible care. Let us hope, though, that the tournament we have planned at Avignon will give Boncorro pause enough so that he finds attack unnecessary.”
“Let us hope so,” Jimena agreed.
Ramon frowned, troubled. “We may wrong a good man.”
“If so, he shall never know of it,” Jimena pointed out.
“I shall be delighted to be proved wrong in having borrowed trouble,” Alisande assured him, “the more so because I will not have to repay it.”
Below,
hooves thundered on the drawbridge, and the last knight came trotting in from his fief with six squires riding behind him, leading fifty archers.
“The time has come; I am gone.” Alisande turned to embrace each of her parents-in-law, briefly but fiercely. “I left you Lady Eldori and three other nursemaids, but it is to you whom I entrust my children. Protect them for me, and care for them! I praise God that you are here, and pray Heaven to protect you!”
“May Mother Mary watch over us,” Jimena returned, “and St. Michael protect you. Go, daughter, and have no fear for your kingdom or children.”
A shining figure was shadow-boxing—or shadow-fencing, Matt realized, for both figure and umbra fought with sword and shield, the dark one slashing at the bright one’s target. But how could its right hand be striking its opponent’s right? This, Matt decided, was an awfully independent shadow.
Only it wasn’t a mere shadow, not simply a darkening of the pale wall of mist behind it—rather, a total absence of light, an even deeper darkness than a moonless, starless night, even more profound than the lightlessness of a small shut-up room. The manlike figure seemed to drink light, to soak it up, to be a window into the primal Void beyond space and time, where all light streamed in but none came out. It was no mere absence of light, but a presence of darkness.
The Light-Drinker swung high, the bright figure raised its shield to ward off the blow—and Matt felt shock reverberate through him, for the shield was his own face. The bright figure smashed that shield into the dark one’s head, and the Light-Drinker fell—fell and fell into his own darkness until it closed up behind him, and the shining one turned, came closer to Matt, his face filling the world, clean-featured and handsome, smile quirking with humor, hair so pale as to be almost white, and the face said, “Behold your destiny!”
Matt ran howling. He didn’t want anything to do with either of the maniacs. The bright figure was gone, though, and he was fleeing through darkness now. He realized his wailing wasn’t his own voice, it was a dozen, and it wasn’t howling, it was droning.
A droning chant in his ears, Matt realized the only reason he fled through darkness was because his eyes were closed. Something seemed to swim up and press against his whole body from behind, and he was astounded to discover he was lying down, not running. Then came the thunderous realization that he was awake, that the hard surface beneath him and the droning around him were real, and the fencing figures had been a dream.
Or a vision?
He shoved the thought away and opened his eyes—a little.
He saw a figure that made him jump, or would have if he could have, but he couldn’t, because he was bound hand and foot. The figure was female, but certainly not in the slightest bit voluptuous—at least, not unless you were aroused by necklaces of skulls. It was human, too—technically, and if you didn’t count the extra arms. The face was contorted into a ferocious snarl, and Matt finally recognized her—Kali, the Hindu goddess of death.
He looked away, both out of a need to see where he was and a greater need not to look upon the image of doom. He saw a barrel-vaulted ceiling held up by stone columns and filled with muslin-clad worshipers, bowing to the statue and chanting. There were no windows; if the place wasn’t underground, it might as well have been.
Matt turned his head a little farther and saw the girl.
She was only a teenager, and a very pretty one, though clearly no Hindu—her skin was too pale, and had a golden tinge; her eyes slanted slightly; her mahogany tresses were long and abundant, framing her head and shoulders. Seventeen, perhaps, but her simple white robe revealed adult contours, for she lay on a slab of rock, wrists bound before her, eyes wide open but glazed, her face peacefully entranced.
At least, Matt hoped it was a trance.
He realized that he was lying on just such a slab of rock, too. His stomach sank, for he knew what Kali’s worshipers, the Thuggee, did with the people they kidnapped—strangled them, as sacrifices to their goddess.
He heard voices above his head and craned his neck enough to see two men robed as priests with scarlet silken cords in their hands. They didn’t look ready for business, were only reviewing the facts. They were speaking Hindi, but his translation spell was still working.
“She fought so hard to save him that perhaps she is already consecrated to the goddess.”
“No,” the other priest replied, “for she did not slay.”
“Not for lack of trying! Three of our staunchest men will bear the marks of her claws for a month or more.”
“If she were of Kali,” the older priest said dogmatically, “she would not have failed to kill.”
That decided it, not that Matt had had any doubts—he had to save the girl. Of course, that involved saving himself, but he’d been planning on that anyway.
“There is no doubt we must sacrifice her,” the older priest went on, “for she is of great importance to the enemies of the horde, and the horde brings destruction.”
“Surely, then, the barbarians’ enemies are ours,” the younger agreed. “How, though, can she be of such importance? She is so young!”
“We cannot know,” the older priest said heavily, “only be sure that sacrificing her to Kali will help to assure the horde’s success.”
Definitely, he had to save her, Matt thought. As softly as he could, he began to chant—but found that his lips and tongue scarcely moved, felt as though he were trying to talk through heavy syrup. Panic struck for a moment, and he thought he had fallen back into the tongue-tied spell again. He looked about frantically for Balkis but didn’t see her.
But he did see the girl’s glazed eyes again, and this time he recognized the look—drugged! Presumably the priests had given him the same dose-that was why his head wasn’t hurting yet—but having more body mass, his had worn off faster.
It felt like trying to talk with a mouthful of cotton, but Matt forced his lips and tongue to move:
“Juice of the poppy or leaves of sativa,
Begone from my fluids, blood, tears, and saliva!
Lethe or lotus, clear out of my brain!
Narcotics all leave me! I’ll welcome the pain!”
The headache hit like a jackhammer, and he instantly regretted making the spell so comprehensive. Still, what had to be, had to be, and the younger priest was stepping forward with his cord tight between his hands. The older priest was only a step behind him, cord swinging down toward the girl’s neck. Matt talked faster than he ever had.
“Take us somewhere blocks from Thuggee,
where the best is like the worst,
And the streets are jammed with people,
with karma blessed and cursed,
For the temple bells are callin’ ,
and it’s there that we would be,
Free and standing on the pavement,
out of sight and sound of sea!”
Vertigo seized him, and it was the first time in his life he’d ever been glad of nausea. The spell whirled them clockwise around and away …
… then counterclockwise, and the slab of stone jarred up against his back. The room steadied, and he found himself looking up into the furious face of the older priest.
The man knew some magic of his own, Matt realized. In fact, he was droning in Sanskrit right now, looking smug because he was talking in the sacred language, the old language that only the priests understood anymore.
But Matt’s translation spell was working overtime, and he could understand what the priest was saying—something about tying his tongue and sealing his lips. Couldn’t let that happen! He chanted right back, in English.
“Tongue and lips, stay loose, stay loose!
Unlock the jaw he’d freeze!
Tetanus be banned! I’ve had my shots!
Let his own spell on him seize!”
The priest finished his chant, grinning, and Matt panicked as the pain of cramp bit his tongue and his lips went numb. A second later, though, the pain and numbness were gone, and the priest howled
an inarticulate shout as he turned away, bent in agony as his own tongue cramped.
The younger priest stared in shock, then snapped out a verse in Sanskrit, an all-purpose counterspell. The old priest stopped shouting, but could only mumble his thanks as he straightened and turned back to his junior.
Generalities never really did work all that well, Matt decided, but figured he’d better get his licks in before the young priest managed to get specific and really free up his elder‘s vocal apparatus. Matt chanted,
“As ever the golden bowl be broken,
Or the leaden coin told by its hue,
Or the pitcher be smashed at the cistern,
Let the scarlet cord now break in two!”
The older priest apparently wasn’t waiting to get his spellchecker back in action. With a snarl, he stretched his scarlet cord between his hands and advanced on the girl. Matt was sure the younger priest was doing the same to him, but he didn’t worry about it, only recited,
“Sleeping beauty, wake and rise!
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