by Val Gunn
Only a handful of summoners had the power to break the binding of the world and unleash the Kúrrul, and the monster’s presence could mean only one thing: someone very dangerous had either forced or persuaded the demons to act. Few creatures were as strong and cruel as these, and where there was one, there would be others.
As the suns rose and the mist cleared away, Munif and Nasir watched with the imam as three more demons came from the direction of the village. Farther off they could hear the sounds of men and dogs foolishly giving chase.
The three men watched in horror as the grisly scene took shape below them. The first demon tossed one of the pursuers effortlessly against the wall of the house, so hard that a scattering of stones fell onto his writhing body.
As the demons drew nearer to Munif’s hiding place, another villager stabbed with a sword at the second creature’s legs. The demon turned and the man backed up against a tree, dropping his broken blade. He let out a muted scream as the demon’s great ax descended upon him. The massive weapon tore through his skull and clove his body in two, embedding itself in the exposed roots of the tree between the man’s feet. The halves of his corpse fell to either side, and his organs emptied out across the ground. The Kúrrul barely paused before continuing up the path.
A man screamed in pain as a Kúrrul hacked off his hand. One of the dogs lunged at the third demon’s groin, whipping its head back and forth, growling fiercely. The dog’s teeth could not puncture the demon’s flesh. The demon reached down and clenched its fist around the dog’s body. Suddenly the dog ceased struggling. The last sounds it made were the crunch of its collapsed ribcage and the dull thud of its body hitting the ground.
The first demon turned, making a swift motion with its hand, and the three moved south on a path that led them below the onlookers.
Munif noticed that a group of four women had run out of the town toward the woods. They managed to avoid being spotted, racing through the scrub, not daring to look back.
Near the point where the women had left the path, a lone figure fled the village at a dead run. A Kúrrul followed the man, easily overtaking him. It rammed a sharp branch into the man’s back. The point exited through his chest, and the demon lifted the man into the air, then flung him violently to the ground. Munif hoped the man was already dead as the demon pinned his head down with its gargantuan foot and jerked the tree-spear free.
A fourth demon joined the first three on the road. Munifs stomach lurched. As he started to turn, a steady hand held him still.
“Wait. We’re not moving yet. Watch!”
Minutes passed as the demons moved slowly south, unhindered, following the road directly beneath the horrified watchers. It was then that Munif thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. The first demon’s left side shifted and blurred.
Nasir set his lips close to Munif’s ear and whispered excitedly, “Look at the right arm of the second one. They’re not true Kúrruls. It’s all a clever deception. They’re Haríís—changelings—experts in shape-shifting.”
Munif glanced at Nasir and asked, “Are they worse than the Kúrruls?”
Nasir shook his head as the third and fourth Haríís lumbered by. “No. They can take on the characteristics, the strengths, of the thing they feign to be—it’s a true change of form. But they have weaknesses. Still the survivors will report that demons killed those men, and there’ll be no reason to doubt them.”
After the last Haríí had vanished from view, Nasir stood up and motioned to Munif and the cleric. “We need to get back to the village. Dassai no doubt wants to be certain the news of the demons’ rampage reaches the misal’ayn, and is then relayed across Miranes’ and back to Qatana. Hayyek and I will deal with the Haríís. You must find Dassai. Keep him alive if you can, and hold him until my return.
“Now go!”
11
NASIR AND the imam followed the Haríís.
They knew that the fiendish creatures could not maintain the strength and size of Kúrruls for long; they would have to change. They also knew that the Haríís would be weak and disoriented once they transformed back to their own lithe forms.
Nasir and Hayyek hunched over in an attempt to remain dry. Their labored breathing beneath their dirty, sweat-drenched robes was the only discernible sound. The air’s chill had beset them without mercy since the outset of their journey, and the deepening darkness only made it worse.
With every moment that passed, the Haríís were less able to hold their false shape. Their forms blurred as the strength of the spell waned.
Hayyek began to move, drawing a short dagger from beneath his robe, but Nasir stayed his hand.
“Patience,” the Prince whispered. “Soon.”
After a short wait, the changelings reverted to their natural shape. They blinked nervously, eyes darting in their dark-red, horned heads. Their thin arms, each ending in a three-fingered, clawed hand, twitched as they glanced about.
“Now!” Nasir yelled, flinging himself forward, unsheathing his sword.
The momentum of his charge speared the first one through the chest. Bright green blood gushed as Nasir wrenched the blade out. He whirled and slashed another across the throat as Hayyek drove his dagger through the third one’s ear. One last upward thrust from Nasir’s blade ended the fight.
The two men stood panting, staring at the strewn bodies.
“I doubt the villagers will believe they were Haríís,” Hayyek said weakly. “Still, one cannot be sure.”
“Once they’ve seen the bodies, they will be convinced,” Nasir replied. “It’s getting late; let us try to get back tonight.”
“We still have to get to Aley to aid Pavanan.”
“Let’s not worry about that yet,” Nasir said as they moved on. “He is very capable. If Dassai is there, Pavanan will not lose him again. In the meantime, pray the rain doesn’t flood the ground here.”
“I do know how to pray my friend,” Hayyek said.
12
MUNIF WAS close.
He traveled through the rolling hills, staying in sight of the road. Using the suns as his guides, he worked his way skillfully to the spring where the three of them had set up a camp. Their gear was still stowed at the base of a tree near the water’s edge. Taking a fair share of the food and water from one of the packs and leaving the remainder for his companions, he made his way to Aley.
By late afternoon, the hills and the thick scrub gave way to cultivated fields and fertile vineyards. Gnarled beech trees grew here and there, and the flora became more varied. Munif passed through a vineyard, ignored by the workers as they tended root-stocks and repaired trellises.
Munif alternated between a steady trot and a hurried walk, driven by his need to seek both the truth and his addiction. Contrary to what he had thought, the gnawing need for affyram had not diminished; in fact, it had grown stronger. Sweat beaded his forehead—not solely due to his exertion.
In Aley he might find what he sought.
As darkness fell, he moved closer to the road, knowing the third moon of winter would not provide enough light to guide his way. Finally he reached the whitewashed wooden bridge that spanned the Danui river.
Aley had long been known for its beauty and its many summer houses. As Munif crossed the bridge, he caught his first glimpse of the city’s legend and its original reason for being: the dark silt of the island’s soil and the gypsum sands of the river passed over each other, creating ever-changing patterns. Sufis, mystics, the curious, and the desperate flocked to observe the strange shapes that seemed to metamorphose into meaningful images and prophetic scenes.
Aley had grown from these mystical beginnings. At first a select few were drawn here by the desire to study the images in the water. They’d erected a shrine on this spot, and soon gathered a following. Not long after, merchants had moved in to provide for the pilgrims’ needs.
Over time, the sect had died out, but the shrine remained and the town expanded. Seeking a way to keep Aley prosperous,
the citizens began to hold an annual summer festival with an open market. A wealthy merchant had purchased land on a low hill overlooking the town, south of the river. He’d erected a masyaf on the crest of the hill overlooking Aley. Locals said that he’d found his fortune by reading the patterns in the river. Soon other wealthy families followed suit, building beautiful summer houses in the hills. One of them had been Dassai, who chose this place for his wife Cala.
Munif reached the masyaf just after midnight.
13
MUNIF HAD to be careful.
The merchant who’d built the elegant home was long gone, but his house had become a well-known retreat for Dassai. Munif knew Dassai was inside. There could also be any number of his men surrounding the place or ferrying messages back and forth to the misal’ayn.
The path took Munif past several summer houses to the gate of Dassai’ house. Moonlight made stealth difficult. He sharpened his ears to listen for danger, but heard nothing but the sound of buzzing insects.
Picking his way carefully, he circled the small city, darting from one concealed position to another, staying upwind of the dogs whose baying he occasionally heard. The perimeter of the masyaf was planted with a coass hedge of green cypress for protection and privacy; closer in, extensive gardens lay hidden in the night.
Nasir had told Munif that he had others watching the summer house. There was no sign of them that Munif could detect. He pulled himself over a stone wall and slipped stealthily across the cropped lawn.
Even in the darkness, he could make out the shapes of manicured shrubs, topiaries, and fruit trees standing no higher than his head.
He kept low to the ground, using whatever cover he could find. Finally he came to a small tree covered with auburn and golden leaves, its branches erupting from the trunk and cascading down to the ground. He carefully pushed aside the branches, mindful of the crisp, noisy foliage as he entered its interior—where he saw the figure of a man leaning against the trunk, staring at the house.
Munif knew immediately that something was wrong. The man had failed to turn toward the noise. He could not possibly be sleeping in that position. Munif touched the agent’s shoulder with his hand, whispering, “So, is he still in—”
The spy’s head lolled unnaturally for a moment before detaching with a sickening snap and falling toward Munif. Instinctively, Munif reached out and caught it. The glossy white of dead eyes stared back at him. Munif suppressed the churning of stomach acid that worked its way into his throat, and spun around, searching for the enemy.
He saw no one.
14
THE MAN had been dead for several hours.
The blood was dark and congealed. His head had been almost completely severed, probably by a razor wire or a butcher’s blade. Even more disturbing, the assassin must have held the agent’s headthere for some time to keep it from bleeding outside of the body. There was no pooling of blood and little to detect even on the spy’s back, chest, or shoulders. Instead the blood had been forced to flow down from the severed neck stump into the man’s innards.
Munif confirmed this as he felt the bloat around the agent’s midriff. The feet and hands were also swollen.
Munif propped the man exactly as he’d found him and carefully replaced the head. As quietly as he’d come, he exited the hiding place, stealing closer to the house. He kept to the garden paths, mindful of places where he could disappear into the flowers if necessary.
Near the rear entrance he saw lights shining through the second-story windows. He pressed as closely as he could to the side of the house, kept at bay by the hedge. He followed the perimeter around two corners until he came to the front entrance. There he found what he was looking for: a second-floor veranda jutted out above the main entrance. An identical structure hung directly above it on the third floor.
He nodded in satisfaction. Experience had shown him that few people—or their servants—ever thought to lock upper-story doors, especially in the front of a house; they believed that no thief would be so conspicuous. Since this was the main entrance, it was also the most elaborate, with tall, stately evergreens on each side, and pillars covered with frescoes. He reached into his satchel and extracted simple shoes, which he slipped on. The soles were very rough, created by pinching with clever barbs, forming ripples along the entire length. He also wore thin gloves made especially for this purpose, with a small lip on the end of each fingertip to catch and hold ledges. He climbed quietly, using a tree as cover, and rolled over the railing onto the terrace.
He checked the door and, as he’d hoped, it was unlatched. He had entered an unused bedroom; a dressing gown was laid out carefully on the bedspread. He moved quickly to the other door and cracked it open to peer into the hallway. There were no lightssave one shining under a door diagonal to him. Directly across was another, darkened door.
He stepped quietly into the hall and padded over to the door where the light shone, and knelt and pressed his ear to the door. He was able to understand only some of the murmurs that came from behind it. An unfamiliar voice was difficult to make out, but Dassai’s clear tenor carried easily to Munif’s ear.
“You and the other will wait here for the return of Pavanan. Those who choose not to side with us will aid in your ambush. They must be led to believe that I remain here and that the meeting set for tomorrow will take place as planned.”
There was a sound like glass being set on wood, then Dassai’s voice continued. “This will not be an easy fight. The man is a master—and if you underestimate him, you do so at your own peril.”
The other man’s voice rose and fell, and Dassai responded. “Don’t worry about that. If he survives, any message he sends from the misal’ayn will be received very differently in Cievv.”
“The rest will turn or fall,” a third voice said. “Make no mistake about that, Fajeer. Everything is still well in hand.”
There was a rustling of cloth, and then Munif heard Dassai’s voice again. “Good. My work here is done. I will leave for Ruinart and prepare to address our friends.”
Munif knew he had to take Dassai now or never.
15
“MEOWRRR… “
The sound came from directly behind where Munif was kneeling. It startled him so much that he nearly lost his balance and fell against the door.
He glanced behind him and saw a rather large, striped gray cat staring at him inquisitively. He turned away, and the cat came closer, meowing more insistently and with a significant increasein volume. He waved a threatening hand at it, but the cat was oblivious, and apparently hungry. It let out a caterwauling that could have been heard throughout Aley.
Footsteps approached behind the closed door, and Munif knew he was out of time. He stood quickly and stepped toward the door. As soon as it cracked open, he kicked viciously, snapping it back into the face of the person behind it. He kicked again, this time following through with his full weight, shouldering the door aside. The man behind it looked up in surprise, cupping his face with both hands as blood gushed from his nose. Munif reached out and grabbed him by his hair before he could collect his wits, and slammed him into the edge of the door, knocking him unconscious.
No one else was in the room.
Munif ran through the nearest door; it led to a sitting area. Dassai was there near the windows, with his back toward Munif. He was searching frantically for something in a large pouch.
Munif crossed the room at a dead run and slammed into Dassai’s back. Dassai fell headlong over a table and crashed into the window frame. The bag fell away, but he had something in his hand. Munif got his feet under him and backed away. Dassai was still stunned, so Munif changed direction and raced toward yet another door. The force of his charge broke the handle, and the door fell away to reveal a darkened bedroom.
Munif sprinted across the room, slammed the door open, and reentered the hallway. The third man he’d heard just moments earlier was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the cat.
Munif ran down
the hall. Reaching the other end, he checked the first door and found it latched. He turned to try the opposite door when a long sharp metal blade appeared with a resounding thwack in the frame near his head.
He spared a glance at the fast-approaching figures just as one of them pulled his hand back for another throw. Munif didn’t wait for another knife; he reversed direction again, hoping the
first door’s lock was weaker than his shoulder.
He found himself in a massive, unlit room. A platform bed took up most of the room, and the heavy curtains around it were moving. Sounds of confusion and fear confirmed that the bed was occupied.
Time slowed as he weighed his options and then acted on them. He closed the splintered door and moved past the bed to the windows, where he saw a terrace. A money pouch lay on a dresser, and he took it, slipping it into one of his pockets. He opened the door that led to the veranda and stepped out. He glanced down and saw dark water nearly thirty feet beneath him.
The masyaf had been built so that one wing abutted a deep stream. Over time, the stream’s banks had eroded, and subsequent owners had been forced to add supports and stones as the water’s edge encroached upon the house. Now the stream flowed directly below.
His pursuers came barreling through the door. Munif had only a moment to judge where the deepest pool was below him. He swung his legs over the railing, sucked in his breath, and jumped, keeping his body vertical but his legs loose beneath him.
He hit the water with force enough to pull his feet out from beneath him. He felt his back brush against a sharp rock, and he let his breath out slowly as he fought the current.
The instant his head broke the surface, he started swimming, trying to get to the opposite shore. He heard something splash into the water near him, and then his feet touched bottom and he half-swam, half-slogged to the opposite bank.