Lying on a pallet on the cold marble floor opposite Quar, the God’s Imam muttered and moaned, tossing in a feverish sleep. His selfinflicted wound had not healed cleanly, the flesh around it was swollen and hot to the touch, streaks of fiery red were spreading outward from it. Yamina had attempted to tend to the priest, as had all the court physicians, but Feisal refused all help.
“This is. . . between my God. . . and myself!” he gasped, clutching Yamina’s hand with painful intensity, his other hand pressed against the bandages that were wet with blood and pus from the oozing wound. “I have done. . . something to . . . displease Him. This. . . is my punishment!”
Pressing Feisal’s wasted hand against her lips, Yamina pleaded, calling him every endearing name that came to mind. Gently, firmly, he told her to leave. Sorrowfully, she did as he asked, secretly intending to sneak back in when he was asleep and use her magic to heal him without his knowledge.
To Feisal, Yamina was transparent as the water in the palace hauz. Feeling his strength dwindle, knowing that consciousness would soon leave him, the Imam commanded his servant to permit no one to enter, binding the man with the most terrible of oaths to insure his obedience. The servant was to shut the inner Temple doors and seal them. Not even the Amir himself would be allowed entry. The last sound Feisal heard before he sank into feverridden, insane dreams, was the hollow booming of the great doors coming together, the crashing fall of the iron bar across them.
Drifting in and out of delirium, the Imam was vaguely aware of the arrival of the God in his Temple. At first Feisal doubted his senses, fearing that this was a fever dream. Battling pain and the fire that was consuming his body, he struggled to hold onto consciousness and knew then that Quar was truly with him. His soul radiant with joy, the priest attempted to rise to do Quar homage, but his body was weaker than his spirit, and he fell back, gasping for breath.
“Tell me . . . what I have done . . . to incur your wrath, O Holy One,” murmured Feisal weakly, extending a trembling hand to his God.
Quar did not respond or even look in the direction of his suffering priest. Pacing about near the altar, he peered with markedly growing irritation into the darkness. Feisal lacked the breath to repeat his question. He could only stare with adoring eyes at his God. Even the pain and torment he was enduring seemed blessed—a flame cleansing soul and body of whatever sins he had committed. If he died in the fire, then so be it. He would stand before his God with a spirit purged of infection.
The gong spoke suddenly, sounding three times. Quar turned toward it eagerly. The gong was silent for the count of seven, then rang three times again. A cloud of smoke took human shape and form around the gong, coalescing into a ten foot tall ‘efreet.
Clad in red silken pantalons girded with a red sash around its massive stomach, the ‘efreet performed the salaam, its huge hands pressed against its forehead. Feisal watched silently, without wonder.
“Well, where is he?” Quar demanded.
“I beg your pardon, Effendi,” said the ‘efreet in a voice like the low rumbling of distant thunder, “but I have not found him.”
“What?” The God’s anger stirred the darkness. “He can not have gone far. He is a stranger in this land. Bah! You have lost him, Kaug!”
“Yes, Effendi, I have lost him,” replied Kaug imperturbably. “If I may be permitted to tell my tale?”
Turning his back upon the ‘efreet, the God made an irritated gesture.
“As you surmised, My Holy Master, the socalled madman was one of the kafir who came by ship across the Hurn Sea and landed near the city of Bastine. Immediately on their arrival, the priests and sorcerers of Promenthas—”
“—were met by a group of my zealous followers and slaughtered,” interrupted the God impatiently. “I know all this! What—”
“I beg, your pardon, Effendi,” interrupted the ‘efreet, “but it seems we were misled, It was not your followers who murdered the kafir.”
The God was silent for long moments, then said skeptically, “Go on.”
“Consider, Majesty of Heaven—if the unbelievers had been killed in your name, you should have had some claim to their souls,”
“They were protected by guardian angels—”
“I have fought the angels of Promenthas before, Effendi, as you well know,” the ‘efreet stated.
“Yes, and this time you fought them and lost and did not tell me,” Quar remarked coldly.
“This time, I did not fight them. I never saw them, I was not called to fight the angels.”
Quar half turned, regarding Kaug through narrowed eyes. “You are speaking the truth.”
“Certainly, Effendi.”
“Then it is Death who has failed us.”
“No, Effendi. The angels of Promenthas whisked their charges away without contest. According to Death, the kafir were killed in the name of a God of Evil—a God too weak to claim them.”
Quar sucked in his breath, the skin with which he adorned his ethereal being paled.
“Zhakrin!”
“Yes, Effendi. He has escaped!”
“How is that possible? He and Evren were being held in the Temple of Khandar, my most powerful priests guarding them. No one knew the Gods were being held there—”
“Someone knew, Effendi. At any rate, neither Zhakrin nor Evren are there now. One of your powerful priests, it now appears, was in reality in the service of Zhakrin. By some means not known to us, he managed to free the Gods and carry them away.”
“What do we know about him? Where has he gone?”
“I believe him to be the same man who slaughtered the worshipers of Promenthas. He passes himself off as a slave trader, but he is in reality a Black Paladin, a devoted follower of Zhakrin. He first appeared in Ravenchai, where he captured a number of the natives and brought them to sell in Kich. He has a troop of goums in his command, and it was they who killed the priests and the magi of Promenthas. But one person was left alive. A young man of extraordinary beauty who was mistaken for a woman. Thinking to fetch a high price for such a prize, the slave trader took her to Kich. The young man—maintaining his disguise as a woman—was put upon the block just as Khardan and his nomads were terrorizing the city. Khardan took it into his head to rescue the beautiful ‘woman.’“
“Took it into his head! Hah!” Quar snarled. “I see the guiding hand of Promenthas in this. He has joined with Akhran to fight me!”
“Undoubtedly, Holy One.” Kaug bowed. “The young man was taken to the camp of the nomads. Here, according to the woman, Meryem, he was nearly executed by the enraged man who sought to take the lovely ‘woman’ as his concubine. Khardan saved the young man’s life, proclaiming him mad. Meryem believes that it was this young ‘madman’ who thwarted her plans to bring Khardan to Kich.”
“Then the two are together.”
“Presumably, Effendi.”
“Presumably!” Quar’s rage beat upon the walls of the Temple. Feisal, in his fevered imaginings, thought he saw the marble blocks start to melt beneath the heat. “I am divine! I am allknowing, allseeing! No mortal can hide himself from my sight and the sight of my servants!”
“Not a mortal, Holy Master.” Kaug’s voice lowered. “Another God. A dark cloud hides them from my sight and the sight of your sorcercess.”
“A dark cloud. Slowly, inexorably, the power of my enemies grows.” Quar fell silent, musing. The ‘efreet’s hulking body wavered in the air, or perhaps it was Feisal’s dimming vision that caused the immortal to appear as if he were a mirage, shimmering against empty sand. “I dare not wait longer.”
The God turned his attention to his dying priest. Gliding across the black marble floor, his silken slippers making no noise, his silken robes shining a cold and brilliant white in the darkness, Quar came to stand by Feisal’s pallet.
Unable to move, the Imam gazed up at the face of the God with an adoration that banished all pain and fever from his body. The Imam saw his soul rise to its feet, leaving the frail husk of
its flesh behind, holding out its hands to the God as a child reaches for its mother. Content, blissful, Feisal felt life ebbing away. The name of the God was on his lips, to be spoken with his last breath.
“No!” said Quar suddenly, and the Imam’s soul—caught between two planes—shrank back in bewilderment. Kneeling beside Feisal, the God tore off the bloodstained bandages and laid his hand upon the wound. His other hand touched the priest’s hot forehead. “You will live, my faithful Imam. You will rise up from your bed of pain and suffering and know that it was I who saved you. You will remember my face, my voice, and the touch of my hands upon your mortal flesh. And the lesson you will have learned from the agony you have undergone is this.
“You have placed too great a value on human life. As you have seen, it is a thing that can be taken from us as easily as thieves robbing a blind man. The souls of men are what is truly important and they must be rescued from stumbling about in the darkness. Those who do not believe in me must die, so that the power of their false gods dies with them.”
Feisal drew a deep breath and another and then another. His eyes closed in a peaceful sleep, his soul reluctantly returned to the fragile body.
“When you awaken,” Quar continued, “you will go to the Amir and tell him it is time. . .”
“Time?” Feisal murmured.
“Jihad!” whispered Quar, bending low over His priest, caressing him, smoothing the black hair with His hand. “Convert or die!”
The Book of Zhakrin 2
Chapter 1
“In the name of Zhakrin, God of Darkness and All That Is Evil, I command you, wake!”
Mathew heard the voice as if it were coming from far away. It was early morning in his homeland. The sun shone brightly, joyous bird song greeted the new day. A spring breeze, laden with the scent of pine and raindamp earth blew crisp and chill in his window. His mother stood at the foot of the long, stone stairs, calling her son to come break his nightlong fast. . .
“Wake!”
He was in a classroom, after luncheon. The wooden desk, carved with countless names and faces long since gone out into the world, felt cool and smooth beneath lethargic hands. The old Archmagus had been droning on and on for an eternity. His voice was like the buzzing of flies. Mathew closed his eyes, only for a moment while the instructor turned his back. . .
“Wake!”
A painful tingling sensation was spreading through Mathew’s body. The feeling was distinctly unpleasant, and he tried to move his limbs to make it cease. That only made it worse, however, sending small needles of agony darting through his body. He moaned.
“Do not struggle, Blossom. Lie still for an hour or so and the sensation will pass.”
Something cold brushed across his forehead. The cold touch and the colder voice brought back terrifying memories. Forcing his eyes open—the lids feeling as if they’d been covered with some sort of sticky resin—Mathew gazed upward to see a slender hand, a face masked in black, two cruel and empty eyes.
“Lie still, Blossom. Lie very still and allow your body to resume its functioning once more. The heart beats rapidly, the sluggish blood now runs free and burns through the body, the lungs draw in air. Painful? Yes. But you have been asleep a long time, Blossom. A long, long time.”
Slender fingers brushed his cheek.
“Do you still have my fish, Blossom? Yes, of course you do. The city guards do not search the bodies of the dead, do they, my Blossom?”
Mathew felt, cool against his skin, the crystal globe that was hidden in the folds of the woman’s gown he wore; the globe filled with water in which swam two fish—one golden, one black.
The sound of boots crunching on sand came to Mathew’s ears. A voice spoke respectfully, “You sent for me, Effendi?” and the hand and eyes withdrew from Mathew’s sight.
The young wizard’s vision was blurred. The sun was shining, but he could see it only as if through a white gauze. It was hot and stuffy where he lay, the air was stale. He was smothering and he tried to suck in a deep lungful of breath. His flaccid muscles refused to obey his mind’s command. The attempt was more of a wheeze or a gulp.
The tingling sensation in his hands and legs increased, nearly driving him wild. Added to this was a panicking feeling that he was suffocating, the inability to draw breath. His sufferings were acute, yet Mathew dared not make so much as a whimper. Death itself was preferable to those cruel eyes.
“Blossom is coming around. What about the other two?” queried the cold voice.
“The other woman is conscious, Effendi. The bearded devil, however, will not awaken.”
“Mmmm. Some other enchantment, do you think, Kiber?”
“I believe so, Effendi. You yourself mentioned the possibility that he was ensorcelled when we first captured him, if I recall correctly?”
“You do so. Let us take a look at him.”
The booted feet—now two pairs of them—moved somewhere to Mathew’s right.
Bearded devil. The other woman. Khardan! Zohra! Mathew’s body twitched and writhed in agony. Memory returned. . .
Escaping the Battle at the Tel; Khardan, unconscious, bound by some enchantment. Zohra and I dressed him in Meryem’s rosecolored, silken chador. The veil covered his face. The soldiers stopped us!
“Let the old hags go!”
We escaped and crouched down in the mud near the oasis, hidden in the tall grass. Khardan, wounded, spell bound; Zohra, exhausted, sleeping on my shoulder.
“I will keep watch.”
But tired eyes closed. Sleep came—to be followed by a waking nightmare.
“A black-haired beauty, young and strong,” the cold voice had spoken. “And what is this? The bearded devil who stole the Blossom and put me to all this trouble! Truly, the God looks down upon us with favor this night, Kiber!”
“Yes, Effendi!”
“And here is my Blossom with the flame-colored hair. See, Kiber, she wakes at the sound of my voice. Don’t be frightened, Blossom. Don’t scream. Gag her, Kiber. Cover her mouth. Tbat’s right.”
I looked up, bound and helpless, to see a black jewel sparkling in the light of the burning camp,
“In the name of Zhakrin, God of Darkness and All That Is Evil, I command you all—Sleep. . .”
And so they had slept. And now they woke. Woke. . . to what? Mathew heard the voices again, coming from a short distance away.
“You see, Kiber? This silver shield that hangs round his neck. See how it glows, even in daylight?”
“Yes, Effendi.”
“I wonder at its purpose, Kiber.”
“To protect him from harm in the battle, surely, Effendi. I have seen such before, given to soldiers by their wives.”
“Yes, but why render him unconscious as well? I begin to see what must have happened, Kiber. These women feared their man would come to harm. They gave him this shield that not only would protect him from any blow, but would also cause him to fall senseless during the battle. Then they dragged him away, dressed him in women’s clothes—as we found him—and escaped the field.”
“One of them must be a powerful sorceress, then, Effendi.”
“One or both, although our Blossom did not exhibit any magical talents when in our company. These nomads are fierce and proud warriors. I’ll wager this one did not know he was being saved from death by his womenfolk, nor do I think he will be at all pleased to discover such a fact when he awakes.”
“Then why bring him out of the enchantment, Effendi?” It seemed to Mathew that Kiber sounded nervous. “Let him stay in stasis, at least until we reach Galos.”
“No, we have too much work to do to load the ships without hauling him on as well. Besides, Kiber”—the cold voice was smooth and sinuous as a snake twisting across the sand—”I want him to see, to hear, to taste, to feel all that is yet to come to him. I want the poison to seep, little by little, into the well of his mind. When his soul goes to drink, it will blacken and die.”
Kiber did not appear so confide
nt. “He will be trouble, Ef- fendi.”
“Will he? Good. I would hate to think I had misjudged his character. Remove the sword from his hands. Now, to break this enchantment—”
“Let one of the women, Effendi. It is never wise to interfere with wizardry.”
“Excellent advice, Kiber. I will act upon it. When Blossom is able to speak and move about, we will question her concerning this. Now, remove the baggage from the djemel and line it up along the shore. We must be ready to load the ships when they land, for they will not be able to stay long. We do not want to be caught here in the heat of the afternoon.”
“Yes, Effendi.”
Mathew heard Kiber move away, his voice shouting orders to his men. Closing his eyes, the wizard could once again see the colorful uniforms of the goums, the horses they rode. He could see the slaves, chained by the feet, shuffling across the plains. He could see the whitecurtained palanquin. . .
White curtains! Mathew’s eyes opened, he looked about him. His vision had cleared. Gritting his teeth against the pain, concentrating every fiber of his being on the effort, he managed to move his left hand enough to draw aside the fold in the fabric and peer out at his surroundings.
The sight appalled him. He stared, aghast. He had thought the desert around the Tel, with its undulating dunes of sand stretching to the far distant mountains, empty and forbidding. There was life around the oasis, certainly. Or at least the nomads considered it life. The tall palm trees, their browntipped fronds—looking as if they had been singed—clicking in the everlasting wind. The lacy tamarisk, the sparse green foliage, every blade and leaf precious. The waving stands of brown, tasseled grass that grew near the water’s edge. The various species of cacti that ranged from the wigglyarmed burn plant—so called because of its healing properties—to the ugly, sharpneedled plant known by the incongruous, romantic appellation of the Rose of the Prophet. Coming from a world of ancient, spreading oaks, stands of pine forests, wild mountain flowers, Mathew had not considered this desert life life at all—nothing more than a pathetic mockery. But at least, he realized now, it had been life.
The Paladin of the Night Page 13