“No, Blossom.” Ibn Jad frowned at the idea. “I am a true knight and my power comes from Zhakrin, not from Sul. Long ago, in my youth, I learned the might of Zhakrin. I accepted him as my God and pledged to him my life, my soul. I have worked— all those of my Order have worked—unceasingly to bring about our God’s return into this world.”
“A priest!” Zohra sneered. She did not see the cruel eyes, gazing at her, narrow dangerously.
“No!” said Mathew hastily. “Not a priest. Or rather a priest who is a warrior. One who can”—the young man paused, then said heavily—”kill in the name of the God.”
“Yes,” said the Black Paladin coolly. “I have laid many souls upon the altar of Zhakrin.” The toe of his boot idly scraped the salty soil from around the base of one of the ivory jars that stood near them. “We kill without mercy, yet never without reason. The God is angered by senseless murder, since the living are always more valuable in his service than the dead.”
“That’s why you’ve kept us alive,” Mathew said softly. “To serve your God. But. . . how?”
“Haven’t you figured that out yet, Blossom?” Auda ibn Jad looked at him quizzically. “No? Then I prefer to keep you ignorant. Fear of the unknown is much more debilitating.”
The storm was worsening. Water that had previously been calm now crashed on the shore. Everyone’s clothing was wet through with salt spray. The sun had disappeared behind the storm clouds, casting a dark shadow over them.
Kiber’s voice called out urgently. The Black Paladin turned to look to sea. “Ah! The ship is in sight. Only a few more moments before it lands. You will excuse me, I am certain.” Ibn Jad bowed. “There are matters to which I must attend.”
Turning, he walked over to Kiber. The two conferred briefly, then Kiber hurried over to his goums, gesturing and shouting orders. The soldiers sprang into action, some running over to the camels, others taking up positions around the baggage, others hauling the slaves to their feet.
Curious, Zohra looked out to sea.
She had heard tales of the dhough, the vessels made of wood that floated upon the water and had wings to drive them before the wind. She had never seen one before. She had never, in fact, seen a body of water as large as this one and was secretly in awe of it, or would have been, if such an emotion would not have betrayed weakness. Looking critically at the ship as it approached, Zohra felt at first disappointment.
The meddah, the storyteller, had said these vessels were like whitewinged sea birds, swooping gracefully over the water. This dhough resembled a gigantic insect, crawling over the ocean’s surface. Oars stuck out from either side, scrabbling over the waves like feet, propelling the insect forward into the teeth of the wind. Ragged black wings flapped wildly.
Zohra knew nothing about ships or sailing, but she found it impossible to see how this one stayed afloat. Time and again she expected to see it perish. The vessel plunged in and out of the tall waves, its prow sliding down an incline that was steep and smooth as polished steel. It disappeared, and it seemed it must have vanished forever beneath the churning waters. Then suddenly it came in sight, springing up out of the watery chasm like a manylegged bug scrabbling to regain its footing.
Zohra’s disappointment turned to uneasiness; her uneasiness darkened and deepened the nearer the ship approached.
“Mathew,”she said softly, moving nearer the young wizard, whose gaze was fixed, like hers, upon the ship. “You have sailed in these dhough?”
“Yes.” His voice was tight, strained.
“You have sailed across a sea?” She had not believed his story before. She wasn’t certain she believed it now, but she needed reassurance.
He nodded. His eyes, staring at the ship, were wide. “It looks so frail. How does it survive such a beating?”
“It shouldn’t.” He coughed, his throat was dry. “It”—he hesitated, licking his lips—”it isn’t an . . . ordinary ship, Zohra. Just like that isn’t an ordinary storm. They’re supernatural.”
He used the term from his own language and she stared at him, uncomprehending.
Mathew groped for words. “Magic, enchanted.”
At that, Khardan lifted his head, his fog of rage blown away by the cold, biting wind of Mathew’s words. The Calif stared out at the ship that was so close now they could see figures walking across its slanting deck. A jagged bolt of lightning shot from the churning black clouds, striking the mast. Flame danced along the yardarms, the rigging caught fire and burned, the sails became sheets of flame whose garish light was reflected on the waterslick deck and flickered in the rising and falling oars. The vessel had become a ship of fire.
Catching her breath, Zohra looked hurriedly at Auda ibn Jad, expecting some outcry, some angry reaction. The man paced the shore and appeared disturbed, but the glances he cast the ship were of impatience, not dismay.
Mathew’s hand closed over hers. Looking back out to sea, Zohra shrank close to the young man. The flames did not consume the vessel! Burning fiercely, the ship surged across the stormtossed waves, being driven to shore by buffeting winds. Thunder boomed around it, a black banner burst from its masthead. Outlined in flame was the image of a severed snake.
“They would put us aboard that!” Zohra’s voice was low and hollow.
“Zohra,” Mathew began helplessly, hands on her shoulders, “it will be all right. . .”
“No!” With a wild shriek, she broke free of him. Leaping to her feet, fear absorbing the pain of her injured ankle, Zohra ran wildly away from the sea, away from the blazing ship. Her flight caught everyone off guard; the Black Paladin fuming at the slowness of the ship in docking was staring out to sea, as were all those not involved with more pressing tasks. A flutter of silk seen out of the corner of the eye caught Kiber’s attention. He shouted, and the goums guarding the captives and the baggage set off instantly in pursuit.
Fear lends strength, but it saps strength, too, and when panic subsides, the body is weaker as a result. The fire from the ship seemed to shoot through Zohra’s leg; her ankle could no longer bear her weight and gave way beneath her. Away from the water’s edge and the cooling winds of the storm, Zohra felt the heat that was rising from the salt flats suck out her breath and parch her throat. The glare of the sun off the crystalline sand seared through her eyes and into her brain. Behind her, she could hear panting breath, the pounding of booted feet.
Staggering blindly, Zohra stumbled and fell. Her hand closed over the hilt of the hidden dagger and, when rough hands grabbed hold of her, she struck out at them with the knife. Unable to see through her tangled hair, she lashed wildly at the sound of their voices or their harsh, rasping breath. A grunt and a bitter curse told her she’d drawn blood and she fought ever more furiously.
A cold voice barked a command. Hands closed over her wrist, bones cracked, pain burned in her arm. Gagging, choking, she dropped the dagger.
Gripping her firmly by the arms, the goums—one of them bleeding from a slash across the chest—dragged her back across the sand. The ship had dropped anchor some distance from the shore and stood burning in the water like a horrible beacon. The sight of small boats, black against the flames, crawling slowly toward land, renewed Zohra’s terror.
She struggled against her captors, pulling backward with all the weight of her body.
Sweating profusely, the goums hauled her before the Black Paladin. Zohra shook the hair out of her eyes, her sundazzled vision had cleared enough to see him. He was regarding her coolly, thoughtfully, perhaps wondering if she was worth the trouble.
Decision made, ibn Jad lifted his hand and struck.
Chapter 5
“Bind his hands and arms!” Rubbing his knuckles, Auda ibn Jad glanced from the comatose body of Zohra lying at his feet to the insane struggles of Khardan, battling with the gourns. “If he persists in causing trouble, render him unconscious as well.”
“Khardan!” Mathew was pleading, “be calm! There’s nothing we can do! No sense in fighting! We mus
t just try to survive!”
Soothingly, timidly he touched the muscular arm that was being wrenched behind Khardan’s back and bound tightly with cords of braided hemp used to hold the baggage in place upon the camels. Glaring at him in bitter anger, Khardan drew away from the young man. His struggles ceased, however, but whether from seeing the logic in Mathew’s words or because he was bound, helpless and exhausted, the young wizard did not know.
His body shivering, like that of a horse who has been run into the ground, Khardan stood with head bowed. Seeing him calm for the moment at least, Mathew left the Calif to tend to Zohra, who lay in a heap on the ground, her long black hair glistening with the salt spray from the pounding waves.
Mathew glanced warily at the goums, but they made no attempt to stop him. The flat, cruel eyes turned their gaze on him, however, and Mathew faltered, a bird caught and held by the mesmerizing stare of the cobra.
Kiber spoke, ibn Jad’s gaze turned to his Captain, and Mathew—with a shivering sigh—crept forward again.
“These two are trouble,” the leader of the gourns grumbled. “Why not leave them as payment, along with the slaves.”
“Zhakrin would not thank us for wasting such fine, healthy bodies and souls to match. This woman”—ibn Jad bent over to caress a strand of Zohra’s black hair—”is superb. I like her spirit. She will breed many strong followers for the God. Perhaps I will take her myself. As for the bearded devil”—ibn Jad straightened and glanced over at Khardan, his eyes coolly appraising the young man’s muscular build—”you know what awaits him. Will that not be worth some trouble in the eyes of Zhakrin?”
Auda ibn Jad’s tone was severe. Kiber cringed, as though the knight’s stern rebuke cut his flesh. The goum’s “Yes, Effendi” was subdued.
“See to the landing party,” ibn Jad ordered. “Keep your men occupied in loading the baggage aboard. Send the sailors to me. I will take charge of them.”
Kiber, bowing, scurried away. It seemed to Mathew that, at the mention of the sailors, Kiber’s tan face became unusually pale, strained, and tense.
Zohra moaned, and Mathew’s attention turned to her.
“You had best rouse her and get her on board the boats as quickly as possible, Blossom,” said the Black Paladin carelessly. “The sailors will be coming to me for their payment and you are both in danger here.”
Payment? Mathew saw the Black Paladin’s reptile eyes go to the slaves, who crouched together in a miserable huddle, chained hand and foot by the goums as soon as their labors were finished. Pitifully thin and emaciated, their bones showing beneath their whipscarred skin, the slaves stared in wildeyed terror at the fiery ship, obviously fearing that they would be forced to board it.
Mathew had a sudden, chilling premonition that the poor wretches’ fears were groundless—or rather, misplaced. Hastily he helped Zohra to her feet. Draping one of her arms over his shoulder, he put his arm around her waist and half carried, half dragged her across the sand, over to where the goums were keeping a wary eye on Khardan. Groggy but conscious, Zohra clung to Mathew. The right side of her face was bruised and swollen. Blood trickled from a split lip. She must have had a blinding headache, and a tiny gasp of pain escaped her every time her injured foot touched the ground.
She made no complaint, however, and did her best to keep up with Mathew, whose own growing fear was lending impetus to his strides. He was facing the incoming boats now, and his gaze went curiously to the crew who sailed a ship of flame across stormblasted water and who were now coming to shore to demand payment for their services.
There seemed nothing unusual about them. Human males, they shipped their oars with disciplined skill. Jumping over the side into the shallow water, they dragged the boats onto the shore, leaving them under Kiber’s command. At his orders, the goums immediately began to stow the baggage on board, Kiber personally supervising the loading of the large, ivory jars. Though all did their work efficiently, Mathew noted that every goum—Kiber included—kept his eyes fearfully upon the sailors.
They were all young, muscular men with blond hair and fair, even features. Coming ashore, they paused and looked long and hard at the goums, their blue eyes eerily reflecting the orange glow of the fire that blazed in the water behind them. Kiber gave them a swift, hunted glance. His eyes darted to Auda ibn Jad, then back to his men, who weren’t moving fast enough to suit him. Shouting at the goums, Kiber’s voice cracked with fear.
“In the name of Zhakrin, God of Night and Evil, I bid you greeting,” called Auda ibn Jad.
The eyes of the sailors reluctantly left the goums. As one man, they looked to the Black Paladin standing, facing them, some distance up the beach from the shoreline. Mathew caught his breath, his arms went limp, he nearly let loose his hold on Zohra. He couldn’t move for astonishment.
Each of the sailors was identical to every other. The same nose, same mouth, same ears, same eyes. They were the same height, the same weight. They moved the same, they walked the same, they were dressed the same—in tightfitting breeches, their chests bare, gleaming with water.
Zohra sagged wearily in Mathew’s arm. She did not look up and something warned Mathew to make certain that she didn’t. Snatching the veil from his hair, he cast it over her head. The sailors’ eyes swept over both of them like a bonechilling wind. Mathew knew he should move, should take the few steps—all that was required to bring them back under the protection of Kiber and his goums. But Mathew’s feet were numb, his body paralyzed by a fear that came from deep inside the part of his mind where nightmares lurked.
“We answered your summons and sailed our ship to do your bidding,” spoke one of the sailors—or perhaps it was all the sailors; the fifty mouths moved, but Mathew heard only one voice. “Where is our payment?”
“Here,” said Auda ibn Jad, and pointed at the slaves.
The sailors looked and they nodded, satisfied, and then their aspect began to change. The jaws thrust forward, the lips parted and drew back, gleaming teeth lengthened into fangs. The eyes burned, no longer reflecting the fire of their ship, but with insatiable hunger. Voices changed to snarls, fingernails to ripping talons. With an eager howl, the sailors swept forward, the wind of their passing hitting Mathew with a chill, foulsmelling blast, as if someone had opened the doors of a desecrated and defiled tomb.
He did not need to look at the prints left behind by the creatures in the sand to know what these monsters were. He knew what he would see—not a human track, but the cloven hooves of an ass.
“Ghuls!” he breathed, shuddering in terror.
The slaves saw death running toward them. Their shrieks were heartrending and piteous to hear. Zohra started to lift her head, but Mathew—clasping her close to him—covered her eyes with his hand and began to run, dragging her stumbling and blinded along with him.
“Don’t look!” he panted, repeating the words over and over, trying not to hear what was happening behind him. There was the clanking of chains—the slaves trying desperately to escape. He heard their wails when they realized it was hopeless and then the first horrible scream and then more screams and the dreadful ripping, tearing sounds of teeth and talons sinking into and devouring living flesh.
Zohra became dead weight in Mathew’s arms. Overcome by her pain, she had lost consciousness. Shaking, unable to take another step, he lowered her onto the ground. Kiber himself ran forward to lift up the woman’s body and carry her into the waiting boats. The goum kept his eyes averted from the grisly massacre, driving his men to their work with shouts and curses.
“Hazrat Akhran, have mercy on us!” The voice was Khardan’s, but Mathew barely recognized it. The Calif ‘s face was livid, his beard blue against the pallid skin. His eyes were whiterimmed and staring, purple shadows smudged the skin. Sweat trickled down his face; his lips trembled.
“Don’t watch!” Mathew implored, trying to block the man’s vision of the gruesome carnage.
Khardan lunged forward. Bound or not, he obviously intended t
o try and help the doomed slaves.
Mathew caught hold of him by the shoulders. Struggling wildly, Khardan sought to free himself, but the youth held onto him tightly, with the strength of desperation.
“Ghuls!” Mathew cried, his voice catching in his burning throat. “They feed on human flesh. It will be over soon. There’s nothing you can do!”
Behind him, he could hear screams of the dying, their still living bodies being rended from limb to limb. Their wails tore through head and heart.
“I can’t stand it!” Khardan gasped.
“I know!” Mathew dug his nails into the man’s flesh. “But there is nothing you can do! Ibn Jad holds the ghuls in thrall, but just barely. Interfere, and you kill us all!”
Wrenching himself free from Mathew’s hold, Khardan lost his balance, stumbled, and fell to his knees. He did not get up, but remained crouched on the ground, sweating and shivering, his breath coming in painful sobs.
The screams ceased suddenly. Mathew closed his eyes, going limp in relief. Footsteps crunched in the sand near him, and he looked up hurriedly. Auda ibn Jad stood beside him, staring down at Khardan. The Calif heaved a shuddering sigh. Wiping his hand across his mouth, he lifted his head. His face was white, the lips tinged with the green of sickness. Dark, bloodshot eyes, shadowed with the horror of what they had witnessed, stared up at the Black Paladin.
“What kind of monster are you?” Khardan asked hoarsely. “The kind you will become,” answered Auda ibn Jad.
Chapter 6
It was well Mathew had others to worry about during the journey across the Kurdin Sea on the demondriven vessel, or he might have truly succumbed to madness. They had no more set foot on board when the ghuls returned from their feast. Once more in the guise of handsome young men, their bodies daubed with blood, they silently took their places at the oars below and on the decks and in the rigging above. A word from Auda ibn Jad set the black sails billowing. The anchor was weighed, the ghuls heaved at the oars, the storm winds howled, lightning cracked, and the ship clawed its way through the foaming water toward the island of Galos.
The Paladin of the Night Page 16