The Paladin of the Night

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  The Amir gave Achmed the rank of Captain, put him in charge of training both men and horses in the cavalry, and took care—while they were in court—to speak to him as he would any other soldier in his army. If he spent a lot of time with the cavalry, it was only natural, since they were the key to victory in many instances and required much training in advance of the war against Bas. Yamina’ s single, jealous eye saw nothing to give her concern. She sent her son back to the glittering court in Khandar, both of them happy in the knowledge that generals often met with fatal mishaps.

  Qannadi himself had no illusions. He would have liked to make Achmed his heir, but he feared that the young man would not last even a month in the palace of the Emperor. Honesty, loyalty—these were qualities a king rarely saw in those who served him. Qualities the Amir saw in Achmed. The Amir didn’t attempt to instruct the young man in the dangerous machinations of court intrigue. The nomad’s blend of brute savagery and naive innocence delighted Qannadi. Achmed would not hesitate to hack to bits a rival in a fair fight, but he would allow himself to be devoured by ants before he would slyly murder that same rival. What was worse, Achmed fondly believed that every man worthy of being called a man abided by the same code of honor. No, he wouldn’t last long in the court at Khandar.

  Let my paintedeyed, paintedlipped son grovel at the Emperor’s feet and smile when His Imperial Majesty kicks him. I have Achmed. I will make of him an honorable, dutiful soldier for Quar. For myself, I will have one person who will fight at my side, who will be near me when I die. One person who will truly mourn my passing.

  But the ways of Quar are not the ways of Akhran. Qannadi himself was naive in thinking he could uproot the thorny desert Rose, bring it into the stifling atmosphere of court, and expect it to thrive. The cactus would have to send down tough new roots in order even to survive.

  The Imam had watched the battle from the protection of a palanquin borne on the long journey from Kich to Meda by six sweating, struggling priests of Quar. At the Amir’s signal, they hauled the covered litter out onto the plains before the city walls that were lined with Medans waiting in hushed, breathless silence to know their fate.

  Feisal emerged from the palanquin, his thin hand pushing aside the golden curtains decorated with the head of the ram. A change had come over the Imam since his illness. No one knew what had happened to him, except that he had come very close to death and had been—according to his awestricken servant— healed by the hand of the God. Feisal’s body, always slender from fasting, now appeared emaciated. His robes hung from his spare frame as they might have hung from a barelimbed tree. Every bone, every vein, every muscle and tendon was visible in his arms. His face was skulllike, with cadaverous hollows in the cheeks, the sunken eyes appeared huge.

  These eyes had always glowed with holy zeal, but now they burned with a fire that appeared to be the only fuel the man needed to keep the body functioning. The sun was blazing hot on the plains in midsummer. Achmed sweated in the leather uniform trousers worn by the cavalry. Yet he shivered when the Imam began to speak, and, glancing at Qannadi, he saw the black hair on the sunburned arms rise; the strong jaw—barely visible beneath the man’s helm—tighten. The Imam’s presence had always inspired discomfort. Now it inspired terror.

  “People of Meda!” Feisal’s voice must have been amplified by the God. It was hardly creditable that the lungs in that cavedin chest could draw air enough to breathe, let alone to shout. Yet his words could be clearly heard by all in Meda. It seemed to Achmed that they must be heard by every person in the world.

  “You were not this day defeated by man,” the Imam called out. He paused, drawing a deep breath. “You were defeated by Heaven!” The words rolled over the ground like thunder; a horse shied nervously. The Amir cast a stern glance behind him and the soldier quickly brought his animal under control.

  “Do not grieve over your loss! Rather, rejoice in it, for with defeat comes salvation! We are children in this world and we must be taught our lessons of life. Quar is the father who knows that sometimes we learn best through pain. But once the blow has been inflicted, He does not continue to whip the child, but spreads His arms”—the Imam suited his action to his words— “in a loving embrace.”

  Achmed thought back to when he’d heard these—or similar—words, back to that dark time in prison. Clenching his hands over the saddle horn to keep himself calm, he wished desperately this would end.

  “People of Meda! Renounce Uevin—the weak and imperfect God who has led you down a disastrous path, a path that could have cost you your lives had not Quar been the merciful father that He is. Destroy the temples of the false God Uevin! Denounce His priests! Melt down His sacred relics, topple His statues and those of the immortals who served Him. Open your hearts to Quar, and He will reward you tenfold! You will prosper! Your families will prosper! Your city will become one of the brightest jewels in the crown of the Emperor! And your immortal souls will be assured of eternal peace and rest!”

  Growing lightheaded in the heat, Achmed imagined the Imam’s words leaping from the man’s mouth in tongues of flame that set the dry grass ablaze. The flames spread from the priest to the prisoners lined up against the wall and lit them on fire. The blaze burned hotter and hotter until it engulfed the city. Achmed blinked and licked thirstily at a trickle of sweat that dropped into his mouth. The plains reverberated with the sound of cheering, started on cue by the Amir’s forces and picked up eagerly by the defeated Medans.

  Feisal had no more to say, which was well, since he could never have been heard. Exhausted, drained, he turned to make his way back to the palanquin, his faithful servant hurrying forward to assist the priest’s feeble steps. At the city walls, enthusiastic crowds shoved open the wooden gates. Chants of “Quar, Quar, Hazrat Quar” reverberated across the plains.

  Unexpectedly the Medan prisoners broke ranks and surged toward the Imam. Qannadi acted swiftly, sending his cavalry forward with a wave of his hand. Riding with the others, Achmed moved his horse in a defensive position around the priest’s palanquin. Sword drawn, he had orders to hit with the flat of the blade first, the cutting edge second.

  Achmed’s horse was engulfed by a tide of humanity, but these men were not out for blood. Risking life and limb amid the horses of the cavalry, they sought only to touch the palanquin, to kiss the curtains. “Your blessing on us, Imam!” they cried, and when Feisal parted the curtains and extended his bony arm, the Medans fell to their knees; many had tears streaming down their duststreaked faces.

  Feisal’s dark, burning eyes looked at Qannadi, giving a wordless command. The Amir, lips pressed grimly together, ordered his men to fall back a discreet distance. The Medans lifted the Imam’s palanquin onto their own shoulders and bore him triumphantly through the city gates. The roar of the crowd must have been heard by the sorrowing Uevin as far away as heaven.

  It’s all over! thought Achmed with relief and turned to share a smile with his general.

  Qannadi’s face was stern. He knew what was coming.

  Chapter 2

  Achmed crouched in the shadow of his tent, eating his dinner and watching the sun’s last rays touch the grass of the prairie with an alchemist’s hand, changing the green to gold. The young man ate alone. He had made few acquaintances among the Amir’s troops, no real friends. The men acknowledged his skill in riding and his way with horses, even magical ones. They learned from him: how to sit a galloping horse by pressing the thighs against the flanks, leaving hands free to fight instead of clutching the reins; how to use the animals’ bodies for cover; how to leap from the saddles of running horses and pull themselves back up again. They learned how to keep the horses calm before a battle, how to keep them quiet when slipping up on the enemy, how to hush them when the enemy is somewhere out there, preparing to slip up on you. They accepted Achmed’s teaching, though he was younger than most of them. But they never accepted him.

  Although accustomed to the close comradeship of the friends in his father�
��s tribe, most of whom were not only friends but relatives in one way or another, Achmed was not bothered by the lack of friends among the troops. The month in prison had hardened him to isolation; cruel usage at the hands of his tribesmen had caused him to welcome it.

  Few others were stirring about the camp. The guards walking the perimeter looked dour and putupon, for they could hear the shouts and laughter drifting up over the city walls and knew that their comrades were enjoying themselves. The Amir had given each man a sackful of the Emperor’s coins with orders to spend freely—the first sign that Quar was raining gold down upon Meda. The troops were commanded to be friendly and as well behaved as could be expected; dire punishments were threatened for those who raped, looted, or in any other way harmed a Medan. The Amir’s household guards manned the streets to maintain order.

  Achmed could have been among those disporting themselves in the city, but he chose not to. The Medans, who had surrendered their city to Heaven without a fight, disgusted him and, if truth be told, disturbed him more than he could admit.

  The sun’s gold was darkening to dross, and Achmed was thinking about rolling himself in his blanket and losing himself in sleep when one of Qannadi’s servants appeared and told him that all officers were ordered into the Amir’s presence.

  Hurrying through the city streets, Achmed saw no signs of rising rebellion or any other threat, and he wondered what this was about. Perhaps nothing more than joining the Amir for a victory dinner. Achmed’s heart sank. There was no way he could excuse himself, yet he didn’t feel up to celebrating. The servant did not lead him to the Governor’s Palace, however, but to an unexpected place—a large templelike structure located in the center of a plaza.

  A broken statue of Uevin lay on the paving stones. North of the plaza stood the columned building that was—Achmed realized from his talks with Qannadi—the seat of Medan government known as the Senate. Standing on top of the smashed remains of the God Uevin was a huge golden ram’s head that had been carted from Kich for precisely this purpose. (When, days later, the Amir’s troops moved on southward, the golden ram’s head would be reloaded into the cart and hauled off to do similar service in future conquered cities.)

  The plaza was crowded with Medans, talking in low voices. On its outer perimeter, the Amir’s elite household guards stood sternfaced and implacable, the tips of their spears gleaming in the sun’s afterglow. The crowd kept its distance from the soldiers, Achmed noticed. Taking advantage of this path that had formed between the people and the guards, the young man followed the servant to the steps leading up to a marblecolumned portico.

  A throne from the Governor’s Palace had been carried here by the Amir’s servants and stood before the Senate’s entryway. Qannadi sat on the throne, looking out onto the crowd gathered before him. He had changed from his battle armor into a white caftan, cloaked with a purple, goldtrimmed robe. His head was bare, except for a crown of laurel leaves, worn because of some silly custom of the Medans. It was already dark within the confines of the Senate porch. Torchbearers stood on either side of Qannadi, but they had, for some reason, not yet been given the order to light their brands. Looking intently at the Amir’s face as he ascended the stairs, Achmed saw the firm set of the jaw, the shadows carved in the face, making Qannadi appear grim and unyielding in the fading light.

  Next to Qannadi stood Feisal. No torchlight needed for him, the fire in the priest’s eyes seemed to light the plaza long after the sun’s glow had faded. Hoping to lose himself in the gathering gloom, Achmed took his place at the end of the line of officers who stood pressed against the Senate wall behind the Amir’s throne. The young man wondered briefly how his absence had been noticed, when suddenly he felt the fiery gaze of the Imam sear his flesh. Feisal had been waiting for him! The priest raised his thin hand and beckoned for Achmed to approach.

  Startled and unnerved, Achmed hesitated, looking to Qannadi. The Amir glanced at him from the corner of his eye and nodded slightly. Swallowing a knot in his throat, Achmed edged his way in front of his fellow officers, who stared straight out over the heads of the crowd. Why should I be afraid? he scolded himself, irritated at his clammy palms and the twisting sensation in his bowels. Perhaps it was the unusual silence of the people, who stood quietly as darkness washed slowly over them. Perhaps it was the unusually rigid stance and serious mien of the officers and guards. Perhaps it was the sight of Qannadi. Drawing closer, Achmed saw that the firmness of the man’s jaw was being maintained by a strong effort of will, the merciless face beneath the leafy crown was the face of a man Achmed didn’t know.

  Feisal, though he had sent for the young man, took no further notice of him.

  “Stand here,” the Amir ordered coldly, and Achmed did as he was commanded, taking his place at Qannadi’s right hand.

  “Light the torches,” was Qannadi’s next order, and the brands being held behind him sputtered into flame, as did other torches carried by those in the crowd in the plaza. “Bring forth the prisoners. You, guards, clear a space there.”

  He gestured at the foot of the steps. The guards used the hafts of their spears to push back the Medans, forming an empty, circular area at the base of the Senate stairs. Facing the Medans, spears held horizontally before them, the guards kept the milling crowd at bay.

  Achmed breathed easier. He’d heard it rumored that the Governor had been captured by the menatarms of those Medan Senators who had been in the Amir’s pay. The wretched politician, bound hand and foot, was dragged forth, as were several other Senators and ministers who had remained loyal to their thankless citizens.

  That this was to be a trial and execution, Achmed now recognized. He could view the deaths of these men with equanimity. In their gamble for power, the dice had turned against them. But they had lived well off the winnings up until this time; this was the chance they took when they first began to play the game. He found it difficult, therefore, to understand the unusual grimness of the Amir.

  Perhaps he sees himself, standing there in chains, came the sudden, disquieting thought. No, that’s impossible. Qannadi would never have run. He would have fought, even though he had been one against a thousand. What then?

  More prisoners were being led by the guards into the doomed circle. One was a woman of about fifty, dressed in white robes, her gray hair worn in a tight braid around her head. Behind her stumbled four girls, younger than Achmed. They, too, were dressed in white, their gowns clung to bodies just swelling with the first buds of womanhood. Their hands were bound behind their backs, and they stared about with dazed, uncomprehending eyes. Following the four girls marched a man of rotund girth clad in red robes. From the expression on his face, he knew what was coming and yet walked with dignity, his back straight.

  The voice of the crowd changed in regard to each prisoner. A guiltladen murmur began when the Governor and the Senators were led in, many eyes looking up or down or anywhere but at the faces of the men for whom most of them had undoubtedly voted. The murmur changed to a whisper of pity at the sight of the young girls, and low mutterings of respect for the large man in red. The mutterings swelled to anger with the arrival of the last prisoner.

  Beardless, with long brown hair, the prisoner was clad in black trousers tucked into the tops of black leather boots; a black silken shirt with flowing sleeves, open at the neck; and a crimson red sash around his waist. A curious device—that of a snake whose body had been cut into three pieces—was embroidered upon the front of his shirt.

  Achmed stared at the snake in fascination. His skin prickled, his thumbs tingled, and from nowhere the image of Khardan came to him. Why should he think of his lost brother now, of all times? And why in the presence of this brownhaired man, who swaggered into the circle, closely followed by two guards carrying drawn swords. Achmed stared at the man intently, but found no answer to his question. The man in black started to move to the center of the circle. One of the guards put his hand on his arm to draw him back. The man turned on him with a vicious snarl,
freeing himself of the guard’s hold. The man in black walked where he was told, but of his own free will. He leered at the crowd, who swallowed their words at his baleful look. Those standing anywhere near the man fell backward in an attempt to get away from him—guarded as he was—an attempt that was thwarted by the press of the crowd.

  The man looked up at the Amir’ and suddenly grinned, his white face skulllike in the light of the flaring torches. The vision of Khardan faded from Achmed’s mind.

  “Is this all?” demanded Feisal, the timbre of his voice quivering slightly with anger. “Where are the underlings for these two?” He gestured at the rotund man and the man in black.

  The captain of the elite guard stepped forward, hand raised in salute, his gaze on the Amir. “Have I leave to report, My King?”

  “Report,” said Qannadi, and Achmed heard weariness and resignation in the reply.

  “All the other priests of Devin escaped, Highness, due to the cou—” he was about to say “courage” but a glimpse of Feisal’s burning eyes made him change the word—”efforts of the High Priest.” He gestured with a thumb toward the rotund man in red, who smiled serenely. “He held the doors with his own body, my lord. It took a battering ram to break them down, and due to the delay, the remainder of Uevin’s priests escaped. We have no idea where they’ve gone.”

  “Secret passages underground,” Qannadi growled.

  “We searched, My Lord, but found none. That is not to say that they couldn’t exist. The Temple of Uevin is filled with strange and unholy machines.”