The Paladin of the Night

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “Again!” the Lifemaster’s voice was insistent, fearful.

  “Khardan!” called Auda more loudly and stronger, as though shouting to one about to walk blindly off a cliff. “Khardan!” Ibn Jad grasped hold of a limp hand that was already devoid of the warmth of life. “We are losing him!” he whispered angrily.

  “No, no!” said the Lifemaster, the huge head whipping about so rapidly it seemed it must fly off the thin, brittle neck. “Make him call upon the name of Zhakrin!”

  “Khardan,” cried ibn Jad, “pray to the God—”

  “There, he hears you!” said the Lifemaster in what ibn Jad noted was a tone of relief. The Black Paladin glanced coldly at the man, his displeasure obvious, and the Lifemaster quailed before Auda’s anger.

  But ibn Jad had no time to spare upon the tormentor. Khardan’s eyelids flickered open. Rimmed with crimson, the pupils dilated, the nomad’s eyes stared at Auda without a glimmer of recognition.

  “God?” he said inaudibly, the barest hint of breath displacing the bloody froth upon his lips. “Yes, I . . . remember. Mathew. . .” His words died in what ibn Jad feared was his final breath. The Black Paladin clutched the man’s hand.

  “Call upon the God to spare you, Khardan! Offer him your soul in exchange for your life, for an end to this torment!”

  “My soul. . .” Khardan’s eyes closed. His lips moved, then he fell silent. Slumping forward, his head rested on his chest. “What did he say?” ibn Jad demanded of the tormentor.

  “He said. . . ‘Zhakrin, I give you my life.’ “

  “Are you certain?” ibn Jad frowned. He had heard the words “give you my life,” but the name of the God to whom the man prayed had been indistinct.

  “Of course!” the Lifemaster said hastily. “And look! The lines of pain upon his face ease! He draws a deep breath! He sleeps!”

  “Truly, life returns to him,” said ibn Jad, feeling the hand he held grow warm, seeing color flow into the bloodless cheeks. “Khardan!” he called gently.

  The nomad stirred and lifted his head. Opening his eyes, he looked around him in astonishment. His gaze went to the Lifemaster, then to ibn Jad. Khardan’s eyes narrowed in obvious puzzlement. “I . . . I am still here,” he murmured.

  An odd reaction, thought ibn Jad. Still, this was an unusual man. I’ve never seen one draw so near death and then have the strength to turn back.

  “Zhakrin be praised!” said ibn Jad, watching the nomad’s reaction closely.

  “Zhakrin . . .” Khardan breathed. Then he smiled, as though seeming to recall something. “Yes, Zhakrin be praised.”

  Scrambling to his feet, the Lifemaster hastened over to a table and returned bearing a sharp knife, whose blade was already stained with dried blood. Seeing it, Khardan’s eyes flared, his lips tightened grimly.

  “Have no fear, my . . . brother,” said Auda softly. Khardan glanced at him questioningly.

  “Brother,” repeated ibn Jad. “You are a Black Knight, now. One who serves Zhakrin in life and in death, and you are therefore my brother. But I would go further. I have requested that you and I be bonded, that our blood mingle.”

  “What does this mean?” asked Khardan thickly, propping himself up, his face twisting in pain as he moved.

  “Life for life, we are pledged to each other. Honor bound to come to the other’s defense when we can, to avenge the other’s death when we cannot. Your enemies become my enemies, my enemies yours.” Taking the knife from the Lifemaster, the knight made a slash in his own wrist, causing the red blood to well forth. Grasping Khardan’s arm, he cut the skin and then pressed his flesh against the nomad’s. “ ‘From my heart to yours, from your heart to mine. Our blood flows into each other’s bodies. We are closer than brothers born.’ There, now you repeat the oath.”

  Khardan stared searchingly at ibn Jad for long moments; the Calif ‘s lips parted, but he said nothing. His gaze went to the arms, joined together—ibn Jad’s arm strong and whiteskinned, the veins and sinews clearly visible against the firm muscles; Khardan’s arm, pale, weak from the enforced inaction of the past few months, stained with blood and filth and sweat.

  “To refuse this honor would be a grievous insult to the God who has given you your life,” said the Lifemaster, seeing the nomad hesitate.

  “Yes,” muttered Khardan in seemingly increasing confusion, “I suppose it would.” Slowly, haltingly, he repeated the oath.

  Auda ibn Jad smiled in satisfaction. Putting his arm around Khardan’s naked back, he lifted the nomad to his feet. “Come, I will take you to your room where you may rest. The Black Sorceress” will give you something to ease the torment of your wounds and help you sleep—”

  “No,” said Khardan, stifling a cry of anguish. Sweat beaded his upper lip. “I must. . . be at the ceremony.”

  Auda ibn Jad looked his approval but slowly shook his head. “I understand your desire to share in this moment of our victory, but you are too weak, my brother—”

  “No!” insisted Khardan, teeth clenched. “I will be there!”

  “Far be it from me to thwart such noble courage,” said ibn Jad. “I have a salve that will help ease the pain somewhat and a glass of wine will burn away the rest.”

  Khardan had no breath to reply, but he nodded his head. The Lifemaster draped a black cloth over the nomad’s naked body. Leaning upon Auda ibn Jad, the Calif—weak as a babe—let himself be assisted from the chamber.

  Chapter 16

  Mathew had remained locked in his room throughout the day. He had spent the incredibly long hours of waiting pacing the floor, his fears divided among Khardan, Zohra, and himself. He knew what he must do, knew what he had to do tonight, and he mentally prepared himself, going over and over it again in his mind. It was no longer a question of courage. He knew himself well enough now to understand that his bravery sprang from desperation. Matters were desperate enough. This was their only chance to escape, and if it meant surrendering his soul to Astafas, then that is what he was prepared to do.

  “And even that is a cowardly act,” he said to himself, slumping exhausted in a chair, having walked miles in his little room. “It is all very well to say that you are sacrificing yourself for Khardan and Zohra, both of whom saved your life, both of whom were dragged into this because of you! But admit it. Once again, you are acting to save your own skin, because you can’t face the thought of death!

  “That was a very fine lecture you gave Khardan. All about having the courage to live and fight. Fortunately he couldn’t see the words were stained yellow with a coward’s bile as they fled your mouth. He and Zohra both are prepared to die rather than betray their God! You’re prepared to sell your soul for another few moments of keeping life in a craven’s body that isn’t worth the air it breathes!”

  Night had darkened his window. The tones of the iron bell had rung out at such long intervals during the day that Mathew often wondered if the timekeeping device had broken down. Now the peals dinned in his ears so often he was half convinced that they had let the clock run loose, chiming the quarter hours on whatever whim took it.

  To distract thoughts that were threatening to run as wild as time, Mathew rose to his feet and threw open the window. A freshening wind from the sea blew away the foulsmelling, yellowish tinged fog that had clung like a noxious blanket to the Castle all day. Looking outside, Mathew could see a cliff of black jagged rocks—below that, the seashore, whose white sand gleamed eerily in the starlight. Dark waves broke upon the shoreline. A black patch against the water, the ship of the ghuls swung at anchor, its crew no doubt dreaming of sweet, human flesh.

  Movement near the window casement caught Mathew’s attention. He looked out to find a horrid figure looking in. Springing backward, Mathew slammed shut the window. Grabbing hold of the velvet curtains, he drew them closed with such force he nearly ripped them from their hangings. He left the window hastily, hurrying back to his bed, and sank down upon it.

  A nesnas! Half human and half. . . nothing!
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br />   Mathew shuddered, closing his eyes to blot out the memory and succeeding only in bringing it more clearly to his mind. Take a human male and chop him in two, lengthwise, with an axe, and that is what I saw from my window! Half a head, half a nose and mouth, one ear; half a trunk, one arm, one leg. . . hopping, horribly. . . .

  And that is what we must face when we leave the Castle!

  You are the Bearer. Nothing can harm the Bearer!

  The words came back to him comfortingly. He repeated them over and over in a soothing litany. But what about those with me? They will be safe, he assured himself. Nothing out there will harm them, for I will be the master, the master of all that is dark and evil. . .

  What am I saying? Cowering, shivering, Mathew slid from the bed and fell to his knees. “Holy Father,” he whispered, folding his hands and pressing them to his lips, “I am sorry to have failed you. I had supposed that you kept me alive, when so many more worthy than myself died, for some purpose. If so, surely I have upset that purpose through my foolish actions. It’s just that. . . that I seem so alone! Perhaps what the imp said about a guardian angel is true after all. If that is so, and she has forsaken me, then I know why. Forgive me, Father. My soul will go to its dark reward. I ask only one last thing. Take the two lives in my care and deal mercifully with them. Despite the fact that they worship another God and are barbaric and savage in their ways, they are both truly good and caring people. See them safely back to their homeland. . . their homeland. . .” Tears crept down Mathew’s cheeks, falling among his fingers. “The homeland they long to see once more, to parents who grieve for them.”

  “What a wretch I am!” Mathew cried suddenly, flinging himself away from the bed. “I cannot even pray for others without finding myself sucked into the mire of selfpity.” Glancing up at heaven, he smiled bitterly. “I cannot even pray… is that it? They say that those who worship the Prince of Darkness cannot say Your Holy Name but that it burns their tongues and blisters their lips. I—”

  There came a knock on his door. Fearfully, Mathew heard the clock begin to chime. One. . . five. . . eight. . . his heart counted the strokes. . . ten. . . eleven. . .

  A key rattled in the door lock. “You are wanted, Blossom.”

  Swallowing, Mathew tried to answer, but the words would not come. His hand moved to grasp hold of the black wand. It was an unconscious act; he did not know he was touching it until he felt its sharp sides bite into his flesh, its reassuring warmth wash over him like the dark waters of the ocean waves, crashing on the beach below.

  The door swung open. Auda ibn Jad stood framed in the doorway, silhouetted against a backdrop of blazing torches. The flickering light burned bright orange on his black armor, glittered off the eyes in the head of the severed snake that adorned his breastplate. Beside ibn Jad stood another knight, dressed in the same armor.

  The torchlight gleamed on curly black hair, lit a face that had been in Mathew’s thoughts all day—a face that was pale and wan, drawn with pain yet alight with a fire of fierce eagerness, a face that looked at Mathew with no recognition at all in the black eyes.

  “You are wanted,” said Auda ibn Jad coolly. “The hour of our triumph draws near.”

  Bowing his head in acquiescence, Mathew walked out the doorway. Ibn Jad entered the room and began to search it. What he might be hunting for, Mathew hadn’t any idea—perhaps the imp. Drawing near Khardan, the young wizard took the opportunity to look once more into the face of the Calif.

  One eyelid flickered. Deep, deep within the blackness of the eyes was the glimmer of a smile.

  “Thank you, Promenthas,” Mathew breathed, then bit off his prayer, thinking he felt a burning sensation in his throat.

  Chapter 17

  Once again the circle of Black Paladins formed in the Vestry around the signet of the severed snake. This time, however, all the followers of Zhakrin were present in the room. Blackrobed women, many with the swollen bellies that held future followers of the God, sat in chairs in one corner of the huge hall. Kiber and his goums and the other menatarms in service to the Black Paladins stood ranged around the hall, their weapons in hand. The naked blades of sword and dagger, the sharp points of spears, gleamed brightly in the light of thousands of black wax candles set in wroughtiron flambeaux that had been lowered from the high ceiling.

  Behind the soldiers, huddled on the floor, their faces pale with fear, the slaves of the followers of Zhakrin waited in hopeless despair for the return of the God that would seal their fate forever.

  Flanked by Khardan and Auda ibn Jad, Mathew entered the Vestry. He walked closely between the two knights; more than once Khardan’s body brushed against his, and Mathew could feel it tense and taut for action. But he could also hear the breath catch in Khardan’s throat when he moved, the stifled groan or gasp of pain that he could not quite suppress. The Calif ‘s face was pale; despite the intense chill of the great hall, sweat gleamed upon his upper lip. Auda ibn Jad glanced at him in concern and once whispered something to him urgently, but Khardan only shook his head, gruffly answering that he would stay.

  It occurred to Mathew, as he entered the huge, candlelit chamber, that Khardan was suffering this because of him, because of what he’d said. He has faith in me, thought Mathew, and the knowledge terrified him. I can’t let him down, not after what he’s endured because of me. I can’t! Gripping the wand more tightly, he entered the circle of Black Paladins, who moved aside respectfully to make room for them.

  Within the center of the circle of men and women had been placed an altar of such hideous aspect that Mathew stared at it, appalled. It was the head of a snake that had been cut off at the neck. Carved of ebony, standing four feet high, the snake’s mouth gaped open. Glistening fangs made of ivory parted to reveal a forked tongue encrusted with rubies. The tongue, shooting upward between the fangs, formed a platform that was empty now, but Mathew guessed what object soon would rest there. Around the altar stood the tall ivory jars that Mathew had seen on the boat. Their lids had been removed.

  Beside the altar stood the Black Sorceress. Her gaze fixed on Mathew when he stepped into the circle. Aged, ageless, the eyes probed the young wizard’s soul and apparently liked what they saw there, for the lips of the stretched face smiled.

  She sees the darkness within me, realized Mathew with a calmness that he found startling. He knew she saw it because he could feel it, a vast emptiness that felt neither fear nor hope. And over it, covering the hollowness like a shell, spread exultation, a sensation of power coming into his hands. He reveled in it, rejoicing, longing to wield it as a man longs to wield the blade of a new sword.

  Glancing at Khardan, he wondered irritably if the man would be of use to him now, injured as he was. Mathew fretted impatiently for the ceremony to get under way. He wanted to see that smile on the woman’s drumskin face vanish. He wanted to see it replaced with awe!

  The Black Sorceress laid her hands upon the emerald eyes of the snake’shead altar, and a low sound thrummed through the Vestry, a sound that was like a wail or moan. At the sound, all excited talk that had flowed among the circle of Paladins and whispered through the women waiting in the corner of the Vestry ceased. The menatarms came to stiff attention, their boots scraping against the stone floor. The circle parted to admit four slaves carrying a heavy obsidian bier. Staggering beneath the weight, the slaves bore it slowly and carefully into the center of the circle that closed around them. Reverently, the slaves brought their burden before the Black Sorceress.

  Upon the obsidian slab lay Zohra, clothed in a gown made entirely of black crystal. The beads’ sparkling edges caught the candlelight and gave off a rainbowcolored aura whose heart was darkness. Her long black hair had been brushed and oiled and fell from a center part in her head around her shoulders, touching her fingertips. She lay on her back, her hands stretched out straight at her sides. Her eyes were wide open, her lips slightly parted; she stared at the candles above her, but there was no sign of life on her face. From the pallor
of her complexion, she might have been a corpse, but for the even rise and fall of her chest that could be detected by the faint shimmering of the crystal beaded gown.

  Mathew felt Khardan flinch and knew this pain the man experienced did not come from his wounds. He cares for her more than he admits, thought Mathew. Just as well, it will give him added incentive to serve me.

  The Lord of the Paladins stepped forth and made a speech. Mathew shifted from foot to foot, thinking they were taking an inordinate amount of time to conduct this ceremony. He had just heard the clock chime threequarters of the hour gone, when he suddenly stared intently at one of the slaves carrying the bier.

  At that moment the slave Mathew was watching set his end of the bier down suddenly, groaning from the strain and wiping his face. The bier tilted, jostling Zohra and causing the Black Sorceress to glare at the slave with such ire that everyone in the Vestry knew the wretched fellow was doomed.

  Usti! recognized Mathew, staring in blank astonishment. How he had managed the transformation, Mathew didn’t know. He was certain the djinn hadn’t been among those who first carried the bier into the Vestry. But there was no mistaking the three chins, the fat face rising from bulging shoulders.

  The other bearers started to set down their ends, but the Black Sorceress said sharply, “No! not here in front of me! Beneath the altar.”

  With a longsuffering groan, Usti lifted his end of the bier again, helping to shift it around to place it where indicated. Mathew saw the jeweled handle of a dagger flare from the djinn’s sash wound around his broad middle. Usti’s fat face was grim. His chins shaking with intent and purpose and resolve, Usti took his place at his mistress’s head.

  A hushed silence descended upon the Vestry; breath shortened, hearts beat fast, blood tinged the faces of those who had worked and waited and dedicated their very lives to the attaining of this moment of glory. The iron chimes began their toll. . . .