The Prophet of Akhran

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  That, Mathew could readily believe, and he suffered the hood to remain in place, even drawing it lower over his forehead. Surely we will leave this dreadful place soon, he thought drowsily. The djinn will carry us in their strong arms, or perhaps we will fly upon a cloud.

  The sight of Khardan’s face jolted Mathew to reality. It was dark with anger; the black eyes burned hotter than the sand beneath their feet. The djinn stood before him, sullen, ashamed, but grim and resolute.

  “What do you know of this?” Khardan flared, whirling on Mathew.

  “What do I know of what?” Mathew asked dazedly.

  “This war in heaven! The news, so Pukah tells me, was brought to them by your djinn!”

  “My djinn?” Mathew stared, amazed. “I don’t have a djinn!”

  “Not djinn, angel,” Pukah corrected, keeping his eyes lowered before his master’s—former master’s—fury. “A guardian angel, in the service of Promenthas.”

  “There are no such beings as angels,” Mathew said, wiping the sweat from his brow. Every breath hurt; it was like breathing in pure flame. “At least,” he added, shaking his head, thinking dreamily how unreal all this was, “no beings who would have anything to do with me. I’m not a priest—”

  “No such beings!” Pukah cried, raising his head and angrily confronting a startled Mathew. “Your angel is the most loyal being in the heavens! For every tear you have shed, she has shed two! Every hurt you suffer, she takes upon herself. She loves you dearly, and you—unworthy dog—dare malign the best, the most beautiful— No, Asrial, I will say it! He must learn—”

  “Pukah! Pukah!” Khardan shouted repeatedly, and at last managed to stem the tirade.

  “Since when, djinn, do you speak to a mortal in this disrespectful manner?” Zohra demanded.

  “I will handle this, wife,” Khardan snapped.

  “Better than you have handled all else previously, I presume, husband?” Zohra responded with a sneer, tossing the mane of black hair over her shoulder.

  “It was not my actions that brought us here, if you will remember, wife!” Khardan drew a seething breath. “If you had left me on the field of battle—”

  “You would be dead by now,” Zohra said coolly. “Believe me, husband, no one regrets my action to save you more than I!”

  “Stop it!” Mathew cried. “Haven’t we been through enough? In that dark castle, you were each prepared to offer your life for the other. Now you—”

  Mathew hushed. Khardan was staring out to the sea, his face stem and hard. The muscles in the jaw twitched, the tendons in the neck were drawn taut and strained.

  My words have done nothing more than send him back to that dread place, Mathew realized sadly. He suffers it all again!

  Swiftly Mathew glanced at Zohra. Her face had softened; she was recalling her own torment. If she could see the shared anguish in her husband’s eyes. . . But she could not. From where she stood, she saw only the broad back, the head held high, the neck stiff and unbending. Her lips compressed. Zohra crossed her arms forbiddingly across her chest, the glass beads of her dress clashing together jarringly.

  Mathew’s own hand reached out to the Calif, the fingers trembling. Khardan turned at the moment, and Mathew snatched the hand back and hid it within the loose, flowing sleeves of his wizard’s robes. The Calif took one look at the impassive face of his wife, and his own expression grew harder.

  “I humbly beg your apology, sidi, and that of the madman—I mean, Mathew,” said Pukah humbly, anxious to keep clear of domestic disputes. “I have been reminded that the madman—Mathew—had no way of knowing anything about his angel, since such contact between mortal and immortal is prohibited by his God, Promenthas, who is if I may say it, a most dour type of God and one who doesn’t have a great deal of fun. Still, it seems to me that the madman should be thankful he is at least alive—”

  “Thankful! Of course, he’s thankful!” Khardan said impatiently. “And you tell me that he doesn’t know anything about this. . . this—”

  “Angel,” contributed Pukah helpfully.

  “Yes.” Khardan avoided pronouncing the strangesounding word. “So he knows nothing about this war?”

  “No, sidi.” Pukah was more subdued but, on exchanging glances with Sond, appeared determined to continue on in the face of the Calif ‘s mounting displeasure. “Asrial—that is the angel’s name, master—attended a meeting of the One and Twenty. It was there she learned of the war raging on the plane of the immortals. Akhran himself was present, master, and he said that Quar has placed much of his strength in the ‘efreet, Kaug, who now seeks to banish the immortals back to our ancient prison, the Realm of the Dead.”

  “One ‘efreet!” Khardan snorted. “Surely Akhran can deal with one ‘efreet!”

  “The gods are forbidden by Sul to act on the plane of their servants, sidi. Not that I think this would stop Hazrat Akhran, if he was so inclined. But Asrial tells us that Akhran”—the djinn hesitated, glanced at his fellow djinn, sighed, and imparted the bad news—”Akhran bears many wounds on his body, and though he does his best to hide them, Promenthas fears our God cannot last much longer.”

  “Akhran . . . dying!” Khardan said in disbelief. “Has our God truly grown so weak?”

  “Say rather, the faith of his people has weakened,” interposed Sond quietly.

  Khardan flushed. His hand moved, unconsciously it seemed, to his breast. Mathew remembered vividly the wounds the Calif had borne, wounds gone now without a scar except for those that would remain forever on the man’s soul. Wounds healed by the hand of the God.

  Or wounds suffered by the God in his place?

  “Our people.” The flaring pride and anger faded from Zohra’s eyes, leaving them shadowed with fear and concern. “So much has happened. . . we have forgotten our people.”

  “All the more reason you must help us return to them,” Khardan said angrily to Pukah.

  “All the more reason we must fight Kaug, Calif.” Sond spoke with the sincerest respect, the firmest resolution. “If Kaug wins this battle, all immortals will disappear from the world. Quar, being the strongest of the Gods, will be able to increase his direct influence over the people. He will grow stronger, the other Gods weaker, and eventually the One and Twenty will be the One.”

  “We will be gone only a few hours, sidi,” Pukah said confidently. “This Kaug may have the strength of a mountain, but he has the brains to match. We will defeat him and return to you before you can begin to miss us.”

  “Rest during the heat of the day, sidi, in the tent we have prepared for you. We shall be back to serve you dinner,” added Sond.

  The two djinn began to fade away. Mathew felt something brush against his cheek, something soft and light and delicate as a feather, and he raised his hand swiftly to grasp it, but there was nothing there.

  “Khardan!” Zohra cried, clutching at him. “They mean to abandon us out here! You cannot let them go!”

  “I cannot stop them!” Khardan shouted irritably, shaking off her hands. “What would you have me do? I am no longer their master!”

  “But I am!” shrieked a shrill voice.

  Chapter 2

  Everyone turned, startled, having forgotten during the ensuing argument all about the scrawny little man. Truth to tell, no one had paid much attention to Meelusk at all during the entire trip. The beadyeyed, leeringfaced fisherman had spent the journey huddled in a heap at the bottom of the boat. Whenever anyone—particularly the muscular Khardan—had looked at him directly, Meelusk would give a fawning, servile grin that twisted into a vicious snarl when he thought no one was watching.

  Now he came stumping across the sand, clutching Sond’s lamp to his chest and dragging Pukah’ s waterlogged snake charmer’s basket (which was as big as the little man) behind him.

  “I don’t trust you, you blackbearded demon,” Meelusk shouted, his gleaming eyes fixed on Khardan. “The woman with you is a shedevil, and I don’t know what you are, redhaired freak!” Th
e eyes darted to Mathew. “But be you shedevil or hedemon, I’ll soon be rid of you! I’ll soon be rid of the lot of you!”

  These were finesounding words, but the djinn, Sond and Pukah, continued to fade from view, and it suddenly occurred to Meelusk to wonder who was getting rid of whom.

  “Come back here!” the little man yelled, waving Sond’s lamp in the air. “I’m your master! I rescued you from the sea! You have to obey me and I say come back here!”

  The images of the djinn wavered, then slowly remateria1ized. “He is right, after all,” Pukah said to Sond. “He is our master.”

  “You bet I am!” said Meelusk smugly, casting Khardan a triumphant glance.

  “He did rescue us from the sea. We owe him our fealty and loyalty,” Sond agreed.

  Turbaned heads bowed; the djinn came to prostrate themselves before the scrawny human.

  “Damn right you do!” Meelusk cackled. “Now get up, and listen to me.” He pointed at Khardan and his companions. “Leave the nomads here on the beach to rot. Take away their water and that tent.” Protected by the djinn, Meelusk felt safe enough to shake a bony fist at the nomads. “You murderin’, blackhearted devils! I’ve seen you look at me, thirsting for my blood! Ha! Ha! That’s not all you’ll thirst for.” Meelusk turned back to the djinn at his feet. “Now you’re going to dress me like a Sultan, then bring me beautiful women, then fix me up a palace that’s made of silver and marble, with great high walls so’s that no one can get to me. Then you’re going to my village. The people there don’t respect me enough. But they’ll learn to! Yes they will, the curs. When we get there, you’re going to kick over their houses, one by one. And stomp ‘em into the dirt! And then set ‘em on fire. After that, you’re going to bring me all the gold and jewels in the world— Hey! What’s the matter with you?”

  Pukah had put a hand to his forehead and rolled his eyes. “Too many commands, master.”

  “Ah, slowwitted, are you?” said Meelusk, grinning craftily.

  “Yes,” said Sond gravely, “he is.”

  “Beautiful new clothes for my master!” commanded Pukah, clapping his hands.

  Instantly Meelusk’s skinny, dirtencrusted body was swathed from head to toe in a cocoon of costly silks. “Hey!” cried a muffled voice, coming from the midst of the cocoon. “I can’t breathe!”

  “Jewels for my master!” commanded Sond, clapping his hands.

  Ropes of pearls, chains of gold, and jewels of every color and description fell from heaven around Meelusk’s neck, their weight bending him nearly to his knees.

  “Women for my master!”

  Nubile, willowy bodies surrounded Meelusk, their soft voices whispering into what little of his ears could be seen under the huge, jewelencrusted turban that balanced precariously on the man’s bulbous head. The women cuddled against him seductively. Gaping and drooling, Meelusk dropped both Sood’s lamp and Pukah’s basket in order to free up his eager hands.

  “A new lamp and a new basket for my master!” shouted Pukah, carried away with enthusiasm.

  “Yes! Yes!” Meelusk panted, ogling the women and clutching the soft bodies with grasping fingers. “New everything! More gold! More jewels! While you’re at it, more of these beauties.”

  Pukah cast Khardan a significant look. Slipping up quietly and stealthily, the Calif snatched up Sond’s lamp and Pukah’s basket and, holding onto them tightly, took a swift step backward.

  Instantly, the women, the jewels, the pearls and the gold, the turban, the wool and the silks, all disappeared.

  “Ah, Master Meelusk, what have you done?” cried Pukah in dismay.

  “Eh? What?” Meelusk glanced around wildly, his hands, which had encircled a slender waist, clasped firmly around empty air. Furious, he accosted the two djinn, who were gazing at him sadly. “Bring ‘em back, do you hear me? Bring ‘em back!” he howled, jumping up and down in the sand. ‘

  “Alas, you are no longer our master, master,” said Pukah, with a helpless spreading of the hands.

  “You gave away, of your own free will, our dwelling places,” said Sond, heaving a sigh.

  Raving, gnashing his teeth, Meelusk whirled and made a lunge for Khardan, but before he could take even two steps, the huge Sond had caught hold of the scrawny little man by the arms. Lifting him like a child, the djinn carried Meelusk, kicking and screaming and calling down foul imprecations on the heads of everyone present, to his boat. Sond tossed Meelusk inside and gave the boat a mighty shove that sent it flying over the water.

  “Best not shout so, former master!” Pukah called after the rapidly vanishing boat. “The ghuls have excellent hearing!”

  Meelusk’s curses ended abruptly, and all was quiet once more. When the boat was out of sight, Sond and Pukah came walking slowly across the sand to stand before Khardan. Sond’s lamp, dented and scratched and somewhat the worse for wear, lay at the Calif ‘s feet. Pukah’s basket, waterlogged and unraveling in places, stood near the battered lamp. Khardan stared down at the objects that bound the djinn to the mortal world, his gaze dark and thoughtful.

  The djinn bowed and waited in tense silence.

  “Go do what you must, then!” Khardan growled abruptly, impatiently, refusing to look at them. “The sooner you’re gone, the sooner you’ll return.”

  Sond glanced at Pukah. Pukah nodded.

  “Farewell, Princess, Calif, Madman!” The foxfaced djinn waved. “Look for us to return with the setting of the sun!” The djinn disappeared.

  “A wise decision, husband!” sneered Zohra. “Now we are alone in this accursed place.”

  “It was my decision to make, wife, not yours!” Khardan returned shortly.

  A heavy silence fell upon the three, broken only by the gentle sound of water lapping upon the shore and the snores of Usti, who lay sprawled on the beach like a giant, flabby fish.

  “At least my djinn has not deserted us—” Zohra began.

  Sond’s huge hand reached suddenly out of the air. Gripping hold of Usti by the sash around the djinn’s broad middle, the hand jerked him upward. There was a startled cry, a wail of protest, then Usti, too, was gone.

  The three humans were alone upon the hostile shore. The sun pounded its hammer upon the cracked earth. Noxious pools of foulsmelling water bubbled and boiled. Behind them stood a tent, its open flap giving a glimpse of the cool, inviting darkness inside. Skins of water hung from the center pole, bowls of fruit and rice stood on rugs spread before cushions. There were even robes for the desert. The djinn had thought of and provided everything.

  “Go inside, wife. Change your clothing,” Khardan ordered Zobra. “We will wait for you out here.”

  “You cannot command your own djinn! You certainly do not command me, husband!” Zohra bristled. Her black eyes flicked over Khardan. Clad only in the remnants of the armor of a Black Paladin, his brown skin was beginning to redden. “You are the one who needs the protection. I will wait for you.”

  Khardan’s face flushed in anger. “Why do you insist on opposing me, woman—”

  “Please!” Mathew took a step between them. “Don’t—” he began, staggered, and swayed on his feet. “Don’t. . .” he tried to speak again, but he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t swim against the burning tide. Closing his eyes, he let himself sink beneath it, drowning in sweltering waves of heat.

  Chapter 3

  Zohra and Khardan carried Mathew inside the shelter of the tent. They stripped off the heavy black robes he wore—

  Zohra keeping her eyes lowered modestly as was proper when nursing the sick, pretending not to see the young man’s frail nakedness—and bathed his face and chest in the tepid salt water of the Kurdin Sea. Working together over the suffering young man, each was very much aware of the other’s nearness. When hands touched, by accident, both started and drew quickly apart as though they had brushed against hot coals.

  “What is wrong with him?” Khardan asked gruffly. Seeing there was nothing more he could do, he rose to his feet and moved over to
stand beside the open tent flap.

  “The heat, I think,” Zohra replied. Dipping a strip of cloth in water, she laid it upon the hot forehead.

  “Can your magic heal him? If the djinn do not return—”

  Zohra glanced swiftly at Khardan.

  Averting his eyes from the accusation in hers, the Calif stared outside. “—we will have to travel this night,” he finished coldly.

  “We could stay here.” It was a statement of fact not a suggestion.

  Khardan shook his head. “We have water for two days, at most. When that runs out. . .” He did not finish.

  When that runs out they would die. Though unspoken, the words echoed through the tent.

  Khardan stood tense, waiting his wife’s attack. It did not come, and he wondered why. Perhaps she thought it well enough that her barb, once cast, rankled in her enemy’s flesh. Or perhaps she had come to regret words spoken before she thought, the interval giving her time to reflect, time to see that Khardan had made the only decision he could. Whatever the reason, she kept quiet. Neither spoke for long moments. Khardan stared moodily across the kavir, watching the ripples of heat wash over the land—a mockery of the water for which it thirsted. Zohra made Mathew a crude blanket of his own castoff black robes, modestly covering the fairskinned body.

  “I cannot use my magic,” she said at last. “I have neither charm nor amulet. Where will we go?”

  “Back to our people. West. Pukah said something about a city, Serinda—”

  “A city of death!” Zohra realized that could have a double, sinister meaning, and bit her lip. “All know the story,” she added lamely.

  “There may be life for us within its water wells.”

  Both man and woman added silently, There had better be.

  “I am going out to look around before the heat of afternoon sets in.” Starting to thrust aside the tent flap, he halted. With the toe of his boot Khardan gingerly touched an object lying on the ground—Mathew’s belt and a leather pouch. “The boy does possess the magic,” he said wonderingly. “I saw him work it.”