The Prophet of Akhran

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  At first Mathew thought they were going to refuse to obey, and they thought so, too, it seemed, until Zeid grew red in his face, swelling indignantly at this disobedience. Three men began to climb the Tel.

  Mathew muttered a swift prayer to Promenthas and another to Sul, then—reciting the words he had written with such deliberation—he hurled one of the scrolls to the ground at his feet.

  An explosion sent fragments of rock and dust shooting out in all directions. Purplish green smoke rose up, obscuring the young wizard from sight. Trying to keep from coughing—he’d remembered to hold his breath only at the last minute—Mathew attempted to compose himself so that, when the smoke cleared, the crowd would see a sorceror in command, not a young man, tears running down his cheeks from the smoke in his eyes, gagging at the smell of sulphur.

  Cheap theatrics, maybe. But it worked.

  The three men who had been climbing up the hill were now scrambling back as if for their lives. Zeid had gone white as his turban, Majiid’s eyes bulged, and Jaafar had covered his head with his hands. Even Zohra, who knew what he was going to do, appeared impressed.

  “I have not only seen the face of Akhran, I have spoken to him,” Mathew shouted. “As you can see, he has lent me his fire! Attend to my words or I will cast it among you!”

  “Speak then,” growled Majiid in a tone that said plainly, “Let’s humor him; then we can get on with our business.”

  This was rather disconcerting. Mathew had no choice, however, but to plunge ahead.

  “I do not intend to deny what the djinn Fedj told you. Zohra and I did carry this man”—he pointed at Khardan, who was shaking his head, making signals that Mathew should keep silent—”away, disguised as a woman!

  “But,” Mathew shouted over the murmurings of the crowd, “it was not a live body we carried. It was a corpse. Khardan, your Calif, was dead!”

  As Mathew expected, this caught their attention. There was a rustling as those who had been talking demanded a repeat of the madman’s words from those who had been listening. Silence descended; the air was heavy and charged as a thundercloud.

  “You, his father, know it to be true!” Mathew jabbed a finger at Majiid. “You knew in your heart your son was dead. You told them he was dead, didn’t you!” The pointing finger encompassed the tribe.

  Taken aback, the Sheykh could do nothing but glower, his white eyebrows bristling fiercely, and glare at Mathew. There were nods from his tribesmen and narrowed, suspicious glances from those not of his tribe.

  “How many of you have ridden into battle with this man?” Mathew’s finger shifted and aimed at Khardan. “How many of you have seen his valor with your own eyes? How many owe your very lives to his courage?”

  Lowered heads, shameful glances. Mathew knew he had them now.

  “And yet this is the man you charge with cowardice? I say to you that Khardan was dead before any of the rest of you ever found your way to the battlefield!” Mathew quickly followed up his advantage. “Princess Zohra and I, having fought off the Amir’s troops who would have taken us prisoner as they took the rest of the women, saw the Calif fall, mortally wounded. We took him from the field so that the foul kafir would not defile his body.

  “And we dressed him in women’s clothing.”

  The hush was breathless; not a man so much as moved lest he miss Mathew’s next words.

  “We did that—not to hide him from the troops,” said Mathew in a quiet voice that he knew all must strain to hear. “We did that to hide him from Death!”

  Now they breathed, all at once, in a rush of air that was like a night breeze. Mathew risked a swift glance at Khardan. No longer scowling, the Calif was attempting to keep his face as expressionless as possible. Either he had some glimpse of where Mathew was headed, or he now trusted the young man to lead him there blindfolded.

  “Death was searching the field for victims of the battle, and since we knew she must be looking for warriors, we clad Khardan in women’s clothes. Thus Death did not find him. Your God, Hazrat Akhran, found him.

  “We fled Death, escaping into the desert. And there Akhran appeared to us and told us that Khardan should live, but that in return for his life he must offer his aid to the first stranger who came by. The Calif drew breath and opened his eyes, and it was then that this man”—Mathew pointed at Auda, who was standing alone amidst the crowd, no one wanting to come too near him—”came to us and asked for our aid. His God, Zhakrin, was being held prisoner by Quar. He needed us to help free him.

  “Mindful of the bargain he had made with Akhran, Khardan agreed, and we went with the stranger and freed his God. The stranger is a knight in his land, a man sworn to honor. I ask you, Auda ibn Jad, is this the truth I speak?”

  “It is,” replied ibn lad in his cool, deep voice. Removing the snake dagger from his belt, he lifted it high in the air. “I call upon my God, Zhakrin, to witness my oath. May he plunge this knife into my breast if I am lying!”

  Auda let go the knife. It did not fall but remained poised in the air, hovering above his chest. The crowd gasped in astonishment and awe. Mathew recovered his voice—he had not been expecting that—and continued, somewhat shakily.

  “We left the homeland of ibn Jad and traveled back to the desert, for Akhran had come to us once again to tell us that his people were in danger and needed their Calif. We crossed the Sun’s Anvil—”

  “No! Impossible!”

  The nomads, who could swallow to a man a child’s tale about Khardan fleeing Death in a disguise, scoffed at the thought of anyone crossing the kavir.

  “We did!” Mathew cried them down. “And this is how. Your Calif is not the only one to receive a gift from Akhran. He bestowed a gift upon your Princess, as well.”

  Their lives now depended on Zohra. The tribesmen turned wary, suspicious eyes upon her. Mathew nearly closed his, afraid to watch, afraid that the spell wouldn’t work, that in her agitation she had written the wrong words or written them the wrong way or a hundred other things that could go wrong with the gift of Sul.

  Taking the goatskin from the folds of her robes, Zohra held it up and read the words in a clear voice. The letters began to wriggle and writhe and one by one fell off the skin onto the sand at her feet. Those near her began to shout and exclaim and stumbled over themselves to fall back, while those who could not see shouted and questioned and pushed forward. Mathew could not see the pool of blue water at the woman’s feet—her white robes blowing in the wind obscured the view. But he knew it must be there, from the reaction of those around her and from the look of pride that swept over Khardan’s face as he gazed at her.

  “Khardan has returned to you—a Prophet of Akhran. Zohra has returned to you—a Prophetess of Akhran. They have returned to lead you to war! Will you follow them?”

  This was where Mathew expected the rousing cheer. It was not forthcoming, and the young man stared at the crowd beneath him in rising apprehension.

  “That is all very well,” said Sheykh Zeid smoothly, stepping forward. “And we have seen some fine tricks, tricks worthy of the souk of Khandar, I might add. But what about the djinn?”

  “Yes! The djinn!” came the cry from the crowd.

  “I say to you”—Zeid faced the people, raising his stubby arms for silence—”I say that I will name Khardan Prophet and I will follow him to battle or to Sul’s Hell if the Calif chooses provided he can return to us our djinn! Surely,” Zeid continued, spreading his hands, “Akhran will do no less for his Prophet!”

  The crowd cheered. Majiid shot his son a dark glance that said, “I warned you.” Jaafar eyed Zohra fearfully, seemingly expecting her to turn the entire desert to an ocean that would drown them all and Zohra was glaring at the people as if this idea was not far from her mind. Khardan cast Mathew a grateful, resigned glance, thanking the young man for the vain attempt.

  No! It wouldn’t be in vain!

  Mathew took a step forward. “He will bring back the djinn!” he announced. “In a week’s time
—”

  “Tonight!” countered Zeid.

  “Tonight!” clamored the crowd.

  “By tonight,” Mathew agreed, his heart in his throat.

  “The djinn will return by tonight.”

  “If not, then he dies,” said Zeid calmly. “And the witch with him.”

  There was nothing more to say, and Mathew could not have been heard in the uproar had he wanted to say it. Head bowed, wondering how he’d managed to lose control of things so rapidly, the young wizard made his way dejectedly down the Tel. When he reached the bottom, Zohra put her arm consolingly around him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to her, when a voice interrupted him.

  Khardan, surrounded by guards, stood before him.

  “Thank you, Mathew,” said the Calif quietly. “You did what you could.”

  Mathew had the sudden strange sensation of being wrapped in a blanket of feathers.

  “The djinn will be back!” he said, and suddenly, for some reason, he believed his own words. “They will be back!”

  Khardan sighed and shook his head. “The djinn are gone, Mathew. As for Akhran, he may be defeated himself now, for all we—”

  “No, look!” Reaching down, Mathew touched one of the ugly cacti. “Tell me how this remains alive, when all around is dead and withered! It is because Akhran is alive—just barely, perhaps, but he lives! You must continue to have faith, Khardan! You must!”

  “I agree with Blossom, brother,” said Auda unexpectedly, coming up behind them. “Faith in our Gods and in each other is all we have left now. Faith alone stands between us and doom.”

  Chapter 7

  “Faith. I must have faith,” Mathew repeated to himself over and over during the day that lasted far too long and seemed likely to end all too rapidly.

  Minute after minute slid past, precious as drops of water from a punctured girba. Mathew tasted each minute; he touched it, heard it fall away from him and vanish in the vast pool of time. Every noise—be it the barking of one of the mangy camp dogs or the shifting of a guard outside Zohra’s tent—brought him to his feet, peering eagerly out the tent flap.

  But it was nothing, always nothing.

  Noon came and went and the camp quieted, everyone resting in the blazing heat. Mathew gazed enviously at Zohra. Exhausted by her night’s work and the tension of the morning, she had fallen asleep. He wondered if Khardan was sleeping, too. Or was he lying in shadowed darkness, thinking that if he’d done the talking—as, by rights, he should have—all would have gone well?

  Sighing heavily, Mathew let his aching head sink into his hands. “I should have kept out of this,” he reprimanded himself. “These aren’t my people. I don’t understand them! Khardan could have handled it. I should have trusted him—”

  Someone was in the tent!

  Mathew saw a shadow from the corner of his eye but had no time to draw a breath before a hand clapped firmly over his mouth.

  “Do not make a sound, Blossom,” breathed a voice in his ear. “You will alert the guards!”

  His heart pounding so that he saw starbursts before his eyes, Mathew nodded. Auda released his grip and, motioning to Mathew to wake Zohra, melted back into the darker shadows of the tent.

  It seemed a shame to disturb her. Let her have her few last moments of peace before Auda gestured peremptorily, the cruel eyes narrowed. “Zohra!” Mathew shook her gently. “Zohra, wake up.” She was awake and alert instantly, sitting up among the cushions and staring at Mathew. “What? Have they—”

  “Shh, no.” He pointed toward Auda, barely visible in the dim light at the back of the tent. The Paladin had removed the facecloth and now pressed his finger against his lips, commanding silence.

  Zohra shrank away from him in fright; then seeming to recollect herself, she stiffened and glared at him fiercely.

  Moving softly, Auda crept over to them and, beckoning them near, said in a barely heard undertone, “Blossom, what killing magic can you have ready?”

  Deadly cold swept over Mathew, despite the sweltering heat. His fingers went numb, his heart ceased to function, he could not draw in air. Slowly, unable to speak, he shook his head.

  “What? You don’t know any?” Auda said, his dark eyes glinting.

  Mathew hesitated. That was what he would answer. He didn’t know any. The Black Paladin must accept this. The words were on his lips, but he saw then that he had waited too long. The lie must be plain in his eyes. He shook as with a chill and said tightly, “I will not kill.”

  “Mathew!” Zohra’s fingers dug into his arm. “Can you do this . . . killing magic?”

  “He can do it,” Auda said calmly. “He won’t, that’s all. He will let you and Khardan die first.”

  Mathew flushed. “I thought you were the one who counseled faith!”

  “Faith in one hand.” Auda held forth his left hand, closed in a fist. “This in the other.” His right hand reached into his robes and brought forth the snake dagger. “So my people have survived.”

  “We returned to the Tel to save your people!” Mathew looked to Zohra. “And now you want to slaughter them?”

  Zohra ran her tongue over her lips; her face was pale, her eyes wide and burning with a fierce, inner fire of hope that was slowly being quenched. “I—I don’t know,” she whispered distractedly.

  “We do what we must do! These”—the Paladin motioned outside the tent—”are not all of your people.” Auda’s voice was soft and lethal. It might have been the serpentheaded dagger speaking. “The women and children and young men are being held prisoner in Kich. We can save them, but only if you and Khardan are alive! If you die—” He shrugged.

  “He is right, Mathew.”

  “My God forbids the taking of life—” Mathew began. “There is no war in your land?” Auda questioned coolly. “The magi do not fight?”

  “I do not fight!” Mathew cried, forgetting himself. The guards stirred outside. Auda’s eyes flashed dangerously. He twisted to his feet. A ray of the burning sun that filtered through the tent flap glinted off the blade of the knife in his hand.

  Mathew tensed, sweat running down his body. The guards did not enter, and it occurred to Mathew that they must be halfstupified with the heat.

  Settling himself beside Mathew, Auda took hold of the young man’s arm and squeezed it painfully. His breath burned Mathew’s skin. “You’ve seen a man beheaded before, haven’t you, Blossom? Swift and fast, a single stroke of the blade across the back of the neck.”

  Mathew cringed, going limp in the man’s cruel grasp. Once again he saw John kneeling in the sand, saw the goum raise his sword, saw the steel flash in the sun’s dying light. . . Auda’s grip tightened; he drew Mathew closer.

  “This is how Khardan will die. Not a bad death. A flash of pain and then nothing. But not Zohra. Have you ever watched anyone being stoned to death, Blossom? A rock strikes the head. The victim, bleeding and dazed and in pain, tries desperately to avoid the next. It hits the arm with a crunching sound. Her bones break. Again she turns, trying to flee, but there is nowhere to run. Another rock thuds into her back. She falls. Blood runs in her eyes. She cannot see, and the terror grows, the pain mounts. . .”

  “No!” Mathew clenched his fists in agony behind his head, covering his ears with shaking arms.

  Auda released him. The Paladin, sitting back, gazed on him with satisfaction.

  “You will help us, then.”

  “Yes,” said Mathew through trembling lips. He could not look at Zohra. He had seen her in his mind’s eye, lying limp and lifeless on the bloodsplattered sand, crimson staining the white robe, the black hair clotted with red. “The spell I cast this morning.” He swallowed, trying to maintain his voice. “More powerful. . . much more powerful. . .”

  “You will use the magic of Sul. I will call down the wrath of my God,” said Auda. “Those we do not stop will be too terrified to chase after us. I will have the camels ready. We can make our way to Kich. What components do you need for this spell of y
ours, Blossom? I assume this one cannot be cast using the skin of a goat.”

  “Saltpeter,” Mathew mumbled. “It’s a chemical. Perhaps, the residue from the urine of horses—”

  “I refuse!” cried a longsuffering voice. “It is bad enough that I must clean up the tent after madam’s cushion—ripping tantrums. Bad enough that I never have a moment’s peace in which to eat a quiet bite. Bad enough that I am ordered to go here, fetch this, do that! But I refuse”—a curl of smoke flowed out of one of Zohra’s rings and began to take shape and form in the center of the tent—”I absolutely refuse,” said a fat djinn with great dignity, “to fetch horse piss.”

  No one spoke or moved. All stared at the djinn dazedly. Then Zohra leaped forward. “Usti!” she cried.

  “No, madam! Don’t!” The djinn flung his flabby arms protectively over his head. “Don’t! I beg of you! Where are the horses? Hand me a bucket! Just don’t hurt me—I . . . madam! Really! You are a married woman!”

  Flushing bright red, the scandalized djinn fended off Zohra, who was hugging and kissing him and laughing hysterically.

  “What is going on in there?” demanded a guard.

  Auda slipped out of the tent, disappearing as swiftly and silently as if he were a djinn himself.

  “Where are Sond and Fedj and Pukah?” Zohra asked suddenly. “Answer me!” she insisted, shaking the fat djinn until his teeth rattled in his head.

  “Ah! Ttthis is mmore like ittt,” stuttered Usti. “If mmmadam will rellease mme, I will—”

  “The djinn!” A guard, thrusting his way into the tent, stared at Usti in awe. “The djinn are back! Sheykh Jaafar!” He turned and fled, and Mathew could hear him shouting as he ran. “Jaafar, sidi! The djinn are back! The madman spoke truly! Khardan is a Prophet! He will lead us to defeat the kafir! Our people are saved!”

  Relief thawed Mathew, melting his anguish. Hurrying outside, he saw Khardan emerge from his tent in company with Sond, Fedj, and a huge, blackskinned djinn that the young wizard did not recognize.