The Prophet of Akhran

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Zohra led her people forth. Surrounded by the magic, moving slowly that they might not outrun the mist, the nomads walked calmly through the withered prison gates, trampled the dust of their enemies beneath their feet. The fog, growing stronger as it fed, billowed around them—a silvery, lethal cloud rolling down the streets of the city of Kich.

  Chapter 11

  Hearing no warning from Sond that the tunnel exit was guarded, Khardan sprang incautiously through the open door into the Amir’s pleasure garden. The Calif was brought up short by a soldier clad in helm and armor, a naked sword blade gleaming brightly in the moonlight. Casting a bitter, reproachful glance at the djinn, who was standing nearby, Khardan raised his bloodstained weapon to attack.

  “Sidi,” Sond said quietly, “it is your brother.” Khardan, lowering the sword, stared.

  Slowly the young man removed the helm and let it fall to the paving stone, where it clattered and rolled beneath a bush. Without the helm, which had hidden the face, Khardan could recognize the features of his half brother, but that was as far as recognition went. In all other aspects, this tall, battlescarred young warrior was a stranger to the Calif.

  And though Achmed had dropped his helm, he held his sword poised and ready.

  “I knew it had to be you,” he said in a toneless voice, his eyes dark shadows in the pale face. “I knew when I heard that the Imam had been slain that it was you who did it, and I knew where to find you. The other guards ran to the Temple, but I knew—”

  “Achmed,” said Khardan, attempting to moisten dry lips with a tongue nearly as dry, “the priests have gone to murder our people!”

  The young soldier nodded. “Yes,” he said, and no more.

  Khardan could hear angry shouts and the clashing of weapons. He shot a swift glance at Sond, who shrugged his shoulders helplessly as if to beg, “I will gladly obey you, sidi, but what would you have me do?”

  I could send the djinn against the mob, Khardan thought frantically, but it would take an army of ‘efreets to stop those fanatics. He could order Sond to transport him, take him away from this place. But what about his brother? Achmed was one of his people, no less important. Must he lose him forever, completely?

  “Come with me!” Khardan held out a hand. “We will fight—”

  “No!” Achmed stared at the outstretched hand, and Khardan saw that it was covered with blood. His own, Auda’s, the Imam’s. . . The young soldier’s words echoed hollowly in his throat. “No!” he repeated, and though the night air was cool, Khardan saw sweat glisten on his brother’s face. Achmed glanced behind him, toward the prison, though nothing could be seen of it beyond the tall walls of the palace. There was horror in his eyes now, and it was obvious he was seeing not the present, but the past. “There is nothing you can do! Nothing I can do! Nothing!”

  “Achmed,” Khardan said desperately, “your mother is in that camp!”

  “Maybe.” The young man tried to shrug, though his face was strained, and as the howls of the mob grew louder and more savage, the sweat trickled down his cheekbones. “Maybe she is dead already. I haven’t seen her or heard from her for months. “

  “Very well, then, brother,” Khardan said coldly, “I am leaving. If you want to stop me, you had better be prepared to kill me, for that is the only way—”

  The horrordarkened eyes turned to him, and slowly the nightmare vision receded. Once again they were cool and impassive. Achmed fell into a fighting stance. Khardan did the same, pain shooting through the wounded shoulder that was already stiffening. It would not be an even match. The Calif felt his strength flag. The only thing keeping him going was fear for his people, and that was more an impediment than a goad, for he felt his mind distracted. He could not concentrate. He could not help letting his gaze dart toward the area of the prison, and thus he nearly missed his brother’s first lunge. Moonlight flashing on the blade, a timely slip of Achmed’s foot on loose rock, and the reaction of the appalled djinn, who leaped between the two, saved Khardan.

  “Sidi! You are brothers!” gasped Sond, grabbing the bare blades of both scimitar and sword in his crushing hands and holding them apart. “In the name of the God—”

  “Don’t preach to me of the Gods! I have seen what has been done in the name of the Gods!” Achmed cried furiously, trying to wrench his weapon free. He might as well have tried to pull the raw ore out of the mountain where it was forged. “There are no Gods. They are only an excuse for man’s ambition!”

  “Then how do you explain Sond? An immortal?” shouted Khardan angrily. He could tell by the sound that the mob had reached the prison.

  “Sond deludes himself into believing he is mortal,” Achmed returned. “Look, he bleeds!” It was true; blood rolled down the djinn’s arms from where the blades bit deep into his ethereal flesh. “Just as we mortals have deluded ourselves that immortal beings exist!”

  Khardan was finished. Stepping back, he released the handle of the sword, and it fell from the djinn’s bloodied hand. “Sond, take me to—”

  An explosion shook the ground; a blast of air whooshed from the tunnel, followed by a rumble and another blast of flying rock and debris. Coughing and choking, both brothers peered through clouds of dust to the tunnel entrance to see Raja emerge from the ruin, covered with dirt and rubbing his hands in satisfaction.

  “You need not fear pursuit from that direction, sidi,” said the djinn, bowing to Khardan. “And,” Raja added, more gravely and solemnly, “it is a fitting tomb for the one who lies within. Only Death will be able to find him now.”

  “May his God be with him,” Khardan responded, subdued. He did not look at Achmed, but—turning his back on the young man, making himself a target if his brother chose—he bent down to pick up his sword. “Sond, you and Raja come with me—”

  He ceased speaking, lifting his head to hear more clearly. The sound of the mob had changed—no longer threatening, but threatened.

  “What is it?” asked Khardan, puzzled.

  “Great magic is being worked, sidi.” said Sond in awe. “It is as if Sul himself had entered this city!”

  Hope alive within him, Khardan ran down the pathway through the garden, heading for the opening in the wall. He had not waited for his brother, detected no footsteps behind him for long moments, and then—to his vast but unspoken relief—he heard booted feet pounding after him.

  “This way,” said Achmed when Khardan, in his excitement and confusion in the moonlit garden, would have taken the wrong path.

  Together they reached the place where the thornbush mounted on a sliding platform could be moved aside and the sliding panel in the wall revealed. To Khardan’s astonishment and consternation, the hole gaped open. He could have sworn that the blind beggar had closed it behind them when he and Auda had entered. Warily, the Calif slowed his pace. Achmed bounded ahead, however, and was out into the street, motioning Khardan to follow.

  “The way is clear, sidi.” said Sond, growing thirty feet in height and peering over the wall. “The street is empty except for the beggar.”

  “What of the prison?” Khardan demanded, when he had emerged to stand beside the old man, who sat crosslegged and relaxed, in the street.

  “It is covered with. . . with a billowing mist, sidi,” said Sond, his eyes huge with wonder. “I have never seen any thing like this in all my centuries!”

  “Nor will you, ever again!” cackled the beggar. Khardan started off at a run, but a hand caught hold of his tunic and yanked him backward with such force that he nearly lost his footing. Turning in anger, thinking it was Achmed, the Calif found himself staring down into the milk white eyes that glistened with a terrible brilliance in the moonlight. A bony, scrawny hand, reaching upward, clutched a handful of fabric.

  “It will be your death if you approach, for though the magic saves those within, it is killing those without. Look! Look! It comes!”

  How the blind eyes saw it, Khardan was never to know, but at the end of the street, winding among the shutter
ed stalls of the bazaars, long white tendrils crept over the paving stone, licking thirstily at whatever they touched. Stalls fell with a crash, the wood sucked dry of what small moisture was within. A man, darting out into the street to see what was happening, was caught in the silvery white hands, the water of his body wrung from him as though he were a piece of clothing on wash day. The fog moved past, leaving behind a heap of dust that only moments before had been living flesh and blood.

  Khardan began to back up, his eyes fixed on the approaching, curling mists with awe and horror. “We must run!”

  “There is no escape,” said the blind beggar with a peculiar satisfaction, “except for those sheltered behind stone walls. And for those whose hearts are one with those wielding the magic. Quick, sit beside me!” The old man tugged peremptorily on Khardan. “Sit beside me and bring to your lips the name of someone in your heart, someone who moves safely through that mist and thinks of you!”

  “Sond, is he right?” questioned Khardan, unable to take his eyes from the drifting, deadly fog.

  “I think it is your only hope, sidi,” said the djinn. “I can do nothing. This is Sul’s work.” He glanced uneasily at a wideeyed Raja, who gulped and nodded. “In fact, we are going to leave you for the moment, sidi. We will return when Sul is gone!”

  “Sond!” Khardan cried in fear and exasperation, but the djinn had vanished.

  “Quickly!” the old man cried, dragging the nomad down.

  The fog was almost upon him. Khardan saw Achmed, squatting beside the old man. His brother’s face was livid.

  “The name!” the beggar insisted shrilly. “Speak a name, if one exists in your heart, and pray that she is thinking of you!”

  Khardan licked his parched lips. “Zohra,” he murmured. The mist, as if catching sight of the moistureladen bodies, bounded toward him. “Zohra!” he repeated, and involuntarily shut his eyes, unable to watch. He could hear the old man muttering Zohra’s name, too, and recalled—with a start—how the beggar had demanded that name in payment for opening the wall. Near him, Achmed was whispering his mother’s name with a sob in his throat.

  A chill as of a cavern dug deep in the earth clutched the nomad’s ankles, freezing the very marrow of his bones. The pain was intense, and it was all he could do to keep from screaming. Feverishly, he repeated the name over and over and with it an image of Zohra came to his eyes, the faint smell of jasmine to his nostrils. He saw her riding her horse through the desert, the wind tearing off the headcloth, blowing the black hair behind her—a proud, triumphant banner. He saw her on their bridal bed, the knife in her hands, her eyes gleaming with triumph, and he felt the touch of her fingers, light and delicate, healing the wound in his flesh she herself had inflicted.

  “It is passing,” said the beggar, with a deep sigh.

  Khardan opened his eyes, stared around to see the mist retreating, being sucked back down the street as if by a massive intake of breath. An ominous quiet settled over the city.

  “Your people are safe, man who smells of horse and death,” said the beggar, his toothless mouth a black slit in his skulllike head. “They have passed through the gate and are out in the plains. And there are none left alive to follow.”

  Despite his thankfulness, the Calif could not help but shudder. The night wind rose, and he saw with a start a cloud drifting up into the night air. It was not fog. It was a cloud of dust—a dreadful, oily kind of dust. Shivering, Khardan stood up and glanced back down at the beggar.

  “I must go to them. Will it be safe?”

  “Once they understand that they are free, the magic will begin to dissipate. Yes, it will be safe.”

  Khardan turned to Achmed. “Will you go with me, brother? Will you come home?”

  “This is my home,” said Achmed, standing and facing Khardan. “All I love is here.”

  Khardan’s gaze shifted, almost as if drawn, to the solitary light in the palace. He could see the silhouette of a man—arms folded—standing at the window, staringwhere? Down at them? Out over his ravaged city?

  “This means war, you know that,” Achmed continued, following Khardan’s gaze. “The Amir can’t let you get away with this.”

  “Yes,” Khardan agreed absently, his mind too much occupied with the present to consider the future. “I suppose it does.”

  “We will meet on the field, then. Farewell, Calif.” Achmed’s voice was cold and formal. He turned to make his way back through the opening in the wall.

  “Farewell, brother. May Akhran be with you,” said Khardan quietly. “I will bring news of you to your mother.”

  The armored back stiffened, the body flinched. For a moment Achmed halted. Then, straightening his shoulders he passed through the wall without another word. The stone wall ground to a close behind him.

  “You’d best hurry, nomad,” said the beggar. “The soldierpriests are dead, but there are still many alive in this town who, when the shock is past, will be crying for your head.”

  “First I would ask who you are, father,” said Khardan, staring intently at the old man.

  “A humble beggar, nothing more!” Curling up like a mongrel dog, the old man lay down upon a ragged blanket, pressing his back against the stone walls to garner some of the lingering warmth left behind by the heat of the day. “Now get you gone, nomad!”

  The beggar shut his eyes, wriggled his body into a more comfortable position, and a rasping snore rattled in his lungs.

  His fear for his people gone, Khardan felt a great weariness come over him. His shoulder burned with pain, his arm had stiffened beyond use. Every move seemed an effort, and he dragged himself through the moonlit streets, keeping his hand over his mouth to avoid inhaling the horrid dust that stung his eyes and coated his skin with a greasy feel. The city of Kich appeared to have fallen victim to a marauding army—an army that attacked wood and water and plant and humans and left stone alone. Sick and wounded, he stared at the devastation in dazed disbelief, and his brother’s words sank home. Yes, this would mean war.

  Reaching the place where he had left the horses, Khardan saw only large piles of dust. The last of his strength was draining fast, and he knew he could not go far on foot. Grief for the gallant animal that had carried him to glory and ignominious defeat wrung his heart, when he heard a shrill whinny that nearly deafened him. Hastening forward, hope giving him strength, he found all four horses alive and well and dancing with impatience to leave this awful place.

  Curled up in one of the stalls, shivering with fear, was the young boy the Calif had set to watch them.

  “Ah, sidi!” He sprang to his feet when he saw Khardan.

  “The cloud of death! Did you see it?”

  “Yes,” said Khardan, letting his horse nuzzle and sniff and snort at the strange smells, including that of his own blood. “I saw. Did it come here?”

  Useless to ask, seeing the mounds of dust beneath camel blankets, smaller mounds that had once been donkeys, and even mounds that had once been—he didn’t like to think.

  “It came and they. . . they all died!” The boy spoke dreamily, in shock. “All but me! It was the horses, sidi! I swear, they saved my life!” The boy buried his head in the stallion’s flank. “Thank you, noble one! Thank you!” he sobbed.

  “They know in their hearts those who care for them,” said Khardan, rubbing the boy’s head fondly. “As do we all,” he murmured with a smile. “As do we all. Now go home to whoever cares for you, young man!”

  Jumping onto the animal’s back, the Calif guided the horse from its stall, the others following obediently behind. And here were the djinn to help him. Together they rode out of the city of Kich, galloping through the gates that stood open, the gigantic wood posts withered and shrunken, the iron bands that had held them together fallen in a heap on the dustcovered ground.

  Chapter 12

  Khardan returned to the Tel to find an army awaiting him. It was not the Amir’s. It was the Calif ‘s own.

  The ride from Kich had been wild a
nd joyous on the part of the spahis, reunited with their families. Singing songs of praise to Akhran, waving their banners high in the air, extolling the virtues of their Prophet and Prophetess, the horsemen of the Akar, the shepherds of the Hrana, and the mehariste of the Aran were united at last in glorious victory over their common foe. The only persons on that uproarious, saberslashing ride who were not drunk with triumph were the Prophet, Prophetess, and the young man whom the nomads now called Marabout, a term Mathew came to understand—with a sigh—meant to them a sort of insane holy man.

  Husband and wife met formally and spoke coolly when reunited, then turned and went their separate ways. Wounded and exhausted, supported by the djinn, Khardan missed seeing the flash of joy that illuminated and softened Zohra’s hawk eyes. Zohra did not notice the pride and admiration in the eyes of Khardan when he praised her for her courage and her skill in saving the people. A wall stood between them that neither—it seemed—was willing or able to scale. It had been built over months. Every stone was an angry word, a demeaning remark, a bitter moment. The mortar that held the wall intact was both centuries old and newly mixed, compounded of blood, jealousy, and pride. What it would take to shatter the wall, neither knew, though each lay awake during the cool, starfilled nights and pondered the matter long and hard.

  That was not all each was being forced to confront within his or her own soul. Going to war with the Amir when death was certain and the nomads had everything to gain and nothing to lose was one thing. But going to war when their families were restored to them, when the nomads had everything to lose and little to gain, was a completely different matter. Yet Khardan knew he had no choice. Qannadi dare not let this affront go unpunished. The Amir must exhibit, to those captive cities of Bas, what happens to those who defy him. The only question in Khardan’s mind was whether to gather his forces, take the initiative, and strike the city while it was in confusion, or to wait in the desert, build up his strength, force his enemy to come to him, and fight on his own ground. Both sides of the argument had its advantages and disadvantages and occasioned the gloom and abstraction that hung over the Calif during the ride back to the Tel.