The Prophet of Akhran

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Achmed grasped the Amir’s hand in his and held it fast.

  “It is my father I will ride beside in battle this day,” he said I steadily. “I know—I have known—no other.”

  Qannadi smiled and for a moment could not speak. His hand ruffled the young man’s dark, curling hair until he found his voice. “If you are resolved in this—”

  “I am,” broke in Achmed firmly.

  “—then I place the command of the cavalry in your charge. You know your brother, you know how he thinks, how your people fight. My young general,” he said in a teasing tone, regarding Achmed with fond pride, “I had a strange dream last night. Shall I tell you?”

  The young man nodded. Both men were alert to sounds outside, sounds that would tell them the enemy was on the move. But nothing came, so far. Khardan must be waiting until the sun rose full and bright.

  “I dreamed I found a young, halfgrown falcon that had been caught in a snare. I freed it and trained it, and it became the most valuable bird in my possession. Its worth was beyond measure, and I was more proud of it than certain other falcons I had raised from infancy. Time and again this falcon flew from my wrist and soared into the sky, yet it always returned to me, and I was proud to welcome it home.

  “And then there came the day when the falcon returned, and the wrist it knew was still and cold.” Achmed clutched Qannadi’s hand and would have spoken, but the Amir silenced him and continued steadily. “The falcon spread its wings and rose into the air. Higher and higher it flew, attaining heights it had never before imagined. I looked up and saw the gold of the sun touch its head, and I closed my eyes, well content.

  “I wish I could see your future, my falcon,” continued Qannadi softly, “but something tells me it is not to be. If not this battle, then another will claim me.” Or the assassin’s dagger. There were those among Quar’s priesthood—not to mention Qannadi’s wife, Yamina—who blamed him for Feisal’s death. But this he carefully kept to himself. “Always remember that I am proud of you and, from this moment on, I name you my son and heir.”

  Achmed gasped and stared, then shook his head, stammering an incoherent protest.

  “My decision is firm,” said Qannadi. He pointed at the leather case. “It is all in there, my will and testament, signed and witnessed in proper form, legal and correct. Of course”—he grinned wryly—”the charming sons of my loins—at least my wives claim they are of my loins—will no doubt sit back in their haunches and howl, then try their best to sink their teeth into you. Don’t let that stop you! With the Imam out of the way, I think you can handle them and their mothers. Fight them and know that you have my blessing, boy!”

  “I will, sir,” murmured Achmed, halfdazed, not entirely comprehending the gift that was being bestowed upon him.

  “We will send Hasid to place my will in the Temple of Khandar. He’s the only one I trust with this—my life. It will be kept secret, of course. My wealth is considerable and worth the cost of a poisoned flask of wine. I know you care nothing for gold or lands now. But you will. Someday I think you will find a use for it.”

  Rising from his desk, Qannadi picked up his helm and the leather pouch. Achmed helped him to gird on his sword. His arm around the young man’s shoulders, the Amir walked with Achmed to the door.

  “And now we best prepare ourselves to face this socalled Prophet of a Ragtag, Wandering God. I must admit, son, that I sometimes miss the Imam. It might be very instructive to know what is transpiring in heaven this moment.”

  The Book of Sul

  Chapter 1

  All was not well in heaven.

  Once again the One and Twenty had been summoned. Once again they met at the top of the mountain at the bottom of the world. Once again each stood firm upon his own facet of the Jewel of Sul, viewing the others from the safety and complacency of his or her own familiar surroundings.

  Promenthas stood in his grand cathedral, his angels and archangels, his cherubim and seraphim, gathered around him. The God was looking particularly fierce, his eyebrows bristled, his lips were drawn so tightly their usual smile was lost in the snowy beard that tumbled over his cassock. The angels were in a tense state, muttering and whispering among themselves, except for one young guardian angel who sat alone in the choir loft. She seemed nervous and abstracted and kept tugging at her wing feathers as if—though knowing she must be here—she wished herself flying somewhere else. It was rumored among the seraphim and confirmed by the cherubim that the protégé of this young angel was involved in the great conflict among the humans, the outcome of which would be determined, perhaps, by this meeting among the Gods.

  Uevin was in attendance, no longer fearing to leave his wondrous palace. Evren and Zhakrin both arrived, standing at opposite ends of the Jewel, eyeing each other askance, yet now according each other a grudging respect.

  As the Gods came together, they spoke together, and their words were words of worry and concern, for the Jewel was still out of balance, still wobbling chaotically through the universe, and though the balance had tipped in another direction, it continued to be an unsafe and an unhealthy balance. Yet the Gods were uncertain how to correct it.

  Almost all were gathered—the exception, as usual, being Akhran the Wanderer, and in this exception some saw sinister portent—by the time Quar arrived. In his almondeyed beauty, the God had always seemed fragile and delicate. Many noticed that the delicateness had lately melted into boniness, the olive skin had a sallow, sickly yellow cast, the almond eyes darted here and there in illconcealed fear.

  Quar did not appear to his fellows in his pleasure garden but entered—in fawning meekness and humility—the dwellings of the other Gods. Those who had caught a glimpse of the God’s habitation saw that the lush foliage of the pleasure garden seemed to be suffering from a drought. The leaves of the orange trees were drying up, the fragrant gardenia had all but a few of the strongest—withered and died. No water poured from the fountains, and their pools were scumcovered and stagnant. Gazelles wandered about aimlessly, panting in thirst. Here and there lurked an emaciated immortal, peering out furtively from the parched trees and trembling whenever the dread name Pukah was pronounced (as it was, by Quar, with a curse, about twenty times an immortal day).

  “Promenthas—my friend and ally,” said Quar warmly, advancing down the aisle of the cathedral toward the God and, at the same time, speaking the same words to each of the other Gods, “I come to you in this time of dire peril! Heaven has gone awry! The world below totters on the brink of disaster! It is time to put aside petty differences and join together against the coming menace.”

  So interesting and unusual a spectacle was it to see Quar oiling his way into each God’s domain that Benario hesitated a moment too long in swiping a fine emerald from Hurishta and lost his chance forever, while even Kharmani ceased, for the moment, to count his money. The God of Wealth raised a languid eye.

  “I thought you were the coming menace,” said that God to Quar carelessly. The teeterings of the Jewel never bothered Kharmani, for war meant money to somebody at least.

  A nervous laughter among the younger angels greeted this remark, to be instantly squelched by the elder cherubim, whose serious faces reflected the grave concern in the eyes of their God. Quar flushed in anger but bit his tongue—and spoke in injured tones.

  “I sought only to bring order to chaos, but you would not have it so and let yourselves be duped by that desert bandit! Now his hordes stand poised to attack! Jihad! That is what Akhran the Wanderer, now called Akhran the Terrible, will bring down upon you! Jihad! Holy war!”

  “Yes, Quar,” said Promenthas drily. “We know what the word means. We recall hearing it before from your lips, though perhaps in another context.”

  Staring intently at each God in turn and seeing them hostile at the worst, indifferent at the best, Quar dropped the honeycoated facade. His lips curled in a snarl. “Yes, I would have ruled you. . . you fools! But my rule in the heavens and in the world below would have
been a lawful one—”

  “Your laws,” muttered Promenthas.

  “A just one—”

  “Your justice.”

  “I sought to rid the world of extremes, to bring peace where there was bloodshed. But in your pride and your own selfimportance, you refused to consider what would be best for the many and looked, instead, to the one—to yourselves.

  “And now you will pay,” Quar continued in grim satisfaction. “Now one comes to rule who abides by no law, not even his own. Anarchy, bloodshed, war waged for sport—this is what you have brought upon yourselves! The Jewel of Sul will crack and fall from its place in the universe, and all up here and all down below will be doomed!

  “See!” Quar, hearing a sound behind him, whirled in terror and pointed a trembling finger. “See—he comes! And the storm follows!”

  Galloping across the dunes on a steed luminous as moonlight, trailing stardust from its mane, rode Akhran. His black robes flowed around him, the feathers on his horse’s elaborate headdress glistened a bright, blood red. The God was flanked by three tall, muscular djinn. Their goldenringed arms clasped forbiddingly across their broad chests, they gazed down with grim and threatening faces upon the Gods.

  Akhran the Wanderer guided his steed into the meeting place of the Gods, and so powerful had he grown and so commanding his presence that it seemed to the other Gods that their domains must be blown away by the southern wind called sirocco, and that they would soon wander lost and helpless in a vast and empty desert.

  Reining in his horse, causing the animal to stand upon its hind legs and trumpet in loud triumph, Akhran slid skillfully from his saddle. The haik covered his nose and mouth, but the eyes of the God flared like lightning and those eyes saw no one, paid no attention to anyone except Quar. Slowly, resolutely, Akhran the Wanderer stalked across the sand, his gaze fixed upon the almondeyed, cowering God. Putting his hand to the hilt of his scimitar, the Wandering God drew forth the sword from its ornate scabbard. Suns, moons, planets—all were reflected in the shining silver blade, and it flared with a holy light.

  “There!” gasped Quar, licking his lips and casting a bitter glance around at his fellows. “There, what did I tell you? He means to murder me as his accursed followers murdered my priest! And you”—he glared around at the other Gods—”you will be next to feel his blade at your throat!”

  If Quar had not been in such a frenzy of terror, he would have noted with supreme satisfaction the growing fear and concern in the eyes of Promenthas, the return of terror to the eyes of Uevin, the eager gleam in the eyes of Benario. But Quar was stumbling here and there, endeavoring to escape Akhran’s wrath and noticed nothing. There was nowhere to go, however, and he found himself backed up against the lip of a deep, dark well. He was trapped. He could go no farther without tumbling into Sul’s Abyss. Spitting puny curses and baring his tiny teeth like a rat caught by the lion, Quar crouched at the feet of Akhran, glaring at the God with unmitigated hatred.

  Coming to stand before the shrinking, sniveling God, Akhran raised above Quar’s head the sword that gleamed with the light of eternity. He held it poised for an instant during which time on earth and in the heavens stood still. Then, with all his strength and might, Akhran the Wanderer brought the sharpedged blade slamming down.

  Quar screamed. Promenthas averted his eyes. The angel in the choir loft buried her head in her hands.

  And then Akhran laughed—deep, booming laughter that rolled like thunder across the heavens and the earth.

  In one piece, safe, unharmed, Quar stood cringing before him. The blade of the scimitar had missed the God by the breadth of a hair split in two again and yet again. It stuck, point down, in the sand between his slippered feet.

  His merriment echoing throughout the universe, Akhran turned his back upon the other Gods and whistled to his steed. Vaulting into the saddle, treating himself to a final amused look at the shivering, quivering Quar, the Wanderer caused his horse to leap into the nightblack sky and dashed away amidst the stars.

  One by one, sighing in vast relief, the Gods dispersed—returning each to his own facet of Sul, returning to their eternal bickering and arguing over Truth. Last to leave was Quar, who slunk back to his blighted garden, where he—noting that some of his plants continued to flourish—sat down upon a cracked marble bench and plotted revenge.

  Promenthas dismissed the cherubim and the seraphim and all the rest back to their neglected duties, then wended his way up the narrow, spiraling stairs to the choir loft where the angel sat, her head hidden, afraid to look.

  “Child,” aid Promenthas kindly, “all is ended.”

  “It is?” She raised a face both fearful and hopeful.

  “Yes. And here are some who have come to talk to you, my dear.”

  Looking up, Asrial saw two tall, handsome djinn in rich silks and jewels approach her. Walking beside one of the djinn, her small white hand clasped fast in his, was a beautiful djinniyeh.

  “Lady Asrial,” said Sond, bowing from the waist, “we know we can never take the place of Pukah in your heart, but we would deem it an honor if you would come with us and dwell among us both in the world of humans below and on our immortal plane above.”

  “Do you mean that, truly?” Asrial gazed at them in wonder. “I can stay with you and be close. . . close to . . . Pukah.”

  “For all eternity,” said Nedjma, her eyes glistening with tears, her hand gripping Sond’s more tightly.

  “Who knows?” added Fedj with a smile. “Someday we may find a way to free the”—he was about to say “little nuisance” but, considering the circumstances, thought it best to change it magnanimously to—”great hero.”

  Asrial’s eager eyes went pleadingly to Promenthas.

  “Go and my blessings with you. . . and with the human you have so valiantly protected and defended. I think that your vigil over Mathew may now be relaxed, for—unless I am much mistaken—it will soon be shared by others.”

  “Thank you, Father!” Asrial bowed her head, received Promenthas’s loving benediction, and—giving her hand timidly to Nedjma—walked with the djinn and the djinniyeh into the desert.

  Chapter 2

  High on a ridge overlooking the walled city of Kich, Khardan sat on his warhorse and gazed out over the plains. It was after sunrise. The blazing orb, shining in the heavens, was reflected in the drawn and glistening blades of the spahis, the shepherds, the mehariste, the goums, the refugees, the mercenaries, the rebels, and all who rode with the Prophet of Akhran.

  Khardan turned his attention to the walled city. It was some distance from where he and his army stood poised and ready to sweep down upon it like birds of prey. But the Calif could see—or fancied he could—the Temple of Quar. He wondered if rumors about it were true. It was said to be abandoned. The refugees had brought stories that it had been cursedthe deadly fog lingered in its halls, the ghost of the Imam could sometimes be heard preaching to priests as disembodied as himself. Whether or not this curse was true, most of the Temple’s gold and jewels had been stripped from it, those who worship Benario having small respect for the curses of other Gods.

  His gaze wandered restlessly from the Temple to the slave market, and his thought traveled back to the man with the cruel eyes in the white palanquin, to a slave woman with hair the color of flame. He glanced at the souks, the houses piled one on top of the other. His eyes went to the massive palace with its walls of thick stone that seemed to grow thicker and taller as the Prophet stared at it. He could have sworn that he saw the blind beggar seated in his accustomed place, he saw a blonde woman in pink silk languishing in his arms. And here came Qannadi and Achmed, armor flashing in the sunlight, to be greeted with cheers from the soldiers, who may have momentarily lost faith in their God, but who retained it in their honored commander.

  Khardan blinked, wondering at these impossible visions. Now he swore he could smell the city, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. He decided he would never get used to it and supposed bleakly th
at Khandar—capital of an empire, a city , containing not thousands but millions of people—must smell not a thousand but a million times worse.

  And he would win this treasure at the cost of his brother’s life. As a child Achmed had taken his first steps from his mother’s arms into Khardan’s. In those arms, according to the vision, Achmed would find his death.

  The Prophet’s horse fidgeted beneath him. The animal smelled battle and blood and longed to surge forward, but its master did not move. Khardan understood the horse’s restlessness and stroked its neck with a trembling hand. The Calif had never in his life felt fear before a battle, but now he began to pant for breath, as though suffocating. Lifting his head, Khardan looked about wildly for some means of escape.

  Escape from a battle he was sure to win.

  His eyes encountered the fierce eyes of Sheykh Majiid, riding at the right hand of the Prophet and glaring at his son impatiently, mutely demanding the reason for this delay. The plan had been to strike at dawn, and here it was, nearly an hour past, and the Prophet had made no move.

  At the Prophet’s left hand was Sheykh Jaafar, his face falling into its customary gloomy foreboding, sweating in the brightening light, the saddle rubbing sores on his bony bottom.

  To the left of Jaafar was Sayah, Zohra’s halfbrother and the Sheykh’s eldest son, who was casting looks of secret triumph at Khardan as though he had guessed all along that the Prophet was a fraud.

  To the right of Majiid, Zeid towered magnificently over the horsemen on his longlegged camel, the Sheykh’s shrewd, squinty eyes growing shrewder and squintier the longer they sat here, exposed to the enemy on this ridge.

  Behind the Sheykhs, muttering and grumbling with impatience, the army of the Prophet began to question among themselves what was happening, and giving answers that were half truths, and untruths, and no truths at all, gradually working themselves into a state of confusion and demoralization.