“Tell them to dream of our own valiant warriors, then,” Tafas scolded. “Tell them to think of Tariq and Abu Bekr as they lie down! And give each man a little hashish before he goes to sleep. Now good night, Sharif!” He turned away, leaving the silken portal of his pavilion to stir in the wind.
“Good night, my lord,” Sharif Haifaz said unhappily, and turned away to find a little hashish for himself.
“Aroint thee, dog of Morocco!”
Tafas leaped to his feet and saw the crazy, white-bearded old knight with the shaving basin on his head galloping straight toward him on a spavined, knock-kneed excuse for a horse. Off to the side sat a plump little man on a donkey, smiling placidly.
Tafas stared at the point of the lance in fascination. It had been broken and lashed back together, but was still sharp. He leaped aside, and the old idiot went charging by, then reined in and turned back. Tafas reached for his scimitar—but found only a pouch. Looking down, he saw with a shock that he wore only his shepherd’s robe!
Impossible! A quick glance up and about showed a dry and barren plain with gyres of dust and clumps of weary grass. Where were the mountains? Where his army?
The old man rode down on him again, eyes glaring, mouth tight with anger. In spite of himself, Tafas felt fear, for how could the old fool be so brave unless he were mad?
“Go home, spawn of the desert!” the old knight cried. “Go home, or my lance shall send you to your Paradise!”
Tafas spun aside again. None of this was possible—and hard on the heels of that thought struck the realization that he must be in a dream.
Suddenly, the fear was gone. He could deal with a dream on its own terms. As the old knight thundered past, Tafas fumbled in his pouch and pulled out a shepherd’s sling. Placing the rock in the cup, he whirled it about his head and, as the old knight turned his horse for another charge, the Moor let fly. The stone struck the knight square on his brazen helmet. He reeled in his saddle, then pulled himself back upright, crying, “The Golden Helmet of Mambrino makes me invulnerable! Do your worst, shepherd boy—I am invincible, for each time I fall, I shall rise again!”
Fear struck deep once more, and Tafas could not have said why. The old knight kicked his horse into motion, and it galloped straight toward Tafas the Shepherd.
Enough of this! Tafas stepped to the side, and the lance swung wide to follow him. At the last instant, the shepherd boy leaped back in close to the horse and, leaping high, seized the lance at its midpoint. As the horse thundered by, Tafas threw all his weight against the wood. The lance twisted out of the knight’s hands; the butt sprang high, to catch him under the chin. The old man reeled, slipped, and fell.
His horse turned back with a neigh of despair. Tafas stalked over to the decrepit knight, lance lifted to strike—but the fellow’s eyes were already sliding shut, even as he muttered, “What matter wounds... to the body of a knight...” Then his eyes closed, his head fell to the side, and his whole body went slack.
But the fear remained, burgeoning deep within Tafas, for he seemed to hear the echo of the old man’s words: For each time he falls, he shall rise again. In panic, the Moor looked up at the knight’s squire, but the plump little man seemed not at all distressed by his master’s fall; he only met Tafas’ eyes and nodded slowly, still smiling, still complacent.
Tafas roared, leveled the lance, and charged the little man, but the ground slipped from beneath his feet, the sky went dark, and he found himself falling, falling into endless depths, until his cushions pressed up against his back and he woke, sweating with fear.
The big black car stopped in front of a warehouse. The parking lot was dark. In the distance, one feeble streetlight tried to pierce the gloom, all the worse because a fog was rolling in from the river.
The guard opened the door, stepped through, and jerked his head. “Out.”
“All right, all right,” Matt grumbled. “Go on, Callio.”
The thief clambered out, trembling, and loosed a long, shuddering sigh of relief. Matt followed, wondering if the little man really was that badly shaken, or if he was that good an actor.
The driver unlocked a personnel door to the side of the huge truck portal. “Inside,” the guard ordered.
“You boys sure are talkative,” Matt said.
“Go on, go on!” the guard snapped. “You make me sick!” He shoved Matt, hard.
Matt stumbled into the thief, heart leaping. The thug was already growing nervous. He must have been addicted to Groldor’s drug. What better way to assure loyalty in your bodyguards?
“Come on, Callio, and don’t worry—it’ll be plenty big enough inside.”
He glanced at the other guard, and saw drops of sweat on the man’s brow. He was staring, jaw clenched—another addict. At least, Matt could hope so.
Nonetheless, it bothered him. His verse shouldn’t have just canceled the drug’s effects—it should also have eliminated dependency, stopped the craving for the drug. Yes, the guards should no longer be high, but they also shouldn’t be starting withdrawal. Matt had a nightmare vision of all the junkies on the East Coast being strung out, and unable to get a fix. What would they do, before they collapsed?
They stepped into gloom filled with huge crates. The driver and guard shoved them ahead down the loading bay and between avenues of packing cases.
“It’s a castle,” Callio said, awed.
The guard snorted. “You got a low idea of the high life.” He turned to the driver. “Stuff shouldn’t be wearing off so soon.”
“Bad dose,” the driver agreed. “The boss’ll have more.”
The avenue opened out into a huge dark space. Fifty feet away, a single light hung, illuminating a folding table with a man in a business suit sitting behind it, another thug to each side of him. Matt had to give Groldor credit—in its way, this was just as impressive as a great hall and a dais (and much more threatening).
“That’s far enough,” the guard grated, and Matt halted five feet from Groldor. But Callio began to tremble again. Matt ignored him long enough to study the boss—eyes alive with amusement under the hat brim, a cruel twist to the mouth, mustache and goatee beneath a grandfather of a nose, salt-and-pepper eyebrows. His complexion was sallow, his cheeks hollow. “Welcome home, Lord Wizard.”
Then Callio lost it. “Let me out!” he howled, and sprang at Groldor’s right-hand guard, catching his lapels to climb up and yell in his face, “I am no beast, to be caged in the dark with demons and ghosts! I am a...”
“You’re a fool,” the man snapped, and batted Callio away as if he were a fly.
“Leave him alone!” Matt yelled, and started for the guard.
Callio landed, rolled, and leaped up on the left-hand guard, yammering, “Ghosts and goblins! All manner of things haunt the dark! Let me out, so that I may at least run away!”
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere.” The guard pried Callio’s hands off his lapels. “Ease up on the haberdashery, punk.” He gave Callio a back-handed slap that sent him skidding to the feet of the driver, where he huddled in a miserable, sobbing bundle.
“No call to do that!” Matt swerved for the left-hand guard and launched a karate kick. The guard laughed, reaching to catch his foot—and Matt yanked it away, slamming a fist into his face.
It was like punching oak.
The guard snarled and waded in, slamming a left hook into Matt’s belly, then a quick combination that Matt almost managed to block. He staggered back, but the right-hand guard caught him, spun him around, and swung a body blow that sent him staggering back against the car guard. The thug caught him, grinning, and the right-hand guard came for him, flexing his right hand.
“Enough,” Groldor said quietly.
The right-hand guard snarled with disappointment and pivoted back to his station, folding his hands in front of him like an usher. Matt looked up at him and had the satisfaction of seeing staring eyes, beads of sweat. At a guess, all four guards were addicts.
In withdrawal. Maybe al
l the more dangerous because of that. His stomach hollowed with fear as he wondered if he was going to die that night.
“Hold him up,” Groldor directed.
The car guard complied. “Boss, that last dose must have been milk sugar. I need...”
“You need to be silent and do as I tell you!” Groldor snapped.
The man stiffened, clamping his jaw shut. So did the other three—but they were shivering.
Matt managed to start breathing again.
“Sit down, Lord Wizard,” Groldor said with a smile of cruel satisfaction. When Matt shook his head, the boss said, “I really must insist.”
The car guard jammed Matt down on the folding chair in front of Groldor’s card table.
“How...” Matt had to gasp for breath again; his stomach still wasn’t working properly. “How’d you... find us?”
“Why, quite simply, lack-wit,” Groldor sneered. “I set a needle afloat in a bowl and told it to seek he who had lately come from Merovence. The aura of that land clings about you, and attracts anything that has a trace of magic; like will to like.” He gave Callio a contemptuous nod. “Since there were two of you, the needle swung that much more easily. Then I needed only scry to discover in what place you stood.”
Matt nodded. “Thought it would be something like that.” He glanced at the left-hand guard. “Better see to your men—they’ve got trouble.”
“Yeah, boss,” the right-hand guard whined. “I’m really gettin’ strung out. Gimme another dose, please!”
“You need only one a day.” Groldor stepped over to him, scowling. “I gave you the powder only an hour ago.” He felt the thug’s pulse, set a hand against his brow, slid up an eyelid, then drew down his own brows, eyes almost disappearing in shadow. “It is true—you have begun withdrawal.” He slipped four foil envelopes out of his pocket. “Take one; give the others to your comrades.”
“We ain’t no commies,” the car guard muttered, but the right-hand guard ripped fast and sprinkled the salt on his tongue. “Thanks, boss! That oughta fix me up in a few minutes.” He tossed a packet to the left-hand guard, who grabbed it out of the air frantically, then took the other two to the car guard and driver.
“That won’t do any good,” Matt said quietly.
Groldor swung about, staring at him. The thugs swallowed their powders, then realized how quiet the boss had become, glanced at him, and followed his gaze to Matt.
“What have you done to the drug?” Groldor hissed.
“Only the reverse of what you did,” Matt said.
“You’ve not had time! I’ve not seen you!”
“I recited the double verse as soon as I arrived at the station,” Matt told him.
“Double?” Groldor’s voice was menace itself. “Twofold?”
Matt nodded. “The first part took the kick out of the drug, the second killed the craving for it. Looks like Part Two didn’t work.”
“You bastard!” the right-hand guard howled, and leaped over to Matt, yanking him up high, fists pummeling. The other three ran to join in.
Matt blocked frantically, kicking and chopping, but he was only one against four very big and very experienced fighters. Punches hit his belly, his chest, his head; he saw one guard fall, another stagger, but the other two had triphammers for fists and were slamming blow after blow at his head, and he managed to block most of them and duck others, but every fifth punch exploded against his jaw, his eye, his ear, and the room dimmed...
A gunshot crashed through the warehouse.
The thugs spun, reaching for their pistols—then groping, slapping, finally looking.
“What the hell happened to my piece?” the car guard howled.
“You were right, Lord Wizard!” Callio cried. “This little lever on the side prevents the longer lever from moving! I only needed to push it down!”
Matt stared. So did the thugs. Callio cradled three revolvers in his left arm and held the fourth pointed at them all.
The driver swore. “How the hell did you get my gat?”
“He’s a thief,” Matt said. “Remember when he went into a panic and jumped on you?”
The man swore again and started for Callio. The gun crashed in the thief’s hand and the left-hand guard cried out, clapping a hand to his shoulder.
“He don’t even know how to aim!” the driver shouted, and ran at Callio—but the thief’s gun swiveled to center on him, and the thug skidded to a halt.
“Back,” Callio said. “Get well back, all of you, back from the Lord Wizard. True, I do not know how to use these magical weapons, but if you come too close, I cannot miss. Get back!”
“Yes, get back,” Groldor agreed, pulling out his own automatic. “He may not know how to shoot, but I do!”
Matt throttled a shout of anger and dove for Groldor in total silence—but the left-hand guard saw him and swung a ferocious backhand. Matt saw it coming, ducked, grabbed the arm and shoved it up behind the thug’s back—and found himself staring down the barrel of Groldor’s gun.
“Boss,” the thug panted, “you wouldn’t!”
“I have perfect aim,” Groldor assured him. “You are in no danger.”
Then the gun turned red in his fist. Groldor howled and dropped it, wringing his hand. The thugs shouted and started for it, but it glowed yellow and jumped on the pavement as a shot rang out. The barrel slid, ejecting the spent cartridge, and another fired, then another and another. The thugs cringed away from its muzzle; so did Callio and Matt.
But Groldor was busy sawing the air with his hands and chanting in Arabic—not that it did any good; the heated gun went on firing until the clip was empty. Two of the thugs howled, slumping, as bullets hit thigh and foot.
Finally it was silent. Everyone stared at the gun as though expecting it to reload itself. Then Groldor snarled, “How did you make it grow so hot, Lord Wizard?”
“He did not,” said a hard but very feminine voice. “I did.” They all turned, to see a slender, voluptuous, but very stylish woman dressed in the height of fashion clacking toward them on stiletto heels, head high, every inch a princess.
Matt stared. “Lakshmi?”
The woman touched one guard; he slumped, unconscious, even as she turned to touch another. He slept, too, and she advanced on Groldor, who backed away in alarm, still gesturing and chanting.
“You rely on the magic of your homeland,” Lakshmi said, “but it is weak here. My magic is within me.”
“You are a djinna!”
“I am—and your fate is sealed.” Lakshmi turned away from him contemptuously. “Take him with you, Lord Wizard—unless you wish to slay him here.”
“It’s tempting,” Matt admitted, “but I think I’ll take him back to Bordestang and let Mama decide what to do with him.”
Lakshmi smiled. “It would be kinder to kill him quickly, while he sleeps.”
“Yes,” Matt agreed. “That’s why I’m taking him to Mama.” He looked into her eyes. “Thanks for yet another rescue, Your Highness.”
“Thank your father,” she said, her tone tart. “It was he who bade me follow and ward you—not that I have any greater hope of his gratitude than of yours.”
“Someday there will be something I can do for you.”
“There is now.” For a moment, Lakshmi’s smile grew lazy, and the full force of her allure blazed on Matt. It shook him to his core—in human form, and with the clothing of his own world covering her in modesty at the same time that it emphasized every aspect of an inhumanly voluptous figure, she made him tremble with greater desire than ever.
Lakshmi sensed his reaction and moved in, eyelids growing heavy, lips curving and moistening in a sensuous smile. Matt backed away, fighting for control, and Lakshmi’s smile turned bitter as she stopped. Her allure cut off abruptly, and she seemed to be only a woman again. “Not that you will do what you could to thank me. Perhaps someday you will discover some reward that you are willing to give.”
Matt went limp with relief.
> Then a howl of pain galvanized them both. They turned, to see Groldor writhing in Callio’s grip—and staring down the barrel of one of the thief’s recent acquisitions.
“He tried to creep away, Lord Wizard,” Callio explained. “I did not think he should.”
Matt stared. “How the hell did you learn that wrestling hold?”
“It came from inside,” Callio said, bewildered, “came quite suddenly.”
“I think you may be stealing more from my world than you know,” Matt said. He knelt, pulling off Groldor’s belt and tying his hands with it. “Put all the guns down, Callio. We don’t want them coming back home.”
“If you say so,” the thief said, sulking. Three metallic objects clattered on the floor.
“All of them, Callio.”
“You never let me keep anything,” the thief pouted, but the fourth gun landed on the floor, too.
“Somebody gimme a fix!” one of the wounded guards howled. Then his eyes widened, and he gasped, “You did!”
“I guess my second spell just took longer to take effect,” Matt said, relieved. Then he glanced up at Lakshmi. “Or did it?”
“It was a very weak spell,” the djinna told him. “I have increased its power.”
“Thanks again, Princess,” Matt sighed. “There has to be something moral I can do for you someday.”
“Releasing me from bondage was a great boon,” she told him. “You have no idea how greatly you served me then!”
“Yeah, but I’m already past the traditional three-wish reward.”
“No, you have only wished twice,” Lakshmi told him. “The other requests were your father’s, and I granted them only because it pleased me. All else I have done for you was again my own thought. It amused me.”
“Best thing I ever did was telling you that you were free to do as you wished,” Matt said. “I never guessed you’d want to be so helpful.”
“I do hope for further reward,” Lakshmi admitted. “Think long and hard, Wizard.”
“As soon as I get this corrupted magus to justice.” Matt hauled Groldor upright—and found the drug baron grinning. Matt frowned and demanded, “What’s so funny?”
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