The Dragon and the Djinn

by Gordon R. Dickson

  "You will fail," said the Whisperer.

  Jim ignored the words.

  "Ahriman," he called. "By the staff I hold, and the rules that bind you in your own kingdom, I call on you to make yourself visible to us!"

  A hiss answered; a continuing, wordless, malevolent hiss in their heads that was dizzying in its effect. But ahead of them—and it was impossible to tell whether it was at the horizon or close to them—had appeared something like a black sun.

  Like the sun, it was impossible to look at directly. It glared, and seemed to shimmer and move, if the eyes tried to hold it in focus; as if it was one black disk swiftly overlaying and melting into another one a little out of place from where the original was. Now, from it, came something like a powerful but pressureless icy wind that numbed their wills, rather than their bodies.

  It was not a wind that could push them backward, or even take them off their feet. But it was like a great hand laid against each of them. It tried to drive them back, without any real feeling of touch; but only with the tremendous, reiterated threat not to approach the black and burning sun-shape.

  "Hold to each other. Keep going!" said Jim.

  He took the first steps forward; and the rest moved with him. They felt the pressure hard against them, not only on their faces, bodies and limbs, but within them—to the very marrow of their bones.

  But they went forward; and each step of theirs was like a five-league stride across the space-and-time surface far below them. Even with their first few steps, the black sun grew larger and closer. The pressure against them increased. It reached into them and tried to suck the life from them. Their steps slowed.

  "Keep moving!" said Jim. "Never stop!"

  The strain was on their linked hands, numbing their wills to hold together. It became harder and harder to do so. But now the knowledge was clear in each of them, unspoken but in all their minds—there was no way but forward. To stop, to go back now, meant that the blackness ahead would follow and destroy them.

  Jim, at his end of the chain, a little in advance of all the rest and with the staff held before him, risked a glance at the faces of the others. So far, they were holding.

  Brian was single-mindedly engaged in the struggle, as always. His hand held Geronde's and Angie's hands firmly but with the gentleness of strength and confidence. Angie's face was calm, and Geronde's was aught with fierceness. The two Hobs had fixed, steady expressions on their small, dark faces that gave no clue to how they were feeling.

  Beyond these two, Sir Renel and Sir Geoffrey showed something of Sir Brian's joy in the battle, but with it something more—almost a hunger for the ultimate meeting. As if they had just been freed from chains they were so used to that they had hardly realized they had been carrying them about. The face of ibn-Tariq, beyond the two of them, was knifelike and expressionless, but with no sign of yielding.

  Only at the end, the whole face and body of Hasan ad-Dimri gave an impression of crumbling inside. His body seemed to have grown smaller, as if he was falling in on himself; and his face was pale and fixed, like a man in whom doubt was like a rising tide, lapping on the pilings of his courage until it threatened to overflow and drown him.

  Of them all, Hasan seemed to be the only one showing signs of weakening so far. Jim looked back, marveling at the two hobgoblins. Of all of them, he would have expected the most frailty in those two small wisps of life, used to running and hiding from all things. But this was a battle of wills, not of muscle and bone.

  Angie, Brian and Geronde, he knew, would go to the end, Sir Geoffrey and Sir Renel might do the same. Possibly, too, ibn-Tariq had an equal courage in him. It would not have been easy to make himself a sorcerer of the power he controlled.

  True, he would be pricked on now by the spurs of the thought of his own mistake in raising Ahriman—his ignorance of the fact that the Demon would be free and independent once he had obeyed his raiser's original command—a piece of simple knowledge he would have had if his studies had been in magic, rather than sorcery.

  In its own way that knowledge would now cast shadows of doubt on all he would have studied for most of his life.

  But also, there was a strength in him. Hasan, only, looked like he might fail. Yet, he must have also had a strength of his own, when he was a Sufi, before he let himself be seduced by ibn-Tariq's offers of power and wealth.

  They were few enough together to try to drive back a being as powerful as Ahriman. Fighting on their side was only their individual faiths; and the knowledge that the here and now was their place, not Ahriman's. Time was the crucial thing. The longer it took, the greater the chance that the weaker ones in the chain must break. Time was all.

  "Faster!"

  The word had come to Jim's lips without his intending it. But the others heard—and they tried. Their leagues-long steps above the landscape far below could not be hastened, but they were making longer ones. Ahead, Ahriman had seemed to grow tremendously, as they got closer to him. Now he blocked out a quarter of the sky ahead; and seemed not merely to face them, but to tower and loom over them.

  But something like a collective fury had taken them, like the frenzy of battle. Consciousness, all logical thought, was set aside. Their awareness was only of Ahriman ahead, of the hands they gripped at either side, and the consciousness of being part of a team, a single-minded fighting unit; and their own intent to do what was before them. They had lost all thought of themselves as individuals, caught up in the unity of their effort.

  They were very close to Ahriman now. Whether they had not been that far from him to begin with, or whether the enormous distances they seemed to be covering in their steps above the landscape below were actual, the fact remained that there was little farther to go. But now, at the end of the line, Hasan ad-Dimri stumbled and almost fell.

  But did not—for ibn-Tariq had held tightly to his hand and for a moment literally held him up.

  "It is the will of God," ibn-Tariq said, looking straight into his eyes.

  Hasan straightened upright, bearing his own weight again.

  "Yes!" he said, and a light had come into his face. "God wills it!" And he went on strongly.

  "He's going back, m'lord!" cried Hob of Malencontri suddenly, in a high, thin, triumphant voice.

  Jim stared. It was true. The sky had become like dark blue velvet, with night above; and in that darkness the lights of stars were to be seen. By ones and twos these points of light were emerging into view from behind Ahriman as he backed away from Jim and the others. Hob had been the first to see it; but it was there and it was so.

  "Yes!" Jim called out to the rest. "Listen! Those in the middle hold back. We at the ends go forward, to deepen the pocket; so we can enclose him completely when he backs all the way to the borders of the Kingdom where he belongs. Give him no chance to escape to either side. He must have no choice but to go backward into the Kingdom where he belongs!"

  Jim himself lengthened his stride; and Hasan struggled forward at the other end, with ibn-Tariq close beside him now, and all but physically helping him forward. The two Hobs, Geronde and Brian sagged backward. In a deep cup formation they moved on Ahriman. Finally they were so close to him that he seemed no more than two steps away—and his black brilliance was blinding.

  Now they saw that he had no real shape. He had seemed a sphere from a distance; but now he appeared as many shapes, constantly melting into each other.

  But he was alive, and he was still strong and vicious. They could feel his rage hammering at them; and Geronde, herself, stumbled—but for just a second. She caught herself back up without any help from Brian or anyone else, and pushed forward enough to make a small bulge in the pocket of the semicircle.

  Ahriman's rage was now something they were close enough to hear, as well. It came through to them like a high-pitched keening in their ears; and a feeling that was not—but greatly resembled—the searing sensation of the heat from the open door of a furnace, with a fire raging inside it. Ahriman had slowed in his b
acking now.

  "He's close to the edge," said Jim, for the awareness of that frontier came to him through his staff in a way he could not have explained, but of which he was certain. "Hold fast, move forward," he went on. "I'm going to let go of you, Angie, and move to the center of the semicircle. I'll try to push him over with the staff."

  He let go, and Angie gave his hand a small squeeze as she released it—a small squeeze and a quick smile. He grinned back briefly and moved, with effort because it seemed as if the air had become almost solid, until he stood in the center of the cup their bodies made. Then he held the staff out in front of himself.

  "Back, Ahriman!" he said. "By the power in this staff—by all the laws of all the Kingdoms—back, back, back to your proper place!"

  The keening, or whatever it was that was so close to keening, rose and rose until it was like a shrill scream of terrible pain. Then, all at once, it ceased.

  There was silence. They looked at each other.

  "You can all let go," said Jim wearily. "We've put him back; and there he'll stay, unless he's called up by someone else. May it never happen!"

  They were too exhausted to voice agreement. Hands fell apart, and they flexed aching, bloodless fingers. They looked at each other, amazed to find themselves only the humans they had always been, mere mortals and victorious.

  "I'm free!" said Sir Geoffrey suddenly, in a wondering voice. "It's gone—the curse is gone. I can feel it's not with me any more."

  "All that the demon did," said Jim, "for ibn-Tariq, and on his own, will now be wiped out of History. Look below us."

  They looked.

  Off in time and distance, Baybars had almost won his battle against the Mongols. But nearly everything else below them had otherwise changed. The village that was being buried and destroyed by the sandstorm was untouched. There was no storm and no sand. The streets were free and the villagers moved back and forth along them.

  "Look north," said Jim.

  They turned their eyes that way; and there was no force of Mongols coming south toward the mountains and the White Palace.

  "The attack from the Golden Horde was something instigated by the Demon, after he found himself no longer under the orders of ibn-Tariq, and out of his own desire to see humans killing and destroying each other," Jim said.

  He looked at the sorcerer; but ibn-Tariq only smiled with his lips tight closed.

  "The Mamelukes will not be there either—look. All these things, like the curse, have gone back into what now never will be. Ahriman has failed. If he had been able to accomplish any of what he wished, a death, a change in History, then those things would have been permanent. But because we stopped him before they could be accomplished, all he tried for is lost and gone."

  Jim looked across at ibn-Tariq.

  "From here," he said to the sorcerer, "I think my people and I—and you, with Hasan ad-Dimri—go different ways."

  "We do," said ibn-Tariq.

  Almost with his words, he and Hasan were no longer with them.

  Jim turned to face the rest. Weary faces brightened.

  "Now," he said, "I think I can risk spending some magic to take us all back to England without any more delay. Whose destination is it to be? Will you come to Malencontri, or Castle Smythe—"

  "Oh pray, m'lord!" piped Hob of Malvern. "Malvern? Pray?"

  He had been looking as he spoke, not at Jim, but at Sir Geoffrey.

  "Yes," said Geronde harshly. "Best it be Malvern. I must stay there until I am properly wed."

  She looked across at her father.

  "But I will occupy a different part of the castle," she said. "You can have your own old quarters."

  "Geronde—" began Sir Geoffrey. But then his voice died in his throat, and the hand he had raised toward her dropped to his side again.

  Hastily, Jim visualized them all in the great hall at Malvern, on the dais that held the high table—and they were there.

  Chapter Thirty

  "Ah!" said Brian, his eyes lighting up at sight of the table. "A servant here for my lady! Ho!"

  No one responded immediately; then a young man who was actually rather low in the serving-room hierarchy cautiously sidled into the room. He stared at all of them.

  "Food and wine for my father's guests!" snapped Geronde automatically. "Quickly, man!"

  But the servant stood where he was, staring blankly at Sir Geoffrey.

  "Yes, yes!" said Geronde impatiently. "That is your Lord, come home again. Now, fetch what I told you. Now!"

  The servant turned and ran into the serving room and out of sight.

  They stood looking around themselves and at each other awkwardly. The Great Hall at Malvern was almost as big as the Great Hall at Malencontri. But after the buildings they had all recently spent some time in, at this moment it appeared dark and bare, with primitive-looking furniture.

  The table on the dais, the high table, had its top unfolded and laid out upon its trestles. But the two low tables stretching away at right angles from it on the regular floor level were trestles only, with their table tops folded and leaned against the wall. Only a few slitlike windows let the late afternoon light of a raw spring day into the room. The two Hobs, bereft of their smoke wafts, and therefore standing on the floor, looked like thin little dark-skinned rabbits. They gazed wistfully at the cold and empty mouth of the single wide fireplace in the Great Hall; for of course, with the castle's Lady gone, there was no fire in it. The air of the hall was chill.

  "Oh!" said Geronde suddenly, like someone waking up from a deep sleep into automatic courtesy. "Pray be seated, m'lady, sirs!"

  They all mounted the dais and sat down in the padded chairs at the top table, which looked like—and, in many instances were—literally barrels, partly cut out to make a chair with a back and a seat inside. The middle chair at the table was politely left open for the host, but Sir Geoffrey quickly took a seat near one end; and, with a second's hesitation, Geronde sat down in the middle chair.

  They had barely seated themselves before not one but four servants were back, spreading a tablecloth, putting mazers in front of each person and pewter plates, with a large spoon on the side. Two other servants were starting to lay logs for a fire in the fireplace.

  Brian and Jim had automatically reached for the knives at their belt, but Sir Geoffrey and Sir Renel, after automatic hand movements toward nonexistent belts, sat looking embarrassed.

  "Eating knives for your lord and Sir Renel," snapped Geronde.

  One of the servants ran off toward the serving room.

  "Stay!" said Brian to the servant who had just filled his mazer. He drained it and held it out for a refill, which was immediately given him.

  "Sir Brian!" said Geronde sternly.

  "Damn it to hell, Geronde!" said Brian. "I'm thirsty. After what we've just been through, you'd deny me a fast first cup? You have my promise to sip nobly and politely from now on."

  "Sirs," said Geronde to Sir Geoffrey and Sir Renel, "do not stand on manners, I beg you. Drink!"

  The two men rather hesitantly picked up filled mazers—which neither of them had touched in years and which they handled with unusual caution—and conveyed them almost reverently to their lips. Geronde herself set an example by drinking from her own mazer.

  Angie, Jim was glad to see, was already drinking from hers. Encouraged by this, he drank almost as deeply of his first cup as Brian had done. With the taste of the wine, the last of a feeling of being out of place left him. He drank almost as deeply from his mazer as Brian had done—and almost choked. None of them had thought to water their wine, though there were water pitchers on the table. His mazer was already being refilled, even though it had not been emptied.

  Angie smiled at him. He smiled at Angie.

  "Oh!" said Angie, setting her mazer down. "The Hobs!"

  She turned. They all turned and looked. Hob of Malencontri and Hob of Malvern still stood side by side, small and forgotten on the floor.

  "There will be a good
fire already going in the serving room, little ones," said Geronde gently. "Take your guest there, Hob Malvern!"

  The faces of both Hobs lit up.

  Hob of Malvern took Jim and Angie's Hob by the hand.

  "Come with me!" he said, and together they ran off into the serving room.

  "See that none disturbs the small creatures!" said Angie severely to the closest server. "They are to have whatever they want!"

  "Yes, m'lady!" he said, and followed the Hobs into the serving room.

  Those at the high table took to the food, when it arrived, gratefully; for in fact, no one there had eaten recently. But better than the food was the release of tension that came with the eating and drinking. Gradually, even Sir Geoffrey and Sir Renel relaxed enough to take part in the nearly forgotten pattern of the social conversation they had been used to back in their homeland.

  They talked only to each other, however. At the other end of the table, Brian's normal ebullience revived with the food and drink; and he led the conversation there into something very much like normal chatter between himself and Jim, Angie and Geronde. But there was still a certain constraint even in Brian's talk, Jim observed.

  Geronde's hardness toward her father had not softened, and there was a consciousness of this among the others that added an uneasy note to the gathering, even though everyone pretended that it was not there; and the manners of the day caused Geronde to speak to her father—when she did speak—with the same respect she would have shown if he had never left home. As if he had always remained Lord of the castle and in the castle.

  Sir Geoffrey replied in the same manner. But it was clear to everyone that he would happily have traded all this courtesy for one word from Geronde that would indicate that the antagonism in her had diminished a little, and that she might sometime forgive him for all those things of which she had found him guilty.

  There was nothing worse, Jim thought, than a polite dinner party; where everybody was avoiding what was foremost on the minds of all here. He found himself feeling almost as wistful about the ill feeling between daughter and father as the Hobs had shown standing forgotten on the floor, before Geronde had sent them to the serving room fireplace.