by Donald Tyson
Four of the men carried the heavy table to one end of the room and stacked the chairs on top of it. The Egyptian drew a ritual circle around us using blue chalk that glowed in the dim light from the hanging lamp on the wall. Harkanos himself inscribed within the circle a sigil to Yog-Sothoth, the god of portals, and placed the horoscope and stained scrap of cloth in its center. Nine of us stood upon the circle, our hands joined, with Harkanos at its center. The ghoul was on my left. I took his dry hand into mind with a sense of familiarity. It had been long since I had touched a ghoul. We began to chant in the language of the Old Ones, projecting the power we raised into Harkanos while he concentrated his will upon Yazid. The air inside the circle took on a glow, as though filled with countless fine golden particles that danced together.
This was the first time I had practiced my art in the company of other necromancers, and each was at least equal to my skill. I found the chant intoxicating. The power of the guttural words lifted me up and expanded my astral body, until I felt myself a league in height, my head among the stars. Around me stood the others, giants whose feet spanned the arc of the world. Our united voices caused the very fabric of the firmament to shake, or so it seemed to my exalted senses.
There was no leader of the chant, yet we all stopped at the same instant. Silence stretched for a dozen heartbeats. Harkanos stood with his head bowed, his body flickering with balefire. He cast up his arms and uttered dread words of consummation in the forbidden tongue.
“Yiii, n’galas g’h Yog-Sothoth, reg’hi n’gl lohk!”
A shaft of light lanced upward, draining the circle of its vitality so utterly that I had to fight to keep my knees from buckling. I felt as though I had just recovered from a long sickness, both weak and nauseous. I saw cold sweat gleam on the faces of the other necromancers and knew they suffered the same loss of vital spirits. Only the ghoul appeared unaffected.
“It is done,” Harkanos said, his face a gray mask in the flickering lamp light. “We must wait to hear the outcome.”
Fatigue made us indifferent to conversation. There was nothing to talk about until we learned the effect of our magic. By unspoken agreement we prepared to leave the house. Harkanos erased the circle and put away the relics of the Caliph on a shelf, then helped to carry the table back to the center of the room. He summoned his taciturn servant by means of a bell cord. I had been the last to arrive, but was the first to leave the house. The dark street held an air of desolation. Not surprising, since most of its inhabitants were still in my neighbor’s cellar.
I had left the street door to my house unlatched, so that I could return without waking anyone. This was not so much a courtesy intended to preserve their rest, as a desire to avoid the notice of the servants. The brass-sheathed front door of the house itself remained locked, so there was little to fear from robbers, who in any case would have been mad to steal from anyone living in the Lane of Scholars. I shut the green door and gently slid its iron bolt into place. My weariness made me anxious to reach my bed. I wondered if Martala lay asleep or waited for my arrival to hear the events of the night.
As I turned to cross the courtyard to the front step, I became aware of a presence in the shadows. Without thinking, I drew my sword. Its blade gleamed silver in the weak starlight, for the waxing crescent moon had already set, and only the faintest glow from a street lantern found its way over the wall.
“How long I have waited for this night,” said a voice that I recognized all too well.
He stepped from behind one of the marble statues, and with a sickness of heart I saw his sword in his hand. I gathered my shreds of courage. I had known this encounter would come eventually.
“Welcome to my house, Altrus,” I said with as much bravado as I could simulate.
“You have done well for yourself, Alhazred,” he rasped. “A pity I must take all this away from you.”
“I have gold,” I said, easing to my right with my back close to the outer wall.
“You know that is not my way.”
He sprang forward, and I met his blade on my own, dancing away from the wall to the center of the courtyard so that I would not be restricted in movement. He advanced one step after another, slashing at my sword.
We both stopped and drew breath. To my astonishment, I was still alive. I had not even suffered a wound. I blinked and narrowed my eyes, trying to penetrate the shadows. Something was wrong with his body. For a moment it puzzled me. Then I saw that his right arm hung limp at his side. Altrus had always held his sword in his right hand, not his left, but tonight he clutched it awkwardly in his left fist. One of his legs was not normal. The knee did not bend when he stepped forward.
“I had to wait until you were alone, before I could kill you,” he said with bitterness. “I am not the man I was. When you and that bitch attacked me on the caravan road, you did some injury to my spine.”
“That is why you did not kill us at the Well of the Seraph.”
He laughed, an ugly sound.
“Had I been able to draw a bow, you would both have been dead a hundred times over.”
“If you do kill me, let the girl go,” I said.
He shrugged.
“I care nothing for the girl. I want the scroll to take back to my master, and your death as retribution for its theft.”
Again he lunged, catching me off balance, but his instincts were better than his skills, and his damaged body refused to obey his will fast enough. I beat aside his point, which had been aimed at the pit of my throat, and danced back.
The servants slept in their rooms at the back of the house. We made little sound apart from the occasional clash of our blades. I resisted the urge to cry out and summon aid. In part it was because I did not wish to endanger the girl, who newly risen from sleep might stumble into Altrus’s sword. Yet the main reason I held my tongue was a sense that it would be contemptible to call for help. This was a duel between two men.
My skill with a blade is equal or better than that of most men trained in the sword, who do not make the sword their living. The old Altrus was many times my superior, but this strange crippled Altrus who fought with his left hand was no more than my peer. His body had lost its vigor. I saw that he tired quickly, and deliberately gave back before his attack, leaving an opening. As I expected, he lunged, and I took the point of his blade through the folds of my cloak. My own point buried itself upward beneath his breastplate, above his left hip. It was a deep thrust that grated on bone.
He fell to his knee like a sacrificial ox, his bad leg splaying out from him, then toppled slowly backward. His sword clattered across the paving stones, and he groped blindly for it with his left hand, eyes fixed on my face. I approached and angled my sword for a killing thrust through his throat. There was no fear in his expression, only a curious tranquility.
“You fought well,” he said, his breathing labored.
“Had you not been injured, I would never have beaten you.”
“True.”
I hardened my resolve for the thrust. I could not take my gaze off his eyes. He appeared resigned, even eager, to meet his death. I reflected that it could not have been an easy task, to track me across half the world with only one arm and a leg that would not bend.
“What are you waiting for? Kill me,” he rasped. “Or do you want to watch me die slowly?”
Some madness made me lift up the point of my sword. I cannot explain it. I felt possessed by an essence that moved through my mind and body, filling me with that most foolhardy and dangerous of emotions, compassion. He must have seen a shadow of it in my face. He frowned and stared hard at me.
“Suppose I were to spare your life and heal your body?” I said softly.
“A cripple is no use as a mercenary. I would have killed myself, except that I had a job to finish.”
“No, you misunderstand me. Suppose I were to
heal you of all your injuries and make you as you were when we first met? Would you give up your quest for the scroll, and cease trying to kill me?”
He thought for several heartbeats, a solemn cast to his features.
“No. I was hired to kill you and retrieve the scroll.”
I wiped my sword blade on the inner lining of my cloak and slid it into its sheath.
“Your determination is admirable, but your loyalties are misplaced.”
He shrugged and attempted to smile.
“A mercenary has little enough in this world. Would you take away his honor as well?”
Damn his soul, I did not wish to kill him. Cursing under my breath, I left him lying in the middle of the courtyard under the indifferent stars, and unlocked the front door of my house. What I needed was in my bedroom with my travel wallet, which I had not yet completely emptied. It hung on a peg beside the door. I entered the room silently, but the girl was already awake.
“Alhazred? I thought I heard the clash of steel. Was it a dream?”
“No dream. Get dressed and help me.”
She slid out of bed and put on one of my new white shirts with a tail that hung down to her knees. Not bothering with anything else, she belted her sword and dagger to her waist. When she came to me, I had the contents of my wallet spread across the writing desk that occupied a corner of our bedroom. I found the rag that held the dried pieces of u’mal root and used my dagger to cut a section from one root that was as long as the last joint of my index finger.
“What are we doing?”
“Saving a life.”
When she saw Altrus lying on his back in the courtyard, she hissed between her teeth and drew her dagger. She would have slit his throat had I not caught her wrist. She stared at him, then at me, an expression of horror gathering in her face.
“You cannot mean to heal him.”
“It is my decision.”
“He will kill us both.”
Altrus laughed weakly. His laughter turned to a retching cough, and I saw blood on his lips. My sword had scraped past his rib and pricked the lowermost lobe of his lung.
“The girl is right. Don’t be a fool, Alhazred. Kill me while you have the chance.”
“Everyone chooses to give me advice,” I said, kneeling beside him. “I do not choose to take it.”
“Fool,” he whispered.
I pushed the piece of u’mal root between his teeth.
“Chew and swallow this while you have the strength.”
His jaw began to mechanically grind the tough root. He shut his eyes with exhaustion. I drew my dagger, cut my left forearm with a curse, and held it over his face.
“Open your mouth, and swallow.”
He parted his blood-stained lips. Perhaps he could not taste my blood, mingled as it was with his own.
For several moments nothing happened. I began to think the potency of the root had departed with its juice, in spite of what Belaka, the wisest head of the Beast, had told me. Then his body seemed to soften, like wax held near a flame. A kind of glow appeared beneath his blanched skin that pulsed with the rhythm of his heart, and I realized that it had its origin in his blood. His right arm twitched, unbending at the elbow, and the fingers of his right hand closed into a fist. He opened his eyelids and regarded his right hand with an expression of wonder.
“The pain has stopped,” he murmured.
Martala drew her sword and stepped back, balanced on the balls of her bare feet.
“You are a fool, Alhazred,” she said, her eyes fixed on the mercenary as though he were a viper bent to strike.
In my own mind I agreed with her, but the instinct to heal Altrus had been strong, and even though it made no rational sense, I could not have denied it.
“If you will refrain from killing me for the present, I will help you to bed, so that you can rest.”
He said nothing but accepted my arm. I pulled him to his feet. His formerly stiff knee bent with ease as he walked with my aid into the house and up the stairs. I put him to bed in the bedroom I had intended for Martala. All the while she watched narrowly at our backs, her sword extended. In spite of the vivifying effects of the u’mal root, his near meeting with death had left the mercenary exhausted. He was asleep almost before his back touched the sheets of the bed. I worked the boots off his feet and unbuckled his breastplate, sliding it aside and laying it on the floor in the corner of the room.
“What are you going to do now?” Martala breathed, staring down at the sleeping face of the mercenary in the golden glow of the oil lamp.
“Go to bed. I am more tired than I have ever been.”
It was full daylight when I awoke in my own bed, my body still aching from the strain of my duel with Altrus. The sound of boots marching in the street and harsh cries came through the open window. I pushed myself up on one elbow and saw Martala sitting in a chair beside the closed door, still wearing my shirt, her naked sword across her lap.
“It was good of you to watch over me,” I said gently. “You know that Altrus can kill us both any time he chooses?”
Her face hardened, and I realized that Altrus would have a fight on his hands if he attempted to take my life.
“What is that infernal din on the street?”
She shook her head.
“It has been going on since first light. I’m surprised it didn’t wake you.”
“I was too exhausted to wake.”
I swung my feet out of bed. She set her sword aside and brought the brass chamber pot for me to piss into, then covered it and put it back in its corner. As she helped me dress, Ani burst into the room followed by Altrus. I scarcely recognized the mercenary, so improved was his appearance. His hair and close-cropped beard were darker, and the ugly red sear on his right cheek had healed. He almost looked handsome.
“Master, you must come downstairs at once. The soldiers are demanding to talk to you.”
“More soldiers,” I muttered.
The Caliph vanished through the portal, I thought to myself. That would explain the unrest in the street.
Leaving Martala to dress herself, I went with Ani and the unspeaking Altrus to the front hall. A captain of the Caliph’s guard and two soldiers stood waiting near the open door.
“Are you the owner of this house?” the captain demanded, looking at Altrus.
“I am Alhazred, the owner.”
He turned his attention to me.
“By order of the Caliph Yazid Ibn Muawya, none of the residents of the Lane of Scholars are to be permitted to leave their houses. Guards will be posted outside your street door and in the alley that runs behind your house, both day and night, until the Caliph has determined your judgement.”
“What is the meaning of this outrage?”
He glared at me.
“An attempt was made upon the life of the Caliph last night. It failed. The Caliph intends to find those responsible and make an example of them to the people of Damascus.”
Chapter 56
After the captain and his soldiers left my front hall, we stood staring at each other. Several servants hovered in the doorways and watched us with nervous eyes. I suppose they wondered what their fate would be, and whether it was bound up with mine. I could not expect loyalty from them since they had served me less than a week. I gestured for Martala, Altrus, and Ani to follow me into my study, and shut both the door to the front hall and the door on the opposite side that exited to another room.
“What is this all about, Alhazred?” Martala asked.
“Were I to speculate, I would guess that a group of necromancers used their magic in an attempt to assassinate the Caliph, and failed. He must believe that they dwell in this street.”
“So that’s what you were doing last night in the house next door,” said Altru
s. “I wondered why you tarried there so long.”
“You tried to kill the Caliph?”
Martala put her hand to her face, and Ani’s eyes grew round, although he did not speak. The Caliph was Allah’s emissary upon the earth, or so the people believed.
“I must consult with my neighbor, Harkanos.” I looked at each of them. “You need not concern yourselves. If the blade falls, let it fall upon my neck.”
When I left the study and made my way down the rear hall and out the back door, they trailed after me. I looked behind the gardener’s shed and found what I searched after—a wooden ladder. Carrying it to the side wall of the garden, I angled it slowly upward so that its top would not project far above the stone wall. Both the street in front and the alley behind the house were narrow, and bordered by high walls. I reasoned that the soldiers standing guard would not be able to see me climb out of the garden at the side, if I kept my head low.
Altrus helped me fix the foot of the ladder into the sod so that it would not slip down the wall.
“Are you sure you want to help me?”
“Why not?” he said with a grin. “If I let the Caliph kill you, it would deprive my master of his retribution.”
“You could slay me now.”
“I am in no hurry.”
I glanced at Martala and Ani.
“You should stay here, in case the soldiers return asking questions.”
“I’m coming with you,” the girl said. I had heard that tone before, and knew it would be futile to argue.
Ani licked his dry lips, staring at us.
“I will come too,” he said after a hesitation.
His display of loyalty surprised me. I reflected that it would not matter who was missing from the house if the soldiers returned. They would want to talk to me, no one else. The only worry was that one of the servants might go into the street and inform the soldiers of our absence. This seemed unlikely, since they would not wish to draw attention to themselves.
I climbed to the top of the wall. Short iron spikes ran along its rounded cap of mortar. There was enough space to kneel between them. I could not see the guards in the street in front or the alley behind, so I presumed they could not see me. In the other garden, the little girl stood watching me with curious eyes, a rag doll in her hand. Today she wore an embroidered pink dress that fell to her ankles, showing her bare feet beneath its hem. She dropped her doll and ran into the open back door of the house.
