The Paladin of the Night

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “Clear everyone out,” Qannadi ordered, motioning toward the back room.

  The Captain acted immediately on his orders and by the time Qannadi saw the commandant returning across the compound, shoving a reluctant and unwilling Achmed along in front of him, the building had been emptied of all its occupants, including a dazed and bloody Hamd. The Captain of the guard took up his post outside the door.

  The puffing and panting commandant appeared in the entrance. Dragging the young man by the arm, he thrust Achmed inside the gatehouse. The nomad stood in the cool shadows, dazed, blinking his eyes, glancing around in confusion.

  “Bow! Bow to the Amir, dog of an unbeliever!” the commandant shouted angrily.

  It was obvious to Qannadi that the sunblinded young man had no idea an Amir or anyone else was in the room. But when Achmed did not respond fast enough to suit the commandant, he kicked the youth painfully in the back of the knees, causing his legs to buckle. Gripping him by the back of his tunic, the commandant bashed the young man’s head on the floor.

  “I apologize for the dog’s ill manners, O Exalted One—”

  “Get out!” said Qannadi coldly. “I want to speak to the prisoner in private.”

  The commandant glanced uneasily at Achmed, lying prostrate on the floor, and spread his hands in a deprecating manner. “I would not be so bold as to disobey an order of my king but I would be remiss in my duties if I did not inform His Majesty that these kafir are wild beasts—”

  “Are you saying that I—General of the Armies of Quar’s Chosen—cannot deal with one eighteenyearold boy?” Qannadi inquired smoothly.

  “No! No! Assuredly not, O King!” babbled the commandant, sweating so it appeared he might melt into a puddle on the spot.

  “Then leave. The Captain of my guard will be posted outside. In case I find myself in any danger, I can always yell for him to come rescue me.”

  Not knowing exactly what to make of this speech, the dullwitted commandant stammered out that this knowledge would be of great comfort to him. Disgusted, Qannadi turned his back upon the prison guard and gazed out a square window at nothing with magnificent aplomb. The folds of the haik hiding his face, the Amir was able to turn his head slightly to see what was happening behind him out of the corner of his eye. The commandant, casting a swift, fearful glance at his king, administered a swift, savage kick to Achmed, catching the boy painfully in the crook of his knee. His face dark, the commandant raised a fist at his prisoner threateningly, then, bobbing up and down like a beggar’s monkey, backed out the door, fervent in his praise of the Amir, the Emperor, Quar, the Imam, the Amir’s wives, and anyone else he could think of.

  His hand itching to draw his sword and rid the world of this specimen of humanity, Qannadi kept his back turned until a scuffle, the sound of his Captain’s voice, and a whine assured him that the commandant had been hustled off the premises.

  Still Qannadi did not turn around.

  “Get up,” he ordered the young man gruffiy. “I detest seeing a man grovel.”

  He heard the sharp intake of breath as Achmed stood upon his injured leg but even that indication of weakness was quickly choked off by the young man. Qannadi turned around just in time to see the nomad draw himself up, standing straight and tall and facing the Amir with defiance.

  “Sit down,” said Qannadi.

  Startled, seeing only one chair and realizing—barbarian though he was—that no one ever sat in the presence of the king, Achmed remained standing.

  “I said sit down!” Qannadi snapped irritably. “That was a command, young man, and—like it or not—you are in no position to disobey my commands!”

  Slowly, his face carefully impassive, Achmed sank down into the chair, gritting his teeth to keep the gasp of pain from slipping out.

  “Are the guards mistreating you?” Qannadi asked abruptly.

  “No,” lied the young man.

  The Amir turned his head back to the window again to hide the emotion on his face. The “no” had not been spoken out of fear. It had been spoken in pride. Qannadi remembered suddenly another young man who had nearly died of a festering arrow wound because he was too proud to admit he’d been hit.

  The Amir cleared his throat and turned back again. “You will address me as ‘King,’ or ‘Your Majesty,’ “ he said. Walking over to the door, he glanced outside to see his men, mounted on their horses, waiting patiently in line in the hot sun. He knew his men would remain there uncomplaining until they dropped but—magic or not—the animals were beginning to suffer. Cursing himself, aware that in his preoccupation he’d forgotten them, the Amir ordered the Captain to disperse the guard and see that the horses were watered. The Captain left, and the Amir and the young man were alone.

  “How long have you been confined here?” Qannadi asked, coming over to gaze down upon the young man.

  Shrugging, Achmed shook his head.

  “A month? Two? A year? You don’t know? Ah, good. That means we are starting to break you.”

  The young man looked up swiftly, eyes glittering.

  “Yes,” Qannadi continued imperturbably. “It takes spirit, an effort of will, to keep track of the passing of time when one is in a situation where each day of misery blends into a night of despair until all seem alike. You’ve seen the wretches who’ve been here for years. You’ve seen how they live only for the moment when they receive their wormy bread and their cup of rancid water. Less than animals, aren’t they? Many forget how to talk.” Qannadi saw fear darken the young man’s eyes and he smiled to himself in inner satisfaction. “I know, you see. I was in prison myself for a time. I wasn’t much older than you, fighting the warriors of the Great Steppes.

  “They are fierce fighters, those men of Hammah. Their women fight alongside them. I swear by Quar that is the truth,” Qannadi added gravely, seeing Achmed’s stare of disbelief. “They are a large, bigboned race—the women as big as the men. They have golden hair that, from birth, is never cut. Men and women both wear it in braids that hang down below their waists. When they fight, they fight in pairs—husband and wife or couples betrothed to be married. The man stands upon the right to wield sword and spear, the woman stands to his left, holding a great, huge shield that protects them both. If her husband is killed, the wife fights on until either his death is avenged or she herself falls beside his body.” Qannadi shook his head. “And woe betide the man who takes the life of a shieldmaid.”

  Pain forgotten, Achmed listened with shining, wondering eyes. Gratified, Qannadi paused a moment to enjoy this audience. He had told this story to his own sons and received only stifled yawns or bored, glazed stares in return.

  “I was lucky.” Qannadi smiled wryly. “I didn’t have a chance to kill anyone. I was disarmed the first pass and knocked unconscious. They took me prisoner and cast me into their dungeons that are carved out of rock into the sides of mountains. At first, I was like you. My life was over, I thought. I cursed my bad luck that I hadn’t fallen among my comrades. The Hammadians are a just people, however. They offered all of us the chance to work out our servitude, but I was too proud. I refused. I sat in my cell, wallowing in my misery, day after day, blind to what was happening to me. Then something occurred that opened my eyes.”

  “What?” Achmed spoke before he thought. Face flushed, he bit his lip and looked away.

  Qannadi kept his own face carefully smooth and impassive. “When the Hammadi first captured me, they beat me every day. They had a post planted in the center of the prison yard and they would put a man up against it like so”—the Amir demonstrated—”and chain his hands to the top. Then they stripped the clothes from my back and struck a leather thong across my shoulders. To this day I bear the scars.” Qannadi spoke with unconscious pride. He wasn’t watching Achmed now, but was looking back, into his past. “Then one day they didn’t beat me. Another passed, and another, and they continued to leave me alone. My comrades—those that still lived—were being punished. But not me. One day I overheard another
prisoner demand to know why I alone was spared this harsh treatment.

  “Can you guess their answer?” The Amir looked at Achmed intently.

  The young man shook his head.

  “ ‘We do not beat the whipped dog.’ “

  There was silence in the gatehouse. Because it had been many years since he had thought of this incident, Qannadi had not realized that the pain and shame and humiliation was still within him, festering like that arrow wound of long ago.

  “ ‘We do not beat the whipped dog,’ “ he repeated grimly. “I saw then that I had let myself become nothing but an animal—an object of pity, beneath their contempt.”

  “What did you do?” The words were forced through clenched teeth. The young man stared at hands clasped tightly in his lap.

  “I went to them and I offered myself as their slave.”

  “You worked for your enemy?” Achmed looked up, his black eyes scornful.

  “I worked for myself,” the Amir replied. “I could have proudly rotted to death in their prison. Believe me, young man, at that point in my life, death would have been the easy way out. But I was a soldier. I reminded myself that I had been captured, I had not surrendered. And to die in their foul prison would be to admit defeat. Besides, one never knows the paths the God has chosen one to walk.”

  The Amir glanced surreptitiously at Achmed as he said this last, but the young man’s head was bowed again, his gaze fixed upon his clenched hands.

  “And, as it turned out, Quar chose wisely. I was sent to work on the farm of a great general in the Hammadi army. Their armies are not as ours,” Qannadi continued. Staring out his window, he saw not the crowded souks of Kich but the vast, rolling prairies of the Great Steppes. “The armies are under the control of certain rich and powerful men, who hire and train their soldiers at their own expense. In time of war, the king calls these armies to come fight for the defense of the land. Of course, there is always the chance that the general might become too powerful and decide that he wants to be king, but that is a danger all rulers must face.

  “I was put to work in the fields of this man’s farm. At first, I regretted that I had not died in the prison. I was thin, emaciated. My muscles had atrophied during my long confinement. More than once, I sank down among the weeds with the thought that I would never rise again. But I did. Sometimes the overseer’s lash helped me up. Sometimes I myself struggled to my feet. And, as time passed, I grew strong and fit once more. My interest in life and, more importantly, my interest in soldiering returned. My master was constantly exercising his troops, and every moment I could escape from my labors I spent watching. He was an excellent general, and the lessons I learned from him have helped me all my life. Particularly, I studied the art of infantry fighting, for in this these people were most skilled. At length, he noticed my interest. Far from being offended, as I feared, he was pleased.

  “He took me from the fields and set me among his troops. My life was not easy, for I was different, a foreigner, and they did everything they could to test me. But I gave as good as I got, most of the time, and eventually earned their respect and that of my general. He made me one of his personal guard. I fought at his side for two years.”

  Achmed stared in blank astonishment at this, but Qannadi seemed no longer aware of the boy’s presence.

  “He was a great soldier, a noble and honorable man. I loved him as I have loved no other, before or since. He died on the field of battle. I, myself, avenged his death and was given the honor of placing the severed head of his enemy at his feet as he lay upon his funeral bier. I cast my lighted torch onto the oilsoaked wood and I bid his soul godspeed to whatever heaven he believed in. Then I left.” Qannadi’s voice was soft. The young man had to lean forward to hear him. “I walked for many months until I reached my homeland once more. Our glorious Emperor was only a king then. I came before him and laid my sword at his feet.”

  Sighing, the Amir withdrew his gaze from the window and turned to look at Achmed. “It is a curiosity, that sword. A twohanded broadsword it is called in the north. It takes two hands to wield it. When I first was given one, I could not even lift it from the floor. I still have it, if you would like to see it.”

  The young man glowered at him, dark eyes wary, sullen, suspicious.

  “Why are you telling me this tale?” He rudely refused to use the proper form of address, and the Amir—though he noticed— did not press him.

  “I came because I deplore waste. As for why I told you my story, I am not certain.” Qannadi paused, then spoke softly. “You take a wound in battle and it can heal completely and never bother you again. Then, years later, you see a man hit in exactly the same place and suddenly the pain returns—as sharp and piercing as when the steel first bit into your flesh. When I looked into your face, Achmed, I felt the pain. . .”

  The young man’s shoulders slumped. The pride and anger that had kept him alive drained from his body like blood from a mortal wound. Looking at Achmed, Qannadi had one of those rare flashes of illumination that sometimes, in the dark night of wandering through this life, lights the way and shows the soul of another. Perhaps it was seeing once again in his mind Khardan and Achmed together, standing before his throne—one brother proud and handsome, the other looking at him with complete and total adoration. Perhaps it was the Imam, telling him the strange tale of Khardan’s alleged flight from the battle. Perhaps it came from within the Amir himself and the memory of his own starved childhood, the father who had abandoned him. Whatever it was, Qannadi suddenly knew Achmed better than he knew any of his own sons, knew him as well as he had come to know himself.

  He saw a young man deprived of the light of a father’s love and pride, growing in the shadow cast by an older brother. Instead of letting this embitter him, Achmed had simply transferred the love for his father to his older brother, who had—Qannadi knew—returned it warmly. But Khardan had betrayed him, if not by an act of cowardice (and the Amir found it difficult to believe such a wild tale) then at least by dying. The boy was left with no one—father, brother, all were gone.

  Going up to the young man, Qannadi put his hand on his shoulder. He felt Achmed flinch, but the boy did not pull away from the Amir’s touch.

  “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen,” came the mulled response. “I—I had a birthday.”

  And no one remembered, Qannadi thought. “I was the same age myself when I was captured by the Hammadi.” A lie. The Amir had been twenty, but that was not important. “Are you a whipped dog, Achmed? Are you going to lie down on your master’s grave and die?” The boy cringed. “Or are you going to live your own life? I told you I deplore waste. You are a fine young man! I could wish my own sons to be more like you!”

  A touch of bitterness crept into the voice. Qannadi fell silent, mastering his emotions. Achmed was too preoccupied with his own to notice, although he would recall it later.

  “I came here to make you an offer,” Qannadi continued. “I watched the Battle at the Tel. My men are good soldiers, but it took four of them to one of yours to conquer your people. It is not that you are more skilled in handling your weapons, I believe, but in handling your horses. Quar has given us magical beasts but, it seems, He has not seen fit to train them in the art of warfare. Instead of your people breaking your hearts in this prison, I give you the chance to earn your freedom.”

  Achmed’s body held rigid for a moment. Slowly he raised his head to look directly into Qannadi’s eyes.

  “All we would do is train the horses?”

  “Yes.”

  “We would not be forced to join your army? Forced to fight?”

  “No, not unless you wanted.”

  “The horses we train will not fight our own people?”

  “My son”—Qannadi used the word unconsciously, never realizing he had spoken it until he saw the eyes looking into his blink, the lids lower abruptly—”your people are no more. I do not tell you this to attempt to trick you or demoralize you. I speak the tr
uth. If you cannot hear it in my voice, then listen to your own heart.”

  Achmed did not respond but sat, head down, his hands grasping spasmodically at the smooth top of the crude wooden table, seeking something to hold onto and not finding it.

  “I will not make you convert to our God,” the Amir added gently.

  At this, Achmed raised his head. He looked, not at Qannadi, but eastward, into the desert that could not be seen for the prison walls.

  “There is no God,” the young man answered tonelessly.

  Chapter 5

  The nomads of the Pagrah desert believed that the world was flat and that they were in its center. The huge and splendid city of Khandar—as far distant, in their minds, as a remote star— glittered somewhere to the north of them and beyond Khandar was the edge of the world. To the west was the city of Kich, the mountains, the great Hurn Sea, and, finally, the edge of the world. To the south was more desert, the cities of the land of Bas in the southeast, and the edge of the world. To the east was the Sun’s Anvil—the edge of the world.

  It was rumored among the nomadic tribes that the city dwellers spoke of the existence of another great sea to the east, beyond the Sun’s Anvil, and had even given it a name—the Kurdin Sea. The nomads scoffed at this belief—what could one expect of people who built walls around their lives—and spoke scornfully of the Kurdin Sea, referring to it in ironic terms as the Waters of Tarakan and considering it the biggest lie they had heard since some insane marabout of Quar’s had ventured into the desert a generation ago, babbling that the world was round, like an orange.

  There was also rumored to be a lost city somewhere in the Sun’s Anvil—a city of fabulous wealth, buried beneath the dunes. The nomads rather liked this idea and kept the tradition of Serinda alive, using it to illustrate to their children the mutability of all things made by the hands of man.

  The djinn could have told their masters the truth of the matter. They could have told them that there was a sea to the east, that there had been a city in the Sun’s Anvil, that Khandar did not stand at the top of the world nor was the Pagrah desert the world’s center. The immortal beings knew all this and much more besides but did not impart this information to their masters. The djinn had one abiding rule: When in the service of humans, you who are all knowing know nothing and they who know nothing are all knowing.