Khardan had not spoken a word since ibn Jad’s strange pronouncement on shore. He had suffered himself to be hoisted roughly aboard ship without a struggle. The goums, under Kiber’s orders, lashed the nomad to a mast and left him there. Sagging against his bindings, Khardan stared around him with dull, lusterless eyes.
Thinking the sight of Zohra might rouse the Calif from the stupor into which he had fallen, Mathew brought the limp and lifeless form to lie on the deck near where her husband stood, tied to the mast. Soaked through to the skin from the rain and the sea water breaking over the heaving deck, the young wizard did what he could to keep Zohra warm and dry, covering her with a tarp, sheltering her amid the tall ivory jars and the rest of the baggage that the ghuls had secured as best they could on the slippery deck. Khardan did not even glance down at the unconscious woman.
After he had done what he could for Zohra, Mathew wedged himself between two carved wooden chests to keep himself from sliding around with the yawing of the ship. Wet and miserable and extremely frightened, the young man glared up at the stupefied Khardan with bitter anger.
He can’t do this to me! Mathew thought, shivering from cold and fear. He’s the one who’s strong. He’s the warrior. He’s supposed to protect us. I need him now. He can’t do this to me!
What’s the matter with him anyway? Mathew wondered resentfully. That was a horrible sight, but he’s been in battles before. Surely he’s seen things just as gruesome. I know I have. . .
The memory of John, kneeling on the sand, Kiber’s shining sword flashing in the sunlight, the warm blood splashing on Mathew’s robes, the head with the lifeless eyes rolling across the sand. Tears blinded Mathew. He hung his head, clenching his hands.
“I’m frightened! I need you! You’re supposed to be strong! Not me! If I can cope with this. . . this horror, why can’t you?”
If Mathew had been older and able to think rationally, he would have been able to answer his own despairing question. He had not seen the ghuls attack and devour the helpless slaves. Khardan had, and though to Mathew there was not much difference between driving a sword into a man’s gut and sinking fangs into his neck, the warrior’s mind and heart reacted differently. One was a clean death, with honor. The other—a horrifying death brought about by creatures of evil, creatures of magic.
Magic. If Mathew had considered it, magic was the key—a key that unlocked the box of Khardan’s innermost fears and let them loose to terrorize and overthrow his mind.
To the nomad, magic was a woman’s gift—a tool used to quiet teething babies, to soothe horses during a sandstorm, to make the tent fast against wind and rain, to heal the sick and injured. Magic was the magic of the immortals, which was the magic of the God—the earthshaking, windroaring magic of Akhran’s ‘efreets; the miraculous comings and goings of Akhran’s djinn. This was the magic Khardan understood, much as he understood the rising of the sun, the falling of the rain, the shifting of the dunes.
The dreadful evil magic Khardan had just witnessed was beyond his comprehension. Its terror slammed into the mind like cold steel, shattering reason, spilling courage like blood. Ghuls to Khardan were creatures of the meddah’s creation, beings ruled by Sul who could take any human form but were particularly fond of turning themselves into young, beautiful women. Wandering lost and alone in the desert, they would trap unwary travelers into helping them, then slay their rescuers and devour them.
To Mathew, ghuls were forms of demons studied in textbooks. He knew the various means by which they could be controlled, he knew that for all services rendered the living, these undead demanded payment and this must be made in the form of that which they constantly craved—warm, sweet human flesh. The magic of the ghuls, the storm, the sea, the enchantment that had kept him asleep for two months, all of this was familiar to Mathew, and understandable.
But he was in no condition to consider any of this rationally. Khardan was slipping under very fast, and the young wizard had to find some means of rousing him. Had he been stronger, had he been Majiid or Saiyad or any of Khardan’s fellow tribesmen, Mathew would have clouted the Calif in the jaw—it being wellknown that bloodletting cleared the brain. Mathew considered it. He pictured himself hitting Khardan and discarded the idea with a rueful shake of the head. His blow would have all the force of a girl slapping an overeager suitor. He lashed out with the only other weapon he had available.
“It seems we should have left you in women’s clothing!” Mathew cried bitterly, loud enough to reach Khardan through the pounding of the rain and the howling wind and the blackness that was engulfing him.
The verbal thrust stung. “What did you say?” Khardan turned his head, bleary eyes staring at Mathew.
“Your wife has more courage than either of us,” Mathew continued, reaching out a gentle hand to wipe away water that had dripped onto Zohra’s bruised face. “She fought them. They had to strike her down.”
“What was there to fight?” Khardan asked in a hollow voice, his gaze going to the ghuls sailing their enchanted ship through the storm. “Demons? You said yourself there was nothing to be done against them!”
“That is true, but there are other ways to do battle.”
“How? Disguise yourself and run away? That isn’t fighting!”
“It’s fighting to survive!” Mathew shouted angrily, rising to his feet. His red hair, wet and matted, poured like blood over his shoulders. The wet clothing clung to his slim body, the heavy folds of the soaked fabric kept his secret, hiding the flat chest and the thin thighs that would never be mistaken for a woman’s. His face was pale, his green eyes glinted in the glare of the flame and the lightning.
“Survive through cowardice?”
“Like me?” Mathew questioned grimly.
“Like you!” Khardan glared at him through the water streaming down his face. “Why did you save me? You should have let me die! Unless”—he cast a scathing glance at Zohra—”it was her intent to humiliate me further!”
“Me! Me! Me! That’s all you think about!” Mathew heard himself screaming, knew he was losing control. He could see several of the goums, clinging to the rigging for balance, look in their direction, but he was too caught up in his anger to speak calmly. “We didn’t save you! We saved your people. Zohra had a magical vision of the future—”
“Magic!” Khardan shouted in fury and derision.
“Yes, magic!” Mathew screamed back, and saw that here would be the end of it. Khardan would never listen to the telling of Zohra’s vision, much less credit it. Angry and exasperated, frightened and alone in his fear, Mathew slumped back down on the slick, wet deck and prepared to let misery engulf him.
“Akhran, save us!” Khardan cried to the heavens, struggling against his bonds. “Pukah! Your master is in need! Come to me, Pukah!”
Mathew didn’t even bother to lift his head. He hadn’t much faith in this God of the nomads, who seemed more a megalomanic child than a loving father. As for the djinn, he was forced to believe that they were immortal beings, sent from the God, but beyond that he hadn’t seen that they were of much use. Disappearing into the air, changing themselves to smoke and sliding in and out of lamps, serving tea and sweet cakes when guests arrived. . .
Did Khardan truly expect his God to rescue him? And how? Send those fearsome beings called ‘efreets to pluck them off the deck of the ship and carry them, safe and sound, back to the Tel? Did he truly expect to see Pukah—white pantalons, turban, and impish smile—trick Auda ibn Jad into setting them free?
“There is no one who can help you!” Mathew muttered bitterly, hunching himself as far back into the shelter of the baggage as possible. “Your God is not listening!”
And what about you? came the voice inside Mathew. At least this man prays, at least he has faith.
I have faith, Mathew said to himself, leaning his head wearily on the side of a basket, cringing as the sea broke over the ship and deluged him with chill water. He closed his eyes, fighting the nausea that was ma
king his head whirl. Promenthas is far away from this land. The powers of darkness rule here. . .
The powers of darkness. . .
Mathew froze, not daring to move. The idea came to him with such vivid clarity that it seemed to take material form on the deck. So powerful was the impression in his mind that the young wizard opened his eyes and glanced fearfully around the ship, certain that everyone must be staring at him, divining his thoughts.
Auda ibn Jad paced the foredeck, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes looking straight ahead, unseeing, into the storm. His body was rigid, his hands clenched so tightly that they were white at the knuckles. Mathew breathed easier. The Black Paladin must be exerting all his power to maintain control over the ghuls. He wouldn’t waste a scrap of it on his captives. And why should he?
We’re not going anywhere, Mathew thought grimly. He looked swiftly at the goums. Kiber, green around the mouth and nose, clung to the rigging, looking nearly as bad as Mathew felt. Several of the other goums were also seasick and lay upon the deck moaning. Those who had escaped the sickness eyed the ghuls warily, shrinking away whenever one of the sailors drew too close. The ghuls, their hunger assuaged, were occupied with outsailing the storm.
Sick and despondent, Khardan slumped against his bonds. The Calif ‘s head hung limply. He had ceased to call upon his God. Zohra, unconscious, was probably the most fortunate person on the ship.
Hunching down amidst the jumble of baskets and chests and the tall ivory jars, Mathew doubled over as though clenched by sickness. Unfortunately, the playacting became reality. The nausea, forgotten in his initial excitement, rose up and overwhelmed him. His body went hot, then cold. Sweat rolled down his face. Panting, refusing to give way, Matthew closed his eyes and waited grimly for the sick spell to pass.
At last he felt the nausea ease. Reaching into the folds of the caftan, he drew out a small pouch that he’d hurriedly tied around the sash at his waist. He cast a swift, furtive glance over his shoulder. Fingers trembling, he yanked open the pouch and carefully shook the contents out in his lap.
When he and Zohra had accosted the sorceress Meryem— fleeing the battle with the enchanted Khardan—Mathew had taken from her all the magical paraphernalia he could find. Surrounded by soldiers, smoke, and fire, he hadn’t bothered to examine them other than a cursory glance before he thrust them into a pouch and concealed the pouch in the folds of his clothing.
That they were objects empowered to work black magic, Mathew hadn’t a doubt. He guessed Meryem was devoted to the dark side of Sul since she had used her skill in the arcane arts to attempt murder. Looking at the various articles, unwilling even to touch them, he was overwhelmed with revulsion and disgust— feelings that ran deeper than his sickness; the feelings all wizards of conscience experience in the presence of things of evil.
Mathew’s first impulse—and one so strong it nearly overpowered him—was to cast the ensorceled items into the sea. This is what he should do, this is what he had been taught to do.
This was what he could not afford to do.
Feverishly, between bouts of sickness, he examined each object.
There weren’t many. Counting on her beauty and charm and the naïveté of the nomads to succumb to these, Meryem hadn’t considered herself in any real danger. She had carried a small wand, about six inches in length, designed to be easily concealed in a pouch or tucked into the bosom of a gown. Mathew studied it intently, trying, as he had been taught, to understand its use by analyzing the material out of which it was made. The base of the wand was formed of petrified wood. Set atop that was a piece of black onyx in the form of a cube with the corners ground down. It was a remarkable example of workmanship and obviously the most powerful of the arcane treasures Mathew held. His fingertips tingled when he touched it, a numbing sensation spread up his arm. The wand slipped from his nerveless grasp.
This won’t do! Mathew said to himself angrily, beginning to see hope’s light flicker and dim. I can overcome this natural aversion, any disciplined wizard can. It’s mental, not physical, after all. I’ve seen the Archmagus demonstrate the use of objects far darker and more foul than these!
Resolutely, he picked up the wand from where it lay on the deck and held it tightly in his hand. The chill sensation spread instantly from his palm up to his elbow, then into his shoulder. His arm began to ache and throb. Biting his lip, fighting the pain, Mathew held onto the wand. He saw, in his mind, Khardan’s face and the look of scorn in the man’s eyes. I will prove myself to him! I will!
Slowly the chill wore off. Sensation returned to his hand and Mathew discovered he’d been gripping the wand so tightly that the cube’s sharp edges had cut into his flesh. Carefully, he dropped it back into the pouch.
Now, if he only knew what it did. . .
He mentally recounted all the possible enchantments that could be laid upon wands; he considered also the natural powers of black onyx itself. Mathew attempted to come up with the answer as he hurriedly sorted through the other objects. But his mind was clouded with sickness and terror. Every time he heard a footstep on the deck, he started and glanced fearfully over his shoulder, certain he’d been discovered.
“Black onyx,” he mumbled to himself, leaning back against a wooden chest, another wave of sickness breaking over him. Closing his eyes, he saw himself in the classroom—the wooden desks with their high stools, meant for copying; the smell of chalk dust; the clatter of the slates; the monotone voice of an aged wizard reciting the text.
Black onyx. Black for self-protection, the power of disciplined thought. Onyx, possessor of an energy that can be used to control and command, frequently useful in direct intercession with those who dwell on Sul’s plane ofexistence. Petrified wood—that which was once alive, but which is now dead, devoid of life, mocking its form. Often used as base for wands because the wood has the ability to absorb the life of the wielder and transfer it to the stone.
Add to this the strange design of the wand’s onyx tip—not spherical, which would have indicated a harmony with nature, not even a perfect cube that would have represented order. A cube with the corners ground off—order turned to chaos?
So what did it all mean? Mathew shook his head weakly. He couldn’t guess. He couldn’t think. He gagged and wretched, but there was nothing in his stomach to purge. His body, under the spell of the Black Paladin, had apparently not required food. Knowing he was growing weaker and fearful of discovery, Mathew began to thrust the remaining magical objects, one by one, back into the pouch. They seemed relatively worthless anyway. A couple of healing scrolls, a scroll of minor protection from pointed objects (so much for Zohra and her dagger; Meryem had protected herself against that), a charm carved in the shape of a phallus that affected male potency (to be used for or against Khardan?), and finally a ring.
Mathew stopped to study the ring. It was made of silver, not very elegant craftsmanship. The stone was a smoky quartz and was obviously designed to be functional rather than ornamental. Of all the objects, this was the only one that did not make the young wizard holding it feel unease or disquiet. He guessed it was the only object whose magic was not harmful. Smoky quartz— protection from harm—by showing us the dark, we are drawn to- ward the light.
It wouldn’t help him. If he went through with his plan, it might hinder him. He turned to Zohra, lying near him. They hadn’t taken her jewelry from her. Lifting a limp left hand, Mathew slid the ring onto her finger. It looked plain and poor near the other more beautiful jewels. Mathew hoped she wouldn’t notice it, at least until he found a chance to whisper some quick word of explanation.
The young wizard closed the pouch and thrust it into the bodice of his gown, near the globe containing the fish. Then he gave himself up to feverish consideration.
This plan is sheer folly. It will end in disaster. What I contemplate risks not only my life, but my immortal soul! No one expects that of me. Not Zohra. Certainly not Khardan. Not even myself.
I am helpless, just as I
was when I came to this accursed land and ibn Jad slaughtered my comrades and took me captive.
I stand blindfolded upon the edge of a cliff. Perhaps if I keep perfectly still and do not move, nothing will happen to me! If I start to walk, I will surely fall, for I cannot see where I am going! I am helpless! Helpless!
But that wasn’t quite true, and Mathew’s soul squirmed uncomfortably. Months ago, when he’d first been cast up onto the shore where the bones of his friends now lay buried in the blooddrenched sand, he had been helpless. He’d had no magic, the only weapon with which he could defend himself.
Mathew rested his hand over the pouch, concealed in his clothes. Now he had the power to act. He had the power to take a step that might lead him—lead them all—safely to the bottom of the cliff.
He had the power.
If only he could find the courage.
The Book of the Immortals 2
Chapter 1
“Poor Sond,” commiserated Pukah, flitting through the ethers, the djinn’s lamp clasped firmly in his hands. “You’re going to be incarcerated in a dark dungeon, in a town that has been dead and buried for centuries. Chained hand and foot, water dripping on your head, rats nibbling your toes—if rats are able to live in such a desolate place, which I hope, for your sake, poor Sond, that they cannot. I truly feel for you, my friend. I truly do. Of course”—Pukah heaved a sigh—”it is nothing, absolutely nothing compared to the torture I’m going to be forced to endure as slave to that oysterheaded monster. Oh, granted I’Il be free to come and go pretty much as I choose. And it’s undoubtedly true that since Kaug has clam shells for brains it is I myself, Pukah, who will likely end up the master and he, Kaug, my slave. Plus, I’ll have my beautiful angel with me.
The Paladin of the Night Page 17
