The Paladin of the Night

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “Keep looking,” Qannadi said. “And what about this one?” His gaze turned to the man in black, who stared boldly back.

  “A follower of the god, Zhakrin, my lord,” the captain said in a low voice. Qannadi frowned; his face grew, if possible, grimmer. Feisal sucked in a hissing breath.

  “That God of Evil no longer has power in the world,” the Imam said, speaking to the man in black. The thin hand clenched. “You have been deceived!”

  “It is not we who have been deceived, but you!” The man in black sneered. Taking a step forward, before the guard could stop him, he spit at the Imam’s face. The crowd gasped. The guard smote the bound man on the side of the head with the buttend of the spear, knocking him to the ground. Feisal remained unmoving; the fire in his eyes burned brighter.

  Slowly the brownhaired man regained his feet. Blood streamed down the side of his face, but his grin was as wide as ever.

  “We found the rest of the scum in the temple dead, My Lord,” the Captain reported. “They died by their own hands. This one”—he gestured at the man in black—”apparently lacked the courage to kill himself. The coward put up no resistance.”

  The follower of Zhakrin did not note or even seem to hear the condemnation. His eyes were focused now on Feisal, never leaving the priest.

  “Very well,” Qannadi said in disgust. “Are you satisfied, Imam ?”

  “I suppose I must be,” said Feisal sourly.

  Qannadi rose to his feet, facing the crowd that hushed to hear his words.

  “Citizens of Meda, there stand before you those who refuse to accept the blessings of Quar, who spurn the mercy of the God. Lest their unbelief spread like a poison through the now healthy body of your city, we take it upon ourselves to remove the poison before it can do you further harm.”

  One of the young girls cried out at this, a piercing wail that was cut off by one of the guards clapping his hand over her mouth. Achmed’s throat went dry, blood throbbed in his ears so that he heard the Amir’s words as though through a hood of sheep’s wool.

  “It shall be done this night, before you all, that you may see Quar’s mercy and His judgment. He is not a God of vengeance. Their deaths shall be quick”—the Amir’s stern gaze went to the man in black—”even though some may not deserve such a fate. The bodies may be claimed by their relatives and buried in accordance with the teachings of Quar. Imam, have you words to add?”

  The priest walked down the stairs to stand on the lowest step in front of the prisoners. “Are there any who would now convert to Quar?”

  “I will!” cried a Senator. Flinging himself forward, the politician fell at the Imam’s knees and began to kiss the hem of his robe. “I place myself and all my wealth into the hands of the God!”

  Qannadi’s mouth twisted; he regarded the wretched man with repugnance and made a motion with his hand for the Captain of the guard to come near. The Captain did so, silently drawing his sword from its sheath.

  Feisal bent down, laying his hands upon the Senator’s balding head. “Quar hears your prayer, my son, and grants you peace.”

  The Senator looked up, his face shining.

  “Praise to Quar!” he shouted, a shout that ended in a shocked cry. The Captain’s sword stabbed him to the heart. Staring at the Imam in amazement, the Senator pitched forward onto his stomach, dead.

  “May Quar receive you with all blessing,” the Imam said in a soft voice over the body.

  “Carry on,” ordered Qannadi harshly.

  The guards surrounding the prisoners drew their swords.

  The rotund priest fell to his knees, praying to Uevin in a firm voice that ended only with his life. The Governor left the world in bitter silence, casting a scathing glance at those who had betrayed him. The priestess, too, met her end with dignity. But one of the young virgins—seeing the priestess fall lifeless, the bloody sword yanked from the body—twisted free of her guard and ran in panicstricken terror to the stairs.

  “Mercy!” she cried. “Mercy!” Slipping and falling, she looked up directly at Achmed, extending her hands pleadingly. “You are young, as I am! Don’t let them kill me, Lord!” she begged him. “Please! Don’t let them!”

  Blonde hair curled about a pretty, terrified face. Fear made her eyes wild and staring. Achmed could not move or look away but regarded the girl with pity and dismay.

  Hearing the guard’s footsteps coming up behind her, too weakened by fear to stand, the girl tried pathetically to crawl up the stairs, her hands stretched out to Achmed.

  “Help me, Lord!” she cried frenziedly.

  Achmed took a step forward, then felt Qannadi’s hand close over his forearm with a crushing grip.

  Achmed halted. He saw the hope that had dawned bright in the girl’s eyes darken to despair. The guard struck quickly, mercifully cutting short the girl’s last moment of terror. The body sagged, blood poured down the stairs, the hand reaching out to Achmed went limp.

  The torchlights blurred in Achmed’s vision. Dizzy and sick, he started to turn from the gruesome sight.

  “Courage!” said the Amir in a low voice.

  Achmed lifted glazed eyes. “Is it courage to butcher the innocent?” he asked hoarsely.

  “It is courage to do your duty as a soldier,” Qannadi answered in a fierce, barely audible whisper, not looking at Achmed but staring straight ahead impassively. “Not only to yourself but to them.” He cast a swift glance around the crowd. “Better these few than the entire city!”

  Achmed stared at him. “The city?”

  “Meda was lucky,” the Amir said in flat, even tones.

  “Feisal chose it to set an example. There will be others, in the future, not so fortunate. This is jihad, a holy war. Those who fight us must die. So Quar has commanded.”

  “But surely He didn’t mean women, children—”

  Qannadi turned to look at him. “Come to your senses, boy!” he said angrily. “Why do you think he brought you here?” He did not look at Feisal, still standing at the bottom of the stairs, or motion toward him, but Achmed knew whom the Amir meant.

  “My people!” Achmed breathed.

  Nodding once, briefly, Qannadi removed his hand from the young man’s arm and slowly and tiredly resumed his seat upon the throne.

  His mind engulfed by the horror of what he had witnessed and the implication of what he’d just heard, Achmed stared blindly at the carnage when hoarse, triumphant laughter jolted him from his dark dream.

  “The curse of Zhakrin upon the hand that kills Catalus!” cried the man in black.

  He stood in the center of what had become a ring of bodies lying in the plaza. In his hand he held a dagger. Its blade, gleaming in the torchlight, twisted like the body of the snake on his shirt. So commanding was he and so forceful his presence that the guards of the Amir fell back from him, looking uncertainly at their Captain, all clearly loathe to strike him.

  “I did not lack courage to die with my fellows!” cried the man, the dagger held level with his red sash, one hand extended to keep off the guards. “I, Catalus, chose to die here, to die now, for a reason.”

  Both hands grasped the dagger’s hilt and plunged the weapon into his bowels. Grimacing in pain, yet forbearing to cry out, he drew the weapon across his gut in a slashing motion. Blood and entrails splashed out upon the stones at his feet. Sinking to his knees, he stared up at Feisal with that same ghastly grin on his face. The dagger slid from Catalus’s grasp. Dipping his hands in his own blood, he lurched forward. His crimson fingers closed on Feisal’s robes.

  “The curse of Zhakrin . . . on you!” Catalus gasped, and with a dreadful gurgling sound that might have been laughter, he died.

  The Book of Astafas

  Chapter 1

  The imp materialized within the darkness. It could see nothing, and the only part of the imp that could be seen were its bright red eyes and the occasional flick across the lips of an orangered tongue.

  “Your report astonishes me,” said the darkness.
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  The imp was pleased at this and rubbed its long, skinny hands together in satisfaction. It could not see the speaker, not because the darkness hid the voice’s source but because the darkness was the voice’s source. The words reverberated around the imp as though spoken from a mouth somewhere beneath its feet, and the imp often had the impression, when summoned to appear before its God, that it was standing inside the brain of Astafas. It could sense the workings of the brain, and the imp occasionally wondered if it could grab a flash of intelligence as it whizzed past.

  In order to prevent itself from touching that which was sacrosanct, the imp continued rubbing its hands, twining the largeknuckled fingers together in eager excitement.

  “I begin to think the Wandering God was right after all,” continued Astafas. “Quar played us all for fools. He intends to become the One, True God. The rival Gods of Sardish Jardan are falling to His might. I would not care so much, except that now His mask is off and I see His eyes turning to gaze greedily across the ocean.”

  The voice sank to the darkness and was silent. The imp felt a tingling sensation in its feet—the God was thinking, musing. Fidgeting, the imp bit off a squeal.

  “To think,” muttered Astafas, “if it hadn’t been for those wretched priests of my ancient foe, Promenthas, getting themselves involved, I might not have discovered Quar’s intentions until it was too late. Strange are the ways of Sul.”

  The imp agreed heartily with this, but said nothing, thinking it best not to reveal that it had ever doubted its master. A sudden jolt in the vicinity of its arm sent the imp skittering across the darkness, its skin burning with the shock of the God’s sudden anger.

  “My immortals, too, have been disappearing! And, by your account, they are being held captive somewhere?”

  “This is the reason the guardian angel, Asrial”—the imp spoke the name gingerly, as though it stung its tongue—”left her protégé, Dark Master. One of the fish of which I spoke in my report sent her, along with the two immortals of the Wandering God, to search for them.”

  “A guardian angel of Promenthas leaving her charge. I do not believe I have ever heard of such a thing.” If Astafas had been Promenthas—instead of that God’s evil opposite—he could not have been more shocked. “The natural order is falling apart!”

  “Still,” suggested the imp, nursing a singed elbow, “it does provide us with an opportunity. . .”

  “Yes,” agreed the God thoughtfully. “But would it be worthwhile to gain one soul and lose thousands?”

  The imp seemed to think it would—by the flicking of its hungry tongue across its lips.

  The brain of the God hummed and buzzed around the imp. Its red eyes darted here and there nervously. It lifted up one foot and then the other, hopping back and forth in anticipation of some paralyzing shock. It still wasn’t prepared for it, and when it came, the imp was knocked flat on its face.

  “There is a way we can have both,” said Astafas. “You are certain you know the young man’s plans?”

  “I see into his mind.” The imp lifted its head, peering eagerly into the darkness, its red eyes shining like hot coals. “I read his thoughts.”

  “If he does what you anticipate, you will go along with him.”

  “I will?” The imp was pained. “I can’t snatch him for you, then and there?”

  “No. I need more information. I have an idea, you see, about these fish he carries. Humor the young man. He will not escape,” said Astafas soothingly. “He will simply wind himself tighter and tighter in our coils.”

  “Yes, Dark Master.” The imp did not sound overly enthusiastic. Scrambling to its splaytoed feet, it dejectedly asked if it was dismissed.

  “Yes. Oh, one other thing—”

  The darkness began to disappear; the imp had the uncomfortable sensation of falling.

  “Dark Master?” it questioned.

  “Do what you can to protect him.”

  “Protect him?” the imp wailed.

  “For the time being,” said the fading darkness.

  Chapter 2

  The ghuls piloted their stormdriven ship through the murky waters of the Kurdin Sea. Whether the power of Sul kept the vessel afloat or the power of the evil God in whose service the ghuls sailed, Mathew had little idea. Fierce gusts ripped the sails into tattered black shreds that streamed from the yardarms like the banners of a nightmarish army. The rigging snapped and slithered to the deck, twisting and writhing like snakes. None except the ghuls and the Black Paladin, Auda ibn Jad, could stand on the pitching deck, swept constantly by battering waves. Kiber and his men huddled aft, crouched beneath whatever meager shelter they could find from the wind and wet. The faces of the goums were pale and strained; many were sick and they obviously liked this voyage as little as their captives.

  Auda ibn Jad stood beside the wheel, staring intently ahead as though he could pierce the storm clouds and catch a glimpse of his destination. Where that destination was or what it might hold, Mathew had long ago ceased to care.

  In his sickness, crazed thoughts came to his horrornumbed brain. The ghuls began to fascinate him; he could not take his eyes off the men who were not men but creatures of Sul held in thrall by the power of Zhakrin. The idea of leaping up and hurling himself into the arms of one of the ghuls came to his mind and the thought, in his weakness and terror, was a pleasant one. With the warmblooded human in its grasp, the ghul would certainly kill him. Not even Auda ibn Jad—who was just barely holding them in check now—could prevent that. The ghuls suddenly became creatures filled with light, almost angelic in aspect. Benevolent, handsome, strong, they offered him escape, a way out.

  “Come to me,” the ghul seemed to whisper every time one looked his way. “Come to me and I will release you from this torment.”

  Mathew imagined the hands gripping him tightly, the teeth sinking into his flesh, the sharp, burning pain, and the swift fear that would soon mercifully end as the blood drained from his body, bringing blissful lethargy and, finally, welcome darkness.

  “Come to me. . .”

  He had only to move, to stand, to run forward. It would I all be over—the fear, the guilt.

  “Come to me. . .”

  He had just to move. . .

  “Mathew!”

  A thick, painfilled call, heard over the terrible whispers, roused him. Reluctantly, he wrenched his mind from dreams of death and returned to the world of the living.

  “Mathew!” Panic tinged the voice. Zohra could not see him, he realized. Her view was blocked by one of the heavy ivory jars. Slowly he made his way to her, crawling on hands and knees over the heaving deck.

  At the sight of him, Zohra half raised, clutching at him desperately.

  “Lie back down,” he urged her, pressing her body gently back onto the deck.

  But she sat up again, her eyes blinking against the pain that must be making her head throb. “Mathew, what is happening?!” she demanded angrily.

  Mathew sighed inwardly. First she acts, then she questions. Just like Khardan. Just like these nomads. Whenever anything out of the ordinary confronts you, don’t think about it, don’t try to understand it. Attack it. Kill it, and it will go away and not bother you anymore. If that doesn’t work, perhaps ignoring it will. And if that doesn’t work, then you cry and mope like a spoiled child. . .

  Mathew cast a bitter glance at Khardan. Lashed to the mast, the Calif sagged in his bindings, his head bowed. Occasionally a groan escaped his lips when the sickness took hold of him, but other than that—not a word. He has lost a battle and so considers that he has lost the war, Mathew thought, anger stirring in him again (completely ignoring that only moments before he himself had been courting death).

  “Mathew!” Zohra tugged on his soakingwet clothes. “Where are they taking us?” She looked fearfully about at the ship. “Why does that man want us?”

  Mathew nudged his brain to function. Zohra had been unconscious when they brought her on board. She probably didn’t even remem
ber the ghuls attacking and devouring the helpless slaves. How could he hope to explain what he didn’t understand himself?

  “It’s all . . . my fault,” he said at last, or rather croaked, his throat sore from swallowing sea water and vomiting. Another wave of nausea swept over him, and he slumped down weakly beside Zohra, wondering, as he did so, why she wasn’t deathly ill like the rest of them.

  “Your fault?!” Zohra frowned. Leaning over him, her wet black hair slapping against his face, she grabbed two handfuls of the wet silk of his caftan and shook him. “Get up! Don’t lie there! If this is your fault, then you must do something!”

  Closing his eyes, Mathew turned his head and did something.

  He was sick.

  Mathew lost all concept of time. It seemed they sailed forever before the storm winds began to abate and the black, lowering clouds that hung over the masts began to lift. Had he looked into a mirror at that moment and seen that his skin was wrinkled and aged, his eyes dim, his body bent, his hair white, he wouldn’t have been much surprised. Eighty years might have passed on board that dreadful ship.

  Eighty years. . . eighty seconds.

  From his prone position on the deck, Mathew heard Auda ibn Jad’s voice raised in command. He heard the sound of boots hitting wood and a few suppressed groans—the goums staggering to their feet.

  Kiber’s face—pale and green—loomed above him, the goum leader shouting something that Mathew could not hear over the crashing of the sea. Suddenly the young wizard wished the voyage would go on, that it would never end. The memory of his idea returned to him. He did not welcome it and wished heartily that the thought had never occurred to him. It was stupid, it was foolhardy. It was risking his life in what was undoubtedly a futile gesture. He had no notion of where his actions might lead him because he had no notion of where he was or what was going to happen to him. Conceivably, he could make matters worse.

  No, he would not be like Khardan and Zohra. He would not leap forward in the darkness and grapple with the unknown. He would do what he had always done. He would let things take their course. He would ride the current in his frail craft and hope to survive. He would do nothing that might risk falling into the dark water where he would surely drown.