The Paladin of the Night

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Kiber jerked him roughly to his feet. The motion of the ship, although not as violent, was still erratic, and sent Mathew stumbling back against the baggage. He caught himself and stood clinging to a large rattan basket. Kiber glanced at him, saw that for the moment he was standing, and turned to Zohra.

  Seeing the goum approaching her, she repelled him with a flashingeyed look and stood up on her own, backing out of the man’s reach as far as she could before being brought up by several of the huge ivory jars.

  Reaching out, Kiber grabbed hold of her arm.

  Zohra struck the goum across the face.

  Auda ibn Jad, shouted again, sounding impatient.

  Grim and tense, the red marks of the woman’s hand showing clearly against his livid skin, Kiber caught hold of Zohra again, this time wrenching her wrist and twisting her arm behind her back.

  “Why can’t you be a woman like Blossom?” Kiber muttered, taking hold of Mathew, as well, and dragging him forward. “Instead of a wild cat!”

  Zohra’s eyes met Mathew’s. A woman like you! Her contempt seared him. Despite that, his resolve was not shaken. He caught a glimpse of Khardan. The man didn’t have strength enough left in his body to crush an ant beneath his heel, yet he had apparently roused himself from his stupor and was struggling feebly with the goums freeing him from his bonds. For what? Nothing but pride. Even if he did manage to overpower them, where could he go? Leap off the ship? Throw himself into the arms of the ghuls, who now watched the fight with intense, hungry interest.

  That’s what this plan of yours is—a feeble struggle against overwhelming odds. And that’s why it’s forgotten, Mathew told himself, looking away from both Zohra and Khardan. His fingers brushed against the pouch that contained the magical objects, and he snatched his hand away as though it had burned him. He would have to get rid of them and quickly. They were a danger to him now. He cursed himself for having picked them up.

  Fumbling at his belt, Mathew pulled out the pouch and instantly crumpled it in his hand, pressing it against his waist, concealing it in the folds of his wet clothes. He darted a furtive look from beneath his lowered eyelids, hoping to be able to drop the pouch to the deck without anyone noticing.

  Unfortunately, Auda ibn Jad turned from looking out over the sea, his snakeeyed gaze resting upon Mathew and Zohra and the grimfaced Kiber behind them.

  “Trouble, Captain?” ibn Jad asked, noting with amusement Kiber’s bruised cheek.

  Kiber answered something; Mathew didn’t know what. He froze beneath the piercing gaze. Panicked, he doubled over, digging the hand with the pouch into his stomach, hoping to seem to be still sick, although in reality his nausea was passing, either because the motion of the ship was settling down or his fear and worry had driven it from his mind.

  Ibn Jad’s gaze flicked over him, to rest more steadily at Zohra. There was neither lust nor desire in the man’s dark eyes. He was regarding her with the same cool appraisal a man might regard a dog he was considering acquiring. When he spoke, his words were the embodiment of Mathew’s thought, causing the young wizard to start guiltily, wondering if the Black Paladin had the power to read minds.

  “The bitch will produce strong whelps,” said ibn Jad in satisfaction. “Fine new followers for our God.”

  “Bitch!” Zohra’s eyes flared.

  Breaking free of the weakened Kiber, she hurled herself at ibn Jad. Kiber jumped after her and wrestled her back before she reached the Black Paladin—whose amusement seemed to grow. Auda made a sound in his throat that might have been a chuckle but caused Mathew to go cold all over. Obviously out of patience and in an ill humor, Kiber handed Zohra over to a couple of his men with orders to tie her hands and hobble her feet.

  Ibn Jad’s eyes were again on Mathew, and the young wizard cowered beneath their gaze, realizing too late that he could have dropped the pouch during the altercation and wondering, briefly, why he hadn’t.

  Ibn Jad ran his slender hand over Mathew’s smooth cheek. “A jackal, that one, compared to our fragile and delicate Blossom here who trembles beneath my fingers.”

  Mathew cringed and gritted his teeth, forcing himself to submit to the man’s odious touch, slightly turning his body to keep the pouch in his hand concealed. He was vaguely aware of activity stirring around them, of the rumbling of a heavy chain, a splash, and the ship swinging slowly at anchor.

  Brutal enslavement—this was to be Zohra’s fate and his, too, undoubtedly, until ibn Jad discovered he had been deceived, that Mathew would never bear this God, Zhakrin, worshipers. It was happening all over, he realized in despair the terrible waiting, the dread anticipation, the fear, the humiliation, and then the punishment. And there would be no one to save him this time. . .

  “These women. . . are my wives!” said a slurred voice.

  “You will die before you touch them!”

  Mathew looked at Khardan and then averted his face, tears stinging his eyelids.

  The Calif stood before ibn Jad. The bindings had cut deeply into the nomad’s arms, fresh blood streamed from a gash on his swollen lip. The sickly pallor of his complexion was accentuated by the blueblackness of his unkept beard. His eyes were sunken, encircled by shadows. He walked unsteadily; it took two goums to hold him upright. At a nod from ibn Jad, they let go. Khardan’s knees buckled. He pitched forward, falling at the feet of the Black Paladin.

  “A bold speech from a man on his knees, a man we found hiding from the soldiers of the Amir in a dress,” said Auda ibn Jad coolly. “I begin to think I made a mistake with this one, Kiber. He is not fit for the honor I intended to bestow upon him. We will leave him to the ghuls. . .”

  Damn you, Khardan! Mathew cursed the Calif silently, bitterly. Why did you have to do that? Jeopardize your life for two people you detest—a woman who brought you to shame and a man who is shame personified. Why do this? Honor! Your stupid honor! And now they will rend your flesh, murder you before my eyes!

  Putting his booted foot on Khardan’s shoulder, ibn Jad gave the man a shove, and the Calif went over backward, landing heavily on the deck.

  Mathew heard the splash of oars in the water. Small boats had set sail from land and were drawing near the ship. The ghuls, their ship at anchor, their task finished, were gathering around Khardan, eyes shining with an eager, eerie light. The Calif tried to rise, but Kiber kicked him in the face, knocking him back onto the deck. The ghuls drew nearer, their aspect beginning to undergo the hideous change from man to demon. Seeing them, Khardan shook his head to clear it and started to struggle once more to stand.

  Stop it! Mathew cried in silent agony, fists clenching. Stop fighting! Let it end!

  Auda ibn Jad was pointing toward the boats, issuing orders. Kiber, turning to obey, drove the toe of his boot deep into Khardan’s gut. With a gasp of agony, the Calif sank back onto the deck and did not rise again.

  The ghuls closed in, their teeth lengthening into fangs, their nails into talons.

  “Bring the women,” said ibn Jad, and Kiber motioned to the goums holding Zohra. She stared at the ghuls in dazed disbelief and horror, seeming not to comprehend what was happening. The goums dragged her forward to where the boats were pulling up beneath the ship’s hull. She twisted around, straining to watch Khardan, who was pressing his body flat against the deck as though he might escape by crawling into the wood. Bending over him, their breath hot upon his skin, the ghuls began to howl, and Khardan’s arms twitched, his hands clenched spasmodically. Then taloned fingers stabbed deep into his flesh, and the Calif screamed.

  Mathew’s hand was inside the pouch; he never remembered how. His fingers closed over the cold wand of obsidian. He had no clear conscious thought of what he was doing, and when he drew forth the wand, the hand holding it seemed to belong to someone else, the voice that spoke the words was the voice of a stranger.

  “Creatures of Sul,” he cried, pointing the wand at the ghuls, “in the name of Astafas, Prince of Darkness, I command you to withdraw!”

  T
he world went completely black. During the breadth of a heartbeat, night engulfed those standing on the ship. Light returned in the blink of an eye.

  A skinny, shriveled creature with skin the color of coal stood spraddlelegged over Khardan. Its eyes were red fire, its tongue flickering flame. Raising a splayfingered hand, it pointed at the ghuls.

  “Heard you not my master?” the imp hissed. “Be gone, lest he call upon Sul to cast you in the fiery depths where you will never more taste sweet flesh or drink hot blood.”

  The ghuls halted, some with their talons digging into Khardan’s flesh, others with their teeth just inches from his body. They stared at the imp balefully. The imp stared back, its red eyes burning fiercely.

  “Always hungry, always thirsting. . .”

  One by one, the ghuls released their hold upon Khardan. Slowly—eyes on the imp—they moved away from the Calif, their aspect shifting from demon to man.

  Its tongue flicking in and out of its mouth in pleasure, the imp turned to Mathew and bowed.

  “Will there be anything more, My Dark Master?”

  Chapter 3

  Mathew very nearly dropped the wand. Of all the astonished people on the ship, the young wizard was the most astounded of all.

  Feeling the wand start to slip from his shaking fingers, Mathew caught hold of it with a spasmodic jerk of his hand, reacting more out of instinct than conscious thought. To drop a wand during a spell casting was considered a grievous and dangerous error on the part of any wizard. Almost every nervous young student did it once, and Mathew could hear the voice of the Archmagus dinning furiously in his ears. The young wizard’s training saved him. He gained additional strength from the sudden frightening realization that if the spell was broken, he was in far more danger than if all the ghuls in the nether plane had ringed themselves round him.

  An instant before the imp bowed, Mathew saw clearly in the creature’s eyes the burning desire to lay claim to his immortal soul. Then it would be Mathew who was forever in servitude to a Dark Master—Astafas, Prince of Darkness. Why didn’t the imp snatch him up? Mathew had put himself in forfeit by speaking the name of Astafas. Why was the creature obeying him? Only the most powerful of the wizard’s Order could summon and control immortals such as the imp.

  The wand might have such powers, but Mathew doubted it. Meryem was a skilled sorceress, but not even she could have attained the high rank necessary to enable her to make a Wand of Summoning. If she had possessed this kind of arcane power, she would not have needed to resort to anything as clumsy as murder. No, some strange and mystifying force was at work here.

  Too late, Mathew regained control of his features. He had been staring blankly at the imp as these confused thoughts tumbled through his mind, and he hoped no one had noticed.

  His hope was a vain one. Auda ibn Jad’s cool composure had been disturbed by the appearance of the imp, still more by its referring to the beautiful redhaired young woman as Dark Master. Ibn Jad was quick to note Mathew’s unnerved appearance, however, and—though the Black Paladin did not know what it portended as yet—he filed it away in memory for later consideration.

  Mathew knew he had to act, and he tried desperately to think what was the next logical order a powerful, evil wizard might be likely to issue.

  The command that was in his heart was to have the imp carry him, Khardan, and Zohra off this horrorfilled ship, as far away from Auda ibn Jad as the creature could manage. But just as this thought traveled from heart to mind, the imp raised its head and looked at Mathew. Its red eyes flared fire, its mouth parted in a wicked grin, the tongue licked dry, cracked lips.

  Mathew shuddered and banished the thought. The imp could read his mind, obviously. And while undoubtedly it would obey his command, Mathew knew exactly where the imp would take them—a place of eternal darkness whose Demon Prince made Auda ibn Jad seem saintly in comparison. “Dark Master?” the imp prompted, rubbing its skinny hands together.

  “I need you no more,” Mathew said at last, a quaver spoiling the authoritative note he tried to instill in his voice. “Be gone until I call for you again.”

  Was this how one spoke to summoned creatures? Mathew couldn’t remember; he’d had only the most cursory studies in Black Magic and the only object it accomplished was to fix in the minds of White Wizards that dabbling in this art would invariably lead to disaster. Mathew had the uncomfortable feeling, however, that no matter what he said, the imp would deal with the situation.

  “I obey, My Dark Master,” said the imp, and disappeared with a heartstopping bang.

  No one moved. Now that the imp was gone, all eyes turned to Mathew.

  He had to keep going, keep performing. He gave them all what he hoped was a cold, threatening stare and made his way across the deck to Khardan. Raising the wand, he fixed, his gaze upon the ghuls, and was relieved to see them step back respectfully at his approach.

  Mathew knelt down beside Khardan. Wounded, shaken by the nearness he had come to a tortured death, the Calif barely had the strength to raise his head. Putting his arm around the man’s shoulders, Mathew lifted him to a sitting position on the deck.

  “Are you all right?” he asked in a low voice.

  Khardan’s teeth chattered, his lips were blue. “The scratches!” he gasped. “Burn. . . like. . . cold fire.”

  Mathew examined the places on his arms and torso where the ghuls had driven their talons into the flesh. The long tears in the skin were swollen and colored a bluish white. There was no blood visible, although the cuts were deep. Leaning against Mathew, Khardan shook as with a chill. He was in such agony that he seemed to have only the vaguest idea what had happened.

  “The ghuls poison has entered his blood. He is too ill to walk. Some of you carry him ashore.” Looking up as he issued the command, Mathew’s eyes met the eyes of Auda ibn Jad. He saw nothing in the black, reptilian flatness to give him a clue as to what the Black Paladin was thinking. If Auda challenged him, Mathew had no idea what he would do. Certainly not summon the imp again, if he could help it!

  For long moments, the two stared at each other; the ship, the goums, the ghuls, the boats arriving beneath the ship’s hull, voices shouting hails to the deck—all vanished from the mind of each man as he strove to see deep into the heart of the other.

  Mathew came away with nothing. What Auda ibn Jad came away with—if anything—remained locked deep inside him.

  “Kiber,” said ibn Jad, “take three of your men and place; the Calif in the bosun’s chair, then lower him into the boats. Gently, Kiber, gently.”

  Kiber called out three goums, who left their duties tying the baggage that had been brought on board in huge nets to be swung out over the side and deposited in the waiting boats. Hurrying forward—with sidelong, distrustful glances at Mathew—the goums lifted Khardan by his knees and his arms and hauled him awkwardly over to the ship’s rail.

  Rising to his feet, Mathew followed them, thankful that the folds of the caftan hid the trembling of his legs and hoping he did not disgrace himself by collapsing in a heap upon the deck. He still clutched the wand in his hand and thought it best to keep it visible. So tightly were his fingers wrapped around it, he wasn’t at all certain he could let loose of the thing.

  “Approach me, Blossom,” said Auda ibn Jad. “The rest of you”—he gestured at the goums—”continue your work. It is almost nightfall and we must be off this ship by then. Take her”— he indicated Zohra—”and put her in the same boat with her husband.”

  Mathew glanced at Zohra apprehensively; there was no telling what she might say, perhaps blurt out that the wand wasn’t his at all or that he had told her the God he followed was called Promenthas not Astafas. Zohra said nothing, however; simply stared at him in wideeyed astonishment. He managed to smile at her in what he hoped was reassurance, but she was apparently so completely shocked by what had happened that she couldn’t respond. Zohra allowed her captors to lead her away, looking as though she were in a waking dream.

&n
bsp; Sighing, Mathew came to stand before Auda ibn Jad, the two of them were alone in the center of the deck.

  “Well, Blossom, it seems your face and lithe body and the sorcerer’s robes you wore when I first saw you fooled me. It was not a woman I took into my slave caravan but a man. Of course, you thought I would kill you, and so you let me remain deceived. You might have been right, but then again, I am not so sure I would have had you murdered as I did the others. There are those who fancy a pretty boy above a pretty girl and who are just as willing to pay good money for such in the slave market. You might have spared yourself much humiliation and me much trouble had you told me the truth. Still, the water spilled into the sand cannot be drunk, and there is no going back. I think you should give me the fish, now, Blossom,”

  All this was spoken in cool, calm tones, even the last. But Mathew felt the steeledged menace prick him sharply. Taking a moment to gather his thoughts and to grasp hold of his courage with the same desperate grip by which he held the wand, Mathew shook his head.

  “No,” he replied softly. “I will not do that. I know something of magic, as you have seen. You called me the Bearer and one so designated cannot be parted from that which he bears by any force in this world.”

  “I can kill you and take it from your corpse,” said the Black Paladin with an easy, impersonal casualness that made Mathew blench.

  “Yes,” he answered, “you could kill me. But you won’t, at least not until you know how much I know and—more importantly— how much my God”—the word came with difficulty—”knows.”

  “Astafas, our brother God in Evil.” Auda ibn Jad nodded slowly, reflectively. “Yes, I must admit I am curious to know more about the Prince of Darkness. In fact, I am pleased at the opportunity for contact with our Brother. I will not sacrifice you in order to take the fish—not yet at least. There will come a time, Blossom—you don’t mind me calling you this? I find I have grown accustomed to it—when your usefulness will be at an end, and then I will not hesitate to destroy you in a most unpleasant manner.”