The Paladin of the Night

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “Let the Bearer come forward.”

  Moving slowly, Mathew stepped toward the Holy Circle. It broke and opened for him, it absorbed him and closed around him.

  The Black Sorceress came to stand directly before the young wizard.

  “Give me that which you bear,” she said softly.

  There was no denying her. Mathew’s hand moved by her will, not his own. Reaching into the bosom of his black robes, he drew forth the crystal globe and held it in his trembling palm.

  The golden fish remained motionless in the center of the globe; the black fish swam about in wide circles, its mouth opening wide, striking in excitement at his crystal walls.

  Breathing a reverent sigh, the Black Sorceress lifted the globe gently and carefully. Mathew felt the slight weight leave his hands and a great weight, not noticed until now, leave his heart. The sorceress carried the globe to the table and laid it down beside the chalice. Then she covered both with the black velvet cloth.

  “Hear me, my people.” Her voice rang triumphantly through the Vestry. “Tomorrow night, our god, Zhakrin, will return to us!”

  There was no sound from the God’s followers, no cheering. The matter touched the soul too deeply for the voice to echo it. Their victory shone in their eyes.

  “He will be weak and thus He has chosen to reside in a human body until He can gain strength and return to His immortal form. This will mean the death of the body in which He chooses to reside for His short stay upon this plane, for He will be forced to suck it dry of its life’s juices to feed him—”

  Auda ibn Jad sprang forward. “Let Him take my body!”

  “Mine! Mine!” shouted the Black Paladins, breaking the circle, vying with each other for the honor.

  The Black Sorceress. raised her hand for silence.

  “Thank you all. The God takes note of your courage. But He has made His choice and”—the sorceress smiled proudly—”it is to be the body of a female. As man is born of woman, so shall our God be brought forth in the body of a woman. Because He will not diminish the number of his followers, He has selected one of our female prisoners—the newest one. She is strong in magic, which the God will find useful. She is intelligent, strongwilled and spirited—”

  “No!”

  Mathew’s mouth formed the word, but it was Khardan who shouted it.

  “Take my body, if it’s flesh you need to feed your accursed God!” the Calif cried fiercely, struggling to break free of Kiber and the goum, straining against them with such strength that Auda ibn Jad left his place within the circle and moved near Khardan, his hand on the hilt of the sword he wore at his waist. Turning, the Paladin looked back at the sorceress with a raised eyebrow.

  She nodded, appearing well pleased. “It is as you said, ibn Jad. The nomad is noble and honorable. We know that he is strong and his spirit that of a warrior. You may begin his training tonight.” Her eyes fixed upon Khardan. “Your offer becomes you, sir. But to accept such a sacrifice would be a tragic waste, abhorred by our God. You have proven your merit and will, therefore, serve Zhakrin in another way. You will begin your preparation to become one of the Black Paladins.”

  “I serve Akhran, the Wanderer, and no other!” Khardan retorted.

  “As of now you serve Him. That will change,” said the Black Sorceress gravely. “Since the circle has been broken, our Vestry is concluded. Auda ibn Jad, you will take the man below. His preparation will begin at once.

  “We will reconvene tomorrow night at eleven o’clock,” the sorceress continued, speaking to all. “The ceremony begins at midnight—the ending of one day and the beginning of another. So shall our God’s return mark the beginning of a new time for the world.”

  “One question before we depart,” said the Lord of the Black Paladins.

  The sorceress turned respectfully to face her husband.

  “We have here two holy beings—Zhakrin and Evren. What will we do with the Goddess of Good?”

  “Because she is a Goddess and we but mortals, we are powerless to offer Her either help or harm. Her fate rests in the hands of Zhakrin.”

  The Lord nodded, and the people began to file out of the Vestry. The Black Sorceress remained, beckoning several of the women to join her. Their conversation was low and hushed, probably discussing tomorrow night’s ceremony. Auda ibn Jad ordered Kiber, with a gesture, to bring Khardan, and together they left the Vestry.

  Mathew glanced around. No one was paying any attention to him. He could see ibn Jad and his men traversing a narrow corridor. If I’m going to follow them, I must do so now, before they leave me behind. Silently, after one final look, he stole from the Vestry.

  The eyes of the Black Sorceress did not mark his passing, but his footsteps resounded in her heart.

  Chapter 9

  When did I begin to lose control? Khardan wondered angrily. For twentyfive years, I’ve held life in my hand like a lump of cold iron ready for the forging. Then, suddenly, the iron changed to sand. Life began to slide through my fingers, and the harder I grasped hold of it, the more fell away from me.

  It all started with the God’s command that I marry Zohra and wait for that accursed Rose of the Prophet to bloom. What have I done to offend the God that he treats me thus? What have my people done? Why has Akhran allowed me to be brought here when my people need me? Instead of helping us to defeat our enemies, why has he chosen to appear to these kafir and assist them in their evil plots?

  “Hear my prayer, Akhran!” Khardan muttered angrily. “Send my djinn to me! Or appear here with your fiery sword and free me!”

  In the passion of his plea, the nomad strained against the leather thongs that bound his wrists together. Kiber growled, and a knife flashed in the light of a torch. Whirling, Khardan turned to face his attacker. Bound as he was, he was prepared to fight for his life, but Auda ibn Jad shook his head. Reaching out, he took the knife from Kiber, grabbed hold of Khardan’s arms, and pushed him up against a wall. The knife sliced through the leather thongs.

  “That will be all for the night, Kiber,” Auda said. “You have leave to go to your quarters.”

  The goum bowed and, after giving Khardan one final, threatening glance, departed. Walking back down the hallway, Kiber seemed not to notice—since he had been given no orders concerning the matter—the black shape moving some distance behind them that vanished precipitously into the deeper darkness of an open doorway at the goum’s approach.

  Khardan rubbed his wrists and stared suspiciously at ibn Jad. The two were alone in a shadowy hallway that was spiraling downward, taking them deep beneath the ground level of the Castle.

  “Fight me!” Khardan said abruptly. “Your sword. My bare hands. It doesn’t matter.”

  Auda ibn Jad appeared amused. “I admire your spirit, nomad, but you lack discipline and common sense. What have either of us to gain by fighting? Perhaps you could defeat me, although I doubt it, for I am well trained in forms of handtohand combat of which you have no conception. Still, by some mischance you might win. Then what? Where would you go? Back to the ghuls?”

  Khardan could not help himself; a shudder shook his body. Ibn Jad smiled grimly. “Such was my purpose in allowing them to attack you. I wouldn’t have let them kill you, you know. You are far too valuable to us. Blossom’s rescue of you was quite unexpected, although highly instructive, as it turned out. Strange are the ways of the God,” he murmured reflectively and stared back down the hall in thoughtful silence. Shaking his head, breaking his reverie, ibn Jad continued. “No, I will not fight you. I have released your bonds so that we may walk together as men—with dignity.”

  “I will not serve your God!” Khardan said harshly.

  “Come, let us not spend our time in pointless argument,” Auda made a polite, graceful gesture with his slender hand. “Will you walk with me? The way is not far.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “That will be seen.”

  Khardan stood irresolutely in the hallway, glancing up and down t
he torch lit corridor. Carved out of granite, it was narrow and grew narrower still up ahead. Torches lit the way, but they were placed upon the wall at intervals of about twenty or thirty feet and so left patches of darkness broken by circles of light. Farther back, at the beginning of the hall, after they’d left the Vestry, they had passed doorways and the arched entrances to other corridors. But soon these were left behind. The walls that had been made of smooth, polished stone gave way to roughhewn blocks. There were no windows, there was absolutely no way out.

  And if there was, there were the ghuls. . .

  Khardan began to walk down the hall, his dark brows lowering, his face grim and stern. Auda ibn Jad accompanied him.

  “Tell me, is it true that your God— What is His name?”

  “Akhran. “

  “—Akhran is known as the Wanderer? Could it be your God who came to us with news of Quar’s duplicity?”

  “Yes,” Khardan admitted. “Akhran has warned us of Quar’s treachery, and we have seen it for ourselves.”

  “In the Amir’s attack on your people?”

  “I did not flee the battle, dressed as a woman!”

  “Of course not. That was the doing of Blossom and your wife, Zohra. A remarkable woman that one. I cannot imagine that she would be the kind to drag a man out of battle. Did she give you any explanation for this irrational behavior?”

  “Something about a vision,” Khardan replied irritably, not wanting to discuss the matter, not wanting to think about Zohra. Despite the fact that she had dishonored him in his bed, despite the fact that she had thwarted his marriage to Meryem and made him ridiculous in the eyes of his fellow tribesmen by forcing him into the position of accepting a man into his harem, she was his wife, deserving his protection, and he was helpless to grant it.

  “A vision?”

  “Women’s magic,” muttered Khardan.

  “Do not disparage women’s magic, nomad,” said Auda ibn Jad gravely. “Through its power and the courage of those who wield it—courage as strong or stronger than any man—my people have survived. This vision was important enough to the woman to cause her to act upon it. I wonder what it was. And still more, how it might affect what I do now.”

  Khardan could hear the Paladin’s unspoken words as plainly as the spoken; the thoughtful, brooding expression on Auda’s face indicated how seriously he took this matter. Khardan began to regret that he had not questioned Mathew further on this point.

  The Black Paladin did not speak for several minutes, while they continued to walk the winding hallway. At length, the light of the torches ended. Beyond them was impenetrable darkness and an evil whose depths were unfathomable.

  Khardan stopped. A sudden weakness came over him. Trembling, he leaned against the wall. A draft wafting up those shadowy stairs caused him to shiver uncontrollably. It was as chill and damp as the breath of Death; its touch upon his skin was like the cold touch of a corpse.

  Auda ibn Jad took a torch from a sconce on the wall and held it aloft. The light illuminated stone stairs descending in a sharp spiral.

  “Courage, nomad,” said the Paladin, his hand on Khardan’s bare arm.

  “What is down there? Where are you taking me?”

  “To your destiny,” answered Auda ibn Jad.

  Khardan was about to hurl himself at the Black Paladin, make a last, desperate, hopeless attempt to battle for his life; but the man’s dark eyes met his, caught and held him motionless.

  “Is this courage? To fight in despair like a cornered rat? If it is death you face down there, surely it is better to face it with dignity.”

  “So be it!” said Khardan. Shaking off Auda’s hand, the Calif walked ahead of the Paladin down the staircase.

  At the foot of the stairs they came to another hallway. By the light of ibn Jad’s torch, Khardan could see a series of heavy wooden doors placed at intervals on either side of a narrow corridor. All the doors except one were closed. From that one shone a bright light, and Khardan could hear faint sounds emanating from it.

  “This way,” said ibn Jad, with a gesture.

  Khardan walked slowly toward the doorway, his legs seemingly unwilling to carry him forward, his feet heavy and clumsy. Fear crawled like a snake in his belly, and he knew that if it were not for the black eyes of ibn Jad watching him, the Calif would have broken down and wept like a terrified child.

  The sounds grew clearer the nearer he drew to the open door, and the snake in his gut twisted and turned. It was the sound of a man moaning in death’s agony. Sweat broke out on Khardan’s face, trickling down into his black beard. A tremor shook him, but still he kept going. Coming opposite the doorway, he felt the touch of Auda’s hand upon his arm and came to a stop. Blinking against the brightness inside the room, he looked within.

  At first he could see nothing but a figure of darkness outlined against blazing firelight. A small, shrunken man with an oversized head and a wizened body glanced at Khardan with shrewd, appraising eyes.

  “This is the one, Paladin?” came a voice as wizened as the body.

  “Yes, Lifemaster.”

  The man nodded his huge head. It seemed balanced so precariously upon his scrawny neck, and he moved so carefully and with such deliberation, that Khardan had a fearful, momentary impression the head might topple off. The man was dressed in voluminous black robes that stirred and rippled in waves of hot air wafting from the room. From behind him, running like a dark undercurrent to his words, came the low, moaning sound.

  “You arrive in good time, Paladin,” said the man in satisfaction.

  “The rebirth?”

  “Any moment now, Paladin. Any moment.”

  “It should prove instructive to the nomad. May we watch, Lifemaster?”

  “A pleasure, Paladin.” The small man bowed and stepped aside from the doorway.

  Khardan looked inside, then hastily averted his eyes.

  “Squeamish?” said the wizened man, scurrying over to poke at Khardan with a bony finger. “Yet here I see scars of battle—”

  “It is one thing to fight a man. It is another to see one tormented to his death!” Khardan said hoarsely, keeping his head turned from the gruesome sight within.

  “Watch!” said Auda softly.

  “Watch!” said the old man. The bony hand crawled over Khardan’s flesh and he cringed in disgust, then started and gasped. Needlesharp pain raced through his nerve endings. The small man held no weapon, but it was as if a thousand piercing thorns had driven into Khardan’s flesh. Choking back his cry, he stared at the blackrobed man, who smiled modestly.

  “When I came to Zhakrin, I wondered how best I might serve my God. This”—he spread his thin arms, the yellowed skin hung from the bones—”is not the body of a warrior. I could not win souls for Zhakrin with my sword. But I could win them another way—pain. Long years I studied, traveling to dark and secret places throughout Sularin, learning to perfect the art. For art it is. Look, look at this man.”

  The fingers caressed Khardan’s skin. Reluctantly, he turned his gaze back upon the figure in the room.

  “He was brought in yesterday, Paladin. Look at his armor!” The wizened man pointed a palsied finger toward a corner of the room.

  “A White Knight of Evren!” said Auda in awe.

  “Yes!” The small man smiled proudly. “And look at him now. One of her strongest, one of her best. Look at him now!”

  The man, his arms chained to the wall, sprawled naked upon the stone floor. He stared at the Lifemaster with wild, dilated eyes. His body was covered with blood—some of it still flowing—from numerous wounds, the skin was ashen gray. The low moaning sound came from his throat; then suddenly his body jerked convulsively. He screamed in agony, his head dashed back against the wall as though he had been struck by a giant hand.

  But no one had touched him. No one had gone near him.

  The wizened man smiled with quiet pride. “Pain, you see”— he nudged Khardan—”is in two places. Body and mind. The pain you
feel”—his fingers twitched and Khardan felt the needles race through his flesh again, this time sharper and seemingly tipped with fire. He could not forbear crying out, and the wizened man grinned in satisfaction—”that was in your body. You are brave, nomad, but within fifteen minutes, with my instruments and my bare hands, I can reduce you to a quivering mass of flesh promising me anything if I will only end your torment. But that is nothing, nothing to the pain you will endure when I enter your mind! I am there now, in his.” The wizened man pointed at the White Knight. “Watch!”

  The Lifemaster slowly began to clench his tiny fist, the fingers curling inward. And, as he did so, the man chained to the wall hegan to curl in upon himself, his muscles clenching spasmodically, his entire body curling up like that of a dying spider, scream after scream bursting from his throat.

  “Honor?” Turning to the Black Paladin, Khardan sneered, though his face ran with sweat and his body shook. “What honor is there is torturing your enemy to death?”

  “Death?” The wizened man appeared shocked. “No! Senseless, wasteful!”

  “He is dying!” Khardan said angrily.

  “No,” said the Lifemaster softly, “he is praying. Listen. . .”

  Reluctantly, Khardan turned his gaze back to the tortured body. Evren’s Knight hung from his chains, his strength nearly spent. His screams had ceased, his broken voice whispered words that could not, at first, be heard.

  The Lifemaster raised a hand for silence. Hardly breathing, ibn Jad leaned forward. Baffled, Khardan glanced from one to the other. A look of triumph was on each face, yet the Calif could not understand their victory. A dying man praying to his Goddess to accept his soul. . .

  And then Khardan heard the man’s words clearly. “Accept me . . . in your service. . . Zhakrin . . .” The man’s voice grew stronger. “Accept me . . . in your service . . . Zhakrin!”