Preparation to become a Black Paladin.
Evren’s Knight lifted his head, tears streamed from his eyes. He raised his manacled hands. “Zhakrin!” he whispered reverently. “Zhakrin!”
The Lifemaster shuffled across the stone floor. Drawing a key from his robes, he removed the manacles. The knight fell to his knees, embracing the man around the legs. Clucking like a mother over her child, the wizened old man lifted a bowl of water and began to cleanse the tormented flesh.
“Naked, covered with blood, we come into this life,” murmured ibn Jad.
Sickened and dizzy, Khardan slumped back against the stone wall. The tortured man’s body was muscular; he was obviously strong and powerful. A bloodstained sword rested in the comer, his armor—adorned with a lily—was dented and scratched. He had apparently fought his captors valiantly. He had been the sworn enemy of this God, and now he offered Zhakrin his life.
“So did many of us come to the God,” said ibn Jad. “The path of fire cleanses and leads the soul to the truth. And so it will be with you, nomad.” He gripped Khardan’s arm. “In years to come, you will look back on this as a blessed experience. And with you, it will be a twice wonderful transformation, for you will be reborn almost at the same moment as will our God!”
The Lifemaster had the knight on his feet, his scrawny arm around the strong body, holding him tenderly. “Take him, Paladin. Take him to his chamber. He will sleep and wake refreshed and renewed in the morning.”
Auda ibn Jad accepted charge of Evren’s Knight, who was still murmuring the name of Zhakrin in holy ecstasy.
Leading the knight back down the hallway, Auda glanced over his shoulder at Khardan. “Farewell, nomad. When we meet tomorrow, I hope it will be to call you brother.”
Khardan surged forward, with no hope of escape, with only some dim view in his mind of smashing his head into the stone wall, of dashing out his brains, of killing himself.
Bony fingers closed over his wrist. Pain mounted up his arm, running from tiny nerve to tiny nerve, seeping through his veins like slowmoving ice water. He stumbled to his knees, resistance gone. The Lifemaster grabbed hold of his other wrist and dragged him across the stone floor into the sweltering heat of the room.
Flame leaped high in Khardan’s vision, heat beat upon his body. The manacles snapped shut around his wrists. The old man shuffled across the floor to where an iron cauldron hung over the roaring fire. Reaching inside, his flesh seemingly impervious to the searing heat, he drew forth a thin piece of redhot, glowing iron and turned back with it to face Khardan.
“Akhran!” Khardan shouted, plunging against the manacles, trying to rip them from the wall. “Akhran! Hear me!”
The old man shuffled closer and closer until his huge head loomed in Khardan’s vision. “Only one God hears your screams, nomad. Zhakrin!” The hissing breath was hot upon Khardan’s cheek. “Zhakrin!”
Chapter 10
Mathew crept silently down the stairs behind Auda ibn Jad and Khardan, his way lit only by the faint afterglow of the Black Paladin’s torch. Peering cautiously around the corner at the bottom, he saw the long, narrow hallway with its rows of closed wood doors and realized that to go any farther would lead to certain discovery.
He had no choice but to retreat back up the stairs, feeling his way in the darkness, moving cautiously so that he would not be heard. He came to a halt about halfway up the staircase, pressed against the wall, holding his breath to hear. The men’s words came to him clearly; a trick of the stone carrying it to his ears almost as plainly as if he stood beside them.
Thus Mathew heard everything, from Evren’s tortured Knight’s agony to his final, ecstatic prayer to Zhakrin. He heard the scuffling sound of Khardan’s futile try for freedom, he heard the Calif cry out in pain, and the sound of a heavy weight being dragged across the floor. But he heard something else, too. Auda ibn Jad was coming back this direction. Moving as swiftly as he dared in the total darkness, Mathew dashed to the top of the stairs. Reaching the level floor but not expecting it, he staggered and fell. The footsteps grew louder. Fortunately, ibn Jad was weighted down by the burden of the weak knight he was supporting and so was forced to move slowly. The Knight’s murmuring prayers to Zhakrin kept the Black Paladin from hearing Mathew’s scramblings.
Rising hastily to his feet, Mathew looked despairingly down the long hall. A torch burning on the wa1l about twenty feet away illuminated much of the corridor brightly, leaving only a swatch of shadow between it and the next torch; Mathew could not hope to run the length of the hall without being seen. Near him, just at the edge of the circle of torchlight, a darker shadow offered his only hope. Darting to it, Mathew discovered what he had been praying for—a natural alcove in the rough rock walls. It wasn’t very big and seemed to grow smaller as Mathew attempted to squeeze his slender body into the fissure. If he had been standing directly beneath the blazing torch, he could not have imagined himself more visible. Turning his face to the wall in an effort to hide the milkwhite skin that would show up in the light, Mathew drew his hands up into the sleeves of his black robes and held his breath.
Ibn Jad and the knight passed within inches of him. Mathew could have reached out and plucked the Paladin’s sleeve with his hand. It seemed that they must see him or hear him; his heart thudded loud enough to wake the dead. But the two walked on by, continuing down the hall without once looking in his direction. Exhaling a relieved sigh, Mathew was about to offer a prayer of thanks for the protection when he remembered uncomfortably which God it was who ruled the Darkness.
An agonized scream welled up from below, echoing in the hallway. Khardan. . .
Mathew’s legs gave way and he sank down weakly onto the stone floor, the terrible sound reverberating in his heart. Trembling, his hand went to the pouch he wore at his waist, his fingers closed over the obsidian wand.
The darkness hissed. “Say the word, Master, and I will save your friend from his suffering.”
“I did not summon you!” Mathew said shakily, aware that he had no control over this creature.
“Not by word,” replied the imp, sniggering. “I read the wishes of your heart.”
Another cry rent the air. Mathew shrank back against the wall. “By saving him, you don’t mean taking us away from here, do you?” he questioned. His chest constricted painfully; it was difficult to breathe.
“No,” said the imp, drawing out the word, ending in a throaty growl. “My Demon Prince would not like that at all. If you leave, then so must I, and my Prince commands that I stay. He is delighted to hear of his brother God’s return and more delighted still to know that the Good Goddess is in Zhakrin’s power.”
“What will he do with her?”
“Stupid mortal, what do you think?” the imp returned, its shriveled body writhing in eager anticipation.
“He can’t destroy—” Mathew began, appalled.
“That remains to be seen. Never before has one of the twenty been so weakened. Her immortals are not here to help her; her mortal followers, as you have seen, are succumbing to Zhakrin. His power grows as Evren’s wanes.”
Mathew tried to think, to feel some sense of loss at the terrible fate of the Goddess, tried to force himself to contemplate what this upset might do to the balance of power in heaven. But Khardan’s screams were in his ears, and suddenly he cared about nothing but what was happening on earth.
“Free him, free Zohra! Take me to your Prince,” Mathew begged, sweat beading on his lip.
The imp pursed its shriveled lips. “A poor bargain, trading nothing for something. Besides, Zhakrin has requested the woman’s body. Astafas would never offend his brother by stealing her away.”
Khardan’s screams ceased abruptly, cut off by a choked, strangled cry. In the awful silence, a glimmering of understanding lit Mathew’s darkness. The perplexing behavior of, the Wandering God was no longer perplexing. The young wizard longed to fan the tiny spark of the idea that had come to him, to blow on the coal and watch it b
urst into flame. But he dared not. The moment the thought came to mind, he saw the imp’s tongue lick its lips, the red eyes narrow.
Drawing the wand from his pouch, Mathew held it up before the imp. “I want to talk to Khardan,” the young wizard said evenly, keeping tight control on his voice. “Lure his tormentor away.”
The imp laughed, sneering derisively.
“What would happen,” Mathew continued calmly, though his body trembled beneath the black robes, “if I were to give this wand to the Black Sorceress?”
The imp’s red eyes flared. Too late, it hooded them with thin, wrinkled lids. “Nothing,” said the creature.
“You lie,” Mathew returned. “I begin to understand. The wand serves to summon the immortal nearest our hearts. Meryem used it to call one of Quar’s minions. When the wand came into my hands, however, its power acted on an immortal being of the Gods in which I believe, and because its magic is black, it called you.”
The imp’s long red tongue lolled out of its mouth in derision. Its teeth showed black against the red, its eyes burned.
Mathew averted his gaze; looking directly at the wand he held in his hand. “If I gave this wand to the Black Sorceress, she could use it to summon an immortal being of Zhakrin’s.”
“Let her try!” The imp’s tongue rolled up into its mouth with a slurp. “His immortals have long since disappeared.”
“Nonetheless, you would be banished.”
“As long as you are here, I am here, Dark Master,” said the imp, grinning wickedly.
“But powerless to act,” Mathew returned.
“As are you!”
“It seems I am powerless either way,” Mathew shrugged.
“What do I have to lose?”
“Your soul!” hissed the imp with a wriggle of delight that nearly twisted the creature in two.
Mathew saw the Hand reaching out for him; he saw the vast void into which he would be cast, his soul wailing in despair until its small cry was swallowed up by the eternal darkness.
“No,” said Mathew softly. “Astafas would not have even that. For when I give the wand to the Black Sorceress, I give myself to her as well.”
The imp was caught in midwrithe. One leg twined about the other, one arm wrapped about its neck. Slowly it unwound itself and crept forward to glare at Mathew.
“Before I would allow that, I would snatch your soul away!”
“To do that, you would have to have me killed, and I would be dead, and you would lose entry to this place.”
“It seems we are at an impasse!” the imp snarled.
“Do for me what I ask. Help me to see Khardan—alone.” Its tongue curling and uncurling, the imp considered. It peered into Mathew’s mind, but all it saw there was a theological muddle. As far as the imp was concerned, theology was good for only one thing—leading the overzealous scholar into deep and dangerous waters. While occasionally amused to hear mortals argue with firm conviction over something they knew absolutely nothing about, the imp generally found theological discussion somnambulic. The imp thought it odd (even for Mathew) to choose this time to discuss theology with a man being tortured, and the creature probed Mathew’s mind deeply. The young wizard appeared to have nothing more treacherous planned, however. Not that anything he attempted would do him any good anyway. The imp decided to humor the mortal and gain a valuable concession at the same time.
“If I obey your commands, then you must swear fealty to Astafas.”
“Anything!” Mathew said shortly, eager to reach Khardan. This ominous silence was more terrifying than the screams.
“Just a moment!” The imp held up a splayfingered hand. “I feel it only right to tell you that your guardian angel is not present, and so you have no one to intervene in your behalf before you make this commitment.”
Why this news should have distressed Mathew, who did not believe in guardian angels any more than he believed in other nursery tales, was a mystery. But he felt a sudden heaviness in his heart.
“It is of no matter,” he said after a moment. “I pledge my loyalty to the Prince of Darkness.”
“Say his name!” hissed the imp.
“I pledge my loyalty to. . . to Astafas.” The word burned Mathew’s lips like poison. When he licked them, he tasted a bitter flavor.
The imp grinned. It knew Mathew lied. It knew that though the human’s mouth spoke the words, they were not repeated by his soul. But the mortal was alone on this plane of human existence, his guardian angel was no longer there to shield him with her white wings. And now Mathew knew he was alone. Despair, hopelessness—these would be the imp’s instruments of torture, and when the time came—as it would soon; the imp, too, was starting to form a plan—the young wizard would be all too willing for the torment to end, to lapse into the soothing comfort of dark oblivion.
“Wait here!” the imp said and vanished in an eyeblink. A voice came out of the torchlight, sounding so near and so real that Mathew started to his feet, looking around in terror.
“Lifemaster! Come swiftly!” Auda ibn Jad sounded angry, upset. “This knight. There is something wrong with him! I think he is dying!”
The hall was empty. The Black Paladin was nowhere in sight. Yet the voice seemingly came from near Mathew’s shoulder.
“Lifemaster!” Ibn Jad commanded.
“What is it?” a shrill voice answered from below.
Mathew scrunched back into the alcove, holding his breath.
“Lifemaster!” The Black Paladin was furious, insistent. Steps rasped upon the stairs. The Lifemaster, wheezing, slowly made his way to the top and stared down the hall.
“Ibn Jad?” he queried in a tremulous voice.
“Lifemaster!” The Black Paladin’s shout echoed through the corridor. “Why do you tarry? The knight has gone into a fit!”
His oversized head jutting forward, peering this way and that, the Lifemaster shuffled down the hallway, following the sound of ibn Jad’s voice that grew increasingly angrier as it grew increasingly more distant.
Chapter 11
Strong arms held Zohra close, warm lips tasted hers, hands caressed her. The aching of desire burned within her, and she cried out for love, but there was nothing. The arms melted away, the lips turned cold, the hands withdrew. She was empty inside, longing desperately for that emptiness to be filled. The pain grew worse and worse, and then a dark figure stood above her bed.
“Khardan!” Zohra cried out in gladness and held forth her arms to draw the figure near.
The figure raised a hand and a bright, white light shone in Zohra’s eyes, burning away the dream.
“Waken,” said a cool, smooth voice.
Zohra sat up, her eyes watering in the sudden brilliance. Holding up her hand to shield them, she endeavored to see the figure that was reflected in the white light.
“What happened to me?” Zohra cried fearfully, the memory of the arms and lips and hands all too real, her body still aching for the touch even as her mind revolted against it.
“Nothing, my dear,” said the voice, a woman’s voice. “The drug was given you prematurely.” The white light became nothing more than the flame of a candle, illuminating the taut, stretched skin of the sorceress. Placing the candlestick on a table beside Zohra’s bed, the sorceress sat down next to her The flame burned steadily and unwaveringly in the depths of the woman’s ageless eyes. Reaching out a hand, she smoothed back Zohra’s mane of tangled black hair.
“I believe, however, that it has proved most instructive. You see now that you are ours—body, mind, and soul.”
“What do you mean?” Zohra faltered, drawing back from the woman’s touch. Finding herself naked in the bed, she grasped hold of the silken sheets on which she lay and clasped them around her body.
The Black Sorceress smiled. “Had not another requested you, my dear, you would have now been languishing in the arms of one of the Black Paladins; perhaps within a few months, bearing his child.”
“No!” Zohra tossed her h
ead defiantly, but she kept her eyes averted from the stern, cold face.
The Black Sorceress leaned near, her hand touching Zohra’s cheek. “Strong arms, soft kisses. And then nothing but cold emptiness. You cried out—”
“Stop!” Zohra thrust the hand from her, glaring at the woman through tears of shame. Clutching the sheets to her breast, she scrambled back as far as possible from the woman—which wasn’t far until the carved wooden bedstead blocked her way. “I will eat nothing, drink nothing!” she cried passionately. “I will never submit—”
“The drug was not in your food, child. It was in the clothing you put on. The fabric is soaked in it, and the drug seeps through your skin. It could be in these bed sheets.” She waved a hand. “The perfume with which we anoint your body. You would never know, my dear. . . But”—the sorceress rose languidly to her feet. Turning from Zohra, she walked away from the bed and began to pace the floor slowly—”do not concern yourself. As I said, you have been chosen by another, and though He wants your body, it is not for the purpose of breeding new followers.”
Zohra remained silent, disdaining to question. She was barely listening, in fact. She was trying to figure some way to avoid the drug.
The Black Sorceress looked toward a small leaded glass window set into the wall of the cheerless room. “It is only a few hours until the dawn of what will be for us a new day, a day of hope. When the midhour of night strikes, our God will return to us. Zhakrin will be reborn.” She glanced around at Zohra, who— catching the sorceress’s gaze and seeing that some response was required—shrugged.
“What is that to me?”
“Everything, my dear,” the Black Sorceress said softly, her eyes glittering with an eager, intense light. “He will be reborn in your body!”
Zohra rolled her eyes. Obviously the woman was insane. I have to get out of here. The drug . . . perhaps it was that musky odor I smelled. There must be an antidote, some way to counter it. Usti might know, if I can persuade the blubbering coward to help me—
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