One.
The Black Sorceress drew forth from her robes the crystal globe containing the swimming fish.
Two.
Reverently, she laid the globe upon the forked tongue of the snake.
Three.
Turning to one of the ivory jars, the Black Sorceress dipped in her hand and drew it forth, stained with human blood.
Four.
The Black Paladins began to call upon their God by name. “Zhakrin . . . Zhakrin . . . Zhakrin . . .” whispered through the Vestry like an evil wind.
Five.
The Black Sorceress bent over Zohra and drew an Sshape on her forehead in the blood of the murdered innocents of the city of Idrith.
Six.
The chant rose in volume, increased in speed. “Zhakrin, Zhakrin, Zhakrin.”
Seven.
Mathew’s hand slowly began to draw forth the black wand.
Eight.
The Black Sorceress lifted the crystal globe and placed it upon Zohra’s breast.
Nine.
The chant became frenzied, triumphant. “Zhakrin! Zhakrin! Zharkin!”
Ten.
The Black Sorceress dipped her hand again in the blood in the ivory jar and smeared it over the crystal globe.
Eleven.
Removing one of the razorsharp, ivory fangs from, the mouth of the altar, the Black Sorceress held it poised above the globe, above Zohra’s breast. . .
Twelve.
“In the name of Astafas, I summon you! Bring the fish to me!” cried Mathew.
He raised the wand, the imp appeared. A shattering explosion blew out the lights of the candles and plunged the room into darkness.
Chapter 18
The chanting dwindled into confusion, swallowed up by shouts of outrage and anger.
“Torches!” cried some of the Paladins, starting to leave.
“Do not break the Circle!” the Black Sorceress’s voice shrieked above the cries, and Mathew heard movement around him cease.
But the menatarms standing outside the Circle were, free to act. Hastening into the hallways around the Vestry, their booted feet skidding and sliding on the slick floors in their haste, the soldiers grabbed torches from the walls and were back into the Vestry before Mathew’s eyes had yet grown accustomed to the darkness.
Blinking in the blazing light that caused his eyes to ache, Mathew saw the Black Sorceress staring at him, her face livid, her eyes burning more fiercely than the flames reflected in their dark depths. She did not say a word or make a move but only gazed upon him, testing his strength. Between her and Mathew stood the imp, its splayfingered hands outstretched, its red eyes flaring threateningly around the circle, its tongue lolling in excitement from its drooling mouth.
Nobody moved or spoke. All eyes were on him. Mathew smiled, secure in his power. “Bring me the fish,” he ordered the imp again, his voice cracking with impatience. “Why do you delay? Must I speak the name of Our Master again? He won’t be pleased, I can assure you.”
Slowly, the imp turned and faced Mathew, its red eyes flickering, its shriveled skin glistening with slime in the torchlight. “You speak the name of My Master glibly enough,” said the imp, pointing at Mathew with a crooked finger, its feet sliding noiselessly over the floor as it drew near him. “But Astafas is not convinced that you are His servant. He demands proof, human.”
“What more proof does he want?” Mathew cried angrily, keeping the wand pointed at the imp. “Isn’t it enough that I am capturing these two Gods, bringing them to Him to do with as He pleases?”
“Are you?” inquired the imp, grinning. “Or are you using that as an excuse to aid you in your escape from the Castle, knowing that if you have the magical globe in your possession, no one can harm you? Will you truly offer the fish to Astafas?”
“I will! What can I do to prove it?”
The imp’s pointing finger began to move. “Sacrifice, in the name of Astafas, this man.” The finger stopped. It was aimed at Khardan’s heart.
Mathew sucked in his breath. The wand in his hand began to writhe and change and suddenly he held an onyx dagger with a handle of petrified wood. The breastplate melted from Khardan’s body, leaving his chest bare, the wounds of his torment clearly visible on his skin. The Calif regarded Mathew complacently, obviously thinking this was part of the plan. He made no attempt to escape, and Mathew knew he would not.
He has faith in me!
Not until Mathew plunged the dagger into his heart, would Khardan realize he’d been tricked, duped.
“There is nothing else I can do!” Mathew whispered, raising the dagger, enveloping himself in the darkness that had suddenly become a living, breathing entity.
And thus he did not see, behind him, torchlight flare off the drawn blade of the sword of Auda ibn Jad.
The Book of Akhran
Chapter 1
Death led Asrial from the arwat through the crowded streets of the dead city of Serinda. Glancing back, the angel could see Pukah sitting disconsolately near the window, his face against the glass, staring into nothing. For the first time since Asrial had come to know him, the djinn looked defeated, and she felt an aching in her chest in what Pukah would have termed her heart. Repeating to herself that immortal beings did not possess such sensitive and wayward organs did little to ease the angel’s pain.
“I’ve been around humans too long,” Asrial rebuked herself. “When I go back, I will spend seven years in chapel and do penance until these uncomfortable, very wrong, and improper feelings are expunged from my being!”
But the strong, shielding walls of the cathedral of Promenthas were very far away. A mist began to rise up around the angel, obliterating the sight of the arwat from her view, The sounds of the city of Serinda faded in the distance. Asrial could see nothing except the gray fog that swirled around her and the figure of Death near.
“Where are we?” asked Asrial, confused and disoriented in the thick mist.
“One might say this is my dwelling place,” responded Death.
“Dwelling!” Asrial peered through the mist, attempting to see past the wispy rags of fog that wrapped and whorled and meandered around them. “I see no dwelling!”
“You see no walls, no floor, no ceiling, you mean,” Death corrected. “Such structure makes—for you—a dwelling. Yet how should I—who know the impermanence of all things—put my faith in the frail and fragile elements? Were I to live in a mountain, I would eventualy see it crumble around me. Speaking of that which is frail and fragile, I will show you the human in whom you take such an interest.”
The mists swirled and then parted, swept from before the angel’s eyes by a blast of cold wind. She stood in the Vestry. Mathew—dagger in hand—faced Khardan. Behind Mathew stood Auda ibn Jad, his sword slowly and noiselessly sliding from its scabbard. And standing near them all, its red eyes gleaming in glee—
“A servant of Astafas!” cried Asrial. “And I am not there to protect Mathew! Oh, I should never have left him, never!”
“Why did you come?”
“I was told I had to, or else my protege would lose his soul,” Asrial faltered, her eyes on the imp.
“And who told you this?”
“A. . . fish,” Asrial said, flushing in embarrassment. “How could I be so foolish!”
“The fish was the Goddess Evren, child.” Death seemed amused. “Trying to regain Her immortals, so that She can return to power, if She manages to return to life.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The two fish you see in the globe on the altar are, in reality, the God Zhakrin and His opposite, the Goddess Evren. They are in the hands of Zhakrin’s followers. The Black Sorceress, the woman standing beside the altar, was just about to bring Zhakrin back into the world by placing His essence into the body of a human when your Mathew decided to interfere.
“The young man came into possession of a wand of evil magical power. He succumbed to the temptation to use it and so—without you to guard him
—he is easy prey for Astafas. Your Mathew is attempting to take possession of the fish.”
“To save Evren!” Asrial breathed.
Death shrugged. “Mathew is a human, child. The war in Heaven is not his concern. Under the growing influence of evil, the only person he intends to free is himself. Once he has possession of the globe, the magic surrounding it will protect him from harm. If he takes it, he would dare not free the Gods. And it would not make much difference if he did. Without their immortals, Zhakrin and Evren will soon dwindle, and this time they will vanish completely. Quar’s power is ten times what it was when he first caught them. Their followers will be obliterated from the earth.”
The vision changed. Asrial saw the future. A mighty armada sailed the Kurdin Sea. Hordes of men, bearing the standard of the golden ram’s head, landed upon the beach of the Isle of Galos. The followers of Zhakrin fought desperately to save their Castle, but it was all in vain. They were overwhelmed: The bodies of the Black Paladins lay hacked and mangled upon the beach. Their line had not broken; each died where he stood—side by side with his brother. In the Castle, the Black Sorceress and the women fought with their magic, but that, too, could not prevail against the might of Quar. The Imam called down their ruin. The ‘efreet, Kaug, surged up from the volcano, bringing with him deadly ash and poisonous fume. He shook the ground; the Castle walls cracked and crumbled. The armies of Quar fled to their boats and sailed hastily back to the mainland. The volcano blew asunder; molten rock flowed into the boiling sea. Steam and cloud wound their winding sheets about the Isle of Galos, and it vanished forever beneath the dark waters.
“They are a cruel and evil people,” said Asrial, reliving in her mind the murder of the priests and magi upon the shores of Bas. “They deserve such a fate. They are not fit to live.”
“So Quar teaches—about the followers of Promenthas,” said Death coolly.
“He is wrong!” Asrial cried. “My people are not like those!”
“No, and they are not like Quar’s followers. And therefore they must either become like Quar’s followers or they must die, for ‘they are not fit to live.’ “
“You must stop him!”
“Why should I care? What does it matter to me if there is one God or twenty? And it is not your concern, either, is it, child? Your concern is for that one mortal whose life and soul stand poised upon the blade of a dagger. I fear there is little you can do to save his life”—Death caused the vision of Mathew to return and gazed upon it, an expression of insatiable hunger on her pallid face—”but you might yet be able to save his soul.”
“I must go to him—”
“By all means,” said Death nonchalantly. “But I should remind you that in order to reach the city gate, you will have to traverse the streets of Serinda.”
The angel stared at Death with stricken face.
“But I can’t! If I should die—”
“—you would live again, but without any memory of your protégé.”
“What do you want of me?” Asrial demanded through trembling lips. “You brought me here, you showed me this for a purpose.”
“Can’t you guess? I want Pukah.”
“But you have him!” the angel answered despairingly.
“You said yourself that there is no way for him to escape!”
“Nothing in Sul is certain,” replied Death sagely, “as I—above all others—have reason to know. You love him, don’t you?”
“Immortal beings cannot love.” Asrial lowered her eyes.
“Should not. It reduces their efficiency, as you yourself can plainly attest. You have committed a double sin, child. You have fallen in love with a mortal and an immortal. Now you must choose between them. Give me Pukah, and will set you free to go to the rescue of your mortal’s soul, if not his body.”
“But it will be too late!” Asrial gazed, terrified, at the vision before her.
“Time has no meaning here. One day passes in this realm for every millisecond in the mortal realm. Bring me the tourmaline amulet this night, leave the djinn defenseless, and I will see to it that you arrive in time to fight for Mathew’s soul.”
“But you said Pukah had until morning!”
The woman showed her teeth in a grin. “Death is without pity, without mercy, without prejudice. . . without honor. The only oaths I am bound to keep are those I swear in Sul’s name.”
Asrial looked again at Mathew. She could see the darkness already folding its black wings around him. The sword of Auda ibn Jad was sliding forth slowly, ever so slowly, from its scabbard and she saw Mathew—his back turned to the Black Paladin—raise his dagger against a man who had trusted him, a man he loved.
Asrial bowed her head, her white wings drooped, and she found herself standing in the street, in front of the arwat in the city of Serinda.
Chapter 2
“My enchanting one!” Pukah shouted, spying Asrial from the window. Springing to his feet, he raced outside the arwat and accosted the angel in the street. “You came back!”
“Of course,” said Asrial sadly. “Where did you think I could go?”
“I don’t know!” Pukah said, grinning. “All sorts of wild ideas went through my head when I saw you disappear with Death. Like maybe she might send you back to be with that madman of yours—”
“No!” cried Asrial wildly. Pukah looked at her, startled, and she flushed, biting her lip. “I mean, no, how silly of you to imagine such a thing.” Reaching out her hand, she clasped hold of Pukah’s and gripped it tightly. Her fingers were a bit too cold for those of an ardent lover, and her grasp was more resolute than tender, but so thrilled was Pukah at this expression of caring, that he immediately overlooked these minor inconsistencies.
“Asrial,” he said earnestly, gazing into the blue eyes that were raised to his, “with you here, I’m not afraid of anything that might happen to me tomorrow.”
The angel lowered her eyes, hurriedly averting her face, but not before Pukah saw a tear glisten on her cheek.
“Forgive me! I’m a wretch, a beast! I didn’t mean to talk about tomorrow. Besides, nothing’s going to happen to me. There, I’m talking about it again! I’m sorry. I won’t say other word.” He drew her near, putting a protective arm around her and glowering at those in the street who were lustfully eyeing the lovely angel. “I think we should go someplace where we can be alone.”
“Yes,” said Asrial shyly. “You’re right” Her eyes looked to the upper windows of the arwat, from where sounds of sweet laughter drifted out into the street “Perhaps—”
“By Sul!” Pukah caught her meaning and stared at her, amazed. “Are you serious?”
Pressing her lips together firmly, Asrial moved nearer Pukah and rested her head against his chest.
The djinn flung his arms around the angel, hugging her close, never minding that it was similar to embracing the hard and unresisting trunk of a date palm. Her lips were stiff and did not kiss back.
“She does not want to seem too eager,” said Pukah to himself. “Quite proper. I wonder if the wings are detachable.”
Keeping his arm around Asrial’s waist, the djinn led her back to the arwat. “A room,” he said to the rabat-bashi.
“For the night only, I suppose.” The proprietor grinned wickedly.
Pukah felt Asrial tremble in his arms and glared at the man. “For a week! Paid in advance.” He tossed a handful of gold into the immortal’s hands.
“Here’s the key. Up the stairs, second door to your left. Don’t wear yourself out tonight. You’ll need to be fresh for the morrow!”
“I’ll be fresh enough for you on the morrow you can be sure of that!” muttered Pukah, hurrying the nearcollapsing angel up the stairs. “Don’t pay any attention to that boor, my dearest.”
“I’m. . . not,” said Asrial faintly. Leaning against the wall, while Pukah fumbled with the key, the angel looked at him with such a sorrowful gaze that Pukah couldn’t bear it.
“Asrial,” he said gently, hea
ring the lock click, but not yet opening the door, “wouldn’t you rather go sit somewhere and talk? Maybe the fountain by the Temple?”
“No, Pukah!” Asrial cried fiercely, flinging her arms around his neck. “I want to be with you tonight! Please!” She burst into tears, her grip tightened until she nearly strangled him.
“There, there,” he said soothingly, feeling the heart beating wildly in the soft breast pressed against his bare chest. “You and I will be together, not only this night, but all nights in eternity!” Opening the door, he led the angel inside.
The rays of the setting sun beamed brightly through an open window. Asrial drew away from his arms as soon as they were in the room. Pukah locked the door, tossing the key on a nearby table, then hurried over to shut out the red, glaring light, slamming closed the wooden shutters and plunging the room into cool darkness.
When he turned around, his eyes growing accustomed to the dimness, he saw Asrial lying upon the bed that was the room’s prominent feature. The wings—about which he had been so worried—spread out beneath her, forming a white, feathery blanket. Her long hair seemed to shine with its own light, bathing the angel in silver radiance. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Yet she held out her arms to him, and Pukah was very quick to respond.
Unwinding his turban, he shook free his black hair and crawled into bed beside her. Asrial did not look at him, but kept her eyes lowered in a maidenly confusion that made Pukah’s blood throb in his temple. Slowly, her arms cold and shaking, the angel drew his head to her bosom and began to mechanically stroke the djinn’s curly hair.
Pukah nestled into the softness of the wings and, placing his lips upon the white throat, was just about to lose himself in sweetness when he noticed that Asrial was singing.
“My dove,” he said, clearing his throat and trying to lift his head, only to find that the angel held him close, “your song is beautiful, if a bit eerie, but so mournful. Plus”—he yawned—”it’s making me sleepy.”
The angel’s hand motions were lulling and soothing. Pukah closed his eyes. The enchanting song bubbled into his mind like the rippling waters of a cool stream, quenching desire. He let the waters take him up and bear him away, floating on the top of the music until he sank beneath its waves and drowned.
The Paladin of the Night Page 33
