The Prophet of Akhran

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

But Meryem shook her head firmly. The veil over the golden hair had slipped; the pale strands looked silver in the starlight. Achmed caught hold of one of the tresses that was damp from the girl’s tears. Soft, silken, it smelled of roses. The words he said next stuck in his throat, but they needed to be said.

  “Khardan will be proud of you—”

  Meryem looked up at him in wonder. “Don’t you know—”

  She halted, confused. “Didn’t they tell you? Khardan is . . . is dead. Majiid sent word to Badia. They found his body. The stories about him fleeing the battle were false—lies spread by the Imam. Khardan was given a hero’s burial.”

  Now it was Achmed who lowered his head, now it was Meryem who reached her hand out to brush away his tears.

  “I am sorry. I thought you knew.”

  “No, I am not crying for grief!” Achmed said brokenly. “It is thankfulness, that he died with honor!”

  “We both loved him,” said Meryem. “That will always be a bond between us.”

  Quite by accident their cheeks touched. The sweet night breeze cooled skin wet with tears and flushed with passion. Their lips met, tongues tasting salt mixed with sweetness.

  Meryem pushed Achmed away and tried to stand, but she was entangled in her clothing. Achmed drew her near. She kept her head averted, turned from him, straining away from his grasp.

  “Leave me! I am defiled! Let me go! I swear, I will not do what you fear. You have saved me. I will pray to Akhran. He will guide me.”

  “He has guided you. He has guided you to me,” Achmed said firmly. “I will take you to my tent. You will be safe there, and I will go to Qannadi—”

  “Qannadi!” The word came out shrill and harsh, and Achmed flinched in response.

  “Have you forgotten?” Meryem whispered hurriedly. “I am the Sultan’s daughter! Your Amir murdered my father, my mother! He sought to have me put to death! He must not find me!” Panicstricken, she scrambled to her feet and began to stumble through the darkness, tripping over the long skirts of her robes.

  Achmed pursued her and, grabbing hold of her wrist, pulled her close to him. Her body trembled in his arms. She wept and shivered in her fright. He pressed her near, stroking the golden hair.

  “There, I didn’t mean it. I forgot for the moment. I won’t tell him, though I’m certain that if I did, he would not harm you—”

  “No! No!” The girl gasped wildly. “You must promise me! Swear by Akhran, by Quar, by whatever God you hold sacred—”

  Achmed was silent for a moment. He could feel warm, soft skin swelling out of the torn bodice, heaving with her rapid, catching breaths against his bare breast. His arms tightened around her.

  “I swear by no God,” he said thickly. “I believe in no God. Not anymore. But I swear by my own honor. I will keep you safe, keep you secret. I will guard you with my life.”

  Meryem’s eyes closed. Her head sank against his chest, her hands stole up around his neck, and she sighed a sigh that might have been relief but seemed to whisper surrender.

  Achmed stopped the sigh with his lips, and this time Meryem did not push the young man away.

  Chapter 8

  Promenthas summoned the One and Twenty. His purpose—to discuss the current war raging on the plane of the immortals.

  When the One and Twenty came together this time, no longer did each God and Goddess view the others contentedly from his or her facet of the Jewel that was the world. Now only a very few of the strongest Gods were able to maintain their dwelling places. The others found themselves standing meekly in Quar’s pleasure garden, being eyed curiously and aloofly by the tame gazelle.

  Promenthas was strong still. He stood in his cathedral rather than the garden, but the sounds of shipbuilding echoed through the cavernous chambers and disturbed his rest. God of the lands and peoples of Aranthia, far across the Hurn Sea from Tarakan, Promenthas’s followers were—for the time being—safe from the jihad that was raging in Sardish Jardan. The pounding of nails into wood was soon going to end their peace. The Emperor of Tarakan had wealth enough and material enough from the southern realm of Bas to proceed with his designs for an armada. Within the year his fleet would be ready to cross the Hurn. Hordes of fanatical followers of Quar would storm the walled cities and castles of Aranthia.

  A sparsely populated land divided into small states, Aranthia was ruled by kings and queens who kept the peace by marrying off their sons and daughters to each other. The land was heavily wooded, difficult to traverse except by the rivers and streams that were the country’s blood, and it could hold out long against the Emperor’s troops. In the end, however, Promenthas knew his people must be defeated, overwhelmed by sheer numbers if nothing more. The teeming capital city of Khandar alone contained more people than the entire population of Aranthia.

  Seated in a pew near the altar, Promenthas watched grimly as Quar leisurely entered the cathedral. So large had the God grown, he was forced to duck his head and turn his body sideways to squeeze through the doorway. His magnificent robes were of the most rare and costly fabrics. All the jewels of the world adorning his body, Quar shone more brilliantly than the stained glass of the cathedral windows that had, of late, become grimy and dust covered from lack of care. Mincing along behind Quar, chatting merrily with him and inwardly calculating Quar’s worth at the same time, was Kharmani, God of Wealth.

  No matter that another facet of the Jewel might shine brighter, Kharmani’s facet gleamed with its own light—a golden light. No God—not the most evil, not the most good—dared try to dim that light. Every other of the One and Twenty might crouch at Quar’s feet. Kharmani would sit at his right hand—as long as that hand kept flipping golden coins in Kharmani’s direction.

  Behind Quar, Promenthas saw a shadowy figure sneaking into the cathedral under cover of the God’s flowing robes. Promenthas frowned and sighed over the fate of the Poor Box, knowing without doubt that there wouldn’t be a penny left after the departure of this God—Benario, God of Thieves. Kharmani might sit at Quar’s right hand, but Benario would be at his left, if the God didn’t steal Quar’s fingers first.

  Promenthas felt a rumbling beneath his feet, and he knew that Astafas, God of Darkness, was watching Quar step into a subterranean world of perpetual night. The dazzle must hurt Astafas’s eyes, thought Promenthas wryly, and he felt a certain sympathy for his ancient enemy.

  At least Astafas has not sunk to the level of these wretches. Trailing along behind Quar, their own radiance lost in the shadow of the shining God, were various others of the One and Twenty. Devin, shrunken and withered, meekly carried the hem of Quar’s robes. Mimrim, head bowed, walked behind, holding a sitting cushion in the eventuality that the God should decide he was fatigued and desired rest. Hammah, the horned, helmed God of the Great Steppes, marched in Quar’s retinue. Carrying his spear, the warrior God tried to appear dignified; but he kept his gaze from meeting that of Promenthas, and the whitebearded God knew with a heaviness in his immortal being that the rumors he’d heard were true. Hammah’s people had allied with the Emperor and would march to battle on Quar’s side.

  Other Gods and Goddesses Promenthas saw, but now he was most interested in those notable for their absence. The angry rumblings that were shaking the cathedral’s foundations gave indication that Astafas would cast himself in the Pit of Sul before serving Quar. Evren and Zhakrin were missing, though Promenthas had heard rumors of their return. And of course Akhran, the Wanderer, was nowhere to be seen.

  Quar’s almondeyed gaze sought out Promenthas. Slowly, with great dignity, the whitebearded God rose to his feet and moved to stand directly before his altar. There were no angels flanking him. The war on the plane of the immortals had drawn away all his subalterns. Only one angel remained, and she was hidden safely in the choir loft.

  “Why have you called this gathering of the One and Twenty—or perhaps we might better refer to it as the One and Seventeen,” said Quar in his delicate voice. Kharmani gave a tittering laugh at the God
’s joke.

  “I have called this meeting of the One and Twenty,” said Promenthas, his voice deep and stern, “to discuss the war currently raging on the plane of the immortals.”

  “War.” Quar appeared amused. “Call it bickering, squabbles among spoiled children!”

  “I call it war,” Promenthas returned angrily. “And you are the cause!”

  Quar raised a finely drawn eyebrow. “I? The cause? My dear Promenthas, it was I who—seeing the danger existent in these undisciplined beings—attempted to bring order and discipline to the world in our care by confining them safely in a place where they could no longer meddle in the affairs of humans. It is due to the meddlings of the wild and uncontrollable djinn of Akhran that this havoc is being wreaked both in heaven and on earth. It is time we take direct control—”

  “It is time you take direct control, isn’t that what you mean?”

  “Are you trying to make me angry, Graybeard?” Quar smiled pleasantly. “If so, you will not succeed. I included all my brethren out of politeness, but if you are too weak to deal with the matter, I am not. Someone must bear the burden of humanity’s sufferings—”

  “If you truly mean what you say,” interposed another voice, coming from outside the cathedral, beyond the walls of Quar’s pleasure garden, “then banish the ‘efreet known as Kaug, in whom you have consolidated much of your power. Prick your swollen ego, Quar, and let out the stinking air of your ambition. Become one of us once more—a facet in the Jewel—so that its beauty may last forever.”

  Akhran the Wanderer entered the cathedral of Promenthas, strode into Quar’s pleasure garden. Akhran’s boots were covered with dust; his flowing robes were frayed and tattered and stained with blood. The Wandering God seemed small and shabby, compared to Quar. Kharmani cast Akhran a glance of imperious disgust, and Benario, yawning, did not bother to leave his place among the shadows.

  Quar lifted an orange studded with cloves to his nose to obviate the smell of horse and leather and sweat that entered with the Wanderer and kept his eyes on Promenthas.

  “This is the thanks I receive for trying to bring order to chaos.” Quar’s tone was sad, his manner that of one who has been pierced to the heart. “What am I to expect of two who were instrumental in bringing the foul God of blackest evil, Zhakrin, back to power? But you will regret it. You think those humans who do your bidding have escaped Zhakrin’s clutches, but his shadow is long and the darkness once again draws near them. You trust him—a God who drinks the blood of innocents—”

  A muffled sound, like a despairing cry, came from the choir loft of the cathedral. Promenthas made a swift gesture with his hand, but Quar glanced up at the dustcovered carved wooden railings, and his smile deepened.

  “Sul designed the Jewel so that all facets gleam with equal light—the good and the evil—” began Akhran angrily, removing the haik from his face and glowering at Quar.

  “Ah, now you know the mind of Sul, do you, Wanderer?” interrupted Quar coolly, flicking a glance at Akhran, then flicking it away as though the sight might soil his eyes. “It is my belief, after much deep consideration, that Sul meant there to be One God, not One and Twenty. Thus his light will shine purely and brightly, beaming directly upon the humans, instead of being refracted, split, diffused.”

  “Do this, and the Jewel will shatter!” warned Akhran.

  “Then I will pick up the pieces.” With a graceful bow, Quar, his garden, and his retinue of followers disappeared.

  “Beware, lest those pieces cut you,” cried Akhran after him. There was no response. Akhran and Promenthas were left standing alone in the cathedral.

  “Do not look so glum,” said the Wandering God, clouting Promenthas on the back. “Quar has made a serious mistake—he has given too much of his power to the ‘efreet. In order to win the war on the plane of the immortals, we have only to defeat Kaug.” Akhran’s booming voice rattled the panes of stained glass. “When that is done, Quar will fall.”

  “When that is done, the stars will fall.” Promenthas sighed, though the stern face eased slightly at this offer of hope.

  “Bah!” Akhran started to spit, recalled where he was, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The sound of a horse whinnying in impatience drifted through the cool darkness. Wrapping the haik about his face, the Wandering God turned and walked down the aisle toward the cathedral’s doors. Promenthas noted, for the first time, that the God was limping.

  “You are injured!”

  “It is nothing!” Akhran shrugged.

  “What Quar said about Zhakrin, your followers and mine— the young wizard who travels with them. Are they in danger?”

  Akhran turned, regarding Promenthas with narrowed black eyes. “My people have faith in me. I have faith in them.”

  “As Zhakrin’s followers have faith in him. He seeks what Quar seeks and always has. He has no mercy, no compassion. Perhaps it was a mistake, helping him return. Admittedly Evren came with him, but she is weakened, her followers far distant, while Zhakrin is near. Very near.” Promenthas sighed and shook his head. “We are too few, and we are divided among ourselves. I fear it is hopeless, my friend.”

  Akhran flung wide the cathedral doors and drew in a deep breath of fresh air. Mounting his horse, he leaned down to clasp reassuringly Promenthas’s stooped and bent shoulder. “Only the dead are without hope!”

  Raising himself up, he kicked his horse’s flanks; the animal galloped off among the stars.

  “And without pain,” murmured Promenthas. Looking back down the aisle where Akhran had walked, he saw a trail of blood.

  The Book of Zhakrin

  Chapter 1

  Mathew sat upon a slag heap of shining obsidian. Scattered about the stark white of the salt desert floor, the black rock seemed the embodiment of the dark elements that stirred just below the crust of the world, just below the skin of man. Staring down at the gaping cracks in the surface of the heatbaked earth, Mathew fancied he could see the black rock escaping from the tormented depths, oozing out of the dead land, gangrenous liquid streaming from a putrefied wound.

  The young wizard closed his eyes to blot out the horrid vision. Though it was early morning, only a few hours since the sun had risen, the heat was already intense. The Sun’s Anvil. It was like the people of this godforsaken land to name it thus—terse, laconic, to the point. Sweating profusely beneath the heavy velvet robes, halfstunned by the heat and exhaustion, Mathew pictured a sinewy arm of pure fire wielding a hammer, slamming it down upon the ground that split and cracked beneath it but did not yield, the sparks flying, waves of heat rolling from the blast. . .

  “Mathew!” A hand was shaking him.

  Mathew lifted bleary, dreamy eyes. A form shimmered before him—Zohra, clad in the outlandish glassbeaded dress of sacrifice. Each bead caught the sun’s light, the slightest movement set them gleaming and glinting and clicking together. Dazzled by the radiance, Mathew blinked at her.

  “I’m thirsty,” he said. Licking his tongue across his lips, he could taste, feel the salt that rimed them.

  “The djinn have brought water,” Zohra said, helping him to his feet. “Come, we must talk.”

  A night, a day, and another night they had sailed the Kurdin Sea. It had taken them this long to cross, where before they crossed in a matter of hours. The winds generated by the perpetual storm around Castle Zhakrin took delight in toying with them, blowing them furiously for miles in the wrong direction, then dying completely and leaving them becalmed, then hitting them from the front when least expected. Without their djinn, the humans on board would have soon lost all sense of direction, for the clouds swirling above them hid sun and stars and made navigation impossible.

  Clinging to the side of the boat, sick and drenched and shivering with cold, lacking both food and water—not that they could have kept it down—the miserable occupants gave themselves up for dead. The boat’s owner, Meelusk, howled in terror until at last his voice gave out. When the craft finally scrap
ed against the shoreline, two of the djinn, Sond and Pukah, carried their bedraggled passengers ashore. The third djinn, Usti, whose rotund body had been pressed into service as a sail, was as sickly and forlorn as his mortal masters. Stricken with terror by the storms and a panicked fear that they were being chased by ghuls, Usti had kept his eyes squinched tightly shut the entire voyage. At its end, the djinn refused to let go of the mast or open his eyes. Sond poked and prodded and mentioned every luscious dish the djinn could think of, to no avail. Moaning, Usti refused to budge. Pukah finally had to pry the fat djinn’s fingers off the mast and his feet from under the boom. Once freed, Usti collapsed like a deflated pig’s bladder and lay gasping and moaning in the shallow water.

  The Sun’s Anvil. It was Pukah who had told them where they were. By night the desert’s flames were quenched, the fires were out, the Anvil was cold steel. Clad in his wet robes, Mathew had shivered with the chill that seemed to enter his bones. Khardan and Pukah and Sond had debated the creation of a fire, and Mathew had heard with aching disappointment the three decide that it would be unwise. Something about attracting the attention of an evil ‘efreet who apparently lived in that accursed sea.

  When dawn came Mathew had reveled in the warmth and managed to sleep fitfully. On awakening, he felt the heat strike him a physical blow. Dragging himself to his feet, he had huddled in the meager shade cast by the outcropping of obsidian and wondered what they would do.

  Apparently, according to Zohra, some sort of decision had now been reached. Mathew cast aside the hood of the robes he wore, hoping to catch the faint breeze that wafted occasionally from the surface of the Kurdin Sea. The water was flat and still now, its winds having been sucked up by the savage sun. The youth’s long red hair was wringing wet with sweat, and he lifted it off the back of his neck. Noticing what he was doing, Zohra caught hold of the hood and dragged it over Mathew’s head.

  “The sun will burn your fair skin like meat on a skewer. Its heat will curdle your wits.”