The Prophet of Akhran

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Then it was that he realized, in despair, that he had no idea how to shut the door. Khardan turned at the entrance, intent on forcing them to kill him or be killed, when a huge hand caught hold of him and plucked him through the opening.

  Sond flung Khardan into the tunnel. Reaching back inside, the djinn grabbed Auda and dragged him into the tunnel.

  “Now?” grunted Raja. “Now!” yelled Sond.

  The gigantic djinn thrust the stone door shut with a shove of his powerful hands. A screech of protest and a grinding, snapping sound indicated that the mechanism had been rendered useless. They could hear heavy blows being rained on the door from the other side.

  “How long can you hold it?” Khardan gasped for breath.

  “Ten thousand years, if my master desires!” Raja boasted, grinning broadly.

  “Ten minutes will be sufficient,” breathed Khardan, and groaned in pain.

  “You are hurt, sidi,” said Sond solicitously, bending over the Calif.

  “No time for that now!” Khardan shoved the djinn away from him and staggered to his feet. “They’re going to murder our people! Did you hear? I must reach them and—” Do what against that raging mob? “I must reach them,” he added with the sullenness of despair. “Go to the tunnel entrance and deal with any guards who come!”

  “Yes, sidi,” and Sond vanished.

  Khardan turned to Auda, who was sitting where Sond had left him, his back propped up against the tunnel wall. The front of the Paladin’s robes was covered with blood. He held his hand over a wound in his side, the fingers glistening wetly in the torchlight. Khardan knelt beside him. “Come, quickly! They’ll be sending guards—”

  Auda nodded wearily. “Yes, they will be sending guards. You must hurry.”

  “Come on!” said Khardan stubbornly. “You could have saved yourself. You risked your life to save me. Vow or no vow, I owe you—” Putting his arm around the Paladin’s back, the Calif felt blood instantly soak his sleeve.

  Understanding, Khardan slowly stood up.

  “I can go no farther,” Auda said. “Leave me, nomad. You owe me nothing. You must save”—he coughed, a trickle of red ran from his mouth—”your people.”

  Khardan hesitated.

  “Go on!” The Paladin frowned. “Why do you stay? Our oath is dissolved.”

  “No man should die alone,” Khardan said.

  Auda ibn Jad looked up at him and smiled. “I am not alone. My God is with me.”

  His eyes closed, he sank back against the wall—whether dead or fainted, Khardan could not tell. He looked at the Paladin, his thoughts a confusion of grief and loss mixed with the knowledge that, by rights, he was doing wrong to mourn the death of this evil man. This man who had given his life for his.

  The Calif turned to Raja, who stood with his back against the door, his arms folded across his chest, as unmovable and implacable as if a mountain had been dropped across the tunnel. “See to it that they do not take him alive,” Khardan commanded. “Then come as soon as you judge you can safely leave. I will have need of you. “

  “Yes, sidi,” said Raja, his face grim. His hand closed over the hilt of his scimitar.

  Turning, with a final puzzled, unhappy glance at the seemingly unconscious Paladin, the Calif ran down the tunnel.

  Auda ibn Jad opened his eyes and gazed after the nomad. “Many fine sons. . .” the Paladin said softly, and died.

  Chapter 10

  The young men of the nomad tribes came from their cells in the Zindan, blinking dazedly at their unexpected freedom. Their eyes then widened in astonishment at seeing their mothers and sisters and wives crowding into the small blockhouse. There was a moment’s joy that faded at the sound of the mob—a dread baying at the silver moon, which shone brightly as the sun in the black sky, as if the Gods—unwilling to miss the sight—had turned a watch light upon this grim scene.

  “Fedj, go see what has happened,” Zohra commanded. The djinn fled in obedience, and the Princess of the Hrana nervously twisted and tugged at the rings upon her fingers as she waited in fear and impatience for his return. Deep within she knew the cause, she knew the reason the voices howled in fury and wailed in grief. But she waited stolidly for the djinn and prayed to Akhran with every heartbeat that she was wrong.

  “Princess!” cried Fedj, appearing with a bang that shook the cell block. “The Imam is dead! Murdered!”

  “Dead!” No cheers from those gathered together. Only pale faces and frightened eyes. They knew what this meant for them. Mothers clasped their arms tightly around their babes, brothers caught hold of sisters, husbands grasped their wives. Fedj spoke their fears aloud. “Feisal was assassinated in Quar’s Temple, and now his soldierpriests come to wreak their vengeance upon our people.”

  “Those who did it,” said Zohra in a thin, tight voice.

  “What of them?”

  “The mob will be here in moments, Princess!” Fedj said urgently, sweat glistening on his face. “We must prepare to defend–”

  “What of those who murdered the Imam?” Zohra persisted coldly.

  Fedj sighed and shook his head. He had not wanted to speak this news. “The priests cry to the mob that the two men responsible were captured and . . . slain.”

  “Ah!” The knife that slew Feisal might have entered Mathew’s heart. Clutching his hands together, he stared pleadingly at the djinn as if to beg the immortal to take back his words.

  Zohra felt something within her die, something she had not known lived until now, when it was too late. Her first thought was a wish to die, too, rather than face the terror that she knew was coming. So proud of her courage, the Princess of the Hrana was as frightened and lost as the newborn lamb standing, bleating, in the darkness beside the wolfravaged body of its protector.

  Princess of Hrana.

  He is dead, and now I am responsible for the people.

  The knowledge rose out of the emptiness within her.

  Already Zohra could hear pounding footsteps. The prison guard had been alerted to the mob’s coming. There would be confusion among the guards, perhaps even panic, for a mob might not take the time to distinguish between jailed and jailer before it tore them to shreds.

  “People of Akhran, hear me!” Zohra raised her voice, and its timbre of courage, darkened with grief, made her people attentive. “The mob comes to murder us in the name of Quar. There is hope, but only if we think and act as one. Men, your women hold your lives in their hands. This is a time for magic, not swords, if indeed you had swords. Listen to your women, follow their instructions. Your lives and the lives of those you hold dear rest on this!”

  She caught hold of Mathew and thrust the young man forward. His veil had come loose from his head; the red hair blazed like flame in the torchlight. Clad still in women’s clothes, he might have been a ludicrous sight but that his own bitter loss and sense of responsibility as great as Zohra’s gave him a dignity and power that made many regard him with awed reverence.

  “From this moment on, Mathew—a mighty sorcerer in his land—is your leader. He comes to you in”—she drew a shaking breath but spoke without faltering—”Khardan’s name. Obey him as you would the Calif. Fedj, Usti.” She summoned the djinn. “Go see to the opening of the gate.”

  The djinn bowed low to her, and this alone impressed many of the doubtful.

  Fearful that she could say no more without breaking down and revealing how weak and frightened she really was, Zohra turned and walked rapidly out of the blockhouse into the compound. She had seen the men frowning with displeasure, but she had no time to spare for argument and persuasion. Behind her, she could hear the voices of the women explaining—or attempting to—in hurried, broken whispers. The men would go along with them, she hoped and prayed. At this moment they had no choice. They had no weapons except for what a few had managed to wrest from the cellblock guards. Once the magic started, Zohra hoped, they would see it work and so do what was needed.

  She heard Mathew speak a few words to the
women. Not many—there wasn’t time for many, and they knew already what they had to do. The screams and yells of the mob were getting closer. Looking out past the tall gates, Zohra could see the lights of their torches reflected against the sky. The commandant was up on the battlements, racing first to one end, then the other, shouting conflicting orders that sent his men scurrying about in aimless confusion. Occasionally, regretting the loss of his own private plans of savagery, the commandant was seen to shake his fist at the approaching mob. But for all that, Zohra knew he would open the gates to them.

  We will be ready. Pray Akhran, pray Sul, pray that strange God of Mathew’s that this works!

  The women flowed out of the prison, shapeless forms in their robes and veils, moving silently on slippered feet. Their men and boys, those few there were, came after them. Grim, defiant, doubtful, they obeyed their Princess more because they were in the habit of following those in command than because they understood or agreed with her. The nomads had survived through long centuries by granting obedience to their Sheykhs. In their Princess the people saw the authority they were accustomed to obeying.

  A touch on Zohra’s arm caused her to turn her head. Mathew had come up unheard to stand beside her. The young wizard was very pale, and there were smudges of darkness beneath the eyes, but he appeared calm and quietly confident. He and Zohra exchanged one eloquent look—a sharing of inner, wrenching pain, and that was all. There was time for nothing more. They separated, Zohra going to her place in the center of the women, who were separating themselves into rows as Mathew had instructed. The sorcerer took his place at their head.

  Gathering her children and her menfolk around her, each woman knelt upon the ground of the prison compound. Before each stood a precious cup of water that had been saved from the evening meal. Hands fumbled here and there, drawing out the parchments each had spent the afternoon laboriously copying, the words written crudely with the only ink they had—their own blood. The guards had been amused at this undertaking, not understanding it and making rude jokes about the kafir writing their death testaments.

  Each women held the parchment above the cup as Mathew had taught them. All tried to concentrate, to shut out the sounds of approaching horrors, but it was difficult, and for some, impossible. A muffled sob and the soothing murmur of one woman comforting a sister and bidding her regain her courage came to Mathew’s ears. He, too, heard Death—in hideous aspect—drawing near and wondered at his own lack of fear.

  He knew the answer. He was sheltered, once again, in the comforting arms of Sul.

  His own cup of water standing before him, Mathew began to chant the words of the spell. He chanted loudly, so that the women could hear him and remember the difficult pronunciation. He chanted loudly, so that his calm voice might help obliterate that of the shrieking soldierpriests bearing down on them.

  He heard the women repeat the words after him, slowly and faltering at first, then more loudly as they gained confidence.

  Mathew sang the chant three times, and at the third recitation the words on his parchment began to writhe and crawl and tumbled off into the water. He could tell, by the sudden catching in the throats of those who followed him, that the same phenomenon was happening to at least most of the women in the compound. There would be some, to be sure, who would fail; but Mathew was counting upon the likelihood that the numbers who would succeed would be such that the fog would enshroud them all and allow them to slip through their enemies unharmed.

  The words tumbled into the cup, the water began to bubble and boil, and then, slowly, a sinuous cloud drifted upward. Mathew looked out across the compound. The sound of cheering and of thudding feet breaking into a run told him that the mob had come within sight of the prison. The young wizard did not turn around but continued to face his people and chant—as much to keep their minds occupied with the soothing flow of words as to continue to work the spell. For now he could see hundreds of tendrils of mist rising into the air. He heard the men’s deepvoiced murmurings of awe and dread mingle with the delighted cries of small children who, not comprehending their danger, were enchanted by the magic their mothers were performing.

  The fog spiraled up from Mathew’s cup and encircled him, beginning at his feet and writhing and twisting about him like a friendly snake.

  It was doing the same with the women, surrounding them and those who were near them, drawing them into Sul’s protective coils. It muffled sound, flattened out and rendered harmless the terrifying shouts of the mob. The nomads lost their fear and gathered together, and the fog grew thicker and more dense around them.

  The misty cloud was swelling and spreading with a rapidity that astonished Mathew. He had thought they would be fortunate if it enveloped each woman and those she kept near her. But the mist—shining an eerie white in the moonlight—was wafting and drifting through the compound with what Mathew could have sworn was some type of intent purpose, as though it sought something and would not be satisfied until it had gained its goal.

  A sharp thorn of doubt pricked Mathew’s satisfaction. He saw the warning again, printed clearly in red ink in the book. Large numbers of magi should never resort to the use of this spell ex- cept in the most dire circumstances. And suddenly he remembered words that followed, words that had seemed irrelevant, almost laughable, in his land:

  Make certain there is a plenteous source of water.

  Mathew understood. He knew what he had created, he knew why the warning had been given. He foresaw clearly and with horror what must happen, but there was no way he could stop it.

  The magical mist crept over the ground—delicate white arms with thin, long, curling fingers, guided by a searching, central intelligence. Some of the prison guards had taken to their heels. Others had leapt from the wall and were striving to push open the gates that, for some reason, wouldn’t budge (not with the bulk of an invisible Usti planted against them). Their commandant stood on the battlements above them, alternately berating his guards for their slowness and pompously shouting out to the mob that he was in charge here.

  The mob, led by the soldierpriests, ignored him. They stormed the walls, those at the front being crushed against the stone by those surging forward in the rear, and began flinging themselves at the wooden gates in an effort to force them open.

  The commandant, still shouting, was beginning to get the dim impression that no one was listening to him and that he might want to consider removing himself from this area, when a panicked cry from one of his guards caused him to turn around and stare into the compound with bulging eyes.

  His prisoners were gone! Vanished in a cloud that had seemingly fallen from heaven and swallowed them up. The commandant couldn’t believe it. He stared into the writhing, shifting mist, but he could neither see nor hear any signs of life. The commandant’s fat body shook until his teeth rattled in his head. There was no doubt in his mind that the God of these people had come to their rescue, and all knew Akhran to be a vengeful, wrathful deity. The mob was still hurling itself against the gates; the wooden doors were starting to splinter and crack from the combined weight of hundreds pressed against them.

  The guards in the compound gazed fearfully at the mist whose delicate fingers seemed to be reaching for them. Usti and Fedj, nearly as terrified of Sul’s magic as the guards, had abandoned their posts and were staring at each other helplessly. Frantically the guards sought to unlatch the gates and push them open—a crowd of humans held no terrors for them compared to this accursed fog. But the pressure on the gates from the mob pushing in the opposite direction held them firmly shut. The guards could not escape and could only watch, in tonguetied horror, the first tendrils curl about their feet.

  Their screams split through the voice of the mob like a whistling sword blade, so awful that even the most fanatical of those clamoring for blood beyond the prison walls hushed and listened.

  The commandant, atop the wall, saw the fog curl around the legs and trunks of his screaming men, saw them wrapped in clutching
fingers of shimmering white. He saw the mist boil and writhe. The screams ended, dying to dry whispers. The fog lifted and continued on, rising thicker than before.

  On the ground in front of the gates lay several piles of dust. .

  A plenteous source of water!

  One wizard casts this spell in a land of deep wells and moist air and travels safely within his cloud, the spell drawing the water from all around it. Many wizards cast the spell together, and the same thing occurs, except that the power is so much greater, the spell so much stronger, that it demands more water to sustain it. A land of lush vegetation, of gigantic trees and green grass and thick foliage, a land of running streams and raging rivers, a land of rain and snow—the spell has all the water it needs.

  But cast the spell in an arid land, a land of sand and rock, where water is measured in precious drops, and the spell thirsts and becomes desperate to maintain itself, sucking life from what sources it can find.

  Mathew saw the guards fall, he heard their screams. He saw the commandant race back and forth across the wall in a frenzy of terror, trying to avoid the clutching fingers of the mist, falling victim to them at last with a frightful, gurgling wail. Mathew watched the magic drain what small amount of water there was in the wood of the gate, saw the beams wither and wilt. He heard the joyous shouts of the mob change to cries of amazement, and he heard the first wails of those tangled in the mists, the awful screams as they felt their lives being sucked from their bodies.

  He, who had agonized over killing one, would now be responsible for the deaths of hundreds!

  Zohra was beside him, grabbing hold of him.

  “Mathew!” Her eyes glistened through the fog. “We have done it! They run before us!”

  She didn’t know. She had not seen, or if she had, she didn’t comprehend. Or maybe she didn’t care. After all, Mathew tried to force himself to remember, the mob had intended a death for her people as horrible as that to which they themselves were falling victim. He had to think of that, concentrate on that, or go mad.