“There was no time,” Khardan said impatiently, but he lay down, stretching himself on his stomach full length upon the cushions, the lines of pain beginning to ease from his face at the touch of the cool cloth on his fevered skin. “The women were exhausted from their use of their magic. I have taken wounds before. My flesh is clean and knits rapidly.”
“I will do what I can for it, but I am not skilled in the art of healing. You should have Zohra treat it—”
Khardan flinched. Mathew had his hands on the crude bandage he was fashioning; he was not touching the wound, there was no way he could have hurt the man, and he wondered at the Calif ‘s reaction. Then Mathew understood. He had not touched the wound inflicted by steel, but another that had struck much nearer the heart.
Resting prone, on his stomach, Khardan stared straight ahead. Though it could not be seen, Zohra’s tent stood in the direction of his frowning gaze. “Have you ever been in love, Mathew?” was the next, completely unexpected question.
The gentle fingers ceased their calm ministration. It was only an instant before their touch resumed, but that instant was long enough to catch Khardan’s attention. He turned and cast Mathew a sharp, intense look before the young man was prepared to receive it.
In Mathew’s eyes was the truth.
The young man shut his eyes, too late to hide what was there he knew, but hoping to shut out the expression of revulsion, anger, and contempt that he knew must contort Khardan’s face. Or worse—pity. Anything—even hatred—must be better than pity.
“Mathew. . .” came the Calif ‘s voice, hesitant, groping. A hand touched his arm, and Mathew jerked away from him, bowing his head, the red hair tumbling over his face.
“Don’t say it!” He choked.’ “Don’t say anything! You despise me, I know! Yes, I love you! I’ve loved you from the moment you held the sword over my head and pleaded with me to choose life, not give myself up to death! How could I not love you? So noble, so strong, facing ridicule for my sake. And then in the castle. You were in agony, near death, and yet you thought of me and my pain that was nothing, nothing compared to what you suffered!” The words, burstling forth in a torrent, were followed by wrenching sobs. The slender body doubled over in anguish.
A hand, rough and callused, yet gentle now, reached out and rested on the quivering shoulder. “Mathew,” said Khardan, “of all the costly gifts I have received this night, this you offer me is the most precious.”
Slowly, confusedly, Mathew raised his tearstained face. A shuddering sob shook him, but he choked it back. “You don’t hate me? But your God forbids this. . .”
“Hazrat Akhran does not forbid love, freely offered, freely accepted. If he did, he would not be worthy of the trust and faith we put in him,” said Khardan gruffly. His voice softened, and he added, “Especially love from a heart as courageous and wise as the one that beats within your breast, Mathew.” Clasping the young man, Khardan drew him down and pressed his lips upon the burning forehead. “This love will honor me the rest of my days.”
Mathew bowed as though receiving a benediction. The hands holding the wet cloth trembled, and he hid his face within them, tears of joy and relief washing away the bitter pain. His was a love that could never be returned, not precisely the way he sometimes dreamed of it. But it was a love that was respected and would be given back in trust, in turning to him for guidance, comfort, advice, in offering him protection, strength, and friendship.
Rolling over on his stomach, giving the young man the opportunity to compose himself, Khardan said with quiet casualness, “Tell me now, Mathew, what you make of this vision.”
Chapter 14
Mathew wiped his eyes and drew a deep, shivering breath, thankful to be able to change the subject, grateful to Khardan for suggesting it.
“The vision, you remember, was of two falcons—”
“More birds,” grumbled Khardan.
“—leading opposing armies,” Mathew continued severely with a light, rebuking tap on the man’s shoulder to remind him of the seriousness of their undertaking.
“Myself and the Amir.”
“The falcons looked very much alike,” said Mathew. He neatly wound the bandage around the man’s wounded arm. “These falcons represent you and your brother.”
“Achmed?” Worried, Khardan twisted his head.
“Lie still. Yes, Achmed.”
“But he couldn’t ride at the head of the army!” Khardan scoffed. “He’s too young.”
“Yet I believe from what I have gathered that he rides with the Amir, who is head of the army. The visions are not literal. remember. They are what the heart sees, not the eye. If you fought the Amir’s army, your thoughts would be with the man, Qannadi, riding at the head of his troops. But your heart would be with your brother, would it not?”
Khardan grunted, settling himself in the cushions, his chin resting on his arms.
“Now then,” said Mathew, adjusting the bandage. “Is that too tight? No? What else was there? Oh, yes. The battle. Both sides take heavy losses. There are many casualties. It will be a bloody, costly war.” His voice grew halting. “One of the falcons dies. . .”
“Yes?” persisted Khardan, though he lay very still. “The survivor goes on to become a great hero. He will rise with the wings of eagles. All manner of people will come to his standard, and he will challenge the Emperor of Tarakan and eventually emerge the victor, wearing a golden crown and a golden chain about his neck.”
“So”—Khardan, forgetting his wound, shrugged and winced with the pain—”the victor becomes a hero.”
“I did not say ‘victor,’“ Mathew returned gently, “I said ‘survivor.’“
It took a moment for the truth to sink home. Slowly, his movements hampered by the stiffness of the bandage, Khardan sat up and faced the young wizard, who was watching him with a grave and troubled expression. “What you are saying, Mathew, is that if my brother and I meet in battle, one of us will die.”
“Yes, so the vision indicates.”
“And the other becomes what—Emperor?” Khardan looked at him darkly, with disbelief.
“Not immediately, of course. I have the impression that many, many years will pass before that happens. But yes, the one who lives will eventually rise to a position of great power and wealth and also tremendous responsibility. Remember, the falcon wears not only the golden crown, but the golden chain as well.”
Khardan’s thoughts strayed outside, to his people and to those who had come to him. Only now, when the night was well past its fullness and falling off to morning, were they beginning to think of going to their beds. With the dawn the Prophet of Akhran would be faced with yet another line of men and women, bringing to him their small griefs, their great griefs, their wants and desires, their hopes and fears.
“Perhaps he can help them,” said Khardan, speaking with ashy, reluctant pride. “Perhaps, even though he is not wise or learned, he has been chosen to help them, and he cannot lightly give up that which was given him.”
“It is his decision, certainly,” said Mathew. “I wish I could be of more help,” he added wistfully.
Khardan looked at him and smiled. “You have been, Mathew. He only wishes he were as wise as you; then he would know he was doing the right thing.” The Calif rose to his feet and prepared to leave, winding the folds of the headcloth about his face so that he could move through the camp without being mobbed. “Perhaps, being so wise, you can answer me one more question.” He halted at the entryway.
“I do not know that I am wise, but I will always try to help you, Khardan.”
“Auda ibn Jad. He was cruel, evil. He cast helpless men to monsters. He committed murder and worse in the name of his evil God.”
Mathew answered with a shudder.
“Yet our Gods yoked us together. Auda saved our lives; without him we would have perished in the Sun’s Anvil. He saved my life by giving up his own there in the Temple of Quar. I mourn his passing, Mathew. I grieve that he is gone
. Yet I know the world is better for his death. Do you understand any of this?”
Khardan looked truly puzzled, truly searching for an answer. After a moment’s thought, Mathew said earnestly, “I do not understand the ways of the gods. No man does. I do not know why there is evil in the world or why the innocent are made to suffer. I only know that a blanket made of thread running all one direction is not of much use to us as a blanket, is it, Calif?”
“No,” said Khardan thoughtfully. “No, you are right.” His hand clasped the young man’s shoulder. “Sleep well, Mathew. May Akhran—No. What is the name of your God?”
“Promenthas.”
“May Promenthas be with you this night.”
“And Akhran with you,” said Mathew.
He watched the Calif slip out of the tent, stealing across the compound of his own people with more care and caution than he ever took stealing into enemy camp. Seeing Khardan reach his tent in safety, noting several dancing girls in bells and silks being shooed out, Mathew—smiling and shaking his head—returned to his bed.
The young man was at peace. His decision was made. Closing his eyes, comforted by the sound of the wind singing in the rigging of his tent, Mathew slept.
Chapter 15
Though Khardan spent a restless night pondering the vision Mathew had spread before him, he was not able to reach a decision. And thus it was his people who finally swept their Calif into the whirlwind of war.
The Sheykhs were the first to enter the tent of the fatigued and blearyeyed Prophet, halfstupefied from pain, worry, and lack of sleep. Before Khardan could open his mouth, the Sheykhs presented their plan for battle—for once agreed upon by all present—and sat back to await his glowing commendation.
The plan was viable, Khardan had to admit this much. Reports trickling in along with a seemingly endless stream of refugees, rebels, and adventurers indicated that the forces of the Amir had been considerably reduced by the magical fog that swept over Kich. Those soldiers who survived were busy rebuilding the gate and other damaged fortifications. In addition they had to quell a near riot in the city when the rumor started that the nomads were threatening to unleash the killing mist on its citizens unless Kich surrendered.
The Sheykhs hinted that summoning the fog again might be a reasonable suggestion, to which Khardan asked them grimly if they meant to send their women before them into every battle they fought. “Bah! You are right!” stated Majiid. “A stupid idea. It was his.” He waved his hand at Jaafar.
“Mine!” Jaafar bounced to his feet. “You know—”
“Enough!” said Khardan, stifling a yawn. “Go on.”
According to reports, Qannadi had sent messengers to the southern cities, calling for reinforcements, but it would take many weeks before they could be expected to arrive. A raid, swift and deadly, on Kich, and the Prophet could take control of the city, use it as a spearhead to launch attacks that would drive the enemy from Bas.
The plan mapped itself out further in Khardan’s mind, though the Sheykhs never knew it. Bas would fall to him easily. The people, under his skilled guidance and leadership, could be counted on to revolt against the Emperor’s troops.
With Bas and its wealth at his disposal, Khardan could cut the trade route to Khandar and leisurely build his strength. Letting Khandar starve, he would march north and free the oppressed people of Ravenchai from the slave traders who ravaged their lands. He would ally himself with the strong plainsmen of the Great Steppes. The Lord of the Black Paladins would undoubtedly agree to add his own forces to the battle.
Then, when he was strong, he would attack the Emperor. Yes, Khardan admitted to himself almost reluctantly, it could be done. Mathew’s vision was not as wild and farfetched as it had seemed to the Calif in the early hours of the dawning. It could be done. He could be Emperor of Sardish Jardan if he wanted. He would live in a magnificent palace of splendors that he could only dimly begin to imagine. The most beautiful women in the world would be his. His sons and daughters would number in the hundreds. No luxury would be too good for him. Rare and exotic fruits would rot on his tables. Water—there would be water to waste, to squander. As for his horses, all the world would come and fight to buy them, for he could afford the finest breeding stock and raise them on lush grasses and spend all his day, if he chose, personally supervising their training.
But no, not all day. There would be audiences, and correspondence with other rulers and his military leaders. He would have to learn to read, he supposed, since he would not dare trust another to interpret his correspondence. He would make enemies—powerful enemies. There would be food tasters, for he would not dare to eat or drink anything that some poor wretch had not sampled first for fear it was poisoned. There would be bodyguards dogging his every step.
He would make friends, too, of course, but in some ways these would be worse than his enemies. Couriers fawning on him, wazirs intriguing for him, nobles protesting their great love for him. And all prepared to fall upon him and tear out his throat should he show any sign of weakness. His own sons, perhaps, growing up to plot his downfall, his daughters given away like any other beautiful object to gain some man’s favor.
Zohra. He saw her as head wife of a seraglio teeming with women, most of whose names he would not be able to remember. He saw her grow strong in her magic, and he knew that this, too, would bring him great power. And then there was Mathew—wise counselor—always near, always helping him, yet never seeming to intrude. These would be two people near him he could trust. Perhaps the only two.
A rumbling sound interrupted his daydream. Blinking, he raised eyes that burned with fatigue and saw his father glaring at him. “Well?” demanded Majiid. “Do we ride this night for Kich? Or are you going back to your bed and your dancing girls?” From his leer, it was obvious what he suspected his son of doing in the night.
Khardan did not immediately answer. He was seeing in his mind not the glorious palace or the hundreds of wives or the wealth beyond reckoning. He was seeing his younger half brother, clad in the armor of a man with a man’s face and a man’s sword arm, crouched in a fogshrouded street, whispering his mother’s name in a voice choked with tears.
There could be no help for it. Achmed had chosen his path, as Khardan must now choose his.
“We ride to war,” he said.
Day, a week later, dawned upon Kich. The sun’s light had no more than spread a blood red glow over the horizon when the cry of a tower lookout brought a captain running to see for himself. A messenger was sent to the Amir, who did not need it, having glanced out his own window and seen for himself.
His orders had already been given.
In the Kasbah below there was organized confusion as the troops made ready. Panic raged in the city, but Qannadi had that, too, in as much control as possible; men, women, and older children arming themselves and preparing to fight the invading horde.
“Send for Achmed,”said Qannadi to Hasid, and the old soldier left upon his errand without question or comment.
Abul Qasim Qannadi walked over to the window—the one behind which he’d been sitting the night Feisal had died—and stared out across the plains into the low hills. A line of men, some mounted on swift, fearless desert horses and some on longlegged racing camels, spread over the hilltops. They had not yet moved but were waiting patiently for the command of their Prophet to ride down and deal death to the city dwellers of Kich. Their numbers were vast, their tribal banners and banners of other allegiances were thick as trees in a forest.
Rubbing his grizzled beard, Qannadi gazed out to the highest hilltop. He could not see him, not from this distance, but he had the instinctive feeling that Khardan was there, and it was to this hilltop that he directed his words.
“You have learned much, nomad, but not enough. Hurl your head at this solid wall. You will end up with nothing but a cracked skull for your efforts. I can stay here days, a month, if need be. By that time, my troops will have arrived from the south, and if any of your peop
le are left—assuming they have not got bored with sitting there exchanging insults and the occasional arrow with the enemy on the walls—I will catch you between this wall and my advancing troops, and I will crack you like an almond.”
Satisfied with his observations, running over his plans in his head, the Amir turned back to his desk. There was always the possibility, of course, that the nomad’s first onslaught would crash upon them like sea water, sweeping aside all defense and carrying the hordes of invaders into the city walls where Qannadi and his people would be cut up and fed to the buzzards. The Amir had planned for this eventuality, as well.
“You sent for me, sir,” said a clear voice.
Qannadi nodded, resumed his seat, and made a show of sliding several pieces of folded and sealed parchment into a leather bag. “I am sending you, Achmed, with dispatches to Khandar. These are for the Emperor and the Commander General. You will undoubtedly find them both in the palace, making plans to attack Tirish Aranth. Here is a pass. You had best leave now, in case the nomads cut the roads.”
He spoke calmly, evenly, and did not look up from his work until all was in readiness. Then he started to hand the packet to Achmed.
The young man’s face was livid, the brown eyes had turned a smoky gray color in the pale light of dawn. “Why do you send me away?” Achmed asked through stiff, bloodless lips. “Do you fear that I will betray you?”
“Dear boy!” Rising to his feet, Qannadi dropped the packet and grasped the quivering hand that clutched, whiteknuckled, the hilt of a sword. “How can you ask such a thing of me?”
“How can you ask such a thing of me? Sending me forth like a child when danger threatens!”
“It is your people we fight, my son,” Qannadi said in a low voice. “It is said that Sul inflicts demons on those who shed the blood of near kin. I do not know if that is true, but I have known men who killed those they loved and—whether the demons came from without or within—I saw them tormented to their dying day. It was in my mind only to spare you this. Think, my boy! It is your father, your brother you will meet in battle this day!”
The Prophet of Akhran Page 34
