Chapter 3

Bruised and aching, Khardan was content for the moment to catch his breath and consider the situation. His attack on Auda ibn Jad had not been as rash and ill considered as it appeared to Mathew. The Calif knew that the fall of a leader can never fail to throw even the best disciplined army into confusion and disarray. There was every possibility this slave trader ruled by fear alone and his followers might be exceedingly grateful to the man who removed the sword from their throats.

That man is not likely to be me—at least not at this moment, Khardan thought, glancing at ibn Jad with grudging respect. The slave trader had tossed him around with the ease of a father playing with his children! Looking at the long, curved sword ibn Jad wore at his side, the Calif guessed that the man was undoubtedly equally skilled with it, as well. And the longer Khardan watched Kiber and his goums, the more obvious it became to him that they served ibn Jad with unshakable, unswerving loyalty—the type of loyalty that is not and never can be generated by fear.

What I need now are answers, Khardan thought upon reflection. Of course, these had to come from the redhaired youth, the one whose life he had saved. The Calif had recognized the slave trader as the man in the white palanquin who had stared at Khardan with such malevolence in the city of Kich. More than once Khardan had wakened in the night, sweating and shaking, remembering the dreadful promise of revenge in those cold, flat eyes—the eyes of a snake.

Khardan could understand ibn Jad’s anger—the Calif had stolen one of his salves, after all. But Khardan had known at the time, when those deadly eyes first pierced his soul, that there was more to it than that. It was as if the Calif had snatched up the one thing in this world that gave ibn Jad reason to live. And Auda had promised, in that look, that he would have it back.

What was the young man’s name, anyway? Khardan tried to remember through the haze of pain and confusion. Mathew. Something like that. He’d heard Zohra pronounce it. Thinking of his wife, who wasn’t a wife to him any more than the young man was a wife to him, Khardan glanced at her. Zohra sat on the other side of Mathew, and unlike the young man, who was looking at him with a worried expression, she didn’t appear to be the least interested in Khardan’s welfare.

He couldn’t see her face; the black hair, blown by the wind, covered it like a veil. Nursing her sore ankle, rubbing it with her hand, she stared straight out to sea and was seemingly lost in her thoughts.

Khardan wondered what she knew about the young man. It was too late to ask. Bitterly he regretted not questioning this man about his past, about where he’d come from, why he had chosen to hide his sex from the world in women’s clothes. It occurred to Khardan that he hadn’t spoken more than twenty words to the youth the entire time he’d been in the nomad’s camp.

Who could blame me? Khardan reflected grimly, looking up at the young man with the flamecolored hair and the face as smooth and delicate as that of any woman. Kneeling beside Khardan, Mathew was making a clumsy attempt to loosen the fastenings of the breastplate clamped over the Calif ‘s chest.

A man who disguises himself as a woman! A man who lets himself be taken into another man’s harem! Bad enough I had to live with such disgrace—but to be seen taking an interest in him!

There was too much on my mind to worry over a boySheykh Zeid, Meryem. . . Khardan’s heart jumped. Meryem! She’d been in danger! The battle. . . he remembered seeing her face just before he lost consciousness. What had happened to her? What had happened to all of them—his people? Why was he here? He stared again at the sun whose position in the sky meant the passage of two months at least. From Idrith to the Kurdin Sea. . . Answers! He needed answers!

Reaching out, he caught hold of the young man’s arm. “What’s going on?” he asked softly.

Startled, Mathew glanced at Khardan uneasily, then shook his head and averted his face. He was attempting to untie a knot in one of the leather thongs holding the sides of the breastplate together. Khardan’s hand closed over his, halting his work with its firm pressure.

“What is your name?”

“Mathew,” was the barely audible reply. The young man kept his eyes lowered.

“Mathew,” repeated Khardan, stumbling over the strange sounding word and coming out with it finally in a manner and accent similar to Zohra’s. “Mathew, it is obvious that we are here because of you. Why does this man want you?”

Mathew lowered his head. Locks of the flaming red hair slid out from beneath the woman’s veil he wore, partially hiding his face. But Khardan saw a flush stain the fair cheeks, he saw the curved lips tremble, and he could guess at the answer the youth was too embarrassed to give.

“So, he does not know you are a—” Khardan paused.

The crimson in the cheeks deepened. Mathew shook his head. Khardan felt the young man’s hands shake; the fingers were icy to the touch, despite the terrible heat.

Letting loose the boy’s hand, Khardan glanced around cautiously. Auda ibn Jad and Kiber stood together on the beach, conferring in low tones, occasionally glancing out to sea. The goums’ attentions were focused on the sea as well. The slaves sat huddled together near the camels, heads bowed, no interest in anything.

“That’s not the truth, Mathew,” Khardan said slowly, turning his gaze back to the youth. “He doesn’t want you for his bed. He would have sold you in Kich if I hadn’t stolen you away. There is another reason he wants you and it is the reason we are here. Tell me.”

Raising his head, Mathew looked at Khardan. The young man’s eyes were wide and in them was a look of such pleading and terror that Khardan was taken aback.

“Don’t ask me!” The words came out a gasp.

Khardan’s lips tightened in anger and frustration. The boy’s fear was contagious. Khardan felt it chill his own blood and the feeling irritated him. He’d never experienced fear like this before, and he had faced death in battle since he was seventeen years old. This fear was like a child’s fear of the dark—irrational, illogical, and very real.

Mathew gave up on the knot; his hands were shaking too violently. He started to turn away, to go sit with Zohra, who was crouched on the hot ground near Khardan’s feet. The Calif caught hold of him again.

Slowly, reluctantly, Mathew glanced back at him. The face was terror stricken, the eyes begged Khardan to release him. Khardan bit back the words he’d been going to say. He wanted to sit up; the heavy metal of the armor was poking him uncomfortably in the back. But moving about might attract the attention of ibn Jad, and Khardan wanted to talk undisturbed for as long as possible.

“What happened at the Tel, then,” Khardan said gruffly, frowning. “Surely you can tell me that! How did we come to fall into the hands of this slave trader?”

As he had hoped she would, Zohra turned her head at his question. She stared at her husband, exchanged a swift, grim glance with Mathew, then turned back to gaze out at the sea in silence once more.

“The Amir’s forces raided the camp. Everyone—women and children—were taken prisoner—” Mathew answered softly, warily.

“I know that,” Khardan snapped impatiently. “I saw. I mean after.”

“We—Zohra and I—escaped by hiding in a tent.” Mathew’s eyes, as he spoke, were focused on the snake on Khardan’s armor. “You. . . fell in battle. We . . . uh . . . found you on the battlefield. The Amir’s men were taking prisoners, you see, and we feared that they would take you, so we carried you off the field of battle—”

“—disguised as a woman.”

The cold, smooth voice broke in on the conversation.

Intent upon Mathew’s story, Khardan had not heard the man approach. Twisting, he looked up into the black masked face of Auda ibn Jad.

The man was talking nonsense! Khardan sat up, chafing beneath the hot, heavy armor. Ignoring ibn Jad, the Calif looked to Mathew to continue his story and was astounded to see that the boy had gone deathly white and was biting his nether lip. Khardan’s gaze went to Zohra. She kept her back turned to him, but that back was rigid, her neck stiff, her head held high in a manner quite wellknown to him.

“Is this true?” Khardan demanded angrily.

“Yes, it’s true!” Zohra whirled to face him, her hair whipping about her in the wind blowing off the sea. “How do you think you would have escaped otherwise? Is the Amir such a kindly man that he would say, ‘Ah, poor fellow, he’s hurt. Take him away and tend him’? Hah! More likely a sword through the throat and the jackals feasting off your brains, much food they would find there!”

A smile twitched at the comer of the mouth of Auda ibn Jad.

“You have. . . shamed me!” Khardan’s face burned an angry red. Sweat beaded his brow. His hands clenched and I he struggled for breath. “I am . . . dishonored!”

“It was all we could think of to do!” Mathew faltered. Glancing up, he saw the reptile eyes of ibn Jad watching with interest. The youth laid a placating, trembling hand on Khardan’s arm. “No one saw us, I’m certain. There was so much smoke and confusion. We hid in the tall grass, near the oasis. . .”

“The young woman tells the truth, Nomad,” said ibn Jad. “It was there I found you, in the oasis, dressed in rosepink silk. You don’t believe me?” Crouching down opposite Mathew, the slave trader reached out his slender hand and caught hold of the youth by the chin. “Look at that face, Nomad. How I can such beauty lie? Look into the green eyes. See the love they hold for you? Blossom here did it for love, Nomad.” Ibn Jad released Mathew roughly, the marks of the man’s fingers showing clearly on the youth’s livid face. “Now this one.” The slave trader turned to look admiringly at Zohra, who was pointedly ignoring him. “This one, I’d say, did it for spite.” Auda ibn Jad rose to his feet. “Not that it matters, where you are going, Nomad,” he added casually.

“Where are we going?” Zohra asked with disdain, as though inquiring of a slave what they might be having for dinner.

“Across this—the waters of the sea whose existence you refuse to acknowledge, Princess,” said Auda ibn Jad with a smile and a gesture of his hand. “We go to the island fortress of Galos, where dwells the last remnant of those who worship Zhakrin, God of the Night.”

“I have never heard of this God,” Zohra stated, dismissing Zhakrin as she dismissed the ocean.

“That is because he has been deposed from his heavenly throne. Some think him dead—a costly mistake. Zhakrin lives, and we gather now in his palace to prepare for his return.”

“We?” Zohra’s lip curled in scorn.

Auda ibn Jad’s voice became cool, reverent. “The Black Paladins, the Holy Knights of Evil.”