Chapter 5

“Bind his hands and arms!” Rubbing his knuckles, Auda ibn Jad glanced from the comatose body of Zohra lying at his feet to the insane struggles of Khardan, battling with the gourns. “If he persists in causing trouble, render him unconscious as well.”

“Khardan!” Mathew was pleading, “be calm! There’s nothing we can do! No sense in fighting! We must just try to survive!”

Soothingly, timidly he touched the muscular arm that was being wrenched behind Khardan’s back and bound tightly with cords of braided hemp used to hold the baggage in place upon the camels. Glaring at him in bitter anger, Khardan drew away from the young man. His struggles ceased, however, but whether from seeing the logic in Mathew’s words or because he was bound, helpless and exhausted, the young wizard did not know.

His body shivering, like that of a horse who has been run into the ground, Khardan stood with head bowed. Seeing him calm for the moment at least, Mathew left the Calif to tend to Zohra, who lay in a heap on the ground, her long black hair glistening with the salt spray from the pounding waves.

Mathew glanced warily at the goums, but they made no attempt to stop him. The flat, cruel eyes turned their gaze on him, however, and Mathew faltered, a bird caught and held by the mesmerizing stare of the cobra.

Kiber spoke, ibn Jad’s gaze turned to his Captain, and Mathew—with a shivering sigh—crept forward again.

“These two are trouble,” the leader of the gourns grumbled. “Why not leave them as payment, along with the slaves.”

“Zhakrin would not thank us for wasting such fine, healthy bodies and souls to match. This woman”—ibn Jad bent over to caress a strand of Zohra’s black hair—”is superb. I like her spirit. She will breed many strong followers for the God. Perhaps I will take her myself. As for the bearded devil”—ibn Jad straightened and glanced over at Khardan, his eyes coolly appraising the young man’s muscular build—”you know what awaits him. Will that not be worth some trouble in the eyes of Zhakrin?”

Auda ibn Jad’s tone was severe. Kiber cringed, as though the knight’s stern rebuke cut his flesh. The goum’s “Yes, Effendi” was subdued.

“See to the landing party,” ibn Jad ordered. “Keep your men occupied in loading the baggage aboard. Send the sailors to me. I will take charge of them.”

Kiber, bowing, scurried away. It seemed to Mathew that, at the mention of the sailors, Kiber’s tan face became unusually pale, strained, and tense.

Zohra moaned, and Mathew’s attention turned to her.

“You had best rouse her and get her on board the boats as quickly as possible, Blossom,” said the Black Paladin carelessly. “The sailors will be coming to me for their payment and you are both in danger here.”

Payment? Mathew saw the Black Paladin’s reptile eyes go to the slaves, who crouched together in a miserable huddle, chained hand and foot by the goums as soon as their labors were finished. Pitifully thin and emaciated, their bones showing beneath their whipscarred skin, the slaves stared in wildeyed terror at the fiery ship, obviously fearing that they would be forced to board it.

Mathew had a sudden, chilling premonition that the poor wretches’ fears were groundless—or rather, misplaced. Hastily he helped Zohra to her feet. Draping one of her arms over his shoulder, he put his arm around her waist and half carried, half dragged her across the sand, over to where the goums were keeping a wary eye on Khardan. Groggy but conscious, Zohra clung to Mathew. The right side of her face was bruised and swollen. Blood trickled from a split lip. She must have had a blinding headache, and a tiny gasp of pain escaped her every time her injured foot touched the ground.

She made no complaint, however, and did her best to keep up with Mathew, whose own growing fear was lending impetus to his strides. He was facing the incoming boats now, and his gaze went curiously to the crew who sailed a ship of flame across stormblasted water and who were now coming to shore to demand payment for their services.

There seemed nothing unusual about them. Human males, they shipped their oars with disciplined skill. Jumping over the side into the shallow water, they dragged the boats onto the shore, leaving them under Kiber’s command. At his orders, the goums immediately began to stow the baggage on board, Kiber personally supervising the loading of the large, ivory jars. Though all did their work efficiently, Mathew noted that every goum—Kiber included—kept his eyes fearfully upon the sailors.

They were all young, muscular men with blond hair and fair, even features. Coming ashore, they paused and looked long and hard at the goums, their blue eyes eerily reflecting the orange glow of the fire that blazed in the water behind them. Kiber gave them a swift, hunted glance. His eyes darted to Auda ibn Jad, then back to his men, who weren’t moving fast enough to suit him. Shouting at the goums, Kiber’s voice cracked with fear.

“In the name of Zhakrin, God of Night and Evil, I bid you greeting,” called Auda ibn Jad.

The eyes of the sailors reluctantly left the goums. As one man, they looked to the Black Paladin standing, facing them, some distance up the beach from the shoreline. Mathew caught his breath, his arms went limp, he nearly let loose his hold on Zohra. He couldn’t move for astonishment.

Each of the sailors was identical to every other. The same nose, same mouth, same ears, same eyes. They were the same height, the same weight. They moved the same, they walked the same, they were dressed the same—in tightfitting breeches, their chests bare, gleaming with water.

Zohra sagged wearily in Mathew’s arm. She did not look up and something warned Mathew to make certain that she didn’t. Snatching the veil from his hair, he cast it over her head. The sailors’ eyes swept over both of them like a bonechilling wind. Mathew knew he should move, should take the few steps—all that was required to bring them back under the protection of Kiber and his goums. But Mathew’s feet were numb, his body paralyzed by a fear that came from deep inside the part of his mind where nightmares lurked.

“We answered your summons and sailed our ship to do your bidding,” spoke one of the sailors—or perhaps it was all the sailors; the fifty mouths moved, but Mathew heard only one voice. “Where is our payment?”

“Here,” said Auda ibn Jad, and pointed at the slaves.

The sailors looked and they nodded, satisfied, and then their aspect began to change. The jaws thrust forward, the lips parted and drew back, gleaming teeth lengthened into fangs. The eyes burned, no longer reflecting the fire of their ship, but with insatiable hunger. Voices changed to snarls, fingernails to ripping talons. With an eager howl, the sailors swept forward, the wind of their passing hitting Mathew with a chill, foulsmelling blast, as if someone had opened the doors of a desecrated and defiled tomb.

He did not need to look at the prints left behind by the creatures in the sand to know what these monsters were. He knew what he would see—not a human track, but the cloven hooves of an ass.

“Ghuls!” he breathed, shuddering in terror.

The slaves saw death running toward them. Their shrieks were heartrending and piteous to hear. Zohra started to lift her head, but Mathew—clasping her close to him—covered her eyes with his hand and began to run, dragging her stumbling and blinded along with him.

“Don’t look!” he panted, repeating the words over and over, trying not to hear what was happening behind him. There was the clanking of chains—the slaves trying desperately to escape. He heard their wails when they realized it was hopeless and then the first horrible scream and then more screams and the dreadful ripping, tearing sounds of teeth and talons sinking into and devouring living flesh.

Zohra became dead weight in Mathew’s arms. Overcome by her pain, she had lost consciousness. Shaking, unable to take another step, he lowered her onto the ground. Kiber himself ran forward to lift up the woman’s body and carry her into the waiting boats. The goum kept his eyes averted from the grisly massacre, driving his men to their work with shouts and curses.

“Hazrat Akhran, have mercy on us!” The voice was Khardan’s, but Mathew barely recognized it. The Calif ‘s face was livid, his beard blue against the pallid skin. His eyes were whiterimmed and staring, purple shadows smudged the skin. Sweat trickled down his face; his lips trembled.

“Don’t watch!” Mathew implored, trying to block the man’s vision of the gruesome carnage.

Khardan lunged forward. Bound or not, he obviously intended to try and help the doomed slaves.

Mathew caught hold of him by the shoulders. Struggling wildly, Khardan sought to free himself, but the youth held onto him tightly, with the strength of desperation.

“Ghuls!” Mathew cried, his voice catching in his burning throat. “They feed on human flesh. It will be over soon. There’s nothing you can do!”

Behind him, he could hear screams of the dying, their still living bodies being rended from limb to limb. Their wails tore through head and heart.

“I can’t stand it!” Khardan gasped.

“I know!” Mathew dug his nails into the man’s flesh. “But there is nothing you can do! Ibn Jad holds the ghuls in thrall, but just barely. Interfere, and you kill us all!”

Wrenching himself free from Mathew’s hold, Khardan lost his balance, stumbled, and fell to his knees. He did not get up, but remained crouched on the ground, sweating and shivering, his breath coming in painful sobs.

The screams ceased suddenly. Mathew closed his eyes, going limp in relief. Footsteps crunched in the sand near him, and he looked up hurriedly. Auda ibn Jad stood beside him, staring down at Khardan. The Calif heaved a shuddering sigh. Wiping his hand across his mouth, he lifted his head. His face was white, the lips tinged with the green of sickness. Dark, bloodshot eyes, shadowed with the horror of what they had witnessed, stared up at the Black Paladin.

“What kind of monster are you?” Khardan asked hoarsely. “The kind you will become,” answered Auda ibn Jad.