Chapter 2

Achmed crouched in the shadow of his tent, eating his dinner and watching the sun’s last rays touch the grass of the prairie with an alchemist’s hand, changing the green to gold. The young man ate alone. He had made few acquaintances among the Amir’s troops, no real friends. The men acknowledged his skill in riding and his way with horses, even magical ones. They learned from him: how to sit a galloping horse by pressing the thighs against the flanks, leaving hands free to fight instead of clutching the reins; how to use the animals’ bodies for cover; how to leap from the saddles of running horses and pull themselves back up again. They learned how to keep the horses calm before a battle, how to keep them quiet when slipping up on the enemy, how to hush them when the enemy is somewhere out there, preparing to slip up on you. They accepted Achmed’s teaching, though he was younger than most of them. But they never accepted him.

Although accustomed to the close comradeship of the friends in his father’s tribe, most of whom were not only friends but relatives in one way or another, Achmed was not bothered by the lack of friends among the troops. The month in prison had hardened him to isolation; cruel usage at the hands of his tribesmen had caused him to welcome it.

Few others were stirring about the camp. The guards walking the perimeter looked dour and putupon, for they could hear the shouts and laughter drifting up over the city walls and knew that their comrades were enjoying themselves. The Amir had given each man a sackful of the Emperor’s coins with orders to spend freely—the first sign that Quar was raining gold down upon Meda. The troops were commanded to be friendly and as well behaved as could be expected; dire punishments were threatened for those who raped, looted, or in any other way harmed a Medan. The Amir’s household guards manned the streets to maintain order.

Achmed could have been among those disporting themselves in the city, but he chose not to. The Medans, who had surrendered their city to Heaven without a fight, disgusted him and, if truth be told, disturbed him more than he could admit.

The sun’s gold was darkening to dross, and Achmed was thinking about rolling himself in his blanket and losing himself in sleep when one of Qannadi’s servants appeared and told him that all officers were ordered into the Amir’s presence.

Hurrying through the city streets, Achmed saw no signs of rising rebellion or any other threat, and he wondered what this was about. Perhaps nothing more than joining the Amir for a victory dinner. Achmed’s heart sank. There was no way he could excuse himself, yet he didn’t feel up to celebrating. The servant did not lead him to the Governor’s Palace, however, but to an unexpected place—a large templelike structure located in the center of a plaza.

A broken statue of Uevin lay on the paving stones. North of the plaza stood the columned building that was—Achmed realized from his talks with Qannadi—the seat of Medan government known as the Senate. Standing on top of the smashed remains of the God Uevin was a huge golden ram’s head that had been carted from Kich for precisely this purpose. (When, days later, the Amir’s troops moved on southward, the golden ram’s head would be reloaded into the cart and hauled off to do similar service in future conquered cities.)

The plaza was crowded with Medans, talking in low voices. On its outer perimeter, the Amir’s elite household guards stood sternfaced and implacable, the tips of their spears gleaming in the sun’s afterglow. The crowd kept its distance from the soldiers, Achmed noticed. Taking advantage of this path that had formed between the people and the guards, the young man followed the servant to the steps leading up to a marblecolumned portico.

A throne from the Governor’s Palace had been carried here by the Amir’s servants and stood before the Senate’s entryway. Qannadi sat on the throne, looking out onto the crowd gathered before him. He had changed from his battle armor into a white caftan, cloaked with a purple, goldtrimmed robe. His head was bare, except for a crown of laurel leaves, worn because of some silly custom of the Medans. It was already dark within the confines of the Senate porch. Torchbearers stood on either side of Qannadi, but they had, for some reason, not yet been given the order to light their brands. Looking intently at the Amir’s face as he ascended the stairs, Achmed saw the firm set of the jaw, the shadows carved in the face, making Qannadi appear grim and unyielding in the fading light.

Next to Qannadi stood Feisal. No torchlight needed for him, the fire in the priest’s eyes seemed to light the plaza long after the sun’s glow had faded. Hoping to lose himself in the gathering gloom, Achmed took his place at the end of the line of officers who stood pressed against the Senate wall behind the Amir’s throne. The young man wondered briefly how his absence had been noticed, when suddenly he felt the fiery gaze of the Imam sear his flesh. Feisal had been waiting for him! The priest raised his thin hand and beckoned for Achmed to approach.

Startled and unnerved, Achmed hesitated, looking to Qannadi. The Amir glanced at him from the corner of his eye and nodded slightly. Swallowing a knot in his throat, Achmed edged his way in front of his fellow officers, who stared straight out over the heads of the crowd. Why should I be afraid? he scolded himself, irritated at his clammy palms and the twisting sensation in his bowels. Perhaps it was the unusual silence of the people, who stood quietly as darkness washed slowly over them. Perhaps it was the unusually rigid stance and serious mien of the officers and guards. Perhaps it was the sight of Qannadi. Drawing closer, Achmed saw that the firmness of the man’s jaw was being maintained by a strong effort of will, the merciless face beneath the leafy crown was the face of a man Achmed didn’t know.

Feisal, though he had sent for the young man, took no further notice of him.

“Stand here,” the Amir ordered coldly, and Achmed did as he was commanded, taking his place at Qannadi’s right hand.

“Light the torches,” was Qannadi’s next order, and the brands being held behind him sputtered into flame, as did other torches carried by those in the crowd in the plaza. “Bring forth the prisoners. You, guards, clear a space there.”

He gestured at the foot of the steps. The guards used the hafts of their spears to push back the Medans, forming an empty, circular area at the base of the Senate stairs. Facing the Medans, spears held horizontally before them, the guards kept the milling crowd at bay.

Achmed breathed easier. He’d heard it rumored that the Governor had been captured by the menatarms of those Medan Senators who had been in the Amir’s pay. The wretched politician, bound hand and foot, was dragged forth, as were several other Senators and ministers who had remained loyal to their thankless citizens.

That this was to be a trial and execution, Achmed now recognized. He could view the deaths of these men with equanimity. In their gamble for power, the dice had turned against them. But they had lived well off the winnings up until this time; this was the chance they took when they first began to play the game. He found it difficult, therefore, to understand the unusual grimness of the Amir.

Perhaps he sees himself, standing there in chains, came the sudden, disquieting thought. No, that’s impossible. Qannadi would never have run. He would have fought, even though he had been one against a thousand. What then?

More prisoners were being led by the guards into the doomed circle. One was a woman of about fifty, dressed in white robes, her gray hair worn in a tight braid around her head. Behind her stumbled four girls, younger than Achmed. They, too, were dressed in white, their gowns clung to bodies just swelling with the first buds of womanhood. Their hands were bound behind their backs, and they stared about with dazed, uncomprehending eyes. Following the four girls marched a man of rotund girth clad in red robes. From the expression on his face, he knew what was coming and yet walked with dignity, his back straight.

The voice of the crowd changed in regard to each prisoner. A guiltladen murmur began when the Governor and the Senators were led in, many eyes looking up or down or anywhere but at the faces of the men for whom most of them had undoubtedly voted. The murmur changed to a whisper of pity at the sight of the young girls, and low mutterings of respect for the large man in red. The mutterings swelled to anger with the arrival of the last prisoner.

Beardless, with long brown hair, the prisoner was clad in black trousers tucked into the tops of black leather boots; a black silken shirt with flowing sleeves, open at the neck; and a crimson red sash around his waist. A curious device—that of a snake whose body had been cut into three pieces—was embroidered upon the front of his shirt.

Achmed stared at the snake in fascination. His skin prickled, his thumbs tingled, and from nowhere the image of Khardan came to him. Why should he think of his lost brother now, of all times? And why in the presence of this brownhaired man, who swaggered into the circle, closely followed by two guards carrying drawn swords. Achmed stared at the man intently, but found no answer to his question. The man in black started to move to the center of the circle. One of the guards put his hand on his arm to draw him back. The man turned on him with a vicious snarl, freeing himself of the guard’s hold. The man in black walked where he was told, but of his own free will. He leered at the crowd, who swallowed their words at his baleful look. Those standing anywhere near the man fell backward in an attempt to get away from him—guarded as he was—an attempt that was thwarted by the press of the crowd.

The man looked up at the Amir’ and suddenly grinned, his white face skulllike in the light of the flaring torches. The vision of Khardan faded from Achmed’s mind.

“Is this all?” demanded Feisal, the timbre of his voice quivering slightly with anger. “Where are the underlings for these two?” He gestured at the rotund man and the man in black.

The captain of the elite guard stepped forward, hand raised in salute, his gaze on the Amir. “Have I leave to report, My King?”

“Report,” said Qannadi, and Achmed heard weariness and resignation in the reply.

“All the other priests of Devin escaped, Highness, due to the cou—” he was about to say “courage” but a glimpse of Feisal’s burning eyes made him change the word—”efforts of the High Priest.” He gestured with a thumb toward the rotund man in red, who smiled serenely. “He held the doors with his own body, my lord. It took a battering ram to break them down, and due to the delay, the remainder of Uevin’s priests escaped. We have no idea where they’ve gone.”

“Secret passages underground,” Qannadi growled.

“We searched, My Lord, but found none. That is not to say that they couldn’t exist. The Temple of Uevin is filled with strange and unholy machines.”

“Keep looking,” Qannadi said. “And what about this one?” His gaze turned to the man in black, who stared boldly back.

“A follower of the god, Zhakrin, my lord,” the captain said in a low voice. Qannadi frowned; his face grew, if possible, grimmer. Feisal sucked in a hissing breath.

“That God of Evil no longer has power in the world,” the Imam said, speaking to the man in black. The thin hand clenched. “You have been deceived!”

“It is not we who have been deceived, but you!” The man in black sneered. Taking a step forward, before the guard could stop him, he spit at the Imam’s face. The crowd gasped. The guard smote the bound man on the side of the head with the buttend of the spear, knocking him to the ground. Feisal remained unmoving; the fire in his eyes burned brighter.

Slowly the brownhaired man regained his feet. Blood streamed down the side of his face, but his grin was as wide as ever.

“We found the rest of the scum in the temple dead, My Lord,” the Captain reported. “They died by their own hands. This one”—he gestured at the man in black—”apparently lacked the courage to kill himself. The coward put up no resistance.”

The follower of Zhakrin did not note or even seem to hear the condemnation. His eyes were focused now on Feisal, never leaving the priest.

“Very well,” Qannadi said in disgust. “Are you satisfied, Imam ?”

“I suppose I must be,” said Feisal sourly.

Qannadi rose to his feet, facing the crowd that hushed to hear his words.

“Citizens of Meda, there stand before you those who refuse to accept the blessings of Quar, who spurn the mercy of the God. Lest their unbelief spread like a poison through the now healthy body of your city, we take it upon ourselves to remove the poison before it can do you further harm.”

One of the young girls cried out at this, a piercing wail that was cut off by one of the guards clapping his hand over her mouth. Achmed’s throat went dry, blood throbbed in his ears so that he heard the Amir’s words as though through a hood of sheep’s wool.

“It shall be done this night, before you all, that you may see Quar’s mercy and His judgment. He is not a God of vengeance. Their deaths shall be quick”—the Amir’s stern gaze went to the man in black—”even though some may not deserve such a fate. The bodies may be claimed by their relatives and buried in accordance with the teachings of Quar. Imam, have you words to add?”

The priest walked down the stairs to stand on the lowest step in front of the prisoners. “Are there any who would now convert to Quar?”

“I will!” cried a Senator. Flinging himself forward, the politician fell at the Imam’s knees and began to kiss the hem of his robe. “I place myself and all my wealth into the hands of the God!”

Qannadi’s mouth twisted; he regarded the wretched man with repugnance and made a motion with his hand for the Captain of the guard to come near. The Captain did so, silently drawing his sword from its sheath.

Feisal bent down, laying his hands upon the Senator’s balding head. “Quar hears your prayer, my son, and grants you peace.”

The Senator looked up, his face shining.

“Praise to Quar!” he shouted, a shout that ended in a shocked cry. The Captain’s sword stabbed him to the heart. Staring at the Imam in amazement, the Senator pitched forward onto his stomach, dead.

“May Quar receive you with all blessing,” the Imam said in a soft voice over the body.

“Carry on,” ordered Qannadi harshly.

The guards surrounding the prisoners drew their swords.

The rotund priest fell to his knees, praying to Uevin in a firm voice that ended only with his life. The Governor left the world in bitter silence, casting a scathing glance at those who had betrayed him. The priestess, too, met her end with dignity. But one of the young virgins—seeing the priestess fall lifeless, the bloody sword yanked from the body—twisted free of her guard and ran in panicstricken terror to the stairs.

“Mercy!” she cried. “Mercy!” Slipping and falling, she looked up directly at Achmed, extending her hands pleadingly. “You are young, as I am! Don’t let them kill me, Lord!” she begged him. “Please! Don’t let them!”

Blonde hair curled about a pretty, terrified face. Fear made her eyes wild and staring. Achmed could not move or look away but regarded the girl with pity and dismay.

Hearing the guard’s footsteps coming up behind her, too weakened by fear to stand, the girl tried pathetically to crawl up the stairs, her hands stretched out to Achmed.

“Help me, Lord!” she cried frenziedly.

Achmed took a step forward, then felt Qannadi’s hand close over his forearm with a crushing grip.

Achmed halted. He saw the hope that had dawned bright in the girl’s eyes darken to despair. The guard struck quickly, mercifully cutting short the girl’s last moment of terror. The body sagged, blood poured down the stairs, the hand reaching out to Achmed went limp.

The torchlights blurred in Achmed’s vision. Dizzy and sick, he started to turn from the gruesome sight.

“Courage!” said the Amir in a low voice.

Achmed lifted glazed eyes. “Is it courage to butcher the innocent?” he asked hoarsely.

“It is courage to do your duty as a soldier,” Qannadi answered in a fierce, barely audible whisper, not looking at Achmed but staring straight ahead impassively. “Not only to yourself but to them.” He cast a swift glance around the crowd. “Better these few than the entire city!”

Achmed stared at him. “The city?”

“Meda was lucky,” the Amir said in flat, even tones.

“Feisal chose it to set an example. There will be others, in the future, not so fortunate. This is jihad, a holy war. Those who fight us must die. So Quar has commanded.”

“But surely He didn’t mean women, children—”

Qannadi turned to look at him. “Come to your senses, boy!” he said angrily. “Why do you think he brought you here?” He did not look at Feisal, still standing at the bottom of the stairs, or motion toward him, but Achmed knew whom the Amir meant.

“My people!” Achmed breathed.

Nodding once, briefly, Qannadi removed his hand from the young man’s arm and slowly and tiredly resumed his seat upon the throne.

His mind engulfed by the horror of what he had witnessed and the implication of what he’d just heard, Achmed stared blindly at the carnage when hoarse, triumphant laughter jolted him from his dark dream.

“The curse of Zhakrin upon the hand that kills Catalus!” cried the man in black.

He stood in the center of what had become a ring of bodies lying in the plaza. In his hand he held a dagger. Its blade, gleaming in the torchlight, twisted like the body of the snake on his shirt. So commanding was he and so forceful his presence that the guards of the Amir fell back from him, looking uncertainly at their Captain, all clearly loathe to strike him.

“I did not lack courage to die with my fellows!” cried the man, the dagger held level with his red sash, one hand extended to keep off the guards. “I, Catalus, chose to die here, to die now, for a reason.”

Both hands grasped the dagger’s hilt and plunged the weapon into his bowels. Grimacing in pain, yet forbearing to cry out, he drew the weapon across his gut in a slashing motion. Blood and entrails splashed out upon the stones at his feet. Sinking to his knees, he stared up at Feisal with that same ghastly grin on his face. The dagger slid from Catalus’s grasp. Dipping his hands in his own blood, he lurched forward. His crimson fingers closed on Feisal’s robes.

“The curse of Zhakrin . . . on you!” Catalus gasped, and with a dreadful gurgling sound that might have been laughter, he died.