Chapter 4

Black Paladins, Zhakrin . . . The words meant nothing to Zohra. None of this meant anything to Zohra, except that she was here where she did not want to be, she was being held captive by this man, and her attempt to escape had been stopped by Mathew. Zohra did not believe ibn Jad’s wild tales about traveling to Idrith and beyond to a sea that did not exist. The Tel was nearby. It had to be. He was lying to prevent them from attempting to escape, and Mathew had swallowed that lie. And so had Khardan, apparently. As for the odd position of the sun in the sky, a summer sun—it had been spring when she closed her eyes to sleep the sleep of exhaustion in the oasis—that could be explained. She knew it could, if only she could get away from this man with the disturbing eyes and discover the truth.

What they needed was action, to fight, to do something instead of just sit here like . . . like old women! Zohra glanced at the two men with her and her lips twisted in derision. At least Khardan had tried to fight. She had been proud of him at that moment. But now the man’s anger and hurt pride had overthrown his reason, casting him into some sort of stupor. He stared at his hands, his fists clenching and unclenching, his breath coming in short gasps. As for the young wizard—Zohra glanced at him in scorn.

“He has already exhibited his worth!” the woman muttered beneath her breath. “I could measure it in goat droppings!”

She herself was at a disadvantage now, with her injured, ankle. At a disadvantage, but not helpless. Her hand went to her breast. The dagger she had grabbed during the onset of the raid was hidden in her bosom. Pressing against her flesh, the metal felt warm and reassuring. She would never be taken aboard a ship, if such was truly the intent of this man. She would never be taken to any palace of a dead God.

Mathew’s voice, speaking to the Paladin, disturbed her thoughts.

“So that is how you did it?” The young man was staring up at Auda ibn Jad with awe; fear made his voice crack. Zohra glanced away from him in disgust. “That is how you cast the enchanted sleep over us. You are not a wizard—”

“No, Blossom.” Ibn Jad frowned at the idea. “I am a true knight and my power comes from Zhakrin, not from Sul. Long ago, in my youth, I learned the might of Zhakrin. I accepted him as my God and pledged to him my life, my soul. I have worked— all those of my Order have worked—unceasingly to bring about our God’s return into this world.”

“A priest!” Zohra sneered. She did not see the cruel eyes, gazing at her, narrow dangerously.

“No!” said Mathew hastily. “Not a priest. Or rather a priest who is a warrior. One who can”—the young man paused, then said heavily—”kill in the name of the God.”

“Yes,” said the Black Paladin coolly. “I have laid many souls upon the altar of Zhakrin.” The toe of his boot idly scraped the salty soil from around the base of one of the ivory jars that stood near them. “We kill without mercy, yet never without reason. The God is angered by senseless murder, since the living are always more valuable in his service than the dead.”

“That’s why you’ve kept us alive,” Mathew said softly. “To serve your God. But. . . how?”

“Haven’t you figured that out yet, Blossom?” Auda ibn Jad looked at him quizzically. “No? Then I prefer to keep you ignorant. Fear of the unknown is much more debilitating.”

The storm was worsening. Water that had previously been calm now crashed on the shore. Everyone’s clothing was wet through with salt spray. The sun had disappeared behind the storm clouds, casting a dark shadow over them.

Kiber’s voice called out urgently. The Black Paladin turned to look to sea. “Ah! The ship is in sight. Only a few more moments before it lands. You will excuse me, I am certain.” Ibn Jad bowed. “There are matters to which I must attend.”

Turning, he walked over to Kiber. The two conferred briefly, then Kiber hurried over to his goums, gesturing and shouting orders. The soldiers sprang into action, some running over to the camels, others taking up positions around the baggage, others hauling the slaves to their feet.

Curious, Zohra looked out to sea.

She had heard tales of the dhough, the vessels made of wood that floated upon the water and had wings to drive them before the wind. She had never seen one before. She had never, in fact, seen a body of water as large as this one and was secretly in awe of it, or would have been, if such an emotion would not have betrayed weakness. Looking critically at the ship as it approached, Zohra felt at first disappointment.

The meddah, the storyteller, had said these vessels were like whitewinged sea birds, swooping gracefully over the water. This dhough resembled a gigantic insect, crawling over the ocean’s surface. Oars stuck out from either side, scrabbling over the waves like feet, propelling the insect forward into the teeth of the wind. Ragged black wings flapped wildly.

Zohra knew nothing about ships or sailing, but she found it impossible to see how this one stayed afloat. Time and again she expected to see it perish. The vessel plunged in and out of the tall waves, its prow sliding down an incline that was steep and smooth as polished steel. It disappeared, and it seemed it must have vanished forever beneath the churning waters. Then suddenly it came in sight, springing up out of the watery chasm like a manylegged bug scrabbling to regain its footing.

Zohra’s disappointment turned to uneasiness; her uneasiness darkened and deepened the nearer the ship approached.

“Mathew,”she said softly, moving nearer the young wizard, whose gaze was fixed, like hers, upon the ship. “You have sailed in these dhough?”

“Yes.” His voice was tight, strained.

“You have sailed across a sea?” She had not believed his story before. She wasn’t certain she believed it now, but she needed reassurance.

He nodded. His eyes, staring at the ship, were wide. “It looks so frail. How does it survive such a beating?”

“It shouldn’t.” He coughed, his throat was dry. “It”—he hesitated, licking his lips—”it isn’t an . . . ordinary ship, Zohra. Just like that isn’t an ordinary storm. They’re supernatural.”

He used the term from his own language and she stared at him, uncomprehending.

Mathew groped for words. “Magic, enchanted.”

At that, Khardan lifted his head, his fog of rage blown away by the cold, biting wind of Mathew’s words. The Calif stared out at the ship that was so close now they could see figures walking across its slanting deck. A jagged bolt of lightning shot from the churning black clouds, striking the mast. Flame danced along the yardarms, the rigging caught fire and burned, the sails became sheets of flame whose garish light was reflected on the waterslick deck and flickered in the rising and falling oars. The vessel had become a ship of fire.

Catching her breath, Zohra looked hurriedly at Auda ibn Jad, expecting some outcry, some angry reaction. The man paced the shore and appeared disturbed, but the glances he cast the ship were of impatience, not dismay.

Mathew’s hand closed over hers. Looking back out to sea, Zohra shrank close to the young man. The flames did not consume the vessel! Burning fiercely, the ship surged across the stormtossed waves, being driven to shore by buffeting winds. Thunder boomed around it, a black banner burst from its masthead. Outlined in flame was the image of a severed snake.

“They would put us aboard that!” Zohra’s voice was low and hollow.

“Zohra,” Mathew began helplessly, hands on her shoulders, “it will be all right. . .”

“No!” With a wild shriek, she broke free of him. Leaping to her feet, fear absorbing the pain of her injured ankle, Zohra ran wildly away from the sea, away from the blazing ship. Her flight caught everyone off guard; the Black Paladin fuming at the slowness of the ship in docking was staring out to sea, as were all those not involved with more pressing tasks. A flutter of silk seen out of the corner of the eye caught Kiber’s attention. He shouted, and the goums guarding the captives and the baggage set off instantly in pursuit.

Fear lends strength, but it saps strength, too, and when panic subsides, the body is weaker as a result. The fire from the ship seemed to shoot through Zohra’s leg; her ankle could no longer bear her weight and gave way beneath her. Away from the water’s edge and the cooling winds of the storm, Zohra felt the heat that was rising from the salt flats suck out her breath and parch her throat. The glare of the sun off the crystalline sand seared through her eyes and into her brain. Behind her, she could hear panting breath, the pounding of booted feet.

Staggering blindly, Zohra stumbled and fell. Her hand closed over the hilt of the hidden dagger and, when rough hands grabbed hold of her, she struck out at them with the knife. Unable to see through her tangled hair, she lashed wildly at the sound of their voices or their harsh, rasping breath. A grunt and a bitter curse told her she’d drawn blood and she fought ever more furiously.

A cold voice barked a command. Hands closed over her wrist, bones cracked, pain burned in her arm. Gagging, choking, she dropped the dagger.

Gripping her firmly by the arms, the goums—one of them bleeding from a slash across the chest—dragged her back across the sand. The ship had dropped anchor some distance from the shore and stood burning in the water like a horrible beacon. The sight of small boats, black against the flames, crawling slowly toward land, renewed Zohra’s terror.

She struggled against her captors, pulling backward with all the weight of her body.

Sweating profusely, the goums hauled her before the Black Paladin. Zohra shook the hair out of her eyes, her sundazzled vision had cleared enough to see him. He was regarding her coolly, thoughtfully, perhaps wondering if she was worth the trouble.

Decision made, ibn Jad lifted his hand and struck.