Chapter 2

The ghuls piloted their stormdriven ship through the murky waters of the Kurdin Sea. Whether the power of Sul kept the vessel afloat or the power of the evil God in whose service the ghuls sailed, Mathew had little idea. Fierce gusts ripped the sails into tattered black shreds that streamed from the yardarms like the banners of a nightmarish army. The rigging snapped and slithered to the deck, twisting and writhing like snakes. None except the ghuls and the Black Paladin, Auda ibn Jad, could stand on the pitching deck, swept constantly by battering waves. Kiber and his men huddled aft, crouched beneath whatever meager shelter they could find from the wind and wet. The faces of the goums were pale and strained; many were sick and they obviously liked this voyage as little as their captives.

Auda ibn Jad stood beside the wheel, staring intently ahead as though he could pierce the storm clouds and catch a glimpse of his destination. Where that destination was or what it might hold, Mathew had long ago ceased to care.

In his sickness, crazed thoughts came to his horrornumbed brain. The ghuls began to fascinate him; he could not take his eyes off the men who were not men but creatures of Sul held in thrall by the power of Zhakrin. The idea of leaping up and hurling himself into the arms of one of the ghuls came to his mind and the thought, in his weakness and terror, was a pleasant one. With the warmblooded human in its grasp, the ghul would certainly kill him. Not even Auda ibn Jad—who was just barely holding them in check now—could prevent that. The ghuls suddenly became creatures filled with light, almost angelic in aspect. Benevolent, handsome, strong, they offered him escape, a way out.

“Come to me,” the ghul seemed to whisper every time one looked his way. “Come to me and I will release you from this torment.”

Mathew imagined the hands gripping him tightly, the teeth sinking into his flesh, the sharp, burning pain, and the swift fear that would soon mercifully end as the blood drained from his body, bringing blissful lethargy and, finally, welcome darkness.

“Come to me. . .”

He had only to move, to stand, to run forward. It would I all be over—the fear, the guilt.

“Come to me. . .”

He had just to move. . .

“Mathew!”

A thick, painfilled call, heard over the terrible whispers, roused him. Reluctantly, he wrenched his mind from dreams of death and returned to the world of the living.

“Mathew!” Panic tinged the voice. Zohra could not see him, he realized. Her view was blocked by one of the heavy ivory jars. Slowly he made his way to her, crawling on hands and knees over the heaving deck.

At the sight of him, Zohra half raised, clutching at him desperately.

“Lie back down,” he urged her, pressing her body gently back onto the deck.

But she sat up again, her eyes blinking against the pain that must be making her head throb. “Mathew, what is happening?!” she demanded angrily.

Mathew sighed inwardly. First she acts, then she questions. Just like Khardan. Just like these nomads. Whenever anything out of the ordinary confronts you, don’t think about it, don’t try to understand it. Attack it. Kill it, and it will go away and not bother you anymore. If that doesn’t work, perhaps ignoring it will. And if that doesn’t work, then you cry and mope like a spoiled child. . .

Mathew cast a bitter glance at Khardan. Lashed to the mast, the Calif sagged in his bindings, his head bowed. Occasionally a groan escaped his lips when the sickness took hold of him, but other than that—not a word. He has lost a battle and so considers that he has lost the war, Mathew thought, anger stirring in him again (completely ignoring that only moments before he himself had been courting death).

“Mathew!” Zohra tugged on his soakingwet clothes. “Where are they taking us?” She looked fearfully about at the ship. “Why does that man want us?”

Mathew nudged his brain to function. Zohra had been unconscious when they brought her on board. She probably didn’t even remember the ghuls attacking and devouring the helpless slaves. How could he hope to explain what he didn’t understand himself?

“It’s all . . . my fault,” he said at last, or rather croaked, his throat sore from swallowing sea water and vomiting. Another wave of nausea swept over him, and he slumped down weakly beside Zohra, wondering, as he did so, why she wasn’t deathly ill like the rest of them.

“Your fault?!” Zohra frowned. Leaning over him, her wet black hair slapping against his face, she grabbed two handfuls of the wet silk of his caftan and shook him. “Get up! Don’t lie there! If this is your fault, then you must do something!”

Closing his eyes, Mathew turned his head and did something.

He was sick.

Mathew lost all concept of time. It seemed they sailed forever before the storm winds began to abate and the black, lowering clouds that hung over the masts began to lift. Had he looked into a mirror at that moment and seen that his skin was wrinkled and aged, his eyes dim, his body bent, his hair white, he wouldn’t have been much surprised. Eighty years might have passed on board that dreadful ship.

Eighty years. . . eighty seconds.

From his prone position on the deck, Mathew heard Auda ibn Jad’s voice raised in command. He heard the sound of boots hitting wood and a few suppressed groans—the goums staggering to their feet.

Kiber’s face—pale and green—loomed above him, the goum leader shouting something that Mathew could not hear over the crashing of the sea. Suddenly the young wizard wished the voyage would go on, that it would never end. The memory of his idea returned to him. He did not welcome it and wished heartily that the thought had never occurred to him. It was stupid, it was foolhardy. It was risking his life in what was undoubtedly a futile gesture. He had no notion of where his actions might lead him because he had no notion of where he was or what was going to happen to him. Conceivably, he could make matters worse.

No, he would not be like Khardan and Zohra. He would not leap forward in the darkness and grapple with the unknown. He would do what he had always done. He would let things take their course. He would ride the current in his frail craft and hope to survive. He would do nothing that might risk falling into the dark water where he would surely drown.

Kiber jerked him roughly to his feet. The motion of the ship, although not as violent, was still erratic, and sent Mathew stumbling back against the baggage. He caught himself and stood clinging to a large rattan basket. Kiber glanced at him, saw that for the moment he was standing, and turned to Zohra.

Seeing the goum approaching her, she repelled him with a flashingeyed look and stood up on her own, backing out of the man’s reach as far as she could before being brought up by several of the huge ivory jars.

Reaching out, Kiber grabbed hold of her arm.

Zohra struck the goum across the face.

Auda ibn Jad, shouted again, sounding impatient.

Grim and tense, the red marks of the woman’s hand showing clearly against his livid skin, Kiber caught hold of Zohra again, this time wrenching her wrist and twisting her arm behind her back.

“Why can’t you be a woman like Blossom?” Kiber muttered, taking hold of Mathew, as well, and dragging him forward. “Instead of a wild cat!”

Zohra’s eyes met Mathew’s. A woman like you! Her contempt seared him. Despite that, his resolve was not shaken. He caught a glimpse of Khardan. The man didn’t have strength enough left in his body to crush an ant beneath his heel, yet he had apparently roused himself from his stupor and was struggling feebly with the goums freeing him from his bonds. For what? Nothing but pride. Even if he did manage to overpower them, where could he go? Leap off the ship? Throw himself into the arms of the ghuls, who now watched the fight with intense, hungry interest.

That’s what this plan of yours is—a feeble struggle against overwhelming odds. And that’s why it’s forgotten, Mathew told himself, looking away from both Zohra and Khardan. His fingers brushed against the pouch that contained the magical objects, and he snatched his hand away as though it had burned him. He would have to get rid of them and quickly. They were a danger to him now. He cursed himself for having picked them up.

Fumbling at his belt, Mathew pulled out the pouch and instantly crumpled it in his hand, pressing it against his waist, concealing it in the folds of his wet clothes. He darted a furtive look from beneath his lowered eyelids, hoping to be able to drop the pouch to the deck without anyone noticing.

Unfortunately, Auda ibn Jad turned from looking out over the sea, his snakeeyed gaze resting upon Mathew and Zohra and the grimfaced Kiber behind them.

“Trouble, Captain?” ibn Jad asked, noting with amusement Kiber’s bruised cheek.

Kiber answered something; Mathew didn’t know what. He froze beneath the piercing gaze. Panicked, he doubled over, digging the hand with the pouch into his stomach, hoping to seem to be still sick, although in reality his nausea was passing, either because the motion of the ship was settling down or his fear and worry had driven it from his mind.

Ibn Jad’s gaze flicked over him, to rest more steadily at Zohra. There was neither lust nor desire in the man’s dark eyes. He was regarding her with the same cool appraisal a man might regard a dog he was considering acquiring. When he spoke, his words were the embodiment of Mathew’s thought, causing the young wizard to start guiltily, wondering if the Black Paladin had the power to read minds.

“The bitch will produce strong whelps,” said ibn Jad in satisfaction. “Fine new followers for our God.”

“Bitch!” Zohra’s eyes flared.

Breaking free of the weakened Kiber, she hurled herself at ibn Jad. Kiber jumped after her and wrestled her back before she reached the Black Paladin—whose amusement seemed to grow. Auda made a sound in his throat that might have been a chuckle but caused Mathew to go cold all over. Obviously out of patience and in an ill humor, Kiber handed Zohra over to a couple of his men with orders to tie her hands and hobble her feet.

Ibn Jad’s eyes were again on Mathew, and the young wizard cowered beneath their gaze, realizing too late that he could have dropped the pouch during the altercation and wondering, briefly, why he hadn’t.

Ibn Jad ran his slender hand over Mathew’s smooth cheek. “A jackal, that one, compared to our fragile and delicate Blossom here who trembles beneath my fingers.”

Mathew cringed and gritted his teeth, forcing himself to submit to the man’s odious touch, slightly turning his body to keep the pouch in his hand concealed. He was vaguely aware of activity stirring around them, of the rumbling of a heavy chain, a splash, and the ship swinging slowly at anchor.

Brutal enslavement—this was to be Zohra’s fate and his, too, undoubtedly, until ibn Jad discovered he had been deceived, that Mathew would never bear this God, Zhakrin, worshipers. It was happening all over, he realized in despair the terrible waiting, the dread anticipation, the fear, the humiliation, and then the punishment. And there would be no one to save him this time. . .

“These women. . . are my wives!” said a slurred voice.

“You will die before you touch them!”

Mathew looked at Khardan and then averted his face, tears stinging his eyelids.

The Calif stood before ibn Jad. The bindings had cut deeply into the nomad’s arms, fresh blood streamed from a gash on his swollen lip. The sickly pallor of his complexion was accentuated by the blueblackness of his unkept beard. His eyes were sunken, encircled by shadows. He walked unsteadily; it took two goums to hold him upright. At a nod from ibn Jad, they let go. Khardan’s knees buckled. He pitched forward, falling at the feet of the Black Paladin.

“A bold speech from a man on his knees, a man we found hiding from the soldiers of the Amir in a dress,” said Auda ibn Jad coolly. “I begin to think I made a mistake with this one, Kiber. He is not fit for the honor I intended to bestow upon him. We will leave him to the ghuls. . .”

Damn you, Khardan! Mathew cursed the Calif silently, bitterly. Why did you have to do that? Jeopardize your life for two people you detest—a woman who brought you to shame and a man who is shame personified. Why do this? Honor! Your stupid honor! And now they will rend your flesh, murder you before my eyes!

Putting his booted foot on Khardan’s shoulder, ibn Jad gave the man a shove, and the Calif went over backward, landing heavily on the deck.

Mathew heard the splash of oars in the water. Small boats had set sail from land and were drawing near the ship. The ghuls, their ship at anchor, their task finished, were gathering around Khardan, eyes shining with an eager, eerie light. The Calif tried to rise, but Kiber kicked him in the face, knocking him back onto the deck. The ghuls drew nearer, their aspect beginning to undergo the hideous change from man to demon. Seeing them, Khardan shook his head to clear it and started to struggle once more to stand.

Stop it! Mathew cried in silent agony, fists clenching. Stop fighting! Let it end!

Auda ibn Jad was pointing toward the boats, issuing orders. Kiber, turning to obey, drove the toe of his boot deep into Khardan’s gut. With a gasp of agony, the Calif sank back onto the deck and did not rise again.

The ghuls closed in, their teeth lengthening into fangs, their nails into talons.

“Bring the women,” said ibn Jad, and Kiber motioned to the goums holding Zohra. She stared at the ghuls in dazed disbelief and horror, seeming not to comprehend what was happening. The goums dragged her forward to where the boats were pulling up beneath the ship’s hull. She twisted around, straining to watch Khardan, who was pressing his body flat against the deck as though he might escape by crawling into the wood. Bending over him, their breath hot upon his skin, the ghuls began to howl, and Khardan’s arms twitched, his hands clenched spasmodically. Then taloned fingers stabbed deep into his flesh, and the Calif screamed.

Mathew’s hand was inside the pouch; he never remembered how. His fingers closed over the cold wand of obsidian. He had no clear conscious thought of what he was doing, and when he drew forth the wand, the hand holding it seemed to belong to someone else, the voice that spoke the words was the voice of a stranger.

“Creatures of Sul,” he cried, pointing the wand at the ghuls, “in the name of Astafas, Prince of Darkness, I command you to withdraw!”

The world went completely black. During the breadth of a heartbeat, night engulfed those standing on the ship. Light returned in the blink of an eye.

A skinny, shriveled creature with skin the color of coal stood spraddlelegged over Khardan. Its eyes were red fire, its tongue flickering flame. Raising a splayfingered hand, it pointed at the ghuls.

“Heard you not my master?” the imp hissed. “Be gone, lest he call upon Sul to cast you in the fiery depths where you will never more taste sweet flesh or drink hot blood.”

The ghuls halted, some with their talons digging into Khardan’s flesh, others with their teeth just inches from his body. They stared at the imp balefully. The imp stared back, its red eyes burning fiercely.

“Always hungry, always thirsting. . .”

One by one, the ghuls released their hold upon Khardan. Slowly—eyes on the imp—they moved away from the Calif, their aspect shifting from demon to man.

Its tongue flicking in and out of its mouth in pleasure, the imp turned to Mathew and bowed.

“Will there be anything more, My Dark Master?”