Chapter 3

Mathew very nearly dropped the wand. Of all the astonished people on the ship, the young wizard was the most astounded of all.

Feeling the wand start to slip from his shaking fingers, Mathew caught hold of it with a spasmodic jerk of his hand, reacting more out of instinct than conscious thought. To drop a wand during a spell casting was considered a grievous and dangerous error on the part of any wizard. Almost every nervous young student did it once, and Mathew could hear the voice of the Archmagus dinning furiously in his ears. The young wizard’s training saved him. He gained additional strength from the sudden frightening realization that if the spell was broken, he was in far more danger than if all the ghuls in the nether plane had ringed themselves round him.

An instant before the imp bowed, Mathew saw clearly in the creature’s eyes the burning desire to lay claim to his immortal soul. Then it would be Mathew who was forever in servitude to a Dark Master—Astafas, Prince of Darkness. Why didn’t the imp snatch him up? Mathew had put himself in forfeit by speaking the name of Astafas. Why was the creature obeying him? Only the most powerful of the wizard’s Order could summon and control immortals such as the imp.

The wand might have such powers, but Mathew doubted it. Meryem was a skilled sorceress, but not even she could have attained the high rank necessary to enable her to make a Wand of Summoning. If she had possessed this kind of arcane power, she would not have needed to resort to anything as clumsy as murder. No, some strange and mystifying force was at work here.

Too late, Mathew regained control of his features. He had been staring blankly at the imp as these confused thoughts tumbled through his mind, and he hoped no one had noticed.

His hope was a vain one. Auda ibn Jad’s cool composure had been disturbed by the appearance of the imp, still more by its referring to the beautiful redhaired young woman as Dark Master. Ibn Jad was quick to note Mathew’s unnerved appearance, however, and—though the Black Paladin did not know what it portended as yet—he filed it away in memory for later consideration.

Mathew knew he had to act, and he tried desperately to think what was the next logical order a powerful, evil wizard might be likely to issue.

The command that was in his heart was to have the imp carry him, Khardan, and Zohra off this horrorfilled ship, as far away from Auda ibn Jad as the creature could manage. But just as this thought traveled from heart to mind, the imp raised its head and looked at Mathew. Its red eyes flared fire, its mouth parted in a wicked grin, the tongue licked dry, cracked lips.

Mathew shuddered and banished the thought. The imp could read his mind, obviously. And while undoubtedly it would obey his command, Mathew knew exactly where the imp would take them—a place of eternal darkness whose Demon Prince made Auda ibn Jad seem saintly in comparison. “Dark Master?” the imp prompted, rubbing its skinny hands together.

“I need you no more,” Mathew said at last, a quaver spoiling the authoritative note he tried to instill in his voice. “Be gone until I call for you again.”

Was this how one spoke to summoned creatures? Mathew couldn’t remember; he’d had only the most cursory studies in Black Magic and the only object it accomplished was to fix in the minds of White Wizards that dabbling in this art would invariably lead to disaster. Mathew had the uncomfortable feeling, however, that no matter what he said, the imp would deal with the situation.

“I obey, My Dark Master,” said the imp, and disappeared with a heartstopping bang.

No one moved. Now that the imp was gone, all eyes turned to Mathew.

He had to keep going, keep performing. He gave them all what he hoped was a cold, threatening stare and made his way across the deck to Khardan. Raising the wand, he fixed, his gaze upon the ghuls, and was relieved to see them step back respectfully at his approach.

Mathew knelt down beside Khardan. Wounded, shaken by the nearness he had come to a tortured death, the Calif barely had the strength to raise his head. Putting his arm around the man’s shoulders, Mathew lifted him to a sitting position on the deck.

“Are you all right?” he asked in a low voice.

Khardan’s teeth chattered, his lips were blue. “The scratches!” he gasped. “Burn. . . like. . . cold fire.”

Mathew examined the places on his arms and torso where the ghuls had driven their talons into the flesh. The long tears in the skin were swollen and colored a bluish white. There was no blood visible, although the cuts were deep. Leaning against Mathew, Khardan shook as with a chill. He was in such agony that he seemed to have only the vaguest idea what had happened.

“The ghuls poison has entered his blood. He is too ill to walk. Some of you carry him ashore.” Looking up as he issued the command, Mathew’s eyes met the eyes of Auda ibn Jad. He saw nothing in the black, reptilian flatness to give him a clue as to what the Black Paladin was thinking. If Auda challenged him, Mathew had no idea what he would do. Certainly not summon the imp again, if he could help it!

For long moments, the two stared at each other; the ship, the goums, the ghuls, the boats arriving beneath the ship’s hull, voices shouting hails to the deck—all vanished from the mind of each man as he strove to see deep into the heart of the other.

Mathew came away with nothing. What Auda ibn Jad came away with—if anything—remained locked deep inside him.

“Kiber,” said ibn Jad, “take three of your men and place; the Calif in the bosun’s chair, then lower him into the boats. Gently, Kiber, gently.”

Kiber called out three goums, who left their duties tying the baggage that had been brought on board in huge nets to be swung out over the side and deposited in the waiting boats. Hurrying forward—with sidelong, distrustful glances at Mathew—the goums lifted Khardan by his knees and his arms and hauled him awkwardly over to the ship’s rail.

Rising to his feet, Mathew followed them, thankful that the folds of the caftan hid the trembling of his legs and hoping he did not disgrace himself by collapsing in a heap upon the deck. He still clutched the wand in his hand and thought it best to keep it visible. So tightly were his fingers wrapped around it, he wasn’t at all certain he could let loose of the thing.

“Approach me, Blossom,” said Auda ibn Jad. “The rest of you”—he gestured at the goums—”continue your work. It is almost nightfall and we must be off this ship by then. Take her”— he indicated Zohra—”and put her in the same boat with her husband.”

Mathew glanced at Zohra apprehensively; there was no telling what she might say, perhaps blurt out that the wand wasn’t his at all or that he had told her the God he followed was called Promenthas not Astafas. Zohra said nothing, however; simply stared at him in wideeyed astonishment. He managed to smile at her in what he hoped was reassurance, but she was apparently so completely shocked by what had happened that she couldn’t respond. Zohra allowed her captors to lead her away, looking as though she were in a waking dream.

Sighing, Mathew came to stand before Auda ibn Jad, the two of them were alone in the center of the deck.

“Well, Blossom, it seems your face and lithe body and the sorcerer’s robes you wore when I first saw you fooled me. It was not a woman I took into my slave caravan but a man. Of course, you thought I would kill you, and so you let me remain deceived. You might have been right, but then again, I am not so sure I would have had you murdered as I did the others. There are those who fancy a pretty boy above a pretty girl and who are just as willing to pay good money for such in the slave market. You might have spared yourself much humiliation and me much trouble had you told me the truth. Still, the water spilled into the sand cannot be drunk, and there is no going back. I think you should give me the fish, now, Blossom,”

All this was spoken in cool, calm tones, even the last. But Mathew felt the steeledged menace prick him sharply. Taking a moment to gather his thoughts and to grasp hold of his courage with the same desperate grip by which he held the wand, Mathew shook his head.

“No,” he replied softly. “I will not do that. I know something of magic, as you have seen. You called me the Bearer and one so designated cannot be parted from that which he bears by any force in this world.”

“I can kill you and take it from your corpse,” said the Black Paladin with an easy, impersonal casualness that made Mathew blench.

“Yes,” he answered, “you could kill me. But you won’t, at least not until you know how much I know and—more importantly— how much my God”—the word came with difficulty—”knows.”

“Astafas, our brother God in Evil.” Auda ibn Jad nodded slowly, reflectively. “Yes, I must admit I am curious to know more about the Prince of Darkness. In fact, I am pleased at the opportunity for contact with our Brother. I will not sacrifice you in order to take the fish—not yet at least. There will come a time, Blossom—you don’t mind me calling you this? I find I have grown accustomed to it—when your usefulness will be at an end, and then I will not hesitate to destroy you in a most unpleasant manner.”

“I understand,” said Mathew wearily, “you can do with me what you will—provided Astafas allows it—but I”—the young wizard drew a deep breath—”I insist that you let my friends go.”

Auda ibn Jad smiled—so might a snake smile. Reaching out with his slender hand, he took hold of a strand of Mathew’s wet red hair and drew it slowly and lingeringly through his fingers. The Black Paladin moved close to Mathew, his body touching that of the wizard’s, his face and eyes filling Mathew’s vision.

“I will let your friends go, Blossom,” ibn Jad said gently. “Tell me where. Shall I leave them on this ship? Shall I drop them in the Kurdin Sea? Or perhaps you would prefer that I wait and set them free on the island of Galos? The Guardians of our castle find their work tedious sometimes. They would enjoy a chance for a little sport. . .”

Ibn Jad wrapped the strand of hair tightly about his finger and pulled Mathew’s head so near his own that the wizard could feel the man’s breath upon his cheek. Involuntarily, Mathew closed his eyes. He felt suffocated, as if the Black Paladin were breathing in all the air and leaving Mathew stranded in a vacuum.

“I was preoccupied, absorbed in keeping the ghuls in thrall. You took me by surprise, Blossom. You caught me off guard. Few have ever done that, and therefore I rewarded you by allowing your Calif to live.” Ibn Jad gave a sharp tug on Mathew’s hair, bringing tears to the young man’s eyes and jerking his head nearer still. “But never again!” The Black Paladin breathed the words. “You are good, my dear, but young. . . very young.”

Giving Mathew’s hair a vicious yank, he sent the wizard sprawling face first on the deck. The wand flew from Mathew’s hand, and he watched in agony as it slid across the sandscrubbed wood. He made a desperate lunge for it, but a blackbooted foot stepped on it.

Crouched on his hands and knees, Mathew cowered in chagrin and shame. He could feel Auda ibn Jad’s smile shine upon him like the light of a cold, pale sun. And then he heard the boot scrape across the deck; the wand rolled toward Mathew and bumped against his hand.

“My regards to Astafas,” said the Black Paladin. “I welcome his servant to the Isle of Galos.”