Tales of Alhazred Read online

  The inevitable happened, and the bearded old man’s bad leg collapsed beneath him. At once the worm was on him with its gelatinous bulk. I heard the crunch of breaking bones. It lifted its mouth in time for me to see the old man’s bare feet slide into the round hole and disappear from view.

  Apparently one corpse was not enough to satisfy the monster. It continued to advance with even greater avidity, its appetite awakened.

  A metallic clank on the street drew my attention back to Altrus, who had paused as the old man was devoured to untie the knots on one of the weights. The watching crowd cheered as it rolled away.

  Mindful of the approaching threat, he bent his shoulders and took short quick steps to open some distance between himself and the worm, which seemed unable to move itself at more than a slow walking pace. However, at no time did that forward motion of its great white body cease, or even pause. It was as relentless as the creep of sand in the wind, or as the moon across the stars. Glancing up, I saw that the greater portion of the lunar circle was stained a deep red.

  So it went on, like some endless nightmare, as we progressed along the streets on the winding course laid out for the festival. The more bold or foolish of the city dwellers amused themselves by dancing between Altrus and the worm. They were younger and quicker than the old man and did not get caught, but it was a dangerous sport. Every so often Altrus would succeed in untying a set of nine knots with his fingers and his teeth, and another silver weight would fall away. He could not untie them while they were pulled tight against the weights—he had to stop to work at the knots. That was the fiendish cleverness of what the city dwellers called the Dance of Durga.

  He fought valiantly to free himself, but I saw that he was losing the battle. As the weights fell off, his burden became lighter, but the effort of dragging himself through the streets exhausted him. His face dripped with sweat, and his black robe was as wet as if it had been dipped in the sea. He gasped for breath at each dragging step. When the worm drew near, it became harder for him to summon the burst of vitality needed to pull himself away from it.

  The people of the city cheered him on even as they watched his strength fail. The further he progressed, the more excited they became, and I realized that wagers had been made as to how far he could drag the weights before the great worm finally killed him. To judge by their growing frenzy, Altrus was surprising them.

  I resolved not to let him be taken by the worm. If it came to that, I would rush forward and put my sword through his heart. This I came quite near to doing when he stumbled over an uneven paving block on the street and fell. The worm seemed to sense that he was vulnerable. It reared up over him.

  “Altrus, get up. Get up, damn you!”

  He heard my voice and grinned, then pushed himself off the stones with both hands and managed to drag himself forward before the white mass fell on him, but it was a close thing.

  The street opened into the central square of the city, and I saw the fire burning beside the old well, the stone cover of which had been removed. I had wondered when passing the well why its cover, so heavy in itself, was bolted into place with iron bolts and straps. The well in the square and in the old temple must be access portals to the surface for the creature, I realized, one to let it out and the other to return it beneath the city.

  The fire was arrayed curiously in a crescent with the well at its center. It was designed to direct the blind creature into the open well when it reached the middle of the square. Men stood ready near the well with long iron levers to lift the stone lid back into place after the worm entered it.

  Altrus had done as well as any man could do, but his strength was gone. He crawled along the stones of the square toward the curved line of the fire, but could no longer stand on his feet. I saw that he had managed to untie half a dozen of the silver plums, but it was not enough. The people dancing in the square around the worm cheered wildly, sensing the end was near.

  I looked at the roof of one of the buildings that lined the square, where a small fire burned, and raised my hand. A flame separated itself from the fire, and suddenly arced through the air to bury itself in the back of the worm.

  The sound the creature emitted was extraordinary and quite unlike anything I had ever heard. It was a roar of outrage mingled with pain, but at the same time a deep tone similar to the deepest note of a flute, but many times lower in its pitch.

  The joy of the city faltered in confusion. As another flaming arrow embedded itself in the back of the cringing worm, and another, and yet another, their discontent became outrage, then fear as the massive worm writhed upon itself and rolled to the side directly into the crowd. Several of the young female dancers were killed outright beneath its bulk, along with a dozen others. Martala continued to send burning arrows into its body with her powerful recurved bow.

  In the chaos I ran forward with my dagger drawn and began to cut the weights off Altrus.

  “Give me your sword,” he gasped.

  I did not argue but handed him my sword, and he used its straight blade to cut more of the silver plums away from his shoulders and waist.

  Now the worm was rolling through the fire and bellowing its oddly musical cry of pain. All pretext of formality had been lost. The city guard used their poleaxes to push the blind creature toward the well. Its hide was incredibly tough. The blades of the poleaxes were not able to penetrate it. But the arrows continued to bury themselves in its flesh to halfway down their length, where their fletching burned like torches.

  From deep in the well there sounded an answering note that was so low, it made the ground beneath my feet vibrate. For an instant the entire square fell silent and stopped moving. Then the worm thrashed its tail and the chaos resumed.

  “Get me to my feet,” Altrus said between his teeth.

  “Can you walk?”

  “I can walk. Just get me up.”

  Helping him up, I supported him beneath his left arm. From the corner of my eye I saw the corpulent figure of Amjad El-Amin behind the line of fire. He gestured at us and screamed something to the city guard, but his voice was lost in the general din. Most of the people of the city had fled from the square, leaving the soldiers and the dead, who lay scattered all across its expanse.

  Two guards leapt over the fire and advanced on us with their swords drawn. I turned Altrus to face them. He wasted no time but killed the first with a thrust through his eye and slashed the other across the face, almost in the same motion of my blade. I left him long enough to set my dagger between the second man’s ribs. When I returned, he was still standing, although he swayed with weariness and muscle strain.

  We wasted no more time watching the fate of the great worm, but hurried from the square into the darkened side streets of the city that had not been illuminated for the festival, and were completely deserted. The people of the city had sought refuge behind walls wherever they could find it, and had no inclination to wander the streets.

  At the stable behind the alehouse, Martala waited with our camels. She held the bow in her hand and wore a leather quiver of arrows across her back.

  “You did well,” I told her.

  “Why didn’t you shoot that fat parasite when you had the chance?” Altrus said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “We can’t kill all our enemies,” I said philosophically. “At least, not all at once. When we get back to Damascus, I will see what can be done about Amjad El-Amin, the Satrap of Xandakar.”

  There was no guard on the small side gate in the city wall. We rode through unchallenged and turned the noses of our camels to the north.

  ¼

  The Caliph’s Necromancer

  1.

  "I am willing to do what you ask of me, but I wish something from you in return,” I told the Caliph.

  “Naturally,” he said. “What is it?”

  “Have you ever heard of the city of Xandakar?”

  The young man narrowed his eyes in thought. “I believe so. It’s a strange plac
e in the middle of the desert.”

  “The Satrap there, a man named Amjad El-Amin, recently did me a disservice. I want him punished for it.”

  “It is possible that may be arranged. How severely punished?”

  “Severely.”

  “Ah, that way. I will need to send an agent. I have little real authority over such cities, which function as autonomous city states in practice if not in name.”

  “It is perhaps time Xandakar were made aware of the length of the Caliphate’s arm.”

  “I will grant your request.”

  He called over a senior counselor and the two talked with their heads close together for several minutes. The elderly man glanced at me with no evidence of affection and left to do his master’s bidding.

  “Now tell me, Moawiya, who do you think is trying to kill you by necromancy?”

  I called the young ruler by his familiar name rather than by his formal title, because that is how he had asked me to address him, but it felt strange on my lips. He put the fingertips of both hands together and stared between them with a moody expression.

  “It can only be one of three people who seeks my life, and all are staying with me here at the Eagle’s Nest. I invited the three to my dining table this evening so that you may evaluate them. As to which sorcerer or necromancer my enemy may have hired to do the work, that you must discover for yourself.”

  “Is it wise to invite to dinner someone who wants to kill you?”

  “I would rather have my enemy close and under watch here in this mountain fortress than plotting against me in some back room in Damascus. Besides, I do not wish to alert them of my suspicions, and they would know something was wrong if I failed to invite them to dine with me.”

  I sipped from my silver wine cup. The vintage was excellent. On the other side of a low table laden with delicacies and sweetmeats, the Caliph lounged on a padded couch that was covered in tasselled cushions of delicate pink and blue.

  “I confess, Moawiya, I am surprised that you have chosen to place your trust in a newcomer to Damascus and a native of Yemen.”

  “When you rule, you quickly learn that you must trust other men. Sometimes you trust unwisely, but trust must be given, for no ruler can do everything by himself. I have watched you at your work in the Lane of Scholars since the recent death of my father, Yazid ibn Muawya, and have been impressed both by your code of honor and your abilities.”

  “Is that why you chose me to carry a diplomatic letter to King Yanni in Sana’a?”

  “Your intimate connection with the royal family in Yemen gave me an excuse to use you.”

  “But I failed you.”

  “Not at all. You succeeded in securing the agreement. It was hardly your fault that your ship was wrecked on the return voyage and the paper lost. A paper is only a paper. It has since been replaced.” He drank from his cup, and eyed me over the brim. “Why do you look surprised?”

  “You are not the kind of man I expected when I learned that you had replaced your late father as Caliph.”

  “You expected a fop and a fool, and probably a degenerate as well.” He waved his hand to stop my protest. “It’s all right, everyone expected it. I took care to create that false personality.”

  “You played the fool so that your family would not think you a potential threat and order you murdered.”

  “You strike to the heart of it, Alhazred. That is one reason I like you.”

  To my immense astonishment, I found myself starting to like this young Caliph. He was refreshingly free from affectations, and although he put on a display of wealth and luxury for the people of Damascus, it was obvious that these things meant nothing to him. Sometimes I think of myself as an old man because of all I have seen and done, but in actual years the Caliph and I were the same age, and I felt the beginning of an understanding between us.

  “Tell me more about these three you suspect.”

  Moawiya sat back on the cushions and stared at the intricate geometric tile work on the ceiling. “One of them is my mistress, a woman named Alyssia who has shared my bed for almost two years. She is Persian by blood, and grew up in my father’s palace where she learned to dance, sing, compose poetry, play the dulcimer, use cosmetics, and become expert in all the arts of love. She was my father’s lover before she was mine, but he was not fond of her, which was fortunate, given his blood lust. Recently she learned that I was contemplating a marriage alliance with a royal family in Mecca and she became more distant.”

  “Does she practice the arts of magic?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “And the second suspect?”

  “Al-Burni ibn Mowabi, my mullah and principal advisor in affairs of state. He also served my father and now serves me. He is an elderly and learned gentleman of considerable acumen in matters of political intrigue. Lately he has been irate at my failure to more strictly enforce the code of religious law handed down by the Prophet.”

  “And the third?”

  “Wanassah, a companion of my youth who shared my period of exile with me here in this mountain keep and at other retreats. He is of high birth and has an estate and independent wealth. There is a rumor that he was approached by a faction of noble families concerning my possible overthrow, but he is said to have rejected this treasonous plot.”

  I spread my hands. “They may have minor differences with you, but why would you suspect one of them of trying to murder you?”

  He sat upright on his couch and set down his wine cup to lean toward me over the table. “Last week an attempt was made on my life at my palace in Damascus.”

  I leaned forward also and lowered my voice. “What happened?”

  “It was in the private wing of the palace where I have my own rooms. Only my most trusted companions and advisors are permitted to sleep there, and it is within that part of the palace that all three of those I have named have their sleeping chambers. I awoke in my bed, aware that something had drawn me from sleep but not knowing what it might be. I was alone at the time. Listening, I heard my name called softly through my chamber door and got up from my pillow to investigate. When I opened the door I found both my personal chamber guards collapsed on the floor of the corridor, dead.”

  He stopped his story, and I perceived that the memory disquieted him.

  “What else did you find?” I prompted.

  “There was a kind of black dust on the floor just beyond the threshold. I did not notice it until after I walked through it. Quite by chance my feet were not bare, for I had taken a moment after getting up from bed to put on my slippers.”

  “They saved your life,” I said with understanding.

  “Indeed. One of the palace guards who responded to my alarm chanced to touch a black smudge on the face of one of the dead door guards, and fell instantly dead himself. A servant touched the powder on the floor to see what it might be and also dropped dead.”

  “The pollen of the black lotus,” I said. “Its properties are well known to sorcerers who deal in poisons.”

  The Caliph nodded, his youthful face bleak at the memory. “Usually I do not bother putting on my slippers. Whoever tried to kill me must have known this.”

  “Why are there three suspects for this crime?”

  “My guards made an immediate search of the corridors and rooms of the private wing, which as I said is sealed from the rest of the palace. All three of them were found awake even though the hour was after midnight. When questioned, they offered different reasons for not being in bed at that late hour. All sounded plausible.”

  “What were the reasons?”

  “The holy man said he had sat up late to compose a letter to a friend at Medina. There were no ink stains on his fingers but parchment, ink and a pen were on his writing desk. My courtesan said she awoke from a nightmare and rose from bed to walk off her night fears. My friend claimed to be reading a book of poetry, and was able to produce the book.”

  “If one of them tried to kill you, wouldn’t it have
been wiser of that person to feign sleep?”

  “There was no time. My guards began to search the rooms almost immediately after I found the two dead men outside my door.”

  I sat back and thought about all this for a time while the Caliph watched me and waited in silence.

  “Poison is not necromancy. Why do you assume they are using magic against you?”

  He took from a pocket of his robes a folded sheet of parchment and passed it to me. It bore an occult pentacle of the most malicious kind drawn in black and red ink, but it was incomplete. Something had interrupted its maker before it could be finished.

  “This was found just outside the door of Al-Burni’s private study.”

  “Someone else may have dropped it there to cast suspicion on the old man,” I suggested.

  “The same thought occurred to me as well.”

  “Why not simply execute all three of them, and have done with it?”

  Moawiya smiled sadly and shook his head. “I don’t want my reign known for such capricious acts of murder. That was my father’s way, but it is not my way.”

  “You make it harder for yourself, and more dangerous,” I pointed out.

  “So be it. I put my trust in you, Alhazred. Use your arts to expose the one who plots to murder me, so that the evidence of guilt is certain. When you have done this so there can be no possible doubt in anyone’s mind, I will have the traitor publicly executed.”

  2.

  The old mountain fortress called the Eagle’s Nest stands at the approach to the Anari Pass and has done so for centuries. The Caliph sometimes referred to it as his hunting lodge. He spent more than a year living here in exile during a period in his life when he was out of favor with his father. It had never been designed as a pleasure palace. The purpose of the fortress was to guard the pass. The wall hangings were few and crudely woven, the floors no more than rough boards covered with well-worn carpets, and the fireplace in the great hall built of unsquared stones mortared together with a lack of sophistication.