The Dark Lord

squatting or sitting around a confusion of parchments, papyrus scrolls and counting boards. Shadin's mouth closed with a snap. The burly swordsman had been accounting the cavalrymen in his qalb, their arms, armor, mounts and provisions.

'Will I?' Khalid put down a waxed tablet. He was already tired, though the night was still young. Shahr- Baraz tasked them vigorously with this march on Egypt. 'Who asks for my presence?'

'That one,' the Shanzdah continued, its voice a cold hiss, pointing at Patik, 'will also come.'

Khalid settled his shoulders, glaring up at the shape. The messenger's eyes could not be seen in the deep recesses of the iron helmet. Patik rose and shrugged on his cloak. The desert night was cold, even with the day wind died down to a mild breeze. Without a word, the Persian stepped past the armored shape of the Shanzdah and into the night.

'Curse this... we've work to do...' Khalid grumbled, but the creature was not going to leave. He too rose, slinging the sword of night over his shoulder on its leather baldric and ivory-and-cloth sheath. Already in a poor temper, the al'Walid frowned at his captains. None of the three men looked pleased. 'I will be back as soon as I can.'

'Oh, surely,' Uri said, a thread of mocking laughter in his voice. Khalid's eyes glinted in response, but he said nothing, controlling his anger. The ben-Sarid chafed under his authority. The friction was intermittent, but it grew with each day.

Not now, Khalid promised himself, but soon. The ben-Sarid are eager for glory—they will have their fill, once we are at grips with the Romans...

—|—

Khalid's disquiet deepened as the swift, dark shape of the messenger passed among the tents. Patik, with his long legs, kept pace easily, but Khalid was forced to hurry. They did not turn in the direction of the great king's tent, but rather to the east. After a little time they reached the watch fires at the edge of the camp. The Persians and their allies had not bothered to build a palisade or ditch, relying instead on regularly spaced bonfires, tended by a mixture of sentries. There were other lookouts too, hiding in the darkness or loitering on the nearby sand hills. The land around Caesarea was quiet, almost devoid of settlements. There were few men able to scratch a living out of the sandy soil and barren coast. Any approaching enemy would be visible miles away.

The Shanzdah vanished into the darkness beyond the campfires and Khalid followed more by hearing than sight. Thorny brush tugged at his clothes and spiked plants stabbed at his boots as they crossed the plain. Khalid's night vision slowly settled and he found himself approaching another camp, unlit by fires or lights. Even the stars seemed dim. The moon was down, making the land ghostly in faint starlight. The night grew colder with each step and Khalid steeled himself, recognizing their destination.

Your ally, a girlish voice laughed in his head, making Khalid blink, trying to drive a vision of the Queen from his memory. The... prince.

The messenger paused, raising a hand in the darkness. Starlight gleamed from a mailed fist. Patik stopped as well. After a moment, Khalid became aware of a soft noise—something like crickets or beetles rustling on the ground. A very faint sound of chirping flirted with the edge of his hearing. The messenger moved sideways and Patik followed. Khalid peered ahead in the gloom and made out a tall iron pole thrust into sandy ground. Black against black, the metal rose to head height.

Shaking his head again—the intermittent chirping grew louder—Khalid followed the others. The Shanzdah weaved off to the left, stepping around bushes and stones, then back to the right. They passed another metal pole, then two more. Khalid felt chilled and drew his cloak tight around his shoulders. Then the chirping stopped and the cold deepened.

A dozen yards away, a black wagon sat within a cluster of felt tents.

The T'u-chueh, Khalid thought, wrinkling up his nose. Even in this winter-like air, he smelled rancid butter and urine. He closed his nostrils, then put his head down as they walked swiftly through the encampment. Nothing stirred among the yurts, but Khalid caught glints of metal and lamplight out of the corner of his eye. He did not see any horses, which was puzzling. But what animal could stand to exist within this dread circle? How can these barbarians? Yet more arrive each day... flies drawn to rotting meat.

The wagon loomed up, easily twice the height of a tall man, and Khalid saw wooden steps—ornately carved with spiky letters and coiling, eye-dizzying designs—leading up to a door. The Shanzdah stepped aside, his mailed arm raised.

'They are waiting,' the creature said. The voice was very faint, rasping and scuttling inside the iron helmet.

Khalid tried to clear his throat, grimaced and mounted the steps two at a time. Patik followed, quiet as a shade. For the first time, the young Arab did not feel safer with the Persian at his back. Instead, his shoulder blades crawled with a prickling sensation.

—|—

'Lord al'Walid, come in!' A cheerful voice greeted the Arab as he stepped into warm, golden light. Inside the wagon was a spacious room, rich with bright carpets on the floor, the walls hung with heavy embroidered fabric. Lamps hung from the ceiling, burning bright with scented oil. The slim, elegant figure of Prince Rustam sat cross- legged behind a low writing desk. He had set aside his cloak, wearing only a slate-colored shirt. His hair was loose, falling behind his head in an ebon cloud. 'Please, sit.'

Khalid looked around, quietly calculating the cost of the golden lamps, the fine carpets, the polished wood paneling. Still in the doorway, he eased off his boots, as was polite, then knelt on a plush, deep-woven Samarkand. Long-bodied hounds intertwined with flowering trees on the carpet. The silk threads felt like fine glass under his fingers. 'Good evening, my lord.'

'Do you thirst? Do you hunger?' Rustam gestured to one side and Khalid almost hissed aloud in surprise. Zoe knelt against the wall, leaning on one hand, cheek resting on her shoulder, watching him with a smile. Her hair fell behind her shoulder and arm in a black wave. In this golden light, her skin seemed to have grown pale— almost alabaster—with a milky shine. For a moment, Khalid couldn't speak, then he seemed to come back to himself, from far away.

'No?' Prince Rustam nodded gravely. 'Lord Shahin, please sit. It's you I've summoned, in truth. But since you have been so ably serving Master Khalid, I felt it best to speak with both of you at the same time.'

'Who?' Khalid looked around again, but found only Patik kneeling beside him. The Persian's expression was bleak with unexpected despair. His high cheekbones were pronounced and Khalid realized the mercenary was gritting his teeth. 'Who is... Patik? You... you are the Great Prince Shahin!'

'Yes,' the big Persian said, deep baritone filling the room. He looked sideways at Khalid, then away. 'Do not laugh.'

'Why would I laugh?' Khalid put a hand over his mouth. He was trying not to guffaw. The man was his friend. They had shared wine, water, bread... thousands of miles in wretched desolation. Khalid did not want to offend Patik—no, Shahin, he reminded himself. 'You've always been a mystery! So the secret of your so-extensive education is revealed. Well. Well, well.'

Rustam coughed politely, and both men froze, then turned to face him. The prince's affable manner remained and Khalid breathed a little easier. Even Shahin relaxed minutely. 'There is business to discuss,' Rustam said. 'You know the shahanshah intends to drive the Romans from Egypt.'

Khalid nodded, darting a glance sideways at Shahin. The matter seemed very obvious now—Khalid had even been one of the Great Prince's couriers, during the Persian invasion of Syria three years previous. There had been trouble—the Persians had nearly blundered into a fatal trap at Lake Bahrat. Shahin's command was stripped away by the fortuitous arrival of the Royal Boar himself, arriving all unexpected in the middle of the night, in the company of... Khalid's eyes slid back to Prince Rustam, who was watching him with a slight smile. A peculiar pale light gleamed in the prince's eyes and the brief moment of comfort vanished. Khalid shuddered, meeting the burning light in the prince's pale, translucent gaze.

'Khalid... do not trouble your mind. True, Shahin was relieved of his command. True, he has lost his rank, his titles, his lands... even his family is sure he is dead. But—as you have seen—he has won back his honor.' Rustam lifted a long fingered hand, his fingertips broad and flat, like some kind of a climbing lizard. Shahin stiffened, transfixed. 'He may grow a proper beard again, and oil and curl his hair, as he once did. Perfumes, perhaps, will be made available, and pomades. My lord, do you desire such things?'