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THE ROSE

OF THE PROPHET

TRILOGY

The Prophet of Akhran is the third volume in the grand Hose of the Prophet triology—an

unparalleled epic of sweeping adventure, immortal intrigue, and powerful magic by two

masters of modern fantasy, Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman. Don't miss any of the books

in this magnificent series:

VOLUME 1 THE WILL OF THE WANDERER

VOLUME II THE PALADIN OF THE NIGHT

VOLUME III THE PROPHET OF AKHRAN

Zohra stood at the edge of the dried-up hauz, her back to Khardan. Long ago, this hauz had held water for household

use. Now the pool was choked with sand blown into the courtyard.

Coming around to where he could see her face, Khardan saw that Zohra's attention was fixed upon a piece of

parchment she held firmly in both hands. The glint of sunlight on a metal blade showed him his dagger. It lay on the

edge of the hauz, and there was a pool of something dark—blood—near it.

Blood was dripping from a wound in Zohra's left arm. She paid no heed to it, however. Her eyes were fixed upon the

parchment, and she was singing the song that wasn't a song in a voice that raised the hair on Khardan's head. Moving

to get a look at the parchment, the Calif saw that it was covered with marks, marks drawn in blood!

Awed, shaken, yet determined to stop her, Khardan stepped forward and reached out a hand. At that moment, Zohra's

voice ceased. Khardan stilled his movement, though it did not seem that she was aware of his presence. Her eyes, her

entire being was focused upon the parchment.

His hand stretched forth, shaking, and then fell limp at his side. The bloody marks upon the parchment had begun to

wriggle and writhe. Khardan caught his breath as he watched the marks crawl off the paper and drop one by one into

the pool.

Suddenly, the Calif was ankle deep in water.

Bantam Spectra Books by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

THE DARKSWORD TRILOGY

Forging the Darksword

Doom of the Darksword

Triumph of the Darksword

DARKSWORD ADVENTURES

ROSE OF THE PROPHET

The Will of the Wanderer The Paladin of the Night The Prophet of Akhran

THE DEATH GATE CYCLE

Dragon Wing

Elven Star

Fire Sea

Serpent Mage

The Hand of Chaos

Into the Labyrinth

And coming soon in hardcover The Seventh Gate

and by Margaret Weis

STAR OF THE GUARDIANS

The Lost King

King's Test

King's Sacrifice

Ghost Legion

ROSE OF THE PROPHET Volume Three

THE

PROPHET

OF AKHRAN

MARGARET WEIS AND TRACY HICKMAN

SPiCTIB

TM

BANTAM BOOKS NEW YORK • TORONTO • LONDON • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND

THE PROPHET OF AKHRAN A Bantam Spectra Book I September 1989

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RAD 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6

THE PROPHET OF AKHRAN

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Chapter 1

The desert burned beneath a summer sun that blazed in the sky like the eye of a vengeful god. Beneath

that searing, withering stare, few things could survive. Those that did so kept out of the god's fiery sight,

burrowing into their holes, skulking in their tents until the eye closed in night's sleep.

Though it was early morning yet, the heat was already radiating from the desert floor with an intensity that

made even the djinn, Fedj, feel as if he been skewered like shishlick and was being slowly roasted over

the coals of an eternal fire.

Fedj wandered disconsolately through the camp around the Tel—if camp it could be called. He knew he

should be in attendance upon his master, Sheykh Jaafar al Widjar, but given the Sheykh's humor these

days, the djinn would have preferred attending an imp of Sul. It had been the same every morning for the

past few months. The moment Fedj sprang from the ring upon his master's hand, it began.

First, the whining. Wringing his hands, Jaafar wailed.

"Of all the children of Akhran, am I not the most unfortunate? I am cursed, cursed! My people taken

captive! Our homes in the hills destroyed! The sheep that are our lives scattered to the winds and the

wolves! My eldest daughter, the light of my old age, vanished!"

There was a time and not long ago, Fedj always thought

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4 WEIS AND HICKMAN

sourly at this point, when that daughter's disappearance would have been considered a blessing, not a curse, but the

djinn— not wanting to prolong the torture—always forbore mentioning that.

The whining and handwringing escalated into loud exhortation and breast-beating, silently punctuated by the inward

comments of the long-suffering djinn.

"Why have you done this to me, Hazrat Akhran? I, Jaafar al Widjar, have faithfully obeyed every one of your

commands without question!"

Without question, master? And I'm the son of a she-goat!

"Did I not bring my daughter, my precious jewel with the eyes of a gazelle—"

And the disposition of a starving leopard!

"—to be wed to the son of my ancient enemy—may camels trod upon his head—Sheykh Majiid al Fakhar, and did I

not further bring my people to live around this cursed Tel by your command, and further, did we not reside here in

peace with our enemy as was your will, Hazrat Akhran, or would have lived in peace had not we been pushed beyond

provocation by the thieving Akar—"

Who, for some reason, took it into their heads to be outraged by the Hrana's "peaceful" stealing of Akar horses.

"And have we not suffered at the hands of our enemies? Our wives and children swept from our arms by the soldiers

of the Amir and held prisoner in the city! Our camp destroyed, the water in the oasis dwindling daily before our

eyes—"

Fedj rolled his eyes, sighing, and—knowing there was no help for it—entered the tent of his master, catching him in

mid-harangue.

"—and still you insist that we stay here, in this place where not even Sul could long live while we wait for some

accursed plant—whose brown and dried-up appendages are beginning to look as wasted as my own—to bloom? To

bloom? Roses will sprout from my chin sooner than they will from that sand-sucking cacti!" shouted Jaafar, shaking a

feeble fist at heaven.

The temptation to actually summon forth blooms from the old man's grizzled chin was so acute that Fedj squirmed in an

THE PROPHET OF AKHRAN 5

agony of torment. But now the exhorting and fist shaking had ceased. It was always followed by sniveling contrition

and groveling. Fedj tensed. He knew what was coming.

"Forgive me, Hazrat Akhran." Jaafar prostrated himself, nosefirst on the felt floor of his tent. "It is only that your will

is harsh and difficult for us poor mortals to understand, and since it seems likely that we will all perish from the

harshness and the difficulty, I beg of you"—a beady eye, peering out from the folds of the haik, fixed itself intently

upon the djinn—"to release us from the vow and let us leave this accursed place and return to our flocks in the

foothills. ..."

Fedj shook his head.

The beady eye became pleading.

"I await your answer most humbly, Hazrat Akhran," Jaafar mumbled into the tent floor.

"The God has given you his answer," said Fedj in grim and dour tones. "You are to remain camped at the Tel, in peace

with your cousins, until the Rose of the Prophet blooms."

"It will bloom on our graves!" Jaafar beat his fists into the ground.

"If so, then so be it. All praise to the wisdom of Akhran."

"All praise to the wisdom of Akhran!" Jaafar mimicked. Leaping to his scrawny legs, he made a pounce at the djinn. "I

want to hear from Akhran himself, not from one of his messengers who has a full belly while I starve! Go find the God.

Bring him to me! And don't come back until you do!"

With a meek salaam, Fedj took his leave. At least this command was a change and gave the djinn something to do,

plus leave to be gone a long time doing it. Standing outside the charred and tattered remnants of what had once been a

large and comfortable dwelling place, Fedj could hear Jaafar raving and cursing in a manner that would have done his

wild daughter credit. Fedj stole a glance across the desert, on the opposite side of the Tel, where stood the tent of

Majiid al Fakhar, Jaafar's old enemy. The sides of Jaafar's tent heaved and quivered with the old man's anger like a

living, breathing entity. By contrast, Majiid's tent seemed a husk whose life juices had been sucked dry.

Fedj thought back to the time, only months before, when it had been the giant Majiid—proud of his people and his

6 WEIS AND HICKMAN

warrior son—who had thundered his rage to the dunes. Now Majiid's people were imprisoned in Kich; his warrior son

was at best dead, at worst a craven coward skulking about in the desert. The giant was a broken man who rarely came

forth from his tent.

More than once Fedj wished he had not been so quick to carry to his master his sighting of Khardan, eldest son of

Majiid and Calif of the Akar, slinking away from the battle of the Tel, hiding from the soldiers in the rose-colored silk of

a woman's chador. Certainly if he had foreseen the wreckage of spirits and valor that would follow after—far worse

than any damage done by the Amir's soldiers—the djinn would have peppered his tongue with fire ants and

swallowed it before he spoke.

Wholly dispirited, Fedj wandered aimlessly in the desert, soon leaving the Tel far behind. The djinn might have acted

on his master's order and gone out to search for Akhran, but Fedj knew that the Wandering God could be found only

when he wanted to be found, and in that instance, Fedj would not have to look very far or very hard. But Akhran had

not made himself visible for months. Fedj knew that something was going on in the heavenly plane. Just what, he

didn't know and couldn't guess. The tension hung in the air like a circling vulture, casting the shadow of its black

wings over every act. It was extremely unfair of Jaafar to accuse the djinn of feasting while his master starved. Fedj

hadn't dined well in weeks.

Drifting through the ethers, far from camp, absorbed in gloomy thoughts and forebodings, the djinn was jolted out of

his grim contemplations by the sight of unusual activity on the desert floor beneath him. A sparse scattering of tents

had sprouted during the night where the djinn could have sworn there had been no tents yesterday. It took him only a

moment to realize where he had traveled. He was at the southern well that marked the boundary of Akar land. And

there, camped around the well, using Majiid's water, was another old enemy— Sheykh Zeid!

Thinking that this encroachment upon Majiid's precious water might bring the dispirited Sheykh back to life, the djinn

was just considering how he should impart the news to one

THE PROPHET OF AKHRAN

7

who was not his master and, moreover, an enemy, when he caught sight of a form coalescing in the air in front of him.

"Raja?" questioned Fedj warily, his hand straying to the hilt of the huge saber at his side.

The heavily muscled, dusky-skinned body of Sheykh Zeid's djinn, also with hand on sword hilt, shimmered before Fedj

in waves of heat rising from the sand.

"Fedj?" queried the other djinn, floating nearer.

"It is Fedj, as you well know, unless your sight has taken the same path as your wits and fled!" Fedj said angrily.

"That water you drink is from the well of Sheykh Majiid! Your master is, of course, aware that all who drink that water

without the Sheykh's permission soon find their thirst quenched by drinking their own blood."

"My master drinks where he will, and those who try to stop him will end their days filling the bellies of jackals!" Raja

growled.

Scimitars flared yellow in the sun, gold flashed from earrings and arm bracelets, sweat glistened on bare chests as the

djinn crouched in the air, watching, waiting. . . .

Then suddenly, Raja hurled his scimitar from him with a bitter curse. It went spiraling, unheeded, down through the

sky to land with a thud, carving a sword-shaped ravine in the Pagrah desert that remains a mystery to all who see it to

this day.

"Slay me where I stand!" shouted Raja. Tears streamed down his face. Spreading wide his arms, he thrust forth his

dark-skinned chest. "Kill me now, Fedj. I will lift no hand to stop you!"

Though the effectiveness of this display was somewhat blunted by the fact that the djinn was immortal and Fedj might

run his scimitar through Raja a thousand times without doing him any harm, it was a noble gesture and one that

touched Fedj to the core of his soul.

"My friend, what does this mean?" Fedj cried aghast, lowering his weapon and approaching Raja, not without a certain

degree of caution. Like his master, Zeid, the warrior djinn Raja was a cunning old dog who might still have a tooth or

two left in his head.

But as he drew nearer, Fedj saw that Raja was truly little

8 WEIS AND HICKMAN

more than a whipped pup. The husky djinn's despair was so obvious and real mat Fedj sheathed his weapon and

immediately put his arm comfortingly around the massive, heaving shoulders.

"My friend, do not carry on so!" said Fedj, distressed by the sight of this grief. "Matters cannot be this bad!"

"Oh, can't they?" cried Raja fiercely, shaking his head until his huge, golden earrings jangled against his jaw. "Tell

Sheykh Majiid that Zeid is stealing his water! Bring him to fight, as would have happened in past months, and he will

have the very great satisfaction of watching my master slink on his belly back into the desert where he will shrivel up

and die like a lizard!"

Fedj could easily have sworn that he would do just that. He could have gloated over Zeid's downfall and glorified

Majiid to the skies. But he chose not to. Raja's pitiable plight was deeply akin to his own, and Fedj guessed that Raja

must know something of the true circumstances of his enemies, or he would not have revealed such weakness, no

matter what his own inner turmoil.

The djinn heaved a sigh that shifted the location of several sand dunes.

"Alas, friend Raja. I will not hide from you that Sheykh Majiid would not raise his voice in anger if your master came

into his tent and gouged out his eyes. And my Sheykh has taken to cursing the God, which does no one any good

since we all know that the ears of Hazrat Akhran are stuffed with sand these days."

Raja lifted a grim face. "So it is true, what we have heard—that Majiid and Jaafar are in a situation almost as desperate

as our own?"

"Almost!" said Fedj, suddenly indignant. "No situation can possibly be more desperate than the one in which we find

ourselves. We have taken to eating the camp dogs!"

"Is that so?" said Raja, with growing anger. "Well, camp dog would seem a treat to us! We have taken to eating

snake!"

"We ate the last camp dog yesterday, and since we have devoured every snake in the desert, we shall soon be forced

to eat—"

THE PROPHET OF AKHRAN 9

The air was split by what to a mortal would have appeared to be a tremendous bolt of lightning streaking from heaven

to the ground below. The two djinn, however, saw flailing arms and legs and heard an explosive curse boom in a voice

of thunder. Recognizing one of their own, both djinn swallowed their words (more nourishing than either snake or dog)

and immediately accosted the singed and smoking stranger who lay on his back, breathing heavily, at the bottom of a

dune.

"Arise and declare yourself. Name your master and tell us what he is doing in the lands of the Akar and the Aran!"

demanded Raja and Fedj.

Undaunted, the strange djinn rose to his feet, his own sword in his hand. Noting the richness of this djinn's clothing,

the jewel-encrusted weapon he bore, and his air of superiority that was not put on as one puts on a caftan, but was

inborn, both Fedj and Raja exchanged uneasy glances.

"My master's name is not important to the likes of you here on this plane," stated the djinn coolly.

"You serve one of the Elders?" asked Fedj in subdued tones, while Raja instantly made the salaam.

"I do!" said the djinn, glaring at them severely. "And I would ask why two such able-bodied men as yourselves are

skulking about down here below when there is work to be done above?"

"Work? What do you mean?" said Raja, bristling. "We skulk down here below in service to our masters—''

"—when there is a war in heaven?"

"War!" Bom djinn stared at the stranger.

"The plane of the immortals has erupted in fire," said the strange djinn grimly. "By some means, the Lost Immortals

were discovered and freed from their imprisonment. The Goddess Evren and her counterpart, the God Zhakrin, have

also come back to life and both accuse Quar of attempting to destroy them! Some of the Gods support Quar, others

attack him. We fight for our very existence! Have you heard nothing of this?"

"No, nothing, by Akhran!" swore Fedj.

Raja shook his head, his earrings clashing discordantly.

"It is not to be wondered, I suppose," reflected the

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WEIS AND HICKMAN

stranger, "considering the chaos up there. But now that you know, there is no time to be lost. You must

come! We need every sword. Quar's 'efreet Kaug grows in strength moment by moment!"

"But if all immortals leave the mortal realm, what dreadful things will happen down here?"

"Better that man if the immortal realm collapses," said the stranger. "For that will mean the end of all."

"I must tell my master," said Fedj, his brow knitting.

"As must I," stated Raja.

"And then we will join you."

The strange djinn nodded and leapt back into the heavens, creating a gigantic whirlwind that swept the

sand into a billowing cloud. Exchanging grim glances, Fedj and Raja both disappeared, their going

marked by two simultaneous explosions that blasted holes in the granite and sent concussive waves

throughout the Pagrah desert.

Chapter 2

The lookout ran wildly across the desert sand, often stumbling, falling, picking himself back up and

running again. As he ran, he shouted, and soon every man remaining in the decimated tribes of Sheykhs

Jaafar and Majiid had left the shelter of their tents and was watching me lookout's approach with tense

interest. He was an Akar, a member of Sheykh Majiid's tribe, and he was on foot rather than horseback.

The few horses remaining—those who had been found wandering in the desert after being cut loose by

the soldiers of the Amir—were considered more precious than all the jewels in a Sultan's treasury and

were rarely ridden.

One of these horses was Majiid's own, the story being told that after the stallion's master had fallen in

battle, the gallant horse stood guard above the body of his rider, fighting off the soldiers with vicious,

slashing hooves. Another of the horses remaining was Khardan's. No man could get near him. Any who

tried were warned away with a flattening of the ears and bared teeth and a low rumbling sound in the

massive chest of the black charger. But Khardan's horse remained near camp, often seen at dusk or at

twilight, a ghostly black shadow among the dunes. The fanciful claimed this meant that Khardan was

dead, his spirit had entered the horse, and

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12 WEIS AND HICKMAN

he was guarding his people. The practical said that the stallion would never wander far from his mares.

The lookout stumbled into camp. He was met with a girba filled with tepid water, which he drank thirstily but

sparingly, being careful not to waste a drop. Then he approached Majiid's silent tent. The flap was closed, a sign that

the Sheykh was not to be disturbed. It had been closed almost continuously since word came of Khardan's disgrace

and his father had broken his son's sword and declared him dead.

"My Sheykh," cried the man. "I bear tidings."

There was no reply.

The lookout glanced around uncertainly, and several of the other men motioned him forward, urging him with gestures

to continue.

"Effendi," continued the lookout desperately, "Sheykh Zeid and his people are camped around the southern well!"

A low murmur, like wind among the sands, ran through the Akar. The Hrana, led by Sheykh Jaafar who had come out

of his tent to see what was transpiring, glanced at each other wordlessly. This was war. Surely, if there was one thing

that could rouse Majiid from his grief, it would be this unwarranted invasion of his territory by his ancient enemy.

The mutterings of the Akar swelled to angered talk of defiance, accented by loud calls for their Sheykh, and at length

the tent flap opened.

Silence descended so abruptly, it seemed the men must have had the breath sucked from their throats. Those who had

not seen Majiid in some time averted their heads, tears welling up in their eyes. The man had aged a decade, it seemed,

for every month that had passed since the raid upon the Tel. The tall, strong frame was bent and stooped. The sharp,

fierce gaze of the black eyes was bleary and lackluster. The bristling mustaches drooped beneath the hawk nose that

was now as white and wasted as bare bone.

But Majiid was Sheykh still, respected leader of his tribe. The lookout fell to his knees, out of either reverence or

exhaustion, while several of the aksakal, tribal elders, stepped forward to discuss this news.

Majiid cut their words off with a weary movement of his hand. "Do nothing."

THE PROPHET OF AKHRAN 13

Nothing! The aksakal stared at each other, the men of the Akar glowered, and Jaafar frowned, shaking his head.

Hearing the unspoken defiance, Majiid glared round at them, the dark eyes flashing with sudden fire.

"Would you fight, fools?" he sneered. "How?" He gestured toward the oasis. "Where are the horses to carry you to

battle? Where is the water for your girba? Will you fight Zeid with swords that are broken?"

"Yes!" cried one man passionately. "If my Sheykh wills it!"

"Yes! Yes!" shouted the others.

Majiid lowered his head. The lookout remained on his knees, staring up at him pleadingly, and it seemed for a moment

that the Sheykh would say something more. His mouth moved, but no words came out. With another weary, hopeless

gesture of a wasted hand, Majiid turned back to his tent.

"Wait!" called Sheykh Jaafar, striding forward on his short, bandy legs, his robes flowing about him. "I say we bid

Zeid come speak with us."

The lookout gaped. Majiid glared, his lips meeting his beaky nose in a scowl. "Why not invite the Amir as well.

Hrana?" he snarled. "Exhibit our weakness to the world!"

"The world knows already," snapped Jaafar. "What's the matter, Akar? Did your brains leave with your horses? If Zeid

was strong, would he skulk about the southern well? Wouldn't he come riding in here to take this oasis, which all know

is the richest in the Pagrah? Tell us what you have seen." Jaafar turned to the lookout. "Describe the camp of our

cousin."

"It is not large, Effendi," said the lookout, speaking to Majiid, though he answered Jaafar. "They have hardly any

camels. The tents of our cousins are few in number and are put up halfheartedly, straggling about the desert floor like

men drunk on qumiz.''

"See? Zeid is as weak as we are!"

"It is a trick," Majiid said heavily.

Jaafar snorted. "For what purpose? I say Zeid has arrived for this very reason—to talk to us. We should talk to him!"

"What about?"

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WEIS AND HICKMAN

The words fell from Majiid's lips as meat falls from the hand of a man baiting a trap. All there knew it, including Jaafar,

and no one spoke, moved, or even breathed, waiting to see if he would nibble at it.

Jaafar did more than that. He calmly swallowed it whole.

"Surrender," the old man answered.

"One by one," said Sheykh Zeid, "the southern cities of Bas have fallen in the jihad. The Amir is a skilled general, as I

have said before, who weakens his enemy from within and hits them with the force of a thunderbolt from without.

Those who surrender to Quar are treated with mercy. Only their priests and priestesses are put to the sword. But those

who defy ..." Zeid sighed, his fingers aimlessly plucking at the hem of his robe as he sat cross-legged on the frayed

cushions in Sheykh Jaafar's tent.

"Well," prodded Jaafar. "Those who defy?"

"In Bastine," Zeid said in low tones, his eyes cast down, "five thousand died! Man, woman, and child!"

"Akhran forbid it!" Jaafar cried, shocked.

Majiid stirred. "What did you expect?" he asked harshly, the first time he had spoken since Zeid had ridden into camp.

The three men sat together, sharing a meager dinner that only two of them made even a pretense of eating. "The Amir

means to make Quar the One, True God. And perhaps he deserves it."

"The djinn say there is a war in heaven, as well as down here," offered Jaafar. "At least that is what Fedj told me before

he vanished three days ago."

"That is what Raja told me as well," Zeid agreed morosely. "And if that is true, then I fear Hazrat Akhran is being

hard-pressed. Not even the sirocco to plague us this year. Our God lacks spirit." Sighing, the Sheykh shoved his food

dish aside; its scant contents were instantly snatched up and devoured by what few servants Jaafar had remaining.

Majiid seemed not to hear the sigh. Jaafar did, and gave Zeid a piercing glance but said nothing, it being considered

impolite to interrogate a guest.

The conversation turned to the dark events of the tribe.

THE PROPHET OF AKHRAN IS

Zeid's people had fared much the same as the rest of the desert nomads in the battle with the Amir.

"All the women and children and most of my young men, including six of my sons, are being held captive in the city of

Kich," said the Sheykh, whose clothes hung loosely on a body that had formerly been rotund. "My men eat their

hearts out with worry, and I will not hide that I have lost more than a few—gone to the city to be with their families.

And who can blame them? Our camels were captured by the Amir and now serve his army. I note that your horses are

few. Your sheep?" He turned to Jaafar.

"Butchered," the little man said, eyes rimmed red with grief and anger. "Oh, some survived, those that we were able to

hide from the soldiers. But not nearly enough. What I don't understand is why the Amir didn't just butcher all of us as

well!"

"He wants living souls for Quar," said Zeid dryly. "Or at least he did. Now, from what I hear, that's changed. And not

with Qannadi's wish or approval, if rumor be true. The Imam, this Feisal, is the one who has ordered that all who are

conquered either convert or die."

"Humpf!" Majiid sneered skeptically.

Zeid shook his head. "Qannadi is a military man. He does not relish murder. I am told that he refused to give the order

for his troops to kill innocent people in Bastine and that the Imam's priests were forced to do it themselves. I heard also

that some of the soldiers rebelled against the slaughter, and that now the Imam has an army of fanatical followers of

his own who obey him without question. It is said, Majiid," Zeid chose his words carefully and kept his eyes lowered,

"that your son, Achmed, is very close to Qannadi."

"I have no son," said Majiid tonelessly.

Zeid glanced at Jaafar, who shrugged. The Hrana Sheykh was not particularly interested in this. He knew Zeid was

purposefully withholding bad news and wished impatiently he would spit it out.

"Then it is true that Khardan is dead?" asked Zeid, treading more cautiously still. "I extend my sympathies. May he

ride forever with Akhran who, it seems, may have taken him specifically to be at his side in the heavenly war." The

16

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Sheykh paused, expecting a reply to what everyone in the tent knew was a polite fiction. Zeid had

heard—as he heard everything—the story of Khardan's disappearance, and had circumstances been less

dire and he not been a guest in the camp, the Sheykh would have taken grim delight in pricking the flesh

of his enemy with gossip's poisoned dagger. But with a much larger sword at their throats, there was no

sense in mat now.

Majiid said nothing. His face, so heavily lined it might have been scarred by the slashing strokes of a

sabre, remained unchanged. But it seemed from the glitter in his eyes mat he was listening, and so Zeid

continued, though whether he was spreading balm on a wound or rubbing salt into it, he had no idea.

"But it is Achmed of whom I have heard reports. Your second son, it seems, though captured with the

others, now rides with the armies of the Amir. Achmed has become a valiant warrior, I hear, whose

deeds have won the respect and admiration of those with whom he rides—those who were once his

enemies. They say he saved Qannadi's life when die general's horse was killed beneath him and the Amir

was left on foot, surrounded by the Bastinites who were fighting like ten thousand devils. Qannadi had

become separated from his bodyguard in the confusion, and only Achmed remained, sitting his horse with

the skill for which the Akar are famous, fighting single-handedly all attackers until the Amir could mount

up behind him and the guard was able to break through and rescue mem. Qannadi made Achmed a

Captain, a great thing for one only eighteen."

"Captain in an army of kafir!" Majiid shouted, bursting out with such pent-up rage that the servants

dropped the food bowls they had been licking and cowered back into the shadows of the tent. "Better he

were dead!" he thundered. "Better we all were dead!"

Jaafar's eyes opened wide at such blasphemy, and he instantly made the sign against evil, not once but

several times over. Zeid made it, too, but more slowly, and as his lips parted reluctantly to speak, Jaafar

knew his cousin was going to impart the news that had been resting so heavily upon his heart.

THE PROPHET OF AKHRAN

17

"I have one other piece of news. Indeed, it was in the hope—or fear—of relating it to you that I came to

camp at the southern well."

"Out with it!" Jaafar said impatiently.

Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman - Rose of the Prophet 03 - The Prophet of AkhranFinereader Raw

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