Now he brooded, looking old and fragile, and those close to him grew fearful as to what would happen next.
Yet having laid his plans, it was at this point that the great Khan hesitated. Abjuring to lead his people wholesale through the gateway, he camped instead upon the borders, so to speak, and sent two of his swiftest and most trusted warriors to scout beyond.
There was much popular interest as they galloped off, and plunged between the boulders with a flourish, like competitors at the racetrack. Initially, they were quite visible upon the grassy steppe beyond; but soon, as many later testified, it was as if a mist or fog came down around them, enveloping both men and mounts, although the land around remained in view.
Thus, the great Khan’s emissaries vanished from the common sight.
They rode long and hard. The land was hilly, wild and windswept. Stunted pines grew in the crevices and narrow valleys, and in the shelter of the great black rocks that outcropped on the hillcrests.
All seemed empty and devoid of life, whether human or animal. Nor did the sky yield so much as a single bird.
Presently, however, the riders came upon a child, sitting cross-legged beneath a grassy hillock. His head was shaved. He wore a thin, grey robe, yet seemed impervious to cold. Around him, painted on the ground, were three circles: one white, one red, one yellow. He sat within their heart.
The warriors immediately set to question him. Where were his people? What was his country? What kind of military power did it possess? What was their wealth? Who were their allies? What gods did they extol, if any?
To none of these queries would the child give answer. The riders grew increasingly irate at his impertinence. The child quite clearly lived, for his chest both rose and fell, though at a slower rate than might be held as normal, and his eyelids could be seen to flicker, the orbs behind them sometimes twitching, perhaps responding to their words. Both men believed he heard their questions, and concluded it was only insolence and disrespect prevented his reply. Having determined this, the more hot-blooded of the two at once advanced upon the child, and, drawing his sword, lopped the boy’s head from his shoulders.
The body remained seated, as before. His head fell in the grass and rolled, out of the colored circles, coming to rest beside a large flat stone.
Then it began to talk.
At first, they could make little sense of what was said. It seemed to be reciting names, its lips moving with magical fluidity. This, indeed, was marvel enough. But soon the two men were still more astonished; for the names became familiar: they were the names of fallen comrades, family members, friends, acquaintances, slain in battle, executed, died of illness or betrayal, and (in one case) tumbled drunk into the carp pond of a wealthy noble’s lavish and extravagant estate, where the poor fellow had drowned.
Awestruck, they listened.
Terrified, they heard their own names in the litany.
For a great time, they traveled. Returning at last to the court of the Khan, they brought tales of many wonders: cities of gold, and men of brass and iron, and a land where the sun shone seven different colors in a single day. They had encountered many terrors and yet glimpsed great riches, too, and assured the Khan the armies of the dreamlands, though formidable, were no match for his own.
They brought with them a gift: a mechanical egg, which could be held in a man’s two hands. At the touch of a switch, its metal shell would divide, and within would be seen a maiden of extraordinary beauty, with ivory skin, and jet-black hair, who would wake up and unfold herself, a living being, though no taller than the span of a man’s fingers.
Of this, the Khan was much enamored.
For the two warriors, however, fate was less kind. While the Khan and his people had endured a mere four days awaiting their return, they themselves had been away for many years. They arrived back as ancient, white-haired dodderers, suffering the many afflictions of extreme old age. Still, their loyalty was such that, with their dying strength, they had returned to their master, to deliver their report, and their gift.
The Khan was silent for some days, and retreated deep into his quarters, far from the eyes of men.
Some believed he was about to order their retreat from the place, for the omens were indeed unsavory. In due time, however, he gathered his most trusted officers, and addressed them. Yet scarcely had he said three words before he paused, looked up, and listened (though no-one else could hear a sound). A sequence of emotions flashed across his face, from puzzlement to anger, fear to resignation. Did he hear the voice of dreams? The echo of his own youthful ambition? At last he put his head down, nodded, and in a small, tired murmur, like the whinny of a horse driven too far, too fast, he ordered, “On,” and, “on,” and, “on,” again.
I record this in the Land of Dreams, where we have languished now for many years, laden with wealth, yet unable despite all our efforts to divine a path back to the waking world.
Blessed be the Great Khan, and may peace enfold him.
Hail the Lord Temujin!
Moonlight Over Mauritania ADRIAN COLE
Luke Phillips sat in the shadows. This joint was a real dump and he’d had his fill of dumps. He’d made enough hard cash to live a better life these days, and had no plans to go back to the kind of deals and contracts he’d taken in the gray old past. And he’d become used to the good life, even if it had softened him up some. He’d been on the point of heading back to England, his homeland, when New York had made this last attempt to embroil him.
He sipped the cold beer. It was okay. He scanned the paper, though it didn’t offer much of a read. It served as a shield from prying eyes, although the guy who’d arranged to meet him here had chosen the place precisely because it was hidden away among the other wharf dens where a man could be conveniently inconspicuous. Phillips was used to secrecy in his dealings with his various employers. He knew the drill.
Morgan was half an hour late. Phillips recognized him from the cheap photograph he’d been given. A hunched man, ashcolored, stringy hair tucked under a homburg, a thick, dark scarf and a heavy tweed coat. Pinched face, sunken eyes, a long jaw — yeah, this was Morgan.
Phillips caught his eye and nodded. Morgan collected a drink and joined the Englishman at the table, his back to the cramped room and its few scattered drinkers.
“Thanks for coming,” he said in a low growl. Up close he looked haunted, like dark angels were scouring the streets for him. For all Phillips knew, they were.
“Let’s get this straight,” said Phillips. “I’m not sold on this yet. If you want to employ me, you’ve got your work cut out.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Morgan. He clutched his glass but made no effort to drink from it.
“When you contacted me and said I was one of the few men who had the kind of desert experience you wanted, my initial reaction was to walk away.” Phillips had promised himself he’d never go near a sand pit again, never mind a desert. The things he’d experienced in Egypt a few years back had scared the hell out of him, and he didn’t care who knew.
“You did a good job in the Sahara. You put a stop to something very terrible. Few people know about it. You know how close things came to a disaster.” Morgan leaned nearer, his voice a low rasp. “The Chaos Blade and the gate it went back into.”
Phillips nodded. “So? If whoever’s running you is after the Blade, you’re wasting your time with me. Believe me, you have no idea how dangerous it is.”
“We do, Mr Phillips, that’s the problem. We don’t want the Blade released back into the world. Nor do we want that gate— or any other — opened.” Morgan wiped beads of sweat from his brow and took a tentative sip of his drink.