Only a moment more, my beloved, I said to myself, silently praying Lorel could hear my thoughts. Only a moment more, and I shall show myself to you in this wan light, and you shall call my name in joy, and we shall be gone from this abysmal place.
I stepped forward.
"No!" Lorel screamed, throwing her white arms over her face and cowering in the window. "No! Don't hurt me! Don't come near me!"
I hurried to her and said her name — or, rather, tried to say her name. In the face of her pain I forgot my own, and her sweet name came out as a garbled groan. She screamed, and I knelt at her feet, reaching out to touch her. Lorel flailed her arms at me, her pale hair streaming across her lovely face, and she cried aloud once more. I spared a glance out the window: dawn was imminent.
I grasped her arms and shook her, perhaps a little too roughly. She hung her head and moaned, shivering palpably and whispering," Don't hurt me. Please don't hurt me. "Again, at the sound of her voice, I could not restrain myself and I tried to say her name.
Lorel struggled to pull free of me, frightened by the grotesque noises coming from my throat, and her cry of agony tore at my heart. Oh, my dear! I thought. Look at me! Look at me with those eyes of azure! Just one look, and you will know that it is I, your beloved. Look at me!
With one arm I roughly pinned her against the window so that she could not escape. Beyond her shoulders, outside, I saw the sun crest the hill, and I knew that dawn was at hand. With my free hand I brushed aside that gilt curtain behind which she was hiding —
Lorel screamed…and I gazed in horror at. . at the bloodied, sightless sockets that marred my lovely Lorel's face.
The Judgment of abd-al-Mamat
Eh? Visitors? I should have known my fire would have other effects than merely warding off the chill air. Come closer, friends, for no man or beast should be denied comfort on this night. Yes, my skin is duskier than yours, but it is better to be too dark than too pale, eh? Have no fear, my friend, for no ghul or ancient elder am I, but only a simple traveler, carrying his life on his back. Come closer.
A thousand pardons. You seem taken aback by my hand, or rather the stump where my hand should be. Alas, I wish I had a stirring tale to explain this malformation, but such is not the case. I was a simple thief, and for my thievery I was judged guilty and punished by the lopping off of my thieving appendage — a lesson to me and a warning to others. Such is the harsh justice of my home.
Perhaps I do have a story, then. Not of my personal judgment, but of judgment nonetheless. I come from the land of al-Kathos, a harsh land of hard judgments. I call upon the listener to turn a good ear to this tale, upon the scribe for a firm and learned hand, and upon Fate herself to guide my words as I tell them to you.
Al-Kathos is a land of sweeping arid wastes and burning sands. It is ruled by the powerful and evil Malbus, a ram-horned abomination who dwells in his Burning Citadel, commanding legions of hellish minions and dining on the flesh of those mortals he captures. However, it is not his tale that I now tell, and he must wait for another evening.
My homeland is also the land of the Sand Singers, luscious wraiths who lure the damned to their dooms with soft scents and honeyed tongues. But though they tempt, theirs is not the tale I tell now. And al-Kathos is the home of the jackal-headed priests of the Rotting Gods, yet even their story must stand aside for the moment.
For this is a tale of judgment.
In the land of al-Kathos there lived a great and powerful man, fair of face and strong of manner. His eyes glistened with a brilliance akin to the desert stars, and his name was abd-al-Mamat. He was thoughtful and wise, even in his youth, and spoke only when he had first thought what he meant to say, cutting to the heart of the matter and discerning truth from fiction.
Yet his role in life was determined not by what he was but by what he was not: for he was not born into high station. This abd-al-Mamat was the son of a slave, and though himself a free man, was considered of low birth and little worth. Were he the son of a sheikh, what you might call a clan leader here, all that followed might have been avoided. But alas, not a dram of noble blood flowed in his veins, and the luxuries of the nobility were denied him.
Yet his talent and his wisdom were recognized, first by his equals, and then by his betters, then by the tribal elders. Many came to seek his advice, and he thought carefully of each request, regardless of the seeker. He never said a word that he did not mean, for, as you know, braying is the mark of all asses. The word spread among his tribe that this low-born orphan, this son of a slave, was a font of wisdom and sound advice.
And at last, when the sheikh sought out a new counselor, which is called in al-Kathos a vizier, he came to abd-al-Mamat. The young man was honored and readily agreed to serve the sheikh with a glad heart. As the sheikh's advisor, he would sit near him at the head of the feast, at the side of his master, and offer counsel in all the sheikh's actions.
And that was enough, at first. As the young abd-alMamat grew to his maturity, he advised well and often. Yet the excitement of his advancement, near the head of the feast, wore thin as abd-al-Mamat grew older.
Abd-al-Mamat could sit near the head of the feast, but not at the head of the feast; he could counsel, but he could not decide; he could advise, but not rule. Even the most foolish of the sheikh's brothers had more claim to tribal rulership than he, and should something happen to the sheikh, they would command, not he. And the sheikh himself would often have this thoughts muddled by wine or other pleasures and not heed his words, obvious and truthful though they be.
Late into the evening abd-al-Mamat would pace his tent and curse Fate for his lot. At first he would feel shame for cursing so, in that he thought himself a good man, and good men accept their Fate. Later he felt shame in that others might spy him cursing Fate, and so think less of him. And later still he would feel no shame at all, and wondered at the foolishness of his master.
And after that time he declined even to sit at the sheikh's flank, unless he was so commanded.
As a result, abd-al-Mamat was not present at the feast that was disturbed by the arrival of an exhausted horseman. The rider bolted into the sheikh's pavilion, still mounted, his horse foaming at the bit. Sitting pillows, tribesmen, and wine goblets flew in all directions as the rider spun in place near the center of the revelry.
The rider spoke in gasps, as if he and not his horse had made the long gallop. A merchant caravan from the Burning Citadel had been spotted not far away, he said. It had been in some battle, for it had a fraction of its legion of guards, and the survivors looked worn and bloodied. Should some further harm befall this weakened party, said the rider, then the treasures they carried would be free for the taking.
The celebration was electrified by the news, and the sheikh's brothers soon began arguing among themselves as how to split this as-yet-ungained treasure. The sheikh's eye lit with greed as well, but he summoned abd-al-Mamat. The vizier stamped his way to the sheikh's flank near the head of the feast.
The sheikh said," A weakened party of merchants from Malbus is in our lands, oh vizier — wounded, weakened, and bloodied. What say you to this?"
Abd-al-Mamat scowled at the thought of the ramheaded abomination's wrath and of what the sheikh said, and he asked no further questions. Instead, he nodded and said," Go to them. The rewards will be great."
The vizier's fellow tribesmen gave a hearty shout, and as one, they tore from the pavilion to mount up and pursue the merchants. A large mob of them, touched by wine and dreaming of great treasure, set off at once, the sheikh and his brothers at the head of the van.