“And every good thought, word, and deed strengthens Ahura Mazda?”
“Exactly.” The old priest beamed. “You have understood the essence of our purpose on this earth.”
Matt thought of the number of atrocities the horde was committing, and shuddered.
He learned the Parsi rules of versification, learned how to craft a poem that would strengthen Ahura Mazda for battle in a specific event. The old priest was delighted with his progress and amused by his extra student.
He chuckled. “Your cat seems as interested in our lore as you yourself.”
“She’s a very patient one,” Matt said.
Finally the fortnight was over, and the old dastoor had taught him as much as he could in that time. The priest regretted that Matt couldn’t stay to study longer, but understood that he had to forge ahead northward to discover the horde’s Achilles’ heel, if it had one. The villagers held a farewell banquet for him, then all turned out the next morning to see him off.
As the collection of cottages receded behind them, Balkis asked, from her seat on his shoulders, “Are they cheering us on, or glad to see us go?”
“Their hearts are with us,” Matt answered, then changed the subject. “If you do try any of that Zoroastrian magic, remember to keep it simple! I don’t want you getting blasted by an advanced spell you don’t know how to control.”
“You have scant faith in me,” the cat sniffed. “Even I have seen that those spells will hasten a favorable event, no matter whether they are addressed to Ahura Mazda or to the Christian God.”
“They’d better,” Matt said, “or they won’t be any use to us.”
Privately, he was sure that the Supreme Being was the same everywhere, and would hear and understand the petitions of any people, no matter what language they spoke or in what name they prayed, or which limited image of the Limitless they envisioned. Even more, though, he was increasingly suspecting that even in this universe, magic worked by poetry itself more than by the Being to whom those spells were addressed—by symbolism and intent, not direct intervention. Good intentions resulted in good effects here, though they sometimes did not in his home universe. Surely the Source of Goodness could read what a human heart intended and respond to the symbols to which those intentions gave rise. But most of the minor spells, such as those for lighting a fire or removing a wart, seemed an imposition on such a Being, even though God must indeed have had an infinite capacity for attention to detail. Matt suspected that simple magic worked by manipulating the laws of nature, here as well as at home. But in this universe they were manipulated by poetry and song, not mathematics and exotic hardware. He had a notion that computers wouldn’t work here, and wondered if that was a good thing.
As the sun neared the zenith, they found some shade under a deodar and broke out the leftovers the villagers had packed for journey rations.
“Another advantage to traveling as a cat,” Matt noted. “You don’t eat as much.”
“Yes, but the tastes are as delicious and last as long as a larger meal would for my human body,” Balkis answered, then took another bite of curry. She swallowed and said, “I quite approve of their cooking.”
Matt agreed, though he did leave the really hot foods to her. He was amazed that a cat could purr while she ate.
After lunch he stretched out for a nap, and Balkis curled up on his stomach. He was just dozing off when the cat squalled and sprang away. “Oof!” Matt said, and sat bolt-upright just in time to see a turbaned maniac in loincloth and bushy beard swinging a club at his sinuses.
Matt rolled to the side at the last moment, and the club thudded into the earth. He lashed out with a kick and caught the attacker in the stomach; the man doubled over, hands pressed to his belly, mouth gaping in silent agony. Matt snatched up the club and leaped to his feet just in time to see two more men charging at him out of the roadside brush.
A furry fury landed on one man’s shoulder with all claws out, yowling and spitting. The man shouted in pain and anger and swung his club at the cat, but she had already leaped to the ground. Matt gave his own shout of anger, feinting a kick at the other man, then slashing at him with the club. The mugger blocked with his own stick, and Matt slammed a real kick into his hip. The man spun away with a howl of pain, and Matt called out,
The two men in front of him slammed into something invisible and reeled back, falling. He heard shouts of surprise and pain behind him and spun about to see two more attackers down. Even in that brief glimpse a pattern struck him:
They all wore turbans and loincloths of midnight-blue.
“He truly is a wizard!” one man bleated.
“You were well warned,” said a more severe, more authoritative voice, and an older man in midnight-blue robes stepped out of the shadows, raised his arms, and chanted a quick verse. Matt instantly started reciting his own spell, but halfway through the second line, his words turned to nonsense syllables, and the magician’s words registered, something about scattering Matt’s thoughts and confusing his speech. Matt strained to force his tongue and lips to shape intelligible words, but suddenly couldn’t even form a coherent thought.
The attackers saw and started swinging with savage delight. A club cracked on the back of Matt’s head. The darkness closed in around the magician’s vindictive smile, then eclipsed even that, and the darkness settled in to stay awhile.
Visiting hours were over, so the darkness had to go away. Light seeped in, and with it, a jackhammer headache. He groaned, and a voice answered.
“Awake, are you? Haul him up, then!”
Hands seized Matt’s ankles and wrists; strong arms heaved him up and forward. Matt opened his eyes wide in alarm—definitely a mistake, for the room reeled about him. Even as he was jammed onto his knees, his stomach took up heaving where the arms had left off. He managed to turn to the side and spew most of it onto the floor, not onto himself.
“A weakling indeed! He could not even keep from fouling his chamber!” The gloating voice turned mocking. “Why are you so queasy, wizard? Come, recite a spell that will settle your stomach and banish the headache!”
Well, since he was being given the chance, why not take it? Matt had a nasty feeling about the taunting note to the man’s voice, but he went ahead and recited anyway …
… or tried to. Before he could utter more than a few words, however, a band of greasy cloth had been tied about his month. He tried to push himself up to his feet, to swing a fist at the gloating grin. Something tugged at both wrists and ankles at the same instant, and his hands yanked against each other. His stomach sank even farther as he realized he’d been tied hand and foot, with a rope connecting the two pairs of extremities.
“Can you not enchant us, then?” the voice jeered. “Then your doom has come, fool, and you shall pay with your head!”
A huge man stepped up with a huger scimitar, and Matt’s stomach clenched with fear as he realized the man spoke with the utmost seriousness.
A soft hand cupped his chin and yanked his head away from the sight of the sword. The room reeled, his stomach roiled, and he found himself staring into the black-bearded face of the man in the midnight robes. Dimly, he remembered it was the uniform of the priests of Angra Mainyu.
“Thus be it ever to the enemies of our lord Arjasp,” the man spat, his eyes glinting with malevolence. “Did you think you would find him here? Are you truly such a fool as to believe him to be a Parsi? He is a Persian of the old, pure blood, come from the hills of Iran! He saw that only through Ahriman could the Persians once again gain empire, and that only empire will bring the final battle between Angra Mainyu and Ahura Mazda!”