Matt gargled something incoherent.
“What does he say, the man so proud of his speech?” the magus mocked. “Could it be that the empire will be Mongolian and Turkish, not Persian? Ah, but who will control the Mongol? Who will seize the government of the Turks? Do you truly believe Tartars can stand against the intrigues of a Persian? Nay, be sure that when Arjasp has beguiled them into conquering the world for us and for Angra Mainyu, he will himself conquer the gur-khan, and Persians shall rule again, but this time in the name of the Prince of Lies, not the Lord of Light!”
Matt glared up at the magus with contempt, thinking that Arjasp was in for a very unpleasant surprise if he thought he would be cozening a bunch of country yokels. If they were anything like the medieval Mongols of his own world, they would be quite capable of meeting the wiliest intrigues with their direct and straightforward spears.
The magus saw and scowled. “Die, fool!” He gestured to the turbaned man next to him, and the executioner swung high his sword.
Matt stared up at the edge glinting in torchlight, his stomach hollow with dread. The magus saw and laughed, gloating at Matt’s horror. He hadn’t been so terrified since he had first come to Merovence …
… and before he was knighted. The memory of that ceremony suddenly flashed before him, of the questions firing at him as he sponged himself in a cold bath, the advice intoned as he walked the aisle between rows of knights long dead, of Sir Guy’s sword touching his shoulder …
And the fear was gone. He glared up at the magus, refusing to stretch his neck for the fatal blow.
The man’s face filled with fury. He grabbed a fistful of Matt’s hair and yanked his head down to expose his neck to the blade-so Matt was staring at the floor when the meowing voice intoned from the ceiling,
Suddenly Matt could talk again—but before he had time to chant a couplet, a furious yowl sounded, then a howl of pain and a curse from the magus. Matt pictured Balkis descending on the man with all claws out, then a sickening vision of the man hurling her from him, and wished with all his heart that he could see something besides the man’s ankles. His wish came true—he saw a flash of white twist between those ankles just as the man started to turn. He shouted a Farsi curse as he tripped and fell.
The executioner rumbled anger and swung his scimitar high, then bleated with pain and dropped the weapon, hopping on one foot. The white blur streaked toward a corner with drops of red on its claws.
Then light flared, and a stern voice called out commands in Farsi verse. The magus and his minions cringed away from the brightness, their mouths moving—but no words came out.
Finally Matt was able to get a good look at the chamber. It was dark, windowless, all of stone—someplace underground, at a guess. Torches flickered from brackets on the walls. He saw a rack, a brazier, and various torture instruments, and swiveled to see where the light and the voice had come from.
There stood his teacher, the dastoor, seeming ten feet tall and swollen with power, the mobed and four acolytes around him. Then the meaning of the words struck home:
It sounded a lot better in Farsi, of course, with rhyme and meter, but it boiled down to Matt being a Mazdaist, and he wasn’t about to correct the notion as long as Ormuzd’s mantle covered him.
The priest of Ahriman turned purple in the face, shouting—but no words emerged from his lips. Matt wondered how long the spell could last and struggled with his own bonds, trying to free a hand, his gag…
A white streak flashed again, dashing by Matt just as a roar sounded behind him. One of the blue-turbaned, blue-loinclothed bullies charged after the cat-and fell headlong with a bellow of pain. Matt had a brief glimpse of Balkis pulling her teeth out of the man’s calf and her claws out of his ankle before she dodged back behind him again.
Out of the comer of his eye he noticed the priest of Ahriman stepping back into the shadows, as any good coward would—but somehow, the movement worried Matt.
The bullies descended on the dastoor en masse, clubs whirling. He spoke a quick verse, hands darting, fingers pointing to the sticks, and they twisted out of their owners’ hands to start swinging at their heads and shoulders. Shouting in anger, the bullies tried to catch their own weapons. One did, and wrestled with it frantically; the others suffered blow after blow before one of them finally thought to pluck a torch from the wall and thrust it at the club.
“Flame is Ahura Mazda’s!” the dastoor intoned. “Let it sear his enemies!”
The torch’s flames roared up, suddenly four feet high, and bent toward the man who held it as though a strong wind blew. He yelped and dropped it. The flames swelled hugely into a bonfire.
It obliterated the comer shadows, exposing the priest of Ahriman—but it threw an even starker shadow of the rack onto the floor. The priest of Ahriman stepped into that pool of darkness, grinning, and chanted a verse in a language Matt understood but didn’t recognize. The bonfire and torches suddenly went out.
With a sinking heart Matt realized what the man had done—retreated into darkness, the realm of his lord, and regained his power of speech.
But the old man’s light still filled the chamber, and the bullies still wrestled with their clubs. The dastoor pointed at the priest of Ahriman, chanting. Quickly, the blue-clad wizard snapped a return verse, and nothing happened—except tension in the room increased immensely, as good magic strained against bad.
Matt recognized the feeling, and thought with agony that if he could only speak, he could tum the tide. Even as he thought it, fingers moved at the back of his head and his gag fell away. Matt didn’t stop to wonder who or why—he shouted,
The blue-clad toughs squalled as their feet slipped out from under them, as though a carpet had been yanked away. Unfortunately, they let go of their clubs as they fell, and the sticks immediately set about beating them again. Two of them struck home on the first try; their owners went limp, and the clubs froze, then fell, only wood again.
The priest of Ahriman turned, dark with fury, and chanted,
Before he could hit the second line, the dastoor snapped,
The shadows seemed to stretch out to envelop the man. He gave a startled cry as the darkness swallowed him.
The dastoor raised his voice over his opponents’ wails.