Both men tried to scramble to their feet, but Jimena shouted another command, and the horde of spiders went busily to work casting loops about the men’s legs. They toppled again, swearing in languages Jimena didn’t know, and lay helpless on the ground.
Saul stepped over beside her, watching the little spinners do their work. “Quite a sight, milady. Never knew you were an entomologist.”
“More of an etymologist, really,” Jimena told him, “but any boy’s mother becomes far better acquainted with spiders than she wishes to be.”
The sorcerer stopped struggling and started shouting—rhythmical shouting, with rhymes thrown in. Quickly, Saul called out,
Something round and solid filled each of Saul’s hands. He glanced down at them and was glad the caterpillar hadn’t seen it first.
As he lay on the ground, the sorcerer ranted on in his own language, leaving Saul no doubt that if he ever finished, this would be a spell to end all spells—or at least to end him. So Saul stepped up beside the man, waited until his mouth was open its widest, then leaned down and jammed the apple in between his teeth. The sorcerer stared, stunned. Then his face darkened and he began to gargle sounds that probably would have been dire curses, if he could have managed a few consonants.
Saul turned to the assistant, who looked up at him with wide eyes. Tossing the other apple in the air, the Witch Doctor asked, “Need one?”
The man swallowed heavily, shook his head and clamped his mouth shut. Saul strolled back to Jimena. “I think we’ve caught them, Lady Mantrell.”
“Yes, we have.” Jimena frowned as visions of torture rose up in her mind. She shoved them aside by sheer willpower. “But what shall we do with them?”
“Why, question them, of course.” Saul turned back to the assistant. “Ready to answer a few questions, fella? Or would you prefer the fruit course?”
The caterpillar, having run out of leaves, raised its snout, weaving about, centering on the aroma of apple.
“On second thought,” Saul said, “your boss might be on the menu himself—unless you decide to talk.”
The assistant swallowed and shook his head. “I will speak,” he said with a very thick accent.
The sorcerer shouted with alarm.
“Hey, it could be worse.” Saul looked down, met the sorcerer’s eyes and narrowed his own, gazing directly into the pupils. “A lot worse. Believe me.” His voice sank low. “Oh, you really had better believe me. It could get very, very bad indeed.”
The coldness of his tone froze the sorcerer, whose own gaze became murderous, but Saul called up his reserves of outrage, and the man had to look away. Then the sorcerer saw the caterpillar peeling itself off the stalk and squalled in alarm.
Of the apprentice, Saul demanded, “Where are the children?”
“I know not!” he protested. “As soon as we had come within this mist, my master chanted a verse that transported them back to him who sent us! They may be with him, or he may already have hidden them!”
Jimena gave a cry of alarm, quickly muffled by her hands.
“Oh, very nice,” Saul said, with complete sarcasm. “No blame, no shame—you just followed orders. What is this master of yours?”
He meant to add “animal, vegetable, or mineral?” but before he could, the assistant asked, “You do not know?” in amazement.
A cagey look came into his master’s eyes, and Saul knew he had better tread very carefully—and quickly, since the caterpillar was already treading in its own way.
“I can guess,” Saul said. “Confirm it for me.” He tossed the apple again. “Of course, if you don’t want to talk, there’s no reason to leave your mouth free.”
“He is a priest,” the assistant said quickly, “a high priest.”
Saul froze for a moment. Then he said slowly, “Which means your boss here is one of the lower-ranking, run-of-the-mill priests, and you’re his apprentice?”
“Acolyte!” the assistant snapped, suddenly brave in vanity. “I am his acolyte, for he is a priest of Ahriman!”
Saul stared. Then he said, slowly and carefully, “There ain’t no such thing.”
“No,” Jimena agreed. “The Zoroastrians were monotheists. Ormuzd was their only god. Ahriman was a demon.”
“Is a demon!” the assistant snapped.
So did Saul. “You want mercy?” He strode up right next to the man and held up the apple, his knuckles white. “You want us to go easy on you, spare you torture, maybe even get you out of here before the immature moth arrives? You come here and steal our prince and princess, you suborn their nurse and carry off a couple of perfectly innocent babies, and on top of all that you have the gall to tell us this demon of yours actually exists? And your boss is so deep into devil worship he actually calls himself a priest?”
The assistant tried to shrink away within his bindings and wailed, “It is not he who calls himself such, but Arjasp who has declared him so!”
The sorcerer gargled in outrage and threat.
Saul froze, looking down at the apprentice as though measuring him for a coffin. “Who,” he demanded, “is Arjasp?”
“He is the high priest of Ahriman! It is he who had the genius to realize that Ahriman is a god, not a demon only! The genius to begin the worship of the Dark God! It is Arjasp who has given the gur-khan his victories!”
The sorcerer groaned.
Saul stood very still, mind working at express speed, considering alternatives and realizing the need to be very, very careful. Finally he said, “So Arjasp is a magus?”
The sorcerer howled protest.
Saul turned to him, then glanced at Jimena to make sure she was on guard. She gave him a small nod, so he stepped over, pried the apple out of the sorcerer’s mouth, and tossed it to the caterpillar. “Was there something you meant to say?”
“Arjasp is no magus!” the sorcerer ranted. “Accursed be the magi, who led their people only to doom and degradation! Who lost them their empire and found them only a small piece of the world in which to hide, and that pestilential with heat and humidity! Nay, Arjasp is not one of those craven priests!”
He seemed to be overlooking the fact that if any priests had helped the ancient Persians win their empire, it must have been those same magi. Thinking as deviously as he could, Saul shrugged and said, “So this barbarian from the steppes is an improvement?”
“Arjasp is no barbarian!” the sorcerer exclaimed indignantly. “He is a true son of the old Persians, come from the purity of the mountains to lead the remnants of that noble race to triumph—and with them, we who are so enlightened as to join them! He has gathered a score of different peoples to the worship of Angra Mainyu, and the Dark God shall lead us to victory, aye, to dominion over all the world!”
“Oh. So that’s why he needs to send you to steal babies and run his other little cowardly errands?”
“Arjasp is no coward!” The sorcerer’s body convulsed with anger; he actually managed to sit up. “He is courageous and mighty! The power of Ahriman is great within him! If he stays in the center of Asia, there is no cowardice in it, but only the need to continually inspire the gur-khan and the chiefs of all the peoples, and to assure that all work together to hold the conquered lands in subjugation and teach them the worship of Ahriman while the hordes press toward the West to conquer more and more of the world! He shall retake the lands the Arabs stole from his fathers, he shall triumph in every corner of the world, and Ahriman shall have dominion over all!”