He was so disconnected, he could, he suddenly thought, have bled to death and been blissfully unaware. That, he thought wrly to himself, would be a blessing. But he felt the muscles of his face re-arrange themselves into the semblance of a grin, and forced himself to reluctantly admit that, despite his best intentions and desires, he was, unfortunately, still in the land of the living. Death, it seemed, was giving him a miss. Not that it would have been much of a comfort; there was a strong possibility that he was destined for Hell already. He was, after all, hashashin, a hashish-eater, but what the infidel, with their pale, strange, faces, and their pale, strange hair, and their polyglottal, sub-human attempts at speech called assassin: a person who spent his time killing people for religious, political, and more increasingly, economic reasons.

He was, to put it simply, a murderer.

He remembered one of his first assignments, given to him by a fanatical mullah, in a tired, dirty, shop, on a tired, dirty road, in the back-alleys of Agrabah. He had remembered he had hated his client on sight.

The mullah was old: what little hair he had left was white, and very long; there were a few strands of it poking out from under his checked kaffihiyeh headdress, and one of his eyes was covered by a filmy blue cataract. His teeth were rotten, and there was a stench of garlic about him. Alid ibn Hamindun had had to fight to keep himself from gagging.

'I wish,' the mullah had said quietly, 'for you to do me a service.' Even the old man's voice was hideous: it gurgled and sighed like a pit of quicksand relaxing over the last, desperately clutching hand as it slid beneath the surface. Alid had felt himself being dragged into it as well, and it was a fight to keep himself both on his client, and the instructions the mullah had been giving to him.

'Our dear beloved Sultan, peace be upon him by the blessing of Allah,' said the mullah, in a tone suggesting he thought the Sultan not as able a ruler as he should be, 'has made a rather misguided decision in his foreign policy. He is allowing the Nasaraa' -- he used the Arabic word for Christians with the greatest contempt his voice would allow ' -- to come to our fair city, and speak about their idolatrous religion. As if kafir' -- unbelievers -- 'knew anything about the glory and might of Allah!' Spittle was forming in tiny flecks at the corners of his mouth. 'There are three missionaries coming to Agrabah tomorrow. May the fleas of a thousand camels infest their armpits! Their presence puts the security of our beloved city and its ruler at risk. I wish them to be...' his voice fell into the euphemistic rhythms of those who wish murder to be done, but not to be implicated in the results '...taken care of.'

Alid ibn Hamindun had been a young man then, and was not sure he could believe his ears. 'But if our beloved Sultan (Peace be upon him!) has given the Christians free passage into Agrabah, are you not countermanding the will of the Commander of the Faithful?'

The imam's good eye blazed out at him, and he took a step back. 'I do this not for our Sultan, but for the greater glory of Allah! Our beloved Sultan has taken leave of his senses in this matter, or perhaps he is possessed by djinn; he is not thinking clearly. Letting in the Christians will expose our city to the forces of Darkness! It must not, I repeat, not, be tolerated!' There was a clink as a small satchel was thrown to land beside Hamindun's right hand. 'You do this for the glory of Allah, Alid ibn Hamindun,' said the imam softly, 'but a man such as you cannot live on air and
empty praises. You will find yourself adequately compensated.' He rose, and Alid saw another aspect to the horrors of this man: a great hunch nearly bent him in half. 'I want it done tomorrow, preferably before they reach the city. If that proves impossible, I want you to be sure there will be no traces found of them.'

Alid bowed his head. 'The contract will be fulfilled as you request,' he said softly, 'one way or another.'

'Then our business is concluded, Alid ibn Hamindun. May Allah's peace and blessings be upon you.'

It had been a nasty business, and butchery, rather than a clean execution as he had hoped. He'd taken care of the first missionary out in the desert, at his campsite. It was to have been a simple throat-slitting, but the man had avoided the knife, and Alid had taken his tulwar and slowly cut the man to pieces, first cutting his vocal chords to silence the screams. He'd buried the man where he'd found him, trusting the jackals and kites to take care of the parts he'd missed.

To the second man, he'd been a beggar, asking for alms in a shadowy doorway. Luring the man inside, he'd garrotted him with a leather thong he'd hung around his neck. The memory still gave him nightmares. Astride the man, thrusting his knees into the heaving chest, cord beginning to sink into the surrounding flesh, face purpling, eyes bulging, hands scrabbling with lessening force at his hands and arms, the gurgling slackening away to nothing. His arms and shoulders acheing with the strain of tightening the cord. The corpse was dismembered, placed in saddlebags, and fed to the stray dogs in the city streets.

He'd tried to push the last missionary off a wall, but the man had unfortunately become impaled on a wooden pole. It took him four hours to get the corpse down, and hide it.

It was almost humourous, in a twisted way. He was a murderer: but he prided himself on his craftsmanship. He believed that suffering was superfluous to his job. No living thing had to feel agony. It was odd, it was strange, and it was somehow touching. But he believed it, nonetheless. Seeing how his profession had already damned him, it was about the only thing he could believe in.

And now, so far from that young man he had been, he'd turned to the business at hand, and ended up suspended in this Godforsaken dungeon, in this Godforsaken place.

The order had come down from The Old Man Of The Mountain, the spiritual leader of the hashashin. There had been a contract, the old man said, and as the leader, he would choose the team that would fulfill this task.

'Team?' Zaid Khamil, a dapper, slender man with a pencil-thin moustache exclaimed. Assassinations were usually a solo operation: the more people that were involved, The Old Man usually said, the more chances there were of something going wrong. The Old Man Of The Mountain suggesting a group assassination was like any of the hashashin forgetting their daily prayer, or eating pork. It was almost unforgivable. But, The Old Man was their leader, and not one of the hashashin would think of disobeying him.

Omar Khasid, a big, burly man, with the size and disposition of an ox, grunted. Many people had underestimated Omar Khasid: though large in size, and not particularly agile or swift, had a mind that belied his musculature. He was quick-witted, and a brilliant actor; these traits alone made him invaluable for assassinations. Omar was also unique in that he very rarely used weapons. A master of Indian wrestling, a victim locked in his huge hands or brawny arms was like a rat in the coils of a python -- doomed to die a slow, agonising death by suffocation. He was carrying a weapon at the moment, a slender-bladed stiletto which was being used to clean his fingernails.

Fathma Dibdun was one of the only women in the hashshashin, and a constant puzzle to everyone. Most men, being chauvinists, if not outright misogynists, accused her of not acting like a proper woman, refusing to cover her face, or behave properly in public, refusing the arguments of Fathma, a Qu'ranic scholar, that there were no religious precedents for women to dress and behave in any manner. The very snide hinted her mother had been a djinniyah who'd married a mortal husband, and that this was the source of her improper behaviour. Fathma had enough of a reputation in other areas to ensure that these remarks were never voiced aloud.

Fathma admired The Old Man Of The Mountain. He had cast no brickbats about her sex or parentage. He'd only told her, as he'd told everyone: 'Anyone can be taught to kill. And this is killing in the service of Allah. Women have as great a role to play as men.' And Fathma had listened and learned. How to disguise one's appearance and voice. How to pick locks and move silently, whether climbing, walking, running, or swimming. The art of camouflage. How to kill with blades, cords, bare hands and feet, or with elaborate pits and
deadfalls. The vital spots of the human body. Plants and compounds that could heal or kill. And many other things. An orphan on the streets of Agrabah, this blind, crippled, seventy-year old with the mind of a razor was the father that Fathma had never had. So she sat quietly, dark eyes slitted like a sleeping cat's, and listened.

Daoud Youssef was known as the Ordinary Man. One of those people blessed or cursed with an unremarkable physique and face that can blend into almost any background. He could kill, but was more adept at gathering information. He sat forward, knees drawn up to his chest. His neck was craned forward as well, chin slightly past his knees. He looked absorbed, like a chess prodigy studying a game in progress between two of the world's greatest masters. Like Fathma, he said nothing.

In the corner, Alid ibn Hamindun, overcome with something very close to awe, merely looked at the ground.

The Old Man Of The Mountain began to speak. He had a soft, well-modulated voice, but the intensity of his passion ran through it like steel. When he spoke this way, you could look into the dead white orbs that were his eyes, the sockets themselves pouched and wrinkled with age, like the rest of his body, and imagine he was not looking at you, but through you. Every so often, his seamed face crinkled into a smile. This was not an expression of joy or mirth: age had given him a nervous tic that manifested itself this way. Daoud Youssef had said once philisophically, 'Allah is so pleased with the work he has done, he has blessed his Earthly life with perpetual happiness.' Omar Khasid had merely grunted.

'You five,' The Old Man said in his pleasant voice, 'are the youngest, most dedicated, most passionate of the Hashashin, which is why I have selected you for this task.' He drew several sheets of mullberry paper from his white robes, and passed them to the group.

At first glance, the paper seemed almost an enigma. It was covered in Arabic characters, and sported a portrait done in the manner of Chinese ink painting. The five scratched their heads, puzzled.

The portrait was of a young man, in his early twenties. He had a long, narrow face, dominated by his slender jaw and a proud, aristocratic nose. His hair, or what could be seen under an immense ornamental turban, was black, and escaped in soft curls over his cheeks and forehead. His eyes were very large, and had a hooded, half-closed expression to them, like the vague indifference shown by a cat at rest, but tinged with a strong sense of ability, self-confidence, and arrogance. His lips were thick and sensual, curled in a lazy half-smile. The portrait was so lifelike, the young man seemed to be mocking them from the page. Omar Khasid looked ready to crumple the portrait in his fist.

'This,' said The Old Man Of The Mountain, 'is the man you are instructed to kill.'

There was silence for several seconds. 'Who wishes this boy dead?' said Fathma Dibdun. He looked so young, she found it difficult to take him seriously. One so young could not possibly be such a threat it required five highly trained men and women to silence him.

'I do not know,' The Old Man said slowly. 'The purchaser of the contract wished to remain anonymous. However, he feels it is vital, for the glory of Allah, that this young man be put to death.'

Daoud Youssef came forward, and knelt before his mentor. 'Master,' he said politely, 'do you know who this young man is?'

'I do not. However, I have been assured the young man is a heathen idolator, and that he devours the flesh of pork, and of babies.' There was a collective gasp from the five. 'I believe the contract is a honourable one, and that for the greater glory of Allah, this man must die.'

'I understand,' Daoud Youssef said, and returned to his place. Omar Khasid rumbled into life, like a juggernaut beginning its first fatal movements as a prelude to crushing all things in its path. 'Where may the kafir be found, Master? In Getzistan, in Agrabah?'

'No. To find this man, you must journey to the Land of the Black Sand. His quasrun' -- castle -- 'is there.'

Daoud, Alid, Fathma, and Zaid all saw Omar the Mighty go noticeably pale and murmur 'Allah preserve us,' under his breath. He said, 'I have heard the place is a haven for blood-sucking ghosts, ghuls, and evil efreets and djinn beyond description. They say too that the dead walk there.'

The Old Man said gently, 'It is appropriate for an infidel, is it not? Are you afraid, Omar Khasid, that you cannot perform Allah's will? If so, step aside without shame, and another can take your place. You are not dishonoured, if you choose not to go.' The gentle statement was worse than any chiding or insult. Omar's massive face and neck flushed the colour of a beet. He said, his jaw held tightly, as though his teeth might fracture and splinter, 'I am not afraid. I go where Allah wills me.'

The Old Man's lips twitched in
pleasure, not an involuntary response. 'I expected nothing less of you, Omar Khasid. You are truly a worthy child of the Hashashin.' He then turned to his selected assasssins, and addressed them collectively.

'The contract is to be fulfilled within a week, and the young man's head and right hand to be brought back as proof of your success. You may now go, and make the preparations for your journey. Allah guide you, and may His peace and blessings fall upon you all.'

The city before them was vast, silent, and empty. The only sound they could hear was the wind weeping and moaning among the buildings, a sound that almost seemed to have a human voice.

Go back, it said to them. Go back, before it's too late. It tugged at their cloaks, invisible hands that seemed caught between the choice to push them away, or drag them down with them into damnation.

Omar Khasid, the man of iron, was softly repeating the Exordium from the Qu'ran over and over to himself, under his breath. Alid looked at him, and saw tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. It might have been a trick of the dusky light, but the skin of Khasid's face had a grey, ashen pallor to it, and sweat gleamed on the bald dome of his head. He touched Khasid's arm, and felt the muscles under the skin jump and twitch like oil in a hot skillet. Omar, despite his attempts at bravery, was almost deathly afraid.

This attitude, it seemed, was catching. The mounts they rode, fine Arabian stallions, systematically trained to fear nothing, the finest warhorses horsemanship could produce, snorted and pawed the ground nervously. Their triangular ears were held almost flat against their skulls. Glancing to his left, Alid saw Fathma Dibdun fighting with her horse, a strong, proud black named Shasti. She bent low and whispered in his ear. Shasti whickered, and began to move forward slowly. His head was bent, as though he were trying to make progress in the teeth of a gale, or was attached to an invisible halter, one that was dragging him inexorably forward.

There were strange mists swirling about them now: white, black, and some almost pearlescent shades of gray. They were thick and acrid, and the effect on their noses was immediate. Daoud Youssef bent over the side of his saddle and retched, wiping strings of fluid from his mouth with his cloak. He was taking on a greenish cast. Alid folded his cloak over his nose and mouth, and tried to breathe as shallowly as he could.

The silence of the place was unnerving. The entire city seemed to be wrapped in cotton wool. All sounds were curiously indistinct, muffled. The horses's hooves struck the cobbles solidly enough to send up sparks, but the sound they made was the curiously stealthy pad-pad-pad of cat's paws. For Alid to make himself heard to Fatma, he'd had to shout, though not a foot away; even then, he'd had to repeat himself twice.

He glanced over at Omar Khasid, and was stunned. The man who had been trembling like a leaf was now almost beatifically calm; his eyes were closed serenely, and he seemed to be humming to himself. Alid recognised the look: it was a man who was preparing himself to die.

He shouted at Zaid, who had moved on ahead a little way to scout their passage. He saw the head cock in some form of recognition, but there was no way to make out the words through the dampening effect. He spurred his horse into a lope, and came alongside. After shouting, he finally managed to make himself heard: 'Where are we supposed to go?'

Zaid raised a black-gloved finger and pointed. The castle towered over the town like a hungry gargoyle. Bits of it appeared and disappeared, as the mist swirled open and closed about it. 'Up there. To that charming place.' He laughed bitterly, and Alid saw the pearly brightness of his teeth. 'Quite the little hovel our young friend has, don't you think? I can't wait to see how the inside is decorated.' He took a look at the silent, dead, metropolis around them. 'He's obviously a boy with a thing for motifs. We'll see if we can't change that.'

He hawked and spat into the cobbles at his feet. It vanished into the mist above it like a stone descending into a bottomless pit. There was no sound of impact.

Alid shivered slightly. 'I don't like it here. The place oozes evil from every pore. And have you seen Omar? I think he's ready to die.'

Zaid nodded, his handsome face serious. 'I don't like it either. Omar, our rock of stability, does seem about to pack it in. I think he would have if The Old Man hadn't shamed him into going.'

'Shamed him? Do you honestly think that?'

'Alid, don't be naiive. Don't you remember our lessons? The Old Man said: Know your enemies, but know your friends even better. Friends are just enemies with better things to do than come after
you. He knows Omar like the back of his hand.'

Alid grinned wryly, despite the sinking feeling in his stomach, and the oppressiveness of the place. 'But he's blind, Zaid. How can he know what the back of his hand is like?'

'Trust me, habibun. He knows. He --'

There was a soft chuking sound behind them. Zaid's head snapped in the direction like a cobra striking, and he put a finger to his lips. 'Shhh. You heard that?'

'Yeah. What do you think it is? Could -- '

Another chuk, this time from in front of them.

'Some animal, do you think?'

'No way, habibun. That's metal striking stone, or else I've never heard it. Even with the dreadful acoustics in this place. Listen.'

Alid listened. Omar, Daoud, and Fathma had ridden their horses up behind them, and every one of their heads was cocked. The chuk noises began to take on a definite rhythm: Zaid had been right. It was definitely metal striking stone. Like flint striking steel to produce the fire; or a unscabbarded sword clanging carelessly against a rock. The deadness had muffled what would have been its clear ringing tones, but they all knew it.

Zaid slid from his horse in one fluid motion. He took a short sword from its scabbard on his back, and unsheathed a large, triangular Khyber knife from his left hip. He then went into a deep crouch, knees bent, and turned in a slow semi-circle, trying to see through the mist, weapons leading him like a blind man's fingers. 'Arm up, habibun,' he whispered. 'This is going to get ugly, or I'm a Christian.'

Alid dismounted, and untied the scabbarded cavalry sabre he kept lashed to the pommel of his saddle. The scabbard's interior was muffled to prevent noise, but he didn't care. They -- whoever they were -- were making no attempt to hide their presence. Noise was irrelevant. Even through the scabbard and the absorbent mist, it sounded like the loudest sound in the world.

There was a sharp whistling sound. Fathma had taken her favourite weapons: her urumi, or East Indian 'spring swords'. Each had a swordlike handle, but instead of blades, they had ten three-foot ribbons of metal, sharpened on both sides. They were whirled and wielded like whips, and the ribbons slashed through the enemy like a knife through butter. She kept them coiled up and tied in her saddlebags when not in use.

Daoud Youssef brought out his weapon -- an eighteen-inch knife with serrated edges and a needlelike point designed for thrusting. Upon withdrawl, the serrations widened the wound, increasing the trauma.

Omar Khasid, predictably, took no weapon, merely wrapped his fists in studded pieces of leather. He stood in three-quarters profile, like a boxer, feet wide for balance, hands open to grab. There was no sense of fear or anger on his face: he was doing something he knew well -- fighting.

The chukking sounds ceased, and there was a sound of shuffling footsteps. Their enemies appeared before them.

They were lean, sallow, sexless, and they carried scimitars. They also moved very slowly, as if they knew their enemies were surrounded, and there was no need to hurry. Their eyes were deep, and sunk in their sockets, but they seemed to glow with an unhealthy luminescence. Something, Alid wondered, like hunger.

The inexorability of their movement was almost mesmerising. So much so, when a strike came whistling at his head with incredible speed, he barely managed to get his sabre up and parry. The scimitar was old, and notched: Alid felt his sabre bite into the nicks and burrs along its edge as the weapons disengaged. He made a thrust, but the creature facing him did not move away. The point punched into its abdomen with almost absurd ease, and a spurt of choking grey dust gouted out. There was no blood.

Alid's jaw dropped to his chest, and he was barely able to defend himself as the creature came for him again. He remembered Omar Khasid talking to The Old Man Of The Mountain in a trembling, frightened, child's voice. '...They say the dead walk there...'

Their weapons were locked. Grunting, Alid pushed down with all his strength. His sabre slid down the scimitar, and managed, with grim application, to slice through the corpse's shoulder, severing it. Then he was spinning away from the choking dust, peering through the mists for a another potential enemy.

That, he realised, was another problem. The noxious effects of the mists were making his lungs burn, and his eyes water. The dead, he realised quickly, suffered no such handicap: they were unstoppable. Another one of the undead things charged him, and swung at him with obliterating force. He dropped to his knees, and with his left hand, pulled a knife from his boot and crossed the weapons in front of him to meet the descending blade. His arms shook from the crash, and then he was swinging the sabre to lop a leg off at the knee. He severed the head as it came down.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Fathma reduce a pair
of the things to bloodless fragments and dust. Zaid severed a head with his Khyber knife, and spun around to hamstring another with his short sword. Daoud, he saw, was severly handicapped. His weapon had no slashing edge, and the holes he was poking in the things were hardly slowing them. Omar and an undead had locked their arms about each other and were swaying to and fro like dancers. Then he heard Omar's grunt of triumph as his arms pressed inward and broke the spine. The weakened vertebrae shattered, and the thing fell at Omar's feet, piecemeal. His sweat-slicked, muscled chest was coated with the grey dust.

Then, they all heard the scream. Everything stopped, and they looked.

Daoud had stabbed a zombie in the hollow of its throat, and the dust had puffed into his eyes, blinding him. The skinny sallow fingers seized his weapon arm, and tightened. His wrist broke with a sound like snapping sticks, and the dagger fell to the earth. His cry of pain was cut off as a hand fastened around his throat and lifted him. He writhed for a few seconds, good hand pulling feebly at the lifeless thing that was strangling him. Then there was an even louder crack. Daoud twitched; his boot-heels drummed the earth aimlessly for a few seconds, and then hung limply. His killer casually tossed him away, and there was another crack as his back hit the side of a building. Fortunately, he was beyond all feeling.

Alid roared something in Farsi, he wasn't sure what it was, and carved the creature into a million pieces. His rage was so total, he continued mangling the earth long after its segments had stopped twitching. Miraculously, nothing attacked him. Coming back to himself, he realised the sounds of battle had stopped.

Omar Khasid was cradling the body of Daoud Youssef in his arms. The young man's eyes were open, and there were flecks of spittle on his chin. His head was canted at an unnatural angle, and his spine was bowed forward. Alid grabbed the body from Omar, and began pounding on the dust. Sickened, they watched as he tried to blow air into Daoud's useless lungs. He was crying.

'Breathe, Daoud! Breathe! By the grace of Allah, come Youssef! Breathe! Damn it, breathe...' His voice trailed away into a torrent of sobbing. Zaid gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

'He's in Allah's hands, now. It was up to him to bring Daoud back.'

Alid shivered, and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. 'I know. What will we do with him?'

Zaid looked away. 'We put his body on a horse, and send him back to The Old Man for burial. I'll not leave him for carrion in this God forsaken place.'

'All right. Let's do it, then.'

Daoud Youssef was wrapped in his cloak, and they used a piece of burlap to cover his face. None of them watched when the horse finally moved away.

The citadel loomed over them now, seeming to mock them. The snakes inscribed in silver on its main gate seemed to leer down at them, challenging the puny mortals who had dared to visit this place.

Alid looked at Zaid. 'When those things attacked us...I had an uncomfortable feeling about what, or who this kid might be.'

Zaid had donned his hood, shadowing his face, and making it unreadable. 'A necromancer, at the very least.'

'Why are we still going through with this, then?'

'Because, we were paid. And we're four working stiffs who don't know any better, habibun. Tell you what. If we live, I'm going to go after the bastard who made the contract, and kill him myself.'

'Will that be a solo venture, or can anyone join?'

'Hey, the more the merrier.'

The laughter was dried and forced. None of it was very funny, and they had no real feeling that they would survive.'

'Hey,' a voice said behind them. Fathma Dibdun was looking at them with an expression of anger. 'Can we get on with this? I have business to take care of.' She held up Youssef's long knife. 'I'm going to spit the little sadist's heart on this and show it to him. Then, I'll laugh.'

Omar Khasid, predictably, said nothing.

The Citadel was even more silent than the town. They had encountered no opposition, but had seen the shadowy things milling about in the hallways. They flattened themselves in whatever nooks and crannies they could find, slipping from shadow to shadow like ghosts. No-one saw them, although the sensation of eyes on them was constant, and would not go away.

At length, they came to a wide pair of double doors. The snakes on the main gate had been etched here as well. There was a wave of something flowing under the crack in the door. It made Alid nauseated, and he shivered, fighting the urge to vomit. Whatever it was, back there, it was evil.

'OK,' Zaid was whispering. 'Here's how we'll do this. Throwing knives, any distance weapons we have, and come in hard. If the kid's a sorcerer, it probably won't matter, but maybe we'll get lucky. Alid, you and I hit the door first, then Fathma and Omar come in, and...'

The doors swung open as
he gestured, soundlessly, like the yawning mouth of a beast. Having no real option, the four assassins stepped forward.

'Welcome, friends!'

The voice was soft, but it carried the length of the hall without any trouble. They heard it. It was in their ears, it was in their minds. They heard it as vibrations in the pores of their skin, in the churning of their guts and bowels. And it made them quake.

The young man leant insouciantly on the arm of his throne, gazing down at them. Whoever had done his portrait had captured it right. The etheral beauty was there, and so was the arrogance. He looked at them from under his long lashes and smirked at them.

'I suppose you came here thinking you could stop me. But you can't. There's someone I'd like you to meet.' He snapped the fingers of his right hand, which was encased in a glowing leather gauntlet. There was a shuffling sound, and something dragged itself forward painfully into the light. Fathma put her hands to her mouth and screamed.

'Oh, Allah! Not this! Anything but this!'

Daoud Youssef looked down at his former friends from the skewed vantage of his broken neck, and twisted spine. His skin had gone a sallow, pale, colour, and his eyes gleamed with that unhealthy nacrescence. His tongue drooped stupidly between his lips.

'This, I'm afraid, was a rush job,' the young man said, as if explaining a faulty cart repair. 'Between my teleporting him from his horse, and your arrival here, I didn't have the time to make a Mamluk out of him, at least not a proper one. He's only half-way. Still, he tries.' He snapped his fingers again. There was a flash of fire, and a large sword appeared in his hand. He passed it to Daoud, and pushed him forward with a gentle, almost comradely shove. 'Go meet your lady friend,' he said softly. 'She's waiting.'

Youssef stumbled off the dais toward Fathma. She was holding out her arms, and sobbing. 'Daoud,' she said, weeping, saying his name over and over, holding her arms out to him. He stopped directly in front of her. Fathma went on her knees, still weeping. She knew what was going to happen as the thing that had been Daoud Youssef slowly raised the sword. There was a butcher-shop sound, and the scream that had been building died. Lost in shock, Alid heard, faintly, the sound of Zaid gagging.

Then he saw Zaid flick a throwing knife from his cloak, and aim it at the young man's throat. He threw. There was an abrupt clang, and the knife ricochetted harmlessly off the glowing shield the youth had conjured in front of him. Before Zaid could do anything else, Youssef was upon him. The scream was mercifully brief.

Omar Khasid had sank to his knees, head in his huge hands, groaning. The young man leaned forward, interested. 'It must be hard for you,' he said, 'all that bulk and no brain. Thinking must give you a headache. In fact, I think you have one now, don't you?'

Omar Khasid moaned, and his hands began to press against his head, as thought trying to squeeze out pain. Alid saw the muscles in his forearms bulge, as he applied pressure.

And applied it, and applied it. Squeezing...

Alid turned his head before the end, and tried to close his ears to the inevitable squashing sound. He retched.

The young man yawned. 'I'm bored with this game. Let's play something else.' He made a half-circle with his gauntled hand. Daoud Youssef took the sword and decapitated himself.

Alid was moaning. The young man laughed. 'Don't tell me you've got a headache too? Stupidity must be contagious.'

Alid looked at him, and an animal growl rose from the pit of his stomach. 'I'm going to rip your throat out with my hands!' His legs coiled muscularly beneath him, and he leaped...

'No,' the young man said, 'I don't think so.' A wave of blue-black fire erupted from the gauntlet and smashed into Alid, surrounded him. The fire ran into his nose, his ears, his mouth, his eyes, screamed along the inside of his skull. Alid was dimly aware that he was writhing and shrieking, as if he were outside himself. Then a cool grey wave washed over him, and slowly faded to black.

He awoke some time later, hanging by his wrists in the dungeon.III: The New MamlukSuspended, torn. bleeding, almost at the end of his tether, Alid ibn Hamindun thought of his life. He thought of the assignment, and its futile, all but inevitable, he thought now, conclusion. He thought back to Zaid, remembered how the man would stroke his carefully groomed moustache.

'After this is over, if I'm still alive, I think I'm going to find the bastard who made the contract, and kill him myself.'

For some reason, Alid kept thinking back to the old mullah who had given him his first contract. The man had been old, crippled, hideous to behold, and a fanatic about his beliefs. It was that, now, that Alid found himself being drawn to again and again. How the mullah had prefixed almost every statement with 'I do this for the greater glory of Allah!'
He seemed to remember The Old Man Of The Mountain using similar words to describe the contract, making out the young man to be a demon-worshipper. Well, he was a sorcerer, there was no doubt about that.

Could the mullah have put out the contract? Alid thought to himself now. No, he told himself. Surely that was impossible. The mullah had to be dead. Alid had been ten years younger, and the mullah had been at least seventy or eighty, perhaps even older. Then he thought of Zaid again.

'Remember what The Old Man taught us? Know your enemies, but know your friends even better; a friend is just an enemy with better things to do than come after you.' He remembered Zaid's implications that The Old Man had manipulated Omar Khasid into going on the mission. Was it he who had desired the death of this young man, whoever he'd been?

At first, Alid found this idea hard to credit. The Old Man had trained them, raised them, educated them -- they were his children, and he their loving father. They'd supported him, loved him in return, and they'd even killed for him. After all, family was the central unit in Arabic society. Was it possible? The blind, withered, loving codger using them all this time?

If he had been unfettered, in a public place, and basking in the warm light of day, Alid probably would not have entertained this notion for more than a second. But he was in the dark: helpless, shackled. Unable to do anything but stew in the pit of his own anger and resentment. The more it went on, the more likely it seemed. The wrinkled, wise, involuntary smiling face hung before him, and he was consumed with rage and anger because of it. The Old Man had been responsible, he decided. He would --

There was a loud commotion, and a noisy rasping as the bolts of the cell were withdrawn. The light coming into the chamber was dim, but his eyes were unaccustomed, and he teared and blinked furiously. One of the pale, silent, zombie-things stood in the gap, a tray in its hand. It abruptly stood aside, and the young man who had killed his comrades and put him here, entered the room, taking the tray as he did so. There was something draped over his shoulders, and it moved. There was a sudden, hissing whisper, and Alid realised this thing, whatever it was, was alive. The young man stepped in front of him -- unfortunately, Alid saw, just out of kicking range -- and made a courtly bow.

'I'm afraid,' he began in his pleasant, well-modulated, though arrogant voice, 'I haven't been a good host. I am Mozenrath, the Lord of the Black Sand.'

'Mozenrath, Monzenrath!' the thing on his shoulders chanted in a guttural voice. The young man's face turned icy.

'Thank you, Xerxes, I know who I am.'

'So, you're the Lord of the Black Sand,' Alid sneered. 'I never heard of you before I came here. Should I be impressed?' He summoned up all the saliva in his dried mouth, and spat. The wad fell short of its intended target, but Mozenrath stepped back and his eyes blazed. Then he seemed to recover himself. He proffered the tray. 'I thought you might be hungry, so I made you some food.'

Alid's stomach began to growl but he shook his head. 'No thank you. I don't really feel hungry.'

The young man said peevishly, 'I think you are.' Alid suddenly froze, unable to move a muscle. His mouth hinged open against his will, expectant and eager. Mozenrath took his left hand -- horror of horrors -- and raised it to Alid's mouth. The scent of cooked meat reached his nostrils, and he began to salivate almost immediately. Mozenrath's fingers placed it fastidiously inside: it was obviously he only wanted to touch the meat. Alid tried to bite, but his jaws refused to respond. Only when the hand drew back did they move, chewing slowly and mechanically. He began to cry, tears streaming down his cheeks as Mozenrath fed him like a baby, and with the forbidden left hand.

Still, the meat was tender and almost melted on his tongue. His stomach was almost immediately grateful, and against his will he croaked out, 'Thank you. It was delicious.' Mozenrath smiled. 'Now that's more like it.'

'What was it?' Alid wanted to know.

'Oh, just some pork I had prepared for the occasion.'

Alid vomited, spilling bile down the front of his tunic. Like Jews, Muslims are forbidden to eat pork. For a True Believer, it constitutes a sin against Allah. Mozenrath's face assumed an expression of mock hurt. 'That's going to make your clothes smell dreadfully, you know,' he said, theatrically holding his nose. 'You really should work on your aim.'

Alid found his voice and will returning. 'I'm going to kill you, you little monster!' He rattled the chains impressively. Mozenrath just shook his head and clucked his tongue, acting as though Alid were mad. Then he stepped forward and grasped the assassin's chin in an iron grip. His voice was low and deadly as a snake.

'This is just the beginning,' he hissed. 'You aren't even close to being broken yet. When I
come for you next time, you will be mine.' He thrust Alid's face away, and turned on his heel. 'I suggest you contemplate what's left of your life. You don't have much left.'

The light faded as he withdrew, and the cell door swung to. The next thing Alid heard was the iron bolts falling into place.

He did not know when it was that Mozenrath next came for him. All he knew is that he was filled with dread. The sorcerer was flanked by five or six Mamluks. They took Alid down and had him in a grip of irresistible strength before he could even think of fighting. They led him down a series of twisty hallways, down staircases that seemed to have no end. At last they brought him into a large room with a massive pentangle carved on the floor. The Mamluks flung him down, and an incantation from Mozenrath locked him in place before he could twitch. He was still able to move his eyes, however, and he saw there were dozens of Mamluks here, crowded into the chamber in ranks six deep. His paralysed tongue managed only a grunt, but Mozenrath was obviously able to interpret it as a question.

'You, Alid ibn Hamindun, are about to join the family,' the sorcerer said with pride. Alid didn't stop to wonder how the spawn of the devil knew his name. He was past that now. 'You will be the third complete person I have created a Mamluk from. Destane, my mentor, was the first, your foolish friend Daoud Youssef was the second, though as I said, he was incomplete. You will be my greatest triumph.' He leaned down close to Alid's face and leered. 'You'll enjoy working for me. No more worries about food, clothing, or free will.'

He stood up and removed a handful of black dust from a pocket. He scattered it liberally around and on Alid's body and began to chant something in a low, guttural language. Alid felt himself begin to get logy. Something seemed to be running away from him like treacle down a drain. With horror, he somehow realised it was his memories. Faces of people he'd known, loves he'd briefly had, his first kiss: all were being devoured by this vast blackness that was growing inside his head like cancer. His brain, as it slipped away, said he should struggle, should fight, cried out against this rape of his personality. But he could do nothing. He was so very weak, so very tired, and who was he, and what was he complaining about....

Mozenrath watched the ceremony with satisfaction, even as he continued to chant. Alid was completely paralysed by his magic, unable to move or speak, but while it remained, the scream locked behind his eyes was more than enough.

It tried to speak, found an opening in its top end sealed shut with a thin black something. A foolish thing. Small appendages reached and pulled and tore. Something fine and powdery sifted down. It opened this new aperature in itself and let this new thing flow in. It felt nothing.

Something -- not knowing what that was -- had to be done.

One of its small appendages -- a finger, it realised, how did it know that? -- traced some funny symbols in the dust. A-L-I-D. They meant something. What was it? They were a name. The name was Alid. It was Alid!

Alid pondered. This something, whatever it was, had to be done. What was it? It saw a funny looking thing inside its head. A face, that was it! An old face, covered in wrinkles, its small pieces of flesh -- lips! -- crinkled in a smile. Yes! It had to find this face, and do something to it. But what? Perhaps, Alid thought, that would come later. Now it had to go and find its face.

There was a heavy door in front of it, held by stout bars of iron. A minor hindrance. Alid grabbed the door and tore it away like paper, not missing one of its fingers as it was sliced off by the frame. There were more important things to worry about.

The hall was dark, but Alid could see just fine. It knew where it was going.

Its face was out there somewhere, and it would find it.

Mozenrath surveyed the carnage with absolute disbelief. He'd come to check on his new Mamluk, created after three intense days of chanting and ceremony, and found the cell he'd placed it in empty. Xerxes nervously studied his master's face, not knowing what the reaction would be.

There was the cell door torn from its hinges, and the stump of a finger on the threshold; dust from the injury had made lazy sand-pictures in the corridor outside. Otherwise, it was pretty neat. It was heading for the surface, and the exit of the Citadel. Mozenrath wondered when this could have happened. The Citadel alarms were not set to detect Mamluks, so no alarm had been raised. It could have, for all he knew, been hours ago.

Rather than teleport himself, Mozenrath followed the puffs of dust. He was becoming more and more interested as he walked. Xerxes was mindlessly repeating, 'Mamluk gone! Mamluk gone!' but he ignored his familiar, gazing at
the dust trail like a bloodhound on the scent.

The trail finally ended at the gates of the Citadel, wide open and littered with the bodies of Mamluks that had tried to stop their comrade from leaving. Though scattered about the hall, each Mamluk's limbs had been packaged in neat piles, and the dust appeared to have been swept away.

The moon was up, and its light lay like frosting on the black dunes outside. There were faint tracks in the sand, and they continued out to the limit of Mozenrath's sight. There was no sign of the Mamluk. Mozenrath slowly shook his head, smiling to himself.

'Somehow, it retained its self-will and sense of identity,' he mused. 'A fragment of memory gave it the impetus to escape and perform some unfulfilled task. I've never seen that in my life.'

'Master chase bad Mamluk?' Xerxes enquired.

He looked at his familiar and stroked him. 'No. It can't harm us, and it's pointless to chase it. Let it wander. For some perverse reason, I'm inclined to be merciful.' Then his lips parted, and he laughed; it was a brief bark with no humour.

'Assuming a thing such as that can expect mercy in this world!'

Miles away, at a moonlit oasis, a lone Bedouin was preparing his camp for the night. He had a cheerily burning fire, and was preparing his bedroll when he heard a sound of shuffling footsteps behind him. He turned, and saw a shadowy figure observing him.

'Salaam, and good evening friend!' he called cheerfully. 'You must be frozen. The desert has teeth tonight. Come, share my fire, and break bread with me!'

There was a series of painful, stumbling steps, and the figure moved into the light. The Bedouin felt his heart stutter in his chest. 'Allah!' he whispered.

The stranger in his camp was very thin and sallow. The flesh of his face was dessicated, and pulled tight over his cheekbones. His eyes glowed with a dull luminescence. His clothing was tattered and torn, a few rips showing the pale flesh of his chest. It looked like the flesh of some prehistoric fish or salamander that had never seen the light of day.

The Bedouin reached into his pouch for his salt, thinking this must be a ghul, or some other evil djinni. Then he saw the eyes again, and stopped. They were not entirely human, but there was something there. It was...regret? Sadness? He looked at the creature's posture, and saw an attitude of defeat, but something not quite broken. It looked more pathetic than perilous, and the Bedouin felt his heart go out to this creature.

'Oh, Allah,' he said, this time in a tone of pity and misery.

The thing looked at him steadily for a few seconds, and then shuffled again, moving into the darkness beyond the firelight.

'Wait!' the Bedouin called. 'Wait, my friend.'

The creature looked at him steadily, and the pain and sadness was so raw, the Bedouin felt his heart twist. Its lips moved, and a malformed voice, dry as dust, came out.

'N-n-n-nuh, nooo...' it said. 'No fr-fr-fruh-ends.' It raised a finger and pointed to its chest. 'Ah-A-Ahloone.' It started moving off again, and stopped. It turned back to the Bedouin one last time, and said something crystal-clear, in a voice that was sad, yet filled with resonance and strength:

'Pray for me.'

Then it shuffled over the crest of the next dune, and was lost to sight.

They began as rumours in the underworld, but as rumours will, they grew. The Old Man Of The Mountain, it was said. The name whispered in fear and respect, in every cutthroat's den. The Old Man Of The Mountain was dead.

Impossible, some scoffed.The Old Man was immortal; he could never die.

It was four months later before the fact was verified. He had been discovered in an abandoned hovel in Agrabah.

The wrinkled face seemed at peace, the blind eyes staring at nothing. Only a clawed hand on the body's chest indicated death might not have come easily. A pile of curious grey dust lay beside his head. The only other thing was some curious religious sayings written on a piece of parchment in charcoal. They were mostly from the Qu'ran, but no-one could make sense of them:

TAKE OF THIS AND EAT, FOR THIS IS MY BODY.

.... I WILL LAY UPON HIM A MOUNTING TORMENT.FOR HE PONDERED AND HE SCHEMED.CONFOUND HIM, HOW HE SCHEMED!!

For Wendyrath and Silvestris, who believed in me.

Michael Ferrier

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Those who have read my poem 'Failed Expedition' will notice immediate similarities between this story and the poem. This isn't accidental. Creative processes working the way they do, the story was actually conceived first. At that time, I was unable to decide how the story would go, but a skeleton evolved from the poem. Parts of another fanfic I wrote and later junked were also incorporated. The line 'Friends are just enemies with better things to do than come after you,' was originally said to Mozenrath by his master, Destane.

The
title was borrowed from an actual Arabic romance with that name.Part II was taken from the James Thomson poem.Part I was part tarot deck; part pun.

Also, in terms of characterisation, I may not have been too accurate in the depiction of Mozenrath. If people think he came off too nasty, In The Lost City of the Sun Moze adequately demonstrated his willingness to attack the unprepared and defenceless: he even joked about it!