Weis, Margaret & Tracy Hickman - Rose of the Prophet 02 by Weis Margaret

Author:Weis, Margaret
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf

Book Six

THE BOOK OF QUAR 11

Chapter 1

Far from the Kurdin Sea, where the ship of ghuls sailed amid its own storm; far from where Mathew struggled against inner darkness; far from Serinda, where a djinn battled against Death; another young man fought a battle of his own, though on much different ground.

Quar's jihad had begun. In the first light of dawn, the city of Meda, in northern Bas, fell to the troops of the Amir without putting up more resistance than was necessary for the citizens to be able to meet each other's eyes and say, "We fought but were defeated. What could we do? Our God abandoned us."

And it did seem as if this were true. In vain the priests-of Uevin called for the God of War to appear in his chariot and lead the battle against the armies

of the Emperor. In vain the priestesses of the Earth Goddess called for the ground to open and swallow the Amir's soldiers. There came no answer. The orades had been silent many months. Uevin's immortals had disappeared, leaving their human supplicants to cry their pleas to deaf ears.

Uevin's ears were not deaf, though he often wished they were. The cries of his people rent his heart, but there was nothing he could do. Bereft of his immortals, losing the faith of his people, the God grew weaker by the day.

Ever before him was the vision of Zhakrin and Evren, their shriveled and starved bodies writhing upon the heavenly plane, then blowing away like dust in the wind. Uevin knew now, too late, that the Wandering God, Akhran, had been right. Quar was intent on becoming the One, the Only. Uevin hid inside his many-199

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THE PALADIN OF THE NIGHT

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columned dwelling, expecting every moment to hear Quar's voice summon him forth to his own doom. Hie Cod, quaking and trembling, knew there was nothing he could do to stop Quar.

The army of Meda—outnumbered, beset by dissension within their ranks, aware that their Governor was hastily packing his valuables and fleeing through the back wall of the city as they prepared to defend its front—fought halfheartedly and, when called upon to surrender, did so with such promptness that the Amir remarked to Achmed drily that they must have ridden forth to battle with white flags in their saddlebags.

Achmed never had a chance to fight—a feet that made him burn with disappointment. Not that he would have seen battle this day anyway. The young man rode with the cavalry and they would not be used today unless the Medans proved more stubborn than was expected. Chafing with inaction, he sat his magical horse high on a ridge overlooking the plains on which the two armies rushed together like swarms of locusts.

Achmed shifted in his saddle, his gaze darting to every boulder and bush, hoping to see some daring Medan raise up out of the cover with bow poised and arrow at the ready, endeavoring to end the war by killing the general. Achmed

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