Treachery of the Demon King

Chapter 2: The Wizard’s Preparations

Chapter 2: The Wizard’s Preparations

It was with the most confused of feelings that the Jann Cari returned to her natural home. She’d been ordered to do so by her master, Jafar al-Sharif, and by the power of the ring he wore on his finger—the brass ring he’d stolen from the blind wizard Akar—she could not refuse. She couldn’t help feeling something terrible might befall Jafar in her absence and she’d never forgive her own dereliction of duty if that happened—although, in truth, there was a part of her that was glad to be away and alone, for the encounter on the Isle of Illusions, and its aftermath, had left her shaken to her very core.

Djinni, among themselves, did not make love in quite the same way as humans, so rationally she could convince herself that what appeared to happen had not in fact occurred. It had arisen from an emergency of the moment, and she’d dealt with the problem in the most direct fashion she could while remaining under the ring’s compulsion to protect her master. If she hadn’t seduced Jafar in the guise of his late wife, he would certainly have ended up in that monster’s snare.

But no amount of rationalization could explain away the thrill that she’d felt—or rather, that the body she’d manifested had felt—when Jafar held her tightly in his arms and kissed her, and caressed her, and exhausted his passion upon her. Djinni were all part human, and the Jann, as the lowest rank, were the closest to humans in ancestry. Even though she told herself it was all an act for her master’s benefit, it was a highly pleasurable act—and one she would not have been unwilling to repeat, if sufficiently dire circumstances warranted it.

But afterward, everything seemed changed. A line had been crossed, a boundary broken. No longer was Jafar al-Sharif merely the owner of the ring, an authority to be blindly obeyed. Nor was Cari simply the unwilling servant she’d been for Akar. An intimacy shared could never be completely withdrawn, and in her two hundred years of existence she’d never been so totally intimate with anyone, human or djinn. A part of her whose existence she hadn’t even suspected was now gone, yielded up without thought in a moment’s fervor. And yet, despite that, she also felt she’d gained something. A part of Jafar’s soul had been given to her as well.

Not freely given, of course. He had been under a strong compulsion at the time, and was not acting at his own awareness. Surely in the natural course of events he would never allowed such weakness, and he was too noble a man to take advantage of her inferior position. But in spite of both of them, it had happened, and Cari had a warm, glowing memory to nurture deep within her breast.

It couldn’t be the same for Jafar, of course—not from the way he’d reacted when he learned the truth. Cari could scarcely blame him. He’d been duped by illusion upon illusion and had given his passion to a lie. A necessary lie, perhaps, but a lie nonetheless. Even knowing she’d done it to save his life, he must have felt betrayed. That was why he couldn’t look directly into her face any more, why he was brusque and avoided her, why he’d chosen to send her away even when he faced unknown dangers and might need her help in the sunken land of Atluri.

She couldn’t blame him for the mistrust and the scorn he felt. He was a human, possessor of a soul that would last long after his mortal body was food for vultures. She had only the most fragile of souls, existing only at Oromasd’s sufferance. Humans were blessed of Oromasd; Jann were tainted by their daeva heritage. No matter how much magical power any djinn had, it still ranked below the worst of humans in Lord Oromasd’s hierarchy.

All she’d ever been taught, all she’d ever heard, told her there could be no satisfactory relations between humans and djinni, any more than there could be between the sun and its pale imitation, the moon. Still, some part deep down inside her wished it could be otherwise.

So lost was she in this tangle of emotions that she failed, at first, to notice any difference as she entered the cavern of the righteous Jann, the home of her ancestors. The walls still glowed with a radiance beyond the limits of human sight, the air still tasted of nectar and smelled of subtle spices, the other Jann—some of them her one-time playmates—still darted about on their pursuits, filling the cavern with their individual songs. The others of her race still shunned her as an outcast, as someone who did not fully belong within their circles—as indeed she didn’t, for the owner of the ring could force her to betray her race at any time. She was tolerated with suspicious indifference, and now, in particular, she felt so ill at ease within herself that she agreed it might be justified.

She returned without incident to the home of her family, and wasn’t surprised to find it empty. Still, there was food and drink available, and she helped herself to the nourishment she seldom had time for while traveling with her master. Then all she could do was aimlessly wander the rooms and halls of her family home, waiting for her master’s call and worrying about his fate.

Slowly the realization crept into her consciousness that things had changed in the cavern in a subtle, mysterious way. There was an air of expectation, of anticipation, to the songs the other Jann were singing. They, too, were worried about something, and there was a brittle edge to the words that echoed against the walls. This was not the haven of carefree spirits in which she’d grown up. There seemed more of a purpose to their wanderings, a pattern to their existence. But no one would talk to her, no one would acknowledge her, and she could not grasp all the changes by herself.

She waited for days in her own rooms of her own house, waiting for a call from her master or for someone to talk with her. But no one came near. She’d hoped at least to see her Uncle Suleim, her favorite relative and the one most sympathetic to her plight, but he did not appear, either.

After several days of nothing happening, the cavern was suddenly hit by a spasm of activity. Jann rushed out at top speed, as though on some errand of the greatest urgency. Cari left her home to watch this fantastic exodus, and even questioned some of the older Jann, the ones who stayed behind, about the meaning of this event. All she received was a silent stare, as though she were somehow responsible for all the trouble, and no satisfactory answer was forthcoming.

She was greatly tempted to leave the cavern and follow the others to find out what had caused this bizarre disturbance in their daily lives, but her master’s orders had been that she should return to her homeland until he summoned her again. Even though the power of the ring would bring her to him the instant he called, no matter where in the world she was, his words bound her to this cavern. Besides, she knew how distrustful of her the other Jann were, and her spirits were too frail right now to withstand any more of their insults and snubs.

She sensed something happening on the magical net that underlay the world, but being unsophisticated in such matters, she could not tell that it indicated her master had received the third piece of the Crystal he needed. So little schooled was she in this analysis of others’ magical acts that it took that great an event to register at all upon her senses.

Some time later, her Uncle Suleim returned to the cavern. He looked surprised to see her, but smiled with genuine delight as he said, “Greetings, O my impetuous niece. Are you not with your human master on his important quest for the Crystal of Oromasd?”

Cari returned his salaam. “My current master, unlike the previous one, is most beneficent and concerned for my welfare. He ordered me back home to give me a respite from my duties and to refresh my spirits. He has no idea how little solace or comfort I find here these days—the sole exception being the kindness and understanding you’ve bestowed on me. You are the one who gives me the most courage to face my dismal future.”

Suleim’s heart was torn yet one more time for the fate of his favorite niece, yet he refused to capitulate to her depressed spirit. “We must trust to the goodness of Oromasd to rescue you from your predicament. Surely things are brighter for you with this new master than with the old one.”

“Many things are better, but some—” She paused, unable to tell even him the troubles lodged deepest in her heart. “Some are just confusing. I don’t know what shall become of me.”

“Few of us are guaranteed a certain knowledge of our fate, and for those who are, it’s usually a bad one. Take what comfort you can from that.”

Determined to change the subject, she said, “Perhaps, O wise uncle, you could enlighten me on another matter that perplexes me.” She described to him the frenetic activity in the cavern the other day as Jann rushed furiously outward on some emergency errand she could not understand. “What is happening to cause such fevered tumult in their ordered lives?”

Suleim was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. The shaykh of the righteous Jann had commissioned him to oversee the very activity she was questioning, which was the protection of Cari’s master and his mission. Suleim and the shaykh both knew that gathering the pieces of the Crystal of Oromasd would cause enough disturbance in the magical web to attract the attention of Aeshma, who could destroy the party of travelers before they had a chance to accomplish their noble goals. While the shaykh had little regard for humans and had refused to allow any of the righteous Jann to help them, Suleim had convinced him that, in Oromasd’s name, they must conceal the true nature of these magical disturbances. Whenever Jafar al-Sharif gained another piece of the Crystal, it was Suleim’s task to organize a large party of the righteous Jann into frenetic, mindless activity interposed between Jafar and Aeshma, thereby fooling the daeva into thinking they were somehow responsible for the uproar he’d felt. In this small way would the righteous Jann do their part to further Oromasd’s cause until such time as Jafar al-Sharif and Prince Ahmad proved they were indeed the men to lead the forces of good at this turning point of the Cycles.

But as part of his decree, the shaykh had refused to let Suleim divulge any of this information to his niece, on the grounds that since she was slave to Jafar al-Sharif and could withhold nothing from him if he asked for it, she might be compelled to tell him of the Jann’s plans. If the humans thought the righteous Jann were watching over them, they might grow careless and jeopardize their mission. Better to keep them, and Cari, in ignorance.

But while Suleim had acquiesced to the shaykh’s orders, there was nothing to salve the pain in his soul as he looked at his niece and knew he must keep her unaware of these affairs. He had to look away from her as he said, “I can’t tell you anything about that.”

Cari saw some of his pain, but it only made her angry. Too many people were protecting her lately, and she didn’t like it at all. “Cannot, or will not?”

Suleim turned back to face her. “Must not,” he said harshly. “I beg you not to press me further on this matter, Cari, or we will both end up regretting the results.”

Never in her life had she heard Suleim speak to her in such a tone, and it gave Cari pause. She didn’t doubt his love for her, and if something had built a wall this thick between them it must be serious indeed.

Lowering her eyes dejectedly, she said, “I will trust to your goodness, then, and to Oromasd’s to see me through. But while I can’t hold my lord Oromasd accountable for his actions, I will someday hold you up for reckoning. I’ve reached a sorrowful point in my life, O uncle, and will not be lightly tampered with.”

“I do not ‘tamper’ lightly,” Suleim said, “and I can but pray that the great Lord Oromasd will bring a speedy end to our troubles and cast light upon the darkness of our lives.”

After Prince Ahmad’s party left Khmeria for the unknown regions of Punjar, King Armandor wasted no time no time composing letters to the other kings in the eastern lands of Parsina. His heart weighed heavy within his chest—first from the worry that Prince Ahmad might suffer terribly at the capricious whims of King Zargov, but even worse from the knowledge that he and his fellow eastern kings would be responsible for upholding Oromasd’s great plan and defeating the forces of the lie.

But in both cases, there was little he could do but trust to the wisdom and strength of Oromasd and make his own plans as best he could.

He dictated personal letters to the emperor and each of the seventy-seven kings of Sinjin, the fourteen kings in southern Indi and the kings of Kandestan and Ventina. In each letter he explained the looming danger coming out of the west by the start of spring, and what the prophet Muhmad had said must be done to combat the threat. He explained that he would personally lead his army to the Leewahr Plains, and he challenged the others to do the same, in Oromasd’s name to form the greatest army since the days of King Shahriyan.

His scribes worked furiously transcribing the letters in their finest hand, and each parchment was ceremoniously sealed with the great seal of Khmeria. A small contingent of officers—mostly the older retired and semi-retired ones—was sent to each kingdom under diplomatic flag to carry the king’s message.

The messages received honor and contempt, laughter and fear. The king of Ventina was a good man and a historic ally of Khmeria, so he reacted almost instantly with an unconditional promise of support. Likewise, many of the Indi kings in the regions surrounding Khmeria also echoed their support.

Several of the kingdoms in southern Indi, however, held ancient grudges. Old wars and old grievances still flamed in their souls, and even though Khmeria and the kingdoms of Indi had known peace for two generations there was little love to spare. The kingdoms of the south respected King Armandor, but did not entirely trust him.

In the courts of these lands, great debates raged for weeks about what course of action to take. The priests, convinced by acolytes and pilgrims returning from the last days of Sarafiq, urged their rulers to set aside old grievances and follow Oromasd’s path, as laid out by Muhmad. The shortsighted political councillors argued against doing anything that would make an already-powerful king like Armandor even more powerful; to unite their armies under his banner would be utter folly.

Messages raced back and forth among the courts of the southern Indi kings as they conferred with one another about what to do. Finally a consensus was reached. The southern kings would lead their own armies to the Leewahr Plains independently, and would fight whatever forces Rimahn might throw against them, but they would not join under King Armandor’s banner and they would not operate under his command.

In the lands of Sinjin there were other problems to be faced. While these lands harbored no animosity toward Khmeria, neither did they hold any fierce loyalties. They were also farthest from the scene of the upcoming battle, and supporting the efforts of Oromasd’s forces seemed more a philosophical than a practical concern. It was hard to believe that a battle fought in the far-off Leewahr Plains could have any severe impact on their own fortunes.

Added to those factors were the severe logistical problems involved in sending their armies clear across a continent. An army needs transportation, shelter and, most especially, food as it travels. To send a large army across thousands of parasangs was both unwieldy and expensive—and if it didn’t leave immediately, there was the very real possibility that it might arrive too late to make any difference, and all that trouble and expense would be for naught. These very real concerns weighed heavily on the minds of the Sinjinese kings as they pondered King Armandor’s request.

The seventy-seven kings of Sinjin looked to their emperor for guidance. The emperor held moral sway over the land, but little real power. In the end, his advisors convinced him to issue a safe decree. He declared that King Armandor’s request was a noble one, and that each king of Sinjin should honor that request in a way most in keeping with his desires and resources. Thus, while giving the enterprise his official blessing, he committed no one to actually doing anything.

Sensing this official ambivalence gave the individual kings their cue to action. Most of them sent a small contingent of their troops—small enough to move quickly and with minimal provisions, but large enough to demonstrate their technical commitment to Oromasd’s cause. In few cases were the troops the best that kingdom had to offer; sending men who were expendable was another way the kings hedged their bets, keeping their best troops at home in case this expedition against Rimahn failed and the troops were needed to defend their homeland at some later date.

Eight of the kings sent no troops at all. These kings later became known as the Eight Laggards.

In Shahdur Castle, on the highest peak in the Himali Mountains at the top of the world, the blind wizard Akar was too busy to do more than note in passing the shaking on the magical web, the tremor that signified his rival Jafar’s acquisition of the third piece of the Crystal of Oromasd. He had already taken steps to protect that hated charlatan from the worst of his mistakes until the entire Crystal was recovered, as well as to neutralize King Machenos of Pastar from prematurely revealing all to Aeshma and Hakem Rafi. With those tasks done, he could concentrate on matters nearer at hand.

In the time since his uncomfortable interview with the late, self-righteous prophet Muhmad, Akar had resigned himself to the fact that Jafar, not he, would gather the pieces of the Crystal. Ah, but Akar knew that, just as it took more than merely uttering the correct words to make a true wizard, it took more than mere gathering to make the miracle of the Crystal work, and that effort was what he was now spending his time preparing himself and his castle for.

In a way, he rationalized, that fraud Jafar was doing him a great favor by taking the burdensome job of searching off his hands. Lesser beings could handle the tedious task of reuniting the pieces of the Crystal; Akar had already set into motion his plans to separate Jafar from the Crystal when all four pieces were reunited. The wizard could stay right at home and the Crystal would eventually come to him. Meanwhile, he could spend his time in preparation so that, when the Crystal was at last his, he could set straight to work using it to control Aeshma and make himself master of the world.

He revelled that this was a challenge uniquely suited to his talents and his genius. Throughout his many years of intensive scholarship, he had never encountered the slightest reference to how the great mage Ali Maimun had mastered the power of the Crystal and made it do his bidding to defeat the legions of evil in the great battle at the change of the last Cycle. There had to be a secret, and if it wasn’t written down anywhere, then it would take the greatest wizard of the current age—namely Akar—to reinvent it.

Certain principles, of course, were basic to all magical endeavors of such scope. The whole environment around the Crystals must be purified, removing even the slightest taint of corruption. To this end, he ordered his magical servants to scrub the entire castle, making the citadel as gleamingly clean as the forces of man and magic could make it. But the purification was more than just physical; all traces of spiritual corruption also had to be removed. All his magical tools that were remotely contaminated with evil were taken to some far secret place and hidden until after the Crystal’s power had been used.

Akar had one chamber in a deep level of his castle where creatures devoted to Rimahn had never gone. It was a room he seldom used, but one he’d always known instinctively that he should maintain. Now he devoted this room exclusively to the purpose of mastering the Crystal, when he had it.

The surroundings were important, of course, for they were deeply symbolic in the ritual he must undergo, but they were only a beginning to the true purification—that of the practitioner himself. Akar established a strict regimen for himself. He bathed twice each day, scouring his whole body thoroughly to remove all trace of worldly dirt. He would fast except for water for days at a time, and when he did eat it was a rigid vegetarian diet, prepared by his servants to exacting specifications. He slept but three hours a day, spending the rest of what would otherwise have been sleep time in a state of quiet meditation and introspective contemplation.

The remainder of his time he spent in research. Hour upon tedious hour he would spend in his library, having his sighted servants read to him from his vast library of tomes, arguably the greatest collection of works on magic and wizardry ever collected by a single man. He would pause to consider even the smallest detail that might have a bearing on the task he had set for himself, and sometimes he would experiment with one effect or another, weighing each carefully in view of his overall goal. At his direction, his servants kept meticulous notes on all his experiments and all his dictated thoughts. So that no fact, no insight would be lost to him, they spent more hours filing, indexing and copying so that any item could be found the instant Akar called for it.

The events of the outer world passed him by in his dark citadel at the top of the world. The sun rose and set, the moon flew through its phases, the stars circled in their courses, and Akar the wizard took no notice. Even if he could have seen these occurrences, he would have ignored them, for he had embarked on what he considered the greatest magical undertaking in all the history of man—and no diversion could make him stray from his chosen path.