The Complete Parsina Saga

Volume I: SHRINE OF THE DESERT MAGE-13

They, too, could sense the pit before it came within their sight. One officer began to cough and said, “He must have gone some other way. No one could stand it in there.”

His partner, though, was more determined. “I don’t like it either,” he said, “but we have our orders. That urn must be found and returned to the temple. You don’t want to get the priests mad at you, do you?”

“Better the priests than my wife, if I go in there and stink up my clothes.”

“You wait here then, coward, in case he comes running out. I’m going down there to have a look around.”

At that moment, though, a third set of footsteps came running up to the pair. “Good news,” the latecomer exclaimed. “They say they’ve caught the thief in a caravanserai over behind the King’s Bazaar.”

“Praise be to Oromasd,” said the officer who’d been about to explore the khandaq. “Our blessed lord has spared me the task of descending into that wretched pit.”

The footsteps walked off away from the pit, the officers chatting casually among themselves. Hakem Rafi waited until he could no longer hear them, then waited another few minutes as well for safety’s sake. When at last he was convinced there was no one around, he relaxed and his fear fled him once more. Gagging and retching from the noxious stench of the khandaq, he moved around to the street again and walked well away from the sump until he could breath clean air once more.

Chapter 8: The Talking Urn

When at last the fumes had cleared from his brain and he could think plainly again, Hakem Rafi the thief gave careful consideration to his plight. Fate had spared him twice now after his theft of the urn, but he could not expect kismet’s favoritism to continue. The police had arrested someone else they suspected of being the thief; but when he turned out not to be the culprit, they would continue their search. Hakem Rafi could not dodge them forever.

He went into a darkened alley, sat down against the wall, and removed the urn from his pocket once more. Even in the dim light, the beauty of his treasure was dazzling and Hakem Rafi stared at it fixedly for several minutes.

But beautiful as it was, he knew he could not keep it in its present condition. As an urn it was too readily identifiable as stolen property and too difficult to conceal. Broken down into its components, no one could ever trace the theft to him. The stones were enormous but not unique, and he could sell just the smallest of them for a fortune worthy of kings; once the gems were taken out of their mountings, the golden urn itself could be smelted down and made into any of a thousand other forms. It was a shame, he knew, to spoil such dazzling beauty, but Hakem Rafi was ever the realist. It was money, not beauty, that fed his stomach and bought both the necessities and the luxuries of life.

For the first time he examined the urn analytically. He wondered what was in it. It had made no sound when he’d shaken it—not a rattling of solid objects, not a sighing of ashes, not a swishing of water. The lid seemed welded in place, and at the moment he was not inclined to try opening it.

Instead he concentrated on the jewels. He could pry them out of their casings and sew them into the lining of his clothing, then take the golden urn itself to some goldsmith who could be bribed not to ask questions. With those thoughts in mind, he pulled out his khanjar and began prying at the setting of one large emerald.

“O foolish mortal, do not tamper with what you do not understand!”

Hakem Rafi started backward, dropping the urn into his lap. The deep, powerful voice had unquestionably been speaking to him, and it had seemed to come from the urn itself. But that was not possible!

“Who…who speaks to me?” he asked in a shaky tone.

There was a pause, and then the urn replied, “It is I, Aeshma, chosen of Rimahn, king of all daevas and satrap of the demons of the Pits of Torment.”

Hakem Rafi jumped again and spread his legs, and the urn fell softly to the ground between them. He looked around to be certain he was alone and there was no one playing tricks on him. But the alley was deserted save for himself and the urn.

He picked up the urn gingerly and shook it, but still there was no sound. “What do you want?” he asked hesitantly.

“My freedom,” the voice intoned.

“Are you in the urn?” he asked, knowing it was a foolish question but unable to think of anything else to say.

“Yes,” the demon answered.

“What are you doing in there?”

“I was imprisoned here at the time of the Great Battle by the wizard Ali Maimun. It is my curse to remain here, alone and impotent, until freed by some lucky mortal to whom all the riches of Parsina shall be the reward.”

The mention of reward caught the thief’s attention, but he did not act rashly. The voice could well be lying, but there was no question that something magical was happening here. “Exactly how would you reward this mortal who set you free?” he asked warily.

“I would serve him to the end of his days as his slave, doing everything within my power to fulfill his slightest wish.”

“What are your powers?”

“My powers are beyond numbering, like the stars in the sky. I can fly through the air across all of Parsina faster than the eye can blink. I know the secret locations of every buried treasure, the hidden spot where the jewels of the earth lie waiting for discovery. I can build a sturdy castle from the sands of the desert and create life from the ashes of old fires. At a mere thought I can provide food, wealth, women, and any material comforts a human being could possibly desire.

“But far beyond my personal powers, I am king of all daevas. At my command the Shaitans bow and the Marids cower. My captains number ninety-nine, and each of them has nine hundred and ninety-nine lieutenants, and each of them commands an army of ninety-nine thousand demons, so that my host can cover the earth and all of Parsina will tremble as it did in the days before the Great Battle so many thousands of years ago. All this do I offer to he who sets me free from my imprisonment.”

All of Hakem Rafi’s greediest dreams swam before his eyes. Untold wealth, untold power, untold revenge on those who’d mistreated him throughout his long and sorrowful life. Aeshma could give him palaces of his own, rich food and potent wine, beautiful women to surround him and love him, armies of soldiers to enforce the respect people never gave him voluntarily. All this and more would be his if he could bend Aeshma to his will. The power of the world, limited only by his own imagination, would be within his grasp. There would be no more running, no more hungry nights, no more fights—and no more hiding in khandaqs from the police. He would have every luxury he’d ever dreamed of, and more besides.

And yet, Hakem Rafi was ever the practical man, as a clever thief had to be. He would not fall off a cliff while chasing a star. “If you have all these wonderful powers,” he said cagily, “why are you imprisoned in this urn?”

“Because I ruled in the Age of Heroes,” Aeshma said without a scrap of apology. “I was opposed by King Shahriyan and his army of the thousand and one knights, by Argun, by Shiratz, by King Khaled and his enchanted metal horse, by Calut and his nomadic legions, and by Ali Maimun, the greatest wizard who ever lived. And even so, against all these powerful foes, I still would have triumphed but for the Crystal of Oromasd that focused the supreme power of creation and humbled my armies. It was that power, and that power alone, that entrapped me within my present cage.

“But if I were freed now, my power would know no bounds. The great heroes are all dead and dust, the kings of Parsina plot and war against one another. There is no King Shahriyan to unite Parsina against me. There is no great wizard like Ali Maimun to work the world’s magic. Most important of all, the Crystal of Oromasd is no more. That fool Ali Maimun deemed it too powerful a weapon for use by mortal men, and so he shattered it in four pieces and scattered it to the four elements. With that Crystal gone, there is nothing in all Parsina I fear once I am free and in my power again.”

Hakem Rafi considered all this. The events of the Great Battle were known by everyone, as were the names of the heroes who courageously stood against the legions of demons. They were prodigious men, stalwart and strong, blessed by Oromasd and the Bounteous Immortals. The Age of Heroes was a golden age when every act was larger than life and all Parsina trembled when the forces of Oromasd and Rimahn did battle.

But the Age of Heroes had passed. Warriors like Argun and Shiratz, noble kings like Shahriyan, Khaled and Calut were gone, and their like had never been seen again. Wars were still waged, demons still plagued mankind, but the glorious battles on such a grand scale no longer occured. Mankind lived in a muted era where personal problems often transcended the universal ones.

If what Aeshma said was true, he would be the last great remnant of an incredible age. His power would thrive unchecked, because there was no one in all of Parsina today who could rival him. With Aeshma as his slave, Hakem Rafi could easily become master of the world, with no one to deny him his slightest whim.

And still the thief was cautious. “This urn is sealed tight,” he said. “If I was to open it—and I’m not saying I will—how would I go about it?”

“Do not open this urn within the walls of Ravan!” Aeshma’s reaction was swift and stern. “The city walls still reverberate with the charms and spells of old Ali Maimun, though he is dead lo these many centuries. If the lid were opened in Ravan, all my powers would drain out and I would become as helpless as a kitten; though I cannot die, I would become as weak as one unto death, and I would be instantly recaptured. If you open the urn inside the walls of Ravan it will do no good for either you or me.

“It is the spells on the city, as well as on the urn itself, that bind me as prisoner within this tiny vessel. Once I am beyond their influence, it will be but a simple matter for you to open the seals and free me, and earn yourself a devoted slave for the rest of your life. The wealth and wonder of the world are yours to command if you liberate me outside Ravan’s boundaries.”

Hakem Rafi’s mouth was suddenly dry, and he licked his lips to moisten them. “I shall think more on this matter and speak with you later,” he told the urn.

“Ever as my master wishes,” Aeshma replied with silken tones and honeyed words.

Hakem Rafi stood up and carefully placed the urn back in his pocket. The prospects before him were so exciting he could barely keep his hands from trembling. He, Hakem Rafi the thief, the outcast, the scorned and debased, would possess the bearer of ultimate power as his abject slave. It was every man’s dream come true—but Hakem Rafi had long ago learned not to trust in dreams.

Hakem Rafi had lived all his life among cheats, liars, and cutthroats. He knew their habits and their inclinations far too well to be easily fooled by pretty words. Such men were prone to bragging, to exaggerating their abilities far beyond the limits of mere reality. Aeshma might very well be engaging in similar activity, inflating his powers to greater proportions than they actually were to entice a foolish mortal to open the urn and free him.