Warren Murphy: Arabian Nightmare

But because of a beautiful song floating through the air.

"What is that exquisite song?" asked President Maddas Hinsein, who, because he had been orphaned young, had had no father to mimic that weirdly ethereal keening.

Receiving no answer, he turned to his defense minister, only to find the man staring down at his darkening crotch.

A puddle formed around the man's left shoe, ruining a Persian rug that months before had graced the palace of the deposed Emir of Kuran and now covered the floor of President Hinsein's office in the Palace of Sorrows. A great seven-foot bejeweled sword hung on the wall behind the man's head.

Since he could always shoot his defense minister later, Maddas Hinsein forbore to draw his pearl-handled revolver and instead affixed a broad grin of good humor on his face. They were always disarmed by that grin, were his victims.

"Are you ill, my brother?" Maddas asked sympathetically.

The new defense minister looked up. "No, Precious Leader. I am dead."

"Come, come," said Maddas Hinsen, striding over to clap a fatherly hand on the man's quivering back. "Do not think because you have pissed on my favorite rug that I will shoot you dead."

"I wish that you would."

Maddas Hinsein's mustache and eyebrows lifted all at once. "Truly? Why, brother Arab?" he asked.

"Because it would be infinitely more merciful than what I and all of Abominadad will suffer at the hands of the authors of that song."

"Tell me more," prompted the Scimitar of the Arabs, leading the man to a window with a reassuring arm across his shoulders. "I am very interested in what you have to tell me."

The window happened to be near a spot where the rug fell short. It also overlooked a broad panorama of the city proper.

Maddas Hinsein gazed out over the city that, even in this dark hour, was his pride and joy. Nebuchadnezzar had ruled this very city. Before the evil thing had befallen him and he was exiled into the desert to eat scrub grass and consort with oxen. In the future, this sprawling metropolis would be the capital of all Dar al-Islam, the Realm of Islam.

His chest swelled with the pride he felt. A shine appeared in his moist brown eyes, making them glow like mournful stars. His fixed grin widened, and softened with true joy.

Then his eyes focused on the streets and broad avenues choked with fleeing cars and trucks. His fleshy face fell.

"My people!" Maddas Hinsein said in surprise. "Where do they go?"

"To safety, Precious Leader."

He touched his heart. "Safety? They are safe here. With me."

"They do not think so," the defense minister said quickly.

Maddas Hinsein looked down at the man's sweaty face.

"You speak boldly, for once," he said suspiciously.

"I no longer fear you, Precious Leader," answered the defense minister. He closed his eyes. "You may shoot me now."

Maddas Hinsein took the man by both shoulders. "I have no intention of shooting you. Are we not brothers?"

That has not stopped you before, the defense minister thought. Aloud he said stiffly, "If you insist."

"Then tell me: before Allah, what frightens you, brother Arab?"

The calling came again. It cut through the glass like a blade of sound wielded by houris.

"Before Allah," said the defense minister, his fear-sick eyes darting about the room, "that."

"But it is so beautiful."

"Only to another of the ruh who utter it."

"Ruh? I do not believe in demons."

"You will." The defense minister licked drying lips. "If you are not planning to shoot me, Precious Leader, may I shoot myself?"

"No," said Maddas Hinsein sternly. "What sound is that? Quickly, I weary of this word play."

"Mongols," croaked the defense minister.

"Speak louder."

"Mongols," repeated the defense minister, this time in a high, squeaky voice like a child whose finger had been caught in a mousetrap. "It is their hoomei you hear. What they call the long song."

The sad eyes of Maddas Hinsein, Scimitar of the Arabs, narrowed at the sound of the word "Mongols." There was not much schooling in his past. He knew little of modern history-one reason he had miscalculated so badly in annexing Kuran. Of ancient history, he carried in his head only the great moments in Arab pageantry, and little of the terrible fates that befell those rulers who, like himself, overreached themselves.

But he had heard of Mongols. Dimly. They dwelt in the far east. Somewhere.

"These sounds are made by Chinese?" he muttered, blinking stupidly. "The Chinese are not arrayed against us. They have been our friends. Sometimes in secret ways. "

"Mongols are not Chinese," the other man said after several attempts to swallow. "The Chinese fear Mongols more than any other foe."

"They have never faced Renaissance Guardsmen," Maddas remarked confidently.

"Mongols are"-the defense minister groped for a proper comparison-"more fierce than even Turks. They nearly conquered the world once," he added in a strange voice. "Once, they vanquished Irait."

"I do not recall hearing such a tale," allowed Maddas Hinsein, a worried frown beginning to darken his features for the first time.

"They rode out of Mongolia astride their tireless ponies and laid waste to everything in their path. Those who resisted were put to the sword in cruel, merciless ways."

"And those who surrendered?" wondered President Maddas Hinsein. He noticed that the song, which had lifted again, seemed to emanate from the east. The population of Abominadad was beating a path west.

The defense minister swallowed. "Put to the sword in even crueler ways. For the Golden Horde of Genghis Khan despised those who refused to fight even more than they did resistance to their will."

Maddas Hinsein's arm fell from his aide's shoulder as if every nerve had been severed by surgical lasers. He had heard of this Genghis. He was a mighty warrior. As famous in his way as Saladin, who had routed the Crusaders.

"Perhaps they have come to join our cause," he said hopefully.

"Perhaps," the other agreed. "But when they were last here, they besieged Abominadad."

"The city was walled in those days," said Maddas Hinsein. "How could mere horsemen successfully besiege our glorious city?"

"It is written in the histories that the caliph in those days first saw a cloud of dust in the distance."

Maddas Hinsein went to the opposite window of his office. The one that looked eastward. He did see dust. Of course, there was always dust in the air. This time of year the sandstorms and dust devils were especially fierce.

"What else?" asked the Scimitar of the Arabs, nervousness coloring his deep voice for the first time.

"The rumbling of many horses told the caliph that the fate of Abominadad was nigh."

Through the glass, through his boots and the floor beneath them, came a faint vibration. It made Maddas Hinsein's teeth click and chatter. He set them defiantly.

"What then?"

"I cannot understand you, Precious Leader," said the defense minister.

"What happened then?" shouted President Maddas Hinsein, unclenching his teeth. The floor under him was shaking now. It was a very steady shaking. Like a thunder that had rolled out of the ages.

"The hordes of Hulegu came to the Ishtar Gate."

Maddas scowled. "Hulegu? What of Genghis?"

"Genghis was dead by this time-otherwise we would not be here speaking of these matters," the trembling defense minister offered. "Genghis left behind only dust. Hulegu was sloppier."

"Go on!" urged Maddas Hinsein, noticing that the dust cloud was darkening. It was midday but the brightness of the sun was fading. The dust was very, very black now.

"Hulegu and his Mongols stormed the Ishtar Gate and overwhelmed poor, defenseless Abominadad," the defense minister went on.

"Bah! We are not defenseless now."