by Glen Cook
If he could impress them no other way, his size ought to stir some awe. He was six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than the biggest.
Nowhere did he see a woman, and children were scarce. "This is the reception the old-timers talk about when Guildsmen come to the rescue?" he muttered. "Where are the flowers? Where are the cheers? Where are the eager damsels? Haaken, I'm not going to like it here. I've seen brighter people at funerals."
Haaken had his shoulders hunched defensively. He grunted his agreement.
The column passed through the castle gate, into a stronghold as spartan as its defenders. Everything inside looked dry and dusty, and was colored shades of brown. Dull shades of brown. The companies fell in one behind another in a large drill yard, under the hard eyes of a group watching from an inner rampart. "Those guys must be the ones who hired us," Bragi guessed. He studied them. They did not look any different from their followers. To him, very strange.
Reskird murmured, "Two things I'd give up what Haaken owes me to see. A tree. And a smile on just one of their ugly faces."
The group on the wall came down and joined Hawkwind. Time passed. Bragi wished they would get on with it. After all that desert all he wanted was a gallon of beer and a soft place to lie down.
Things started moving. Men led the horses away. The front company filed through an inner gate. Bragi surveyed the fortress again, scowled. Not damned likely to be any comfortable barracks here.
One by one, the companies ahead marched away. Then it was the recruits' turn. A lean native youth approached Sanguinet and spoke briefly. The Lieutenant turned and started bellowing. The company filed out.
The quarters were worse than Bragi had imagined. Two hundred men had to crowd into space meant for maybe seventy. Only a serpent would be able to slide in or out after taps. He tried not to think of the horror consequent to an alarm sounding after dark.
Even officers and noncoms got shoved into that overcrowded cage. There was no room at all for gear. That they left outside.
The growling and cursing died a little. Reskird muttered that he didn't have room enough to get breath to bitch. Their youthful guide said, "I offer my father's apologies for these quarters. You came earlier than expected, and at a time when many of our warriors are away, fighting the Disciple. You will be moving to better quarters as soon as they can be furnished. Some may move tomorrow. Your commander is already meeting with my father concerning duty rosters. Men who are assigned stations far from here will be moved nearer immediately." He spoke Itaskian with a nasal accent, but much more purely than Bragi or his brother.
His gaze crossed Bragi's. Both youths stared for a moment, startled, as if seeing something unexpected. Once their eyes moved on, Bragi shook his head as though trying to clear it.
"What's the matter?" Haaken demanded.
"I don't know. It's like I saw... I don't know." And he didn't. And yet, the impact had been such that he was now sure this slim, dark, strange young man would play an important part in his life.
Haaken was intrigued. There was more life in his eyes than there had been for months. "You've got that look, Bragi. What is it?"
"What look?"
"The same look Mother got when she was Seeing."
Bragi snorted, making light of their mother's alleged ability to see the future. "If she'd been able to See, Haaken, we wouldn't be here."
"Why not? She could've known. She wouldn't have said anything if there wasn't anything she could do. Would she?"
"That was all bullshit. She just put on an act to scare people into doing things her way. She faked it, Haaken."
"Who's bullshitting who? You know better than that."
"Want to hold it down back there, you Ragnarsons?" Sanguinet bellowed. "Or at least speak Itaskian so the rest of us can get in on it?"
Bragi reddened. He glanced at the Lieutenant, averted his gaze from the man's taut face. His eye fell on the young guide again. Again he had that frisson, and the youth seemed to have suffered a similar response. He was just regaining his equilibrium. Curious. Maybe his mother was in his blood after all.
The youth said, "I am Haroun bin Yousif. My father is Wahlig of el Aswad. What you would call a duke. During your stay here, unless I am needed elsewhere, I will remain attached to your company as interpreter and go-between. Is there a word for that in Itaskian?" he said in an aside to Sanguinet.
The Lieutenant shrugged. Itaskian was not his native tongue either.
"Liaison," Sergeant Trubacik volunteered.
"Yes. I recall now. Liaison. If you have problems requiring communication with my people, see me. Especially in matters of dispute. We are of contrasting cultures. Probably my people seem as strange to you as you do to them. But we must stand side by side against the Disciple... "
"Rah rah rah," Reskkd muttered, a little too loudly. "Three cheers for our side. Why doesn't he tell us what's so special about this El Murid character?"
In a voice dripping with honey, easygoing Corporal Birdsong said, "That will be four hours of extra duty, Kildragon. Want to try for more?"
Reskird gulped, sealed his lips.
Haroun continued, "I, and my tutor, Megelin Radetic, whom I shall introduce later, are the only men here who speak Itaskian. If you find yourself desperate to communicate, and you can speak Daimiellian, try that. Many of our men have worked the caravans and speak a little Daimiellian. But talk slowly, and be patient."
Haaken lifted a hand. "Back here. Where can we get something to drink?"
"There is a cistern." Haroun turned to Sanguinet, who expanded upon the critical question in a soft voice. He looked puzzled. Then he said, "The drinking of spirited beverages is forbidden. Our religion does not allow it."
Grumble mumble growl. "Holy shit," somebody shouted. "What the hell kind of hole is this? No women. No booze. Hot and dirty... Hell. For this we should risk our lives?"
The youth looked baffled. He turned to Sanguinet for help. Bragi prodded Haaken, who was within reach of the loudest complainer. Haaken took hold of the man's shoulder muscle and squeezed. His protests died.
Sergeant Trubacik called out, "Any problems, you see me or Haroun here. At ease. Settle in. Lieutenant suggests you roam around and get to know the place. Duty assignments will come out tomorrow. That's it."
"You'd better believe I'm going to roam around," Reskird muttered. "This is so tight it would give me the shakes, only there isn't room to shiver."
"Yeah. Me too," Bragi said. "Come on, Haaken. Let's catch that Haroun. I want to talk to him." But it took them ten minutes to get out of the barracks room. By then the youth had disappeared. So the brothers went up on the wall and looked out on the barren land and wondered why anyone would fight to defend it.
Haaken, unwittingly prophetic, observed, "What I'd fight for is to get out."
"There he is, down there," Bragi said, spotting Haroun. "Let's go."
But they missed him again. And thus they began their first commission as soldiers of the Guild.
Chapter Ten
Salt Lake Encounter
E l Murid had been up late discussing the coastal war. His aching limbs left him in no mood to be wakened prematurely. "What is it?" he snapped at the insistent slave. "It had better be important, or... Well, out with it!"
The man gulped. The Disciple's temper had grown ever fiercer since Wadi el Kuf. "Lord... " He burst right into it, talking almost too fast to follow. "Lord, Mowaffak Hali insists on seeing you. He's just returned from patrol. He won't be put off."
El Murid grumbled and scowled. "Hali? Hali?" He could not associate a face with the name.
"Mowaffak Hali, Lord. The elder Hali. The Invincible." The slave eyed him oddly, as if bemused because he could not recall a man as important as this visitor.
"All right. Show him in. And if it's another petty squabble over precedence between the regulars and the Invincibles, I'll crucify you both." He beckoned a second slave. "Clothing."
He was dressing when the Invincible strode
in, advancing like a trail-dirty thunderhead, brow furrowed. El Murid remembered him now. One of his favorites among the Invincibles. One of his best men. One of the most determinedly faithful. And, in all likelihood, one of the high brethren of the Harish, too.
"Mowaffak, my brother. A pleasure to see you again."
Hali halted a few, paces away. "My apologies, Lord. I wouldn't disturb you for anything less than a disaster."
El Murid's lips stretched in a rictus of a smile, cracking because they were dry. "Disaster? What now?"
"The rumors are true. Aboud has engaged Hawkwind again."
El Murid's stomach knotted. He fought to keep his fear off his face. They had whipped him like a cur at Wadi el Kuf. They had branded terror upon his soul. He could not be reminded without cringing. "Hawkwind?" he croaked.
"I saw them with my own eyes, Lord. I was leading the Fourth through the gap between el Aswad and the Great Erg. My scouts reported the presence of a large body of foreigners. I took the battalion forward, and engaged briefly. They drove us off like swatting away flies."
El Murid swallowed. Memories of Wadi el Kuf swarmed, helter skelter, chaotic. He simply could not think straight.
Hali interpreted his silence as a patient wait for continued illumination. "There were a thousand of them, Lord, including many lances of heavy cavalry, and a large baggage train. They have come to fight a long campaign. I kept patrols close till they entered el Aswad, but could gather little more information. Their column was screened by Aboud's best light cavalry. I trust our agents in the Eastern Fortress will provide better reports."
El Murid just could not grasp the news. Finally, he croaked, "It was Hawkwind? You're sure?"
"I was at Wadi el Kuf, Lord. I haven't forgotten his banners."
"Nor I, Mowaffak. Nor I." The shock began to recede. "So. Aboud is frightened enough to hire foreigners. Why, Mowaffak? Because the Scourge of God has the temerity to defend Hammad al Nakir against Throyen predations?"
"I think not, Lord. I think the King wants revenge." Kali's tone was strained. He was hinting round the edge of something.
"Aboud has a special reason for wishing us ill? Beyond a desire to perpetuate his dynasty of darkness?"
"That's the point, Lord. There can be no dynasty. With Prince Farid dead he is left no successor but Ahmed. Our friends and the Royalists alike consider Ahmed a bad joke."
"Farid is dead? When did that happen?"
"Long ago, Lord. Karim himself undertook the mission."
"Our people did it? Karim? Meaning the Scourge of God sent him?" He hadn't heard a word about this. Why did they keep the unpleasant news secret? "What else is Nassef doing? What else don't I know?"
"He is destroying the Quesani, Lord. Using the Invincibles, mainly. But perhaps he felt Farid was too important a task to entrust to anyone but his personal assassin."
El Murid turned away, both to conceal his anger at Nassef and his disgust with Hali's obvious politicking. The Invincibles loathed Nassef. They were convinced he was the bandit the Royalists claimed.
"The Scourge of God is somewhere near Throyes. Too busy to bother with this."
"This is a task for the Invincibles, Lord."
"Have we so many otherwise unemployed, Mowaffak? Much as I loathe the Wahlig, his destruction isn't first on the list of works that need accomplishing."
"Lord—"
"Your brotherhood will participate, Mowaffak. El Nadim is in the valley. Send him to me."
"As you command, Lord." Hali's tone was sour. He started to protest entrusting Nassef's henchman with so critical a task, thought better of it, bowed himself out.
Wearily, El Murid rose. A servant scooted his way, one hand extended in an unspoken offer of help. The Disciple waved the man off. He now knew he would never recover completely. Wadi el Kuf had made of him an old man before his time.
Hot anger hit him. Yousif! Hawkwind! They had stolen his youth. The years could not soften his rage. He would destroy them. The two were in one place now, eggs in one nest. He had been patient, and the Lord had given him his reward. The eagle would descend, and rend its prey.
One smashing blow. One bold stroke, and the desert would be free. This time there would be no doubt about el Aswad. War with Throyes notwithstanding.
Pain stabbed through his leg. The ankle never had healed right. He flung his arms out for balance, and that stimulated the pain in the arm that had been broken. He groaned. Why wouldn't the bones heal? Why wouldn't they stop hurting? The servant caught him before he fell, tried to guide him to his throne. "No," he said. "Take me to my wife. Have el Nadim meet me there."
Meryem took him from his helper, led him to a large cushion and helped him lie down. "Your injuries again?"
He drew her to him, held her for a long minute. "Yes."
"You were angry again, weren't you? It only gets bad when you get angry."
"You know me too well, woman."
"What was it this time?"
"Nothing. Everything. Too much. Bickering between the Invincibles and regular soldiers. Nassef's going off on his own again. Aboud sending mercenaries to reinforce el Aswad."
"No."
"Yes. A thousand of them. Under Hawkwind."
"He's the one?"
"From Wadi el Kuf. Yes. The most brilliant tactician of our age, some say."
"Are we in danger, then?"
"Of course!" he snapped. "Can you picture Yousif having a weapon like that and not using it?" He was shaking, frightened. The root of his anger was his fear. He needed reassurance, needed help to banish the doubts. "Where are the children? I need to see the children."
He felt settled before el Nadim arrived. The general was as nondescript a man as the desert produced. Like all Nassef's henchmen, his background was suspect. The Invincibles said he had begun as a cutpurse, and had descended into darker ways from that. He was a puzzle to the Disciple. He was not known for his genius in the field, unlike others of Nassef's intimates, and, if the grudging reports were to be believed, he was a true believer. Yet he remained a favorite of Nassef, entrusted with commands where imagination was less needed than a legate dedicated to executing his orders.
"You summoned me, Lord?"
"Sit." The Disciple contemplated his visitor. "I have a task for you."
"Lord?"
"You've heard the news? That the King has sent mercenaries to el Aswad?"
"There are rumors, Lord. They say Hawkwind is the commander."
"That's true." El Murid grimaced, stricken by sudden pain. "A thousand mercenaries, and Hawkwind. I'm sure you appreciate the threat."
El Nadim nodded. "It's an opportune moment for the Wahlig, Lord, what with the Scourge of God away battling the accursed Throyen."
"I want to beat Yousif at his own game. To go out and meet him."
"Lord? I'm afraid—"
"I know the arguments. I've been meditating on them since the news arrived. Tell me this. How large a force could we raise if we called in our patrols, stripped Sebil el Selib of its garrison, drafted untrained recruits, armed slaves willing to fight in exchange for their freedom, and what have you?"
"Three thousand. Maybe four. Mostly unmounted. On foot they'd have little chance against Guild infantry."
"Perhaps. How many mounted veterans?"
"No more than a third, Lord. And the garrisons here are made up of old men."
"Yes. The Scourge of God persists in taking Sebil el Selib's best defenders. Go. Call in the scouts and raiders. See how many men you can arm."
"You insist on doing this, Lord?"
"Not at all. I insist on examining the possibility. We need make no decision till we see what strength we can muster. Go now."
"As you command, Lord."
Meryem joined him as el Nadim departed. "Is this wise?" she asked. "The last time you overruled your commanders—"
"I don't intend to overrule anyone. Prick them into action, perhaps. Lay suggestions before them, yes. But, if, in their wisdom, they foresee
disaster, I'll yield."
"You want to embarrass Yousif and Hawkwind the way they embarrassed you, don't you?"
He was startled. The woman was psychic. She had reached down inside him and touched a secret truth he had not wholly recognized himself. "You know me too well."
Meryem smiled, enfolded him in her arms, rested her cheek against his chest. "How could it be otherwise? We grew up together."
El Murid smiled. "I wish there were some rest from my labors."
"So long as the wicked do not rest, neither may we. Spoken by the Disciple on the occasion of his return from the Movement's greatest disaster. Don't yield now."
El Nadim approached the Malachite Throne. He bowed, glanced at the Invincibles attending the Disciple. His face remained blank. "I have assembled every possible man, Lord."
"How many?"
"Thirty-eight hundred. We could raise another two thousand if we waited for the arrival of the garrisons of the nearest coastal towns, which I have ordered here. But by the time they joined us it would be too late. The Wahlig won't await the completion of our preparations. He will use his new strength soon."
El Murid glanced at Mowaffak Hali. Hali nodded. He could find no fault with el Nadim's preparations. Mowaffak was a master at finding fault.
El Nadim endured the moment without wincing, without acknowledging his awareness that his every move was closely scrutinized.
"What of my suggestions?" El Murid asked.
"Entirely workable, Lord." El Nadim could not conceal a certain surprise at his master's having seen a military potential missed by his captains.
Hali said, "The question becomes how quickly the Wahlig will move, Lord."
"What about the men? We've dug deep and taken the dregs. Will they stand up to a fight?"
El Nadim shrugged. "That can be answered only in battle. I fear the answer, though."
"Mowaffak?"
"You're demanding a lot. They have faith but no confidence. Only a quick, clear success at the outset will hold them together."
El Murid left the throne, limped to the shrine where his angel's amulet lay. He grasped it in both hands, raised it above his head. The jewel's flare filled the hall. "This time, gentlemen, the fist of heaven will strike with us. There will be no Wadi el Kuf."