by Glen Cook
“Why?” Bragi asked.
“What? Ah. Hard times in the hills. Majneric brought his bucks down to raid. Can’t really hate them for it. They’re trying to take care of their families. At the expense of ours. We caught them near Mendalayas, killed a dozen. They scattered. We started hunting them down. Have to make this raiding too expensive for them.”
The soldiers returned. They had corpses across their saddles and prisoners on tethers. Sir Cleve spoke.
“He says thanks for the help. Some of us would’ve been killed if you hadn’t been in their way.”
Even the sergeant seemed well disposed.
“Now’s the time to make any requests. He’s happy. He’ll be in good odor when the Duke hears about this.”
“Could he give us some kind of traveling pass? To get us to the City?”
“Good thinking, lad. I’ll see.”
They were ready to travel when the knight finished writing.
Later, after his lips stopped quivering, Bragi started whistling. But his brother never stopped looking back.
Haaken was still watching for a change of heart when they reached the capital.
The Red Hart Inn was a slum tavern. It was large, rambling, boisterous and appeared on the verge of collapse. Evening shadows masked its more disreputable features.
The clientele fell silent at their advent. Fifty pairs of eyes stared. Some were curious, some wary, some challenging, none friendly.
“I don’t think we belong here,” Haaken whispered.
“Easy,” Bragi cautioned, concealing his own nervousness. “Yalmar?”
No response.
He tried again. “Is there a man named Yalmar here? I come from Ragnar of Draukenbring.”
The Itaskians muttered amongst themselves.
“Come here.” A man beckoned from shadows at the rear.
The murmur picked up. Bragi avoided hard eyes. These were men Haaken and he had best not offend.
“In here.”
The speaker was lean, stooped, ginger-haired, about thirty-five. He limped, but looked as tough as the others.
“I’m Yalmar. You named Ragnar of Draukenbring. Would that be the Wolf?”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“He sent us.”
“Why?”
“How do we know you’re Yalmar?”
“How do I know you’re from Ragnar?”
“He sent proof.”
“A map? A dagger, and an amulet of Ilkazar?”
“Yes.”
Yalmar’s grin revealed surprisingly perfect teeth. “So. How is the crazy bastard? We swung some profitable deals, us two. I picked the ships. He took them. I fenced the goods.”
Haaken grunted sullenly.
“What’s with him?”
“Ragnar’s dead. He was our father.”
“The infamous Bragi and Haaken. You’ve got no idea how he bored me silly bragging you up. Passed over, eh? I’m sorry. And not just for the loss of a profitable partnership. He was my friend.”
Neither youth responded. Bragi studied the man. This was an honest innkeeper? How far could he be trusted?
Their silence unsettled Yalmar. “So. What do you want? Or are you just going to sit there like a couple of clams?”
“I don’t know,” Bragi said. “Father was dying. He said to go to you, you owed him. We’re here.”
“I noticed. Better begin at the beginning, then. Maybe give me an idea what he was thinking.”
Bragi told the story. It did not hurt as much now.
“I see,” Yalmar said when he finished. He pinched his nose, tugged his golden chin whiskers, frowned. “You got any skills? Carpentry? Masonry? Smithery?”
Bragi shook his head.
“Thought not. All you people do is fight. Not your safest way to make a living. And it don’t leave you many openings here. Been at peace for fifteen years. And nobody in my business would use you. Too visible. And bodyguarding is out. Not enough experience. Tell you what. Give me a couple days. I’ll put you up meantime. Upstairs. Try to stay out of sight. I’ll put the word out that you’re protected, but that won’t keep the drunks from cutting you up. Or the police from breaking in to find out why I’m keeping Trolledyngjans.”
With no better option available, Bragi and Haaken agreed.
They spent a week at the Red Hart. Yalmar told them things about Ragnar they had never heard at home. The Itaskian proved likable, despite an overpowering tyranny when he made them study his language.
Strange, hard men visited Yalmar late at night, though he steadfastly denied their existence. It finally dawned on Bragi that Yalmar did not trust them completely either.
One night he asked, “About the amulet, map and dagger...”
Yalmar laid a finger across his lips. He checked the windows and doors. “They’re why I owe your father. If I have to run, I can go knowing he provided means elsewhere. Now forget about it. The Brothers would be displeased. There’s honor on the Inside. There’s fear or friendship. Your father and I were friends.”
Later, he told them, “I’m sorry. There’s nothing for you here. I’d say go south. Try to catch on with the Mercenary’s Guild. High Crag is taking on recruits.”
Next afternoon, Haaken grumped, “This loafing is getting old, Bragi. What’re we going to do?”
Bragi touched his mother’s locket. “There’s Hellin Daimiel. I’ll talk to Yalmar.”
The day following Yalmar announced, “I’ve gotten you guard jobs with a caravan leaving tomorrow. There’s a job you can do for me while you’re at it. A man named Magnolo will be traveling with the caravan. He’ll be carrying something for me. I don’t trust him. Watch him.” He added some details. “If he takes the package to anyone but Stavros, kill him.” Grimly, Bragi nodded.
“Bragi?” Haaken asked.
“Yeah?” Bragi poked the coals of their campfire, watched them glow briefly brighter.
“I kind of wish we didn’t kill that guy Magnolo.”
The man Yalmar had set them to watch had delivered the Itaskian’s package to a house in the fanciest quarter in Hellin Daimiel. In their enthusiasm to fulfill their charge the youths had not only killed Magnolo, they had injured the gentleman he had visited and had killed one of the bodyguards. Aghast, panicky, they had fled the city.
“I’m hungry,” Haaken complained.
“Don’t seem to be much game in these parts, does there?”
They had made camp on a rocky hill eight miles northeast of Hellin Daimiel, in the only uncultivated area they could find. Hellin Daimiel was an old city. Its environs had been tamed for ages. Small game, especially agricultural pests, had been eradicated. The youths had eaten nothing but fish for three days, and those were treasures hard-won from irrigation canals.
“What’re we going to do?”
Haaken sounded a little frightened.
Bragi did not mention it. He was scared too. They were on their own in a foreign, indifferent land.
“I don’t know. I really don’t.”
“We don’t have too many choices.”
“I know.”
“We can’t just stay here. Not only will we starve, we’re Trolledyngjan. Somebody’s going to jump us for that.”
“Yeah. I know.” They had had their run-ins already. Trolledyngjans were not popular anywhere near the sea.
“We could go ahead and try the Mercenary’s Guild.”
“I just don’t like the sound of that. All that marching around and saying ‘Yes sir, no sir, by your leave, sir.’ I don’t think I could take it. I’d pop somebody in the snot box and get myself hung.”
“It doesn’t sound so bad to me. We could try it. They say you don’t have to stay if you don’t like it. It isn’t like joining a regular army.”
“Maybe. Okay? I’ve been thinking about something else.” Bragi rose and moved to a large boulder. He leaned against it and peered out across the plain surrounding Hellin Daimiel.
Even by night the v
iew reflected the studious planning characteristic of these peculiar people. The lights of the planned villages where the farm laborers lived made points on the interstices of a grid. The grid was more clearly discernible by day, in the form of carefully maintained roads and irrigation canals. The city itself was a galaxy in the background.
A whippoorwill struck up its repetitive commentary somewhere downslope. Another vocalized agreement from a distance. A gentle breeze climbed the slope, bringing with it scents of crops still a few weeks short of being stealably ripe.
The lights died away till Bragi was alone with the darkness and stars. They formed an immense silver girdle overhead. He stared at them till one broke free and streaked down the sky. It raced toward Hellin Daimiel.
He shrugged. An omen was an omen. He went and sat across the coals from his brother, who seemed to be asleep sitting up. Softly, he said, “I wonder where mother is now.”
Haaken shook all over, and for a moment Bragi was scared something had happened. Haaken was the sort who could become deathly ill without saying a word.
His concern was short-lived. There was enough light in the fire to betray the tears on Haaken’s cheeks.
Bragi said nothing. He was homesick too.
After a time, he remarked, “She gave me this locket.” He waited till he had Haaken’s attention. “She told me we should take it to some people in Hellin Daimiel. To the House of Bastanos.”
“That’s not people. That’s what they call a bank. Where rich men go to borrow money.”
“Oh?” He had to think about that. After a few seconds, “People run it, don’t they? Maybe that’s what she meant. Anyway, we could find out about it before we tried the Guild.”
“No. It’s too hot down there. They’ll hang us. Besides, I don’t think Mother wanted us to go there. Not really. Not unless there was nowhere else we could go.”
“The excitement should have died down.”
“You’re fooling yourself, Bragi. I say try the Guild.”
“You scared of Hellin Daimiel?” Bragi was. The city was too huge, too foreign, too dangerous.
“Yes. I don’t mind admitting it. It’s too different to just jump into. Too easy for us to get into something we can’t handle because we don’t know better. That’s why I say go with the Guild.”
Bragi saw Haaken’s reasoning. The Guild would provide a base of safety while they learned southern ways.
He fingered his mother’s gift, battled homesickness and temporized. “In the morning. We’ll decide after we’ve slept on it.”
He did not sleep well.
Chapter Seven
Wadi el Kuf
El Murid stalked around Sebil el Selib like a tiger caged. Would this imprisonment never end? Would that villain Yousif never crack? The desert was on his side, if his advisers were to be believed. Nassef claimed he could stamp his foot and twenty thousand warriors would respond.
Why, then, did the Kingdom of Peace still extend no farther than he could see? Like the Lord Himself, he was running short on patience.
The pressure had been building for months. He was growing increasingly frustrated, increasingly suspicious of Nassef and his gang of self-made generals. He had told no one, not even Meryem, but he had begun to believe that Nassef was keeping him here intentionally, isolating him from his people. He was not sure why Nassef should want it that way.
Sometimes he took his son or daughter along on his walks, explaining the wonders of God’s handiwork to them. Over Nassef’s objections he had had several scholars brought in to explain some of the less obvious miracles of nature. And he had begun learning to read and write so that he could promulgate his laws in his own hand.
But usually he roamed alone, accompanied only by the Invincibles. The Invincibles were necessary. The minions of the Evil One had tried to murder him a dozen times. Sometimes it seemed his enemies had more men in his camp than he did.
He would greet soldiers by name, study the ever growing barracks-city or inspect the new truck gardens being terraced into the hillsides. The army was devouring the available flatland. The gardens did not provide enough, but they helped. Every vegetable raised here meant one fewer that had to be bought on the coast and transported through the pass. And the fieldwork kept idle hands from turning to the Evil One.
It rained the day El Murid decided to end his confinement. It was not a pleasant rain, but one of those driving, bitter storms that beat down the spirit as easily as they beat down grass and leaves. The rains passed, but left the sky and his mood low, gray and oppressive, with the potential of turning foul.
He summoned the captains of the Invincibles.
His bodyguard now consisted of three thousand men. It formed a personal army independent of that which Nassef commanded. The quiet, mostly nameless men who formed its brotherhood were absolutely faithful and completely incorruptible.
They had, for the past year, been undertaking operations of their own out in the desert. Unlike Nassef’s men, they did not concentrate on attacking and looting loyalists. They moved into preponderantly friendly areas and stayed, assuming both administrative and defense functions. They spoke for the Lord, but contained their enthusiasm, proselytizing by example. They did not bother local loyalists as long as the loyalists observed a strict pacifism and tended their own business. The areas they occupied were largely free of strife. They had skirmished with Nassef’s men on several occasions because they refused to allow anyone to disturb the peace of their lands.
Once the commanders assembled, El Murid said, “My brother, the Scourge of God, has returned. Has he not?”
“Last night, Disciple,” someone volunteered.
“He hasn’t come to see me. Someone go get him.”
A half minute after an emissary departed, the Disciple added archly, “I’d be indebted if someone could manage to borrow a Harish kill dagger.” Though he knew who the senior members of the cult were, and had several in his presence, he wanted to allow them their secrecy. They were useful. “We’ll leave it lying around as a reminder of where the final authority lies.”’
El Murid’s formal audience chamber, before the Malachite Throne, was large and formularized. He had a bent toward show and structure. Petitioners had to come before him and stand at one of several podium-like pieces of furniture, wait their turn to be recognized, then present their plea and any important evidence.
At twenty-two El Murid was a hard, strong-willed, dictatorial leader — once he had suffered through his private hells of indecision. He no longer brooked defiance. The men and women of Sebil el Selib lived to the letter of his laws.
Less than two minutes passed before an Invincible placed a kill dagger on an evidence stand near the chief petitioner’s podium. El Murid smiled his approval and suggested that the man move the blade slightly, so that it could not be seen from the Malachite Throne.
They waited.
Nassef stalked in sullenly. His lips were tight and pale. The Invincible accompanying him wore a smug look. El Murid guessed that there had been an argument, and Nassef had been compelled to concede.
Nassef strode to the central petitioner’s podium. He was too angry to examine his surroundings immediately. El Murid could almost read the complaints marshaling behind his brow.
Then Nassef noticed the Invincibles standing stiffly in the shadows. Some of his anger and arrogance deserted him.
“Your war-general at your command, my Lord Disciple.”
Nassef went through a further subtle deflation when he spied the kill dagger. Its placement made it appear to be a personal message from the cult, unknown to El Murid himself.
There was a quiet power struggle developing between Nassef and the Invincibles. El Murid, scarcely as ignorant as some of his followers thought, was aware of it, and hoped to use it to dampen Nassef’s tendency toward independence.
Sometimes he thought that his brother-in-law was trying to carve out his own private empire.
What El Murid really wanted was a lever
on Nassef that he could use to pry himself free of Sebil el Selib.
He could not stand to remain tied down much longer.
He mentioned none of the real grievances he had with his war general. “Scourge of God, you’ve boasted that you could muster twenty thousand warriors with a word.”
“That’s true, Enlightened One.”
El Murid controlled an impulse to grin. Nassef was going to lay it on heavy. “War general, speak that word. Gather your warriors. I’ve decided to move on Al Rhemish.”
Nassef did not reply immediately. He surveyed the Invincibles. He found no sympathy in their eyes. They were El Murid’s hounds. They would respond to his will no matter what he commanded. He looked at the dagger. He looked at El Murid. “It shall be as you command, my Lord Disciple. I’ll send the summons as soon as I leave.” He chewed his lower lip.
El Murid was mildly surprised. He had not expected Nassef to yield this easily. “Go, then. I’m sure you have a lot to do. I want to start as soon as possible.”
“Indeed, Enlightened One. Moving an army to Al Rhemish will take a great deal of preparation. The desert is no friend to the soldier.”
“It’s a work of the Evil One. Naturally, it serves him. But it can be conquered, even as he can.”
Nassef did not respond. He bowed and departed.
El Murid kept tabs. Not all the Invincibles wore white robes and mustered with their companies. A few remained secret members of the fraternity, providing intelligence for their commanders.
Nassef kept his word. He sent his messengers. He gathered his captains. They plunged into the problems inherent in marching a large army across a wasteland.
Satisfied, El Murid almost forgot him.
Then he stole one of his rare evenings with his family.
The Disciple’s private life would have scandalized the conservative Invincibles. But he had learned from his attempt to have Meryem testify at his trial. He and she kept their abnormal equality concealed behind closed doors.
His New Castle apartments were sumptuous. Though it would serve as a cistern in time of siege, he even had a large pool in which to relax and bathe.