Splinter Of The Mind's Eye

by Glen Cook

  The siege of the Eastern Fortress persisted for thirty months and four days. It was as cruel to the enemy as Yousif had hoped. El-Kader, in command of the besiegers, though nearly as competent as Nassef himself, simply could not overcome Yousif, his environment and the sickness that ravaged his camp.

  El-Kader's own most potent weapon, starvation, remained untested because Nassef was unable to spare the besieging army sufficiently long.

  Nassef himself remained on the coast. After the successes at Es Suoanna and Souk el Arba he found the going more difficult. The narrow, rich, densely populated littoral was nearly four hundred miles long. Those miles revealed a lot of towns and cities with no sympathy for El Murid's cause.

  And there was Throyes.

  El Murid was compelled to fight a foreign war before he had won over his own people.

  When it came, the Throyen land grab was so brazen and extensive that El Murid found it politically unendurable. The nationalist sentiment it generated forced him to react.

  Nassef's need for warriors on that front drew the besiegers away from el Aswad. He left just a thousand men in the province, commanded by Karim. They were to distract Yousif from Sebil el Selib.

  Once his environs were open Yousif began corresponding with neighbors and Royalists whose thinking paralleled his own. The Kasr Helal Gold Seam was reborn. Trustworthy friends and acquaintances of Megelin Radetic made quiet arrangements in the west.

  To an extent, the defenders of the Eastern Fortress had surrendered in their hearts.

  Yousif stood in a windswept parapet watching the smoke of a brush fire burning twenty miles south of el Aswad. It was a huge blaze. Fuad was using it to herd one of Karim's battalions into a deathtrap. Haroun, practicing his shaghûnry at last, was with his uncle.

  The boy had been a tremendous asset since the end of the siege. He always accompanied his uncle now. His shaghûnry instructors said he had enormous potential. They had taken him to their limits without pushing him to his own.

  The Wahlig spied a rider coming from the northwest. Another whining message from Aboud? He did not bother going down to find out.

  His royal cousin was becoming a royal aggravation. His bluster, wishful thinking and vain edicts would not alter the situation one iota.

  Radetic joined him a few minutes later. He looked grim. He was becoming ever more dour and remote as el Aswad's position became ever less tenable.

  "Another command to victory?" Yousif asked.

  "More like a petition this time. But he has started to realize what's happening. After all this time. I mean, Nassef has got to be more than a bandit if he can fight a war with Throyes. Doesn't he?"

  "Eh?" Yousif turned. "You mean he said something positive? That he's going to take us seriously? Now that it's too late?"

  "A little. A little too little too late. He's hired Hawkwind again. He's sending him out here."

  "Hawkwind? Why a mercenary?"

  "He didn't explain. Maybe because no one else would come. The messenger says the negotiations have been on since Prince Farid's death. For three years! Hawkwind was reluctant—But Aboud finally made a sufficiently convincing presentation to the Guild generals, and paid over a handsome retainer. And he put huge bounties on El Murid, Nassef, Karim and that lot. Hawkwind is on his way already."

  Yousif paced. "How many men?"

  "I don't know. I was told a substantial force."

  "Enough to change anything?"

  "I doubt it. We both know there will be no more victories like Wadi el Kuf."

  "But why won't he send Royal troops?"

  "I think all is not well in the Royal camp. Some wahligs apparently refuse to send men into the witch's cauldron. They want to sit tight and let El Murid come to them. It seems if he wanted to send anyone, it had to be mercenaries. He did the best he could in the circumstances he faces."

  "But not enough." Yousif smote the weathered, lichened stone of the parapet.

  "No. Not enough." Radetic studied the smoke from the brush fire. "Is Haroun out there?"

  "Yes. Fuad says he's doing well. Is there more news? You looked grim when you arrived."

  Radetic kept his own counsel for a few minutes. Then, "Prince Hefni was killed."

  "A pity. The Harish again?"

  "Yes."

  Hefni had been the last of Aboud's sons, excepting Crown Prince Ahmed. He had been much like his brother Farid. There were rumors that Aboud wished Hefni were Crown Prince instead of Ahmed, and that Ahmed was being pressured to abdicate in his favor.

  "The Quesani are going to become extinct."

  "Wahlig... "

  Yousif turned slowly. "Don't tell me any more bad news, Megelin. I don't think I could stand what I think you're going to say."

  "I don't want to. But I have to. Now or later."

  Yousif peered at the fire. In time, he murmured, "Out with it, then. I don't want to break down in front of everybody."

  "Your sons, Rafih and Yousif. They were killed in the attack on Hefni. They acquitted themselves well."

  The two had been in Al Rhemish for several years, serving in the royal court. It was a common practice for nobles to send junior sons to court.

  "So. Now I have only Ali and Haroun." He stared. For a moment it seemed the cloud of smoke was a response to his baleful glare. "Look away from me, teacher."

  Radetic turned his back. The man had a right to solitude while he shed his tears.

  After a time, Yousif remarked, "Aboud won't be able to handle this. He'll do something stupid." He sounded like a man begging for help. He was not talking about Aboud.

  Radetic shrugged. "The behavior of others has always been beyond my control. Unfortunately."

  "I'd better go tell their mother. It's not a task I savor."

  Megelin moved nervously, came to a decision. "Would you look at this first?" He offered Yousif a chart on which he had penned names, titles and connecting lines in a tiny, tight hand. It constituted a who's who of Hammad al Nakir.

  "A chart of succession?" Over a period of ten years Yousif had sneakily picked up enough reading ability to puzzle his way through simple texts. He was good at names.

  "Yes."

  "So?" Every nobleman kept one. The chart was critical in determining precedence and protocol.

  "Permit me." Radetic laid the chart out on a merlon. He produced a stick of drawing charcoal. "Let's scratch out the names of people who aren't with us anymore."

  His hand moved like the swift-stabbing hand of Death.

  Dolefully, Yousif remarked, "That many? I hadn't realized. It's bad, isn't it?"

  "Anything apparent?"

  "The better classes are being slaughtered."

  "Yes. But that's not what I wanted you to see."

  Yousif leaned closer to the chart, then backed away. His eyes were weakening.

  "I see," he said. His voice was sadder than ever. "All of a sudden I'm third in the succession. If anything happens to Ahmed... "

  "Some of our most devoted allies might expedite his meeting with the angels."

  The Crown Prince had all of his father's faults, and none of the virtues that had made Aboud a respected king earlier in his reign. He was thoroughly disliked. Some of his enemies even accused him of being a secret adherent of El Murid.

  His life would become worthless the moment Aboud's health started to fail. The behind-the-scenes manipulators at Al Rhemish would hold an "abdication by dagger."

  "And," Radetic added, "going by the way you people figure these things, Ali is fourth in line, Haroun fifth, Fuad sixth, and his sons in line after him."

  "Megelin, I know how you think. You've got a double-level puzzle here. You're getting at something more. Out with it. I'm not in the mood for intellectual gymnastics."

  "All right. If by some ill fortune your family is destroyed—say during a successful siege—the succession would shift to the western cousins of the Quesani. Specifically, to a certain Mustaf el Habib, who must be pretty old by now."

  "So?"r />
  "This particular gentleman is the father of a rebel named Nassef."

  Yousif seized the chart. He stared and stared. "By damn! You're right. How come nobody ever saw it before?"

  "Because it's not exactly obvious. Mustaf el Habib is a damned obscure royal relative. And Nassef is as cunning as El Murid's Evil One. His moves remain strictly explicable within the context of his service to the Disciple. Why should anyone expect a threat from this direction? Would you like to bet that El Murid hasn't the vaguest notion that the Scourge of God could become King?"

  "No. Hell no. Megelin, somebody has got to kill that man. He's more dangerous than El Murid."

  "Possibly. He does think on his feet. El Murid was ready to set the Harish on him before Wadi el Kuf. Six months later he took over the Invincibles."

  "Well, I've got a surprise for both of them. It'll so amaze them that they'll waste six months trying to figure it out. It might even panic Nassef into abandoning his eastern wars." Yousif laughed a little madly. "How soon will Hawkwind arrive?"

  "I couldn't guess. They should be coming by now, but it's a long haul from High Crag."

  "I hope it's soon. I do hope it's soon."

  Chapter Nine

  Ripening Soldiers

  H igh Crag was an ancient, draughty stone pile surmounting a wind- and sea-battered headland.

  "The Gates of Hell," Bragi gasped as his training company double-timed uphill, toward the fortress. For three months he and his brother had been in the hands of merciless veterans. Seldom had they had a moment to call their own.

  They had found themselves a new friend. He was the only other Trolledyngjan in their Itaskian-speaking company. He called himself Reskird Kildragon. "It was just a small dragon," he was wont to say. "And thereby hangs a tale." But, though Reskird almost never shut up, he never told that tale. He hailed from Jandrfyre, a town on the Trolledyngjan coast opposite the Tongues of Fire. He was as loquacious as Haaken was reticent.

  "No," Kildragon replied to Bragi's remark. "Hell would look good from here."

  "Knock off the chatter up there," Sergeant Sanguinet thundered. "You barbarians got breath to waste, I'll send you round the course again."

  Kildragon had come south with a raiding fleet the previous summer. It had been one of the few to sail during the succession troubles. An Itaskian warship had rammed it off Libiannin. He had managed to swim to shore, the only survivor. Of necessity, he had learned southern ways fast.

  "Still a scroungy-looking lot you've got there, Tore," the gatekeeper called as they double-timed into the Guild stronghold.

  "I'll get them weeded out yet, Andy."

  The three months had been a pitiless weeding through exhaustion of body and will.

  "Wichard's about had it," Reskird murmured as the Itaskian ahead of him stumbled.

  Bragi grunted. He and Haaken had weathered the grind well. Trolledyngja had schooled them for it. Haaken seemed right at home. The structured military life suited him perfectly. Bragi was less comfortable. He just did not like a Yes sir, No sir, Do it by the numbers approach to life.

  "We'll get him through. He's got guts," Bragi whispered. Despite his reservations, Ragnarson had been designated recruit corporal in charge of his squad. He had a sneaking suspicion that the assignment was more of Sanguinet's torment, though the sergeant claimed he had been given the position because he could yell louder than anyone else.

  After bathing and shaving they mustered for Recruits' Mess. Their mealtimes were one of the few occasions when they could relax and talk.

  Haaken was in a mood. "You want to leave, Bragi?"

  "Leave? What?"

  "The Guild."

  A recruit could do so whenever he decided the life was not for him. Any Guildsman could leave. But few who survived the training and shielding abandoned the brotherhood. The preliminary weeding was thorough.

  The Citadel wanted no physical or moral weaklings in its command.

  "Hell no. With six days to go? I'll finish if I have to do it walking on my hands."

  The name Guild was a popular misnomer. The organization was not a Guild at all. It was a brotherhood of warriors bound together by honor, discipline and an exaggerated set of military codes. It showed elements of monasticism, though it bowed to neither god nor prince. It was a kingdom spanning scores of kingdoms, consisting of men from countless lands who had renounced every allegiance save that to their brothers in arms.

  The ruling council of nine generals, all of whom had once entered the Guild as the recruits were now, had reached their stations on merit. A complete contempt for quality of birth was one of the cultural chasms separating the Guild from the rest of the world. There were princes in the ranks and farmers' sons in the Citadel.

  The Guild had phenomenal political leverage. The fates of principalities turned on High Crag's decision to accept or reject a commission offering. The order was wealthy. Its services were not cheap. It often accepted payment in lands and livings. It held income properties everywhere. If the nine old men in the Citadel became unhappy, princes hastened to learn how they had offended. Elite, powerful, the Guild was like nothing else in existence. It held a strong attraction for youths seeking a mission, a place in something bigger than themselves. Just belonging set a man a notch above his contemporaries. It marked him as the best.

  The brotherhood was also a mystery cult. It had seven circles of initiation. Certain promotional levels demanded a prior passage to a circle closer to enlightenment. The nine generals were the truly illuminated.

  An organization so powerful and secretive naturally accumulated detractors. Those claimed that the true nature and goals of the brotherhood were known only to the old generals in the Citadel.

  There was truth in the allegation, but not enough to make the order an object of terror or reprisal.

  Bragi, Haaken and Reskird did not care how others saw the Guild. They had bought the message of pride sold them from the moment they had entered High Crag's gate.

  In six days they would belong.

  "Where do you think we'll be posted?" Reskird asked.

  They had been sent to barracks immediately following supper. Their companions were abuzz, speculating about the unprecedented event. They used the time to catch up on their brass and boot polishing. Sergeant Sanguinet was obsessed with shininess.

  "All I want is out of this dump," Haaken grumbled. "Penny to a pound, this is what Hell is like."

  "Think we'll get lucky?" Reskird persisted. He smoothed straight, fine ginger hair that refused to stay in place. "One of the famous outfits? We're doing good."

  Kildragon did not look Trolledyngjan. He was tall but on the lean side, with delicate features and feminine hands. He seemed more typically Itaskian.

  "Hawkwind? Lauder? The White Company?" he babbled.

  Bragi shrugged. "Wickhard's got a chance at the White. If we can get him through. It's spooky, the way he can use a bow."

  "It's the regiments for us," Haaken grumbled. "Lauder and Hawkwind don't take Greens."

  "I'd guess the regiment in Simballawein," Bragi said. "That's where the war scare is."

  "Farther south," Haaken complained. "And it's still summer."

  "Me," said Reskird, "I think we ought to kiss Sanguinet's ass so he'll recommend us for Octylya." Sardygo, the Prince of Octylya, maintained a Guild bodyguard consisting entirely of Trolledyngjans.

  A demonic creature looking nine feet tall and seven wide lumbered into the barracks room. "Kiss it all you want, boy. I'm still getting rid of you before you get your shield."

  Ragnarson squawked a startled, " 'Ten-shut!"

  "Failing that, Kildragon, I'll get you the honeybucket concession for the whole damned castle."

  Reskird did not cringe. This was what passed for light banter with the sergeant.

  Sanguinet stalked round the cramped little room occupied by Bragi's squad. He poked fingers into cracks. He thumped hammocks. He hunted mercilessly, and could find nothing to bitch about.

&nbs
p; "Ragnarson!"

  "Sir?"

  "You making fun of me, boy?"

  "Sir? I don't understand, sir."

  "You're playing some kind of game. It's too perfect. Your squad is always too perfect." He grinned wickedly. "So maybe I'll change the rules."

  Corporal Trubacik stuck his head in the doorway. "Sarge? The Old Man wants you. Said make it yesterday."

  "What is it now?"

  "Another messenger came in. Looks set. He's expecting word from the Citadel."

  "Damn it all to Hell! The rumor was right. And us stuck with Greens." The demon stalked out in the wake of his apprentice.

  "What was that all about?" Bragi wondered. Haaken and Reskird shrugged.

  Kildragon said, "We've got to give him something to gnash his teeth on, Bragi. He's foaming at the mouth because you won't give him anything."

  "Not going to, either. I don't like his game. As long as I'm stuck with it, I'm going to play it better than he does. All that growl is just for show, anyway. My father did the same thing. Bet you he isn't half a hardass once we've won our shields."

  "Hrumph!" Haaken opined.

  Rumors flew like panicky pigeons at breakfast. The old men in the Citadel had accepted a big commission. The drill instructors did not deny that. The recruit company would be included. The noncoms would not confirm or deny that. Going on from that point, virtually every imaginable possibility was aired. Sanguinet and Trubacik apparently knew the truth, but they weren't talking. The sergeant was pale, and he roared more than normal. He altered the training routine to include more weapons practice and drill to battlefield signals.

  "We're going," Bragi guessed, stomach heavy. "And he expects action. The enemy won't be anybody who'll fold when he hears we're in the field."

  Haaken grunted affirmatively. Reskird observed, "He's scared."

  Bragi grumbled, "Hell, you can't blame him. His life will depend on us. And we've never been in combat."

  "He should have more faith in his ability as an instructor."

  "Would you, in his boots?"

  Reskird shrugged. "No. You never know what a man will do till he's stuck in a situation. We're the only ones in the outfit who've ever been in a real fight."