by Glen Cook
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.”
He saw doubt. He saw unhappiness. Neither el Nadim nor Hali wanted him along. They feared he would become more burden than help. Nor had they witnessed the drama at the el Habib oasis. For them the amulet was more symbol than reality, without proved efficacy.
“There will be no Wadi el Kuf,” he declared. “And I won’t be a burden. I’ll neither overrule your commands nor interfere with your operations. I’ll be just another soldier. Just a weapon.”
“As you will, Lord,” el Nadim replied, without enthusiasm.
“Shall we attempt it?” El Murid asked.
El Nadim responded, “It’s face them here or face them there, Lord. There we’ll have the advantage of having done the unexpected.”
“Then let’s stop talking and start doing.”
The country was wild. Chaos had frolicked there, leaving the hills strewn with perilous tumbles of boulders. El Nadim halted at the eastern end of a white plain which was the only memory of an ancient salt lake. The road to Sebil el Selib crawled along its southern flank. The general ordered camp made.
He rode onward with the Disciple, Hali and the Disciple’s bodyguards to examine the salt pan. After a time he remarked, “You were right, Lord. It’s a good place to meet them.”
El Murid dismounted. He squatted, wet a finger, touched it to the salt, then tasted. “As I thought. Not mined because it’s bad salt. Poisons in it.” Childhood memories came, haunted him momentarily. He shook them off. The salt merchant’s son was another being, simply someone with whom he shared memories.
He surveyed his surroundings. The hills were not as tall as he had imagined them, and less rich with cover. And the pan looked all too favorable for western cavalry. He offered his doubts.
“Let’s hope they see only what’s visible, Lord,” el Nadim replied. “They’ll beat themselves.” Hali, puzzled, refused to ask the questions puzzling him. El Nadim did not enlighten him. El Murid suspected he was being deliberately vague. When the dust settled the Invincible would be able to stake no claim on having engineered any victory.
The party continued westward. At the far end of the lakebed el Nadim told Mali, “Choose five hundred Invincibles and hide in those rocks. After dark. Travel the reverse slope so you leave no traces. Take water rations for five days. Don’t break cover till the Guild infantry closes with my line.”
“And if they don’t?” Mali demanded.
“Then we’ll have won anyway. They have to retreat or break through. They won’t have the water to wait us out. Either way we embarrass them.”
El Murid fretted. He would bear the odium if this failed. If it succeeded, el Nadim would harvest the credit. That didn’t seem fair. He smiled wearily. He was getting as bad as his followers.
Hali remarked, “Our scouts say they’re on the march, Lord. We won’t wait long.”
“Very well.” He checked the altitude of the sun. “Time for prayers, gentlemen.”
Hawkwind and the Wahlig reached the western end of the salt pan the following afternoon. Invincible horsemen blocked the road and skirmished with Yousif’s riders till the Royalists elected to make camp.
Confidence filled that camp. The Wahlig had more and better men. He exercised only the caution necessary to abort a night assault.
El Murid missed the skirmishing. El Nadim had assigned him a small force placed well west of Hali’s, where the road to the lakebed wound between steep hills. The Disciple suspected the General simply wanted him out of the way, though his companions were the cream of the Invincibles.
He did not sleep that night. He could not shake the specter of Wadi el Kuf — and this, though a smaller action, could generate even more devastating repercussions. Sebil el Selib would be vulnerable till the troops arrived from the coast. It would fall to a featherweight attack. He was terrified. He had bet too much on one pass of the dice. But it was too late to stand down.
He prayed often and hard, beseeching the Lord’s aid in his most desperate hour.
El Nadim roused his men before dawn. He addressed them passionately while they ate a cold breakfast, claiming the whole future of the Movement hinged on their courage. He then arrayed his infantry across the end of the pan, with horsemen stationed on the wings. The slave volunteers he posted in front of his primary line, carrying shovels as well as weapons. His army was in place when dawn broke. A morning breeze rose from behind him.
He assembled his officers. “Keep the men to the standards,” he told them. “Set an example. If the Lord won’t yield us the day, let’s die facing our enemies.”
He had expressed the same sentiments to the troops, only now he indicated a willingness to cut down any officer who forgot his courage. He told his cavalry commanders, “The breeze is rising. Begin.”
Moments later horsemen began riding back and forth ahead of the infantry. The westbound wind filled with alkaline dust. Horns and drums sounded in the distance. The enemy formed ranks. El Nadim smiled. The Wahlig would challenge him. He moistened a finger, felt the breeze. Not as strong as he had hoped. The dust was not carrying as well as he desired. “Trumpets,” he snapped. “Speed them up.”
Bugles called. The cavalrymen urged their mounts to a trot, kicking up more salty dust. El Nadim turned. The sun was about to break over a low, distant mountain, into enemy eyes.
He examined what he could see of the Wahlig’s dispositions. Guild infantry in the center. Light horse on the wings and behind. And the heavy cavalry forming for the first charge, that should be enough to shatter his line. Good again. They were doing the obvious. Exactly what he wanted.
The breeze was not rising. “Trumpets. Speed them up again. Messenger. I want the slave volunteers to start digging.”
The volunteers used their shovels to hurl the fine, salty earth skyward, putting more dust into the air.
Let them breathe that, el Nadim thought. Let them become parched of throat and sore of eye. Let them want nothing so badly as they want to break away for a drink. He glanced back. The sun was up. Let them advance into the face of that, glaring off the white lakebed.
Let the men in iron come, he thought, half blinded as they charge....
“They’re coining, General,” an aide announced.
Distant trumpets called. Dust boiled up as the chargers started forward. “Recall,” el Nadim ordered. “Let them bury their infantry themselves.”
His trumpets sounded. The cavalry fled to the wings. The slave volunteers retreated through the front to form a reserve.
The enemy advanced, armor gleaming through the dust, pennons fluttering boldly. “You’re gr
eat, Hawkwind,” el Nadim murmured. “But even you can become overconfident.”
His heart hammered. It was going exactly as he wanted. But would that be enough?
The Wahlig’s light horse followed the heavy cavalry, eager to fall on the scattered, terror-stricken infantry Hawkwind’s charge would leave in its wake.
Both waves went to the gallop.
And when they were two thirds of the way across the lakebed they fell into el Nadim’s trap, the trap suggested by a salt man’s son.
It was no manmade trap. Nature herself had placed it there. Out where the old lake had been deepest a bit of water remained trapped beneath a concealing crust of salt and debris. It was seldom more than two feet deep, but that was enough.
The charging horses, already running shakily on the powdery lakebed, reached the water, broke through the crust. Their impetus was broken. Many of the warhorses fell or dumped their riders. Yousif s light horse hit from behind, worsening the confusion.
El Nadim signaled the advance. His men poured missile fire into the uproar. Selected veterans ran ahead to hamstring horses and finish dismounted riders.
El Nadim’s horsemen circled the confusion and assaulted Yousif’s men from their flanks.
The enemy broke. El Nadim’s horsemen harried them back to their lines, killing scores, then flew back to their stations on their infantry’s flanks, howling victoriously.
“Don’t sing yet,” the general muttered. “The worst is to come.”
The historians would declare the honors even. Casualties were about equal. But the Guildsmen had been hurled back, and rendered incapable of delivering another massed charge.
El Nadim backed away from the brine. “Water for everyone,” he ordered. “Horses too. Officers, get those standards aligned. I want every man in his proper position. See to the javelins. Slave volunteers out front with the shovels.” The breeze was stronger. The sun had turned the lakebed into a gleaming mirror over which heat waves shimmered. He doubted the enemy could see him.
“Come on, Yousif,” el Nadim muttered. “Don’t stall.”
The Wahlig decided to attack before the dust and heat completely debilitated his men. The Guild infantry began its advance.
