The Fire in His Hands

by Glen Cook

  “Now we find out.” El Nadim moved up to the edge of the brine. When the enemy came in range, he ordered javelins thrown. The Guildsmen took the missiles on their shields, suffering little harm. But the javelins dropped into the water, where they floated haft up and tangled feet. The Guild line grew increasingly ragged.

  The slave volunteers used slings to hurl stones over their comrades’ heads, further sapping enemy morale.

  “Now, Hali,” el Nadim murmured. “Now is your time.”

  And in the distance white boiled out of the rocks and swept down on the enemy’s camp and mounts and reserves. The Invincibles were outnumbered, but surprise was with them. They drove off most of the horses and slaughtered hundreds of unprepared warriors before Yousif forced them back into the shelter of the rocks.

  El Nadim was pleased. Execution had been perfect, and the rear attack threat remained.

  But now the Guildsmen were slogging up out of the brine. His own men were half ready to flee. He galloped across the rear of the line, shouting, “Hold them! Thirst is our ally.”

  The lines met. His men reeled back a step, then steadied up. Only a handful lost their courage. He chevied most back into the line with strokes from the flat of his blade.

  The Guildsmen were as tough as ever. Without the heat, the sun in their eyes, the bitter dust, without their thirst, it would have been no contest.

  The Guildsmen who had waded the deepest water appeared less than perfectly efficient. They had lost the cohesion of their shield wall, could not get it together again. El Nadim galloped back to his slave volunteers, ordered half to add their weight to that part of the line.

  Javelins and stones rained on that sector. El Nadim’s troops pushed forward by sheer body weight. The Guild line bowed. El Nadim signaled his cavalry.

  The majority went to challenge the Wahlig’s men, still busy skirmishing with Hali’s Invincibles. A handful crossed behind the Guild line to harass Hawkwind’s reserves and his least steady company.

  Slowly, slowly, a fracture developed in the mercenary line. El Nadim bellowed with joy, gathered the rest of his reserves and plunged into the fray.

  El Murid tried to follow the battle from a remote perch. He could tell little through the dust and heat shimmer. Nevertheless, it felt right. He gathered his officers and told them. They began placing their men.

  The Guildsmen fought as well as ever they had, as magnificently in defeat as in victory. El Nadim could not rout them. But he drove them into their camp, then broke off to rest his men and water his mounts.

  The victors laughed and congratulated one another, battered though they were. They had beaten Hawkwind! El Nadim withdrew them to their original stations and dared the enemy to try again.

  Hawkwind and the Wahlig chose to withdraw. One Guild company contained Hali while the main force moved out, headed west.

  In the gloaming a man approached El Murid. “They come, Lord. El Nadim did turn them back.”

  “The Lord is great.” The Disciple could not stifle a grin. “Good. Spread the word.”

  The clatter of hooves and tramp of boots swelled in the darkness. A sour aura of disappointment reached the Disciple where he crouched, praying. A small unit passed below. The vanguard, he thought. He had to await the main force...

  The time came. For a long minute terror paralyzed him. He could not shake his recollections of that fox den... Not again. Never again. Not even for the Lord...

  He leapt up and screamed, “There is but one God, and he is our Lord!” And, “Attend me now, O Angel of the Lord!”

  His amulet blazed, illuminating the slope. He flung his arm down. Lightning hammered the canyon walls. Boulders flew around like toys at the hand of a petulant child. The earth quivered, shivered, shook. The far slope groaned in protest, then collapsed.

  The roar of falling rock obliterated the cries from below.

  When the rumbling stopped El Murid ordered the Invincibles down to finish the survivors.

  He settled on a stone and wept, releasing all the fear that had plagued him for days.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lightning Strikes

  Come on, Reskird. You’re dogging it.”

  Haroun cocked his head. That was the one called Bragi. The northern youths argued all the time. The more so since their company had cracked on the battle line. The one called Reskird was wounded. His friends ragged him mercilessly while they helped him walk.

  The clang of weapons round the rearguard redoubled. The Disciple’s men were keyed to a fever pitch by their success. He wished he could drop back and use his shaghûn’s skills, but his father insisted he remain with his Guild charges.

  This feuding between northmen was irritating. He dismounted. “Put him on my horse. Then you won’t have to carry him.”

  The one called Haaken grumbled, “Fool probably never learned to ride. You ever been on a horse, Reskird?”

  Kildragon’s response was as testy. “I know one’s arse when I...”

  A brilliant light flared on the slope to the south. A man screamed words Haroun did not catch. Then the lightning came.

  Boulders thundered into the column. Horses reared, screamed, bolted. Men cried out. Confusion quickly became panic.

  Haroun retained his self-control. He faced the light, began mumbling a spell...

  A fist-sized stone struck his chest. The wind fled him. He felt bones crack. Red pain flooded him. Hands grabbed him, kept him from falling, hoisted him. He groaned once, then darkness descended.

  A sliver of moon hung low in the east. Haroun saw nothing else, and that only as through a glass of murky water...

  “He’s coming around.” That was one of the northerners. He forced his vision to focus, rolled his head. The brothers squatted beside him. Haaken had his arm in a light sling. He appeared to be covered with dried blood.

  Around them, now, Haroun discerned other shapes, men sitting quietly, waiting. “What happened?”

  Bragi said, “Some sorcerer dumped a mountain on us.”

  “I know that. After that.”

  “We threw you on the horse and headed for the wizard just as his men charged us. We cut our way through and wound up here with the General. More men keep turning up. Your father is out looking for strays.”

  “How bad was it?”

  The mercenary shrugged. He was floating on the edge of shock. For that matter, everyone around them seemed dulled, turned inward. It had been bad, then. A major defeat, consuming all the hopes raised by the advent of the Guildsmen.

  Haroun tried to rise. Haaken made him lie still. “Broken ribs,” he growled. “You’ll poke a hole in your lung.”

  “But my father —”

  “Sit on him,” Bragi suggested.

  Haaken said, “Your old man’s gotten along without you so far.”

  Still Haroun tried to rise. Pain bolted across his chest. Lying still was the only way to beat it.

  “That’s better,” Bragi said.

  “You cut your way out? Through the Invincibles?” He vaguely recalled a clash of arms and flashes of men in white.

  “They’re not so hot when they’re not on their horses,” Haaken said. “Go to sleep. Getting excited won’t do you no good.”

  Despite himself, Haroun followed that advice. His body insisted.

  Yousif was standing over him when next he wakened. His father’s left arm was heavily bandaged. His clothing was tattered and bloody. Fuad was there too, apparently unharmed, but Haroun had no eyes for his uncle. Wearily, his father was interrogating the Guildsmen through Megelin Radetic.

  His father looked so old! So tired. So filled with despair.

  Haroun croaked, “Megelin,” overjoyed that fate had not seen fit to slay the old man. His death would have made the disaster complete.

  His father knelt and gripped his shoulder, as demonstrative a gesture as the man could manage. Then duty called him elsewhere. Megelin stayed, seated cross-legged, talking softly. Haroun understood only a third of what he heard.
The old scholar seemed to be talking about economic forces in one of the western kingdoms and deliberately ignoring present straits. Sleep closed in again.

  When next he wakened the sun had risen. He was lying on a rolling litter. He could see no one who was not injured. His mercenary saviors had vanished.

  Megelin appeared, drawn by some signal from the bearers. “Where is everybody, Megelin?”

  Radetic replied, “Those who are able are trying to stall the pursuit.”

  “They’re close?”

  “Very. They smell blood. They want to finish it.”

  But Sir Tury Hawkwind in defeat proved more magnificent than Sir Tury Hawkwind achieving victory. The defeated column reached el Aswad safely.

  Physicians set and bound Haroun’s ribs. He was up and around almost immediately, against medical advice, blindly trying to encompass the enormity of the disaster.

  Two thirds of the force had been lost. Most had been slain in the landslide and following attack. “But that’s history,” his father told him. “Now the enemy is at the gate and we don’t have enough soldiers to man the walls.”

  It was true. El Nadim had pressed the chase right to the gate and though he did not have the manpower to undertake a proper siege, he had begun siegework. He had erected a fortified camp and begun constructing engines. His men were digging a ditch and erecting a barricade across the road. That looked like the first step toward circumvallation.

  “What are they up to?” Haroun asked Megelin. “Three thousand men can’t take el Aswad.”

  Radetic was glum. “You forget. Nothing is impossible to the True Believer.”

  “But how?”

  “Recall the night attack.”

  “The lightning. A sorcerer that knocked a mountain down. But El Murid hates sorcery.”

  “True. Yet one sorcery is entwined in his legend. It hasn’t been seen since shortly after he stumbled out of the desert.”

  “The amulet that he claims his angel gave him? I thought that was all made up.”

  “It happened. Apparently he’s decided to use it again. I’d guess our walls will be his next target.”

  “El Murid is out there?”

  “He is.”

  “Then Father ought to sortie. If we killed him...”

  “Nothing would please them more than to have him try.”

  “But —”

  “I discussed this with your father and General Hawkwind. They’ve decided to let el Aswad take its punishment. Let them break the wall. The amulet will be useless in close fighting.”

  Haroun did not like the strategy. It depended too much on the enemy doing the expected, too much on his not receiving reinforcements. But he protested no more. He had a glimmering of a scheme, and did not want to make Megelin suspicious.

  “Did you ask Father about those Guildsmen?”

  “I mentioned it. He’ll do something when he gets time.”

  Haroun was pleased. Bragi and Haaken had saved his life. They deserved a reward. “Thank you.”

  “Have you completed those geometry exercises?” Radetic had no mercy. There was no break in the studies, even for convalescence.

  “I’ve been busy...”

  “Busy malingering. Go to your quarters. Don’t come out till you have solutions you’re prepared to defend.”

  “There’s the old guy,” Haaken said.

  Bragi turned, watched Megelin Radetic make his way along the battlements. Radetic paused to talk to each soldier. “He remind you a little of Grandfather?”

  “Keep an eye on those fools out there,” Haaken said. “Or Sanguinet will eat you alive.”

  Little had been said about the recruit company’s failure in battle. No fatigues or punishments had been enforced. Rumor said Hawkwind believed the recruits had done well, considering the terrain and concentrated resistance they had faced.

  The veterans were less understanding. Their General’s record had been sullied. Hundreds of comrades were dead. They didn’t care that the briny water had been thigh deep, nor that the recruits had borne the brunt of the fury of El Murid’s army. They saw more recruits surviving than members of any other company, and they were not pleased.

  Radetic reached the youths. He paused between them, leaned on a merlon. Below, el Nadim’s men were hard at work. “Confident as ants, aren’t they?”

  “Maybe they got reasons,” Haaken grumbled.

  Bragi did not respond. He did not know how to take the older man. Radetic was important here, yet seldom acted it. He did ask, “How’s Haroun?”

  “Mending. The Wahlig sends his regards. He’ll thank you personally when he has a free moment.”

  “Okay.”

  “So enthusiastic! He’s a generous man. Haroun is his favorite son.”

  “The only thing I could get enthusiastic about is getting out of here.”

  Radetic made a thoughtful “Hmm?” sound.

  “It’s hot and dry and there’s nothing out there but miles and miles of nothing.”

  “My patrimony for a decent tree. I feel the same sometimes.” Radetic patted Bragi’s shoulder. “Homesick, lad?”

  Bragi blustered — then poured out his story. Radetic looked interested, and encouraged him whenever he faltered.

  He was homesick. Much as he pretended otherwise, he was just a boy forced into a man’s role. He missed his people.

  Bragi related his feelings about the defeat. Radetic patted his shoulder again. “No need to feel shame there. The General was surprised you held up so well. If there’s any blame due, it belongs to him and the Wahlig. They got cocky. And you soldiers paid the price. I’d better move along.”

  Bragi did not understand what the old scholar had done, but he did feel better. And Haaken didn’t look half as glum.

  Sergeant Trubacik arrived moments later. “The Lieutenant wants you, Ragnarson. Get your butt down there.”

  “But —”

  “Go.”

  Bragi went. He shivered all the way, though the day was a scorcher. Now it begins, he thought. Now the repercussions set in.

  Sanguinet was set up in a storeroom off the stables. It was a dark, musty room, badly lighted by a single lantern. Bragi knocked on the doorframe. “Ragnarson, sir.”

  “Come in. Close the door.”

  Bragi did as he was told, wishing he were elsewhere. He could tell himself it didn’t matter what these people thought, that he knew he had done his best, but it did matter. It mattered very much.

  Sanguinet stared for fifteen seconds. Then, “Birdsong died this morning.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “So am I. He was a good man. Not much imagination, but he could hold a squad together.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I’m preparing the report. You were there. Tell me how it happened.”

  “We was slogging through that salt water. A stone knicked his elbow. He dropped his shield. Before he got it up again a javelin hit right at the edge of his breastplate. Went in under his arm and got his lung, I guess.”

  “You took over?”

  “Yes sir. The guys were kind of used to me telling them what to do. From training.”

  “You had only one other casualty?”

  “Kildragon, sir.” Reskird had gotten excited, broken formation to get at a particular enemy, and had paid the price of indiscipline.

  “Corporal Stone commanded the squad on your left. He says you held your ground.”

  “I tried... We tried, sir. But we couldn’t stand fast when everybody else was pulling back.”

  “No. You couldn’t. All right, Ragnarson. You may have the makings. I’m entering the promotion in the record. Pay and a half from the day Birdsong was wounded.”

  “Sir?” He thought he had missed something.

  “You’re taking over. Permanent promotion. Subject to the General’s approval. Go back to your men, Corporal.”

  For half a minute Bragi stood there, dazed, wanting to argue, to protest, or something. This was not what he had
expected.

  “I said you’re dismissed, Ragnarson.”

  “Yes sir.” He bumbled out, returned to his post.

  “Congratulations,” Trubacik said, and hobbled off.

  “What was that?” Haaken asked.

  Bragi tried to explain, but did not understand. He just could not see himself as deserving.

  Each afternoon el Nadim drew his men up in formation, offering battle. Each afternoon the defenders of el As wad refused his challenge. This afternoon started no differently. El Nadim advanced to within extreme bowshot. He sent a herald to demand the surrender of el Aswad. The Wahlig sent him back empty-handed.

  The besiegers then customarily withdrew a few hundred yards. Once a lack of response was assured they resumed their labors.

  Not this time. El Nadim did not back down. He and the Disciple came to the van. The Disciple raised a fist to the sky. His amulet waxed brighter, till he seemed only a shadow of a man caught in the heart of eye-searing fire.

  The lightning struck. Ten thousand boulders from the barren countryside leapt into the air and poured down on the Eastern Fortress. The lightning struck again, lashing the satellite guarding the approach and the curtain walls connecting it with the main fortress. The defenders launched flights of arrows, none of which reached their marks. The pillar of light remained rooted. The doors of heaven remained open, pouring out the fury of a dozen storms.

  A section of wall collapsed, some stones bounding away down the slope, plowing furrows through the enemy ranks.

  The Invincibles sent up a mighty war cry and surged forward. They scrambled up the mounds of rubble, pelted by missiles from the battlements. The going was slow. The rubble was piled high and was treacherous underfoot.

  The Wahlig formed a force inside the break, and called for Hawkwind, who was more familiar with this sort of fighting.

  The Disciple and most of el Nadim’s army began moving across the slope, toward the fortress’s western face.

  The Invincibles attained the summit of the rubble and rushed down into a storm of arrows and javelins. They crashed into the Wahlig’s men. Yousif’s sketchy line dissolved. A melee ensued. The Disciple’s troops continued to pour in, regular soldiers following the more dedicated Invincibles. One band turned to assault the gate.