An Empire Unacquainted With Defeat

by Glen Cook

  The sun was in the west when she returned to camp. Old Farida called her immediately. She related what she had seen. The old folks muttered and whispered and made their signs.

  "Who was he, Farida? What was he? Why were you afraid?"

  Farida spat through the gap in her teeth. "The Evil One's messenger. A shaghûn out of the Jebal." Farida turned her old eyes on the Mountains of a Thousand Sorcerers. She made her magic sign. "It's a mercy your mother didn't live to see this."

  "Why?"

  But just then the guard horn sounded, ending on a triumphant note. The hunters had returned. Karkur had favored the tribe. Narriman ran to tell her father about the stranger.

  II

  Mowfik had an antelope behind his saddle, a string of quail, a brace of hares, and even a box terrapin. "A great hunt, Little Fox. Never was it so fine. Even Shukri took his game." Shukri could do nothing right. He was, probably, the man Narriman would wed, because she was her mother's daughter.

  Her father was so pleased she did not mention the stranger. The other hunters heard from the old ones. Dour eyes turned Mowfik's way. Narriman was afraid for him till she sensed that they felt pity. There was a lot of nodding. The stranger's visit confirmed their prejudices.

  Mowfik stopped outside their tent. "Little Fox, we won't sleep much tonight. I hope you've gathered plenty of wood."

  She heard the weariness in his voice. He had worked harder than the others. He had no woman to ride behind and clean game, no woman to help here at home. Only old Farida, his mother's sister, bothered to offer.

  Narriman took the quail and hares, arranged them on a mat. She collected her tools, stoked up the fire, settled down to work.

  The sun settled westward and slightly south. A finger of fire broke between peaks and stabbed into the wadi, dispelling shadows. Mowfik glanced up.

  He turned pale. His mouth opened and closed. Finally, he gurgled, "What?"

  She told him about the rider.

  He sat with head bent low. "Ah, no. Not my Little Fox." And, in response to an earlier question. "There are those even Karkur dares not offend. The rider serves one greater than he." Then, thoughtfully, "But perhaps he's shown the way. There must be a greater reason than a feast when game runs to the hunter's bow." He rose, walked into the shadows, stared at those dread mountains that no tribe dared invade. Then he said, "Cook only the meat that might spoil before we get it smoked."

  "Tell me what it means, Father."

  "I suppose you're old enough. You've been Chosen. The Masters sent him to set their mark. It's been a long time since the shaghûn came. The last was in my mother's time."

  III

  Mowfik had been north and had bathed in alien waters. He could think the unthinkable. He could consider defying the Masters. He dug into his war booty to buy Makram's ass. He loaded all he possessed on two animals and walked away. He looked back only once. "I should never have come back."

  They went north over game trails, through the high, rocky places, avoiding other tribes. They spent twelve days in the hills before descending to a large oasis. For the first time Narriman saw people who lived in houses. She remained close to Mowfik. They were strange.

  "There. In the east. That is el Aswad, the Wahlig's fortress." Narriman saw a great stone tent crowning a barren hill. "And there, four days' ride, lies Sebil el Selib, the pass to the sea." He pointed northeast. His arm swung to encompass the west. "Out there lies the great erg called Hammad al Nakir."

  Heat shimmered over the Desert of Death. For a moment she thought she saw the fairy towers of fallen Ilkazar, but that was imagination born of stories Mowfik had brought home from his adventures. Ilkazar had been a ruin for four centuries.

  "We'll water here, cross the erg, and settle over there. The shaghûn will never find us."

  It took eight days, several spent lost, to reach Wadi el Kuf, the only oasis in the erg. It took fourteen more to finish and find a place to settle.

  The new life was bewildering. The people spoke the same language, but their preoccupations were different. Narriman thought she would go mad before she learned their ways. But learn she did. She was the bold one, Mowfik's daughter, who could question everything and believe only that which suited her. She and her father remained outsiders, but less so than among their own people. Narriman liked the settled people better. She missed only old Farida and Karkur. Mowfik insisted that Karkur was with them in spirit.

  IV

  Narriman was twelve when the rider reappeared.

  She was in the fields with her friends Ferial and Feras. It was a stony, tired field. Ferial's father had bought it cheap, offering Mowfik a quarter interest if he would help prove it up. That morning, while the children dug stones and piled them into a wall, Mowfik and his partner were elsewhere. Feras had been malingering all morning, and was the scorn of Narriman and his sister. He saw the rider first.

  He was barely visible against a background of dark rocks and shadow. He was behind a boulder which masked all but his horse's head. But he was there. Just watching. Narriman shuddered. How had he found them?

  He served the Masters. Their necromancy was great. Mowfik had been foolish to think they could escape

  "Who is he?" Ferial asked. "Why are you afraid?"

  "I'm not afraid," Narriman lied. "He's a shaghûn." Here in the north some lords had shaghûns of their own. She had to add, "He rides for the Masters of the Jebal."

  Ferial laughed.

  Narriman said, "You'd believe if you had lived in the shadow of the Jebal."

  Feras said, "The Little Fox is a bigger liar than her namesake."

  Narriman spit at his feet. "You're so brave, huh?"

  "He doesn't scare me."

  "Then come with me to ask what he wants."

  Feras looked at Narriman, at Ferial, and at Narriman again. Male pride would not let him back down.

  Narriman had her pride too. I'll go just a little way, she told herself. Just far enough to make Feras turn tail. I won't go near him.

  Her heart fluttered. Feras gasped, ran to catch up. Ferial called, "Come back, Feras. I'll tell Father."

  Feras groaned. Narriman would have laughed had she not been so frightened. Feras was trapped between pride and punishment.

  The certainty of punishment made him stick. He meant to make the whipping worth the trouble. No girl would outbrave him.

  They were seventy yards away when Feras ran. Narriman felt the hard touch of the shaghûn's eyes. A few steps more, just to prove Feras was bested.

  She took five long, deliberate steps, stopped, looked up. The shaghûn remained immobile. His horse tossed its head, shaking off flies. A different horse, but the same man . . . . She met his eyes.

  Something threw a bridle upon her soul. The shaghûn beckoned, a gentle come hither. Her feet moved. Fifty yards. Twenty-five. Ten. Her fear mounted. The shaghûn dismounted, eyes never leaving hers. He took her arm, drew her into the shadow of the boulder. Gently, he pushed her back against the rock.

  "What do you want?"

  He removed the cloth across his face.

  He was just a man! A young man, no more than twenty. He wore the ghost of a smile, and was not unhandsome, but his eyes were cold, without mercy.

  His hand came to her, removed the veil she had begun wearing only months ago. She shivered like a captive bird.

  "Yes," he whispered. "As beautiful as they promised." He touched her cheek.

  She could not escape his eyes. Gently, gently, he tugged here, untied there, lifted another place, and she was more naked than at any moment since birth.

  In her heart she called to Karkur. Karkur had ears of stone. She shivered as she recalled Mowfik saying that there were powers before whom Karkur must nod.

  The shaghûn piled their clothing into a narrow pallet. She gasped when he stood up, and tried to break his spell by sealing her eyes. It did no good. His hands took her naked flesh and gently forced her down.

  He drove a burning brand into her, punishing her for
having dared flee. Despite her determination, she whimpered, begged him to stop. There was no mercy in him.

  The second time there was less pain. She was numb. She ground her eyelids together and endured. She did not give him the pleasure of begging.

  The third time she opened her eyes as he entered her. His gaze caught hers.

  The effect was a hundred times what it had been when he had called her. Her soul locked with his. She became part of him. Her pleasure was as great, as all-devouring, as her pain the first time. She begged, but not for mercy.

  Then he rose, snatched his clothing, and she cried again, shame redoubled because he had made her enjoy what he was doing.

  His movements were no longer languid and assured. He dressed hastily and sloppily. There was fear in his eyes. He leaped onto his mount and dug in his heels.

  Narriman rolled into a tight ball of degradation and pain, and wept.

  V

  Men shouted. Horses whinnied. "He went that way!"

  "There he goes! After him!"

  Mowfik swung down and cast his cloak over Narriman. She buried her face in his clothing.

  The thunder of hooves, the cries of outrage and the clang of weapons on shields, receded. Mowfik touched her. "Little Fox?"

  "Go away. Let me die."

  "No. This will pass. This will be forgotten. There's no forgetting death." His voice choked on rage. "They'll catch him. They'll bring him back. I'll give you my own knife."

  "They won't catch him. He has the Power. I couldn't fight him. He made me want him. Go away. Let me die."

  "No." Mowfik had been to the wars in the north. He had seen rape. Women survived. The impact was more savage when the victim was one of one's own, but that part of him that was Man and not outraged father knew that this was not the end.

  "You know what they'll say." Narriman wrapped his cloak about her. "Ferial and Feras will tell what they saw. People will think I went willingly. They'll call me whore. And what they call me I'll have to be. What man would have me now?"

  Mowfik sighed. He heard truth. When the hunters returned, chastened by losing the man in their own territory, they would seek excuses for failing, would see in a less righteous light. "Get dressed."

  "Let me die, Father. Let me take my shame off your shoulders."

  "Stop that. Get dressed. We have things to do. We'll sell while people are sympathetic. We started over here. We can start again somewhere else. Up. Into your clothes. Do you want them to see you like this? Time to make the brave show."

  All her life he had said that, whenever people hurt her. "Time to make the brave show."

  Tears streaming, she dressed. "Did you say that to Mother, too?" Her mother had been brave, a northern girl who had come south out of love. She had been more outsider than Mowfik.

  "Yes. Many times. And I should've held my tongue. I should've stayed in the north. None of this would have happened had we stayed with her people."

  Mowfik's partner did not try to profit from his distress. He paid generously. Mowfik did not have to waste war booty to get away.

  VI

  A Captain Al Jahez, who Mowfik had served in the wars, gave him a position as a huntsman. He and Narriman had now fled eight hundred miles from Wadi al Hamamah.

  Narriman began to suspect the worst soon after their arrival. She remained silent till it became impossible to deceive herself. She went to Mowfik because there was nowhere else to go.

  "Father, I'm with child."

  He did not react in the traditional way. "Yes. His purpose was to breed another of his kind."

  "What will we do?" She was terrified. Her tribe had been unforgiving. The settled peoples were only slightly less so in these matters.

  "There's no need to panic. I discussed this with Al Jahez when we arrived. He's a hard and religious man, but from el Aswad originally. He knows what comes out of the Jebal. His goatherd is old. He'll send us into the hills to replace him. We'll stay away a few years while he stamps your widowhood into everyone's mind. You'll come back looking young for your age. Men will do battle for such a widow."

  "Why are you so kind? I've been nothing but trouble since the rider came down the wadi."

  "You're my family. All I have. I live by the way of the Disciple, unlike so many who profess his creed only because it's politic."

  "And yet you bow to Karkur."

  He smiled. "One shouldn't overlook any possibility. I'll speak with Al Jahez. We'll go within the week."

  Life in the hills, herding goats, was not unpleasant. The land was hard, reminding Narriman of home. But this was tamer country. Wolves and lions were few. The kids were not often threatened.

  As her belly swelled and the inevitable drew near, she grew ever more frightened. "Father, I'm not old enough for this. I'm going to die. I know it."

  "No, you won't." He told her that her mother, too, had grown frightened. That all women were afraid. He did not try to convince her that her fears were groundless, only that fear was more dangerous than giving birth. "I'll be with you. I won't let anything happen. And Al Jahez promises he'll send his finest midwife."

  "Father, I don't understand why you're so good to me. And I'm baffled as to why he's so good to you. He can't care that much because you rode in his company."

  Mowfik shrugged. "Perhaps because I saved his life at the Battle of the Circles. Also, there are more just men than you believe."

  "You never talk about the wars. Except about places you saw."

  "Those aren't happy memories, Little Fox. Dying and killing and dying. And in the end, nothing gained, either for myself or for the glory of the Lord. Will you tell the young ones about these days when you're old? Those days weren't happy, but I saw more than any al Muburak before or since."

  He was the only one of a dozen volunteers who survived. And maybe that, instead of the foreign wife, was why he had become an outcast. The old folks resented him for living when their own sons were dead.

  "What will we do with a baby, Father?"

  "What? What people always do. Raise him to be a man."

  "It'll be a boy, will it?"

  "I doubt me not it will, but a girl will be as welcome." He chuckled.

  "Will you hate him?"

  "We are talking about my daughter's child. I can hate the father, but not the infant. The child is innocent."

  "You did travel in strange lands. No wonder the old ones didn't like you."

  "Old ones pass on. Ideas are immortal. So says the Disciple."

  She felt better afterward, but her fear never evaporated.

  VII

  "A fine son," the old woman said with a toothless smile. "A fine son. I foretell you now, little mistress, he'll be a great one. See it here, in his hands." She held the tiny, purplish, wrinkled, squalling thing high. "And he came forth with the cap. Only the truly destined, the chosen ones, come forth with that. Aye, you've mothered a mighty one."

  Narriman smiled though she heard not a tenth of the babble. She cared only that the struggle was over, that the pain had receded. There was a great warmth in her for the child, but she hadn't the strength to express it.

  Mowfik ducked into the tent. "Sadhra. Is everything all right?" His face was pale. Dimly, Narriman realized he had been frightened too.

  "Both came through perfectly. Al Jahez has a godson of whom he can be proud." She repeated her predictions.

  "Old Mother, you'd better not tell him that. That smacks of superstition. He's strict about religious deviation."

  "The decrees of men, be they mere men or Chosen of the Lord, can't change natural law. Omens are omens."

  "May be. May be. Shouldn't you give her the child?"

  "Aye. So I should. I'm hogging him because one day I'll be able to say I held such a one." She dropped the infant to Narriman's breast. He took the nipple, but without enthusiasm.

  "Don't you worry, little mistress. Soon he'll suckle hearty."

  "Thank you, Sadhra," Mowfik said. "Al Jahez chose well. I'm in both your debts."


  "It was my honor, sir." She left the tent.

  "Such a one, eh, Little Fox? Making him the Hammer of God before he draws his first breath."

  Narriman stared up at him. He wasn't just tired. He was disturbed. "The rider?"

  "He's out there."

  "I thought so. I felt him."

  "I stalked him, but he eluded me. I didn't dare go far."

  "Perhaps tomorrow." As she drifted into sleep, though, she thought, You'll never catch him. He'll deceive you with the Power. No warrior will catch him. Time or trickery will be his death.

  She slept. And she dreamed of the rider and the way it had been for her the third time.

  She dreamed that often. It was one thing she kept from Mowfik. He would not understand. She did not understand herself.

  Maybe she was a whore at heart.

  VIII

  Narriman called the child Misr Sayed bin Hammad al Muburaki, meaning he was Misr Sayed son of the desert, of the al Muburak tribe. Hammad could be a man's name also, so it became that of her missing husband. Misr's grandfather, however, called him Towfik el-Masiri, or Camel's Feet, for reasons only he found amusing.

  Misr grew quickly, learned rapidly, and was startlingly healthy. Seldom was he colicky or cranky, even when cutting teeth. He was happy most of the time, and always had a big hug for his grandfather. Narriman remained perpetually amazed that she could feel so much love for one person. "How do women love more than one child?" she asked.

  Mowfik shrugged. "It's a mystery to me. I was my mother's only. You're your mother's only."

  The first two years were idyllic. The baby and the goats kept them too busy to worry. In the third year, though, Mowfik grew sour. His heart was not in his play with Misr. One day Narriman found him honing his war sword and watching the hills. Then she understood. He expected the rider.