With Mercy Towards None

by Glen Cook

  "Perhaps, Lord. But should we needlessly incur the hatred of ten thousand men as dedicated as our own Harish? Twice have they invoked what they call the Sanctions of Nonverid and gone to war as an order. Each time they eradicated their enemies root and branch. Were they to muster their full strength and march against Al Rhemish not even the Scourge of God could stop them."

  "I think you exaggerate, Mowaffak. And I won't be dictated to by infidels."

  "I merely suggest that we not add to our burdens, Lord. That we make a gesture to placate the old men of High Crag. The Guild scattered, taken piecemeal, is far less dangerous than the Guild faced as a body."

  El Murid reflected. He saw the sense of Hali's argument. Wadi el Kuf had been impressive. But there was also the fact that petitioning the Guild at any level constituted an admission of weakness.

  There was no weakness in the Lord.

  "Relieve Shaheed. Return him to Al Rhemish. Otherwise, do nothing but instruct your captains not to let it happen again."

  "As you command, Lord." Mowaffak Hali grew pale. He had survived Wadi el Kuf. He hoped never to witness such a slaughter again.

  He debated with himself for a day before finding room in his conscience for disobedience.

  He sent three messengers by three routes, each bearing letters begging understanding and offering restitution. But the Lord was not with him. Every envoy perished en route.

  Chapter Five:

  WAR CLOUDS

  Bragi reached High Crag after a four month journey through refugee camps scattered across the Lesser Kingdoms. The castle was an ancient, draughty stone pile perched atop a windy, sea-battered headland jutting from the coast north of Dunno Scuttari. He looked up the long slope to the gates, recalling the misery he had endured during recruit training, and almost turned back. Only his concern for his brother drew him onward.

  He explained his circumstances to the gatekeeper. The gatekeeper told him to report to the sergeant of the guard. The sergeant sent him to a lieutenant, who passed him on to a captain, who told him to spend the night in barracks because he could expect to tell his story a dozen more times before anyone decided what to do with him. He was listed missing in action, presumed killed. His death bonus had been paid to his brother. The bonus would have to be repaid.

  "I don't care about all that," Bragi said. "I just want to get back to my brother and my company. Where are they?"

  "Sanguinet's Company? Down near Hellin Daimiel. Simballawein is negotiating for reinforcements for the Guild garrison there. There's talk that El Murid plans a holy war. Wants to resurrect the Empire."

  "Why can't I just catch up?"

  "As soon as you've gone the route here."

  He remained stuck at High Crag for three months.

  Haaken stared. "I don't believe it. Where the hell did you come from?" He was a burly youth even bigger than his foster brother. He approached Bragi warily, circled him. "It's you. It's really you. Damn it. Oh, damnit. After all the heartaches I went through."

  Someone hollered back among the tents. "You lying son of a bitch!" A soldier charged onto the drill field. "I'll crap! It is him. What the hell are you doing here, Bragi?" He was a tall, lean, tan, ginger-haired youth named Reskird Kildragon, Haaken's friend and the only other Trolledyngjan in the company.

  Haaken threw an arm around Bragi. "It's really you. I'll be damned. We were sure you were dead."

  "Why the hell didn't you keep riding somewhere?" Kildragon demanded. "Haaken, how are we going to pay back that death bounty?"

  Bragi laughed. "Hasn't changed a bit, has he?" he asked Haaken.

  "Too damned stupid. Can'tbeat sense into him. Tell the guys, Reskird."

  "Yeah." Kildragon winked at Ragnarson.

  "So talk," Haaken said. "How did you get out of Al Rhemish? Where have you been? Maybe youshould have gone somewhere else. We're probably headed down to Simballawein. The Disciple is up to something. We'll probably be in the thick of it. Well? Can't you say anything?"

  Grinning, Bragi replied, "Maybe. If you'd shut up long enough. You realize you've said more in the last five minutes than you usually say in a year?"

  The rest of Ragnarson's squadmates appeared, ambling out nonchalantly, as if only mildly curious. "Oh-oh," Haaken said. "Here comes Lieutenant Trubacik."

  "Lieutenant?"

  "Been lots of promotions. Sanguinet is a captain now."

  Bragi sucked spittle between his teeth, nervous.

  "You're late, Ragnarson," Trubacik snapped. "You were due on guard duty ten months ago." He chuckled at his own wit. "Captain wants to see you."

  A messenger came in on a lathered horse. Sanguinet ordered the camp gates closed and the troops into company formation. "Gentlemen, it's begun," he announced. "We're headed for Simballawein. General Hawkwind will join us there."

  Five hell-days on the road, marching forty or fifty miles each day. Then a messenger overtook them with word that a regiment of Invincibles had butted heads with Hawkwind and gotten the short end. Only a handful had escaped.

  The walls of Simballawein hove into view. "It's as big as Itaskia," Ragnarson muttered to Haaken.

  "Bigger, I think." Cheering crowds waited outside the gates. "Think we'd won the war already. Hell, a city ain't nothing but a box trap."

  "Gloom, despair, and blessed misery," Kildragon chided. "Come in out of the fog and look around, Haaken. Take a gander at them girls. Check the look in their eyes. I mean, they're ready to attack." He waved at the nearest.

  "Sanguinet's going to... "

  A girl rushed Reskird. She shoved flowers into his hands, fell into step beside him. She chattered. Kildragon chattered back. Lack of a common tongue didn't hamper communication.'

  Haaken's jaw dropped. He pasted on a sickly smile and started waving. "Hello, hello," he croaked.

  "Smooth," Bragi observed. "You're a real sweet talker, little brother." He straightened his pack and tried to look appealing without showing off. They had given him his squad leader's post back, provisionally, because Haaken would not keep it in his stead. He was supposed to show a certain decorum.

  He caught his captain watching him. Sanguinet wore an amused smirk. For reasons Ragnarson could not comprehend he had become a pet project of Sanguinet's soon after he had enlisted. That did not make life easier. Sanguinet rode him harder than he did anyone else.

  They had stumbled into soldier's heaven. The drinking was free, the women were easy, the people were desperate to please, and the duty was light. For the first time Bragi found himself enjoying soldiering.

  The idyll lasted two weeks.

  The horizons were masked by smoke. Nassef's warriors were not charitable conquerers. Anything they could not drive off or carry away they burned or killed. The Scourge of God appeared to be developing a vicious image deliberately.

  "Sure are a lot of them," Bragi observed.

  "Too many," Haaken said.

  The Scourge of God had been closing in for days. Only a few outlying strongholds remained unsubdued.

  "Must be a hundred thousand of them," Reskird guessed.

  He was not overestimating much. The excitement of war and easy plunder had penetrated Hammad al Nakir's nethermost reaches. Thousands who cared not a fig for El Murid's revelations had answered his call to arms.

  They might doubt his religious pretensions and social tinkering, but they loved his message of Imperial redemption and dominance, of historical rectification. The west had brought Ilkazar low. Now the hammer was in the other hand.

  Reskird was having trouble concealing his trepidation. "Tents like whitecaps on the sea," he murmured.

  "Horses can't climb walls," Bragi reminded. And, "We'll make chopped meat out of them if they storm us."

  Simballawein's defenders numbered twenty-five hundred Guildsmen and ten thousand experienced native troops. The Grand Council had armed a horde of city folk as well, but their value was doubtful. Even so, General Hawkwind believed he could ensure the city's safety.

  "Someth
ing will go wrong," Haaken prophesied.

  For once his pessimism proved well-founded.

  Nassef had laid his groundwork early and well. His agents had performed perfectly. The attack began straightforwardly, concentrating on the south walls, which were held by native troops and city militia. Hordes of desert warriors rushed in to perish beneath the ramparts. As Bragi had observed, it was not their kind of warfare. The few engines they had bothered to build were almost laughably crude and vulnerable.

  But Nassef knew his troops. That was why he had begun sugaring the path long before the invasion began.

  In Simballawein, as everywhere, there was a breed of man loyal only to gold, and a class interested only in the political main chance. Nassef's agents had structured a pro-El Murid government-in-waiting from the latter. The quislings had used desert gold to hire desperadoes willing to betray their city.

  They attacked Simballawein's South Gate from within, while its defenders were preoccupied with the attack from without. They opened the gate.

  Scimitars flashed. Horsemen howled through the gateway. Iron-shod hooves sent sparks flying from cobbled streets. Arrows streaked from saddle-bows.

  Arrows and javelins answered from windows and rooftops, but the unskilled citizen-soldiers could not stem the flood. They received conflicting orders from conspirators who had infiltrated their organization. Hastily assembled companies raced off to peaceful sectors. Panic spread. And all the while horsemen charged through the lost gate and spread out as swiftly as oil on water.

  The panic spread to the rest of the city.

  Panic had become Nassef's favorite weapon during his eastern campaigns. He had exploited it in his seizure of Al Rhemish. Now he was intent on teaching the western kingdoms the terror of the horseman who moved like lightning, who appeared and vanished, and struck where least expected.

  Simballawein was like a dinosaur. Its immense size kept it from dying immediately.

  The youths on the north wall watched the fires bloody the underbellies of the clouds and listened to the moans of a city collapsing.

  "I think it's getting closer," Reskird said.

  They knew what was happening. This was Simballawein's last independent night. And they were scared.

  "How come we're just sitting here?" one of the soldiers asked.

  "I don't know," Bragi admitted. "The Captain will let us know what to do."

  "So damned hot," Haaken muttered. The heat of the fires could be felt this far away.

  "I don't want to second-guess Hawkwind... "

  "Then don't, Reskird," Haaken grumbled.

  "I was just going to say... "

  "Ragnarson?" Lieutenant Trubacik carefully stepped over the legs of lounging soldiers. The ramparts were narrow.

  "Here, sir."

  "Report to the Captain,"

  "Yes sir."

  Trubacik moved to the next squad. "Haven?"

  Bragi went to Sanguinet's command post. "Gather round," the Captain said softly, when everyone had arrived. "And keep your voices down. All right. Here's the word. There's no hope of holding. The situation has deteriorated too much. The General has informed the Grand Council. Come midnight, we're pulling out."

  Voices buzzed.

  "Keep it down. Somebody out there might speak Itaskian. Gentlemen, I want you to speak to your men. The enemy main force has moved around to the south, but we're still going to have to fight. On the march. Discipline is going to make the difference. And we're going to have to give a little extra. We're green. There's going to be veterans in front of us and behind us, but we've still got to take care of our part of the line."

  Bragi did not like it. Hawkwind thought he could fight his way through a larger, more mobile army?

  "Maintaining discipline is a must. We're taking civilians with us. The Grand Councilors, their families, and the Tyrant. The Tyrant will bring his own escort, but don't count on them if it gets tight. We're in the narrow passage. We can't count on anybody but our brothers."

  Ragnarson began to understand what it meant to be a Guildsman.

  He also saw how Hawkwind could justify abandoning a commission. With Simballawein's rulers deserting their people, he would be following his commissioners.

  "The march will be short. We'll hit a bay on the coast twelve miles north of here. A fleet is waiting to pick us up."

  "Why not sail from here?" somebody asked.

  "The waterfront is in enemy hands. That's all, men. There isn't much time. Explain to your people. Discipline and silence. Discipline and silence."

  The group dispersed. Similar assemblies broke up elsewhere.

  "It's crazy," Reskird protested. "They'll get us all killed."

  "How much chance have we got here?" Bragi demanded. "Haaken, find me a dirty sock."

  "What?"

  "Get me a sock. I'm going to cram it in his mouth and keep it there 'til we're aboard ship. I don't want him shooting his mouth off out there and getting us wiped out."

  "Hey!" Reskird protested.

  "That's the last noise I want to hear out of you tonight. Get your stuff. Here comes Trubacik."

  "Ready, Ragnarson?"

  "Ready, sir."

  "Take them down to the street. The captain will form you up."

  The wait in the dark street, behind the gate, seemed eternal. Even Sanguinet became impatient. Several Grand Councilors were late.

  Native soldiers kept drifting in and joining the Tyrant's bodyguard. The Guildsmen became nervous. News of the proposed breakout was spreading. The enemy would hear before long.

  Hawkwind reviewed his troops during the delay. He was a small, slim man in his fifties. He looked like a harmless shopkeeper, not the most devastating captain of the age. Till one looked him in the eye.

  Bragi saw raw power in the man. Raw power and pure will. Only death Herself could best a man like General Sir Tury Hawkwind.

  Hawkwind completed the review, then informed the Tyrant he would wait no longer. The gates opened. Ragnarson was surprised how quietly they moved.

  A moment later he was double-timing into jeopardy. Enemy watchfires formed constellations on the hills and plains. He clutched his weapons and kit to keep them from clattering, and tried not to be afraid.

  But he was scared. Badly scared. Again. After all he had survived, he felt his capacity for fear should have been blunted.

  They started north on the road that had brought Sanguinet's Company south. They would leave it later and follow another to the coast.

  First contact came quickly. Nassef's men were alert.

  But they were not ready for a sally in force. The Guildsmen cut through easily.

  Bragi suddenly understood why Hawkwind had chosen to flee at midnight. Darkness negated the enemy's speed and maneuverability. Only suicides galloped around when they couldn't see.

  Nevertheless, Nassef's men kept getting in the way. And when they slowed the column, their brethern overtook it from behind.

  The fighting seldom reached Bragi's company. He and Haaken occupied themselves carrying a Guildsman who had fallen and nearly been left behind. They did not talk much.

  An hour fled. Miles passed. Another hour trudged into the warehouse of time. Hawkwind kept moving. The enemy could not place a preponderance of strength into his path.

  Hours and miles. The sky began lightening.

  "I hear the breakers," Haaken gasped. Their burden had become agonizingly heavy.

  Bragi snorted. "Even if we were close, you couldn't hear the surf over the noise we're making."

  But Haaken was right. They tramped through an olive grove and there lay the sea. A galaxy of lanterns sparkled on the water as ships signalled their whereabouts.

  "The ships," Haaken muttered to himself. "I see the ships."

  The run ended ten minutes later. The secundus and tercio started digging in. Longboats began carrying Councilors to the vessels.

  It was a big fleet. Some of the ships had escaped Simballawein. Some, Hellin Daimiel had sent against thi
s contingency. The Daimiellians wanted to salvage Guildsmen who might stiffen their own defenses.

  El Murid's men attacked, but without verve or organization. These were not fanatics, they were plunderers. They saw no profit in trying to obliterate a beaten foe. The Guildsmen repulsed them easily.

  Bragi's company was one of the last into the boats.

  He was digging an arrowhead from Reskird's shoulder when Sanguinet said, "You boys might have the stuff after all."

  Bragi was startled. He had not noticed the captain getting aboard.

  "Sir?"

  "I saw you pick up a man and carry him to the beach."

  "He was one of ours."

  "You'll make it, Ragnarson. So will your brother. The man was dead the last three miles."

  "What? I never noticed."

  "What's wrong with your sidekick there? He don't stay this quiet when he's asleep."

  "I told him to shut up. He was getting on my nerves."

  "Oh? Maybe he'll make a Guildsman too."

  "Maybe. You can talk now, Reskird. You made your point."

  But Kildragon refused. He was sulking.

  The fleet made Hellin Daimiel three days later.

  Nassef's horde had raced them northward. The roads out of the city had been cut. A noose was tightening fast. In a few days the sea would be the city's only means of communication.

  Hellin Daimiel was not Simballawein. Nassef's confederates were caught and hung before they did any harm.

  Bragi's company spent six weeks there, remaining till Hawkwind and the ruling council were sure the city was in no immediate danger.

  "Company meeting," Lieutenant Trubacik told Ragnarson one morning. "The rumors were right. We're moving out."

  Sanguinet was sour. "The Citadel is sending us to the Lesser Kingdoms. Nassef isn't interested in Hellin Daimiel right now. Meanwhile, Itaskia and the other northern states are raising an army. We're supposed to keep Nassef from clearing his eastern flank, to threaten him into staying south of the Scarlotti till the northern army arrives. It'll be tough, especially if the Kaveliners don't hold in the Savernake Gap.

  "We're going to Altea. I guess it's mainly a moral gesture. One company can't do much. My opinion is that we'll be wasting ourselves. The Citadel should assemble the whole brotherhood and take the initiative. But High Crag didn't ask me what I thought.