With Mercy Towards None

by Glen Cook

  Guild discipline held. He concluded his conversation with the messenger.

  He joined his men at their hastily built fires. They huddled near the flames, taking turns rushing into the cold to assemble shelters of boughs and packed snow.

  When he felt half toasted on each side he rose and trudged toward Arno, to see for himself what Hali was doing.

  Twice he had to hide from Invincible patrols. They were not strong and not enthusiastic about their job. They were not ranging far from town.

  Hali was doing nothing but keeping warm. He seemed content to wait till the cold spell passed. Neither his men nor his animals were fit to face prolonged exposure.

  Bragi crawled into a haystack to sleep that night. When he finally returned to camp he found Amin and his men crowding the fires and looking forlorn. He decided to give them a day of rest.

  The temperature did not drop that night, and it rose next day. It kept rising and the snow began a fast melt. The ground was soggy during the march on Arno.

  "Looks like the cold is over," Bragi observed.

  "Yeah," Haaken replied. "Our buddy, Hali, will be getting ready to move."

  Hali was getting ready, but not to move. He had his shagh–n, and the shagh–n could see beyond the range of mortal eyes. The Invincibles were cooking up a little surprise.

  Bragi walked into it. The fighting became savage. Amin's men were in a bloody mood. Hali's people, backboned by the shagh–n, stomped the eagerness out of them. Come nightfall, with only a few houses retaken, Ragnarson sent a whole train of casualties back to his camp in the woods.

  "This is stupid, Bragi," Haaken declared. "It's like the time Father got into it with Oleg Sorenson."

  "What?" Amin asked.

  "My father and another man got into a fight one time," Bragi explained. "They were both too proud to give up and neither one was strong enough to drop the other. So they beat each other half to death. They couldn't get out of bed for a week. And nothing had changed when they did. They went right at it again."

  "That shagh–n has to go," Amin said. "They'll eat us alive if he doesn't. We can eat them if he does. It's that simple."

  "So go do something about him."

  Amin smiled. "You mock me. All right. Loan me three of your best bowmen."

  Bragi peered at the man. "Do it, Haaken."

  "You sure?"

  "He is. Give him his shot."

  "Whatever you say." Haaken went looking for men.

  "Still testing?" Amin asked.

  "Always. You know it."

  Amin was one of those curiosities which turn up in every war, the soldier of schizophrenic loyalties and ideals. He was twenty-seven years old. He had been fighting for ten years. For the first seven he had served El Murid. He had been one of the Scourge of God's Commanders of a Thousand.

  He had become disenchanted with his fellow officers during the invasion of the west. They were making a mockery of the Disciple's law, and he saw little evidence that El Murid himself cared. When Nassef perished and el-Kader assumed command, Amin expected wholesale looting in the recovered provinces. He deserted.

  Time had proven him wrong, but by then it was too late for Metillah Amin. He went to the mountains and swore allegiance to the King Without A Throne. His name was entered on the Harish lists.

  Metillah Amin was an unfortunate man, and the more so because he knew no life but that of the warrior. In the tale of the El Murid Wars he was to have little significance save that he symbolized all the thousands of young men who found the conflict a slayer, not a mother, of dreams.

  Bragi and his brother watched Amin's team vanish into the darkness. "That's a man looking for death," Haaken observed.

  "It's his only way out," Bragi replied. "But he's got that fighter's determination, too. He can't just let it happen. He's got to earn it. Keep an eye on him. We'll hit them with everything if he gets lucky."

  Haaken returned an hour later. He hunkered down and held his hands out to the fireplace. Bragi heard a rising clamor. "Well?"

  "He earned it. But he got the job done. The shagh–n is gone."

  "Dead?"

  "As a wedge. For whatever good it'll do."

  It did little immediate good. Hali's men were stubborn and desperate.

  Uthe Haas, Haaken's messenger to Kildragon, returned next morning. He reported that Reskird was on his way.

  "Ha!" said Bragi. "We've got them now." He sent another messenger to tell Kildragon to dig in across the road near the encampment in the woods. Then he gradually surrounded Arno, sneaking his strength to the north clumsily enough to be sure he would be detected. When he launched his "surprise" attack next morning Hali broke out to the south, driving down the road toward Hammad al Nakir and imagined safety.

  The weather remained warm. The snow was almost gone. The earth was mush. The race was a slow one. Ragnarson and his infantrymen shambled along, pausing each few paces to knock the mud off their legs. Each time a man lifted a foot there was aschluck! as the mud surrendered its grip.

  The Royalists and their foes exchanged the occasional arrow, but there was little fighting. From above, the road would have looked like a disorganized ant trail. The columns became ever more extended.

  Bragi discovered some stony ground to his right. He guided his men into it and began gaining on Hali. Then his path suddenly dipped to a narrow, icy creek. By the time he crossed, Hali was in a brisk fight with Reskird and the Royalists. His men charged through the mud and closed the circle around the enemy.

  Here Hali's men were at a disadvantage against Guild bows. The encounter was bloody and did not last long. Only a few dozen Invincibles escaped.

  Ragnarson prowled the field with the Royalists, trying to find Hali's body. Night fell without his being able to determine if the game had been worth the candle. Investigations next morning proved nothing either. "Ah, damn, Haaken. All this for nothing."

  "Maybe. And maybe he died in the town." Bragi would know nothing for sure for months. By then he would be back in the Kapenrungs, engrossed in another matter and indifferent to Hali's fate.

  Chapter Eighteen:

  THE ASSASSINS

  Haroun knelt beside the brook, drinking from cupped hands. He shivered in the chill mountain breeze. Beloul said, "Lord, I'm not comfortable with this."

  "It is risky," Haroun admitted. "Beloul?"

  "Lord?"

  "Guard my back well."

  "You think Shadek would... ?"

  "I don't know."

  "But... "

  "In politics you never know. He kept me informed all the way, but I'm still not sure. The question is, did he do the same with Sidi?"

  Beloul smiled thinly. "Shadek is my friend, Lord. But even I couldn't say. Who knows a man's secret ambition?"

  "Exactly. And in this case that's what's going to count. He's set it up so he can jump any way he wants. Just the way I would have done. I admire him for that. I didn't think he had the imagination."

  Beloul smiled again.

  "Now I'm wondering if I'll ever trust him, assuming he does jump my way."

  "We shouldn't waste time worrying, Lord. Just be alert. We'll all know when his moment of no return comes."

  "Maybe. Do you think he'd be fool enough to trust Sidi's gratitude?"

  "He would arrange some sort of self-protection, Lord."

  "Uhm. I thought so."

  Next day, even deeper into the mountains, Haroun told his companions, "I have to leave for a few days. Make camp here. Wait for me." His tone brooked no questions. Aside, to Beloul, he said, "Take care, my friend. Most of these men were chosen by Shadek."

  "I know, Lord. I know."

  The snows in the Kapenrungs were deep. Haroun found the going heavy. Most of it was uphill, which did not help.

  He located the cabin more by the smell of smoke than by memory or sight. It was as white as the rest of the landscape and virtually invisible. A dog howled, protesting his presence. He approached cautiously.

  It had been mo
nths since he had come here. Anything might have happened. He reached with his shagh–n-trained senses, feeling for a wrongness. There could be no better place for the Harish to lie in wait.

  The door creaked inward. He stared at the rectangle of shadow, probing for a trap.

  "Come in, damnit! You're letting all the warm air out." The unveiled face of an old, old woman drifted across the doorway. He pushed inside, slammed the door. One hand rested on his sword hilt.

  Nothing. No danger.

  He stamped the snow off his feet. A thin layer of white remained. It faded in the heat.

  After the bitter cold the cabin was overpoweringly warm. He shed clothing fast, feeling slightly faint.

  "How is she?" he asked.

  "Well enough, considering she's trapped here a hundred miles from the Lord alone knows where." There was no deference in the woman's harsh old voice. "She's sleeping now."

  Haroun glared at her.

  She was his uncle Fuad's first wife's mother, the nearest living relative he could claim. She looked like a pessimistic artist's conception of Death. Wrinkled, bony, toothless, all clad in black. And mean as a snake. She resembled the harridans guarding the gates of Bragi's version of Hell, he reflected. He laughed softly. "You're a sweetheart, Fatim."

  A ghost of a smile crossed her colorless lips. "You're here now, make yourself useful. Throw some wood on the fire. I'll have to cook extra tonight."

  "That any way to talk to your king?"

  "King? Of what?" She snorted derisively.

  A voice squeaked in the loft.

  "Nobody. Just your uncle, Haroun," the old woman replied.

  A thin, dark, strange face peered down from the gloom. The firelight made it appear diabolic. "Hello, Seif," Haroun said. Seif was the son of Fatim's brother's son, and all she had left of her blood. He helped around the cabin.

  A slow smile fought the half-dead muscles of Seif's face. In a moment he began working his way down the ladder. Haroun did not help. Seif insisted on doing for himself.

  Reaching the floor, Seif turned, started toward Haroun. He dragged one leg. He held one clawed hand across his chest. It shuddered with effort. His head lolled to one side. A tail of spittle fell from the corner of his mouth.

  Haroun concealed his aversion and threw his arms around the youth. "How have you been, Seif?"

  "Well?" the old woman snarled. "Are you going to see her or not? Your timing is good, anyway."

  Haroun released Seif. "I suppose I should. That's why I came."

  "And about time, I'd say. What kind of man are you? It's been almost a year."

  "I have my problems. Where is she? Hiding?"

  "Asleep, I told you. Go see her, you fool."

  The youth said something. Haroun could not make it out.

  "And you keep your mouth shut, Seif. Let him find out for himself. It's his fault."

  "Find out what?"

  "She's not going to come to you. So go."

  Haroun bowed to her superior wisdom and pushed through the hangings that divided the cabin.

  She was lying on her back in the crude bed he and Seif had worked so hard to build. She was sleeping, smiling, her left arm flung above her head. She looked sweet and vulnerable. A month-old child lay cradled in the crook of her right arm, head near her breast. She seemed content.

  "Well, I'll be damned," he whispered. He knelt and stared at the infant's face. "I'll be damned. Girl or boy, Fatim?"

  "A son, Lord. An heir. She named him Megelin Micah."

  "How beautiful. How thoughtful. How absolutely perfect." He reached out, touched the girl's cheek. "Darling?"

  Her eyes opened. She smiled.

  They were on the downside now, getting near the desert. There was just the occasional patch of snow, in the shadows of the trees. "Lord?" Beloul queried softly.

  "Yes?"

  "What's happened?"

  "What? I don't follow you."

  "You've changed. Somehow, while you were away, you became a different man. More whole, I think you'd say. Perhaps matured."

  "I see."

  Beloul awaited something more. Haroun said nothing, so he asked, "Might I know?"

  "No. I'm sorry, old friend. Maybe somday."

  "As you will, Lord."

  Hehad changed, Haroun reflected. The birth of a son gave the world a different look. It made a man a bit more inclined toward caution. For three days he had been considering cancelling the expedition.

  "Lord," el Senoussi called from up the column, "We're here."

  Haroun scanned the mountainsides and canyon. He saw nothing unusual. "Now's the time, Beloul. He's got to jump one way or the other. Be ready."

  Beloul pointed. "Down there, Lord. Smoke."

  "I see it."

  Shadek led the way down the steep trail. Haroun eyed his back, trying to postulate his thoughts from his posture.

  No matter his intent, Shadek knew the significance of the moment. It would be too late to change his mind once he brought his king and Beloul into Sidi's camp as simple bladesmen.

  Unless he were making a delivery.

  Haroun grew more tense. That possibility had not occurred to him earlier.

  El Senoussi's hand snapped up, signalling a halt. Haroun dropped his fingers to his sword. Shadek made his way up the file. "Lord, this is going to be tricky. I don't know what they plan. It could be a trap."

  "It could be. Take a couple men down and find out. I'll wait here."

  "As you command, Lord." El Senoussi picked two men and departed. They disappeared among the trees whence the smoke rose.

  Haroun and Beloul waited with their swords lying across their laps. The rest of the men dismounted.

  El Senoussi returned two hours later. He came all the way up instead of signalling from below. Beloul whispered, "I'm inclined to think he's sticking, Lord."

  "We'll see."

  El Senoussi arrived. "It looks like they'll play it straight, Lord. There's only ten of them, and Sidi himself."

  "Let's go, then. Make sure he dies first if they try anything."

  "That goes without saying, Lord. Listen up, men! We're going down. And I'll cut the heart out of the man who forgets and gives our Lord away. This is just a warrior named Abu bin Kahed." He stared down the trail again.

  They clattered into Sidi's camp, suspiciously eyeing Sidi's men, who watched them suspiciously. This would be an uneasy alliance, Haroun reflected.

  El Murid's son awaited them, his face a stony mask. He made no move to greet them. The war truly claimed the young, Haroun reflected. The boy had the look of a cruel, miserly old man.

  They set out for Al Rhemish next morning, riding fast. El Murid had ended his seclusion. He was watching everyone. The night-stalking Harish were busier than ever before. Sidi did not want to be away long enough to invite unwelcome questions.

  The parties travelled without mixing. There was little intercourse between them, and less trust.

  Haroun and Beloul performed the chores of ordinary warriors. They did their turns cooking, currying animals, standing sentry duty. Sidi's people paid them no heed. Shadek's men showed them no special respect. He had selected smart, vigilant, veteran guerrillas.

  It was noon of a warm winter's day when Haroun once again saw the Holy City, the city of his dreams, the city of the kings of Hammad al Nikir. He had to struggle to keep his feelings hidden.

  The great bowl had changed. There was a broad, shallow lake where once pilgrims had camped during Disharhun. The Shrines and city now stood on an island reached by a rickety wooden causeway. The old ruins had been cleared. New structures had been raised. More were under construction, including giants that looked worthy of the capital of a new Empire. The stone piers of a permanent bridge were in place beside the wooden causeway.

  The inner slopes of the bowl were covered with green grass. Camels and goats, horses and cattle grazed them. At the points of the compass four small sections had been enclosed with fences built from the rubble of the leveled ruins. Each
enclosure contained arrow-straight rows of seedling trees. The all-important moisture descended the slopes from a ringing irrigation canal. Haroun could only guess whence the water had come.

  He exchanged glances with Beloul.

  "It's changed remarkably," Shadek told Sidi.

  "The old fool's hobby," the boy said. "Greening the desert. A damned waste of money and manpower."

  "It would seem a worthy goal, Lord."

  Sidi gave Shadek a cruel look. "Perhaps. But it would consume the labor and wealth of a dozen generations, General."

  Haroun knew the numbers. Megelin had shared them with him back when, while preparing suggestions for his father.

  He sensed that Sidi was parroting something he had been told. There was a strong flavor of rote recital in his phrasing.

  What fell puppet-masters were filling him with contempt for his father's dreams? And with insidious schemes for murder?

  No doubt Sidi believed he was his own creature, was making his own decisions and pursuing his own ambitions. The poor naive child.

  Sidi was a dead puppet and did not know it. How long would he last once his manipulators eliminated El Murid? Till the first time his will crossed theirs.

  While he wallowed in the privileges of power, they would sink their claws into its instruments. If Sidi asserted himself he would find himself standing alone.

  Would the Invincibles support the slayer of their prophet? A parricide? Never.

  There was no one on whom Haroun would rather see the jaws of fate close. Sidi impressed him that negatively.

  He looked down as they crossed the rickety bridge. The water made a nice moat. There were fish in it. Big ones. It was a shame El Murid could not have remained a loyal subject.

  They wound through Al Rhemish past sites hard to recognize but difficult to forget. There... That was where he had unhorsed the Disciple when he was six. His uncle Fuad had died yonder. And his father and brother Ali and King Aboud had made their stand against this wall...

  "Lord!" Beloul cautioned softly. "Take care. Your memories are showing."

  Haroun stifled the emotion, became as much a gawker as his companions.

  He did not like all he saw. There were too many white robes. Getting out would be difficult.