by Glen Cook
El Murid nodded absently. So long as there was enough to divert him from thoughts of his true motive for defying the Lord: pure childish spite for the arrows of betrayal that had fallen upon him at the Five Circles.
He returned to Esmat's earlier question. "They don't care which mask the unknowable wears. They just want it to wear one."
Allied emissaries began arriving two weeks later. "They seem serious this time," the Disciple observed. "Especially Greyfells."
"Perhaps they sense your own determination, Lord," Esmat replied.
"I doubt it." Already they were hard at their backstabbing and undercutting. Yet he was impressed. He would be dealing with men honestly able to make commitments and undertake obligations, all in an air of great publicity. Even the Guild had entered its delegation, captained by the formidable General Lauder. The Itaskians had sent their redoubtable War Minister as well as the slippery Greyfells. Something solid would come out of the sessions.
Within the formal process there was little dissent or maneuver. No one held a position of strength. After a week, El Murid told Esmat, "We're going to get there. We can wrap it in a month. We'll be in Al Rhemish before your old cohorts can put back everything they stole when they heard I was dead." He chuckled.
He had become an easier El Murid, taking a juvenile pleasure in disconcerting everyone with his frankness and new cynicism. People recalled that he was a salt merchant's son and muttered that blood would tell.
"Not long at all, Esmat. The only real thieves are the Itaskians, and they defeat themselves by working at cross-purposes. We'll come out better than I anticipated."
He had concluded a covert, long-term understanding with Duke Greyfells almost immediately. In private, the Duke showed a pragmatic honesty El Murid appreciated.
"And what of the Second Empire, Lord? Do we abandon the dream?"
"Not to worry, Esmat. Not to worry. We but buy a breathing space in which the dream may build new strength. The Faithful carried the Word to the shores of the Silverbind. They have sown the thunder. Those fields will yield up a rich bounty when next the Chosen come harvesting."
Esmat stared at his master and thought, Yes, but...
Who would provide the magnetism and drive? Who would deliver the spark of divine insanity that made masses of men rush to their deaths for something they could not comprehend?
Not you, Lord, Esmat thought. Not you. You can't even sell yourself anymore.
He looked at his master and felt a great sorrow, felt as though something precious had been taken away while he was distracted. He did not know what it was. He did not understand the feeling. He thought himself a practical man.
Chapter Twenty-Two:
LAST BATTLE
Haroun and Beloul stared down at their enemies. The encircling camp grew larger every day.
"This could get damned nasty, Lord," Beloul observed.
"You'd make a great prophet, Beloul." Haroun glanced along Libiannin's crumbling wall. Heavy engines would have no trouble breaching it.
The enemy really needn't waste time on engines. A concerted rush would carry the wall. He and Hawkwind hadn't the men to defend it, and the natives refused to help.
"What's happening, Beloul? Why haven't they attacked? Why hasn't the Itaskian fleet shown? They must know what's going on. They'd want to take us out, wouldn't they?"
He had had no contact with the world for weeks. The last he had heard, El Murid was reported slain in a huge battle with the Itaskians. His hopes had soared like exultant eagles. He had sent out messenger after messenger, till it seemed an endless parade of fishing smacks were leaving harbor, never to be seen again.
"We're marooned, Lord," Beloul said. "The world is getting on with business and has forgotten us. Maybe on purpose."
"But with the Disciple dead... "
"Lord, nobody but us Royalists gives a damn if you ever sit the Peacock Throne. The Itaskians? They're glad to have us howling around down here keeping the Disciple's men busy. But are they going to spend lives for us? It wouldn't profit them."
Haroun grinned weakly. "Have mercy, O Slayer of Illusions."
"Here comes Shadek. He looks like a man about to slay a few dreams."
El Senoussi's face did have a grim cast. Haroun trembled. He smelled bad news.
"A boat came in, Lord," Shadek puffed.
"Well?"
"It brought a Guildsman, not one of our men. He's with Hawkwind now. He had a funny expression when he looked at me. Kind of a sad, aching look. Made me think of a headsman about to swing his sword on his brother."
Haroun's back suddenly felt cold. "What do you think, Beloul?"
"I think we better take care to watch our backs, Lord. I think we're going to find out why our messengers never came back."
"I was afraid you'd say that. I wish I'd pursued my shagh–n studies to the point where I could perform a divination... Would they really turn on us?"
"Their interests aren't ours, Lord."
"I was afraid you'd say that, too."
Haaken and Reskird looked like men standing at the graveside of a friend suddenly struck down. Ragnarson was so angry he could not speak.
Orders had come. After all these years.
Bragi compelled himself to calm down. "How many people know about this?"
"Just us. And the courier." Kildragon indicated the man who had brought the message from General Lauder.
"Reskird, take that sonofabitch somewhere and keep him busy. Haaken, hustle down to the barracks and sort out everybody who was in our company when we left High Crag. Get them out of the way, then tell the others we've got a full kit formation in two hours. Ready to march."
Haaken eyed him suspiciously. "What are you up to?"
"Let's just say a permanent commission as captain isn't a big enough payoff for selling out a friend. Do what I told you."
"Bragi, you can't... "
"Like hell I can't. I resigned from the Guild five minutes before that guy got here. You and Reskird both heard me."
"Bragi... "
"I don't want to hear about it. You gather up your Guildsmen and hike them up to High Crag. Us non-Guildsmen are going to take a hike of our own."
"I just wanted to say I'm going with you."
Bragi studied him a moment. "Not this time, Haaken. You belong in the Guild. I don't. I've been thinking about this a long time. I don't fit. Not in what it would be in peacetime. I want to do too much that the Guild wouldn't allow. Like lay hands on lots of money. You can't be rich and be a Guildsman. You've got to give it all to the brotherhood. You, you don't need the things I do. You belong. So you just stay. In a couple years you'll have your own company. Someday... "
Ragnarson's voice grew weaker as he spoke. Haaken was looking hurt. Bad hurt. He was trying to hold back tears.
They were brothers. Never had they been separated long. He was telling Haaken it was time they went their own ways. Haaken was hearing that he was not needed anymore, that he was not wanted, that he had been outgrown.
Bragi felt the pain too.
"I have to do this, Haaken. It's going to ruin me with the Guild, but I have to. I don't want to drag you down too. I'll be back after it's over."
"Stop. No more explaining. We're grown men. You do what you have to do. Just go... Get away... "
Bragi peered at his brother intently. He had injured Haaken's pride. The man behind that taciturn exterior never forgot that he was adopted, never let himself think he was as good as other men. The little rejections became big in his mind... Best to just end it now, before they said something that would cause real pain. "Gather your men, Haaken. You have your orders." Bragi walked away. There were tears in his eyes too.
He managed to round up enough mounts for his men, more by theft than legitimate means. He hustled his baffled troops out of town before news of the treacherous peace could reach their ears.
His outriders captured an enemy courier almost immediately. "Read this," he ordered his interpreter, handing hi
m a captured dispatch.
"Let's see. All the usual greetings and salutations. To the Captain of the Host at Libiannin... It's from El Murid himself. Here's the gist. The Disciple is heading south to participate in the final solution to the Royalist problem. His own words. That's it. He probably sent several couriers, just in case."
"Uhm? He would be ahead of his messenger, would he? Boys, we're going to double-hustle now. Let's see if we can't have a little surprise waiting for the sonofabitch."
Haroun placed a gentle, restraining hand on Shadek's elbow. El Senoussi was ready to launch a one-man crusade against Hawkwind's Guildsmen. "It wouldn't do any good, Shadek. They have their orders, like them or not."
The Guildsmen were trooping aboard ships that had come to take them out of the city. An embarrassed and displeased Sir Tury had posted guards to make sure no Royalists joined the evacuation. The guards would not look their former comrades in the eye.
"So it goes, Shadek," Beloul observed. "The waters of politics run deep and dark. Occasionally there has to be a sacrificial lamb."
"Now's a damned poor time for you to go philosophical on us, Beloul," el Senoussi snapped. "Stop jacking your jaw and start finding a way out of this."
"I wonder what El Murid gave up to get us?" Haroun mused.
"I'm sure he gave the Guild and Itaskians their money's worth, Lord."
"I didn't think he cared anymore. He's ignored us lately."
"Maybe getting three-quarters killed gave him a more intimate perspective," Beloul suggested.
"Don't be facetious."
Hawkwind had stretched the letter of his orders and filled them in on current events. His news hadn't been good for the Royalist cause.
Haroun glanced across the far curve of the harbor. A pair of heavily fortified hills stood there. They were connected with the city by a long wall guarding a strip of coast only fifty yards wide. Many smaller ships were beached there. Quietly, Haroun's men were seizing those in hopes some Royalists could follow the Guildsmen to sea.
"How many can we get out?" Shadek asked.
"Maybe a thousand," Beloul replied. "If the Guildsmen's brave rescuers don't stand off the roads and keep us bottled."
Haroun glared at the troopships. "Think the treachery runs that deep?"
Beloul shrugged. "Time will tell, Lord."
One by one, the transports stood out to sea. Haroun, Beloul and el Senoussi watched in silence. Shortly after the last warped away from the quay a runner arrived.
He gasped, "Lord, there're warships ready to come into the channel."
"Uh-huh," Shadek said, congratulating himself.
Haroun felt the color leave his face. "What flag?"
"Scuttarian, Lord."
"And Dunno Scuttari is in the Disciple's bag. Beloul, forget your little navy. Looks like our only choice is to take as many with us as we can. Shadek, round the men up and send them to the wall. It won't be long."
"Maybe we can negotiate something," Beloul suggested.
"Would you bargain with them if the roles were reversed?"
Beloul laughed sourly. "I see what you mean, Lord."
Push as he might, Ragnarson could not match El Murid's pace. The Disciple reached Libiannin fifteen hours ahead but too late in the day to launch the attack he had come to enjoy.
Ragnarson's outriders captured a courier who apprised them of the true state of affairs.
"We keep going tonight," Bragi announced. "Maybe we can get there in time to do some good. I'm going to ride ahead."
He gathered a small band and surged ahead outdistancing his main force. He scouted Libiannin's environs, found what he wanted and rejoined his command as the sky began to lighten.
The hill he had selected overlooked the enemy main camp. Its base was just a mile from Libiannin's wall. The remains of an Imperial fortification crowned it. A small party of desert scouts occupied the ruins.
Ragnarson sent his sneakiest people forward. His main force reached the peak of the hill fifteen minutes later. The enemy there were all dead. "Perfect." He assembled his captains. "What I want is... "
El Murid and his people had their attention fixed on Libiannin. Ragnarson's men dug in for an hour before they were noticed. By then the Host had arrayed itself for the assault on the city.
Bragi went downhill, well below his foremost trench. He stood with hands on hips and said, "You folks go right ahead. Don't mind us." No one could hear, of course, but that was unnecessary. His stance conveyed his message. "But be careful about turning your backs on me."
He walked back uphill, listened to his men cuss and grumble as they deepened their trenches. They were not pleased by what they saw below. They were badly outnumbered.
One of Ragnarson's officers who was in the know asked, "What kind of standard should we show? We need something new if we just represent ourselves."
Despite his weariness and concern, Ragnarson was in a good mood. "Should be something unique, right? Something that will puzzle hell out of them. Tell you what. See if you can't find some red cloth. And some black. We'll make a flag like my father's sail. It'll drive them goofy."
Several officers got into the act, creating bizarre standards of their own.
The Host vacillated, racked by indecision. Bragi raised his standard, a black wolf's head on red. Baffled, the Disciple sent a deputation to investigate.
Bragi laughed at their questions while carefully concealing his true strength. He said, "The way I see it, you men have three choices. Attack Libiannin and have us jump on your backs. Attack us and have Haroun do the same. Or you can get smart and go the hell home."
One envoy glanced at the banner and for at least the fifth time asked, "Who are you?"
"I should let you find out the hard way." He could no longer resist a brag. "Ragnarson. Bragi Ragnarson. The Ragnarson that got rid of the Scourge of God, Mowaffak Hali and el-Nadim. Not to mention Karim. There's one name left on my list. Tell your nitwit boss I'll scratch his off too if he doesn't get out of here."
"That Guildsman from Altea? The Guild has made peace. You're out of line. This is between our Lord and bin Yousif."
"And me, Wormface. And me. I'm no Guildsman now."
One of Ragnarson's officers whispered, "Don't push them, sir. They may go."
"I'll carry this news to my Lord," an Invincible said. "It will help him reach his decision." He spun and raced down the hill.
"I don't like the way he said that," someone muttered.
"I think I goofed," Bragi admitted. "My name is right up by Haroun's on the Disciple's list. Stand to arms. Double-check the arrows."
"Can you tell what's happening, Lord?" Shadek asked. "My eyes aren't what they were."
"Mine aren't that good. Looks like somebody's dug in on that hill out there."
"Must be on our side," Beloul guessed. "Else they'd be all over us by now."
"But who? We have no friends anymore."
They waited and watched. The Host waited and baked in the increasingly uncomfortable sun.
"Couldn't you reach out with your shagh–n sensing, Lord?" Shadek asked.
"I don't know. I haven't used it for so long... I'll give it a go."
Beloul and Shadek shooed the nearer warriors. Haroun seated himself, bent forward, sealed his eyes against the sun. He murmured poorly remembered exercises taught him long ago. A fleeting memory of el Aswad fluttered across his mind. Had that been him? That innocent child? It seemed like another boy in another century, roaming those desert hills with Megelin Radetic, spending those miserable hours with the lore-masters from the shadowed valleys of Jebal al Alf Dhulquarneni.
Slowly, slowly, the chant took shape. He took hold and repeated it till his mind had shed all distractions, then he reached out, reached out...
A sound like a mouse's squeak crossed his motionless lips.
"All right." He lifted a hand. El Senoussi helped him rise. "I'll be damned," he muttered. "I'll be damned."
"Not a doubt of it, Lord," Beloul chi
ded. "But did you learn anything?"
"I did indeed, Beloul. I did indeed. That's our fool friend Ragnarson out there. He's come to save us from the fury of the madman of the wastes."
Shadek and Beloul looked at him oddly. Beloul said, "Ragnarson? But he's Guild."
"You think we should tell him to go away?"
"Not just yet, Lord. Him decorating that hill improves the view marvellously."
And Shadek, "It gives a man a good feeling here inside, knowing there are people who will stick."
"Don't forget it if we get out alive, Shadek. We'll owe him bigger than ever. Let us, too, be men who can be counted upon by our friends."
"Not only our friends but our enemies, Lord."
"The Disciple must be in a dither," Beloul observed. "Like a starving dog stationed between two hunks of meat. Which should he jump first?"
"Except these two hunks will bite his behind if he turns his back."
"Take not too much heart, Lord," Shadek cautioned. "Ragnarson would have far fewer men than the Disciple. And El Murid has his amulet."
The Host went into motion. It split like some weird organism giving birth to another of its kind. Half came toward the city. The remainder faced about and advanced on Ragnarson's hill.
"And there's the answer," Beloul quipped. "The dog turns into two dogs."
"Tell the men they have to hang on till our allies finish their share of the Host," Haroun said.
"Let me be the first to congratulate you on your new-found optimism, Lord," Shadek said.
"No need to be sarcastic, Shadek."
"There's good and good, Lord, and some things could be better than they are. I'll speak to the men."
Haroun nodded. He returned to his semi-trance, supposing that, in this extremity, his small talent as a sorcerer would be more valuable than his talent as a swordsman. He tried to lay a slight, small cloud upon the minds of the men about to attack Libiannin.
At least six thousand horsemen swarmed up Ragnarson's hill. "Oh, damn!" he swore. "I didn't count on them splitting." He shouted and waved, letting his people know they could loose their shafts at will. Clouds of arrows arced toward the riders.
