The Fire In His Hands de-4

by Glen Cook

  “For a minute I did. I’m as subject as anyone else to the wiles of the Evil One. But I found my strength, and the lapse made the outcome sweeter. You see how the Lord moves us to His will? We do His work even when we think we’re turning our backs on Him.”

  Nassef stared across the barren hills. Finally, he replied, “It’s hard to accept a defeat hoping it will yield a greater victory someday. My friend, my prophet, they signed their death warrants today.”

  “I’m no prophet, Nassef. Just a disciple of the Lord’s Way. And I want no deaths that can be avoided. Even King Aboud and the High Priests may someday seek the path of righteousness.”

  “Of course. I was speaking figuratively. Saying that by their actions they have doomed their cause.”

  “It is often thus with the minions of the Evil One. The more they struggle, the more they contribute to the Lord’s work. What about the raid? Are you sure we can pull it off?”

  “I sent Karim back to Al Rhemish. If our people do what we ask, if they keep the riots going and send us five hundred warriors, we can. There’ll be no one to stop us. All the lords came to Al Rhemish to see our humiliation. The riots will occupy them through Mashad. We’ll have a week’s lead.”

  “I just wish we could have christened the baby.”

  “That was a pity. We’ll return, Lord. We’ll see it done, some Mashad. I promise it.”

  For once Nassef’s words burned with total sincerity, with absolute conviction!

  The by-ways of the desert were long, lonely and slow, especially for a man apart from other men. There was no one for El Murid to confide in, to dream with, except Meryem. The Invincibles were too much in awe of him, too worshipful. Nassef and his handful of followers remained engrossed in their scheming against tomorrow. The riders who overtook them, coming from Al Rhemish by tens and twenties, were all strangers. The fast friends who had been his first converts, the others who had come with him out of El Aquila, were all dead, sainted.

  Nassef’s struggles on his behalf took their toll.

  The Disciple rode beside the white camel, his child in his lap. “She’s such a peaceful, tiny thing,” he marveled. “A miracle. The Lord has been good to us, Meryem.” He winced.

  “Your ankle?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’d better let me take her back, then.”

  “No. These moments are too rare already. And they’re going to become rarer still.” After a minute alone with his thoughts, “How long will it be before I can set aside my staff?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How long before our success is achieved? How long till I can settle down and lead a normal life with you and her? We’ve been riding these hidden trails for three years. It seems like thirty.”

  “Never, my love. Never. And as a wife I loathe to admit it. But when the angel spoke to you, you became El Murid for all time. So long as the Lord sees fit to leave you among the living, that long must you remain the Disciple.”

  “I know. I know. It’s just the mortal within me wishing for something it can’t have.”

  They rode without speaking for a while. Then El Murid said, “Meryem, I’m lonely. I don’t have anyone but you.”

  “You have half the desert. Who brings us food and water from the settlements? Who carries the Truth into provinces we’ve never seen?”

  “I mean a friend. A simple, ordinary, personal friend. Somebody I can just play with, as I did when I was a child. Somebody I can talk to. Somebody who can share the fears and hopes of a man, not somebody smitten by the dreams of El Murid. Surely you’ve felt the same things since Fata died.”

  “Yes. Being the woman of El Murid is lonely, too.” After a time, “But you have Nassef.”

  “Nassef is your brother. I won’t speak ill of him to you. I do love him as if he were my own brother. I forgive him like a brother. But we’ll never be real friends, Meryem. We’ll just be allies.”

  Meryem did not argue. She knew it was true. Nassef, too, had no one else in whom to confide. No friendship would blossom between her husband and brother while they remained unsure of each other.

  It had been a long, hard ride. In the end, Nassef had pushed hard. Everyone was tired except Nassef himself, who seemed immune to fatigue.

  “There it is,” El Murid whispered in wonder. He forgot the pain in his ankle. “Sebil el Selib.”

  The light of a three-quarters moon illuminated the mountain-flanked meadow which was second only to Al Rhemish in the hearts of the Children of Hammad al Nakir. Long ago, it had been second only to Ilkazar in the hearts of their Imperial ancestors.

  A very old fortress overlooked the meadow, and the shrine and cloisters it contained. There were no lights to be seen anywhere.

  The name Sebil el Selib meant Path of the Cross. It had come into being because of the event memorialized by the shrine.

  It was in that meadow that, on the first day of the Year 1 in the common dating, the Empire had been born. The first emperor had made himself secure in his power by crucifying a thousand opponents there. The path of the name was the trail winding through the pass, along which the doomed nobles had had to bear the instruments of their destruction. From the meadow that trail wound on, connecting the old Inner Provinces with the cities along the coast of the Sea of Kotsum.

  The weathered fortress, dating from the early Imperial era, guarded the pass, not the shrine and cloisters over which it brooded.

  “Here the father of our dream found life,” El Murid told Nassef. “Here the First Empire was born. Let our own gasp its first breath on the same bedclothing.”

  Nassef said nothing. He was looking with awe on a place drenched with history. It seemed too plain, too simple, to be so important.

  Al Rhemish had given him the same feeling.

  It amazed him that ordinary places could, in time, attain such a hold on men’s imaginations.

  “Nassef.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are we ready?”

  “Yes. Karim will take the Invincibles down first. They’ll scale the walls and open the gate to the rest. I’ll send smaller forces to seize the shrine and cloisters.”

  “Nassef?”

  “I hear you.”

  “I’m no warrior. No general. I am but the instrument of the Lord. But I’d like to make a small adjustment to your plan. I’d like you to close the road to the coast. And to leave a detachment with me. I don’t want anyone to escape.”

  Nassef thought that he had misunderstood. El Murid was always after him to spare and forgive their enemies.

  “I thought about it all the way here. The Lord has no friends in this place. They’re soldiers of the King and acolytes of the false path. Moreover, a clear, unequivocal message has to be sent to those who yield to the seductions of the Evil One. Last night I prayed for guidance, and it came to me that our Second Empire must also have its birth in the blood of its enemies, on the site where the First Empire was born.”

  Nassef was surprised, but not dismayed. “As you say, so shall it be.”

  “Slay them all, Nassef. Even to the babes in arms. Let no man, from this day forth, think that he can evade the wrath of the Lord.”

  “As you say.”

  “You may begin.” But before Nassef had taken a dozen steps, El Murid called, “Nassef.”

  “Yes?”

  “In this moment, before the armed struggle begins, I name you my war captain. I entitle you Scourge of God. Wear the title well.”

  “I will. Have no fear.”

  The attack went forth with the speed and precision that had become hallmarks of Nassef’s caravan raids. Many of the fortress’s garrison died in their bedrolls.

  El Murid sat his horse on the elevation and awaited fugitives or news. In his heart he nursed a black seed of fear. If he failed here, if the defenders of the fortress drove him away, then his mission might never recover. Nothing impressed the men of the desert so much as boldness and success. Nothing daunted them so much as failure.


  No fugitives came. Neither did any news till, as dawn began coloring the sky over the mountains before him, Nassef’s man Karim rode up.

  “My Lord Disciple,” said Karim, “your war captain sends me to report that the fortress, shrine and all cloisters are in our hands. Our enemies have been gathered in the meadow. He begs you to come accept them as a gift of his love.”

  “Thank you, Karim. Tell him I’m on my way.”

  Nassef awaited him on a knoll overlooking the captives. There were at least two thousand of them. Many were from the fortress, but most were from the cloisters, innocent pilgrims who had come here to celebrate Disharhun and who had not yet departed for their homes.

  The garrison had been a large one. The only other useful pass through Jebal al Alf Dhulquarneni lay hundreds of miles to the north. The Hidden Ones permitted passage at no other points. The defense was big because the passage taxes were important to the Crown.

  The stronghold’s defenders lived their entire lives there. Some of the garrison families went back to imperial times. Women and children lived in the castle with the men.

  El Murid looked down on the captives. They looked up at him. Few recognized him till Meryem, veilless, on her white camel, came up beside him. They began to buzz in excitement. An officer of the garrison shouted something placatory, offering his men’s parole. El Murid peered at him. He searched his heart for mercy. He could find none. He gave Nassef the signal to begin.

  The horsemen rode round the prisoners, chopping with their sabers. The prisoners screamed. They tried to run. There was nowhere to go except to climb atop one another. Some dashed through the circle of death, only to be ridden down by pickets awaiting them outside. A few warriors hurled themselves at the horsemen, trying to make a brave end.

  Thus it was that a man named Beloul escaped the massacre.

  He was one of the under officers of the garrison, a man about Nassef s age. He came of a family which traced its roots well back into the imperial era. Fighting like a demon, Beloul seized both horse and sword, then cut his way through the pickets. He bluffed a charge toward El Murid. While the Invincibles rushed to protect their prophet, he galloped through the pass into the desert.

  Nassef sent four men after him. None ever returned.

  Beloul carried the news to el Aswad. Messengers immediately streaked from the Wahlig’s castle.

  “Is this really necessary?” Meryem asked when the slaughter was halfway done.

  “I think so. I think my enemies... the enemies of the Lord will find it instructive.”

  It took longer than he expected, and eventually proved more than he could stomach. He turned away when the Invincibles dismounted to drag the corpses of mothers aside to get at the children they had shielded with their bodies. “Let’s look at the shrine,” he said. “I want to see my throne.”

  Nassef came to report while he knelt, praying, before the Malachite Throne.

  Ancient artisans had sculpted that seat from the boulder on which the first emperor had sat while watching the crucifixions of his enemies. It was the second most potent power symbol in Hammad al Nakir. Only the Peacock Throne, salvaged from the ruins of Ilkazar and transported to Al Rhemish, had a greater hold on men’s minds.

  Nassef waited patiently. When El Murid completed his prayers, his war captain told him, “It’s done. I’ve ordered the men to rest. In a few hours I’ll begin the burying. Tonight I’ll send scouts back into the desert.”

  El Murid frowned. “Why?”

  “We’re within the domains of the Wahlig of el Aswad. They say he’s decisive and smart. He’ll attack us as soon as he hears what’s happened.”

  “You know him?”

  “By sight. So do you. That was his son who attacked you in Al Rhemish, Yousif was the one who arranged our trial.”

  “I remember him. A thin, cruel-faced man. Eyes of jet, and hard as diamonds. A true champion of the Evil One.”

  “My Lord Disciple, do you realize what we’ve accomplished today?” A sudden awe filled Nassef’s voice.

  “We captured the Malachite Throne.”

  “And more. Much, much more. Today we became a major power in Hammad al Nakir. Because of the Throne, and its location. So long as we hold Sebil el Selib, we’re a factor they have to reckon in every decision they make at Al Rhemish. So long as we hold this pass we virtually isolate the desert provinces from the coast of the Sea of Kotsum. We deny Aboud all the strength and wealth of the coast in his struggle to defy the will of the Lord.”

  Nassef was right. The seacoast was the one area of the core Empire that had not suffered heavily during the Fall. It had not become a wasteland. In modern times its cities were virtually autonomous, though they shared the language and cultural roots of Hammad al Nakir. They paid lip service and tributary fealty to King Aboud and the Quesani, mainly so their wild cousins of the desert would leave them alone. Politically, they had little to gain by opposing El Murid, and would come up losers if they supported him.

  If they did and he failed, they would have won the hatred of the ruling Quesani family. If they supported him and he succeeded, they would be expected to squander their wealth and manpower in his holy war against the infidel states surrounding Hammad al Nakir.

  They could be counted on, for a while, to remain outside the power equation. Nassef’s selection of Sebil el Selib as his first target had been the best possible.

  Geopolitics and economics aside, the seizure should have a strong psychological effect. Thousands should turn to El Murid. Other thousands should cool toward the Royal cause.

  “I have one question, Nassef. Can we keep what we’ve won?”

  “These men will die for you.”

  “I know that. It doesn’t answer my question. There’s a field full of men who died for Aboud outside. They didn’t hold the pass.”

  “We won’t be taken by surprise.”

  Nassef was only half right. The Wahlig of el Aswad responded quicker than he expected.

  The pickets had scarcely gone out when one on a lathered horse returned to say that several hundred horsemen were right behind him.

  They swooped down from the northwest. Nassef had expected to be attacked from el Aswad, so had distributed his pickets and skirmishers to the southwest. But Yousif had heard about Sebil el Selib while coming home from Al Rhemish. He had decided to strike back immediately, using his escort.

  The swift strike, the sneak attack, the hit and run, were traditional desert warfare, founded on centuries of tribal feuding.

  Yousif arrived long before the pickets could be recalled, thereby denying Nassef a quarter of his strength.

  Fighting raged through the pass and down into the meadow. Yousif’s warriors were skilled and disciplined household troops who spent their lives in training and maneuver. The Wahlig was a master of light cavalry technique. He pushed Nassef’s larger force into the fortress and cloisters.

  El Murid and his Invincibles became isolated in the shrine, defending the Malachite Throne. As soon as he learned the Disciple’s whereabouts, Yousif concentrated on the shrine. He wanted the serpent’s head.

  Facing the Wahlig across twenty feet of bloody floor, El Murid shouted, “We will die before we yield one inch, Hell serf. Though your master send up all the devils of his fiery abode... Yea, though he hurl against us all the legions of the damned, we will not be dismayed. The Lord is with us. Ours is the confidence of the righteous, the assurance of the saved.”

  A big, muscular man said to the Wahlig, “I’ll be damned. Yousif, he really believes that drivel.”

  “Of course he does, Fuad. Belief in himself is what makes a maniac dangerous.”

  El Murid was puzzled. Could they doubt his sincerity? The Truth was the Truth. They could accept or refuse it, but never brand it a lie.

  “Slay them,” he told the Invincibles, though they were grossly outnumbered.

  The Lord would deliver them.

  His fanatics attacked like hunger-maddened wolves. Yousif’s warriors we
nt down like wheat before the scythe. The Wahlig himself went to his knees with a grievous wound. His troops wavered.

  Fuad rallied them with his war cries. His scimitar flickered like a mirage, so swiftly did it cut and stab.

  The Invincibles did as El Murid said. They held each inch they had taken.

  They did not yield, but they died.

  Gingerly, still believing that the Lord would deliver him, El Murid descended from the Malachite Throne. He collected a fallen blade.

  Now the Invincibles were falling like scythed wheat. El Murid began to doubt... He would not! Were he to be martyred here, it would be the will of the Lord.

  His sole regret was that he might leave this pale without seeing Meryem and his daughter again. They were trapped in the fortress with Nassef...

  But Nassef was trapped no longer. Yousif’s assault on the shrine had given him time to organize. He went over to the attack. His sally scattered Yousif’s forces on the meadow.

  He, Karim and a score of their best burst into the shrine. The tide of fighting shifted.

  “God is merciful!” El Murid thundered, daring to cross blades with a warrior. The man struck the weapon from his hand.

  Nassef was there in an instant, turning the warrior’s attack.

  Fuad hurled that warrior aside and faced Nassef. “Let’s see the color of your guts, bandit.”

  Nassef attacked. He wore a thin, cruel, confident smile.

  Their blades danced a deadly morisco. Neither could penetrate the other’s guard. Each seemed astonished by the other’s skill.

  “Fuad. Fuad,” Yousif gasped from between supporting warriors. “Break off.”

  Fuad stepped back, wiped sweat from his face. “Let me finish him.”

  “We have to go. While we still have the strength to rescue our wounded.”

  “Yousif —”

  “Now, Fuad. They’ve beaten us. All we can do here is die. And there’d be no point to that. Come on.”

  “Next time, bandit,” Fuad growled. “I’ve seen the weakness in your style.” He spit in Nassef s face.

  The desert people could be demonstrative. Especially in matters of hatred and war.