by Glen Cook
Yousif gazed on her lithe form. He appreciated Lalla as much as did any man, but at that moment his thoughts were far away and fraught with guilt. His heart would not accept the conclusion of his reason. He could not shake despair over having abandoned his trust and ancestral home.
He and his son Ali were guests of Crown Prince Ahmed. Ahmed was the only member of the court not yet disgusted with his attempts to initiate a major campaign against the Disciple.
Yousif was restless. There was a wrongness afoot in Al Rhemish, though it was nothing he found concrete. The feeling had been growing all week, and tonight it was strong enough to make his skin crawl.
There was a wrongness, too, about Ahmed. Especially when he looked at Lalla. His lust lay naked in his eyes, but there was more. He seemed agitated, and could not restrain a wicked, greedy smile. Yousif feared that smile foreshadowed grief.
Lalla spun close, shaking her lithe, smooth young hips inches from his eyes. His malaise lessened. When Lalla danced, even his cares soon faded. Her beauty had a narcotic quality.
How Ahmed stared! As though he had sampled those delights and become so addicted that he would kill to make them his own. Madness backlighted his gaze.
Nervousness had given Yousif a strange sensitivity to the undercurrents flowing around him. A paranoid sensitivity, he chided himself. Ahmed was not alone in staring. The faces of a dozen wild sons of the waste told him they would kill to possess the dancer.
He began to grow uneasy again. Even Lalla’s melodious zils could not still his troubled heart completely. It had been a bad day. News had come from the south, at last, and it was not good.
El Murid had climbed the Horned Mountain. Something ominous had occurred there. A fire in the sky had been seen for a hundred miles. El Murid had come down decisive and determined. He had summoned the tribes to his banner, to help extirpate the Royalists’ evil. And rumor said thousands were responding, inspired by the awesome display over the evil mountain.
There was also word that the Scourge of God had left his forces in the littoral. He had gathered the Invincibles and was on the move. The fox was loose in the henyard, and no one in Al Rhemish apparently cared.
A magical wall erected on foundations of willful blindness isolated the bowl valley containing Al Rhemish. Reality could not penetrate that rampart of wishful thinking. The Royalist overlords had retreated from the world and immersed themselves in their pleasures. Even the hardest, the most practical, the most pragmatic among them were becoming as dissolute as the Crown Prince.
Yousif was bewildered. He had known most of these men for decades. There were dark forces at work here — how else to explain what was happening? They seemed to have resigned themselves, were seizing what pleasure they could before the end.
But all was not lost. Any fool could see that. Here in the north there were enough loyal warriors to crush El Murid twice over.
Yousif cast a covert glance at his host. The Crown Prince was a sour note, a distinct off-pitch element in the festivities. Why had Ahmed insisted his remote southern cousins be his guests tonight? Why was he so nakedly excited and lustful?
Aboud could be pardoned his dissipations. He hadn’t many years left, and was terrified of the Dark Lady. He was trying to recapture the ghost of his youth. But Ahmed, Ahmed had no excuse.
Yousif had polled the more hardheaded Royalist nobility.
His brother wahligs agreed that Ahmed was a disaster in the making. He had assumed a dangerous influence over his father since Farid’s death. His suggestions had resulted in several minor defeats by guerrillas operating near Al Rhemish. But those same hardheads would do nothing when Yousif suggested they take the initiative...
Kingdom and Crown were decomposing while yet alive. The stench of corruption filled the land. And no one would lift a hand to halt the process. The pity of it all was that Aboud was so much stronger than El Murid. A determined, decisive leader could destroy the Disciple easily.
His anger stirred his adrenaline. He swore. “He can be put down!”
His neighbors looked at him askance. They did that a lot. He’d earned a reputation as a singleminded boor of a country cousin already.
“Really, Yousif,” Aboud admonished softly. “Not while Lalla is dancing.”
Yousif’s glance flicked from the King to his heir. Ahmed wore a wicked smile. A moment later he slipped quietly away.
Yousif wondered no more than a moment. Ringing zils and shimmering veils and flashes of satiny skin at last captured his undivided attention. Lalla was dancing just for him.
“Would you quit that?” Reskird snapped. “You’re driving me crazy.”
“Quit what?” Bragi asked, halting.
“Pacing. Back and forth, back and forth. Think you were ready to have a kid.”
Haaken grunted agreement. “What’s the matter?”
Bragi hadn’t been conscious of his pacing. “I don’t know. Nervous energy. This place gives me the creeps.”
The mercenaries had pitched camp on the western wall of the bowl, separate from the rest of Al Rhemish, but not separate enough to suit the men. There were strong tensions between native and outsider. The Guildsmen mainly stayed to themselves and radiated contempt for the barbarism of Al Rhemish and its people.
Reskird said, “I heard we won’t be here much longer. That they’re going to pay us off and let us go.”
“Can’t be too soon for me,” Haaken said.
Bragi sat down, but didn’t stay seated long. In moments he was circling the fire again.
“There you go again,” Reskird snarled.
“You’re making me nervous,” Haaken said. “Go for a walk or something.”
Bragi paused. “Yeah. Maybe I will. Maybe I can find Haroun, see how he’s doing. Haven’t seen him since we got here.”
“Good idea. Look out you don’t have to save his ass again.” Reskird and Haaken laughed.
Bragi scanned the star-limned hills, uncertain what he was seeking. The air had an odd feel, as though a storm were in the offing. “Yeah. That’s what I’ll do.”
“Don’t take too long,” Haaken admonished. “We’ve got midnight guard.”
Bragi hitched his pants and walked away, his pace brisk. He was out of camp in minutes, passing among the tents of pilgrims here for Disharhun. By the time he reached the permanent part of town his nervousness had dwindled. He became preoccupied with the problem of locating Haroun among people whose language he did not speak. He had no idea where the Wahlig had pitched camp.
His wanderings took him to the wall enclosing the Most Holy Mrazkim Shrines. He forgot his quest and became a simple sightseer. He hadn’t been into town before. Even by night the alien architecture was bemusing.
Haroun could not sleep. Nor was he alone. All Al Rhemish was restless. Fuad had been sharpening his sword since sundown. Megelin paced constantly. Haroun was tired of the old man’s nattering. Radetic’s customary verbal precision was absent. He rambled through vast, unrelated territories. Nervous energy was building up, and could not discharge itself in any special direction.
The first startled cries gave purpose, provided relief at last. They burst from their tents into the moonlight. The compound was a-crawl with white-robed Invincibles.
“Where the hell did they come from?” Fuad demanded. “Altaf! Beloul! To me!”
“Megelin, what’s happening?”
“El Murid is here, Haroun. Back for Disharhun, it would seem.”
In minutes the fighting was general, and chaotic. Royalists and Invincibles fought where they found one another, the majority on both sides acting with no goal greater than surviving the attack of the foe. “The King is dead!”
Ten thousand throats took up that demoralizing cry. Some Royalist partisans shed their arms and fled. The rot Yousif had sensed now betrayed how deeply it had gnawed the fiber of Royalist courage.
“Ahmed betrayed his father!”
That declaration of filial treachery was more demoralizing than news of
the King’s demise. How could a man fight when the heir of his sovereign was one of the enemy?
“Father is it, then,” Haroun told Radetic.
“Absolutely.” Megelin seemed bemused. “But he’s...”
“I’ll find him,” Fuad growled. “He’ll need me. He’s got nobody but Ali to guard his back.” He hit the nearest Invincibles like a windmill of razor steel.
“Fuad!” Radetic shouted. “Come back here! You can’t do anything.”
Fuad could hear nothing.
Haroun started after him. Radetic seized his arm. “Don’t you be a fool too.”
“Megelin —”
“No. That’s stupid. Think. You’re just heartbeats from the throne. After your father and Ali, who else? Nobody. Not Ahmed. Never Ahmed. Ahmed is a dead man no matter who wins. Nassef will want him living less than we do.”
Haroun tried to break away. Radetic’s grip held. “Guards,” he called. “Stay with us.” Several of the Wahlig’s men obeyed. They had overheard Radetic. “There has to be a pretender, Haroun. Otherwise the Royalist cause is dead. After you, Nassef has next claim.”
White robes kept pouring into Al Rhemish. Confusion and panic ran before them. Twice Megelin and the guards beat off attacks. Radetic kept gathering Royalists.
A company of Invincibles appeared, hunting Yousif’s family. They were determined. Radetic fought like a demon, revealing tricks of the sword seldom seen outside Rebsamen practice halls. His stubbornness inspired the men he had assembled. Haroun fought beside him, trying to win a minute’s respite so he could employ his shaghûn’s skills. The Invincibles gave him no chance. His companions began to falter.
Haroun tried to dig into his kit anyway. A swordtip buzzed past his ear. He fumbled the kit, lost it.
The Invincibles couldn’t be stopped. He was going to die...
An unholy bellow slammed the belly of the night. Swinging his sword with both hands, Bragi Ragnarson hit the Invincibles from behind. In seconds half a dozen went down. Some scrambled away from his insanity. The northerner attacked those who remained, pounding through their sabers with his heavy sword.
They broke too. Haroun laughed hysterically. “Three times,” he gasped to Megelin. “Three times!” He staggered toward Bragi. The northerner waved his sword and called the Invincibles cowards, daring them to come back. Haroun threw his arms around the big man. “I don’t believe it,” he gasped. “Not again.”
Bragi stood there panting, watching the white robes. “I found you, eh? I’ve been hunting since sundown.”
“Just in time. Just in time.”
Bragi shuddered. “I didn’t think that could happen to me. My father could go crazy when he wanted, but... what’s going on? How did they get here? I better get back to camp.” He was confused. His voice was plaintive.
Radetic said, “You can’t get there from here, lad.” There was heavy fighting on the slope below the mercenary encampment. “Stay here. Gamel. Find a Royal standard. Let’s give our people a rallying point.”
Radetic did his utmost, parlaying the Royal name, but the collapse continued. Al Rhemish was doomed. Even with the mercenaries making vigorous sallies from their encampment, the inertia of the rout could not be turned.
Haroun almost whined as he asked, “Megelin, how could Al Rhemish be overrun so easily? There are too many loyal men here.”
“Most of whom ran for it right away,” Radetic replied.
A group of youngsters came in led by a wounded officer.
“Nobles’ sons, sire,” he said. “Take care...” And he collapsed.
Haroun stared down, bewildered. “Sire?” he whispered. “He called me sire.”
“The word is spreading,” Megelin said. “Look. The mercenaries are pulling out. Time we did too. You men. Round up whatever animals and provisions you can.”
“Megelin —”
“No room to argue anymore, Haroun.” Radetic told Bragi, “Watch him. Don’t let him do anything silly.” He spoke Trolledyngjan.
“I have to get back to my outfit,” Ragnarson protested.
“Too late, son. Way too late.” Radetic resumed arguing with Haroun.
Haroun gradually accepted Megelin’s truth. Al Rhemish was lost — and with it his entire family. He had no one but Megelin and this strange northern youth. Angry, with hatred knotting his guts, he allowed Radetic to lead him into the night.
Ahmed waited among the dead, holding a limp, frightened Lalla. His personal guards surrounded him, duty-bound despite loathing him for his patricide and treason. A dozen Invincibles watched them, indifferent to the carnage.
Ahmed’s heart ripped at him like some cruel monster trying to tear its way out of his chest. “I did it for you, Lalla. I did it for you.”
The girl did not respond.
The Invincibles snapped to attention. A darkly clad, hard-eyed man strode in. The hem of his djaballah dragged through a pool of blood. He grunted disgustedly.
There was blood everywhere, on the walls, the floors, the furnishings, the bodies. The bodies were piled deep. More wore white than the bright colors favored by Royalists. Aboud would explode when he saw... Ahmed giggled. For a moment he had forgotten who had died first.
The newcomer asked a question Ahmed didn’t catch. He had no attention to spare. Lalla was crying.
A hand closed on his shoulder. Pain lanced through his body. “Stop!” he whined.
“Get up.” The newcomer squeezed harder. Ahmed’s guards watched, indecisive.
“You can’t do this. It’s death to lay hands on the King.” He reached for Lalla.
“Don’t be a damned fool. You aren’t King of anything. And you’ll never be.”
“Who are you?” Though frightened, Ahmed retained the Quesani arrogance.
“The Scourge of God. The man with whom you’ve been corresponding.”
“Then you know I’m King. You agreed to help me take the throne.”
Nassef smiled thinly. “So I did. But I didn’t say I’d let you keep it.” To the Invincibles he said, “Lock this fool up till we can deal with him.”
Ahmed was stunned. “You promised... Lalla...” He had betrayed his family and murdered his father so he could become King and possess Lalla. It had been her idea initially...
“I did promise you the woman, didn’t I? Lock her in with him.”
“My Lord!” Lalla protested. “No! I did everything you told me.”
“Take them,” Nassef said. He turned to a man who had followed him inside. “Get this cleaned up before the Disciple gets here.”
“No!” Ahmed shrieked. He stabbed the nearest Invincible, whirled, slashed at another. His bodyguards jumped in enthusiastically.
Ahmed faked a rush at Nassef. The Scourge of God stumbled, avoiding the expected blow. Ahmed swerved toward the exit. His guards followed. “After them!” Nassef bellowed. “Kill them. Kill them all.” He faced Lalla. “Get her zils. Can’t have her playing tricks on us too.” He smiled cruelly. “Save her for me.”
Haroun paused halfway up the eastern slope of the bowl, looked back. A third of Al Rhemish was aflame. Fighting persisted, but would not last long. On the far slope the mercenary camp was ablaze. Hawkwind had abandoned it to the Invincibles. “I’m sorry,” he told Bragi. “You can catch up with them later, I guess.”
“Yeah. I just wish my brother knew I’m all right.”
Radetic said, “Let’s don’t waste time, Haroun. They’ll be after us soon.”
“Listen!” Bragi said. “Somebody’s coming.”
Hooves pounded toward them. Swords leapt out of scabbards.
“Hold it!” Haroun ordered. “They’re not Invincibles.”
Someone snarled, “It’s Ahmed.” Someone else cried, “Kill him!” Men surrounded the Crown Prince. Curses flew.
“Back off,” Radetic snapped. “You don’t know anything against him. The rumors could have been planted. Bring him here, Haroun. Let him tell his story.” Privately, Radetic believed the worst.
&
nbsp; Ahmed scarcely had time to admit his guilt. The party topped the ridge and came face to face with the enemy.
“It’s El Murid!” Haroun cried. “Come on!”
The Disciple’s bodyguards and household far outnumbered them, but the guards were scattered. The main party were dismounted, either seated or sleeping.
“Maybe there is a God after all,” Radetic mused as he spurred his mount. One bloody stroke could turn the war around. Without El Murid there would be no Movement.
With Bragi beside him, Haroun slashed through the Invincible pickets. He chopped down at unprotected noncombatant shoulders and heads. Women screamed. People scattered. Royalist war cries filled the night.
The Invincible bodyguards threw themselves at the Royalists with an insane fury. They valued their prophet more than their lives.
“Where are you, Little Devil?” Haroun shouted. “Come out and die, you coward.”
Ahmed urged his mount up beside Haroun, opposite Bragi. He fought with an abandon no one would have believed possible an hour earlier.
A boy scampered across the rocks ahead of Haroun. He spurred his mount. Another horse hurtled in from one side, turning his attack. For an instant he looked into the eyes of a girl. He saw fire and iron, caught a glimpse of a soul that could be intimidated by nothing. And something more... then she was gone, dragging the boy toward safety. Haroun shifted his attention to a woman chasing the pair.
He was startled. He knew her. She was the Disciple’s wife. Veilless again. He slashed. His blade found flesh. She cried out. Then he was past, wheeling, searching. The Disciple himself had to be somewhere nearby.
Something slammed into him. He felt no pain then, but knew he had been wounded. Bragi hacked at the Invincible responsible while Ahmed engaged another two. A fourth closed in. Haroun forgot the Disciple, fought for his life.
Five minutes passed. They seemed eternal. He heard Megelin shout in a voice filled with pain, rallying the Royalists, ordering a withdrawal. He wanted to overrule Radetic, to stand and fight. This chance dared not be wasted... But he understood why Megelin wanted to go. Outnumbered, the Royalists were now getting the worst of it. Half were down. Most of the rest were wounded.
