Glen Cook - Splinter Of The Mind's Eye

"Farid is dead? When did that happen?"

"Long ago, Lord. Karim himself undertook the mission."

"Our people did it? Karim? Meaning the Scourge of God sent him?" He hadn't heard a word about this. Why did they keep the unpleasant news secret? "What else is Nassef doing? What else don't I know?"

"He is destroying the Quesani, Lord. Using the Invincibles, mainly. But perhaps he felt Farid was too important a task to entrust to anyone but his personal assassin."

El Murid turned away, both to conceal his anger at Nassef and his disgust with Hali's obvious politicking. The Invincibles loathed Nassef. They were convinced he was the bandit the Royalists claimed.

"The Scourge of God is somewhere near Throyes. Too busy to bother with this."

"This is a task for the Invincibles, Lord."

"Have we so many otherwise unemployed, Mowaffak? Much as I loathe the Wahlig, his destruction isn't first on the list of works that need accomplishing."

"Lord—"

"Your brotherhood will participate, Mowaffak. El Nadim is in the valley. Send him to me."

"As you command, Lord." Hali's tone was sour. He started to protest entrusting Nassef's henchman with so critical a task, thought better of it, bowed himself out.

Wearily, El Murid rose. A servant scooted his way, one hand extended in an unspoken offer of help. The Disciple waved the man off. He now knew he would never recover completely. Wadi el Kuf had made of him an old man before his time.

Hot anger hit him. Yousif! Hawkwind! They had stolen his youth. The years could not soften his rage. He would destroy them. The two were in one place now, eggs in one nest. He had been patient, and the Lord had given him his reward. The eagle would descend, and rend its prey.

One smashing blow. One bold stroke, and the desert would be free. This time there would be no doubt about el Aswad. War with Throyes notwithstanding.

Pain stabbed through his leg. The ankle never had healed right. He flung his arms out for balance, and that stimulated the pain in the arm that had been broken. He groaned. Why wouldn't the bones heal? Why wouldn't they stop hurting? The servant caught him before he fell, tried to guide him to his throne. "No," he said. "Take me to my wife. Have el Nadim meet me there."

Meryem took him from his helper, led him to a large cushion and helped him lie down. "Your injuries again?"

He drew her to him, held her for a long minute. "Yes."

"You were angry again, weren't you? It only gets bad when you get angry."

"You know me too well, woman."

"What was it this time?"

"Nothing. Everything. Too much. Bickering between the Invincibles and regular soldiers. Nassef's going off on his own again. Aboud sending mercenaries to reinforce el Aswad."

"No."

"Yes. A thousand of them. Under Hawkwind."

"He's the one?"

"From Wadi el Kuf. Yes. The most brilliant tactician of our age, some say."

"Are we in danger, then?"

"Of course!" he snapped. "Can you picture Yousif having a weapon like that and not using it?" He was shaking, frightened. The root of his anger was his fear. He needed reassurance, needed help to banish the doubts. "Where are the children? I need to see the children."

He felt settled before el Nadim arrived. The general was as nondescript a man as the desert produced. Like all Nassef's henchmen, his background was suspect. The Invincibles said he had begun as a cutpurse, and had descended into darker ways from that. He was a puzzle to the Disciple. He was not known for his genius in the field, unlike others of Nassef's intimates, and, if the grudging reports were to be believed, he was a true believer. Yet he remained a favorite of Nassef, entrusted with commands where imagination was less needed than a legate dedicated to executing his orders.

"You summoned me, Lord?"

"Sit." The Disciple contemplated his visitor. "I have a task for you."

"Lord?"

"You've heard the news? That the King has sent mercenaries to el Aswad?"

"There are rumors, Lord. They say Hawkwind is the commander."

"That's true." El Murid grimaced, stricken by sudden pain. "A thousand mercenaries, and Hawkwind. I'm sure you appreciate the threat."

El Nadim nodded. "It's an opportune moment for the Wahlig, Lord, what with the Scourge of God away battling the accursed Throyen."

"I want to beat Yousif at his own game. To go out and meet him."

"Lord? I'm afraid—"

"I know the arguments. I've been meditating on them since the news arrived. Tell me this. How large a force could we raise if we called in our patrols, stripped Sebil el Selib of its garrison, drafted untrained recruits, armed slaves willing to fight in exchange for their freedom, and what have you?"

"Three thousand. Maybe four. Mostly unmounted. On foot they'd have little chance against Guild infantry."

"Perhaps. How many mounted veterans?"

"No more than a third, Lord. And the garrisons here are made up of old men."

"Yes. The Scourge of God persists in taking Sebil el Selib's best defenders. Go. Call in the scouts and raiders. See how many men you can arm."

"You insist on doing this, Lord?"

"Not at all. I insist on examining the possibility. We need make no decision till we see what strength we can muster. Go now."

"As you command, Lord."

Meryem joined him as el Nadim departed. "Is this wise?" she asked. "The last time you overruled your commanders—"

"I don't intend to overrule anyone. Prick them into action, perhaps. Lay suggestions before them, yes. But, if, in their wisdom, they foresee disaster, I'll yield."

"You want to embarrass Yousif and Hawkwind the way they embarrassed you, don't you?"

He was startled. The woman was psychic. She had reached down inside him and touched a secret truth he had not wholly recognized himself. "You know me too well."

Meryem smiled, enfolded him in her arms, rested her cheek against his chest. "How could it be otherwise? We grew up together."

El Murid smiled. "I wish there were some rest from my labors."

"So long as the wicked do not rest, neither may we. Spoken by the Disciple on the occasion of his return from the Movement's greatest disaster. Don't yield now."

El Nadim approached the Malachite Throne. He bowed, glanced at the Invincibles attending the Disciple. His face remained blank. "I have assembled every possible man, Lord."

"How many?"

"Thirty-eight hundred. We could raise another two thousand if we waited for the arrival of the garrisons of the nearest coastal towns, which I have ordered here. But by the time they joined us it would be too late. The Wahlig won't await the completion of our preparations. He will use his new strength soon."

El Murid glanced at Mowaffak Hali. Hali nodded. He could find no fault with el Nadim's preparations. Mowaffak was a master at finding fault.

El Nadim endured the moment without wincing, without acknowledging his awareness that his every move was closely scrutinized.

"What of my suggestions?" El Murid asked.

"Entirely workable, Lord." El Nadim could not conceal a certain surprise at his master's having seen a military potential missed by his captains.

Hali said, "The question becomes how quickly the Wahlig will move, Lord."

"What about the men? We've dug deep and taken the dregs. Will they stand up to a fight?"

El Nadim shrugged. "That can be answered only in battle. I fear the answer, though."

"Mowaffak?"

"You're demanding a lot. They have faith but no confidence. Only a quick, clear success at the outset will hold them together."

El Murid left the throne, limped to the shrine where his angel's amulet lay. He grasped it in both hands, raised it above his head. The jewel's flare filled the hall. "This time, gentlemen, the fist of heaven will strike with us. There will be no Wadi el Kuf."