Glen Cook - The Fire In His Hands

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.”