Glen Cook - The Fire In His Hands

Chapter Five

A Fortress in Shadow

Megelin Radetic walked the stony slopes below the tired walls of el Aswad, the Eastern Fortress. Haroun tagged along, scattering his attention as small boys will, yet clinging to the one adult who had time for him. A scarred old veteran dogged them both, his sword always in hand.

Haroun had not spoken for days. He had become lost inside his own young mind. Now, at least, he chose to speak, as Radetic paused to stare out across the sere, inhospitable land. “Megelin, is Father going to die?”

“I don’t think so. The physicians are hopeful.”

“Megelin?”

“What?” It was time to be gentle. He knelt.

“Why did he kill them? The pilgrims at the shrine.”

Radetic resumed walking. “I don’t know. If anyone but El Murid had given the order, I’d guess for spite.”

They moved round the flank of the mountain. On its eastern face they encountered Haroun’s brother Ali. Ali was seated on a boulder. He stared at Jebal al Alf Dhulquarneni, as if his thoughts might conjure the Hidden Ones from their secret strongholds.

Radetic stared too. He wondered what the wizards of the mountains thought of recent events. Presumably they would pursue tradition and ignore their neighbors. They had been up there since time immemorial. They bothered no one who did not bring them trouble. Even the mighty Empire had let them be, and they had remained aloof from its death throes.

Haroun murmured, “Megelin, I’m afraid.”

Ali started to make a cutting remark.

“He’s right, Ali. It’s a time for fear. We have to fear Nassef for his sword, and El Murid for his Word. They make a deadly combination. And we must fear this, too: that the Sword might become master of the Word, rather than the reverse. Go, then, and try to capture the whirlwind.”

Ali frowned. Old Radetic was in one of his ambiguous moods.

Ali was cast more in the mold of his uncle than of his brother or father. He was no thinker. Haroun understood Radetic plainly.

Yousif had reached el Aswad only hours behind the returning family caravan. His force had been savaged, and he had come within a mouse’s whisker of death.

The caravan had not come through unscathed. Yousif had left no guards. Disorganized bands of Nassef’s pickets had tried their luck plundering.

Even Megelin Radetic had taken up arms in the running fight.

He gripped his left bicep. He had taken a light saber slash. The wound still ached.

He smiled. How he had amazed his assailant with his counterattack!

Fuad still could not assimilate the fact that his brother’s tame intellectual knew which end of a sword to grab. Nor did he know what to make of the fact that the teacher had taken charge of old men, boys, women and camel drovers and had whipped hell out of tough young warriors.

Radetic found his incredulity amusing. He had told Fuad, “We study more than flowers at the Rebsamen.” The remark referred to Fuad’s bewilderment the time when he had discovered that Megelin was cataloging and making color drawings of desert wildflowers.

Ali descended from his perch. “Megelin?”

“Yes?”

“I’m scared too.”

“We all are, Ali.”

Ali glared at Haroun. “If you tell, I’ll pound you.”

Haroun snatched up a jagged rock. “Come on, Ali.”

“Boys. Save it for El Murid.”

“He asking for it,” Haroun replied.

“You little snot —”

“I said knock it off. Haroun, come on. Ali was here first.”

Ali stuck out his tongue.

Radetic strolled away wondering what Haroun did fear. People did not intimidate him. “Let’s go back to the castle, Haroun. It’s time we did a little studying.”

El Aswad was a regional name which popular usage also applied to its capital fortress. The Imperial builders of the original featureless square stronghold had called it the “Eastern Fortress.” Under the Empire it had been the headquarters of a major military command.

The castle was bigger now, though less important. Every generation did a little something to make it more impregnable. Rounded towers had been added to the original walls. Curtain walls and supporting towers had been appended to its north side, enclosing the whole of the mountaintop. Still farther north, connected to the main castle by the curtains, commanding the mountain’s most gentle slope, stood a massive square sub-fortress.

The other three faces of the mountain were barren, rocky, and often precipitous. The surface rock was soft and loose. Weather had been gnawing away for ages. Tortuously curved layers of sedimentary rock showed the progress of ancient ages. The children of Yousif’s courtiers and soldiers loved scrounging the slopes for fossils, for which Radetic paid a candy bounty.

Radetic found the castle a miserable place to live. It was either too cold and drafty, or too hot and stuffy. The roofs and walls leaked during the rare rains. The sanitary facilities were primitive, and furniture virtually non-existent. There was not one bath in the entire place. Hellin Daimiel was known for its communal baths. The only closable door he had ever seen was the one barring entry into the women’s quarters.

He often longed for the comfort and privacy of his tiny apartment at the university.

Despite its drawbacks as a home, the castle served its intended function. Its granaries, cisterns and arsenals could support its garrison almost indefinitely. It commanded a view of vast territories. It had never been conquered by siege or storm.

Radetic paused at the gate and surveyed the miles of stony land surrounding the fortress. “Haroun, you know what I’d like to look out there and see? Just once? A tree.”

Weeks passed. Fuad sent out a summons to the tribal levies. On the morning they were to muster, Haroun wakened his teacher. “What do you want?” Radetic growled, squinting one-eyed at the dawn light crawling through his apartment window. “Better be good. No normal human being ought to be up at this hour.”

“Uncle Fuad is going to meet the levies. I thought you’d want to be there.”

Radetic groaned, swung his legs out of bed. “Want to? No. You’ve seen one mob of fellahin, you’ve seen them all. But I suppose I’d better go, if only to keep your uncle from doing anything he’ll regret. How many showed up?” He had had doubts that a call from Fuad would elicit the same response as a call from the Wahlig.

Haroun looked disappointed. “Not good. But they’re still coming in. Maybe some were delayed.”

“Uh? Pretty bad, eh? Here. Hand me those sandals.”

The levies were assembling on the slope leading to el Aswad’s main gate. Not all had arrived, as Haroun had said, but the few dust clouds approaching indicated that Fuad would be disappointed by the response to his call. “Not a third of what he has a right to expect,” Megelin observed.

“Some of those eaters of camel droppings have gone over to the bandits.” Fuad had come out. He scowled at the assembling host. “Cowardice is spreading like the pox.”

Radetic replied, “I wouldn’t think them that fickle.”

“They are, fishwife. And those that haven’t deserted are hiding in their tents like old women, afraid to take a stand. Their excuse to my brother will be that he didn’t issue the call himself. I ought to ride out and punish them. Bloody crones.”

“Maybe you ought to wait a few days,” Radetic suggested. “Send another round of messengers and have them talk tough.”

“What good will that do? They want to hide behind their women’s skirts, let them. I’ll mock them when I return with El Murid’s head on my lance. Beloul! Assemble the sheiyeks.”

The captain Beloul inclined his head and descended the slope. He passed among the contingents. Chieftains started uphill by twos and threes. Fuad did not greet any of them warmly, though he knew them all and had been riding with them for years. His black scowl compelled them to hold their tongues and keep their distance.