Glen Cook - The Fire In His Hands

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.”