Glen Cook - The Fire In His Hands

“You preach war. Holy war.”

“Against the unbeliever. The heathen nations that rebelled against the Empire. Not brother against brother. Not Chosen against Chosen.” He glanced at the young people. He was startled to see several girls among them. “Nor sister against brother, nor son against father. I have come to reunite the Holy Empire in the strength of the Lord, that once again the Chosen might take their rightful place among the nations, secure in the love of the one true God, whom they shall worship as befits the Chosen.”

Mustaf shook his head. “I suspect you mean well. But riots and discord will follow wherever you go, Micah al Rhami.”

“El Murid. I am the Disciple.”

“Contention will be your traveling companion, Micah. And your travels have begun. I will not have this among the el Habib. I take no harsher action than banish you forever from el Habib lands because I consider your family, and your trials in the desert.” And — unspoken — because he feared El Murid’s amulet.

“I am El Murid!”

“I don’t care. Not who you are, or what. I won’t have you fomenting violence in my territories. I’ll give you the horse and coin you asked, and whatever you need to travel. You’ll leave El Aquila this afternoon. I, Mustaf abd-Racim ibn Farid el Habib, have spoken. Do not defy me.”

“Father, you can’t —”

“Be silent, Meryem. What were you doing with that rabble? Why aren’t you with your mother?”

The girl began to argue. Mustaf cut her short. “I’ve been a fool. You’re starting to think you’re a man. That is ended, Meryem. From this moment forward you will remain with the women, and do the work of women.”

“Father!”

“You heard me. Micah. You heard me too. Start moving.”

His converts were ready to resume scuffling. He disappointed them.

“No,” he said. “It’s not yet time for the Kingdom of Peace to challenge the unrighteous controlling temporal powers, corrupt as they may be. Endure. Our hour will come.”

Mustaf reddened. “Boy, don’t push me.”

El Murid turned. He faced the chieftain of the el Habib. He clasped his hands before him, right over left. The jewel in his amulet blazed at Mustaf. He met the chieftain’s gaze without flinching or speaking.

Mustaf yielded first, his eyes going to the amulet. He swallowed and started toward the village.

El Murid followed at a slower pace. His acolytes orbited him, their mouths full of soothing promises. He ignored most of them. His attention was on Nassef, who again was drifting aimlessly between parties, drawn both ways.

Intuition told him that he needed Nassef. The youth could become the cornerstone of his future. He had to win Nassef over before he left.

El Murid was as ambivalent about Nassef as Mustaf’s son was about El Murid. Nassef was bright, fearless, hard, and competent. But he had a dark streak in him that frightened the Disciple. Mustaf’s son contained as much potential for evil as he did for good.

“No, I won’t defy Mustaf,” he told his imploring companions. “I’ve recovered from my debility. It’s time I started my travels. I’ll return in time. Carry on my work while I’m gone. Show me a model village when I return.”

He began one of his gentle teaching sessions, trying to give them the tools they would need to become effective missionaries.

He did not glance back as he rode out of El Aquila. He had only one regret: he had had no opportunity to present Nassef with further arguments. El Aquila had been a beginning.

Not nearly as good a beginning as he had hoped, though. He had not been able to sway anyone important. Priests and temporal leaders simply refused to listen. He would have to find some way to open their ears and minds.

He took the trail that reversed the road his father’s caravan had been traveling. He wanted to pause at the place where his family had died.

His angel had told him his work would be hard, that he would be resisted by those who had an investment in the old ways. He had not believed. How could they refuse the Truth? It was so obvious and beautiful that it overwhelmed one.

He was two miles east of El Aquila when he heard hoofbeats. He glanced back. Two riders were overtaking him. He did not immediately recognize them. He had noticed them only momentarily, when they had helped the stoned abbot flee the oasis. What were they doing? He turned his face eastward and tried to ignore them.

His worry would not leave him. It quickly became obvious that they were trailing him. When he looked again he found that they were just a dozen yards behind. Naked steel appeared in their hands.

He kicked his mount’s flanks. The white stallion surged forward, almost toppling him. He flung himself forward and clung to the animal’s neck with no thought of regaining control.

The riders came after him.

He now knew the fear he had had no time for in the ambush of his father’s caravan. He could not believe that the Evil One would have become so desperate so soon.

His flight led him into and through the defile where his family had died. He swept round a mass of bizarrely weathered boulders.

Riders awaited him. His mount sank to its haunches to avoid a collision. El Murid tumbled off. He rolled across the hard earth and scrambled for cover.

He had no weapon. He had trusted in the protection of the Lord.... He began praying.

Hooves thundered down the defile. Men shouted. Steel rang on steel. Someone moaned. Then it ended.

“Come out, Micah,” someone shouted into the ensuing silence.

He peeped between boulders. He saw two riderless horses and two bodies lying on the stony earth.

Nassef loomed over them on a big black stallion. His right hand held a bloody blade. Behind him were another three youths from El Aquila, and Meryem and another girl.

El Murid crept out. “Where did you come from?”

“We decided to come with you.” Nassef swung down. Contemptuously, he wiped his blade on the chest of one of the dead men. “Priests. They send halfwits to do murder.”

The brothers had not been priests themselves, only wards of the Shrine who had been cared for by the abbot in return for doing the donkey work around the monastery.

“But how did you get here?” El Murid demanded.

“Meryem saw them start after you. Some of us were arguing about what to do. That decided us. There’s an antelope trail that goes over the hills instead of around. I took that, riding hard. I was sure they would let you get this far, then try to make it look like you’d run foul of bandits again.”

El Murid stood over the dead brothers. Tears came to his eyes. They had been but tools of the Evil One, poor things. He knelt and said prayers for their souls, though he had little hope that the Lord would show them any mercy. His was a jealous, vengeful God.

When he had finished, he asked, “What are you going to tell your father?”

“Nothing. We’re going with you.”

“But...”

“You need somebody, Micah. Hasn’t that just been proven?”

El Murid paused thoughtfully, then threw his arms around Nassef. “I’m glad you came, Nassef. I was worried for you.”

Nassef reddened. The Children of Hammad al Nakir were often demonstrative, but seldom in the tenderer emotions. “Let’s get going,” he said. “We’ve got a long way to travel if we’re not going to spend the night in the desert.”

El Murid hugged him again. “Thank you, Nassef. I wish you knew how much this means to me.” Then he went round clasping the hands of the others, and kissing the hands of the girls.

“I don’t rate a hug, eh?” Meryem teased. “Do you love Nassef more?”

Now he was embarrassed. Meryem would not cease playing her games.