Glen Cook - Dread Empire 02 - With Mercy Towards None

What has gone before...

He came out of the smelted wastes, impossibly long after his family had been massacred by bandits. His

name was Micah al Rhami, but now he called himself El Murid, the Disciple, and he was aflame with a

holy vision. He came in a time of want, a time of troubles, a time of despair; and though he was but a boy

his message fired half a kingdom.

He gathered the dreamers, the desperate, the dispossessed-and the opportunists. And declared relentless

war upon the darkness. At his right hand rode Nassef, the Scourge of God, who became his

brother-in-law, and whom he never dared entirely trust.

Those El Murid viewed as agents of darkness viewedhim with great horror. They fought back. There was

a boy, Haroun son of Yousif, youngest child of the prince in whose domains El Murid established himself.

His fate became enmeshed with that of the Disciple. They met when Haroun was but child, when Haroun

caused El Murid's horse to throw him and permanently injure his leg.

There were battles and years, some lost, some won, but the power of the Disciple ever grew, till in his

pride he ordered Nassef to mount an expedition against Al Rhemish, the capital of his enemies, the

unbelievers, the Royalists.

The Royalists met him at Wadi el Kuf, in the heart of the great erg, Hammad al Nakir (which means the

Desert of Death, or Desolation of Abomination), and his insurgents were overwhelmed, shattered,

obliterated, by the disciplined western mercenaries of Sir Tury Hawkwind. Wounded, he and Nassef

survived only by hiding in a cave with the dead, drinking their own urine, till the enemy gave up and went

away.

But survive they did, to rally the faithful again.

There was a third boy, Bragi Ragnarson, from the farthest north, a fugitive whose flight brought him and

his brother south to enlist with the mercenaries. His company took service with Haroun's father. And so

his life became mixed with that of Haroun, whom he rescued from death several times.

El Murid learned many lessons from the disaster at Wadi el Kuf, the greatest of which was to leave

generaling to generals. In their hands his movement grew ever stronger, despite the ingenuity of Haroun's

father and his captains. Haroun's family and followers were forced to abandon their province for Al

Rhemish.

In time, El Murid moved against King and capital again, this time in small parties, following little-known

trails. He attacked immediately, at night, and though outnumbered, panicked Al Rhemish's defenders.

Bragi, Haroun, and a handful of others attempted to break out of the killing trap-only to collide head-on

with the Disciple and his household.

In the struggle that ensued El Murid's wife was slain, Haroun met the Disciple's daughter Yasmid

momentarily, and the Royalists broke free. And Haroun knew that he was the last surviving member of

the family with a blood claim upon the throne of Hammad al Nakir. He had become the man forever after

known as The King Without A Throne.

He and Bragi, an army of two, fled into the desert with the Scourge of God at their heels, seeking

vengeance for the death of his sister.

El Murid had brought his faith to a desert empire. But the struggle was not done.

All this was told inThe Fire in His Hands. Now beginsWith Mercy Towards None.

Chapter One:

THE DISCIPLE

The moon splashed silver on the waste. The scrubby desert bushes looked like djinn squatting

motionless, casting long shadows. There was no breeze. The scents of animals and men long unwashed

hung heavy on the air. Though the raiders were still, waiting, their breathing and fidgeting drowned the

scattered sounds of the night.

Micah al Rhami, called El Murid, the Disciple, concluded his prayer and dismissed his captains. His

brother-in-law, Nassef, whom he had given the title Scourge of God, rode to the ridgeline a quarter mile

away. Beyond lay Al Rhemish, capital of the desert kingdom Hammad al Nakir, site of the Most Holy

Mrazkim Shrines, the center of the desert religion.

Micah eased his mount nearer that of his wife Meryem. "The moment is at hand. After so long. I can't

believe it."

For twelve years he had battled the minions of the Evil One. For twelve years he had struggled to

reshape and rekindle the faith of the people of Hammad al Nakir. Time and again the shadow had

forestalled foundation of his Kingdom of Peace. Yet he had persevered in his God-given mission. And

here he was, on the brink of triumph.

Meryem squeezed his hand. "Don't be afraid. The Lord is with us."

He lied, "I'm not afraid." In truth, he was terrified. Four years earlier, at Wadi el Kuf, the Royalists had

slain two-thirds of his followers. He and Nassef had survived only by cowering in a fox den for days,

poisoning themselves with their own urine to stave off thirst, while he battled the agony of a broken arm.

The pain and terror and exhaustion had branded themselves on his soul. He still sweated cold when he

recalled Wadi el Kuf.

"The Lord is with us," Meryem said again. "I saw his angel."

"You did?" He was startled. No one else ever saw the angel who had chosen him Instrument of the Lord

in this struggle for Truth.

"Crossing the moon a few minutes ago, riding a winged horse, just the way you described him."

"The Lord was with us at el Aswad," he said, fighting bitterness. Just months earlier, while besieging the

fortress of his most savage enemy, Yousif, the Wahlig of el Aswad, he had fallen victim to a shagh–n's

curse. The Wahlig's own son, Haroun, had cast a spell of pain. He could not shake it because a prime

tenet of his Movement was total abjuration of sorcery.

"The children saw him too, Micah."

The Disciple glanced at his offspring. His son Sidi nodded, as always determinedly unimpressed. But his

daughter, who yet bore no name, still had awe sparkling in her eyes. "He's up there, Father. We can't

fail."

El Murid's nerves settled some. The angel had promised to help, but he had doubted... He doubted. The

very Champion of the Lord, and he doubted. The shadow kept insinuating itself into his heart. "Just a few

days, little one, and you'll have your name."

The Disciple had come to Al Rhemish once before, long ago, when the girl was but an infant. He had

meant to proclaim the Lord's Word during the High Holy Days of Disharhun, and to christen his daughter

on Massad, the most important Holy Day. The minions of the Dark One, the Royalists who ruled

Hammad al Nakir, had accused him falsely of assaulting Yousif's son, Haroun. He had been condemned

to exile. Meryem had sworn that her daughter would bear no name till it could be given on another

Massad, in Most Holy Mrazkim Shrines liberated from the heretic. Disharhun was but days away.

"Thank you, Papa. I think Uncle Nassef is coming."

"So he is."

Nassef swung in beside El Murid, thigh to thigh. Thus it had been from the beginning. Meryem and

Nassef had been his first converts-though Nassef seemed more ambitious than dedicated to a dream.

"Lot of them down there," Nassef said.

"We expected that. Disharhun is close. You heard from your agents?" Nassef deserved his title. His

tactics were innovative, his fighting savage, and his espionage activities cunning. He had agents in the

Royal Tent itself.

"Uhm." Nassef spread a rolled parchment map. "We're here, on the eastern rim." The capital lay at the

center of a large bowllike valley. "King Aboud's people are camped in no special order. They aren't

suspicious. All the nobility have gathered at the King's quarters tonight. Our agents will attack when we

do. The serpent should lose its head in the first breath of battle."

The Disciple squinted in the moonlight. "These things you have marked? What are they?"

"That's Hawkwind's camp on the far side." The Disciple shuddered. The mercenary Hawkwind had

commanded enemy forces at Wadi el Kuf. His name stirred an almost pathological fear. "This by the

Royal Compound is Yousif's camp. I thought both deserved special attention."

"Indeed. Catch me that brat of Yousif's. I want him to take his curse off me."

"Without fail, Lord. I'm assigning an entire company to the Wahlig's camp. None will escape."

"Meryem says she saw my angel. The children did too. He is with us tonight, Nassef."

The Scourge of God eyed him uncertainly. His faith, the Disciple suspected, was entirely of the lip. "Then

we can't fail, can we?" Nassef gripped his shoulder momentarily. "Soon, Micah. Soon."

"Go, then. Begin."

"I'll send a messenger when we take the Shrines."

The sounds of battle reflected off the walls of the valley. They could not be heard outside. The voices of

nightbirds were louder. One had to go to the rim to hear fighting. El Murid stood there staring at the soft

glow of the amulet he wore on his left wrist. His angel had given it to him long ago. With it he could call

down lightning from a cloudless sky. He was wondering if he would have to aid Nassef with its power.

Little was visible from his vantage. Only a few fires speckled the soupy darkness below. "How do you

think it's going?" he asked Meryem. "I wish Nassef would send a messenger." He was frightened. This

was a long chance taken on one pass of the dice. The enemy was vastly more powerful. "Maybe I should

go down."

"Nassef is too busy to waste men reassuring us." Meryem watched the sky. War she had seen before,

often. Her husband's angel, never. Till tonight she'd never entirely believed.

The Disciple grew increasingly uneasy, becoming convinced the battle was going badly. Each time he

rode with his warriors something went wrong... Well, not every time. Way back, when his daughter was

an infant, he and Nassef had overrun Sebil el Selib in a night attack not unlike this. Sebil el Selib boasted

the most important religious center outside Al Rhemish. From that victory all else had grown.

"Come relax," Meryem said. "You can't do anything here but upset yourself." She led him back through

his white-robed Invincible bodyguards, to a mass of boulders where his household waited. Some were

sleeping.

How could they? They might have to run at any moment... He snorted. They slept now because they

knew they would be in flight a long time if the battle went badly.

He, Meryem, and Sidi dismounted. His daughter rode off to inspect the pickets. "She's got the el Habib

blood," he told Meryem. "Only twelve and already she's a little Nassef."

Meryem settled on a pallet provided by a servant. "Sit with me. Rest. Sidi, be a dear and see if Althafa

made that lemon water." Meryem snuggled against her husband. "Chilly tonight."

His nerves had steadied. He smiled. "What would I do without you? Look. The bowl is starting to glow."

He tried to rise. Meryem pulled him down.

"Relax. You hovering won't speed things. How do you feel?"

"Feel?"

"Any pain?"

"Not much. A few aches."

"Good. I don't like Esmat drugging you."

If there was anything he disliked about Meryem, it was her nagging about his physician. This time he

ignored her. "Give me a kiss."

"Here? People will see."

"I'm the Disciple. I can do what I want." He snickered.

"Beast." She kissed him, sneezed. "Your beard. I wonder what's keeping Sidi?"

"Probably waiting for the lemon water to be made."

"Althafa is a lazy slut. I'll go see."

El Murid leaned back. "Don't dawdle." He closed his eyes and, to his surprise, felt sleep stealing up.

Screams startled him awake. Where?... How long had he dozed? A strong glow from the valley now...

Shouts. Cries of fear. Charging horsemen limned against the glow, like demons storming from the fires of

Hell, swords slashing...

He staggered to his feet, sleep-fuddled, trying to recall where he had left his sword. "Meryem! Sidi!

Where are you?"

Must be fifty of the enemy. Coming straight at him. The Invincibles were too scattered to stop them.

Already they were slaughtering his household.

The old terror seized him. He could think of nothing but flight. But there was no flying, as there had been

none after Wadi el Kuf. He could not outrun a horseman. He had to hide...

A child ran toward him, crying. "Sidi!" he bellowed, fear forgotten.

A horseman swerved toward the boy. Another horse flashed in from the side. "Girl! You fool," El Murid

breathed as his daughter blocked the enemy rider. She paused an instant, face to face, while Sidi raced

for the rocks.

"Meryem!" His wife was running through the thick of it, chasing Sidi. The rider slid past the girl, slashed.

Meryem cried out, stumbled, fell, began dragging herself toward the rocks.

"No!" With no better weapon at hand, El Murid hurled a stone. It missed. But for an instant Meryem's

attacker looked his way.

"Haroun bin Yousif!" He swore. Then, "But who else?" His old enemies were always close. Yousif's

family were the Evil One's leading champions. This youth had begun doing him evil at age six, when he

had caused a horse to throw him. He had broken an ankle in the fall. It pained him still.

His amulet flared, bidding him call down the lightning and end this persistent plague.

The Invincibles beset Haroun and his henchmen. El Murid lost track of the action. It drifted away as the

Invincibles regained their composure. They outnumbered the attackers considerably. A half dozen

remained around the Disciple and his wife.

He clutched Meryem to him, ignoring the blood wetting his clothing. He thought her gone till she

squeaked, "I did it this time, didn't I?"

Startled, he laughed through his tears. "Yes. You did. Esmat! Where are you, Esmat?" He grabbed an

Invincible. "Get the physician. Now!"

They found Esmat cowering in the shadow of an overhang, behind a pile of baggage, and dragged him

forth. They were not gentle. They flung him down at the Disciple's feet.

"Esmat, Meryem is hurt. One of those hellspawn... Fix her up, Esmat."

"Lord, I... "

"Esmat, be still. Do what you're told." El Murid's voice was hard and cold. The physician got hold of

himself, turned to Meryem. He was closer to his master than any man but the Scourge of God. Closer, in

many ways. His master might collapse if he lost his wife. El Murid's faith, huge as it was, was not

sufficient to keep him going.

Nassef rode up to where his brother-in-law paced. "We've won, Lord!" he enthused. "We've taken Al

Rhemish. We've occupied the Mrazkim Shrines. They outnumbered us ten to one, but panic hit them like

a plague. Even the mercenaries ran." Nassef glanced at the moon as though wondering if some high night

rider hadn't stirred the panic on behalf of his chosen instrument. He shivered. He abhorred the

supernatural. "Micah, will you stand still?"

"Huh?" The Disciple noticed Nassef for the first time. "What's that?"

The Scourge of God dismounted. He was a lean, hard, darkly handsome man of thirty who bore the

scars of many battles. He was a general who rode at the head of a charge. "What's the matter, Micah?

Damnit, stand still and talk to me."

"They attacked us."

"Here?"

"The Wahlig's brat. Haroun. And the foreigner, Megelin Radetic. They knew exactly where to come." El

Murid gestured, indicating the casualties. "Sixty-two dead, Nassef. Good people. Some were with us

from the beginning."

"Fortune is a fickle bitch, Micah. They fled, and by chance stumbled onto you. Unpleasant, but these

accidents happen in war."

"There are no accidents, Nassef. The Lord and the shadow contend, and we move at their behest. They

tried to kill Sidi. Meryem... " He broke into tears. "What will I do without her, Nassef? She is my

strength. My rock. Why does the Lord demand such sacrifices?"

Nassef wasn't listening. He was gone, seeking his sister. His stride was strong and his voice angry. The

Disciple stumbled after him.

Meryem was conscious. She smiled weakly, but did not say anything. The physician shook while Nassef

questioned him. The Scourge of God had a quick temper and grim reputation. El Murid knelt, took his

wife's hand. Tears filled his eyes.

"Not so bad," Nassef said. "I've seen many a man survive worse." He patted his sister's shoulder. She

flinched. She had refused Esmat's painkillers. "You'll be up for the girl's naming, little sister." His hand

settled on the Disciple's shoulder, gripping so tightly El Murid almost cried out. "They will pay for this,

brother. I promise." He beckoned an Invincible. "Find Hadj." Hadj was El Murid's chief bodyguard. "I'll

give him a chance to rectify his lapse." The Invincible gaped.

"Now, man." Nassef's voice was low, but so hard the warrior ran. Nassef said, "We lost a lot of men.

Won't be able to follow through. Wish I could go after the mercenaries. Micah, go ahead into the city.

The Shrines and Royal Compound should be cleaned by the time you get there."

"What're you going to do?"

"Go after Haroun and Megelin Radetic. They're all that's left of the Wahlig's family."

"King Aboud and Prince Ahmed?"

"Ahmed killed Aboud." Nassef chuckled. "He was my creature. Was he ever upset when I wouldn't let

him become king."

The Disciple smelled the ambition hidden behind Nassef's gloating. Nassef wasn't a true believer. He

served Nassef alone. He was dangerous-and indispensible. He had no peer on the battlefield, save

perhaps Sir Tury Hawkwind. And that mercenary captain no longer had an employer. "Must you go?"

"I want to do this myself." Again the wicked chuckle. El Murid tried to argue. He did not want to be

alone. If Meryem died...

His son and daughter arrived during the exchange. Sidi looked bored. The girl was angry and hard. She

was so like her uncle, yet had something more, an empathy absent in Nassef. Nassef recognized no

limitations or feelings he did not experience himself. She held her father's hand, saying nothing. In

moments he felt better, almost as if Esmat had given him a potion.

He realized that he hadn't needed Esmat's painkillers tonight. Stress usually aggravated his old injuries

and the curse of that beast Haroun.

The Wahlig wasn't satisfied keeping the Movement bottled up in Sebil el Selib for a decade, he had to

train his whelps in sorcery as well. The kingdom would be freed of that heresy! Soon, for tonight the

Kingdom of Peace had undergone its final birth agonies. He looked at Meryem, bravely trying to bear

up, and wondered if the price of heaven were not too steep. "Nassef?"

But Nassef was gone already, leading most of the bodyguard out after the Wahlig's brat. Tonight the boy

had become the last Quesani pretender to Hammad al Nakir's Peacock Throne. Without him the Evil

One's Royalist lackeys would be left without a rallying point.

A dark, angry, vengeful sore festered in the Disciple's heart, though love and forgiveness were the soul of

his message to the Chosen. The riders clattered and rattled and creaked into the night. "Good luck," El

Murid breathed, though he suspected that Nassef was not motivated by revenge alone.

His daughter squeezed his hand, rested her forehead against his chest. "Mother will be all right, won't

she?"

"Of course she will. Of course." He sped a silent prayer up into the night.

Chapter Two:

THE FUGITIVES

The desert smouldered like the forges of Hell, the sun hammering the waste with sledges of heat. The

barrens flung the heat back in fiery defiance, shimmered with phantoms of old oceans. Charcoal-indigo

islands reared in the north, the Kapenrung Mountains standing tall, forming reality's distant shoreline.

Mirages and ifrit wind-devils pranced the intervening miles. There was little breeze, and no sound save

that made by the animals and five youths stumbling toward the high country. There were no odors save

their own. Heat and the dull ache of exhaustion were the only sensations they knew.

Haroun spotted a pool of shade in the solar lee of a sedimentary upthrust protruding from a slope of bare

ochre earth and loose flat stones like the stern of some giant vessel sliding slowly into a devouring wave.

A dry watercourse snaked around its foot. In the distance, four spires of orange-red rock stood like the

chimneys of a burned and plundered city. Their skirts wore dots of sagey green, suggesting the

occasional kiss of rain.

"We'll rest there." Haroun indicated the shadow. His companions did not lift their eyes.

They went on, tiny figures against the immensity of the waste, Haroun leading, three boys straggling in his

footsteps, a mercenary named Bragi Ragnarson in the rear, struggling continuously with animals who

wanted to lie down and die.

Behind somewhere, stuck to their trail like a beast of nightmare, came the Scourge of God.

They stumbled into the shadow, onto ground as yet unscorched by the wrath of the sun, and collapsed,

oblivious of their beds of edged and pointed stones. After half an hour, during which his mind meandered

in and out of sleep, flitting through a hundred unrelated images, Haroun levered himself up. "Might be

water under that sand down there."

Ragnarson grunted. Their companions-the oldest was twelve-did not bestir themselves.

"How much water left?"

"Maybe two quarts. Not enough."

"We'll get to the mountains tomorrow. Be plenty of water there."

"You said that yesterday. And the day before. Maybe you're going around in circles."

Haroun was desert-born. He could navigate a straight course. Yet he was afraid Bragi was right. The

mountains seemed no closer than yesterday. It was a strange land, this northern corner of the desert. It

was as barren as teeth in an old skull, and haunted by shadows and memories of darker days. There

might be things, dark forces, leading them astray. This strip, under the eyes of the Kapenrungs, was

shunned by the most daring northern tribes.

"That tower where we ran into the old wizard... "

"Where you ran into a wizard," Ragnarson corrected. "I never saw anything except maybe a ghost." The

young mercenary seemed more vacant, more distant than their straits would command.

"What's the matter?" Haroun asked.

"Worried about my brother."

Haroun chuckled, a pale, tentative, strained excuse for laughter. "He's better off than we are. Hawkwind

is on a known road. And nobody will try to stop him."

"Be nice to know if Haaken is all right, though. Be nice if he knew I was all right." The attack on Al

Rhemish had caught Bragi away from his camp, forcing him to throw in his lot with Haroun.

"How old are you?" Haroun had known the mercenary several months, but could not recall. A lot of

small memories had vanished during their flight. His mind retained only the tools of survival. Maybe

details would surface once he reached sanctuary.

"Seventeen. About a month older than Haaken. He's not really my brother. My father found him where

somebody left him in the forest." Ragnarson rambled on, trying to articulate his longing for his distant

northern homeland. Haroun, who had known nothing but the wastes of Hammad al Nakir, and had not

seen vegetation more magnificent than the scrub brush on the western flanks of Jebal al Alf Dhulquarneni,

could not picture the Trolledyngjan grandeur Bragi wanted to convey.

"So why did you leave?"

"Same reason as you. My dad wasn't no duke, but he picked the wrong side when the old king croaked

and they fought it out for the crown. Everybody died but me and Haaken. We came south and signed on

with the Mercenary's Guild. And look what that got us."

Haroun could not help smiling. "Yeah."

"How about you?"

"What?"

"How old?"

"Eighteen."

"The old guy that died. Megelin Radetic. He was special?"

Haroun winced. A week had not deadened the pain. "My teacher. Since I was four. He was more a

father to me than my father was."

"Sorry."

"He couldn't have survived this even if he hadn't been hurt."

"What's it like, being a king?"

"Like a sour practical joke. The fates are splitting their sides. King of the biggest country in this end of the

world, and I can't even control what I see. All I can do is run."

"Well, your majesty, what say let's see if there's water down there." Bragi levered himself up, collected a

short, broad knife from the gear packed on one of the camels. The camels were bearing up still. Haroun

drew his belt knife. They went down to the thread of sand. "I hope you know what you're looking for,"

Bragi said. "All I know is secondhand from your warriors back at el Aswad."

"I'll find water if it's there." While Megelin Radetic had been teaching him geometry, astronomy, botany,

and languages, darker pedants out of the Jebal had instructed him in the skills of a shagh–n, a

soldier-wizard. "Be quiet."

Haroun covered his eyes to negate the glare off the desert, let the weak form of the trance take him. He

sent his shagh–n's senses roving. Down the bed of sand, down, bone-dry. Up, up, ten yards, fifty...

There! Under that pocket of shadow seldom dispersed by the sun, where the watercourse looped under

the overhang... Moisture.

Haroun shuddered, momentarily chilled. "Come on."

Ragnarson looked at him oddly but said nothing. He had seen Haroun do stranger things.

They loosened the sand with their knives, scooped it with their hands, and, lo! two feet down they found

moisture. They scooped another foot of wet sand before encountering rock, then sat back, watched a

pool form. Haroun dipped a finger, tasted. Bragi followed suit. "Pretty thick."

Haroun nodded. "Don't drink much. Let the horses have it. Bring them down one at a time."

It was slow business. They did not mind. It was an excuse to stay in one place, in shade, instead of

enduring the blazing lens of the sun.

Horses watered, Bragi brought the camels. He said, "Those kids aren't bouncing back. They're burned

out."

"Yeah. If we can get them to the mountains... "

"Who are they?"

Haroun shrugged. "Their fathers were in Aboud's court."

"Ain't that a bite? Busting our butts to save people we don't even know who they are."

"Part of being human, Megelin would have said."

A cry came from the clustered youngsters. The oldest waved, pointed. Far away, a streamer of dust

slithered across a reddish hillside. "The Scourge of God," Haroun said. "Let's get moving."

Ragnarson collected the boys, got the animals organized. Haroun filled the hole he had dug, wishing he

could leave it poisoned.

As they set off, Bragi chirruped, "Let's see if we can't pull those old mountains in today."

Haroun scowled. The mercenary was moody, likely to become cheerful at the most unreasonable

moments.

The mountains were as bad as the desert. There were no trails except those stamped out by game. One

by one, they lost animals. Occasionally, because they were trying to keep the beasts with them, and

because they were so exhausted, they made but four miles in a day. Lost, without roadmarks, scavenging

to stay alive, their days piled into weeks.

"How much longer?" Bragi asked. It had been a month since Al Rhemish, three weeks since they had

seen any sign of pursuit.

Haroun shook his head. "I don't know. Sorry. I just know Tamerice and Kavelin are on the other side."

Glen Cook - Dread Empire 02 - With Mercy Towards None

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