Splinter Of The Mind's Eye

Chapter Thirteen

Angel

S tunned by unexpected shifts of fortune, El Murid retreated into his fastness in Sebil el Selib. He did but one thing before further retreating into the fastnesses of his mind: he summoned Nassef from the Throyen front. He did so in a message sufficiently strong that it would be subject to no misinterpretation. Nassef must appear or face the wrath of the Harish.

Nassef made record time, urged on more by the Disciple's tone than by what he actually said. He feared El Murid might fall apart. He was not reassured when he arrived. His brother-in-law acted as if he did not exist.

For six days the Disciple sat on the Malachite Throne and ignored everyone. He drank little and ate less while venturing deep into labyrinths of self. Both Nassef and Meryem became deeply disturbed.

Nassef. Cynical Nassef. Unbelieving Nassef. He was half the problem. He was an infidel in the service of the Lord. El Murid prayed that his God forgive him for compromising. He should have shed the man a decade ago. But there was Meryem to reckon with, and there was Nassef's unmatched skill as a general. And, finally, there was the grim chance that some of the Invincibles now felt more loyal to their commander than to their prophet. It had been a mistake to hand them over to Nassef.

But the heretics within would have to wait till he had cast down the foes of the Lord without.

But Nassef... He took bribes from Royalists willing to buy their lives. He sold pardons. He appropriated properties for himself and his henchmen. He was building a personal following. If only indirectly, he was suborning the Movement. Someday he might try to grab it all. Nassef was the Evil One's Disciple within the Lord's camp.

But no spiritual malaise had driven El Murid into the wasteland of his soul. No. Nor was it so much the debacle before the Eastern Fortress. That hadn't proven as bad a defeat as it had seemed at the time. The enemy had loafed at the pursuit, fearing another ambush. The cause of his inturning was the decampment of the Wahlig of el Aswad.

It had come too suddenly, and was too out of character. The man was a sticker, a fighter, not a runner. Flight made no sense after his having resisted so bitterly for so long.

Yousif's withdrawal left the Disciple without focus. His plans, for so long, had been thwarted by one man's stubbornness, that he had given up looking beyond Yousif's defeat. He did not know what to do.

Yousif was gone, but he remained foremost in El Murid's mind. Why had he gone? What did he know? Finally, the Disciple summoned Nassef and put the question.

"I don't know," Nassef replied. "I've interviewed el Nadim and Hali repeatedly. I've talked to most of the men. I've lost a week's sleep over it. And I can't tell you a thing. Aboud certainly didn't summon him. Nothing is happening at Al Rhemish." Nothing that transpired in the capital escaped Nassef. He had an agent in the Royal tent itself.

"Then he knows only what we do," El Murid mused. "What fact is he interpreting differently?"

"That foreign devil Radetic is behind it."

"Perhaps. The outland idolaters must hate me. They must sense the hand of God upon me. They must feel, in His wrath, the knowledge that I shall be the instrument of their chastisement. They are the slaves of the Evil One, struggling to prolong his sway over their wicked kingdoms."

Was that a suppressed smirk on Nassef's lips?

"Papa?"

The girl was skipping. His first impulse was to swat her for insolemnity before the fanes. But it had been an age since he had given her any attention.

Nassef remarked, "The child is a savage sometimes."

"And when was laughter an abomination unto the Lord? Leave us." He let her slide into his lap. "What is it, darling?" She was nearly twelve now.

Had it been that long? Life was whistling by, and he seemed little nearer fulfilling his destiny. That unholy Yousif. Nassef had had so many successes, but they had meant nothing as long as the Wahlig had kept the Movement bottled up in Sebil el Selib.

"Oh, nothing. I just wanted to see if you were done thinking yet." She snuggled, moving in his lap.

He was shamed by the impulse the Evil One sent fluttering across his mind. Dark-winged vampire. Not with his own daughter.

She was on the precipice: womanhood was but a moment away. Soon her breasts would begin to swell, her hips to broaden. She would be marriageable. Already his followers were scandalized because he allowed her the run of Sebil el Selib, unveiled, and often permitted her to accompany Nassef on his safer journies.

He suspected Nassef wanted her himself.

And still she had no name.

"You know I don't believe that, sweetheart. Something besides your grouchy old papa brought you here." He was acutely aware of the disapproval of the priests tending the shrines.

"Well... "

"I can't say yes or no till you tell me."

In a staccato burst, "Fatima promised me she'd teach me to dance if you said it was okay. Please? Oh, please, Papa, can I? Please?"

"Slow down. Slow down."

Fatima was Meryem's body servant, and a successful piece of propaganda. A reformed prostitute, she was living proof that all who came seeking were found worthy in the eyes of El Murid's Lord. Even women.

It was El Murid's most radical departure from orthodox dogma, and he was having trouble selling it still.

Women had been doubly disadvantaged since the Fall. A woman had brought the nation to its present desperate plight. Now the most rigidly fundamentalist of men allowed their wives in their presence only for purposes of procreation. Even relative liberals like Yousif of el Aswad kept their women cloistered and on the extreme fringes of their lives. The daughters of the poor were sometimes strangled at birth, or sold to slavers who trained them for resale as prostitutes.

A prostitute, socially, was as far beneath a wife as a wife was beneath a husband.

Yet even in Hammad al Nakir Nature had her way with the young. "This is serious." Little girls seldom became interested in dances unless also interested in interesting boys in girls. Then they were little girls no more. And the boys were no longer boys.

It was time to speak to Meryem about veils.

"Time, he rides a swift steed, little one." He sighed. "So soon come and gone. Everything past in the wink of an eye."

She began twisting her face into a pout, sure she was about to be refused.

"Let me think. Give me a few days, will you?"

"All right," she said brightly. His asking for a delay was, inevitably, the prelude to his giving in. She kissed him, scooted off his lap, became all skinny, windmilling arms and legs as she ran away.

Disapproving priestly stares followed her passage.

"Hadj!" El Murid called to his chief bodyguard. "We're going to make a journey. Prepare."

Far south of Sebil el Selib, south of el Aswad, stood a mountain rising slightly separate from the mother range called Jebal al Alf Dhulquarneni. It was called Jebal al Djinn, Mountain of Demons, or, sometimes, the Horned Mountain. When seen from the southwest it resembled a great horned head rising from the desert. It was there El Murid met his angel when he felt lost enough to require face to face advice. He'd never wondered why the Lord's messenger had chosen a meeting place so remote and of such evil repute.

The Disciple's faith in his angel was tried severely during a long, solitary ascent which left his body feeling tortured. Would the messenger even respond after all this time? El Murid had not come seeking him since before his ill-starred visit to Al Rhemish. But the angel had promised. On Jebal al Djinn, though, even the promises of angels seemed suspect. The mountain was not a good place. It was cursed. No one knew why any longer, but the evil inhabiting the stones and trees remained, palpably beating upon any intruder. Each visit more than the last, El Murid wished his mentor had chosen somewhere more benevolent.

He hardened his resolve. Evil had to be defied in its very fastnesses. How else could the righteous gain the strength to resist the Darkness when it came against their own strongholds?

His doubts grew as a night and most of a day creaked past and there was no response from his heavenly interlocutor. Another evening was gathering. His campfire was sending shadows playing tag over barren rock.

The emissary arrived in a display of thunder and lightning that could be seen for leagues around. He raced his winged steed three times around the horned peaks before alighting fifty yards from the Disciple's fire. El Murid rose. He gazed at his own feet respectfully.

The angel, who persisted in assuming the shape of a small old man, limped toward him over the shattered basalt. Slung across his back was a cornucopia-shaped instrument which looked far too massive for his strength.

He swung his burden down, sat upon it. "I thought I would hear from you sooner."

El Murid's heart fluttered. The angel intimidated him as much now as when he had been a boy in the desert so long ago. "There was no need. Everything was going the way it should."

"If a little slowly, eh?"

El Murid glanced up shyly. A shrewd look had narrowed the angel's eyes. "Slowly, yes. I got in a hurry. Wadi el Kuf taught me the folly of trying to force something before its time."

"What's happened now?"

El Murid was puzzled because the angel had to ask. He told of Yousif's strange flight after the recent siege, and of an impending crisis in his own household. He begged for guidance.

"Your next move is obvious. I'm surprised you summoned me. Nassef could have told you. Gather your might and strike. Take Al Rhemish. Who will stop you if the Wahlig is gone? Seize the Shrines and your family problem will resolve itself."

"But—"

"I see. Once burned, twice cautious. Twice burned, petrified. There will be no Wadi el Kuf. No surprises from children deft with the Power. Tell Nassef that I will be watching personally. Then unleash him. He has the genius to pull it off." He sketched a plan, displaying a knowledge of desert affairs and personalities which quieted the Disciple's doubts. "Before we part, I'll give you another token."

The old man slipped off his seat and knelt. He whispered to the horn, then hoisted it and shook it. Something tumbled from its bell. "Have Nassef transmit this to his agent in the Royal Tent. The rest will follow if he strikes a week later."

El Murid accepted a small teakwood box. He stared at it, baffled.

The old man dashed to his mount and took wing. El Murid shouted after him. He had only begun to discuss his problems.

The winged horse swooped round the horned peaks. Thunder rolled. Lightning clawed the sky. Gouts of fire hurtled back and forth between the horns. Two blasts smashed together and erupted upward, forming some giant sign El Murid could not make out because it was directly overhead.

The blinding light faded slowly. And when El Murid could see once more, no sign of the angel could be found. He returned to his fire and sat muttering to himself, staring at the teakwood box.

After debating several seconds, he opened it. "Finger cymbals?" he asked the night.

The box contained an exquisite set of zils, worthy of a woman who danced before kings.

"Zils?" he muttered. What on earth? But a messenger of the Lord could not be wrong. Could he?

He searched the sky again, but the angel was gone.

Decades would pass before he encountered the emissary again.

"Zils," he muttered, and stared down the mountain at the campfires where Nassef and the Invincibles waited. His brother-in-law's face filled his mind. Something would have to be done. After Al Rhemish had been taken?

"Nassef, attend me," he called weakly when he finally stumbled into camp. It was late, but Nassef was awake, studying crude maps by fire and moonlight.

El Murid's brother-in-law joined him. With the exception of the Disciple's chief bodyguard, everyone else withdrew. "You look terrible," Nassef said.

"It's the curse. I hurt all over. The ankle. The arm. Every joint."

"Better get something to eat." Nassef glanced up the mountain, frowned. "And some sleep probably wouldn't hurt."

"Not now. I have things to tell you. I spoke with the angel."

"And?" Nassef s eyes were narrow.

"He told me what I wanted to hear. That the Al Rhemish apricot is ripe for the plucking."

"Lord—"

"More listening and less interrupting, please, Nassef. There'll be no Wadi el Kuf this tune. I don't mean to try sweeping them away with sheer numbers. We'll use the tactics you developed. We'll move by night, along the trails Karim followed when you sent him to slay Farid."

If he expected a reaction from Nassef he was disappointed. Nassef merely nodded thoughtfully.

He still wondered about that incident. Aboud's hysteria had been predictable, though his turning to mercenaries had come as a surprise. Hali had provided a detailed report on the attack. Karim's force had sustained startlingly heavy casualties. The man should have brought more of his soldiers home. But, then, Karim was Nassef's creature, and the Invincibles who had accompanied him were not.

"But first, these have to be delivered to your agent in the Royal Tent."

Nassef opened the box, then peered up at the horned mountain. Just three people knew who that agent was. He and the agent were two of those. The third was not El Murid. The Disciple, he was sure, had been unaware that such an agent existed. "Zils?" he asked.

"The angel gave them to me. They must be special. Carry out his instructions. Nassef?"

"Uhm?"

"What's the situation on the coast?"

"Under control."

"Do we really dare try Al Rhemish with just the Invincibles?"

"We can try anything. It would be a bold stroke. Unexpected. I don't think a move that way will complicate the eastern situation. It's winding down there. I had Karim take over. He'll subdue the Throyens. They were ready to talk when I left. A few weeks of Karim's attentions and they'll accept any terms. And El-Kader has shattered the last resistance at the south end of the littoral. El Nadim will hold Sebil el Selib. With Yousif gone there will be no trouble out of el Aswad."

The Disciple sighed. "Finally. After all those years. Why did Yousif run, Nassef?"

That was the critical question. "I wish I knew. It keeps me wondering what he has up his sleeve. Yes. We'll try for Al Rhemish. It's worth a try even if it doesn't work. It'll be a spoiling raid if nothing else. Yousif will be more dangerous there than he was at el Aswad, where his resources were limited."

El Murid still carried Yousif's taunting note. He studied it for the hundredth time, fixed though every word was in his memory.

"My dear Micah," he read aloud, "Circumstances compel me to be away from my home temporarily. I beg to leave it in your curatorship, knowing you will attend it carefully in my absence. Do feel free to enjoy its luxuries during your stay. May you anticipate all your tomorrows with as much eagerness as I anticipate mine.

"Your Obedient Servant, Yousif Allaf Sayed, Wahlig of el Aswad."

"Still a mystery to me," Nassef said.

"He's mocking us, Nassef. He's telling us he knows a secret."

"Or Radetic wants us to think he does."

"Radetic?"

"The foreigner must have composed that. Yousif isn't that subtle. It smells like a sneaky bluff."

"Maybe."

"Let's not play his game. Forget the message. In Al Rhemish he can whisper the words of the Evil One directly into the King's ear. He can gather the Royalist strength against us."

"Yes. Of course. We must do as the angel says, and strike hard, now, at the very nest of the vipers."

"Whatever his reasons, Lord, I think Yousif made a mistake. Without him to block the road I don't think the Royalists can stop us. As long as we don't meet them head-on, in a test of strength. They retain the advantages they had at Wadi el Kuf."

"Gather the rest of the Invincibles. This year in Al Rhemish for Disharhun."

"It will be a delight, Lord. I'll begin now. Give my love to Meryem and the children."

El Murid sat silently and alone till long after Nassef's departure. The critical hour was at hand. He had to wrest the most from it. His angel had suggested that the resolution of many troubles lay in the taking of Al Rhemish. And he had begun to get a glimmering of what could be done.

"Hadj."

"My Lord?"

"Find Mowaffak Hali. Bring him to me."

"Yes, my Lord."

"My Lord Disciple?" Hali asked as he approached. "You wanted me?"

"I have news for you, Mowaffak. And a task."

"At your command, Lord."

"I know. Thank you. Especially for your patience while it was necessary that the Scourge of God direct the blades of the Invincibles."

"We tried to understand the need, Lord."

"You saw the light on the mountain?"

"I did, Lord. You spoke with the angel?"

"Yes. He told me it's time the Invincibles liberated the Most Holy Mrazkim Shrines."

"Ah. Then the Kingdom of Peace is at hand."

"Almost. Mowaffak, it seems to me that worldly elements crept into the Invincibles during my brother's tenure. Perhaps this is our opportunity to expunge those. The fighting at Al Rhemish will be bitter. Many Invincibles will perish. If those who are the most trustworthy are elsewhere, on a secret mission... "

He said no more. Mowaffak understood. He wore one of the cruelest smiles the Disciple had ever seen.

"I see. What would that mission be, Lord?"

"Use your imagination. Choose your men and inform me of the nature of the task I've assigned you. And we'll celebrate Disharhun in Al Rhemish."

Hali kept smiling. "It shall be as you command, Lord."

"Peace be with you, Mowaffak."

"And with you, Lord." Hali departed. He walked taller than El Murid had seen in some time.

After a time, the Disciple called softly, "Hadj."

"Lord?"

"Find the physician. I need him."

"Lord?"

"The mountain was too much for me. The pain... I need him."

The physician appeared almost immediately. He had been sleeping, and had clothed himself hastily and sloppily. "My Lord?" He did not look happy.

"Esmat, I'm in pain. Terrible pain. My ankle. My arm. My joints. Give me something."

"My Lord, it's that curse. You need to have the curse removed. A philter wouldn't be wise. I've given you too many opiates lately. You're running a risk of addiction."

"Don't argue with me, Esmat. I can't cope with my responsibilities if I'm continuously preoccupied with pain."

Esmat relented. He was not a strong man.

El Murid leaned back and let himself drift in the warm, womblike security of the narcotic.

Someday he would have to find a physician who could outwit his injuries and the curse of the Wahlig's brat. The pain bouts came every day now, and Esmat's dosages had more and more difficulty banishing them.

The desert was vast and lonely, just as it had been during the advance on Sebil el Selib so long ago, and as it had been during the desperate flight from Wadi el Kuf. It seemed to have lost its usual natural indifference, to have become actively hostile. But El Murid refused to be daunted. He enjoyed the passage, seeing whole new vistas, wild new beauties.

It was a matter of years no more. Just days remained. Hours and days, and the Kingdom of Peace would become a reality. In hours and days he could turn his mind to his true mission, the resurrection of the Empire, the reunification of the lands of yore in the Faith.

The days and hours of the infidel were numbered. Those sons of the Evil One were doomed. The Dark One's long ascendancy was about to end.

Rising excitement made a new man of him. He became more outgoing. He bustled here and there, chattering, fussing, joking with the Invincibles. Meryem complained that he was destroying his sublime image.

He began to recognize landmarks seen years ago.

The bowl-shaped valley was nearby. And not a soul had challenged them. The angel had been right. And Nassef had been as competent as ever, slipping them past Royalist pickets as if they were an army of ghosts.

He laughed delightedly when he glimpsed the spires of the Shrines from the lip of the valley, standing like towers of silver in the moonlight.

The hour had come. The Kingdom was at hand. "Thank you, Yousif," he whispered. "You outfoxed yourself this time."