Working God's Mischief

22. Tel Moussa: The Slide

It had grown too cold for the Mountain to spend his nights beneath the stars. His old bones could not take the chill. He would spend a few minutes studying the winter sky, then would fling a silent curse toward Shamramdi, then toward the Idiam, and then, finally, toward Gherig. Frustration lay in all directions.

Worst cursed first. The functionaries in the Lucidian capital were not providing adequate reinforcements, whatever Indala promised. The Great Shake had his health problems. Every underling wanted to take advantage of weakened oversight.

Little was heard about the monster in the Idiam. Nassim could not do much to help the tribes-who did keep the Rascal under observation.

The Master of the Commandery in Gherig continued to be more competent than Black Rogert. Nassim now doubted that he could hang on to Tel Moussa and be a strategic nuisance in the time of the new crusade.

When full dark fell the Mountain could see the lights of Gherig. The new people were repairing and upgrading, day and night. They kept patrols out all the time. They considered any contact productive.

The Mountain found himself confused by an enemy determined to fight a war of attrition far from the wellspring of his strength.

Every man Gherig lost had to be replaced by someone from overseas. Alizarin’s replacements needed only travel a few days. But Nassim lost two men for each replacement received and those were green boys. Few lived long enough to become seasoned.

The Mountain considered his days to be numbered. Unless the God whose mercy he had begun to doubt stirred the hearts of the warlords of Qasr al-Zed, Tel Moussa would fall.

* * *

It was the coldest winter ever. There was no fuel to waste on heat. What could be brought in had to be conserved for the cooks.

Nassim did not handle cold well. He could not get warm even buried in rugs, blankets, and furs. His men worried. They wanted to install charcoal braziers in his quarters. He refused. He did not believe a commander should enjoy perquisites not available to his followers. Commanders who believed they deserved every comfort denied to those who did the bleeding became Gordimers and Abads, lost in luxury and pleasure.

In the end, though, he surrendered. He let them bring the braziers. Some nights the chill came so badly his shivering left him exhausted. Next day he would be too weak to do anything useful.

Sitting with Az one evening, he said, “We never get too old to learn surprising things about our fellows.”

“Good to hear that, General. Will you take the lesson to heart?”

“The lesson?”

“Yes. That being that, while the men find it admirable that you won’t demand what you won’t give yourself, they also know you’ve been that way longer than most of them have been alive. What they want from you is leadership and guidance, not an example. They want you healthy in body and mind because it’s your genius and experience that give them a chance to get through the bleak season alive.”

Nassim grunted. Old habits. His flesh had become enamored of warmth.

One Moufaq Hali al-Aliki, a recently arrived captain who had managed to slide twenty-eight recruits through the Brotherhood blockade, interrupted. Nassim did not like Moufaq. Hali combined all the worst characteristics of the Qasr al-Zed aristocracy in one young, handsome, supercilious package. Hali said, “General, pardon the intrusion, I pray. Officer of the watch begs to inform you that the man Bone has returned. I don’t know what that means.”

Alizarin wanted to kick the man for his tone. Why, he was not exactly sure. Some relationships were poisoned from the beginning.

“Thank you, Moufaq Hali. That could be important.” He allowed er-Selim to help him up. He told himself he needed endure Hali only till the fools at Shamramdi moved him to another theater. “I’ll be there shortly.”

Once Hali was gone, Alizarin asked, “Az, how likely is it that Shamramdi makes personnel decisions with an eye toward maximizing casualties?”

“I can imagine those people being capable. I don’t think they are, however. I can’t conceive of a motive.”

Neither could the Mountain. All Qasr al-Zed must, by now, understand that he had no ambitions.

“Let’s see Bone.”

“Promise you won’t send that old man out again, General.”

“Promised, and sworn on God’s Name.”

He had not expected Bone to complete his assignment. He had entertained a secret hope that the old man would just settle in al-Qarn.

Nassim had Bone brought to a place where they both could be warm. Food and drink were waiting.

It was clear that Bone did not bring good news. Nor was he interested in extended palaver. He was old and tired. He wanted to go lie down forever. Straining to remain awake, he said, “The mission was both a success and a failure, General.”

“I see. How so?”

“Begging your indulgence, I did locate your wife. She does not wish to see you again. I’m sorry, sir. That is the gentlest way of putting her words. She blames you for the death of your son and considers you a traitor. She has returned to her father’s house.”

“Her father is dead.”

Bone scowled, one eyelid drooping. “Then will it satisfy you better if I say she has returned to the house of her brother, which belonged to her father when your marriage was negotiated?”

“Ignore me. I’ll try to avoid interjecting irrelevancies.”

“Excellent. I’ll hold you to that.”

Nassim reddened slightly.

“I located Captain Tage’s family as well. A surprise since that had proven difficult before. The wife and daughters are alive, well, and convinced that Else Tage has been dead for years. His return would not be welcome.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Lion was entirely proper where the Captain’s family was concerned. Once the Rascal told him the Captain was dead, Gordimer found a new husband for the widow. He added a pension to make her more attractive. Today they live much better than they did as the Captain’s family. I did nothing to destabilize that.”

Nassim considered his folded hands.

God inscribed one’s destiny upon one’s forehead at the moment of birth. All this had been Willed long ago. God was a jerk. God insisted that the harshest sacrifices be endured by those who loved Him most.

Nassim could no longer raise the full fatalism of the stout-hearted Faithful. “Did you speak to them?”

“To your wife only by exchange of letters. I was permitted to speak to Captain Tage’s wife, through a screen. Her new husband is forward-thinking. He was also terrified of how the Sha-lug might respond if he refused. Many of our brethren melted into the population and have been wreaking miseries on the Lucidians and their collaborators-even though the most senior Sha-lug at least pretend to be cooperating.”

“Sum total, Bone. You could not get anyone to join an effort to remind Else Tage of his Sha-lug roots. Correct?”

“Exactly. He was reported dead. They have moved on. Best for all concerned if he remains dead.”

“If I knew somewhere to go I think I’d pack it in and move along to the next level of exile.”

“Can I get some sleep, now?”

“Of course. Sweet dreams. We’ll mine your tidings of despair more deeply later on.”

Bone, Nassim noted, was not filled with despair. Bone did not care, one way or another, about choices made and changes pursued by the women he had been sent to find. He had done his job. He had reported the results. He was content. Time to nap.

* * *

Master of the Commandery Madouc of Hoeles was relentless. He strengthened and contracted his blockade round Tel Moussa. Nassim fought back, brilliantly. He won most of their skirmishes, but every triumph cost. He could not afford losses.

Somebody loved Madouc of Hoeles. New fighters reached Gherig regularly, always men who knew their trade.

The quality of Nassim’s replacements kept falling. Az remarked that by next year only those already missing eyes and limbs would be sent out.

The Mountain began to suspect the existence of a conspiracy to ruin his reputation. His men demurred. They believed an even more sinister hoax was afoot. They thought the Great Shake’s family was using Tel Moussa to winnow the manhood of Qasr al-Zed. The stupid, the weak, the lame, and the dangerously self-destructive fanatics were being eliminated so they would not cause problems later. Only the clever, the swift, the strong, and the skilled would survive to resist the new crusade. Only they would be there to face the sons of Tsistimed the Golden when that half-Instrumentality resumed his eastern predations.

Nassim refused to see his world through that dark a glass. Only one man living was capable of a wickedness that foul. He was holed up in the heart of the Idiam.

No strongman was so strong that he could hang on if he deliberately wasted the lives of his subjects’ sons.

The tribes would rebel.

Az demanded, “What do we do? Plot or no plot, our situation is real. We’re at the tip of the spear, nose to nose with Gherig.”

“You have been preparing to deal with Gherig since last summer.”

Az’s eyes widened. “You think it’s time? So soon?”

“I had hoped to hold off till the crusaders come. But they’ve been pushing us too hard. If we do nothing we’ll be dead before summer.”

“That’s true, General. And our smugglers might give themselves away. Or they might figure out what we’re really having them do.”

Nassim grunted. That had worried him from the beginning.

His knees had begun to ache more than usual. “You do have a true agent inside there, now, don’t you?”

“I have two. Neither knows about the other. One is responsible for our plot. The other just spies. The new order did bring a weakness with it. They aren’t as clever as Black Rogert at protecting themselves from spies. They disdain Rogert’s obvious paranoia.”

“Could it be that they don’t care?”

“They’re righteously sure of themselves.”

“Where does the plan stand?”

“I found an educated local, dedicated to God. A carpenter. They know him up there. He worked there when Black Rogert was there before. He isn’t allowed to come and go as freely as I’d like but he has recruited several people who do commute daily.”

“The plan of execution is in place?”

“My carpenter receives regular meals from his mother. The crusaders won’t prepare meals that fit our dietary laws. When the right meal reaches our man he’ll know it’s time. It’s up to him to execute in the manner he expects will be most effective.”

One of Az’s pet peeves was management from a distance, by people who had no clue about local conditions.

The Mountain said, “See that he gets his special meal. Then have everyone here get ready to exploit the confusion.” Pain shot through his flesh, more irksome than anything. “I miss having Black Rogert in charge.”

“He was wicked and lucky but he wasn’t that competent, was he?”

* * *

The Brotherhood of War fighters pushed up close to the tower gate, daring the Mountain’s falconeers to waste powder and shot. Alizarin undertook experiments to determine whether the crusaders were getting supernatural help.

Az thought they might be, at some trivial level, but did not know it. “The Special Office operators haven’t noticed, but they’re here to winkle out the Night’s friends in Rogert’s gang and to handle us if we unleash any foul eastern sorcery.”

Nassim said, “Let them come. Fire the lightest falcon first. If you hit someone, touch off the big one. Then scream and yell about idiots wasting firepowder when we’re almost out.”

Done.

Next morning saw the final test, when infidels sneaking toward Tel Moussa ran into three falcons that had been slipped out and positioned during the night.

Gherig suffered a dozen casualties. Elated, the Mountain sent his horsemen to harass the foreigners the rest of that day.

He now knew his enemies understood his language and knew they were not using the Night to scout. And he knew they did not expect him to risk his precious falcons.

He had grown fond of those. He meant to use them any chance he had.

* * *

Az’s efforts as a spymaster came to fruition that night.

Nassim had fallen asleep watching the stars. Thunder in the west wakened him. He was confused for a moment, able to think only of his cold-sensitive joints. Two more rumbles sounded. Tel Moussa shivered.

There were no clouds in the direction of the White Sea-except where Gherig stood.

Alizarin got his aching knees beneath him, stood up just in time to see a flash backlight Gherig’s battlements.

“Oh.” This was what he had asked for. He had not expected the explosions at night. Maybe more damage would be done at night. Most of the garrison would be in their quarters. Casualties might be brutal.

A rumble reached Tel Moussa. The earth trembled slightly.

Then came another explosion. The fifth. Amazing! How much firepowder had Az gotten in there?

He got the chance to ask as a sleepy, boggled Master of Ghosts joined him. Several fires burned in the crusader fortress.

Az said, “I don’t know. Between six hundred and a thousand pounds.”

“You’re kidding. I was hoping for twenty-five, critically placed.”

“It was all in Abu’s hands. I don’t know his methods.”

“Abu? You’re kidding.”

“Suitable, eh?”

The sound and shock of the fifth explosion arrived.

Abu meant servant. Or slave. And Nassim suspected the agent’s full name would be Servant of God. “That much powder, properly placed and packed…”

A sixth explosion dwarfed the others. Flames flew up a hundred feet, illuminating roiling smoke that climbed a thousand more. Flaming wreckage arced a half mile into the desert.

The sound arrived. The long, fierce roll staggered Nassim. He had troubled breathing for a moment.

The shock wave came right behind. It shook Tel Moussa to its foundations. Nassim felt rather than heard the creaks and groans of stones moving on stones. Over there, in Gherig, little explosions popped off in the aftermath of the big one.

The footing shifted slightly beneath the Mountain. “What the hell was that? No way you got that much powder into Gherig.”

Bug-eyed, Az shook his head. “That went better than in my wildest fantasy.”

There was a seventh explosion, out in the barbican of Gherig. It seemed puny.

Nasty fires burned over there, now. The Brotherhood of War was suffering tonight.

Nassim wanted to wave his arms and shout God’s praises. This should be a time of jubilation.

Unfortunately, the squeak, creak, and groan in the masonry had not subsided after the last shock.

“Az, we may have a problem.”

“General, you may be right.”

“Get everybody out, carrying whatever they can. Just in case.” He could not imagine the fortress collapsing but did not want to lose anyone if it did. “Horses and tack, first priority. Then falcons and powder. Then whatever else you can save. Move it.”

There was every chance he would be embarrassed when the sun came up on a tower still standing. But his people would be alive to sneer.

The Mountain was at the assembly point beside the Shamramdi road when Tel Moussa surrendered to the blandishments of gravity.

Nassim was pleased that neither man nor animal had been caught in the collapse. Nor had any falcon, keg of firepowder, or favored possession of any man.

Only Nassim’s pride and too much food and water failed to survive.

There were no flames over Gherig, now, but smoke continued to roll up.

It took Nassim a long time to collect his men and get them moving. They had been numbed by the collapse of Tel Moussa. Now they just wanted to mill around and waste time speculating.

They did not know that there had been a disaster at Gherig, too.

* * *

Az said, “General, I have a bad feeling.” He was staring at Gherig. False dawn was gathering behind him. Smoke obscured much of the western sky. “And it’s headed our way.”

“What?” Then, “That would be crazy. With all the rescue and salvage work they need to do? No.” He had considered a mass raid to hurt the crusaders one more time before he ran for Shamramdi.

“Crazy or not, General, they’re coming.”

Nassim felt it in the earth, now. Many horses were coming.

There would be no time to get away.

The Mountain slapped together a hasty plan, got his men into place barely in time.

The falcons he lined up across the road, in plain sight, with mounted men behind them. The falcons roared when the crusaders were close enough. Archers flung missiles in from both flanks, as did the horsemen from in front. Then Nassim led the latter in a charge. That struck but did not persist. Nassim drew back. His reloaded falcons spoke again. One, overcharged, exploded. Nassim then tried to repeat his charge but had no success. The enemy was too close in. The contest devolved into a melee.

The matter did not go well for the Mountain. The superior armor and training of the crusaders told. And all Nassim’s men ever wanted from the start was to get away to somewhere safe.

Nassim thought he would choke on the irony. Once the bodies were counted he would have dealt the foreigners their worst loss since the Battle of the Well of Days, but they would have won and he had lost Tel Moussa. And he was unable, even, to save himself to fight another day. For a number of crusaders got behind him and stole his chance to fly to Shamramdi.

His little knot of survivors, with two falcons, took the only remaining option.

They fled into the Idiam.