He gathered a small band and surged ahead outdistancing his main force. He scouted Libiannin's environs, found what he wanted and rejoined his command as the sky began to lighten.
The hill he had selected overlooked the enemy main camp. Its base was just a mile from Libiannin's wall. The remains of an Imperial fortification crowned it. A small party of desert scouts occupied the ruins.
Ragnarson sent his sneakiest people forward. His main force reached the peak of the hill fifteen minutes later. The enemy there were all dead. "Perfect." He assembled his captains. "What I want is... "
El Murid and his people had their attention fixed on Libiannin. Ragnarson's men dug in for an hour before they were noticed. By then the Host had arrayed itself for the assault on the city.
Bragi went downhill, well below his foremost trench. He stood with hands on hips and said, "You folks go right ahead. Don't mind us." No one could hear, of course, but that was unnecessary. His stance conveyed his message. "But be careful about turning your backs on me."
He walked back uphill, listened to his men cuss and grumble as they deepened their trenches. They were not pleased by what they saw below. They were badly outnumbered.
One of Ragnarson's officers who was in the know asked, "What kind of standard should we show? We need something new if we just represent ourselves."
Despite his weariness and concern, Ragnarson was in a good mood. "Should be something unique, right? Something that will puzzle hell out of them. Tell you what. See if you can't find some red cloth. And some black. We'll make a flag like my father's sail. It'll drive them goofy."
Several officers got into the act, creating bizarre standards of their own.
The Host vacillated, racked by indecision. Bragi raised his standard, a black wolf's head on red. Baffled, the Disciple sent a deputation to investigate.
Bragi laughed at their questions while carefully concealing his true strength. He said, "The way I see it, you men have three choices. Attack Libiannin and have us jump on your backs. Attack us and have Haroun do the same. Or you can get smart and go the hell home."
One envoy glanced at the banner and for at least the fifth time asked, "Who are you?"
"I should let you find out the hard way." He could no longer resist a brag. "Ragnarson. Bragi Ragnarson. The Ragnarson that got rid of the Scourge of God, Mowaffak Hali and el-Nadim. Not to mention Karim. There's one name left on my list. Tell your nitwit boss I'll scratch his off too if he doesn't get out of here."
"That Guildsman from Altea? The Guild has made peace. You're out of line. This is between our Lord and bin Yousif."
"And me, Wormface. And me. I'm no Guildsman now."
One of Ragnarson's officers whispered, "Don't push them, sir. They may go."
"I'll carry this news to my Lord," an Invincible said. "It will help him reach his decision." He spun and raced down the hill.
"I don't like the way he said that," someone muttered.
"I think I goofed," Bragi admitted. "My name is right up by Haroun's on the Disciple's list. Stand to arms. Double-check the arrows."
"Can you tell what's happening, Lord?" Shadek asked. "My eyes aren't what they were."
"Mine aren't that good. Looks like somebody's dug in on that hill out there."
"Must be on our side," Beloul guessed. "Else they'd be all over us by now."
"But who? We have no friends anymore."
They waited and watched. The Host waited and baked in the increasingly uncomfortable sun.
"Couldn't you reach out with your shaghûn sensing, Lord?" Shadek asked.
"I don't know. I haven't used it for so long... I'll give it a go."
Beloul and Shadek shooed the nearer warriors. Haroun seated himself, bent forward, sealed his eyes against the sun. He murmured poorly remembered exercises taught him long ago. A fleeting memory of el Aswad fluttered across his mind. Had that been him? That innocent child? It seemed like another boy in another century, roaming those desert hills with Megelin Radetic, spending those miserable hours with the lore-masters from the shadowed valleys of Jebal al Alf Dhulquarneni.
Slowly, slowly, the chant took shape. He took hold and repeated it till his mind had shed all distractions, then he reached out, reached out...
A sound like a mouse's squeak crossed his motionless lips.
"All right." He lifted a hand. El Senoussi helped him rise. "I'll be damned," he muttered. "I'll be damned."
"Not a doubt of it, Lord," Beloul chided. "But did you learn anything?"
"I did indeed, Beloul. I did indeed. That's our fool friend Ragnarson out there. He's come to save us from the fury of the madman of the wastes."
Shadek and Beloul looked at him oddly. Beloul said, "Ragnarson? But he's Guild."
"You think we should tell him to go away?"
"Not just yet, Lord. Him decorating that hill improves the view marvellously."
And Shadek, "It gives a man a good feeling here inside, knowing there are people who will stick."
"Don't forget it if we get out alive, Shadek. We'll owe him bigger than ever. Let us, too, be men who can be counted upon by our friends."
"Not only our friends but our enemies, Lord."
"The Disciple must be in a dither," Beloul observed. "Like a starving dog stationed between two hunks of meat. Which should he jump first?"
"Except these two hunks will bite his behind if he turns his back."
"Take not too much heart, Lord," Shadek cautioned. "Ragnarson would have far fewer men than the Disciple. And El Murid has his amulet."
The Host went into motion. It split like some weird organism giving birth to another of its kind. Half came toward the city. The remainder faced about and advanced on Ragnarson's hill.
"And there's the answer," Beloul quipped. "The dog turns into two dogs."
"Tell the men they have to hang on till our allies finish their share of the Host," Haroun said.
"Let me be the first to congratulate you on your new-found optimism, Lord," Shadek said.
"No need to be sarcastic, Shadek."
"There's good and good, Lord, and some things could be better than they are. I'll speak to the men."
Haroun nodded. He returned to his semi-trance, supposing that, in this extremity, his small talent as a sorcerer would be more valuable than his talent as a swordsman. He tried to lay a slight, small cloud upon the minds of the men about to attack Libiannin.
At least six thousand horsemen swarmed up Ragnarson's hill. "Oh, damn!" he swore. "I didn't count on them splitting." He shouted and waved, letting his people know they could loose their shafts at will. Clouds of arrows arced toward the riders.
Few of these horsemen had faced the arrowstorms so often seen in the north. They received a rude shock.
Every man of Ragnarson's carried a bow. The pikemen and swordsmen of his front ranks loosed several shafts apiece before hefting their weapons and bracing to receive the charge. The regular archers never slackened fire. These infantrymen had borne the charge of el Nadim's cavalry and had survived. They had confidence in themselves and their officers. They faced the human tidal wave without losing their courage.
The Host left thousands dead on that hillside and countless more heaped before the trenches. The pikemen fended them off while the archers plinked. Yet the impetus of the attack was so massive, Ragnarson's front began to sag. It seemed the surviving horsemen might yet carry the day.
He committed his small reserve, ran back and forth behind the line cursing his bowmen for not shattering the attack.