The Master of Ghosts grunted. “Indeed.” Indala would go on thinking they should be his. The Sha-lug would expect them to be Sha-lug before all else, Dreangerean second, faithful to the kaif of al-Minphet third, and enemies of the invader always.
Az said, “Princes don’t like to be refused.”
“This one is more reasonable than most. And he loses nothing by leaving us here. We do stifle the worst excesses of yon festering boil on the Adversary’s arse.”
He feared he was whistling in the dark, though. Indala might rid the world of every Sha-lug chieftain who refused to adapt to his new order.
Nassim could not help wondering if he should not have given the offer more consideration.
* * *
The Mountain took to staying up to study the stars. The nighttime sky was like God Himself, vast and unchanging, and yet each time Nassim visited the parapet he saw something new. He was especially fond of shooting stars. There were a lot of those lately. They worried the more superstitious soldiers, who feared they portended great evils.
There was no apocalypse promised in al-Prama but the end of the world did feature in the Chaldarean, Devedian, and Dainshau faiths. In this messed-up corner of the world everyone knew something about his neighbor’s beliefs, usually just enough to justify banging him over the head.
For Dainshaus and Devedians the apocalypse was only a potential. It could be avoided by keeping the law. For Chaldareans, though, the fire was guaranteed. There was no other way the world could be cleansed sufficiently for the establishment of God’s Kingdom Eternal on Earth.
Nassim counted stars till midnight, challenging himself to enumerate those he had not counted before. Finally, he fell asleep where he sat.
He needed less sleep as he aged, but, still, late nights meant sleeping late. On days when he was not going on patrol himself he sometimes slept till noon.
The roar of falcons was an eye-opener any time. By the third bark Nassim was in motion.
There was no fourth roar.
A Lucidian met him as he headed for the gallery above the gate. “It was that sorcerer, sir! But we think we got him.”
Scowling, still wrestling sleep, Alizarin shambled into the vantage of the gallery. The stench of burnt firepowder left him gasping. This gas was much fouler than that of the Devedian powder. The crews of the two lighter falcons had finished cleaning their weapons, had checked them for cracks, and had reloaded. Now they stood around looking smug.
Nassim asked, “That deeper roar. Was that our new friend from Haeti?”
“It was, sir. You will be pleased with its work.”
The desert sun had yet to hoist itself over the horizon. The light outside included a lot of nighttime indigo. But there was illumination enough to reveal a scatter of men and horses who, to their astonished disappointment, had heard Tel Moussa’s falcons speak.
A Lucidian officer said, “The sentries were as alert as we could possibly hope, sir. The instant they knew something was wrong they let the sorcerer have it.”
“Excellent.” He studied the world outside, saw dead men, dead animals, and a slope reverberating in its silence. Nothing moved. It felt like nothing dared. “Has anyone gone to pick up the pieces?”
“Just waiting on permission to open the gate.”
The Mountain grunted that permission. He wondered who his men had killed. Nobody with connections, he hoped. He was in bad enough odor already.
Those dead men could not be er-Rashal and his cohorts. The Rascal would know better than to just walk up …
Mohkam soon reported, “They were yards short of the gate when Yudeh fired. Mowfik says none of them spoke. They wouldn’t stop when they were challenged. Abd Ador on number one says he knew they were up to no good and if Yudeh hadn’t fired he would have. He’d already decided. They all say there were six riders on six horses trailing two pack camels and two spare mounts. The camels bolted. They probably weren’t hurt. But there are blood trails. Gamel al-Iriki has his troop ready to go after them.”
Nassim dreaded the answer but had to ask. “Who were they?” That drew surprised looks from everyone.
“The Rascal and his gang. Didn’t they tell you?”
“They did. But that isn’t possible. Er-Rashal wouldn’t just ride up and let himself be blasted.”
Irked, Mohkam spat, “He didn’t let anything. Sir. We did it to him. He wasn’t expecting us to be alert and suspicious and he wasn’t expecting our falcons.”
Nevertheless, Nassim refused to believe er-Rashal’s stupid move till he saw the dead for himself. Only then did he give up his high opinion of the Rascal’s caution and intelligence.
He recognized two of the dead. They had crept around in er-Rashal’s shadow for decades. They affected shaven skulls like er-Rashal, too.
The Mountain caught the hunters before they left. “Gamel, be careful. You’ll be stalking the most dangerous man alive.”
Gamel was not convinced. He hailed from some village in the eastern reaches of the kaifate. He knew er-Rashal only through the renegade Sha-lug. He did not credit most of what he heard.
Nassim said, “You don’t have to believe me. But, for the sake of the men with you, pretend it’s true. Go with God. We will shield you with our prayers and I will honor you in the highest if you place er-Rashal at my mercy.”
Nassim watched his followers examine the dead, men and animals alike, looking for plunder or intelligence. They came up with nothing but the obvious. Horse meat would be on the menu till the carcasses went bad.
The dead had not been living well. Maybe starvation had made er-Rashal incautious.
Nassim climbed to the parapet to watch al-Iriki’s hunt.
The chase soon split. One fugitive, leading two injured horses and a camel, fled toward Gherig, making no effort to go unnoticed. The pursuit overtook him quickly. The hunters, however, had to flee an Arnhander patrol. They returned with only one piece of good news. Nobody had gotten hurt.
The others were less fortunate. They caught er-Rashal.
Smoke and silent lightning marred the wasteland northeast of Tel Moussa. Then, after ten quiet minutes, it happened again, farther away.
Four men survived. They brought the fallen in aboard mounts gone half mad. Gamel al-Iriki still lived, but barely. His left side had been charred till bits of burnt bone were visible. His face, though, remained unmarred. He ground out, “When the General speaks the fool fails to listen. That Rascal may not be the most dangerous man in the world but he was dangerous enough to kill Gamel al-Iriki. But al-Iriki will have his revenge. Al-Iriki killed his horse and his camel and hit him with poisoned darts.”
That said, the overly bold officer closed his eyes.
Nassim said, “We’ll need to follow up.”
“Bone is on it,” Old Az said. “Poisoned arrows and javelins won’t be enough.”
“No. They won’t. But he is on foot now, wounded, in country he doesn’t know. It could be as simple as waiting for him at the waterholes.”
Al-Azer er-Selim loosed a long sigh. “I’ll go. I’ll be more careful than al-Iriki was.”
“Do be. I can’t manage without you.”
Bone and the rest of that old company sneered at that claim as they rode out seeking revenge for all that had been done to them.
* * *
On even the least demanding days some work details could not be let to slide. Most critical, the cisterns had to be kept topped up, and cleaned frequently so the water did not become foul. Mounts had to be tended, manure removed, and fodder stocks maintained. Goats and sheep had to be grazed and protected and kept ready to fly to safety should Gherig become aggressive.
And, least desirable of all, graves had to be kept prepared. Hacking those out of the hardpan earth was a semi-punitive detail. The day the Rascal came Tel Moussa filled all its ready graves but one.