A half-dozen men trotted past. One paused to consider the derelicts. He wasted only a few seconds before moving on.
Haroun caressed the hilt of his favorite knife, gently, and wondered about the sorcerer who had detected his careful probe.
Another group of men rushed Haroun’s former shadow from another direction.
Incomprehensible calls indicated that more men were coming.
Silhouettes glided into sight, following the half-dozen who had passed by earlier, three in a loose wedge followed by a man who was nearly a giant.
Haroun did not think. He responded without calculation, lightning striking. He leapt onto the devil’s back, left hand seizing his chin and pulling, right hand yanking his knife across the man’s throat, slicing deep enough to cut the windpipe before the sorcerer could utter the first syllable of a protective spell. The slash cut all the way to the spine. Carotid and jugular spewed.
Bin Yousif threw himself clear, drove his knife into the belly of Magden Norath’s nearest companion, who shrieked as he went down. He slashed another man’s raised left arm. The third turned to run. He died from a thrust into his back.
Haroun ran the other direction after taking a moment to drive his knife into the sorcerer’s left temple. He considered taking the head away, to destroy it a fragment at a time, but Norath’s men had begun to react.
He became another shadow moving through shadows.
He was calm the whole time, from the moment he felt his knife slice Norath’s esophagus. This was his life. This was what he had been born to do, till the day he made his lethal mistake. Cut, slash, stab, and walk away before anyone could respond.
Once out of sight he had serious advantages.
Norath’s men could not know who they were hunting. He knew that anyone searching must be an enemy.
Magden Norath, though! How could that be? In his way, in his time, Norath had been as terrible as the Empire Destroyer. How could he have fallen so easily?
Norath had gotten sloppy. He had failed to protect himself because he had seen no need. Death had been on him before he knew he was in danger. It was the story of every mouse ever taken by an owl, fox, or snake.
Death was always one inattentive moment away.
Things began to prowl the night, hunting, things created by Magden Norath. Though hardly the savan dalage the sorcerer had loosed during the Great Eastern Wars, they were formidable. They were confused. Haroun ambushed one that came within striking distance. It died. He was amazed.
The threat faded.
Norath was dead. The hunt for his murderer went on hiatus while the sorcerer’s men surrounded another member of their party. Him they hurried to safety inside the Sheyik’s compound.
Amazing, Haroun thought. The course of history might have been changed.
He had to get out of al-Habor. There would be a big, serious hunt once those men got themselves together. They would loose Norath’s monsters—unless they just killed the beasts rather than try to manage them without the sorcerer’s help.
Haroun sneaked back to his fire. That had been killed and scattered. There was no sign that three men had slept there. The dead had been taken away.
Haroun ripped a strip from the edge of his cloak. He took a packet from a pocket inside his inner shirt, tucked the scrap inside. The herb in the packet had come most of the way from Lioantung. He rubbed it into the cloth, then worked the scrap into a crack in the wall where he had sat to sleep. It should look like something that had gotten caught there.
All set. Time to go.
There was no one in the stable when Haroun arrived. Odd, but his shaghûn senses discovered nothing else unusual. Maybe the night boy was shirking.
Haroun was preparing his animals when a long, hate-filled howl rolled across al-Habor. It was joined by another.
His cloth scrap had been found.
How many monsters had Magden Norath brought?
Bin Yousif thought of them as hellhounds but they better resembled large, stocky cats with hound-like heads.
As Haroun eased into the light of the setting moon he concluded that their number did not matter.
Men screamed. Monsters growled and shrieked in a fight fit for entertaining the gods. Haroun searched the sky, halfway expecting to see a winged horse against the starscape.
Still no stable boy. Surely the uproar should have brought him back. The master was bound to come, to make sure the animals were safe.
Haroun left a generous tip.
The sun would rise before long. Norath’s hounds should have to hide from the light. They could be rooted out and destroyed during the day.
If they did not destroy one another. If someone did not delude himself into thinking he could use them the way Norath had.
Haroun hoped his fireside brethren had gotten a good head start. They did not deserve to suffer for his crimes.
...
Megelin’s bodyguards were the best surviving Royalist warriors. They moved as quietly as they could, which was not especially so. The horses and camels were nervous. The deathcats had closed in too tight.
Megelin had told the damned sorcerer to leave the deathcats behind. Norath did not listen well. He had brought four monsters anyway.
Someday Norath would cease to be useful. After he made Megelin’s enemies die. Then he could join his victims in hell.
Pray this meeting went well. Norath’s mystery ally might hasten the opportunity.
Norath’s massive bulk rolled in the moonlight just yards ahead. The sorcerer had a distinctive walk because of injuries suffered during the Great Eastern Wars. He was badly bowlegged and had trouble changing course quickly.
Megelin’s loathing grew. He was downwind. The man stank.
Norath could stop suddenly, though. Megelin banged into him. “What the hell…?”
Norath ignored him. In a growling whisper, he said. “Someone is trying to spy on us using the Power. We may have been betrayed. We have to catch him. We need to ask why he is here, waiting.” The sorcerer husked orders to the men, then to his beasts. Two parties of six men each moved out. Those who stayed began stringing horses and camels together so they could be managed more easily.
Megelin was livid. Not one of his lifeguards had looked to him for approval of the sorcerer’s orders.
That reckoning might come soon.
What had happened, anyway? Norath seemed stricken sick. He almost danced in his nervousness.
The sorcerer could not restrain himself. “You. You. Attaq. Come with me. The rest of you stay with the King. Keep the animals together.” He said something else in another language. The deathcats rumbled unhappily.
Norath moved off into the moonlight at his best speed.
The deathcats arrayed themselves defensively on Megelin’s side of the herd. The remaining lifeguards stationed themselves among the animals, to steady them up. They were one fright short of a stampede.
There were thirty-two horses and four camels. The King of Hammad al Nakir had to help control them as though he was a common soldier. Another mark against Magden Norath.
Megelin tried to talk to the men across the herd. The lifeguards had nothing to say. One unidentifiable voice told him to shut up. They had troubles enough already.
A shriek ripped the night. Megelin jumped. The cry stirred a deep, unreasoning dread.
Expectant silence followed. It lasted only seconds.
Shadows scurried past. Megelin first thought they were his lifeguards fleeing. Then one ragamuffin passed close enough to be recognized as a derelict.
The lifeguards swarmed out of the darkness seconds later. Some grabbed Megelin and hustled him forward. Others helped move the animals.
Magden Norath was not among them.
After Megelin had been herded more than a hundred yards, the nearest lifeguard panted, “The sorcerer is dead. His head was almost all the way off. We need to get you safe.”
Norath? Slain? Magden Norath? How could that be?
As the band
streamed into the Sheyik’s compound Megelin heard the distant shriek of an injured deathcat.
Suddenly, Megelin was alone except for three lifeguards. Those three barely restrained their rage. They wanted to go hunt the monster who had murdered their god.
The Sheyik’s men took the animals. Others kept pushing Megelin toward safety. They took him to the Sheyik himself, an older, heavily bearded man Megelin knew and did not like. Hanba al-Medi had served both sides: the Disciple when the Faith was in full flood, then the Royalist cause after El Murid began to fade.
The old man was trembling, confused. He kept asking what the excitement was about and got no answers.
At that point there were no answers. The second in command of the lifeguards told Hanba, “There was an ambush. Someone knew we were coming. Four men are dead—including Magden Norath.”
The old chief blanched. He faced his king. “That can’t be possible. Magden Norath?”
“His head was cut almost all the way off. The men with him were killed, too.”
Despite being inside, Megelin heard the shrieks of the deathcats and the screams of men who were too close when they went mad.
Al-Medi was terrified, yet outraged. “I learned of all this two days ago. What it’s about was never explained. I could betray nothing if I wanted. What have you brought down on me?”
No doubt he spoke the truth. Norath had arranged to be here. Norath was careful. Only he had known the story. It could be argued that, logically, only he could be the traitor.
Megelin thought his head was going to burst.
Reports came in. They were not good. Two deathcats had gone mad. They had attacked one another and anything living till the bodyguards put them down. Another six men were dead. Four were badly injured. A half-dozen derelicts had been killed as well.
Megelin screamed, “Old man, what am I doing here?”
“You were brought to see me.”
Megelin turned. And was surprised. That strong young voice had come from the oldest man he had ever seen, a bent, shuffling creature thin as starvation itself. But the power round him was so potent Megelin could taste it.
A bony, crooked finger indicted Megelin. “Come with me, boy.”
Time stopped. Everyone became rigidly motionless.
Rage at the ancient’s lack of respect boiled inside Megelin—the more so when he found that he could not resist the command. In a moment he and the living antiquity were inside a small, isolated room, absent all witnesses.
Megelin could not control his flesh but his mind remained independent. He recognized a level of distress in his companion that bordered on terror. The old man was totally rattled—maybe because he understood just how amazing Norath’s fall had been.
The King finally realized who the ancient had to be: that most fabulous of fabulous beings, the Star Rider.
Megelin wished he had the strength and quickness to leave the old devil a sack of dead bones alongside Magden Norath.
The old man’s sneer revealed his confidence of knowing every treacherous thought whisking through Megelin’s brain.
...
Varthlokkur was playing with the children when the unexpected burst. Smyrena lay on his lap, wriggling and giggling, trying to catch a glowing butterfly that kept sneaking past her chubby-fingered grasp to perch for a moment on her pug button nose. Ekaterina and Scalza cheerfully blasted each other in a tag game involving harmless balls of light. And Ethrian…
Ethrian was looking outward tonight. He remained silent, did not interact, did not respond to direct address, but was connected and alert.
Varthlokkur was pleased to see even that much progress.
Nepanthe was thrilled beyond description.
She was downstairs cobbling together refreshments, no doubt including something that had been an especial favorite of Ethrian’s as a child.
The boy did not move much, and then only slowly, mainly just turning his head. He was intrigued by everything, as though seeing it all for the first time. And he was, really, for the first time with any curiosity. His cousins, his sister, the Winterstorm, it all stirred mild expressions of wonder.
The baby was just as intrigued by her brother—when she was not preoccupied with her butterfly.
Nepanthe arrived accompanied by burdened servants. “I decided to bring a whole meal since we didn’t have a proper supper.”
“Good thinking,” Varthlokkur said. “Considering the energy those two goblins are burning off.”
Nepanthe started to ask if he had found a way to communicate with Mist but he was not listening.
Ethrian had stiffened. As Varthlokkur turned his way the boy stunned everyone. He pointed at the Winterstorm, said, “Grandfather.”
“Nepanthe, take the baby. Now!”
The Winterstorm was stirring but what had triggered Ethrian was not obvious there. That was clear only in a mercury pan seldom used but eye-catchingly alive right now. It had been spelled to trigger only under a few unlikely circumstances.
One would be the sorcerer Magden Norath coming within a mile of the Star Rider’s winged horse.
A thousand hours, spanning the years since the Great Eastern Wars, had gone into the mathematics needed to build the spell suite that tripped the alarm. The task had proven intractable till Varthlokkur decided to try tracing the winged horse instead of the Star Rider himself.
After Nepanthe took Smyrena, Varthlokkur told her, “Darling, clear everyone out. The children first.”
Which meant something big and possibly dangerously bad was happening. Vaguely, Varthlokkur was aware of Nepanthe fussing over Ethrian as she drove everyone out of the chamber.
In moments the wizard was assessing the situation in al-Habor.
Oh, what an opportunity delivered by Chance! A nudge here, another there, hardly powerful enough to disturb an ant’s slumber, and the world changed forever. His part would remain forever unknown to any but he.
Once the nudges had been dealt he settled to observe.
He wished he had the Unborn close enough to do more.
It might be worth revealing himself if he could get the winged horse while the Star Rider was preoccupied.
With any luck he might even have stripped the Star Rider of his principal source of power, the Windmjirnerhorn.
“Let’s not get greedy,” he muttered, on finding himself searching for the horse using Norath’s only surviving deathcat.
It had been a long day before the alarm. Exhaustion took hold. Sweet as harming Old Meddler would be, disaster was certain if he lost control because he was too tired to concentrate. Released, the deathcat would be after Haroun in a heartbeat.
He drove the beast to the Sheyik’s compound, over the adobe wall, into the house proper, then released it.
There was a chance it might get the Star Rider.
Varthlokkur let himself collapse, pleased with his day.
...
Life had turned simple. Yasmid was getting plenty of sleep. Too much, she feared sometimes. Was she hiding from her obligations by clinging to her bed? Still, there was little to do but arbitrate personal disputes.
There were no foreign threats. Megelin was back in Al Rhemish, licking his wounds and blaming his failures on everyone but himself. Eventually, he would hatch some new abomination.
The fields of the Faithful promised the richest bounty in years. Flocks and herds were particularly fecund. Mares would foal at a wondrous rate. And because the Faithful need not live off the land, game would make a comeback, too. She had ordered hunts restricted to taking predators.
There would be more game when the future turned evil again.
It would. It always did.
No one was more optimistic than she. Her advisers wanted to work everyone like they were under siege, building new granaries and creating new fields that could be used to raise more grain.
Good soil was not plentiful. It had to be created. But water was in bountiful supply. Snow melt came down from the Jebal. A score of springs
, all reliable, lay within a day’s walk. All had been cleansed of poisons put in over the years. All had been sanctified anew.
Water that did not get used or did not evaporate eventually found its way to the salt pans. Yasmid thought it sinful that any water got that far—though twice, now, she had had to thank God that it did.
She was half awake, fantasizing ways to bring more water to the desert, when a servant announced, “Habibullah wishes to see you, Mistress.”
She felt irritated, then recalled that she had sent for the man. “All right. Let him in.”
Social circumstance had compelled Yasmid to create a pseudo-audience in a mess room where she could pretend she was not a woman and it was not necessary to maintain eunuchs, slave women, and cloth screens to conceal her from male visitors. She loathed that kind of formality. She had evaded it most of her life. But success had its price. Since Megelin’s defeat the older imams had grown loud demanding observation of fundamental rules. People listened because they saw no more need to be flexible.
If peace persisted those old men would keep isolating her till she lost contact with the world.
She asked herself, “What would Haroun do?”
Haroun would bury them. There were not many of them, they were just loud.
Habibullah joined her. He did not speak. He still limped because of a wound taken in the battle with Megelin.
She let that be. “Do you have anything to report?”
“You have something in mind?”
“What progress is my father making?”
“There is progress. You’d see it if you’d visit. But it isn’t as dramatic as Elwas hoped.”
“His time is flying away.”
“I’d say that he’s shown true progress.”
“Really?”
“Truly. But I’m not sure that the swami can finish up. Your father would have to do his part.”
“He isn’t trying?”
“Not much.”
Yasmid sighed. “We’ll give them more time. Merim. Come here. You’re dancing like a child with a desperate need to pee. What is it?”
“Elwas al-Souki is in the kitchen. He begs the chance to bring you news. There is a man with him who needs a bath badly.”