enlisted in Indala’s vision as an alternative to fire and sword.
Indala al-Sul Halaladin, as he aged, became ever less tolerant of the narrow tribalism of the Believers.
Nassim did not remind the boy that the westerners believed they were liberating the Holy Lands, too. And that the Devedians had been there before Pramans or Chaldareans. And the Devedians were children of the Dainshaukin, who had come into the Holy Lands two thousand years ago, having been guaranteed possession by a violent, psychopathic deity who occasionally insisted that his followers murder their own children for his glorification.
“General?”
“What?”
“We lost you there. For a moment.”
“The curse of growing past one’s Sha-lug training.”
“Meaning?”
“I was reflecting on the endless torment inflicted on the Holy Lands. And wondering if maybe the wells aren’t closing down deliberately so the land can shake off its human lice.”
“An interesting notion. One so heretical that if you expressed it anywhere but out here, it would get you flogged or stoned.”
Nassim shrugged. That was not going to happen. He was too valuable. For the moment. And he had his own accommodation with God. God did not seem to mind Alizarin’s occasional unorthodox speculation. “Why the manpower largesse?”
“He wants to expand the pool of veterans. And to identify the best warriors. He wants an army of the best when he does move to cleanse the Holy Lands of the western Unbeliever.”
There was more. A lot more, Nassim was sure. He was one small stone in the structure of Indala’s strategy.
The Mountain would remain pliable. He would trust Indala. He would do his part. He would abide, preparing himself for the moment when it all came together and he could bask in the warmth brought on by the restoration of the balance undone by Hagid’s murder.
Young Az said, “Whatever else happens, our mission will be to inconvenience Black Rogert. Every day. We have to become more aggressive. My granduncle won’t want du Tancret in any position to influence the other Arnhanders. None of them are as fierce.”
Nassim nodded, though at this stage of life he found himself short on lethal ambition. Again, outgrowing that Sha-lug arrested development.
The boy continued, “First order of business, the siege lines round Tel Moussa.”
With more men and no special need to husband them, the Mountain harassed Rogert du Tancret constantly. He sent blooded warriors back to Indala. And corpses to Black Rogert. Who got little support from his co- religionists. They had been appalled by his foul behavior.
Du Tancret’s strength declined. Each day a man or two slipped off to take service with some more honorable captain. One who was less likely to get his people butchered.
Falcons often featured in Nassim’s quick strikes, at some point when the enemy was in close pursuit. Crusader horses refused to charge the thunder and smoke.
Nassim found a fanatic young Believer in one of the militia contingents. A boy who wanted to be a hero. A boy determined to win fame. Rogert du Tancret had offered a huge reward for a falcon or a supply of firepowder. Nassim offered the youth an opportunity to become immortal. The youth jumped at the challenge. Though he did not believe he would be martyred.
He was so sure God walked at his elbow he insisted that Nassim promise to take him to the finest taverns and brothels in Shamramdi when he returned from his mission.
Nassim promised.
Nassim Alizarim pursued the forms of religion because that was the politic thing to do. His secret but sincere conviction was that most of his contemporaries were also hypocrites. But the night before the martyr’s big day he lay awake late, begging God to guide him.
The Nassim Alizarin of Tel Moussa was not the Nassim Alizarin who had commanded a thousand Sha-lug. That Nassim had perished when his beloved, only son had been murdered to further er-Rashal’s ambition. The new Nassim was only too aware that a martyr was someone’s son.
As in the past, God did not trouble Himself over the agony of a lone supplicant.
The pain ran deep because only two living beings knew this martyr remained true to his God and his people. Not even Azir had been inducted into the scheme.
Nassim would not think of the martyr by name. There was less guilt when he was just the boy or the martyr.
The scheme went well to start. The boy collected camels, loaded them with kegs of firepowder, slipped away unnoticed. He managed with ease because he was the warrior entrusted with the watch on that side of the camp.
It took longer than Nassim expected for someone to notice the boy missing. It took longer, still, for someone to figure out that six camel loads of firepowder had disappeared at the same time.
The Mountain’s ego was bruised. He had believed these men to be better trained and more alert. He had taught them himself.
A soldier appeared. “Lord! Bad news! Ambel appears to have deserted. And six camels are missing. Along with most of the firepowder. It looks like he means to collect Black Rogert’s reward.”
Nassim raged around the way he would if every bit were true. And raged even more in frustration over the desultory response in camp. No one seemed inclined to do anything. They all wanted to talk. Those who knew the boy from back home were adamant. He would never do what he seemed to have done.
Cursed by their commander, most of the company finally howled off after a traitor. As Nassim had hoped.
The pursuit had to be loud and it had to be real. Otherwise, Black Rogert’s sixth sense would save him again.
Nassim joined the chase, though he only followed, at a pace suitable for an older man.
The martyr’s lead was, of course, insurmountable, though a couple of bucks from the boy’s own town almost caught him by killing their horses.
Nassim Alizarin was himself in sight of Gherig-and of Tel Moussa and the weakened siege lines around it- when the act played out.
The martyr talked his way into Gherig, steps ahead of men obviously determined to murder him. One of those shrieked when hit by an arrow from the barbican wall.
The Mountain did not know when the plan went wrong. He just knew that six camel loads of firepowder, nearly half a ton, cooked off before the martyr could possibly have penetrated the fortress proper.
The massive barbican, larger than the tower at Tel Moussa, came down majestically, the collapse mostly hidden inside a dust cloud of mythic proportion.
“Damn,” Nassim swore under his breath. “Too soon. Too damned soon. No way Black Rogert was close enough.”
He spoke without thinking, focused on Gherig, totally.
“Excuse me?” Azir asked. His tone demanded further explanation.
Nassim obliged. The secret needed no keeping, now.
Riders charged the spreading dust cloud, rushed into it. The spontaneous assault carried the ruins and captured the still lowered bridge over the perilous dry moat splitting the rock between the barbican and Gherig proper.
The Mountain never had any intention of storming the unassailable, even had the martyr performed his task ideally. Gherig without Black Rogert would be immune to storm, anyway. But Nassim had not anticipated the scope of the destruction, despite having seen firepowder used against Arn Bedu. His interest was the murder of one man. The rest was beyond his ability to imagine. And he had lost control of his fighters.
The inexperienced militia, especially, surrendered to the excitement and noise.
Gherig had stood immune to storm or siege for all time. That did not change. But later it would be argued
