The Fire In His Hands

“We decided to come with you.” Nassef swung down. Contemptuously, he wiped his blade on the chest of one of the dead men. “Priests. They send halfwits to do murder.”

The brothers had not been priests themselves, only wards of the Shrine who had been cared for by the abbot in return for doing the donkey work around the monastery.

“But how did you get here?” El Murid demanded.

“Meryem saw them start after you. Some of us were arguing about what to do. That decided us. There’s an antelope trail that goes over the hills instead of around. I took that, riding hard. I was sure they would let you get this far, then try to make it look like you’d run foul of bandits again.”

El Murid stood over the dead brothers. Tears came to his eyes. They had been but tools of the Evil One, poor things. He knelt and said prayers for their souls, though he had little hope that the Lord would show them any mercy. His was a jealous, vengeful God.

When he had finished, he asked, “What are you going to tell your father?”

“Nothing. We’re going with you.”

“But...”

“You need somebody, Micah. Hasn’t that just been proven?”

El Murid paused thoughtfully, then threw his arms around Nassef. “I’m glad you came, Nassef. I was worried for you.”

Nassef reddened. The Children of Hammad al Nakir were often demonstrative, but seldom in the tenderer emotions. “Let’s get going,” he said. “We’ve got a long way to travel if we’re not going to spend the night in the desert.”

El Murid hugged him again. “Thank you, Nassef. I wish you knew how much this means to me.” Then he went round clasping the hands of the others, and kissing the hands of the girls.

“I don’t rate a hug, eh?” Meryem teased. “Do you love Nassef more?”

Now he was embarrassed. Meryem would not cease playing her games.

He called her bluff. “Come down here.”

She did so, so he hugged her. It aggravated Nassef and completely flustered the girl.

El Murid laughed.

One of the youths brought his horse. “Thank you.”

So there were seven who began the long trail, the trail of years. El Murid thought it an auspicious number, but the number gave no luck. He would suffer countless nights of frustration and depression before his ministry bore fruit. Too many of the Children of Hammad al Nakir refused him, or were just plain Truth-blind.

But he persisted. And each time he preached he won a heart or two. His following grew, and they too preached.

Chapter Two

Seeds of Hatred, Roots of War

Haroun was six years old when first he encountered El Murid.

His brother Ali had found himself a perch in a gap in the old garden wall. “God’s Whiskers!” Ali squealed. “Khedah. Mustaf. Haroun. Come and look at this.”

Their teacher, Megelin Radetic, scowled. “Ali, come down from there.”

The boy ignored him.

“How am I supposed to pound anything into the heads of these little savages?” Radetic muttered. “Can’t you do anything?” he asked their uncle Fuad.

Fuad’s severe lips formed a thin, wicked smile. Can but won’t, that smile said. He thought his brother Yousif a fool for wasting money on a pansy foreign teacher. “It’s Disharhun. What did you expect?”

Radetic shook his head. That was Fuad’s latest stock answer.

This barbarous holiday. It meant weeks lost in the already hopeless task of training the Wahlig’s brats. They had come damned near three hundred miles, from el Aswad all the way to Al Rhemish, for a festival and prayer. Foolish. True, some important political business would take place behind the scenes.

The scholars of Hellin Daimiel were notorious skeptics. They labeled all faith as farce or fraud.

Megelin Radetic was more skeptical then most. His attitude had generated some bitter arguments with his employer, Yousif, the Wahlig of el Aswad. Fuad had become part of the class scene as a result. Yousif’s younger brother and chief bully remained on hand to assure the children’s insulation from Hellin Daimiel’s stronger heresies.

“Hurry!” Ali insisted. “You’ll miss it.”

All traffic passing through the Royal Compound, from the pilgrim camps to the Most Holy Mrazkim Shrines, had to follow the one dusty street beyond the wall of Radetic’s courtyard-classroom. This was the first time any of his students had joined their fathers during Disharhun. They had never seen Al Rhemish or its holiday displays.

“High Holy Week,” Radetic muttered sourly. “Spring Hosting. Who needs it?”

It was his first visit, too. In his quiet way, he was as excited as the children.

He had taken the teaching position in order to study the primitive political processes going on behind the Sahel. The unprecedented challenge of a messianic type like El Murid promised an interesting study of a culture under