If they did and he failed, they would have won the hatred of the ruling Quesani family. If they supported him and he succeeded, they would be expected to squander their wealth and manpower in his holy war against the infidel states surrounding Hammad al Nakir.
They could be counted on, for a while, to remain outside the power equation. Nassef’s selection of Sebil el Selib as his first target had been the best possible.
Geopolitics and economics aside, the seizure should have a strong psychological effect. Thousands should turn to El Murid. Other thousands should cool toward the Royal cause.
“I have one question, Nassef. Can we keep what we’ve won?”
“These men will die for you.”
“I know that. It doesn’t answer my question. There’s a field full of men who died for Aboud outside. They didn’t hold the pass.”
“We won’t be taken by surprise.”
Nassef was only half right. The Wahlig of el Aswad responded quicker than he expected.
The pickets had scarcely gone out when one on a lathered horse returned to say that several hundred horsemen were right behind him.
They swooped down from the northwest. Nassef had expected to be attacked from el Aswad, so had distributed his pickets and skirmishers to the southwest. But Yousif had heard about Sebil el Selib while coming home from Al Rhemish. He had decided to strike back immediately, using his escort.
The swift strike, the sneak attack, the hit and run, were traditional desert warfare, founded on centuries of tribal feuding.
Yousif arrived long before the pickets could be recalled, thereby denying Nassef a quarter of his strength.
Fighting raged through the pass and down into the meadow. Yousif’s warriors were skilled and disciplined household troops who spent their lives in training and maneuver. The Wahlig was a master of light cavalry technique. He pushed Nassef’s larger force into the fortress and cloisters.
El Murid and his Invincibles became isolated in the shrine, defending the Malachite Throne. As soon as he learned the Disciple’s whereabouts, Yousif concentrated on the shrine. He wanted the serpent’s head.
Facing the Wahlig across twenty feet of bloody floor, El Murid shouted, “We will die before we yield one inch, Hell serf. Though your master send up all the devils of his fiery abode... Yea, though he hurl against us all the legions of the damned, we will not be dismayed. The Lord is with us. Ours is the confidence of the righteous, the assurance of the saved.”
A big, muscular man said to the Wahlig, “I’ll be damned. Yousif, he really believes that drivel.”
“Of course he does, Fuad. Belief in himself is what makes a maniac dangerous.”
El Murid was puzzled. Could they doubt his sincerity? The Truth was the Truth. They could accept or refuse it, but never brand it a lie.
“Slay them,” he told the Invincibles, though they were grossly outnumbered.
The Lord would deliver them.
His fanatics attacked like hunger-maddened wolves. Yousif’s warriors went down like wheat before the scythe. The Wahlig himself went to his knees with a grievous wound. His troops wavered.
Fuad rallied them with his war cries. His scimitar flickered like a mirage, so swiftly did it cut and stab.
The Invincibles did as El Murid said. They held each inch they had taken.
They did not yield, but they died.
Gingerly, still believing that the Lord would deliver him, El Murid descended from the Malachite Throne. He collected a fallen blade.
Now the Invincibles were falling like scythed wheat. El Murid began to doubt... He would not! Were he to be martyred here, it would be the will of the Lord.
His sole regret was that he might leave this pale without seeing Meryem and his daughter again. They were trapped in the fortress with Nassef...
But Nassef was trapped no longer. Yousif’s assault on the shrine had given him time to organize. He went over to the attack. His sally scattered Yousif’s forces on the meadow.
He, Karim and a score of their best burst into the shrine. The tide of fighting shifted.
“God is merciful!” El Murid thundered, daring to cross blades with a warrior. The man struck the weapon from his hand.
Nassef was there in an instant, turning the warrior’s attack.
Fuad hurled that warrior aside and faced Nassef. “Let’s see the color of your guts, bandit.”
Nassef attacked. He wore a thin, cruel, confident smile.
Their blades danced a deadly morisco. Neither could penetrate the other’s guard. Each seemed astonished by the other’s skill.
“Fuad. Fuad,” Yousif gasped from between supporting warriors. “Break off.”
Fuad stepped back, wiped sweat from his face. “Let me finish him.”
“We have to go. While we still have the strength to rescue our wounded.”
“Yousif —”
