“Now!” Nassef shrieked at him. “Give the order to fly. To the wadi. We can lose them in the rocks.” Most of Nassef’s men were away. The circle was collapsing toward El Murid and the Scourge of God.
El Murid vacillated.
A random swarm of arrows rained from the cloudless sky. One buried itself in his mount’s eye.
The beast screamed and reared. El Murid flew through the air. The earth came up and hit him like a flying boulder. A horse trampled his right arm.
He heard the snapping of bone over his own shriek. He tried to rise. His gaze met that of a Guild infantryman who was calmly working his way through the chaos, braining wounded Invincibles with a massive war hammer.
“Micah!” Nassef screamed at him. “Get up! Grab hold of my leg!”
He found the will and strength. Nassef started away.
“Hang on tight. Bounce high.”
He did.
Behind him, another hundred Invincibles gave their lives to make sure he got away.
Once into the wadi, Nassef flung himself from his mount, seized El Murid’s left hand. “Come on! We’ve got to disappear before they get organized.”
The sounds of battle died swiftly as they fled deeper into the grotesque wilderness. El Murid did not know if distance or final defeat were responsible, but he feared the worst.
They kept to terrain no horse could penetrate. Their enemies would have to come for them on foot if they insisted on pressing the pursuit.
It was almost dark when Nassef found the fox den. Two badly wounded warriors crowded it already, but they made room. Nassef did his best to eliminate traces outside.
The first hunters came only a short time later. They were in a hurry, chasing game still on the wing. Other parties passed during the next few hours. Occasional shouts and metallic clashings echoed through the wadi.
During each stillness Nassef did what he could for the two warriors. He did not expect either to live. When it seemed that the pursuit had ended, he worked on El Murid’s arm.
The fracture was not as bad as it had seemed. The bone had broken cleanly, without being crushed.
It was midnight when the pain subsided enough for El Murid to ask, “What do we do now, Nassef?” His voice was vague, his mind airy. Nassef had given him an opiate.
“We start over. We build it again, from the ground. We don’t hurry it. At least we won’t have to capture Sebil el Selib again.”
“Can we do it?”
“Of course. We’ve lost a battle, that’s all. We’re young. Time and the Lord are on our side. Be quiet!”
He was at the mouth of the den, masking the others with his body and dark clothing. He could see the flickering light of torches playing among the rocks.
Men followed the light.
One complained, “I’m tired. How long do we have to keep this up?”
Another replied, “Until we get them. They’re in here and I don’t intend to let them out.”
Nassef knew that second voice. It belonged to that stubborn brother of the Wahlig, Fuad. Hatred welled within him.
One of the wounded warriors chose that moment to die. His comrade thought quickly enough to smother his death rattle with a corner of his robe.
“Why didn’t you bring the damned amulet?” Nassef demanded testily, after the danger had passed. “It would have made the difference.”
The Disciple barely heard through his pain. He gritted the truth between clenched teeth. “I was a fool, wasn’t I? The angel gave it to me for moments like those. Why didn’t you say something before we left? You knew I was keeping it safe in the shrine.”
“I didn’t think of it. Why should I? It’s not mine. We’ve been a pair of prize idiots, brother. And it looks like we’re going to pay the ancient price of idiocy.”
The devil Fuad did not give up for four days. Hardly a minute passed but what there was not some Royalist hunter within hearing of the den. Before their trial ended, Nassef and El Murid were drinking their own urine in a grave they shared with two decaying corpses. The body poisons filling the urine made them so sick it seemed certain they were but trading a quick death for a slow one.
Chapter Eight
The Castle Tenacious and Resolute
There is great rejoicing in Sebil el Selib,” Fuad snarled as he stalked toward Yousif, Radetic and the Wahlig’s captains. A heavy layer of trail dust covered him. “Nassef and the Disciple have returned. They survived.”
The cords in Yousif’s neck stood out. His face darkened. He rose slowly, then suddenly hurled his platter across the room. “Damn it!” he roared. “And damn that fool Aboud! When they finally take Al Rhemish and strangle him, I hope I’m there to laugh in his halfwit’s face.”
Wadi el Kuf had been the limit of Royal aid. Nothing Yousif had done or said had been sufficient to excite Prince Farid into exceeding his orders and following through. The opportunity had been there, to pursue and slay, to
