He saw doubt. He saw unhappiness. Neither el Nadim nor Hali wanted him along. They feared he would become more burden than help. Nor had they witnessed the drama at the el Habib oasis. For them the amulet was more symbol than reality, without proved efficacy.
“There will be no Wadi el Kuf,” he declared. “And I won’t be a burden. I’ll neither overrule your commands nor interfere with your operations. I’ll be just another soldier. Just a weapon.”
“As you will, Lord,” el Nadim replied, without enthusiasm.
“Shall we attempt it?” El Murid asked.
El Nadim responded, “It’s face them here or face them there, Lord. There we’ll have the advantage of having done the unexpected.”
“Then let’s stop talking and start doing.”
The country was wild. Chaos had frolicked there, leaving the hills strewn with perilous tumbles of boulders. El Nadim halted at the eastern end of a white plain which was the only memory of an ancient salt lake. The road to Sebil el Selib crawled along its southern flank. The general ordered camp made.
He rode onward with the Disciple, Hali and the Disciple’s bodyguards to examine the salt pan. After a time he remarked, “You were right, Lord. It’s a good place to meet them.”
El Murid dismounted. He squatted, wet a finger, touched it to the salt, then tasted. “As I thought. Not mined because it’s bad salt. Poisons in it.” Childhood memories came, haunted him momentarily. He shook them off. The salt merchant’s son was another being, simply someone with whom he shared memories.
He surveyed his surroundings. The hills were not as tall as he had imagined them, and less rich with cover. And the pan looked all too favorable for western cavalry. He offered his doubts.
“Let’s hope they see only what’s visible, Lord,” el Nadim replied. “They’ll beat themselves.” Hali, puzzled, refused to ask the questions puzzling him. El Nadim did not enlighten him. El Murid suspected he was being deliberately vague. When the dust settled the Invincible would be able to stake no claim on having engineered any victory.
The party continued westward. At the far end of the lakebed el Nadim told Mali, “Choose five hundred Invincibles and hide in those rocks. After dark. Travel the reverse slope so you leave no traces. Take water rations for five days. Don’t break cover till the Guild infantry closes with my line.”
“And if they don’t?” Mali demanded.
“Then we’ll have won anyway. They have to retreat or break through. They won’t have the water to wait us out. Either way we embarrass them.”
El Murid fretted. He would bear the odium if this failed. If it succeeded, el Nadim would harvest the credit. That didn’t seem fair. He smiled wearily. He was getting as bad as his followers.
Hali remarked, “Our scouts say they’re on the march, Lord. We won’t wait long.”
“Very well.” He checked the altitude of the sun. “Time for prayers, gentlemen.”
Hawkwind and the Wahlig reached the western end of the salt pan the following afternoon. Invincible horsemen blocked the road and skirmished with Yousif’s riders till the Royalists elected to make camp.
Confidence filled that camp. The Wahlig had more and better men. He exercised only the caution necessary to abort a night assault.
El Murid missed the skirmishing. El Nadim had assigned him a small force placed well west of Hali’s, where the road to the lakebed wound between steep hills. The Disciple suspected the General simply wanted him out of the way, though his companions were the cream of the Invincibles.
He did not sleep that night. He could not shake the specter of Wadi el Kuf — and this, though a smaller action, could generate even more devastating repercussions. Sebil el Selib would be vulnerable till the troops arrived from the coast. It would fall to a featherweight attack. He was terrified. He had bet too much on one pass of the dice. But it was too late to stand down.
He prayed often and hard, beseeching the Lord’s aid in his most desperate hour.
El Nadim roused his men before dawn. He addressed them passionately while they ate a cold breakfast, claiming the whole future of the Movement hinged on their courage. He then arrayed his infantry across the end of the pan, with horsemen stationed on the wings. The slave volunteers he posted in front of his primary line, carrying shovels as well as weapons. His army was in place when dawn broke. A morning breeze rose from behind him.
He assembled his officers. “Keep the men to the standards,” he told them. “Set an example. If the Lord won’t yield us the day, let’s die facing our enemies.”
He had expressed the same sentiments to the troops, only now he indicated a willingness to cut down any officer who forgot his courage. He told his cavalry commanders, “The breeze is rising. Begin.”
Moments later horsemen began riding back and forth ahead of the infantry. The westbound wind filled with alkaline dust. Horns and drums sounded in the distance. The enemy formed ranks. El Nadim smiled. The Wahlig would challenge him. He moistened a finger, felt the breeze. Not as strong as he had hoped. The dust was not carrying as well as he desired. “Trumpets,” he snapped. “Speed them up.”
Bugles called. The cavalrymen urged their mounts to a trot, kicking up more salty dust. El Nadim turned. The sun was about to break over a low, distant mountain, into enemy eyes.
He examined what he could see of the Wahlig’s dispositions. Guild infantry in the center. Light horse on the wings and behind. And the heavy cavalry forming for the first charge, that should be enough to shatter his line. Good again. They were doing the obvious. Exactly what he wanted.
The breeze was not rising. “Trumpets. Speed them up again. Messenger. I want the slave volunteers to start digging.”
The volunteers used their shovels to hurl the fine, salty earth skyward, putting more dust into the air.
Let them breathe that, el Nadim thought. Let them become parched of throat and sore of eye. Let them want nothing so badly as they want to break away for a drink. He glanced back. The sun was up. Let them advance into the face of that, glaring off the white lakebed.
