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It was nothing physical. She was an average looking girl, not at all striking.
An active, outdoor life had weathered her more than the men of Hammad al Nakir
liked. And she was much too assertive.
Yasmid stared into infinity. After a time, she murmured, "It's an interesting
dilemma."
"What's that?"
"Whether I should slay myself and thus free the movement of concern and
uncertainty, or preserve myself against its need."
The nature of his culture denied Haroun much knowledge of women. He knew them
only through tradition and hand-me-down gossip from equally ignorant
companions. The last thing he expected of a female was an ability to reason,
to sacrifice, to be concerned about tomorrrow. He remained silent, awed.
"I guess I should wait for a sign. Suicide is extreme. And if I'm alive
there's always a chance of escape or rescue."
"As my fat friend might say, all things are possible." But some are unlikely,
he thought. "Ask Beloul for whatever you need for sewing." He left the hut
looking for Ragnarson.
"No, no, no," Bragi was telling an Altean who had just sped an arrow into a
butt. "You're not remembering what I said about your elbow."
"I hit it, didn't I? Sir."
"Yeah. That time. But you're more likely to hit it every time... "
"Excuse me," Haroun interrupted. "It's occurred to me that our best course
might be to move into the Kapenrungs."
"What?"
"We should move to the mountains. They're more suited to the kind of war we'll
have to fight now. More room to move around and stay ahead of the hunters. And
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close enough to Hammad al Nakir to give us the option of striking south. It's
only a few days ride from the mountains to Al Rhemish."
"We were assigned to Altea."
"Specifically? Without any flexibility for the commander on the scene?"
"I don't know. They just said we were going to Altea. Maybe they told
Sanguinet more. But he's not here to let me know."
"Sent you here and forgot you. Haven't you noticed? They haven't been in any
hurry to replace your captain. They haven't even sent any orders. You're on
your own."
"How do you figure to get from here to there without getting wiped out?
They've got men everywhere."
"Consider our prisoner. They'll know who has her, and where we were last.
Anyway, moving was your idea."
"Yeah."
Ragnarson did not debate long. He knew there would be no more miracles like
Alperin. The first bands left that evening.
Haroun talked him into sending their men in parties of four, by as many routes
as possible, travelling at night, so they would attract minimal attention.
Haroun assigned one of his people to each group of Guildsmen, to guide them to
Beloul's old refugee camp. Bragi sent his brother with the first night's
travellers, and Kildragon with the second's. Bin Yousif, Mocker, and Yasmid
vanished sometime during that night. Haroun left no word of his intentions or
destination.
Ragnarson left the Bergwold on the last night, riding with Beloul and two
young Royalists. None of the three spoke a dialect he understood, and Beloul
had wanted to be the last of his.
He looked back once. The Bergwold leaned toward him like a dark tidal wave
frozen in mid rush. He felt a twinge of regret. The forest had become home.
There had been few moments of happiness since fleeing Draukenbring. But he and
Haaken were still together, and healthy, and he had never asked the gods for
more than that.
Beloul was a crafty traveller. He led them across the nights and miles without
once bringing them face to face with another human being. He seemed to sense
the approach of other travellers. Always, they were under cover when another
night rider passed. Most of those were people of their own persuasion.
It was a skill his own men should learn. How could El Murid find them if even
their friends never saw them moving?
These desert men were naturally cunning. Sneakery and deceit were their
patrimony.
He wished he could communicate with Beloul better. The captain was one cunning
old man.
Bragi had been trying to learn the desert tongue for ages. He had not made
much headway. Its rules were different from any he knew, and there were
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countless dialects.
Thus it was that, when Beloul broke his own rule and stopped a dispatch rider,
Ragnarson was bewildered by his companions' behavior. They went into a frenzy
of angry excitement. It took half an hour for them to make him understand.
El-Kader had destroyed the northern army.
That explained Beloul's sudden haste. This end of the world would fill with
warriors hunting the daughter of their prophet. It was time to find a hole and
pull it in after. He was glad Haroun had talked him into fleeing the Bergwold.
Four days later he threw his arms around Haaken and said, "Damn, it's good to
see you. Good to see anybody who doesn't talk like a coop full of hens
clucking."
"You hear? About the battle?"
"Yeah. But you have to fill me in. I missed most of the details."
"El Senoussi and I have been plotting. We figure we ought to recruit
survivors. So we can build our own army."
"Tell me in the morning. Right now all I want to do is sleep. Face down. How
do you figure to get guys to join when we can't pay? When we can't even
guarantee them anything to eat?"
Haaken had no answer for that one.
Eventually, Ragnarson and Beloul did send their boldest followers, in ones and
twos, to recruit not only survivors of the battle but anyone who wanted to
enlist in the hidden army. That army grew as autumn progressed into winter.
The recruits learned Guild ways on the march, while dodging and ambushing
el-Kader's hunters.
Those hunters never realized whom they were skirmishing. The search for Yasmid
was centered farther north, closer to the Bergwold.
They were turning Altea over.
Mocker turned up after a month, but Haroun remained invisible even to his best
friends. He was gone so long that Beloul began worrying about having to find a
new king.
It was then that Beloul realized that El Murid's offspring were now closest to
the throne, through their mother.
Grinning evilly, he prepared special message packets meant to fall into enemy
hands. They contained faked plans for an effort to alleviate Sidi's burden of
life lest he be put forward as a Pretender by his father.
Beloul's purpose was to inform Sidi of his standing. The Disciple's son was
but a boy, yet from what the fat man said he had qualities that would set
sparks flying if he saw a chance for power.
The winter was a cold one and hard on the war-torn lands where marauding
troops from both sides stripped the peasantry of its food stores. Anger
stalked the snowy land like some hungry, legendary monster.
Everywhere, high and low, men schemed against the coming of spring, when they
might seize their own particular breed of fortune and bend it to their will.
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Chapter Sixteen:
THE MIDDLE WARS
Assigning blame is not the task of the historian. Neither should he deny guilt
where it exists. In later days even the chauvinist historian would admit that
the north, personified by Duke Greyfells, provoked the second El Murid War.
Itaskian apologists pointed at the Guild and Haroun bin Yousif's Royalists and
argued that the first summer of fighting did not possess a separate identity
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