With Mercy Towards None

  With Mercy Towards None

  Book Two of the Dread Empire Series

  Glen Cook

  Copyright © Glen Cook 1985

  Cover art by Dawn Wilson

  First Printing: March, 1985

  This ePub edition v1.0 by Dead^Man Jan, 2011

  The Holy Wars Had Begun

  His family was slaughtered by bandits. He was abandoned to die in the desert... but he survived, with the help of his God, and became El Murid, the Disciple.

  Against him rides Haroun ben Yousif, High Prince of sorcery. Their war will soak the desert with magic, and with blood.

  Contents

  What has gone before...

  Chapter One: THE DISCIPLE

  Chapter Two: THE FUGITIVES

  Chapter Three: THE FAT BOY

  Chapter Four: THE MOST HOLY MRAZKIM SHRINES

  Chapter Five: WAR CLOUDS

  Chapter Six: THE WANDERER

  Chapter Seven: THE EXILES

  Chapter Eight: THE LONELY CITY

  Chapter Nine: THE ITASKIANS

  Chapter Ten: ALTEAN VENTURES

  Chapter Eleven: VICTORY GIFTS

  Chapter Twelve: END OF A LEGEND

  Chapter Thirteen: THE ENTERTAINER

  Chapter Fourteen: SUMMER'S END

  Chapter Fifteen: CAPTIVES

  Chapter Sixteen: THE MIDDLE WARS

  Chapter Seventeen: THE GUERRILLAS

  Chapter Eighteen: THE ASSASSINS

  Chapter Nineteen: THE SORCERER

  Chapter Twenty: END OF A LEGEND

  Chapter Twenty-One: HIGHWATER

  Chapter Twenty-Two: LAST BATTLE

  Chapter Twenty-Three: GOING HOME

  Chapter Twenty-Four: REVELATION

  Chapter Twenty-Five: FINALE, WITH KING

  What has gone before...

  He came out of the smelted wastes, impossibly long after his family had been massacred by bandits. His name was Micah al Rhami, but now he called himself El Murid, the Disciple, and he was aflame with a holy vision. He came in a time of want, a time of troubles, a time of despair; and though he was but a boy his message fired half a kingdom.

  He gathered the dreamers, the desperate, the dispossessed-and the opportunists. And declared relentless war upon the darkness. At his right hand rode Nassef, the Scourge of God, who became his brother-in-law, and whom he never dared entirely trust.

  Those El Murid viewed as agents of darkness viewedhim with great horror. They fought back. There was a boy, Haroun son of Yousif, youngest child of the prince in whose domains El Murid established himself. His fate became enmeshed with that of the Disciple. They met when Haroun was but child, when Haroun caused El Murid's horse to throw him and permanently injure his leg.

  There were battles and years, some lost, some won, but the power of the Disciple ever grew, till in his pride he ordered Nassef to mount an expedition against Al Rhemish, the capital of his enemies, the unbelievers, the Royalists.

  The Royalists met him at Wadi el Kuf, in the heart of the great erg, Hammad al Nakir (which means the Desert of Death, or Desolation of Abomination), and his insurgents were overwhelmed, shattered, obliterated, by the disciplined western mercenaries of Sir Tury Hawkwind. Wounded, he and Nassef survived only by hiding in a cave with the dead, drinking their own urine, till the enemy gave up and went away.

  But survive they did, to rally the faithful again.

  There was a third boy, Bragi Ragnarson, from the farthest north, a fugitive whose flight brought him and his brother south to enlist with the mercenaries. His company took service with Haroun's father. And so his life became mixed with that of Haroun, whom he rescued from death several times.

  El Murid learned many lessons from the disaster at Wadi el Kuf, the greatest of which was to leave generaling to generals. In their hands his movement grew ever stronger, despite the ingenuity of Haroun's father and his captains. Haroun's family and followers were forced to abandon their province for Al Rhemish.

  In time, El Murid moved against King and capital again, this time in small parties, following little-known trails. He attacked immediately, at night, and though outnumbered, panicked Al Rhemish's defenders.

  Bragi, Haroun, and a handful of others attempted to break out of the killing trap-only to collide head-on with the Disciple and his household.

  In the struggle that ensued El Murid's wife was slain, Haroun met the Disciple's daughter Yasmid momentarily, and the Royalists broke free. And Haroun knew that he was the last surviving member of the family with a blood claim upon the throne of Hammad al Nakir. He had become the man forever after known as The King Without A Throne.

  He and Bragi, an army of two, fled into the desert with the Scourge of God at their heels, seeking vengeance for the death of his sister.

  El Murid had brought his faith to a desert empire. But the struggle was not done.

  All this was told inThe Fire in His Hands. Now beginsWith Mercy Towards None.

  Chapter One:

  THE DISCIPLE

  The moon splashed silver on the waste. The scrubby desert bushes looked like djinn squatting motionless, casting long shadows. There was no breeze. The scents of animals and men long unwashed hung heavy on the air. Though the raiders were still, waiting, their breathing and fidgeting drowned the scattered sounds of the night.

  Micah al Rhami, called El Murid, the Disciple, concluded his prayer and dismissed his captains. His brother-in-law, Nassef, whom he had given the title Scourge of God, rode to the ridgeline a quarter mile away. Beyond lay Al Rhemish, capital of the desert kingdom Hammad al Nakir, site of the Most Holy Mrazkim Shrines, the center of the desert religion.

  Micah eased his mount nearer that of his wife Meryem. "The moment is at hand. After so long. I can't believe it."

  For twelve years he had battled the minions of the Evil One. For twelve years he had struggled to reshape and rekindle the faith of the people of Hammad al Nakir. Time and again the shadow had forestalled foundation of his Kingdom of Peace. Yet he had persevered in his God-given mission. And here he was, on the brink of triumph.

  Meryem squeezed his hand. "Don't be afraid. The Lord is with us."

  He lied, "I'm not afraid." In truth, he was terrified. Four years earlier, at Wadi el Kuf, the Royalists had slain two-thirds of his followers. He and Nassef had survived only by cowering in a fox den for days, poisoning themselves with their own urine to stave off thirst, while he battled the agony of a broken arm. The pain and terror and exhaustion had branded themselves on his soul. He still sweated cold when he recalled Wadi el Kuf.

  "The Lord is with us," Meryem said again. "I saw his angel."

  "You did?" He was startled. No one else ever saw the angel who had chosen him Instrument of the Lord in this struggle for Truth.

  "Crossing the moon a few minutes ago, riding a winged horse, just the way you described him."

  "The Lord was with us at el Aswad," he said, fighting bitterness. Just months earlier, while besieging the fortress of his most savage enemy, Yousif, the Wahlig of el Aswad, he had fallen victim to a shagh–n's curse. The Wahlig's own son, Haroun, had cast a spell of pain. He could not shake it because a prime tenet of his Movement was total abjuration of sorcery.

  "The children saw him too, Micah."

  The Disciple glanced at his offspring. His son Sidi nodded, as always determinedly unimpressed. But his daughter, who yet bore no name, still had awe sparkling in her eyes. "He's up there, Father. We can't fail."

  El Murid's nerves settled some. The angel had promised to help, but he had doubted... He doubted. The very Champion of the Lord, and he doubted. The shadow kept insinuating itself into his heart. "Just a few days, little one, and you'll have your name."

  The Disciple had come to Al Rhemish
once before, long ago, when the girl was but an infant. He had meant to proclaim the Lord's Word during the High Holy Days of Disharhun, and to christen his daughter on Massad, the most important Holy Day. The minions of the Dark One, the Royalists who ruled Hammad al Nakir, had accused him falsely of assaulting Yousif's son, Haroun. He had been condemned to exile. Meryem had sworn that her daughter would bear no name till it could be given on another Massad, in Most Holy Mrazkim Shrines liberated from the heretic. Disharhun was but days away. "Thank you, Papa. I think Uncle Nassef is coming."

  "So he is."

  Nassef swung in beside El Murid, thigh to thigh. Thus it had been from the beginning. Meryem and Nassef had been his first converts-though Nassef seemed more ambitious than dedicated to a dream. "Lot of them down there," Nassef said.

  "We expected that. Disharhun is close. You heard from your agents?" Nassef deserved his title. His tactics were innovative, his fighting savage, and his espionage activities cunning. He had agents in the Royal Tent itself.

  "Uhm." Nassef spread a rolled parchment map. "We're here, on the eastern rim." The capital lay at the center of a large bowllike valley. "King Aboud's people are camped in no special order. They aren't suspicious. All the nobility have gathered at the King's quarters tonight. Our agents will attack when we do. The serpent should lose its head in the first breath of battle."

  The Disciple squinted in the moonlight. "These things you have marked? What are they?"

  "That's Hawkwind's camp on the far side." The Disciple shuddered. The mercenary Hawkwind had commanded enemy forces at Wadi el Kuf. His name stirred an almost pathological fear. "This by the Royal Compound is Yousif's camp. I thought both deserved special attention."

  "Indeed. Catch me that brat of Yousif's. I want him to take his curse off me."

  "Without fail, Lord. I'm assigning an entire company to the Wahlig's camp. None will escape."

  "Meryem says she saw my angel. The children did too. He is with us tonight, Nassef."

  The Scourge of God eyed him uncertainly. His faith, the Disciple suspected, was entirely of the lip. "Then we can't fail, can we?" Nassef gripped his shoulder momentarily. "Soon, Micah. Soon."

  "Go, then. Begin."

  "I'll send a messenger when we take the Shrines."

  The sounds of battle reflected off the walls of the valley. They could not be heard outside. The voices of nightbirds were louder. One had to go to the rim to hear fighting. El Murid stood there staring at the soft glow of the amulet he wore on his left wrist. His angel had given it to him long ago. With it he could call down lightning from a cloudless sky. He was wondering if he would have to aid Nassef with its power.

  Little was visible from his vantage. Only a few fires speckled the soupy darkness below. "How do you think it's going?" he asked Meryem. "I wish Nassef would send a messenger." He was frightened. This was a long chance taken on one pass of the dice. The enemy was vastly more powerful. "Maybe I should go down."

  "Nassef is too busy to waste men reassuring us." Meryem watched the sky. War she had seen before, often. Her husband's angel, never. Till tonight she'd never entirely believed.

  The Disciple grew increasingly uneasy, becoming convinced the battle was going badly. Each time he rode with his warriors something went wrong... Well, not every time. Way back, when his daughter was an infant, he and Nassef had overrun Sebil el Selib in a night attack not unlike this. Sebil el Selib boasted the most important religious center outside Al Rhemish. From that victory all else had grown.

  "Come relax," Meryem said. "You can't do anything here but upset yourself." She led him back through his white-robed Invincible bodyguards, to a mass of boulders where his household waited. Some were sleeping.

  How could they? They might have to run at any moment... He snorted. They slept now because they knew they would be in flight a long time if the battle went badly.

  He, Meryem, and Sidi dismounted. His daughter rode off to inspect the pickets. "She's got the el Habib blood," he told Meryem. "Only twelve and already she's a little Nassef."

  Meryem settled on a pallet provided by a servant. "Sit with me. Rest. Sidi, be a dear and see if Althafa made that lemon water." Meryem snuggled against her husband. "Chilly tonight."

  His nerves had steadied. He smiled. "What would I do without you? Look. The bowl is starting to glow." He tried to rise. Meryem pulled him down.

  "Relax. You hovering won't speed things. How do you feel?"

  "Feel?"

  "Any pain?"

  "Not much. A few aches."

  "Good. I don't like Esmat drugging you."

  If there was anything he disliked about Meryem, it was her nagging about his physician. This time he ignored her. "Give me a kiss."

  "Here? People will see."

  "I'm the Disciple. I can do what I want." He snickered.

  "Beast." She kissed him, sneezed. "Your beard. I wonder what's keeping Sidi?"

  "Probably waiting for the lemon water to be made."

  "Althafa is a lazy slut. I'll go see."

  El Murid leaned back. "Don't dawdle." He closed his eyes and, to his surprise, felt sleep stealing up.

  Screams startled him awake. Where?... How long had he dozed? A strong glow from the valley now... Shouts. Cries of fear. Charging horsemen limned against the glow, like demons storming from the fires of Hell, swords slashing...

  He staggered to his feet, sleep-fuddled, trying to recall where he had left his sword. "Meryem! Sidi! Where are you?"

  Must be fifty of the enemy. Coming straight at him. The Invincibles were too scattered to stop them. Already they were slaughtering his household.

  The old terror seized him. He could think of nothing but flight. But there was no flying, as there had been none after Wadi el Kuf. He could not outrun a horseman. He had to hide...

  A child ran toward him, crying. "Sidi!" he bellowed, fear forgotten.

  A horseman swerved toward the boy. Another horse flashed in from the side. "Girl! You fool," El Murid breathed as his daughter blocked the enemy rider. She paused an instant, face to face, while Sidi raced for the rocks.

  "Meryem!" His wife was running through the thick of it, chasing Sidi. The rider slid past the girl, slashed. Meryem cried out, stumbled, fell, began dragging herself toward the rocks.

  "No!" With no better weapon at hand, El Murid hurled a stone. It missed. But for an instant Meryem's attacker looked his way.

  "Haroun bin Yousif!" He swore. Then, "But who else?" His old enemies were always close. Yousif's family were the Evil One's leading champions. This youth had begun doing him evil at age six, when he had caused a horse to throw him. He had broken an ankle in the fall. It pained him still.

  His amulet flared, bidding him call down the lightning and end this persistent plague.

  The Invincibles beset Haroun and his henchmen. El Murid lost track of the action. It drifted away as the Invincibles regained their composure. They outnumbered the attackers considerably. A half dozen remained around the Disciple and his wife.

  He clutched Meryem to him, ignoring the blood wetting his clothing. He thought her gone till she squeaked, "I did it this time, didn't I?"

  Startled, he laughed through his tears. "Yes. You did. Esmat! Where are you, Esmat?" He grabbed an Invincible. "Get the physician. Now!"

  They found Esmat cowering in the shadow of an overhang, behind a pile of baggage, and dragged him forth. They were not gentle. They flung him down at the Disciple's feet.

  "Esmat, Meryem is hurt. One of those hellspawn... Fix her up, Esmat."

  "Lord, I... "

  "Esmat, be still. Do what you're told." El Murid's voice was hard and cold. The physician got hold of himself, turned to Meryem. He was closer to his master than any man but the Scourge of God. Closer, in many ways. His master might collapse if he lost his wife. El Murid's faith, huge as it was, was not sufficient to keep him going.

  Nassef rode up to where his brother-in-law paced. "We've won, Lord!" he enthused. "We've taken Al Rhemish. We've occupied th
e Mrazkim Shrines. They outnumbered us ten to one, but panic hit them like a plague. Even the mercenaries ran." Nassef glanced at the moon as though wondering if some high night rider hadn't stirred the panic on behalf of his chosen instrument. He shivered. He abhorred the supernatural. "Micah, will you stand still?"

  "Huh?" The Disciple noticed Nassef for the first time. "What's that?"

  The Scourge of God dismounted. He was a lean, hard, darkly handsome man of thirty who bore the scars of many battles. He was a general who rode at the head of a charge. "What's the matter, Micah? Damnit, stand still and talk to me."

  "They attacked us."

  "Here?"

  "The Wahlig's brat. Haroun. And the foreigner, Megelin Radetic. They knew exactly where to come." El Murid gestured, indicating the casualties. "Sixty-two dead, Nassef. Good people. Some were with us from the beginning."

  "Fortune is a fickle bitch, Micah. They fled, and by chance stumbled onto you. Unpleasant, but these accidents happen in war."

  "There are no accidents, Nassef. The Lord and the shadow contend, and we move at their behest. They tried to kill Sidi. Meryem... " He broke into tears. "What will I do without her, Nassef? She is my strength. My rock. Why does the Lord demand such sacrifices?"

  Nassef wasn't listening. He was gone, seeking his sister. His stride was strong and his voice angry. The Disciple stumbled after him.

  Meryem was conscious. She smiled weakly, but did not say anything. The physician shook while Nassef questioned him. The Scourge of God had a quick temper and grim reputation. El Murid knelt, took his wife's hand. Tears filled his eyes.

  "Not so bad," Nassef said. "I've seen many a man survive worse." He patted his sister's shoulder. She flinched. She had refused Esmat's painkillers. "You'll be up for the girl's naming, little sister." His hand settled on the Disciple's shoulder, gripping so tightly El Murid almost cried out. "They will pay for this, brother. I promise." He beckoned an Invincible. "Find Hadj." Hadj was El Murid's chief bodyguard. "I'll give him a chance to rectify his lapse." The Invincible gaped.

  "Now, man." Nassef's voice was low, but so hard the warrior ran. Nassef said, "We lost a lot of men. Won't be able to follow through. Wish I could go after the mercenaries. Micah, go ahead into the city. The Shrines and Royal Compound should be cleaned by the time you get there."