Surrender to the Will of the Night - By Glen Cook Page 0,109

had any intention of storming the unassailable, even had the martyr performed his task ideally. Gherig without Black Rogert would be immune to storm, anyway. But Nassim had not anticipated the scope of the destruction, despite having seen firepowder used against Arn Bedu. His interest was the murder of one man. The rest was beyond his ability to imagine. And he had lost control of his fighters.

The inexperienced militia, especially, surrendered to the excitement and noise.

Gherig had stood immune to storm or siege for all time. That did not change. But later it would be argued that the fortress survived only because the troops besieging Tel Moussa broke away to save it. Their counterattacks forced the Lucidians to leave. But the final tally was: advantage Lucidia. The siege of Tel Moussa had been broken. It would not resume. Gherig had been forced onto the defensive. Several Brotherhood knights died in the explosions. More perished in the fighting afterward.

Rogert du Tancret had been rushing in to celebrate his coup when the firepowder went up. The wicked knight lost his hearing, his sense of balance, and his ability to give sensible commands.

He would recover. But he had enemies among the crusaders as well as the Believers. The Brotherhood ordered him out of Gherig, his disabilities being the excuse. Rogert tried to refuse. He was too damaged to resist the men who took him away.

The Mountain returned to Tel Moussa. The besieged received him with cheers and dramatic gestures of gratitude. Basking in the adulation, he told young Az, “Rogert will really be angry, now. He’ll find some way to do us evil. We need more.”

“Evil is what men do. That one more than most. But you’ve enjoyed successes beyond my granduncle’s dearest hopes.”

“Successes? I don’t see many, boy.”

“The great roc of evil has been flushed from his nest, General. Black Rogert is out of Gherig, where no power of this earth could bring a blade close enough to strike. His own people forced him out of his shell. He can be reached, now. Half the Arnhanders probably hope that he is.” Then young Az asked, “What did you mean, ‘We need more’?”

“More fighters. More weapons. More animals. And, more than anything else, more money. Parsimonious as I am, according to some, I’ve exhausted my war chest.” Nassim Alizarin did have a reputation for being frugal. But he had not been reluctant to invest in falcons and firepowder. Especially firepowder. And now that was gone.

He had learned the lesson of Arn Bedu better than most. He wished someone among the Believers knew the secret of the stuff. Believers who were not er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen. He had only one source for firepowder and that was way out in the Realm of War. Every keg cost dearly.

It was good powder, though.

Azir said, “Having seen what the stuff can do, I’ll back you up.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I said I’d back you up. You’ll have to go to Shamramdi to press your case.”

Nassim did not want to do that. After all his time in the wilderness, some spent inside the terror of the Idiam, he had little drive left. The hatred stirred by Hagid’s murder had not deserted him, but it had become less compelling. Other interests found room in his heart. He had located the concept of relaxation, though not the skills to manage it.

Nassim said, “I’m a cripple. Too long obsessed. I couldn’t function in a normal court.”

“That may be,” Azir admitted. “We’ll find out this winter.” In a confidential whisper, “My granduncle will begin the liberation of the Holy Lands come spring grasses.”

Nassim sighed. He was exhausted. He did not have much left. And still his allies insisted he use what remained against everyone but those who had made of him their deadliest enemy.

20. Realm of the Gods: Time and Tide

The Ninth Unknown felt the weight of each of his years, though he had forgotten all but the most interesting. Nor was he sure his recollections of those were trustworthy. Could anyone be so old? And he was in little better shape than he had been on escaping the Realm of the Gods.

This time he had worn himself out trying to find the son of Arlensul.

* * *

The ascendant, in human form, joined Cloven Februaren in a place Aelen Kofer magic had made over into a tavern. Into the idea, or dream, or soul, of a tavern. Never did a more taverny tavern enter Februaren’s life. There were people and dwarves and, for