Nassim raged around the way he would if every bit were true. And raged even more in frustration over the desultory response in camp. No one seemed inclined to do anything. They all wanted to talk. Those who knew the boy from back home were adamant. He would never do what he seemed to have done.
Cursed by their commander, most of the company finally howled off after a traitor. As Nassim had hoped.
The pursuit had to be loud and it had to be real. Otherwise, Black Rogert’s sixth sense would save him again.
Nassim joined the chase, though he only followed, at a pace suitable for an older man.
The martyr’s lead was, of course, insurmountable, though a couple of bucks from the boy’s own town almost caught him by killing their horses.
Nassim Alizarin was himself in sight of Gherig-and of Tel Moussa and the weakened siege lines around it-when the act played out.
The martyr talked his way into Gherig, steps ahead of men obviously determined to murder him. One of those shrieked when hit by an arrow from the barbican wall.
The Mountain did not know when the plan went wrong. He just knew that six camel loads of firepowder, nearly half a ton, cooked off before the martyr could possibly have penetrated the fortress proper.
The massive barbican, larger than the tower at Tel Moussa, came down majestically, the collapse mostly hidden inside a dust cloud of mythic proportion.
“Damn,” Nassim swore under his breath. “Too soon. Too damned soon. No way Black Rogert was close enough.”
He spoke without thinking, focused on Gherig, totally.
“Excuse me?” Azir asked. His tone demanded further explanation.
Nassim obliged. The secret needed no keeping, now.
Riders charged the spreading dust cloud, rushed into it. The spontaneous assault carried the ruins and captured the still lowered bridge over the perilous dry moat splitting the rock between the barbican and Gherig proper.
The Mountain never 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 a few brief minutes, one of the daring mer. Loud talk, ribaldry. A potent, all-pervasive impression that this must be a place far away from anywhere that an honest man would want to be. A place to leave other worlds behind.
Could it be another pocket world?
No. Like so much the Aelen Kofer wrought the tavern was almost entirely illusion.
“Irrelevant,” the ascendant said. “How have you fared?”
“I’ve made my mark in the middle world. As a failure. I’ve successfully identified ten thousand places where our man is not. That, by the way, is a fact? Arlensul birthed a son?” It would be embarrassing if he had overlooked a daughter through assumption.
“Yes. A son. As the legends say.” The ascendant had learned to waste no time responding to, or even acknowledging, what he perceived as the Ninth Unknown’s provocations.
“Why did you want to meet here? So I can validate the quality of the brew? I can’t do that, brother. These dwarves like it too thick and bitter.”
He lied. The beer was astonishingly good, especially for somewhere so far out in the wilds that it was in another world. But, no doubt, the brew would be perfection to any taste.
The ascendant shrugged, indifferent. “The Aelen Kofer are supple artificers. The beer is perfect. Any failing will be found in the drinker. I want you to meet some people.”
Cloven Februaren downed a pint, quickly. “Tasty.” He considered asking for another. Probably not wise. He was feeling that last already. “All right. Lead on.”
The ascendant, in Svavar-form, did so. Out of the tavern, toward the great barge.