Again moisture collected in the corners of Haroun's eyes. He smote the ferns. He couldn't become homesick! It was too late for unproductive emotion. He turned the conversation to cities Bragi had visited. Megelin Radetic had come from Hellin Daimiel.
Shadows were growing in the canyon bottom when Ragnarson said, "Don't look like we're going to have visitors today. I'm going to set some snares. You can eat squirrel, can't you?"
Haroun managed a feeble smile. Bragi was baffled by the dietary laws. "Yes."
"Hallelujah. Why don't you find a place to camp?"
Unbent by the sarcasm, Haroun levered himself upright, leaned on the fallen tree. Amazing, the changes in life. A king, and he had to do for himself. He'd never had to when he was a Wahlig's fourth son.
"People up ahead," Ragnarson said. Haroun raised a questioning eyebrow. "Can't you smell the smoke?"
"No. But I believe you." Twice Bragi had taken detours around mountain hamlets, not trusting the natives.
Inimical or not, their presence was reassuring. Civilization could not be far.
"I'll go scout it out."
"All right." Close now. So close. But to what? Though they had pushed less hard since deciding the Scourge of God had given up, Haroun remained too weary, too depressed, to determine a future course.
Get away from Nassef. Get over the mountains. One down and the other almost accomplished. Vaguely, somewhere in the mists: hammer the Royalist ideal into a weapon that would destroy the Disciple and his bandit captains. But he knew no specifics, had no neat plan ready to unveil. He was tempted to follow Ragnarson when he rejoined his mercenary brethren.
Bragi certainly smelled the end of their flight. He kept talking about getting back to his unit, to his brother, or at least to Guild headquarters at High Crag, where they would know what had become of Hawkwind's companies.
Haroun wanted to be a king less than Bragi wanted to be a soldier. Become a mercenary? Really? It would be a life circumscribed by clearly stated rules. He would know where he stood. "Foolish," he whispered. Destiny had assigned him a role. He couldn't shed it simply because he didn't like it.
Ragnarson returned. "About twenty of your people up there. Almost as ragged as we are. Couldn't tell if they'd be friendly or not. You go take a look."
"Uhm." They should be friendly. El Murid's partisans had no cause to cross the mountains. He crept forward, eavesdropped.
They were Royalists. They had no better idea where they were than did he and Ragnarson. But they did know there were refugee camps somewhere nearby. A chain of camps had been financed by the Wahlig of el Aswad and his friends, at the suggestion of Megelin Radetic, back when it had become apparent that the Disciple was a serious threat.
Haroun stole back and told Bragi, "They're friends. We ought to join forces."
The northerner looked dubious.
"We wouldn't have to worry about natives anymore."
"Maybe. But after what I've been through I don't trust anybody."
"I'll talk to them."
"But... "
"I'm going."
"Hey," Haroun said. "There's one of my father's captains. Beloul! Hey! Over here!" He waved.
They had been in camp half an hour. The two boys had collapsed and been forgotten. Haroun had wandered dazedly, unable to believe he'd made it, looking for someone he knew. Ragnarson had tagged along, eyeing everyone warily.
The man called Beloul set his axe aside, stared. His face blossomed. "My Lord!"
Haroun flung himself at the man. "I thought everybody was dead."
"Almost. I'd feared for you as well. But I had faith in the teacher. And I was right. Here you are."
Haroun's face clouded. "Megelin didn't make it. He died of wounds. Here. You remember Bragi Ragnarson? One of Hawkwind's men? He saved my life at the salt lake, and during the siege of el Aswad? Well, he did it again at Al Rhemish. He got cut off from his outfit." Haroun could not shut up. "Bragi, this is Beloul. He was one of the garrison at Sebil el Selib when El Murid attacked it way back when."
"I remember seeing him around el Aswad."
"He was the only survivor. He joined my father and was one of his best captains."
Bragi asked, "How do I get to High Crag from here? Soon as I rest up a little... " They were not listening.
"Everyone! Everyone!" Beloul shouted. "The King! Hail the King!"
"Oh, don't do that," Haroun pleaded. And, "We got lost in the mountains. I thought we'd never get through."
Beloul kept shouting. People gathered, but with little enthusiasm. Fear and despair stamped every weary face.
"Who else made it, Beloul?"
"Too early to tell. I haven't been here long myself. Where is the teacher?"
Haroun scowled. The man was not listening. "He didn't make it. They all died, except a couple kids. The Scourge of God himself was after us. Took us a month to shake him."
"Sorry to hear it. We could use the old man's counsel."
"I know. It's a weak trade, Megelin for a crown. He saved me for a kingship. So what am I king of? This isn't much. I'm the poorest monarch who ever lived."
"Not so. Tell him," Beloul appealed to the refugees.
Some nodded. Some shook their heads. Which depended on what each thought was expected.
"Your father's party established dozens of camps, Lord. You'll have a people and an army."
"An army? Aren't you tired of fighting, Beloul?"
"El Murid still lives." For Beloul that was answer enough. While El Murid lived Sebil el Selib and his family remained unavenged. He had been at war for twelve years. He would remain so as long as the Disciple survived. "I'll send word to the other camps. We'll see what we have before we start planning."
"Got messengers going west," Bragi said, "let me go along. All right?" No one answered. He spat irritably.
Haroun said, "Right now I'm content just to be here. I'm exhausted, Beloul. Put me to sleep somewhere."
He slept and loafed for three days. Then, so stiff he could barely walk, he left his hut and surveyed his new domain.
The camp surrounded a peak in the northern Kapenrungs. So many trees! He could not get used to the trees. When he stared through gaps created by axes, he saw an endless array of forest. It disturbed him as much as the desert disturbed Ragnarson.
He hadn't seen the mercenary for a while. What had become of him?
Beloul reported, "Forty-three people came in today, Lord. The mountains are crawling with refugees."
"Can we handle them?"
"The teacher's friend knew what he was doing. He put in the right tools and stores."
"Even so, we should move some out. This is a resting place, not the end of the journey." He glanced at the peak. Beloul was erecting blockhouses and a palisade. "Where's my friend?"
"He left with the westbound courier. Very determined lad. Wanted to get back to his own people."
For a moment Haroun felt vacant. The time of flight had created a bond. He would miss the big northerner. "I owe him my life three times, Beloul. And I'm powerless to do anything in return."
"I let him have a horse, Lord."
Haroun scowled. Not much of a reward. Then he indicated the fortifications. "Why all that?"
"We'll need bases when we start striking into Hammad al Nakir. Al Rhemish isn't that far."
"If you know the way through."
Beloul smiled. "True."
Haroun looked at the trees, at the river coursing along the foot of the mountain. It was hard to believe his homeland wasn't far away. "It's so peaceful here, Beloul."
"Only for a while, Lord."
"I know. The world will catch up."
Chapter Three:
THE FAT BOY
S weat rolled off the fat boy. He sat in the dust and mutely cursed the Master. This was the season for the north, not the boiling, rain-plagued delta of the Roe. Necremnos had been bad in springtime, Throyes worse a month ago. Argon, in summer, was Hell. The old man was crazy.