Free Book 4 - The Fire in His Hands by Glen Cook Page A

there to say? At such a parting, probably
    forever, there were no words to convey true feelings. Language was the tool of commerce, not
    love.
    “And take care of Haaken. Bring him home.” No doubt she had told Haaken the same thing.
    She pulled away, unclasped a locket she had worn for as long as Bragi could remember. She
    fastened it round his neck. “If you have no other hope, take this to the House of Bastanos in the Street of the Dolls in Hellin Daimiel. Give it to the concierge, as an introduction to the lord of that house. He’ll send it inside. One of the partners will come to question you. Tell him:
    ‘Elhabe an dantice, elhabe an cawine.
    Ci hibde clarice, elhabe an savan.
    Ci magden trebil, elhabe din bachel.’
    He’ll understand.”
    She made him repeat the verse till she was sure he had memorized it.
    “Good. No more can be done. Just don’t trust anyone you don’t have to. And come home as
    soon as you can. I’ll be here waiting.”
    She kissed him. In public. She had not done that since he had been a toddler. Then she
    kissed Haaken. She had never done that at all. Before either could react, she ordered, “Now go.
    While you can. Before we look more foolish than we already do.”
    Bragi shouldered his pack and started toward Kamer Strotheide. Their way led round its
    knee. Sometimes he looked up toward Ragnar’s cairn. Only once did he look back.
    The women and children and old people were abandoning the steading that had been home
    to generations. Most would flee to relatives elsewhere. A lot of people were on the move during these times of trouble. They should be able to disappear and elude the spite of the Pretender’s men.
    He wondered where his mother would go . . .
    Forever afterward he wished that, like Haaken, he had refused to look. He could, then, have
    remembered Draukenbring as a place alive, as a last hope and refuge quietly awaiting him in the northland.

Chapter Four
    A Clash of Sabers
    Nassef looked back once. Heat waves made the bowl of Al Rhemish a tent city writhing beneath
    dancing ghosts. A muted roar echoed from the valley. He smiled. “Karim,” he called gently.
    A hard-looking man whose face had been scarred by the pox joined him. “Sir?”
    “Go back down there. Visit our people. The ones who met us when we came in. Tell them to
    keep the riots going. Tell them I need an extended distraction. And tell them to pick five
    hundred willing warriors and send them after us. In small groups, so they’re not noticed leaving.
    Understand?”
    “Yes.” Karim smiled. He was missing two front teeth. Another was broken at an angle. He
    was an old rogue. He had seen his battles. Even his gray-speckled beard seemed war torn.
    Nassef watched Karim descend the stony slope. The former bandit was one of their more
    valuable converts. Nassef was sure Karim’s value would increase as the struggle widened and
    became more bitter.
    He swung his mount and trotted after his sister and brother-in-law.
    El Murid’s party consisted of almost fifty people. Most were bodyguards, his white-robed
    Invincibles, who had been guaranteed a place in Paradise if they died in El Murid’s behalf.
    They made Nassef uneasy. They had eyes madder than those of their prophet. They were
    fanatically devoted. El Murid had had to bend the full might of his will to keep them from
    storming the Royal Compound after the trial.
    Nassef assumed his post at El Murid’s right hand. “It went better than we hoped,” he said.
    “The boy’s attack was a godsend.”
    “Indeed it was. To tell the truth, Nassef, I was reluctant to do it your way. But only the
    intercession of the Lord Himself could have made it so easy. Only He could have brought about an attack so timely.”
    “I’m sorry about the ankle. Does it bother you much?”
    “It pains me terribly. But I can endure it. Yassir gave me an herbal for the pain, and bound
    it. If I stay off it, I’ll be good as new before long.”
    “During that farce of a