Book 4 - The Fire in His Hands by Glen Cook

Megelin told his employer. “You should have murdered them. Then it would’ve
    been over this week, and in a year he would have been forgotten.”
    Despite his earlier speech about the emotions involved, Yousif seemed stunned by the
    reaction of the Disciple’s followers. He could not comprehend being so hated by people who did not know him. So the human tragedy goes, men hating without trying to understand, and unable
    to understand why they are hated.
    Later in the week, Radetic cautioned his employer. “There was planning behind this. They
    anticipated you. Did you happen to notice that neither one of them really tried to defend
    himself? Especially Nassef? He never said a word through the whole trial. I think you’ve created a couple of martyrs, and I think you did exactly what they wanted you to do.”
    “Are you listening, Haroun?” the Wahlig asked. He was keeping the boy close. There were
    people in the streets who wanted to lay hands on him. “Nassef. He’s the dangerous one.”
    “This rioting will spread,” Radetic predicted. “It’ll begin to show elements of class struggle, too. Common folk, artisans and merchants against priests and nobles.”
    Yousif looked at him oddly.
    “I may not understand faith, Yousif. But I understand politics, vested interests and promises for tomorrow.”
    “What can they do?” Fuad demanded. “A handful of outlaws? The Little Devil’s scattered
    converts? We can hunt them down like wounded jackals.”
    “I’m afraid Megelin might be right, Fuad. I think Aboud overdid it. He took away their pride.
    You can’t do that to a man. He has to save face somehow. We sent them out like whipped dogs.
    They have to hit back. At least, Nassef does. He’s the one with the ego. Think. What would you do if we’d done the same to you?”
    Fuad did not think long. He replied, “I see.”
    Radetic added, “Messiahs tend to take what comes, I think. They see the abuse as part of
    their witnessing. I’ve begun to think the jihad El Murid preaches is a metaphoric concept, that he doesn’t really see it in terms of blood and death. Not the way Nassef would look at it.”
    “Still,” said Fuad, “all we have to do is go kill them if they try something.”
    Yousif replied, “I think I can guarantee that Nassef will. We’ll just have to judge his strength and try to anticipate him. And, of course, try to kill him. But I have a gut feeling that he won’t let us. I have an audience with Aboud tonight. I’d better light a fire under him.”
    The King, unfortunately, shared Fuad’s thinking. For him the El Murid matter was closed.
    Yousif and Radetic fussed and worried and, even so, were no less stunned when the blow
    finally fell.
    Even they had grossly underestimated Nassef.

Chapter Three
    A Minor Squabble in Another Land and Time
    Twenty-three warriors stalked through falling snow, their shoulders downed with white. Ice
    stiffened the mustaches of those who had them. Towering pines loomed ahead, but here ancient
    oaks surrounded them like a convocation of gnarled, antlered frost giants squatting, dreaming of blood and fire. Snow masked the altar stone where the priests of the Old Gods had ripped the
    hearts from screaming virgins. Two boys, Bragi and Haaken, turtled their heads against their
    shoulders and hurried past.
    The trailbreakers fought the deep, soft new snow in iron silence. An arctic wind drove frozen daggers through the heaviest clothing.
    Bragi and Haaken had just begun to sport scraggly beards. Some of their companions had
    winter-white hair. Harald the Half had no shield arm. Yet each man wore the horn helm. Old
    and young, they were warriors.
    They had a cause.
    The wind moaned, winging the sad call of a wolf. Bragi shuddered. Some of his companions
    would be wolf meat soon.
    His father Ragnar raised a hand. They stopped. “Smoke,” said the man known across
    Trolledyngja as the Wolf of Draukenbring.
    The odor drifted thinly from among the pines. They were