despair, and blessed misery," Kildragon chided. "Come in out of the fog and look around, Haaken. Take a gander at them girls. Check the look in their eyes. I mean, they're ready to attack." He waved at the nearest.
"Sanguinet's going to... "
A girl rushed Reskird. She shoved flowers into his hands, fell into step beside him. She chattered. Kildragon chattered back. Lack of a common tongue didn't hamper communication.'
Haaken's jaw dropped. He pasted on a sickly smile and started waving. "Hello, hello," he croaked.
"Smooth," Bragi observed. "You're a real sweet talker, little brother." He straightened his pack and tried to look appealing without showing off. They had given him his squad leader's post back, provisionally, because Haaken would not keep it in his stead. He was supposed to show a certain decorum.
He caught his captain watching him. Sanguinet wore an amused smirk. For reasons Ragnarson could not comprehend he had become a pet project of Sanguinet's soon after he had enlisted. That did not make life easier. Sanguinet rode him harder than he did anyone else.
They had stumbled into soldier's heaven. The drinking was free, the women were easy, the people were desperate to please, and the duty was light. For the first time Bragi found himself enjoying soldiering.
The idyll lasted two weeks.
The horizons were masked by smoke. Nassef's warriors were not charitable conquerers. Anything they could not drive off or carry away they burned or killed. The Scourge of God appeared to be developing a vicious image deliberately.
"Sure are a lot of them," Bragi observed.
"Too many," Haaken said.
The Scourge of God had been closing in for days. Only a few outlying strongholds remained unsubdued.
"Must be a hundred thousand of them," Reskird guessed.
He was not overestimating much. The excitement of war and easy plunder had penetrated Hammad al Nakir's nethermost reaches. Thousands who cared not a fig for El Murid's revelations had answered his call to arms.
They might doubt his religious pretensions and social tinkering, but they loved his message of Imperial redemption and dominance, of historical rectification. The west had brought Ilkazar low. Now the hammer was in the other hand.
Reskird was having trouble concealing his trepidation. "Tents like whitecaps on the sea," he murmured.
"Horses can't climb walls," Bragi reminded. And, "We'll make chopped meat out of them if they storm us."
Simballawein's defenders numbered twenty-five hundred Guildsmen and ten thousand experienced native troops. The Grand Council had armed a horde of city folk as well, but their value was doubtful. Even so, General Hawkwind believed he could ensure the city's safety.
"Something will go wrong," Haaken prophesied.
For once his pessimism proved well-founded.
Nassef had laid his groundwork early and well. His agents had performed perfectly. The attack began straightforwardly, concentrating on the south walls, which were held by native troops and city militia. Hordes of desert warriors rushed in to perish beneath the ramparts. As Bragi had observed, it was not their kind of warfare. The few engines they had bothered to build were almost laughably crude and vulnerable.
But Nassef knew his troops. That was why he had begun sugaring the path long before the invasion began.
In Simballawein, as everywhere, there was a breed of man loyal only to gold, and a class interested only in the political main chance. Nassef's agents had structured a pro-El Murid government-in-waiting from the latter. The quislings had used desert gold to hire desperadoes willing to betray their city.
They attacked Simballawein's South Gate from within, while its defenders were preoccupied with the attack from without. They opened the gate.
Scimitars flashed. Horsemen howled through the gateway. Iron-shod hooves sent sparks flying from cobbled streets. Arrows streaked from saddle-bows.
Arrows and javelins answered from windows and rooftops, but the unskilled
"Sanguinet's going to... "
A girl rushed Reskird. She shoved flowers into his hands, fell into step beside him. She chattered. Kildragon chattered back. Lack of a common tongue didn't hamper communication.'
Haaken's jaw dropped. He pasted on a sickly smile and started waving. "Hello, hello," he croaked.
"Smooth," Bragi observed. "You're a real sweet talker, little brother." He straightened his pack and tried to look appealing without showing off. They had given him his squad leader's post back, provisionally, because Haaken would not keep it in his stead. He was supposed to show a certain decorum.
He caught his captain watching him. Sanguinet wore an amused smirk. For reasons Ragnarson could not comprehend he had become a pet project of Sanguinet's soon after he had enlisted. That did not make life easier. Sanguinet rode him harder than he did anyone else.
They had stumbled into soldier's heaven. The drinking was free, the women were easy, the people were desperate to please, and the duty was light. For the first time Bragi found himself enjoying soldiering.
The idyll lasted two weeks.
The horizons were masked by smoke. Nassef's warriors were not charitable conquerers. Anything they could not drive off or carry away they burned or killed. The Scourge of God appeared to be developing a vicious image deliberately.
"Sure are a lot of them," Bragi observed.
"Too many," Haaken said.
The Scourge of God had been closing in for days. Only a few outlying strongholds remained unsubdued.
"Must be a hundred thousand of them," Reskird guessed.
He was not overestimating much. The excitement of war and easy plunder had penetrated Hammad al Nakir's nethermost reaches. Thousands who cared not a fig for El Murid's revelations had answered his call to arms.
They might doubt his religious pretensions and social tinkering, but they loved his message of Imperial redemption and dominance, of historical rectification. The west had brought Ilkazar low. Now the hammer was in the other hand.
Reskird was having trouble concealing his trepidation. "Tents like whitecaps on the sea," he murmured.
"Horses can't climb walls," Bragi reminded. And, "We'll make chopped meat out of them if they storm us."
Simballawein's defenders numbered twenty-five hundred Guildsmen and ten thousand experienced native troops. The Grand Council had armed a horde of city folk as well, but their value was doubtful. Even so, General Hawkwind believed he could ensure the city's safety.
"Something will go wrong," Haaken prophesied.
For once his pessimism proved well-founded.
Nassef had laid his groundwork early and well. His agents had performed perfectly. The attack began straightforwardly, concentrating on the south walls, which were held by native troops and city militia. Hordes of desert warriors rushed in to perish beneath the ramparts. As Bragi had observed, it was not their kind of warfare. The few engines they had bothered to build were almost laughably crude and vulnerable.
But Nassef knew his troops. That was why he had begun sugaring the path long before the invasion began.
In Simballawein, as everywhere, there was a breed of man loyal only to gold, and a class interested only in the political main chance. Nassef's agents had structured a pro-El Murid government-in-waiting from the latter. The quislings had used desert gold to hire desperadoes willing to betray their city.
They attacked Simballawein's South Gate from within, while its defenders were preoccupied with the attack from without. They opened the gate.
Scimitars flashed. Horsemen howled through the gateway. Iron-shod hooves sent sparks flying from cobbled streets. Arrows streaked from saddle-bows.
Arrows and javelins answered from windows and rooftops, but the unskilled
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