A solitary horseman approached from the south, bent over his saddle, miserable. That would be the old man, Bone, back from a circuit of Sha-lug outposts along the far borders of the Crusader states. Behind Bone, crouched like an evil sphinx on the horizon, loomed the dark silhouette of Gherig, the Crusader stronghold no mere mortal could hope to capture. The Brotherhood of War manned Gherig. Sometimes those hardy warrior-priests approached Tel Moussa, hoping to draw out the fugitive Sha-lug. The Mountain would not play. In the best times he had fewer than four hundred followers scattered across the Realm of Peace. His war with his onetime friend, Gordimer the Lion, Marshal of the Sha-lug, was not going well. Most Sha-lug agreed that the murder of Nassim’s son Hagid was an abomination. Yet they did not see that as an excuse adequate to justify bloodshed between brother warriors.

The essence of al-Prama was submission. The essence of being Sha-lug was discipline.

The Master of Ghosts, al-Azer er-Selim, joined Nassim. He cursed the bone-biting wind. Softly. The Mountain tolerated neither blasphemy nor the invocation of demons. Az asked, “Is that Bone?” His eyes were no match for those of the General.

“Yes. And bringing no good news.”

“Uhm?” Az looked northward and slightly to the east, toward the Idiam, that harshest of deserts. Az dreaded bad news. If it turned bad enough-so bad that Muqtaba al-Fartebi no longer saw any value in supporting a Sha-lug splinter faction against the Kaif of al-Minphet-then the only safety might lie in Andesqueluz. The haunted city.

The Mountain read his stare. “We’ll never be that desperate. The Lucidians need every blade. The Hu’n-tai At threaten in the north and east. Once Tsistimed the Golden finishes devouring the Ghargarlicean Empire he’ll turn on Lucidia.”

Below, the weary rider began the climb to the tower. Would he make it? Did he have strength enough left?