The ghūl haunted wastes of the Maghreb are among the most desolate legions known to man. They broke three Etalan legions, leaving nothing but wind howling over a few scattered bones. The only ones who can traverse the wastes are the tribes who live there.
* The Commentaries of Aram ibn Bashear
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2nd Day of High Summer’s Moon, AC 297
“Can you get me a list of where the other Exarchs are, at the moment?” Ismet asked Wāli Marwan. “We need to get messages to them.”
Marwan furrowed his brow. “I do not know about all of them, at the moment,” he admitted. “Ashar and Hafaza the Guardian are almost always in Maʿīn, with Isrāfīl. Jibrīl has not, to my knowledge, chosen another Exarch yet. You and Epinoia are here. That leaves the Exarchs of Ra'd, Nāshiṭāt, and Mīkāl.”
“I know Samara ibnah Arif,” Ismet said, musing. “She was two years ahead of me at the University, before Nāshiṭāt selected her. If I send a letter to her, I think she will come.”
“Forgive me, General,” Fazil spoke up. “The Exarch of Souls is not known for being the most militant woman.”
“No, she is a poet and a scholar,” Ismet admitted. “But no Exarch is without power, and she has a good heart. She was always kind to the younger students, and I cannot imagine that Cyra will stand for what is happening, once I make it known to her. I have never met the Exarchs of Ra'd or Mīkāl, however.”
“Jamal ibn Hisham is the Exarch of Ra'd,” Marwan said. “He has been south of the Maghreb, holding the border, for most of the last decade. I think there are few remaining men that he could be said to be close to. The old Caliph was one of them. If we send a message to a few of the southern garrisons, it will get to him; but I cannot guess what he will do. He has little reason to take our word for anything.”
“Perhaps not your word,” Epinoia said, “but Ra’d knows the worth of mine. It is not a waste to write to him, Ismet.”
“Which brings us to the Exarch of Mīkāl,” Ismet said. “Unlike the rest, the Angelus of Mercy did not choose a graduate of the University of Maʿīn. I recall it being quite the scandal when I was a young girl.”
“No, even the act of choosing was itself a mercy,” Epinoia said. “Mīkāl selected an orphan, a street boy who tried to feed his mother and sister by begging and stealing. Imran of the Streets they call him, the Saint of Beggars.”
“And it is impossible to know where he is at any time,” Marwan said. “He wanders from town to town, helping the poor wherever he goes. I would not even know where to begin.”
“Perhaps I can find Mīkāl,” Epinoia said, after a moment.
Ismet glanced over to the Angelus. “How far from me can you travel, and how long?”
“How long is the question,” Epinoia said. “Distance for Angelus does not mean the same thing as for mortals, but when we make an Accord, we do tie ourselves to our Exarchs. I will search for him in the nights, while you are asleep, my daughter.”
“Very well, then,” Ismet said. “Uncle, may I trouble you for parchment and ink, so that I can write two letters?”
“Of course, my flower,” Marwan said. “Write tonight, and I will marshal what warriors I can to send with you. In fact,” he suggested, “I would advise writing a third letter, as well, so that your father can begin calling his own men together before your arrival.”
“Make it four,” Ismet said, after considering. “My father, and one more, to go north to Narvonne.”
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When Ismet and Fazil rode out from the Bay of Sands after their morning prayers, it was at the head of twenty horse-archers, another twenty lancers, and one hundred infantry.
“I will send more behind you, as soon as I can gather them,” Wāli Marwan promised, standing in the courtyard of his palace. “It will take some weeks, however. I only wish that I was still young enough to go with you myself.”
“You have done more than enough, Uncle Marwan,” Ismet said, bowing her head to him from atop Leila. A night’s care in the governor’s stables had done the desert steed a world of good, after the long sea voyage, and now she was prancing in excitement at the prospect of a ride. “I will send you a message back when we reach the oasis.”
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“And I have sent yours already,” Marwan pledged. “These are hard days, my desert rose,” he said, stepping up to her horse. “If the sun does not come back soon, it will be starving times,” he told her. “I must keep enough men with me to ensure the city does not fall into chaos.”
“I fear we will all need to trust Lionel and his Narvonnian Exarchs for that,” Ismet said, frustrated. “By the time I finish in Maʿīn, I suspect they will already have come to grips with the Sun Eater. I do not like having to be absent for that battle.”
“Sometimes,” Fazil said, from his own saddle, “We must simply have faith that our friends will do what they must, even if we cannot help them.”
“Ha! How did this young one become so wise?” Marwan asked, with a grin. “He can hardly even grow a beard!”
A stable boy came rushing over, and fell on his knees before the governor. “Wāli,” the boy said, “You ordered us to inform you when Captain Omar and his men reached the stable. They are saddling their horses now.”
“Good, good,” Marwan remarked, slipping the boy a silver coin. “It is time for you to be off, Ismet. Bring my greetings to your father - and show the daemon what it means to pick a fight with the Caliphate!”
“Until we meet again, Uncle,” Ismet said. She stood in her saddle, turned to address the hundred and forty men who had been placed under her command, and called out to them. “We ride for Eayn Zarqa' Oasis!”
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By the time Captain Omar and his five men had caught up with Ismet and Fazil at the head of the column, they’d not only marched out of the city, but were passing the rocky highlands, skirting along the lower slopes as they headed west into the plains.
“Exarch Ismet!” Omar ibn Ajmal shouted as he rode up on them, his face red. “What is the meaning of this? Are you attempting to defy the orders of the caliph?”
The wind off the plains blew gravel and grit about the horses, and Ismet was thankful she’d wrapped her new red veil tightly. “The orders of the caliph, who is now dead?” she asked them, raising her voice enough for the horse-archers and lancers to hear every word she said. “Dead, with no new Caliph chosen, and the Angelus Isrāfīl missing? For the first time in three hundred years, we have no successor.”
“That does not give you the right to raise your own forces in rebellion,” Omar burst out in response, dropping his hand to the hilt of his saif. “A new caliph will be chosen, and I will bring you to him. Your only choice is whether to come willingly as our prisoner, or whether we must drag you there bound and gagged.” At that his men rode up around her to either side, obviously seeking to cut off Ismet’s escape.
“Omar ibn Ajmal,” Ismet said, her words measured, “You are a fool. The capitol is wracked by plague, and already seized by a usurper. You think this mere coincidence? I faced the daemon Agrat, Queen of Plagues, in the Hauteurs Massif not two moons past, and now our rightful Caliph dies in a fire, tending to the sick? All of this timed perfectly to draw me away from the battle against the Sun Eater in Narvonne? You are either a willing pawn of the daemons, or simply a piece on the board, moving blindly at the urging of an unseen hand. Whichever it is, I no longer have time to waste on you.”
“That is not your choice to make,” Omar said. “The new Caliph will decide.” He drew his sword, and his five men followed. Ismet, on the other hand, did not make even the slightest move toward her own blade.
“I faced the Sun Eater himself at the Tower of Tears,” Ismet said, still raising her voice so that the men Marwan had given her could hear her clearly. “I fought Adrammelech, the Prince of Plagues, in the mountains west of Falais. I drove off Zepar, the Scarlet, when he assaulted the rear of our army on the road to Rocher de la Garde. Scores of Kimmerians fell to my arrows when we lifted that siege. And you think six little men with their swords can threaten me?”
Though her heart was pounding, she forced herself to throw her head back and laugh. She wanted the soldiers to hear it. Perhaps she had been spending too much time with Lionel, for now she saw the use of such theatrics.
“Put your swords away,” Ismet continued. “If you strike at me not a single one of you will survive.”
“This is revolt!” Omar shouted, with an ugly scowl.
“No,” Ismet said. “The revolt is already happening, and it has already claimed the life of our beloved caliph. I am riding to Maʿīn to stop it. I am riding to restore the Caliphate, and purge the daemon that has beset our capital.”
Now, she drew her sword, but instead of threatening the six guards who had been sent to arrest her, she thrust it into the air, above her head. “Are you coming with me?” she asked, shouting the words not to Omar and his men, but to the soldiers marching behind them.
One hundred and forty men roared in response. Omar and his men only now seemed to realize that, far from having her cornered as had been the case during the sea voyage, she now had them outnumbered. If the caliph had still been alive, no one would have dared defy them: but now, the soldiers trusted in their Wāli, and in the Exarch who rode with them.
“Let me lend you a hand,” Epinoia said, speaking so that only Ismet could hear her. Then, the Angelus appeared in the air above the marching army, wings spread, arms upraised, and hung there suspended. The Angelus of Mothers shone like a star descended from the sky, and with no sun, she might have been the brightest object for miles around. At the sight of her, the marching soldiers began to cheer.
“Let me be absolutely clear,” Ismet said, lowering her voice for Omar alone. “You are not capable of stopping me. Put up your swords, or I will cut you all down. If you will not help me save the Caliphate willingly, I will put your souls to use as Tithes in the battle to come.”
Captain Omar looked from her, to his men, then to Fazil and the cheering soldiers behind them, riding and marching in nearly ordered columns across the plains. Then, he looked above, to where Epinoia’s light was now nearly blinding. Before, he had been ruled by anger. Now, when Ismet looked at his eyes, she saw only fear.
Omar ibn Ajmal sheathed his sword, and his men followed. They reined their horses in, letting Ismet and her soldiers pass them by on their way west into the Maghreb desert.
“They will cause trouble if we leave them behind us,” Fazil said, riding in close beside her.
“Perhaps,” she admitted. “But if they go back, my uncle will force them to stay as his guests until everything is settled. If they follow us west, my father will arrest them. And if they strike out into the plains without us, we will find out how soft living in the capital has made them, I suppose. The Maghreb eats soft men by the score.”
They rode west, toward the Eayn Zarqa' Oasis and her father; and then, beyond that, toward Maʿīn itself.