Arriving in the underground hall that was the home of the chief cleric, he bowed.

“You must forgive me, Cleric. I was not informed you wished to see me until a moment ago by the fool that was dispatched to summon me.” said Shahim, his clothing wrapped thickly around him, but still barely disguising his bulk. He stood in the cave’s only entrance, all but blocking out the stark sunlight leaking through it.

“Shahim, all my clerics speak directly for me, you will respect them, all of them, as though they are my own blessed kin.” the chief cleric was quick to put the fighter in his place. He was used to dealing with men who could kill him if they wanted to. Indeed, they would be of no use to him if they could not. The trick was to dominate them, they were tools, strong of heart but weak of mind, and they needed leadership.

“Forgive me.” the warrior bent his head lower.

“You are forgiven, my child.” said the cleric curtly, “But now I have a mission for you. And maybe an opportunity to prove you truly believe in our cause, Shahim.” Though the warrior did not look up, the elderly cleric hoped his words were driving home. In truth, they had rarely had such a bold, fierce, or effective warrior amongst them, but Shahim was still relatively new.

It was a facet of the dangerous tactics forced on them by the infidel oppressors that many of the cleric’s recruits died in their first missions. Those that did not, either by guile, intellect, or even cowardice, though that would never be said, formed all of the higher ranks. They were often much older, and always untrusting of newcomers. Power was a limited commodity in these regimes, and they did not give it over to newcomers easily.

Shahim Al Khazar had proved to be as relentless, brave, and merciless as he was brutally effective, and the elderly cleric knew that there would soon be those among his force, and outside it, that would consider whether the young warrior might prove a better general than he. Indeed, they may already be thinking it. Well, the cleric had not survived the brutal life of the jihad for forty years without dispatching a rival or two. No matter how good a warrior, it was clear he had to get rid of this man, and he thought he could see a way to make it look like the warrior’s fault.

“For many years now we have been subjects of a weak, corrupt, puppet government of the West,” the cleric began, starting to pace, slowly, around the room, “They have been brought to power by nonbelievers and heretics. We have bargained with them and taken their stinking money, but the time has come that we remind them of our divine purpose.”