El Murid stood over the dead brothers. Tears came to his eyes. They had been but tools of the Evil One, poor things. He knelt and said prayers for their souls, though he had little hope that the Lord would show them any mercy. His was a jealous, vengeful God.

When he had finished, he asked, What are you going to tell your father?

Nothing. Were going with you.

But...

You need somebody, Micah. Hasnt that just been proven?

El Murid paused thoughtfully, then threw his arms around Nassef. Im glad you came, Nassef. I was worried for you.

Nassef reddened. The Children of Hammad al Nakir were often demonstrative, but seldom in the tenderer emotions. Lets get going, he said. Weve got a long way to travel if were not going to spend the night in the desert.

El Murid hugged him again. Thank you, Nassef. I wish you knew how much this means to me. Then he went round clasping the hands of the others, and kissing the hands of the girls.

I dont rate a hug, eh? Meryem teased. Do you love Nassef more?

Now he was embarrassed. Meryem would not cease playing her games.

He called her bluff. Come down here.

She did so, so he hugged her. It aggravated Nassef and completely flustered the girl.

El Murid laughed.

One of the youths brought his horse. Thank you.

So there were seven who began the long trail, the trail of years. El Murid thought it an auspicious number, but the number gave no luck. He would suffer countless nights of frustration and depression before his ministry bore fruit. Too many of the Children of Hammad al Nakir refused him, or were just plain Truth-blind.

But he persisted. And each time he preached he won a heart or two. His following grew, and they too preached.

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Seeds of Hatred, Roots of War

Haroun was six years old when first he encountered El Murid.

His brother Ali had found himself a perch in a gap in the old garden wall. Gods Whiskers! Ali squealed. Khedah. Mustaf. Haroun. Come and look at this.

Their teacher, Megelin Radetic, scowled. Ali, come down from there.

The boy ignored him.

How am I supposed to pound anything into the heads of these little savages? Radetic muttered. Cant you do anything? he asked their uncle Fuad.

Fuads severe lips formed a thin, wicked smile. Can but wont, that smile said. He thought his brother Yousif a fool for wasting money on a pansy foreign teacher. Its Disharhun. What did you expect?

Radetic shook his head. That was Fuads latest stock answer.

This barbarous holiday. It meant weeks lost in the already hopeless task of training the Wahligs brats. They had come damned near three hundred miles, from el Aswad all the way to Al Rhemish, for a festival and prayer. Foolish. True, some important political business would take place behind the scenes.