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were less than an echo today.
The old man also had plenty to say about Old Meddler when Wen-chin questioned him patiently, and could shape his questions cleverly enough to elicit answers that made sense.
Wen-chin never realized who his companion must be. He did conclude that the halfwit might be valuable. And mining the ancient’s memories did pass the time.
    ...
    The King of Hammad al Nakir, Megelin, son of Haroun, held his mount’s reins. Dismounted, he stood atop a barren rise, stared across a brown waste, uphill, at el Aswad, the mighty eastern fortress, now abandoned. Beloul and the other old men who lived there when they were young called it the Fortress in Shadow because it had persisted defiantly in the shadow of the Disciple for years. El Aswad was where Megelin’s father had been born. The family had countless ghosts up there.
    Haroun bin Yousif first walked into the fires that forged the King Without a Throne there.
Megelin was neither bright nor sentimental but emotion did move him now. He had brought his army far out of its way so he could see his father’s birthplace. Haroun had dedicated his being to destroying the insanity of a sun-stricken madman so audacious as to declare himself the mouth of God. A madman who became Megelin’s grandfather.
The Royalists passed behind their King, headed north. Once the army reached Sebil el Selib it would exterminate the dregs of the madman’s fanatics. And Megelin would destroy his surviving relatives.
Those who disdain history eat the same dirt twice.
The trace from el Aswad to Sebil el Selib passed through country where salty lakes had lain in Imperial times. Today those were white pans sprawled at the feet of mountains where the marks of ancient shorelines could still be discerned. Most of the flats were white as swaths of linen. One, though, had discolorations flecking its face. Rust stains. No one in this army had seen the pan before. Rains, though rare, and wind had disguised the evidence of disaster.
That place was hot despite the season. The air was unpleasant. Dust stirred by the horses burned noses and throats. Megelin had a presentiment that the place was more portentous than it appeared.
Maybe he heard the screams of the ghosts.
The animals sensed more than the men. They were reluctant to go on.
The warriors of the Disciple materialized on the far side of the flat. They advanced slowly on a broad front. Their mockeries crossed the salt as though borne by the devils of the air. They numbered half as many as the Royalists men but their confidence was immense. God was at their back.
The King’s warriors needed no urging to go punish those fools.
When Megelin’s father was a boy still awaiting his first whisker another Royalist army had faced another force of Believers across this same white sheet. Those Royalists had been devoured.
These Royalists reached that part of the lake where there was brine under the salt crust. Through they fell, struggling to avoid drowning and being turned into human pickles. Riders kept piling into the trap from behind. Even Magden Norath’s monsters died in the heavy brine.
Times had changed. At the height of the Pracchia menace the only way to deal with Norath’s creatures had been to bury them alive in concrete. They had been possessed of a vitality that could not be defeated by weapons or sorcery.
But those beasts had been unable to stand daylight. These, though terrible enough, had given up much to endure under the eye of the sun.
In the earlier battle Royalist forces had pressed forward, taking the fight to the Faithful. This time they had no Guild infantry to stiffen their line. This time the fight lasted half as long.
Modern results matched the historical except that no ambushes had been set to further humiliate those who fled.
Only Varthlokkur, watching from Fangdred, fully appreciated what Elwas al-Souki had accomplished. Magden Norath saw only the destruction of his children, who could not be replaced. His