By Glen Cook
As soon as a strong state reigned, yet now all is chaos. within the enormous reaches of the wilderness, a tender heretic escapes convinced demise and embarks on a undertaking of insanity and glory. he's El Murid - the Disciple - who vows to carry order, prosperity, and righteousness to the barren region humans of Hammad al Nakir. After 4 lengthy centuries, El Murid is the savior who's destined to construct a brand new empire from the blood his enemies. yet all isn't really because it turns out, and the sinister forces pulling the strings of empire come into the sunshine. Who and what lies in the back of El Murid's imaginative and prescient of a wasteland empire?
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You little fool. " Radetic yanked Haroun off the ground and threw him over his shoulder, then hurried toward his employer's tent. During Disharhun everyone, whether making the pilgrimage to Al Rhemish or not, lived the week in tents. Fuad met them in the street. He had heard a swift-winged rumor of murder. He was angry. A huge man with a savage reputation, Fuad in a rage was a ferocious spectacle. He had his war blade in hand. It looked big enough to behead an ox with a single blow. "What happened, teacher?
I was heading for a monastery, tonsure in tow. With but a few exceptions, it seemed that fantasy wanted to stay in the adolescent wish-fulfillment stage, where good was blindingly good and evil absurdly, comically evil. Where everyone spoke in a high diction unintentionally caricaturing something from the Middle Ages. And then there was Glen Cook. Suddenly, there was ambivalence, there was ambiguity, suspect motivations, heroes with flaws. There were droll, often cynical points of view. There were throwaway lines that could make you howl.
Here. " Something that might have been a small, very old man crouched in a deep shadow. A wrinkled hand proffered a tin cup. Its bottom was barely wet with some dark, fragrant liquid. Micah drained it. Oblivion returned. Yet he heard a distant voice droning endlessly of faith, God, and the manifest destiny of the children of Hammad al Nakir. The angel nurtured him for weeks. And droned unceasing litanies of jihad. Sometimes, on moonless nights, he took Micah aboard his winged horse and showed him the wide earth.
A Fortress in Shadow by Glen Cook