"lô!" One of the Bedouin called out in greeting, his arm waving above his head, even as the other Bedouin's stance turned defensive. Matt relaxed inwardly as he took in their garb, and that they were men. If this had been Manara's camp, those would be weapon-toting Amazons. He let the men approach.
"Where are you going, my friends?" The second man eyed the mercenaries' weapons and BDUs warily even as he addressed them in Arabic.
The first man, who looked a few years younger than the other, nudged his friend and whispered something Matt couldn't hear. He followed the man's gaze straight to Manara.
"You must come with us," the first man said clearly to Matt, though his gaze never left Manara. "bâ will wish to see you."
Matt's brow rose, and he was convinced the last comment was directed more at Manara than to him and his men. Matt was aware of Bedouin views on women, and the shaft of possessive heat that shot through him was surprising. Manara wasn't his -- hell, he didn't even trust her -- so why should he care if some Bedouin wanted her for his harem? She was a beautiful woman.
Before Matt could react, the men swept in, regardless of the guns, and ushered Manara toward the camp. Matt's brow furrowed as he realized neither man actually touched her.
Almost as if they know...
Matt shook the idea off as he and his men followed. Pete edged up closer to keep his voice low as he murmured, "Somethin' seem off about all of this to you, lad?"
"You mean the part where they're treating a woman like royalty and ignoring us?"
"That would be the part," Pete agreed wryly. "Given that Bedouin tend to close their women away in harems and all."
Yeah, he noticed the odd attention these Bedouin paid to Manara. "Guess we'll find out what's going on in a moment. Look."
He nodded toward the tent ahead where the young men paused, one gestured Manara inside. Matt strode ahead and was surprised when the men allowed him entrance but barred Pete and Trevor. He could hear the men directing them off even as the wall of material dropped behind him, blocking out the desert sun.
Inside the tent, the air was nearly twenty degrees cooler and about four shades darker. Matt hadn't even realized how hot it was out there until now.
His eyes moved over the contents of the tent -- similar to the items he'd seen in Manara's camp -- before coming to rest on the tent's only two occupants aside from himself. Manara stood, her shoulders back and her head held high, before an older man who sat in a pile of cushions. He was thin to the point of being frail-looking, but something about him made Matt think of ancient kings. His regal pose, perhaps.
Needless to say, the scene was odd. In this area of the world, a woman with her head uncovered and dressed in men's clothing, as Manara was, would be the subject of ridicule rather than respect. However, from the other man's expression, respect was what he had for Manara. In abundance.
"Ah. Sayyid." The older man smiled as his gaze turned to Matt. He gestured toward himself. "Come. Join us."
Matt edged closer, wary but curious in spite of himself. Sayyid was a term of respect not used in this region in nearly a millennium. Today, it was more of a name than a title. Yet, in just a few weeks, he'd heard it directed at him from first Shahdi, and now this man who didn't know him from Adam. What was going on?
"Why are we here?" he asked Manara quietly in English as he came to stand beside her. He really didn't expect an answer.
"You are here, Sayyid," the man responded, proving he not only had keen hearing, but also spoke passable English. "Because you are headed into danger. That is something best done with all the information."
The older man's attention turned back to Manara. Out of the corner of his eye, Matt observed the arrival of new people, just before a group of women clad in traditional Bedouin abayas and chador swarmed around Manara, escorting her away before Matt could blink.
"Hey..." Matt's gut clenched as Manara disappeared from sight. His skin crawled with raw panic. As much as he distrusted her motives and methods, he finally admitted to himself after the fight in the desert, he preferred having Manara close to him. He was protecting her from something, but he didn't know what. All he knew was, the idea of her coming to harm because he wasn't there to save her clenched a fist of dread in him.
"Be easy, friend." The Bedouin leader rose gingerly from his seat with a wince that betrayed some unseen ailment. "She will come to no harm in my camp. I promise you that."
"Who are you?"
"I am known by many names. In this place, I am Fayd Mustafa." Mustafa's eyes twinkled with wisdom tempered by mischief. "I am not the mystery, here."
Matt met his host's assessing gaze and knew he was being sized up. He just had no idea what for. Did this man know who he was, or how he'd treated Manara? That possibility made Matt nervous. An instinct he knew from bitter experience and was best listened to told him if this man knew Matt was responsible for the bruises on Manara's face and hands, he would not hesitate to order him killed on the spot.
Tense silence stretched between the men, and Matt's scalp prickled with uneasiness. Finally, the older man's lips turned up in a knowing smile and he relaxed back into his seat of cushions.
"You give away more than you wish, Sayyid."
Matt bristled at the observation. He only just met this man. There were people who knew him most of his life who couldn't read him. Suspicion kindled and his eyes narrowed as he recalled how the mercenaries' escorts to the camp were almost reverent toward Manara. Were these people more of her kind, whatever that was?
Mustafa's smile widened into a toothy grin. "I see your fear, Sayyid, and your questions. Ask. I am a man of few secrets."
"Who are you people? How do you know who Manara is? And why does everyone keep calling me Sayyid?" The questions poured out before he could dam them, pushed from his lips by frustration he could no longer contain.
Mustafa sighed and rose from his place among the cushions, again. He was a short man, barely taller than Manara, but clearly a man used to doing as much work as any of his people. His form was lean, judging by the belts cinched around his waist.
"It must be disconcerting to find yourself thrust into our battles without warning. Have you no training in the ancient ways?"
Ancient ways? Matt wasn't even sure what those were. "I know a thing or two about ancient civilizations."
Mustafa nodded. "That is well. Keep those lessons in mind and they will help you understand."
"Understand what?"
Mustafa gestured Matt to his side as he moved to the edge of the tent and lifted one panel. "All of this land which surrounds us once belonged to Sumeria. My people have a long memory. We traded with first the Akkadians, then the Sumerians, and all their descendants in ancient times, and took away the lessons of their mighty cities to Egypt and Phoenicia."
Matt frowned. "I thought Bedouin segregated their women."
"Most do. We revere ours, choosing to remain with the old ways where women were sacred life-givers."
Matt nodded. That made a little more sense, but still didn't explain the regal welcome Manara received. "And Manara?"
"If you refer to Mukarramma, ours is a long kinship with her temple. She has come to our aid before when evil threatened my people. She will always have sanctuary here, no matter her enemy."
Matt froze beneath the stern look Mustafa favored him with. No question about it, the old man knew there was turbulence between himself and Manara.
"As for why I call you Sayyid," Mustafa let the tent panel fall again, "that is something you will learn as time goes on. When you truly come into your right, you will no longer question that title. For now, be careful what you give away. Your enemies will use your weakness against you, if you allow them to see it."
Matt straightened. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Mustafa shook his head. "Youth is always blind to the ways of the heart, but the soul is clear witness within the eyes. You love her as much as you fear her."
Matt jerked back, his eyes
wide in shock. Mustafa's words struck home and twisted like a knife in his gut. How could anyone know that? After a moment he shrugged it away. "That's where I know you're wrong. I'm not even sure I like her."
Mustafa's booming laugh filled the tent as he settled back into his seat of cushions. "You believe you have a choice? She is your destiny, Sayyid."
Matt's eyes narrowed. Enough mumbo-jumbo. Was this whole region touched in the head? "I don't believe in destiny."
"You will." The old man's assurance settled like a stone in the pit of Matt's stomach. "But, if I might offer a word of wisdom?"
Matt nodded. It wasn't like it would make any difference if he said no.
"If you wish to keep her close, she must be able to trust you. Rebuild your bridges. Do not resist the truth when it arrives."
What could he say to that? Matt swallowed hard against the flash of images through his mind -- of oaths broken in the name of love, and a death too terrible to contemplate; of the dark desert night and a woman's wailing. It was enough to make a grown man cry. Only, Matthew Raleigh couldn't cry. He lost that ability two decades ago.
"It may already be too late," he admitted quietly as he recalled Manara's hateful glare from earlier. Could he even hope to repair the friendship he shattered in his brutal panic to hold his fears at bay?
The old man's knowing smile consoled him only slightly. "Go. Think on what you have seen and heard, and the truth will make itself known to you. You may find all is not as lost as you believe."
Aware he'd been dismissed, Matt turned on his heel with a scowl and ducked out of the tent. What was it with these people and cryptic statements? He blinked rapidly in the bright sunlight, surprised to find the sun half sunk in the sky. Had that much time really elapsed?
"Well?" Trevor's impatient demand surprised Matt. Watkins seldom spoke, and when he did, his tone was usually sedate. What got into him out here? Why was he suddenly so jumpy? Did the black man sense something the rest of them couldn't?
"We've been offered their hospitality for the night." Matt glanced around with a frown. "I don't know about you two, but I plan on sleeping with one eye open and a weapon close at hand."
Talladay's brow lifted curiously. "I'm guessing their offer has something to do with our captive."
Matt glared at him. Damn it, Pete was getting way too much amusement out of this whole ordeal.
"Probably," he answered, forcing a bland shrug to cover his unsettled thoughts.
Watkins said nothing more, but uttered a low, shockingly canine growl before he spun on his heel and stalked off toward the edge of camp.
Talladay cocked a curious brow Matt's way. "Think I should go after him?"
Matt frowned, but shook his head. There was something riding Watkins, and it was high time he found out what. "No. I'll deal with him."
"Suit yourself." Pete's words followed him out into the settling evening as he tracked Watkins' shifting footprints through the sand. He was surprised -- he knew the other man was fast and silent, he just never realized what a stealthy operator Trevor was until now.
By the time he caught up to him, Trevor prowled the outside edge of the camp, his feral scowl driving away even the bravest of Mustafa's men. Whatever rode the former Delta operative, it rode him hard.
"Want to talk about it?"
Trevor spun toward him, his scowl darkening even further. "No."
"Don't give me that shit, man."
"Damn it, it's personal, Matt!"
Matt's gaze narrowed. His men were trained professionals. They knew how to lock away personal shit.
Matt winced at his own hypocrisy. Was he any better? His reaction to Manara was purely personal, and his leg reminded him of the dumb choices he'd made ever since they left Manara's camp. He only barely held the throb away by iron-clad will. Right now, it burned like a hot iron was stuck straight through it. Which didn't mean he would let one of his men compromise their own safety for personal shit.
"Trevor, there's a fine line between personal and dangerous. Now, out with it."
Trevor sighed and the tinge of relief in that sound told Matt volumes. Trevor had something he desperately needed to get off his chest.
"It's this place."
"The Bedouins?"
"No." Trevor gestured impatiently. "It's here. Iraq."
Matt frowned. He knew the other man participated in a highly classified mission in Iraq during the Gulf War -- he'd read as much in Trevor's medical file. "What happened?"
"We were this close, man," Trevor said emphatically, his fingers pinching a bare sliver of air in emphasis. "We almost had Saddam. We could've had him with just one word. Instead, they sold us out."
They, of course, being the United States government. The US government often brokered backdoor deals without regard to what those deals did to the men on the ground. Matt was far too familiar with that particular brand of under-the-table politics. It was a large part of why he left the military behind after Somalia. He loved the military, but not the politicians who ran it from their cushy Senatorial seats.
"What happened?" He repeated, determined to not let Trevor get away with stonewalling.
"We got ambushed. Only a few of us survived, just like this time. And that's when I met her."
Surprise shot through Matt, and nausea knotted in his gut. "Manara?"
Trevor's return glance was equally surprised. "Hell, no. I met the woman I thought was the One."
Matt bit his cheek to keep from voicing his own opinion -- there was no such thing as a perfect match. Hell, he spent his whole life looking for someone who could make him love, and he was convinced those kind of women just didn't exist. However, Trevor was a romantic. He wasn't going to back down, no matter what Matt said. Better to soft-pedal it. "And?"
"And what? She betrayed me. She betrayed us all."
Matt couldn't say he was surprised. With a few exceptions, he didn't trust women, and he sure as hell didn't trust relationships. If Trevor got involved with an Iraqi... "What did you expect? She was Iraqi--"
"That's just it, she wasn't, Matt! She was one of us."
Now he was lost. Matt watched Trevor pace silently for a long moment, unsure how to respond. He never heard of women in front line operations, before. "I don't get it..."
Trevor shook his head, and growled, "Forget it, man. I don't even want to think about it."
The black man's hands raked over his close-cropped dark head and Matt heard him mutter, "Christ, I need a drink."
That wasn't good. Watkins was a four-year-sober alcoholic who hadn't so much as glanced at a drink in all that time. This was clearly a matter best left alone if it disturbed Trevor this much.
Matt's gaze drifted back toward the cluster of tents as he swore he heard Manara's laugh. Hunger coiled in his belly at the sound. He hadn't heard her laugh in so long...
He swallowed hard as the parallels between his present and Trevor's past leapt out at him. Manara wasn't one of them -- not even close -- and the only thing she'd done so far was to take care of them. And how had he repaid her?
Shame burst in Matt like a dying star, to know how he mistreated her in his fear and rage. Suddenly, Mustafa's words made a hell of a lot more sense. He really did have bridges to rebuild. Only he wasn't sure he was capable of the feat.
A glance at Trevor confirmed the other man wanted to be alone. Matt left him, his thoughts far away from the camp as he considered everything he learned since waking in Manara's tent in Syria. Memories of dreams and nightmares played before his eyes and the darkness around him grew overwhelming.
Darkness covered the sky and rain lashed down like miniature blades against his skin, driven by the whipping storm winds. He glared into the storm as he stood his ground at the foot of the temple steps. Ereshkigal's demons would not desecrate Ishtar's sacred place and they would have to go through him to get to Mukarramma. The raging storm and the howling army of demonic horrors played a familiar tune in his head. He'd made this stand against the armies of Onu
ris once before, at the doors of another temple. Then, the fate of the world hung in the balance. Now, he stood to lose something much more personal -- the woman he loved.
"The Mistress craves vengeance." Urasat, Ereshkigal's demonic general, towered over him with a menacing growl. Sargon refused to be cowed by his threat, or by the sword carved of bone and jet in the demon's hand. The sword ran with rivulets of blood down the demon's arm as he lifted it over his head.
Sargon scowled back, aware the blood on that sword belonged to his soldiers. His own sword hummed in his hand, the Star Blade awakening with the power of protection that was its charm. As Urasat's sword descended, Sargon swung the Star Blade in a wide arc, the blade gleaming with blue-white light in the darkness. The clash of swords caused thunder to roll in the air and Sargon's teeth bared as he seethed, "You'll have to go through me, demon."
Urasat's laugh was an echo of the barren coldness of Arulla, as sadistic glee danced in the demon's blood-red eyes. "As you wish, Musir."
The demon disengaged and launched a new attack Sargon barely had time to counter. Once he would have seen his enemy's attack before it was even conceived, back when the magic of Aermórnosa and the Crophines Astenim filled him. His teeth gritted in effort as his muscles strained against Urasat's supernatural strength. He poured as much of his life force as he dared into the Star Blade in his hands. With a scream of rage, he let the power of the moment take him away and pushed Ereshkigal's minion away with a mighty heave.
"You are not welcome in my Mother's home, demon," he rasped in fury and exhaustion. He was weakening. Without the power of the Philosopher's Stone to renew his energy and revitalize his life-source, this battle could easily be his last. However, he prepared for this battle ever since he first came to Nineveh. His mind flashed on the trap laid out in the labyrinth beneath them even as he locked in combat with the demon. He had to maintain the upper hand and goad Urasat into following him into the temple, and below, by pretending to deny him entry. It sickened him to know that his Mother's temple would become tainted by this evil, but he knew it was the only way to stop Ereshkigal's evil before Her minions laid waste to all of Babylon and destroyed the one woman Sargon would lay down his life -- his very soul -- to save. Even if this battle was his last.
In Her Name Page 16
