The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Meryem did so, winding the silk around her head and shoulders.

  “Where is my money?” the merchant screamed at them.

  “Collect from the Amir!” Khardan thrust the small man aside. “Perhaps his wife will conjure it up for you!”

  “This way!” Taking hold of the Calif ‘s hand, Meryem led Khardan and Achmed through the bazaars, pushing past vendors, customers, donkeys, and dogs.

  “Saiyad!” Khardan called once they were in sight of his men.

  The spahi ran up to them. “By Sul, Calif! What has happened? We heard a great shouting coming from the palace. . .”

  Saiyad stared at them in wonder—the strange girl wrapped up in a stolen scarf, Achmed white-faced and limping, Khardan’s robes spattered with blood.

  “It is a long story, my friend. Suffice it to say that the Amir will not be buying our horses. He accused us of being spies and tried to have us arrested.”

  “Spies?” Saiyad’s mouth gaped open. “But what—” Khardan shrugged. “They are city dwellers. What do you expect? Their brains have rotted in this shell.”

  The rest of the men, crowding around, were muttering among themselves.

  “No, we’re not leaving empty-handed,” the Calif called out, raising his voice. “And I’m not running from these dogs! We will leave the city when and how we choose!”

  The spahis cheered raggedly, swearing bitter oaths of revenge. Gazing at them fearfully, Meryem shrank back next to Khardan. He put his arm around her, and drew her close. “We came to deal fairly, but we have been insulted. Not only that, our God has been insulted as well.” The men glowered, fingering their weapons. Waving his hand at the stalls, Khardan shouted, “Take what you need to live on this year!”

  The men cheered and began running for their horses. Khardan grabbed hold of Saiyad’s bridle to detain him.

  “Watch for the soldiers.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Achmed is hurt and there is the woman. I will wait for you here.”

  “Anything I can get you, my Calif?” the grinning Saiyad asked.

  “No. I have already acquired more treasure than I came with the intent to buy,” Khardan replied.

  Saiyad glanced at the girl, laughed, and dashed off.

  Yelling wildly, brandishing their swords in the air, the spahis rode straight for the stalls of the bazaars. People scattered before them like terrified chickens, screaming in panic at the sight of the lashing hooves and flashing steel.

  Saiyad guided his horse straight into a silk merchant’s stand. The stall toppled. Its owner hopped about the street in rage, cursing the nomads at the top of his lungs. Roaring with laughter, Saiyad speared several fine silks with his sword blade and began waving them in the air above his head like a flag.

  Across the street, Saiyad’s brother—with a few well-aimed blows of his scimitar—cut down the shelves of a brass merchant’s stall. Pots, lamps, and pipes crashed to the street with ringing clangs like a hundred bells. Snatching up a fine lamp, the nomad stuffed it into his khurjin and galloped off in search of more plunder.

  “Someone will be killed!” said Meryem, shivering with fear and crowding close to Khardan.

  “They will if they try to stop us,” said the Calif.

  Eyes gleaming with pride, he was watching his men wreaking havoc among the stalls when a push from behind him nearly knocked him over. Turning, he saw his war-horse. Dancing restively, the animal nudged him again with its head, urging him in the direction of the fray.

  Laughing, Khardan patted his horse’s nose, soothing the excited beast.

  “Khardan, the guards. Don’t you think we should go?” Mounted on his own horse, Achmed looked back worriedly toward the palace.

  “Relax, little brother! They probably think we’re still running around in the garden. But you are right, we should be ready, just in case.”

  Grasping Meryem around her waist—such a small waist, his hands almost completely encircled it—Khardan started to lift her up onto the back of the horse when a sudden tickling sensation, like feathers brushing against the back of his neck, caused him to turn his head.

  The slave market—set apart from the rest of the bazaars in the souk—was conducting business as usual. Riots in the bazaars were commonplace. The slave buyers were far more interested in the merchandise being exhibited on the block, and at that moment a young woman was being put up for sale—a woman, it seemed, remarkable for her beauty, for a low murmur of anticipation was rippling through the crowd when the auctioneer dragged the veiled woman before them.

  Having rescued one helpless person from the clutches of this city of devils, Khardan felt his heart swell with pity and anger at the sight of another, who probably faced a similar, cruel fate. Grasping hold of her veil, the dealer tore it from the woman’s head. The crowd gasped in wonder and even Khardan blinked in astonishment. Hair the color of fire caught the rays of the noon sun. It seemed that blazing red flame tumbled down around slender shoulders.

  But it was not the woman’s beauty that struck Khardan. Indeed, she was not particularly beautiful at the moment. Her face was thin and wasted, there were dark shadows beneath her eyes. It was the expression on the woman’s face that drew Khardan’s attention, a look such as the Calif had never seen before—the despairing look of one who has lost all hope, who sees death as the only salvation.

  “The trip was a hard one for such a delicate blossom,” the auctioneer was shouting. “With some food and drink, however, she will soon be a prize flower, ready for any man to pluck! What am I bid?”

  Anger swept over Khardan, a white-hot rage. That one human being should be able to buy another and thereby acquire the power of a God—the power of life and death—was true evil.

  Turning, he lifted Meryem up onto a horse, but it was Achmed’s mount, not his.

  “Take care of her,” he ordered his younger brother, who was staring at him in astonishment. Shrieks and crashes were audible from the bazaar, an indication that the spahis were still having their fun. Another sound rose above it, however—the blare of trumpets, coming from the Kasbah.

  “The soldiers!” Meryem cried, her face pale. “We must leave!”

  Swinging himself into his saddle, Khardan glanced coolly in the direction of the trumpet calls. “It will take them some time to get organized, still longer to get through the crowds. Do not worry. Saiyad hears them as well as we do. Wait for me. I won’t be long.”

  A single word of command caused the Calif s horse to leap forward. Deadly silent, without a yell or word of warning, Khardan rode straight into the mass of slave buyers. Wild-eyed faces stared up at him. The men either got out of his way or were ridden down. Shouts and curses and yells rose into the air. Someone grabbed hold of his boot, trying to drag him from his steed. A blow from the flat of Khardan’s sword sent the slaver crashing to the ground, blood streaming from his head.

  The mob surged around the Calif, some trying to escape, others trying to attack him. Striking out to the right and left with his sword, Khardan—his eyes on the slave block—continued to urge his horse forward. The auctioneer suddenly became aware of Khardan’s purpose. Frantically calling for his bodyguards, he tried to save his sale by hustling the woman from the platform.

  A blow to the head from Khardan’ s boot sent the auctioneer tumbling over backward into the arms of his guards.

  “Here, I’ve come to save you!” Khardan shouted.

  The woman on the block looked up at him with that same hopeless, despairing expression. Whether he meant to drive his sword through her body or carry her away to safety seemed all one to the wretched creature.

  Fury burning in his heart that one human could so reduce another to this pitiable condition, Khardan leaned down from the saddle. Sliding his arm around the woman’s waist, he lifted her easily, hauling her up behind him on the horse’s back and clamping her hands around his chest.

  The woman’s arms slipped nervelessly from around him. Turning, Khardan saw that sh
e was staring at him with dull, uncaring eyes.

  “Hold on tightly!” Khardan commanded.

  For an instant he wondered whether or not she would obey him. If she didn’t, she was lost, for the Calif could not both hold her and guide his horse back through the raging mob. “Come alive, damn you!”

  Khardan was battling to keep the horse standing amid the attacking mob, he had no real idea what he was saying. Beating and kicking and lashing out at those trying to grab his horse’s bridle, the Calif knew only that saving this young woman had suddenly become extremely important to him—a symbol of his victory over these foul city-dwellers.

  “Come back to life!” he shouted. “Nothing is that bad!” Perhaps it was his words or perhaps it was the fear of falling from the plunging, rearing horse, but Khardan felt the arms around him tighten. Slightly amazed at her strength—unusual for a woman— Khardan did not have time to wonder at it. A group of mounted goums belonging to one of the slave traders was endeavoring to make its way through the mob to get at Khardan.

  At a command from its master, Khardan’s horse reared into the air, lashing out with deadly hooves. The mob scattered, more than a few fell to the ground, blood streaming from broken heads. Seeing their fellows fall, the slavers turned and ran. The goums and their horses became entangled in a mass of people milling about in panic.

  Grimly triumphant, Khardan galloped out of the slave market just as a few of the trader’s goums were able to make their way through the mob. Heading back to where his brother awaited him, Khardan rode past a white palanquin.

  At the sight the woman behind him gave a slight gasp, her grip on Khardan tightening. Glancing down, the Calif saw the litter’s curtain being held back by a slender hand, a man’s face looking out. Cruel and malevolent, the man’s eyes went through Khardan like cold steel.

  His very soul chilled, Khardan could not withdraw his gaze. He actually checked the horse and paused, staring at the man in the palanquin with awful fascination. The whistle of a sword slashing by his head recalled him to his senses. Whirling, he struck out with the hilt of his sword catching the goum on the chin and knocking him from his horse. But the other goums were catching up with him now, too many to fight.

  “We’re going to run for it!” he shouted to the woman. “Hold on!”

  Kicking the horse’s flanks, Khardan urged the animal ahead at a gallop. The street was clear now, the people having fled for safety. Out in the open at last, the desert horse ran with the speed of the wind that was its grandsire. Khardan risked a glance back at his prize. Her red hair streaming behind her like a fiery banner, the woman was holding on to him for dear life; her head pressed against Khardan’s back, her arms gripping him with a panicked strength that was nearly squeezing the breath from his lungs.

  The goums pounded behind them. Khardan’s horse, exhilarated at this wild race and the yells and shouts of encouragement from the waiting Akar, unleashed all its energy. Few horses in the tribe could keep up with Khardan’s stallion. One by one the goums fell behind, shaking their fists and calling out curses.

  Intoxicated with the danger and excitement, the spahis rode up around their leader, shouting and yelling and clapping him on the back. Festooned with stolen bolts of silk and cotton, their saddlebags bulging with filched jewelry, their sashes bristling with newly appropriated weapons, the nomads carried huge sacks of purloined flour and rice slung across their saddles.

  The soldiers of the Amir were in sight now, but their progress through the stalls of the bazaar was being hampered by the wreckage the spahis had left behind.

  Gathering his men around him, Khardan raced for the city gates, which were standing wide open to permit a long camel caravan to enter.

  The last building the spahis passed was the Temple of Quar. Wheeling his horse, heedless of the rapidly gaining soldiers, Khardan guided the animal up the Temple stairs.

  “Here is how we pay homage to Quar!” he shouted. Lifting the sword he had taken from the Amir’s guard, Khardan plunged it through one of the priceless windows. The stained glass, which had been made in the image of a golden ram’s head, shattered into a thousand sparkling shards. Minor priests ran screaming from the Temple, shaking their fists or wringing their hands.

  Turning, Khardan’s horse cleared the stairs in a single jump. The Calif and his spahis swept out of the city gates, riding down the few guards who made a halfhearted attempt to stop them.

  Once out of arrow range but still in sight of the city walls, Khardan called a halt.

  “Some of you round up the horses!” he instructed. “Make certain you get them all! I’ll leave nothing behind for these swine!”

  “Will the soldiers come after us?” Saiyad shouted.

  “City dwellers? Out into the desert? Hah!” Khardan laughed.

  “Here, my friend, take this girl, will you?”

  “With pleasure, my Calif!” Grinning from ear to ear, Saiyad caught hold of the red-haired slave girl and transferred her from the Calif ‘s horse to the back of his own.

  Riding over to Achmed, Khardan held out his hands to the Sultan’s daughter. “Will you ride with me, my lady?” he asked.

  “I will,” Meryem said softly, flushing as Khardan lifted her in his arms.

  Flinging one final, defiant shout of triumph at the city walls, the spahis wheeled their steeds and dashed off into the desert, their black robes swirling around them.

  At the city gates the captain of the soldiers sat upon his horse, watching the nomads go, his men lined up in silent ranks behind him. The leader of the goums was arguing violently with him, pointing at the rapidly disappearing spahis and raving at the top of his lungs. But the captain, with a shake of his head, simply turned his horse and rode back into the city, his men following behind him.

  In the palace the Amir and the Imam stood on the balcony overlooking the pleasure garden, watching as the servants rolled the injured eunuch onto a litter.

  “All went as you planned,” said the Imam. (The priest did not yet know of the desecration done to his Temple, or he might have been less conciliatory.)

  The Amir, detecting a grudging note in Feisal’s voice, smiled inwardly. Outwardly his face maintained its stem, military calm. “Of course.” He shrugged. “Although I thought for a moment we were going to capture the arrogant young whelp accidently. I thought I would have to pick him up and hurl him into the garden myself, but fortunately he caught my hint about the partitions.”

  “He has taken the viper to his bosom,” said the Imam in a soft voice. “Are you certain of its fangs?”

  The Amir glanced at Feisal irritably. “I grow tired of your doubting, Imam. My wife handpicked the girl from among my concubines. Yes, I am certain of her. Meryem is ambitious, and if she succeeds, I have promised to marry her. She should have no trouble. These nomads, for all their bluster, are naive as children. Meryem is skilled in her art—” The Amir paused, his eyebrows raised. “She is skilled in many arts, as a matter of fact, not the least of which is the art of giving pleasure. The young man should have an interesting time of it.”

  He turned back, gazing out over the city walls into the desert. “Enjoy your nights well, kafir.” Qannadi munnured. “If the reports of your tribes uniting are true, those nights are numbered. I cannot allow you and your Ragtag God to stand in the way of progress.”

  Chapter 8

  Although Khardan truly believed that the Amir’s soldiers would not be so foolish as to pursue them, the Calif deemed it wise to ride homeward as swiftly as possible. It wasn’t fear of the Amir that drove him. It was the memory of the cruel face in the palanquin. There had been more than a threat of revenge in the malevolent eyes, there had been a promise.

  Khardan found himself starting awake the first night away from the city. Bathed in cold sweat, he had the feeling that something was creeping up on him.

  He would sleep better in his own land, and he knew his men were as eager to return home as he. No one complained at riding all night and into the cool
hours of the day, switching horses often to keep them from tiring. They ate their meals in the saddle, managed to snatch a few hours sleep burrowed like worms in the sand, the horses’ reins tied around their wrists. The spahis were in good spirits, far better than if their journey had been successful, for they loved nothing better than raiding. This moment would stand out forever in their lives, and already they were reliving it, enlivening the long journey with repeated tales of their victory in the city of Kich, tales that were expanding like bread dough with the yeast of their telling.

  At first Khardan was silent during these sessions, inclined to brood on nagging questions that rankled like thorns in his flesh. What had the Amir meant about Quar’s warning them of the Akar’s coming? Where had Qanndi gotten the notion that the Akar were spying on the city so that they could conquer it? Nothing that mad would ever occur to Sheykh Majiid—any of the sheykhs of the desert for that matter. Not only did they know it would be foolhardy in the extreme to attack such a fortification as the walled city of Kich, why in the name of Sul would anyone want such a place anyhow?

  Then there was the man with the cruel eyes in the palanquin. A slave trader, obviously, but who was he and where did he come from? Khardan found himself unpleasantly obsessed with the memory of that man, and he endeavored to find out more about him during the rare times when he was able to talk to the slave woman he had rescued.

  But the woman proved to be no help. Silent, reclusive, she kept by herself whenever possible, shrinking even from the company of Meryem, who would have been happy to have another woman go with her to perform the private ablutions prohibited to the eyes of men. So quiet was the red-haired woman—never talking, never answering questions spoken to her—that Khardan began to wonder if she was deaf and dumb.

  Saiyad reported to Khardan that the woman never said a word to him. She ate and drank what was given her but took nothing on her own. If no one had brought her food, she probably would have starved. The hopeless look in the eyes had not gone away; if anything, it was intensified. It became apparent to Khardan that the woman would just as soon lie down and die in the sand as to be kept clinging to this life, and he wondered more than once what dreadful thing had happened to her. Recalling the cruel, cold eyes of the man in the palanquin, the Calif did not think he needed to search far to find an answer.