The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “I can’t ask him to do such a thing! He would despise me forever!”

  “We won’t ask,” Mathew said grimly, searching about for some type of weapon and settling for an iron pot.

  Absorbed in his fear, he did not notice the ominous silence that had now settled over the camp, making it possible for them to talk without yelling.

  “But how will we find him?”

  “Surely your men will turn back, once they know what is happening?”

  “Yes!” said Zohra excitedly. “They will come to us and so will Zeid! They will fight together to defeat these foul sons of Quar!”

  “Not if the vision is true. Something will happen to separate them. But you’re right. Khardan will return to the camp—if he can. Come on!”

  Cautiously he emerged from the tent. Zohra crept out after him. They both halted, staring in shock. The battle was over. The camp was completely destroyed. Tents lay on the ground like dead birds, their fabric rent and shredded by wind, sword, and horses’ hooves. Livestock had been ruthlessly butchered. Waterskins lay split open, their precious liquid soaking into the desert sand. There wasn’t a thing left, it seemed, that hadn’t been broken, smashed, or ripped to shreds.

  Those few who had put up a fight had been subdued at last, the soldiers carrying them up into the welcoming arms of the ‘efreet, whose huge body shrouded the sky in darkness. Now that the captives were safe, the storm wind began to rise again.

  At the edge of the camp, barely visible through the swirling sand, Mathew caught a glimpse of color-rose-pink silk. Staring, he saw a strange sight. A woman with golden hair, her veil having blown from her head, was talking with a soldier on horseback. She was speaking earnestly, angrily it seemed, for she stamped her foot upon the ground and pointed insistently toward the south.

  Meryem! How strange, Mathew thought. What is she doing? Why hasn’t she tried to escape? Turning to glance in the direction she indicated, Mathew drew a breath.

  “Look!” he shouted, peering through the gathering gloom, his eyes gummed with sand. “There they are! There is Khardan! I can see his black horse! Hurry!” He started running. “Or we’ll be too late.”

  A hand caught hold of his arm; nails dug painfully into his flesh. Turning, he saw Zohra gazing bleakly above them. From out of the clouds came another spiral of horses—fresh soldiers riding down to meet the returning nomads.

  “I think, Mat-hew, that we are already too late!” she said softly.

  Chapter 26

  Unaware of what was happening in their camp, Sheykhs Majiid and Jaafar led the charge across the desert to meet Zeid. Unaccustomed to riding, Jaafar jounced up and down in the saddle, stirrups flying and there appeared every likelihood that the Sheykh would fall from his mount and break his neck before ever reaching the field of battle. Majiid had tried to persuade the Sheykh to stay behind, but Jaafar—more than half-convinced that this was all some devious plot of Majiid’s—had insisted on riding with the leaders, refusing to let his “ally” out of sight. Thus did all the Hrana and the Akar ride into combat—keeping one eye on the enemy in front and the other eye on those who rode at their side.

  So occupied were they in warily watching each other that they never thought to look up into the sky that was growing darker and darker by the moment. They might never have noticed it at all had not Jaafar—to the surprise of no one—toppled off his horse to land heavily upon his back in the sand.

  The Hrana gathered around him, prepared to stop and assist their fallen leader. Jaafar couldn’t talk—the breath had been knocked from his body—but he managed to wave his men on, pointing furiously at Majiid, warning them not to let the spahis get ahead of them.

  Lying in the sand, gasping for breath, Jaafar had time to contemplate the heavens while Fedj, his djinn, chased after the horse.

  “I hope that damn storm breaks before the fighting starts!” the Sheykh growled when Fedj returned, leading the horse and coming to assist his master.

  Fedj took hold of his master’s hand, glancing up as he was about to haul Jaafar to his feet. The djinn’s eyes widened. With a startled cry, he let loose of the Sheykh, who tumbled back down into the sand again.

  “Storm!” the djinn shouted. “That is no storm, sidi! That is Kaug, Quar’s ‘efreet!”

  “Boo! What would an ‘efreet be doing here?” Jaafar peered up into the sky in disbelief.

  Suddenly Fedj gasped in horror. “Armies!” he shrieked, pointing behind them. “Armies of men on horseback, attacking our camp!”

  Twisting around, Jaafar saw the soldiers, mounted on their magical steeds, flying out of the storm cloud, aiming for the tents below.

  “Go to Majiid!” Jaafar ordered the djinn. “Go warn him!”

  Within an eyeblink Fedj was gone, and within another he materialized directly in front of Majiid’s horse, causing the startled Sheykh to rein in so quickly he nearly upset the animal.

  “What do you want?” Majiid roared in anger. “Get out of my way! Return to that clumsy oaf you call a master and tell him to ride a donkey into battle next time!”

  “Effendi!” cried Fedj. “Our camp is under attack!”

  “What fools does Jaafar take us for that we should fall for such a trick?” Khardan demanded furiously, galloping up beside his father. “The enemy is before us, not behind!” He indicated a large cloud of sand through which could now be see the armies of the meharistes.

  In answer Fedj—his expression grim—simply pointed back at the Tel. Khardan and Majiid reluctantly turned in their saddles.

  “Hazrat Akhran be with us!” Khardan breathed.

  Majiid, his eyes bulging in disbelief, could only sputter,”Who— What?”

  “The Amir’s soldiers!” Khardan cried. Grasping the reins, he dragged his horse’s head around. The black war charger, foundering in the sand, nearly lost its balance. But Khardan’s skill kept it upright until it could get its hind legs beneath its body. Leaping forward, it carried its master ahead at a furious gallop.

  The other spahis milled about in confusion, shouting and pointing and passing the news along to those who were just riding up. One by one they all turned to dash back to camp, several of the unskilled Hrana riders falling from their mounts or upsetting their horses in their excitement.

  “Fly to Zeid!” Majiid ordered Fedj. “Tell him the Amir is attacking and that we call upon him in the name of Akhran to help us defend ourselves against the unbeliever!”

  “Done!” cried Fedj, disappearing so swiftly that the air spoke the word for him.

  But when the djinn reached Zeid, he found the Sheykh already apprised of the situation, having seen for himself the armies descending from the sky.

  “So!” snarled Zeid before the djinn could say a word. “What’s the matter? Was Khardan afraid that he could not take us on alone? Well, he was right! We will fight both you and your friend the Amir!”

  “What do you mean?” Fedj cried. “The Amir is not our friend! Can’t you see he is attacking us?”

  Consumed with battle rage, Zeid did not hear. The Sheykh was about to urge his camel forward when one of his men shouted and pointed toward the sky. A contingent of soldiers on their winged horses could be seen dropping down out of the thundercloud, flying southward.

  “So that’s your master’s plan, is it?” Zeid cried grimly. “What plan? You don’t understand! Listen to me!” Fedj pleaded in desperation.

  “Oh, I understand! You lure us up here and then the Amir attacks our defenseless camp while we are gone! Qannadi won’t get far! Not even magical winged steeds can outrun the meharis!”

  Shouting commands, dividing his forces, leaving some to guard his rear, ordering others to lead the charge, Zeid wheeled his camel and prepared to race after the soldiers.

  “You brainless goat!” Fedj flew after Zeid. “The Amir isn’t our ally! How could you think such a thing? And now you’re playing into his hands, letting him divide us up.” But Zeid, his face red with fury, refused to listen. Soaring to twenty
feet in height, Fedj was prepared to grab hold of the camel with his bare hands and shake some sense into the fat little Sheykh. But he was stopped by Raja, Zeid’s djinn, who leaped out of his master’s saddlebags.

  Soaring to thirty feet in height, his black skin glistening in the sun, his muscles bulging, his eyes blazing in fury, Raja leaped at Fedj. The two djinn fell to the ground, landing with a thud that caused the granite floor to crack beneath them. Howling in rage, Raja and Fedj rolled over and over, hands grappling for each other’s throat.

  Sheykh Zeid, in the meantime, raced over the dunes, chasing after the winged horsemen, his meharistes shouting for the soldiers to come down and fight them like men.

  Glancing over his shoulder as he thundered northward toward the Tel, Majiid saw the camel riders turn tail—or so it seemed—and dash off back in the direction of home.

  “Ah! Coward!” Pulling back on the reins, Majiid caused his horse to rear on its hind legs, the animal’s front hooves slicing the air.

  “May your wives mate with camels!” he called after the departing Zeid. “May your sons have four legs and your daughters humps! May you— May you. . .”

  Majiid could think of nothing else. Fear for his people choked him. Half blind with tears of anger, he galloped on.

  Chapter 27

  The voice of the ‘efreet howled in Khardan’s ears, Kaug’s breath blew sand into his face. Lightning flared, trying to blind him. Thunder rumbled, shaking the ground beneath his feet. A darkness as of night covered the sun.

  Deadly as the diving falcon, Khardan fell upon his prey.

  Unfortunately, the Calif had, in his rage, far outridden his men. Alone he smashed into the vanguard of the Amir’s troops, attacking them with a fury and a recklessness that caught them completely by surprise. They might well have been facing ten thousand devils, instead of just one man.

  The steel talon of his saber ripped into his enemy’s flesh. The Rose of the Prophet growing on the Tel was watered with his enemy’s blood. On Khardan fought, by himself. His enemies fell before his wrath like wheat to the scythe.

  His arms were crimson to the elbow, the hilt of his saber and his hand were gummed with blood and gore so that he could not move his fingers. His horse battled as savagely as its master, lashing out with its sharp hooves, working skillfully to keep its footing on the blood-slick ground.

  So fierce was Khardan’s attack that his enemies could not get within his guard, though they outnumbered him twenty to one. Time and again they hurled themselves at him, striking with sword and dagger, only to be thrown back. They waited, biding their time, knowing that soon Khardan must grow tired, he must begin to weaken. When the rise and fall of his blade slowed, when they heard his breath begin to whistle in his lungs, his enemies took heart. Surrounding him, they pressed in closely and this time won through.

  A sword thrust sliced the Calif ‘s arm, another ripped a bloody gash across his chest. Khardan knew he was hit, but he felt no pain. Grimly he fought on, his horse staggering and plunging in the churned-up sand, its hooves slipping in the brains and mangled flesh beneath its feet.

  Then Khardan, battling one foe in front of him, saw—behind him—the flash of a saber. He could not defend himself and knew that this was the end. He would take this last enemy with him, however, and—even as he braced himself for the blow from behind—he cut down the man in front. The blow never came. A cry caused him to glance around. He saw his younger brother Achmed, his sword wet with blood, staring down white-faced at the corpse of the man who had been about to kill Khardan.

  “Your left!” Khardan cried out harshly, knowing he must rouse his brother from the shocked daze of his first kill. “Fight, boy, fight!”

  Instinctively obeying his brother’s voice, Achmed turned, clumsily blocking the soldier’s blow. Khardan tried to keep by his brother’s side, but a strange feeling was coming over the Calif—a feeling of weariness and exhaustion such as he had never before experienced during the wild madness of battle. He knew he had not taken a serious wound, yet he felt life draining from his body. Darkness covered his eyes, taking on an eerie, blood-red tinge. Time itself slowed. Men and horses came into sight, loomed large in his vision. He tried to fight them, but his sword arm suddenly felt as though it were made of lead, holding a weapon of stone.

  And then one single figure appeared before him, riding out of the red-tinged mist. It was a captain of the Amir’s soldiers, a man with only one eye. Khardan saw death glittering in that eye, but he could do nothing to defend himself; raising his arm took more strength then he possessed. He saw the stroke of the captain’s blade, slicing toward his neck, and it seemed to take forever, the flare of the metal cutting a burning swath through the enveloping mist.

  Khardan felt no fear, only a fierce anger. He was going to die, helpless as a babe.

  The blade hit his throat and stopped, the sword rebounding from his neck as though it had struck a steel collar. He saw the one eye of the captain open wide in astonishment, then the man himself disappeared, falling backward off his horse, sinking into the red-tinged mist with a terrible yell.

  Khardan blinked, trying to clear his vision, trying to shake off this awful lethargy. He was like a small child lost and wandering aimlessly in a horror-filled night.

  He felt himself slide from the saddle, his body nerveless, unable to support him. He slumped down into the warm sand, closing his eyes, longing for sleep.

  “Khardan!” came a voice.

  Forcing open heavy eyelids, he looked up and saw a face covered by a rose-pink veil hovering above him in the mists.

  “Meryem!” he murmured. He could not think how she came to be here. She was in danger! Frantically, he struggled to rise, to save her!

  But he was tired.

  So very tired. . .

  Chapter 28

  Huddled in the meager shelter offered by the trunk of a palm tree, Mathew watched the battle raging around the Tel with the curiously detached interest of a spectator witnessing a drama. He couldn’t understand his lack of feeling and began to fear that the harshness and cruelty of this land was robbing him of his humanity.

  Mathew had one thought, one purpose—to find Khardan. Nothing else mattered. Silently cursing the darkness, the stormdriven wind, and the swirling sand, the young wizard stared into the surging, heaving, struggling mass of men and horses. The sand blowing into his face made his eyes burn painfully. Tears streamed down his cheeks, soaking the veil he had drawn over his mouth to protect himself from inhaling the dust. Angrily, impatiently, he wiped the tears and grit from his eyes and continued to stare into the mob.

  Once he thought he saw Khardan and pointed him out to Zohra, who was crouched next to him. But she shook her head emphatically. The man turned his head, and Mathew, sighing, was forced to admit that she was right. The spahis in their swirling robes all looked alike to him. He was trying to recall if Khardan had been wearing anything distinctive that morning, such as a red head-rope or perhaps the red leather boots that he sometimes preferred to his black ones. But the morning seemed very far away, lost in a haze of blood and terror. He couldn’t remember anything.

  The pounding of horse’s hooves behind him and a sharp intake of breath from Zohra caused Mathew to whirl about fearfully. One of the soldiers was riding down on them, sword raised. Mathew saw Zohra’s hand dart inside the folds of her chador, he saw the flash of her dagger. Instinctively Mathew’s hand closed around one of his magical scrolls. Scoffing at himself, he let it go. What would he do? Throw a bowl of water in the enemy’s face? He needed a wand—something powerful—to work warrior’s magic.

  The soldier closed on them. Mathew felt Zohra tense, ready to spring, but the man, seeing now that they were females, arrested the downward stroke of his blade.

  “Ah, did we forget you, my beauties?” he asked, laughing harshly. His uniform was streaked with blood. “An oversight. Wait here. I will return for you when I have sent a few more souls of your menfolk to Quar.”

  He ro
de off. Mathew caught hold of Zohra as she lunged after him. “Stop it! Are you mad?”

  “That son of ten thousand swine! Let me go!” Zohra’s face was pale and resolute. “This is hopeless, Mat-hew! We will never find Khardan! I am going to go fight with my people!”

  “You’ll be captured! They won’t fight a woman!”

  “I won’t be a woman!” Zohra cried fiercely.

  Not twenty feet from them lay the body of one of the spahis, the wind whipping his robes around him. Zohra’s gaze fixed upon the body, and it was easy for Mathew to guess her intent. Stripping the veil from her head, Zohra tossed it to the ground and started forward.

  “You’ll be killed! And Khardan will be lost and so will your people!” cried Mathew. Pressed against the palm tree’s trunk, he was suddenly too afraid to move. He saw the soldier’s leering face. . .

  “Then at least the souls of my people will come before Akhran with pride, knowing we have avenged our wrongs,” Zohra retorted, clambering over the scrub. Sharp needles stabbed into her gown, rending and tearing it.

  Mathew glanced wildly at the battle and then at Zohra, moving farther from him every instant. The horror of the slaughter, the carnage he had witnessed struck him with a bloody fist.

  “Zohra!” he shouted desperately. “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me alone!”

  She stopped then and turned to face him. Her long black hair streamed behind her in the wind, her tattered clothes fluttered around her like the feathers of a bird’s wings. Her face was sharp as the hawk’s beak, her eyes as dark and deadly as those of any bird of prey.

  The contempt in those eyes, staring coldly at Mathew, pierced him to the heart. Without a word, Zohra turned. Fighting the buffeting winds, she headed once more for the body.