Howling darkness overwhelmed Mathew. Falling back against the tree trunk, he stared into the storm, seeing the nightmare begin all over again. The soldier coming for him, dragging him back to Kich. And once in Kich, the man in the white palanquin would find him. . . He began to shake.
“Promenthas!” he gasped. “You spared my life! You brought me to this accursed land for some reason! What for? What for?”
Mathew stared beseechingly into the heavens, but there was no answer. His head lowered in despair. How could he expect it? Promenthas was far away. Mathew was in the land of this savage God, this Wandering God, who cared nothing for anyone, not even for his own people. Mathew twisted around to watch Zohra. The desperate notion of following after her entered his mind—at least he wouldn’t die alone—when suddenly Mathew caught a glimpse of rose-pink silk, an astonishing sight amidst the blood and the darkness.
Suddenly everything was clear to him. They weren’t the only ones interested in rescuing Khardan!
“Zohra!” Mathew screamed to make himself heard above the noise of the battle. “Zohra!”
She turned her head, clutching back the hair that flew into her eyes. Mathew pointed, yelling wildly.
It was Meryem. Mounted on one of the magical horses, she was heading away from the battlefield, riding back toward the ruined camp. Slung across the front of the saddle was the body of a man, a spahi to judge by his robes. The man hung head down, his arms dangling limp. Mathew had no doubt that it was Khardan, and he saw, from Zohra’s suddenly rigid stance and intense gaze, that she recognized him as well.
Not knowing what else to do, Mathew began to run after Meryem on foot, more out of desperation than with the hope of catching up with her. His lithe body, toughened by hardship and exercise, gave him more than he had expected, however. A heady excitement, doubly welcome after the debilitating fear, exhilarated him, and it seemed he flew over the hard ground, his feet barely touching it.
Gradually, with a feeling of grim exultation, he realized he was gaining on them.
The battle safely behind her, Meryem slowed when she reached the camp. Checking her horse, she gazed up into the cloud, and raising a wand she held in her hand, she spoke arcane words, causing the wand to flare brightly, illuminating her in a circle of radiant white light.
“Kaug!” she called out. “Extend your hand! Lift us up into the clouds!”
The man she carried across her saddle stirred and moaned.
“The terrible dream will soon be ended, my darling,” she murmured, running her hand over Khardan’ s body, delighting in the feel of the strong, muscular back beneath her fingers. “A few more moments and we will be far away from this vile place! I will take you to the Imam, beloved. And I will also take with me a most interesting story of how the Amir ordered Gasim to murder you, contrary to the Imam’s express command.
“The Amir will deny it, of course.” Her fingers lightly touched a pouch she wore around her waist, concealed beneath the flowing, rose-pink silk. “But I have Gasim’s dying image, captured within my mirror. I have his final words revealing Qannadi’s treachery.”
The horse shifted about nervously; a lightning bolt crackled too near.
“Come, Kaug! Get me out of here!” Meryem cried, staring upward impatiently into the cloud and shaking the wand at it.
She saw nothing, however, the ‘efreet being occupied with the battle. Irritably biting her nether lip, Meryem sighed. Her eyes turned once more to Khardan.
“It will take more than this, of course, to bring down the Amir,” she told him. “But it will be a start. In the meanwhile, beloved”—her hand massaged Khardan’s shoulders—”when you awaken, I will tell you how you saved me from the clutches of the murderous Gasim. I will tell you how I pleaded with the soldiers to spare your life and bring us safely to Kich. You will be a prisoner, that is true, but a prisoner whose captivity will be the most pleasant in history! For I will come to you every night, beloved. I will bring you to a knowledge of Quar, and”—she drew a deep breath, her fingers tightening’ convulsively—”I will bring you to a knowledge of more worldly pleasures! Your body will be mine, Khardan! You will give your soul to Quar, and together we will rule—”
Too late, Meryem heard the panting breath and light footsteps. Turning, she caught a glimpse of the white face and red hair of the madman right behind her. She raised the wand, but the madman’s hands dragged her from the saddle and hurled her to the ground before there was time for her to recite the spell.
She fell heavily.
Pain shot through her head. . .
“Zohra! There’s no time for that now!” Mathew hissed angrily. Catching hold of Zohra’s dagger-wielding hand, he stopped it just above Meryem’s breast. “Look at her! She’s unconscious! Would you murder her thus?”
“No,” said Zohra after a moment’s pause. “You are right, Mathew. Her death would be quick and easy. I would derive no satisfaction from it. “
Sickened, Mathew turned back to Khardan. “Help me get him down on the ground,” he ordered Zohra coldly.
The wind tearing at them, they struggled together to grasp Khardan in their arms and slowly lower him from the back of the horse. Nervously Mathew glanced back at the battle to see if anyone was taking an undue interest in them. But the soldiers were intent upon their fighting, the spahis were battling for their lives. Nevertheless, Mathew thought it best that they not call attention to themselves. Reaching out his hand, he touched the horse’s bridle, and as he had anticipated, the magical beast instantly disappeared.
“Keep low!’ he ordered Zohra, pulling her down next to him.
“What is the matter with Khardan?” Zohra asked, examining him by the fading light of the wand Meryem had dropped upon the ground. Zohra’s skilled hands pulled back the bloodsoaked robes from the man’s chest with unwonted gentleness. “He is wounded, but not seriously. I have seen him take worse hurts in the baigha! Yet he seems on the verge of death!”
“He is under an enchantment. But what’s causing it? . . . Ah! Here’s the answer.” Drawing aside the folds of Khardan’s haik, Mathew gingerly slipped his hand beneath a small piece of jewelry the Calif wore around his neck. “Look, Zohra!”
A silver shield beamed with a bright, magical radiance like a small moon.
Sucking in her breath, Zohra stared at it in awe.
“A parting gift from our sorceress,” Mathew said coolly with a glance at Meryem. “Quite clever. She can activate the shield with a word. He probably collapsed as though dead. It not only enchanted him, it protected him from harm until she could reach him.”
“How do we break the spell?”
Mathew was silent a moment, then he looked up into Zohra’s face.
“I’m not certain we want to, Zohra. If Khardan regains consciousness, he will go back and fight and he will die, as the vision foretold. This is our chance to save him.”
Zohra stared at Mathew, then turned her gaze to Khardan, lying amid the wreckage of the camp of his people. Blood covered his robes—his own blood and that of his enemies. Lifting her head, Zohra looked back at the Tel.
The storm wind was dying. The battle, too, was ending. The outcome had been obvious from the start. Taken by surprise and completely outnumbered, the spahis had fought valiantly, inflamed by the sight of their wrecked homes, their fear for their captive families. Many of Qannadi’s soldiers would find a lasting resting place at the foot of the Tel, their bones picked clean by the slavering jaws of the jackals and hyenas who were already prowling the fringes of the battleground.
But the sheer force of the number of the Amir’s troops proved impossible for the nomads to overcome. The bodies of many spahis lay scattered about the oasis. Some of them were dead. Most were only wounded and unconscious. Qannadi’s soldiers had acted on their orders, fighting their foe with the flats of their swords, clubbing them to the ground. Those who had risen up to keep on fighting had been struck down again and again, until they rose no more.
Mathew wat
ched Zohra, his heart aching. He knew what she must be thinking. Khardan would return and he would fight. He would force the Amir’s soldiers to fight until he fell, pierced by many swords. . .
Her face deathly white, Zohra faced Mathew. “Where shall we go?”
Why go anywhere? Why not just stay here? The words were on Mathew’s lips, then he saw a group of soldiers break off from the main body and begin riding back toward the wrecked camp. They carried flaming torches in their hands. Leaning down, they touched the brands to the tents, setting them on fire. They were, apparently, leaving nothing behind for the survivors. Others began moving among the wounded, occasionally lifting the unconscious body of a spahi onto the backs of their horses, taking them prisoner. Mathew thought he recognized Achmed, Khardan’s brother, being dragged into a saddle. The young man’s face was covered with blood.
His gaze going hopelessly from one danger to another, Mathew saw—standing on the rim of a dune, silhouetted against the setting sun—a white palanquin!
He is here! He has come for me! Terror clasped Mathew by the throat, suffocating him. The globe of glass pressed against his skin, its icy cold making him shudder.
“Mat-hew! Do you see? The soldiers are burning the camp! What should we do?”
“Why do you look at me?” Mathew gasped, struggling to breathe. He glared at her accusingly. “I don’t know anything about this land! All I know is that we must flee! We must escape!”
His eyes were drawn involuntarily to the dune. He blinked, staring. The palanquin was gone! Had it ever been there? Was it his imagination? Or was he crazed with the horror of everything that had happened? Shaking his head, he glanced hurriedly around.
What was left of the tents, the smashed poles, the blankets and cushions, and all the other possessions of the tribes were ablaze. A few old women, left wailing over their losses, raised their fists, shrieking curses. The soldiers ignored them and went about their work.
Mathew began to strip off Khardan’s headcloth.
“What are you doing?” Zohra demanded in amazement.
“Hand me her clothes and her veil!” he ordered, tugging at Khardan’s black robes with shaking hands. Not stopping his work, keeping one eye on the soldiers, Mathew nodded his head toward the unconscious Meryem.
To his surprise, he heard Zohra chuckle—a deep throaty sound more like the purring of a giant cat than a laugh.
Apparently she approved his plan.
Working swiftly, hidden from sight by the billowing clouds of smoke rolling through the camp, Mathew and Zohra covered Khardan’s bloodstained tunic and trousers in folds of rosepink silk. Avoiding touching the brightly glowing silver shield that hung around the man’s neck, Zohra wrapped Meryem’s veil about Khardan’s head, drawing it up over his mouth and nose, arranging it to hide his beard. While Zohra did this, Mathew hurriedly searched Meryem’s unconscious, half-naked body, taking anything he could find that might be magical and hastily stashing it in the folds of his robes. Last, he lifted the now-dark wand from her hand, treating it with the utmost respect, carefully wrapping it in a piece of torn cloth before thrusting it into one of the pouches and hanging it around his waist.
Khardan’s body was dead weight when they lifted him, one arm draped over the shoulder of each, his feet dragging on the ground. Mathew staggered beneath the burden. “We can’t carry him far!” he grunted.
“We won’t have to!” Zohra returned, coughing in the thick smoke. “We will hide in the oasis until the soldiers are gone. Then we can come back to camp.”
Mathew wasn’t certain he wanted to come back, not until he knew whether the white palanquin had been real or a vision. But he lacked breath to argue. Keeping to the shadows, he and Zohra hurried through the camp, avoiding the light of the burning torches, their own veils wrapped tightly about their heads.
Rounding a blazing tent, they were suddenly confronted by a soldier, who stared at them in the dim light.
“Hey, you women! Stop!”
“Pretend you don’t hear!” Zohra muttered. Heads bowed, dragging Khardan between them, they kept walking. The soldier started after them.
“Dog! Where do you think you are going?” came a harsh voice. “Trying to get out of the work?”
“Captain! Look, some women are getting away!”
This is it! Mathew thought. Stabbing pain tore through his shoulders, bowed beneath Khardan’s weight. The smoke and the veil were both slowly stifling him. He was on the verge of exhaustion; it took a conscious effort to force his feet to stumble along the ground. No, this would be the end of them. Grimly he waited for the command. . .
But the captain, absorbed in setting fire to a pile of silken cushions, glanced in the direction of the fleeing women and gave the soldier a look of disgust.
“Look at them! Bent, sickly old hags. If you must risk having yourself turned into a eunuch, do so with one of the young, pretty girls we stole! Now, get back to your post!”
Mathew exchanged relieved glances with Zohra and saw the black eyes—reflecting the flames of the burning village—smile at him in weary triumph.
“We did it, Mat-hew!” she whispered.
The young wizard could not reply; he didn’t have the strength.
They were near the edge of camp. A few feet more and they were in the tall, tassel-headed grass that grew thick about the water. Easing Khardan’s unconscious body to the wet ground, Mathew and Zohra collapsed beside him, too tired to go farther.
Huddled in the grass, hidden from view of the campsite, they were afraid to move, afraid to speak, almost afraid to breathe. The soldiers milled about the area for hours, it seemed. Smoke from the burning camp drifted over them, and they could hear the groans and cries of the injured echoing in the darkness.
Time passed, and no one discovered them. No one even came in their direction. The dark cloud disappeared, revealing behind it a full moon, hanging like a grinning skull in the dark sky. Khardan remained unconscious, still under the enchantment. Zohra, by the sound of her regular breathing, had fallen asleep.
The veil had been torn from her head, the moonlight shone full upon her. To keep himself from giving way to exhaustion, Mathew concentrated on studying Zohra’s face. Beautiful, proud, willful, unyielding, even—it seemed—to sleep itself. Smiling sadly, Mathew sighed. How angry she made him, angry and frustrated. And ashamed. He brushed back a lock of black hair from her eyes and felt her shivering in the chill air. Moving as softly and gently as he could, Mathew put his arm around her and drew her near him. She was too tired to wake. Reacting instinctively to the warmth of his body, she snuggled next to him. The scent of jasmine, faint and sweet, drifted to him over the acrid smell of smoke.
Turning his head, Mathew looked at Zohra’s husband. The woman’s clothes Khardan wore were caked with mud and filth. Recalling the vision, Mathew’s soul shrank in fear. Resolutely he shoved the memory aside.
Khardan was alive. That was all that mattered.
Mathew withdrew the rose-pink veil from Khardan’s face.
The enchantment the man was under must be a terrible one. The strong features twisted. Sometimes a stifled groan escaped his lips, the hands twitched and clenched. But Mathew dared not lift the spell, not yet. He thought he could still hear gruff, sharp voices coming from the direction of the camp.
He could do nothing for the Calif but offer silent sympathy and guard his rest—poor guard though he might be. Reaching out slowly, Mathew took hold of Khardan’s hand and held it fast.
Mathew closed his eyes, promising to keep them shut just a moment to ease the burning irritation caused by the sand. The irritation was soon gone. His eyes stayed closed. He slept.
Chapter 29
Exhausted from his fight with Raja that had—as was usual with fights among the immortal—ended in a draw, Fedj hastened back to the camp, only to find the battle over. Searching the battlefield for his master, the djinn discovered Jaafar lying unconscious on the ground. The unfortunate Sheykh had been the first casualty
. Arriving at the field of battle on foot, Jaafar was kicked in the head by a horse and fell over senseless, never drawing his sword.
Making certain his master was still alive, Fedj carried him back to what was left of the camp, then went off in search of other survivors. Hearing a soldier shout about someone’s trying to escape, the djinn instantly went to investigate. Three women were taking advantage of the smoke to try to sneak away. It appeared that one of the women was sick or injured, for the other two were carrying her. As he flew forward to help them, the djinn saw the rose-colored veil slip down from I the face of the injured woman.
Fedj stared in shock, too stunned to even make his presence known.
Though partially hidden by the rose-colored veil, the strong, handsome features, the black beard, were easily recognized.
“Khardan!” the djinn muttered in swift anger. “Fleeing the battle disguised as a woman! Wait until my master hears this!”
So saying, he sped back through the air to Jaafar, who was just sitting up, clutching his head, and moaning that he was cursed by the God.
“Effendi.” whispered a voice. “I have located her.”
A slender hand parted the curtains of the white palanquin “Yes?”
“She is hiding in the tall grass of the oasis. There are two others with her.”
“Excellent, Kiber. I will come.”
The curtains of the palanquin were drawn back. A man stepped from them. The litter stood concealed behind a huge dune some distance to the east of the Tel. Making less noise than the wind brushing the desert floor, the goum and his master walked along the outskirts of the wrecked camp. Neither gave it a glance; both looked to their destination and soon reached the oasis.
Walking swiftly through the grass, Kiber led his master to where three figures slept, huddled together in the mud.
Leaning over them, the slave trader examined them carefully by the bright light of the full moon.
“A black-haired beauty, young and strong. And what is this? The bearded devil who stole the blossom and put me to all this trouble! Truly the God looks down upon us with favor this night, Kiber!”
The Will of the Wanderer Page 45
