Blade Of Fire (Book 2)

by Stuart Hill

  Sharley greedily absorbed it all, gasping at every new sight and demanding explanations. Then his eye was caught by a large and richly decorated carriage that was slowly fighting its way through the traffic. It was drawn by a team of six horses, each one bearing ostrich plumes on its bridle and a sky blue livery. But it was the driver who held his attention: every few metres he would stand up and flick his whip at the crowds, while screaming what Sharley guessed was abuse. Arguments raged around the driver, but even so the coach continued to make progress.

  Eventually, the vehicle reached the dockside and drew up next to the gangplank of Sharley’s vessel. Maggie smiled in relief. “I think our contact has arrived.”

  They both watched as the driver jumped down and opened the carriage door for a tall black gentleman in a bright red turban and white silk robes. Sharley had never seen anyone of such a rich mahogany colour before, and only just remembered to close his mouth as the man walked up the gangplank.

  He stepped on to the deck and salaamed deeply. “Welcome to the Desert Kingdom, Your Majesty. I am Ibrahim Rahoul, Captain Al-Khatib’s steward. He sends his greetings and felicitations and bids me escort you to his small home in the town, where he will receive you.”

  Maggie salaamed in return. “Greetings, Ibrahim Rahoul. We gladly accept Captain Al-Khatib’s invitation.”

  As the carriage moved off, with the driver screaming himself hoarse, Sharley looked about him, gazing in wonder at the passing sights. Everywhere, goods spilled into the road from open-fronted shops, and crowds of shoppers milled about inspecting the produce and haggling. Sharley couldn’t help noticing that the women kept their faces hidden behind silken scarves.

  Soon they began to climb the hill away from the port, and headed towards the town walls. The houses became richer and richer as they trotted along, until eventually they were passing establishments that looked like miniature palaces.

  At last the carriage slowed and finally stopped. Ibrahim Rahoul waited in dignified silence until the driver had climbed down from his seat and opened the door. As Sharley and Maggie emerged, they saw before them a huge house with a pair of enormous carved wooden doors set in walls that were blindingly white in the bright desert sunshine. They squinted at its brilliance, and slowly the massive double doors swung open, revealing a courtyard that was deeply shaded and green. Both Maggie and Sharley hurried towards the inviting cool of the courtyard without waiting to be asked.

  Once they were inside, the doors closed and the sound of running water reached their ears. In the centre of the courtyard water cascaded from a beautiful marble fountain in a spectacular display, and pots of flowering plants stood under the tall trees that shaded everything from the glare of the sun.

  A great shout went up, and Captain Al-Khatib himself appeared. He was dressed in a fire of brightly coloured silks and, after salaaming deeply to them, his face broke into a wide grin.

  “Greetings and felicitations, Your Majesty, and to you, Maggiore Totus. Welcome to my humble home. May the One fill your lives with the greatest gifts of providence.”

  Sharley smiled. “May the One pour forth his benevolence on you and your family,” he replied correctly, remembering the formality of his earlier meetings with the Captain.

  “Ah, I see that you have remembered our language. My people and I are deeply honoured.”

  Sharley wondered if such extreme politeness could become a little overwhelming, but he smiled manfully and reminded himself that he was genuinely pleased to see the Captain again.

  “Come, let us take a little sherbet in the cool of the mirador.” Al-Khatib led them from the courtyard and into a corridor, where a flight of steps led up to a room situated high up on the outside wall of the house. It had wide floors of polished wood, and fretted windows that drastically reduced the glare of the desert sun and at the same time seemed to cool the gentle breezes that playfully rippled the many silk hangings. From one set of windows there was a view of the town as it undulated down the steep hill towards the harbour, and from another, the desert glared and shimmered in many shades of red and gold as it swept away to the horizon under the oppressive heat of the sun.

  “From here we can see both the benevolence and the power of the One,” said Al-Khatib, waving his hand first at the town and his own fine house and then at the desert. “The most powerful politician and the mightiest warrior need only walk in the land beyond the walls of this town for one hour without coverings or water, to realise their true insignificance.”

  Sharley nodded, and Maggie murmured in agreement and said, “And yet, that is the very route we must take if we are to complete our mission and meet with His Majesty the Sultan.”

  “Indeed, yes. But you will be properly equipped and supplied so that you will be able to cross the desert in safety. I myself will be your guide, and we will have an escort of forty armed tribesmen and a caravan of more than twenty pack camels.”

  “Is the Sultan expecting us?” Sharley asked.

  “Yes and no, Your Majesty,” Al-Khatib replied with a small smile. “Unofficially he knows that a Prince of the mighty House of Lindenshield is within his Kingdom, and yet officially he knows nothing of this. You are simply a private individual travelling the world for pleasure.”

  “Do the Empire’s spies reach as far as the desert, so that even here we have to pretend and hide?” Sharley asked in amazement.

  “As far as the desert and sometimes even within our capital,” said Al-Khatib.

  “Do you know if any are within your lands now?” asked Maggie.

  “Always. They try to report our every move. But it has to be admitted that just recently their activities have grown less,” said the Captain with a knowing smile. “We believe that a certain Kingdom far to the north, mighty in arms and brave in heart, is keeping them busy.”

  “Then perhaps we can meet with the Sultan without Bellorum knowing,” said Sharley hopefully.

  “Perhaps. But if he doesn’t know about your visit immediately, he will surely find out about it before you leave.”

  “Then there’s no hope,” said Sharley in despair.

  Al-Khatib considered him in silence for a moment, then said, “I have no idea why you are making such a journey to meet the Sultan, but even so, perhaps I can make one or two informed guesses and say that the Empire is not the only Government that has spies. Our own people have told us that Bellorum is committing huge resources to his new war with the Icemark. So much so that if something as strange as an army of allies was to be gathered and prepared to strike at him from the south, then there would be little he could do to stop it. Only the sea and his naval allies the Island Buccaneers and the Zephyrs could try and prevent this force from reaching the Icemark. All of this, of course, assumes that such an army could ever be gathered.”

  “Of course,” Maggie agreed. “But if such a thing should ever be proposed to the Sultan, would he, in your opinion, be likely to agree to such a venture?”

  “Ah, now, that is the golden question, as we say in the Desert Kingdom. In truth, the Sultan is old and wearied by a lifetime of border wars with the Empire. In his youth he was a lion who would have leaped at such a chance to finally destroy the Polypontians, and the hated Bellorum. But now . . .” Al-Khatib shrugged. “Only the One knows the answer.”

  “So, even now we could be wasting our time, and the Icemark’s as good as lost,” said Sharley quietly.

  “Nothing in diplomacy or warfare is ever certain,” said Maggie. “But if we don’t try, then there is no hope at all of achieving what we want.”

  “That is undoubtedly true,” said Al-Khatib. “But there is another route to consider. The Sultan has a son, Crown Prince Mekhmet. To give him his full title, Crown Prince Mekhmet Nasrid, Sword of the Desert, Beloved of the One. Now, he has the fire that has long been extinguished in his father. An adventure such as you . . . may be proposing would appeal to his sense of honour. Might I therefore suggest that a word with him before approaching his father could be of val
ue?”

  “Your advice is invaluable, as ever,” said Maggie politely.

  Their host bowed his head in reply. “And now, the promised sherbet.” He clapped his hands and a young boy hurried in, carrying a tray of goblets and a tall silver jug.

  That evening they all went to bed early because Al-Khatib wanted to set out for the capital at dawn. Sharley’s bedroom was large and stuffed with rich carpets and hangings. Not only that, but it even had a room attached with its own toilet and a place to bathe! Even Venezzia couldn’t equal grandeur on this scale, and in celebration of such luxury Sharley used the bath even though he didn’t think he was that dirty.

  Sharley woke to a servant opening the shutters on a rosecoloured sky. The sun was rising over the desert, and the surprising cold of the night was already in retreat. The man then laid out some clothes on a chair and, smiling, bowed and left the room. Curious, Sharley crossed to the chair and inspected the garments. They were entirely black and consisted of the loose trousers and shirt like those worn by Al-Khatib’s household staff, with the addition of a full-length tunic with long sleeves and a headdress. The weave of the cloth was surprisingly thick considering the heat, but having experienced something of the ferocity of the local weather in his short journey from the harbour, Sharley rightly guessed that the cloth was designed to protect the wearer from the worst effects of the sun.

  Another servant then entered and placed a tray of dates, bread and sherbet on a low table. Obviously breakfast was going to be a hurried affair. Taking the hint, Sharley ate, quickly washed, and then dressed in the desert clothing. There was a huge mirror in the corner of the room, one of the largest he’d ever seen, and crossing to it he looked at his reflection. He was amazed by the transformation.

  The boy from the barbarian north had disappeared, replaced by someone who looked almost like a young man. He stood as tall as his gammy leg would allow him, and his reflection glared arrogantly back. He grinned at the effect and the old Sharley returned, but even the old Sharley looked different: less boyish, and more like someone who could hope to command authority.

  He hurried from his room and down a long marble staircase, then out into the courtyard. Maggie and Al-Khatib were deep in conversation, but they turned as he joined them. Obviously the transformation was more marked than he’d thought, because both men suddenly bowed as though they’d forgotten their manners in the presence of some high official. It was only as they were straightening up that Sharley remembered he was a high official, and as Prince Regent and Monarch to the Exiles he was one of the highest.

  “My Lord is made for the dress of my people,” said Al-Khatib. “Your physical form may have been born in the Icemark, but you have the soul of the desert!”

  Maggie said nothing, but he looked thoughtful and secretly pleased. Sharley tried his best to look suitably impressive, but a delighted grin insisted on breaking out and he blushed the colour of sunsets.

  They made their way out to the front of the house, where Sharley was startled to see what looked like an army preparing to march to war. There were enormous beasts called camels that were taller than horses but had faces not unlike Oskan’s old mule, Jenny. These camels were supposedly riding animals as well as beasts of burden, but Sharley could hardly guess how it was possible to ride a creature that had something like a large hillock on its back. As he watched, the animals’ keepers placed frames over the humps, and to these were attached more parcels and goods than it seemed possible for any animal to carry. Then the escort of forty desert warriors arrived. They, too, were riding camels, and sat on saddles that were moulded over the strange humps.

  The warriors were a fierce-looking people with scowling faces, and they had long curved swords and daggers hanging from their brightly coloured belts. The noise of the camels roaring in rich, bubbling voices and the warriors and drivers all shouting and calling was indescribable. The smell of the beasts was also pretty overwhelming; it was an odd mixture that reminded Sharley of King Grishmak’s cheesy feet steaming in front of the fire and a stable in need of cleaning out. He coughed once or twice, but nobody else seemed to notice it, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

  Al-Khatib led Maggie and Sharley over to a group of camels. “These will be our mounts,” he said, and nodded to the drivers, who barked short orders to the beasts. They sank slowly to their knees, just as Havoc, Thirrin’s warhorse, had done for Sharley that night, so long ago, when he’d ridden to the Great Forest.

  “I would advise My Lords to observe as I mount, and try to copy my actions.” Al-Khatib placed a foot on the camel’s shoulder and hopped into the saddle. At a touch from his riding crop, the animal surged to its feet, back legs first, throwing all its weight forward as Al-Khatib compensated for this by leaning far back in his saddle.

  Eager to try, Sharley quickly scrambled into the saddle of his waiting camel. When it rose to its feet he flung himself backwards, and his perspective on the world took on a strange angle as the camel climbed to its full height. The beast was even taller than Havoc, and Sharley felt he was riding a mountain.

  When Maggie scrambled into his saddle, things didn’t go quite so well. The old scholar rolled to the ground with a thump when the camel stood up. Maggie’s second attempt was better, although he only just managed to cling on as the camel rose to its feet. Then, as they made their way to the head of the caravan, poor Maggie bounced around like a pea on a drumskin as he clutched the reins and tried to stop his teeth clicking with every jolt. Sharley found it easier, copying Al-Khatib and swaying in rhythm to his animal’s odd way of walking. It wasn’t unlike the dip and sway of a small boat, so the months they’d spent at sea came in useful, though it wasn’t so much “sea legs” that were needed, but a “desert arse”, Sharley thought to himself.

  By this time the caravan was almost ready to set off and the escort of desert warriors divided into two parts, half of their number leading the way and the other half acting as a rearguard.

  Sharley concentrated on double-checking his equipment and camel. He didn’t want to do anything stupid like falling off during the journey. He was having trouble enough trying to look the part of a confident and sophisticated Royal Personage, without anything like that happening!

  The camels continued to roar and belch, while their riders screeched at them in return, and small boys scampered about on mysterious errands that required much shouting and waving of arms. Then, at last, Al-Khatib raised his hand and they lurched forward. Within a matter of minutes they had passed through the main gate of the town and were climbing to the brow of the hill outside, where the huge expanse of the desert opened up before them. Sharley stared in wonder. The rocks and boulders surrounding the town soon gave way to fine red sand that stretched away in gracefully undulating dunes to the far horizon.

  The caravan paused while further checks were made on water and food supplies, then at last the camels roared and belched their way onwards, their huge plate-like feet thudding down on to the soft sands and carrying them deep into a hostile land of fire.

  The sun had risen over the horizon and cast long earlymorning shadows back towards the town, but already the temperature was beginning to rise. Many of the caravaneers began to wind lengths of cloth around their faces, leaving only their eyes exposed, as an addition to the protection given by their headdresses. On the advice of Al-Khatib, Sharley and Maggie did the same.

  The first day passed under a crushing weight of heat. Sharley had never experienced anything like it. He felt as if every drop of moisture was being drawn from his body by the merciless sun that blazed unendingly in a sky that was no longer blue, but a bright uncompromising white. Every breath of air he took was hot, and he felt it travelling down his windpipe and into his lungs almost as though he’d breathed in boiling water. The land around shimmered and wavered in a heat haze that made it almost impossible to see more than a couple of metres ahead with any accuracy. He couldn’t believe that anyone could travel more than a few kilometres in such conditions and
live. But the other members of the caravan seemed relaxed and happy, chatting quietly amongst themselves and sometimes even laughing. Sharley couldn’t believe it. He was closer to panic than he’d been since the storm at sea that had sunk so many of his fleet.

  When night came they made camp, Al-Khatib directing operations as three large tents were pitched for himself and the Royal ambassadors, and a constellation of fires made from dried camel dung were lit. The white heat of the sky cooled to blue and gold, and finally to a rich deep red, before the black and silver of night finally claimed dominion.

  Sharley was shocked by the sudden plunge in temperature as the sun dipped below the horizon and the heat of the day drained from the desert. He was glad to huddle close to one of the strong-smelling fires as a cold wind started to blow around them, and he even wrapped a blanket over his thick desert clothing.

  The extremes of heat and cold seemed to confuse his body into a muddle of sensations. He ached horribly from the camel saddle and was almost convinced he’d be bow-legged for the rest of his life, but at the same time he shivered, as though with a fever, as his body shook in reaction to the heat it had been subjected to. He also had badly sunburned hands and feet, the only parts that weren’t protected by his clothing, and on Al-Khatib’s advice he rubbed a milk product he called “yoghurt” into the blisters, which helped to cool them.

  Later that night, after supper had revived him slightly, he walked beyond the light of the fires and climbed to the top of a nearby dune. He wanted time to think about this new world he’d entered. He both liked and feared the harsh and unforgiving land, but was sure that if a traveller made only one mistake the desert would kill him. Yet it was beautiful, like a dangerous animal. Perhaps like Tharaman-Thar – beautiful, but at the same time ferocious.

  And as for the people – well, the few he’d met were friendly, honourable and hospitable. Sharley had spoken with the sailors on Al-Khatib’s ship, the servants who ran his household, and the men who worked on and defended his caravan. All of them had been the epitome of friendliness, but he felt they were also as fierce as the land they lived in. Even now, after such a brief time in the Desert Kingdom, he couldn’t imagine a people who would make greater allies for the Icemark. And out of respect for them, their land and their religion he raised his hands in prayer and asked for help in his mission to gain their aid in the war against Bellorum and the Empire.