No, it was impossible—no one could foretell the future. But why, then, had many of the things the old woman had said, come to pass? He slept lightly, awakening at each noise. He would not think about the old Gypsy. Ali Hitin was going to lead him to his father, just as he said he would.
Michael was still in a sleep-drugged state when he heard the sound of bloodcurdling yells. Grabbing his pistol, he raced out of the tent, only to be confronted by several black-robed bedouin.
He aimed his pistol with the intention of defending himself, but before he could fire, his four guides were shot. Ali Hitin lay face down in the sand, twitched convulsively, then moved no more. There was no doubt they were all dead!
In the confusion, Michael's pistol was wrestled from his grip by two men. He realized there was no reason to put up a fight, he was hopelessly outnumbered.
He stood facing the man who appeared to be the leader, waiting for a bullet to pierce his body. But the bedouin merely motioned toward a horse, indicating that Michael should mount.
Michael thrust his foot in the short Arab stirrup and swung his long leg over the horse. He glanced at his guides—poor devils had never had a chance. He wondered why he'd been spared. Perhaps his captors had something far more terrible than death waiting for him.
He spoke to the man who appeared to be the leader. "Why have you done this?"
The man merely yelled out an order, and Michael's reins were yanked from his hand and his horse led forward. So he was a captive. He could not guess where they were taking him, and apparently they would not tell him.
In two days, he would have been reunited with his father. Frustration turned to anger. Who were these men who had so mercilessly slain his guides?
Michael stared straight ahead as they rode into the night. The moon had dropped low on the horizon as their tireless horses climbed sandy mounds as high as mountains. There was nothing here to guide a man, no landmark, nothing to gauge distance. How could these men find their way in the desert? he wondered.
The sun was just painting the sky with a golden hue when they appeared to leave the desert behind. Now the terrain became craggy, and they rode into a valley that was dominated by huge granite cliffs. After an hour, an oasis opened up to them. Surprisingly, there was a large river-fed lake and many palm groves.
In the distance, against the highest granite cliff, was a large village. Several men stood atop thick walls and waved their rifles in greeting. Wide gates swung open to admit them, and they rode through on cobbled streets.
The village was just stirring to life, and Michael paid scant attention to the sun-dried brick houses they passed.
"Where is this place?" he demanded of the man beside him, and received only a shrug for his trouble.
He was totally unprepared for the huge limestone and granite palace that rose above the other buildings. It was built in the Greek style, so out of keeping with the usual villages and towns he'd seen thus far in Egypt.
Michael didn't need to be told that this town was not on any map.
As they made their way toward the palace, many of the men began to disappear, most probably going to their homes. When they stopped at the palace steps, only one of his captors remained. He dismounted and motioned for Michael to do the same.
Two guards stood before the ornate doors, and when Michael's companion spoke to them, Michael was quickly ushered inside.
"You wait here," his captor said, speaking to Michael for the first time in English.
Michael soon found himself alone in a huge anteroom. He walked to the window of intricately carved latticework. He could see children playing in the streets, women balancing water jars on their heads, and men going off to their farms. These didn't seem like violent people.
Glancing around the room, he saw that the great doors were arched and set with semiprecious stones. Whoever ruled this valley was in possession of great wealth.
At last his guard reappeared. "My prince will see you now."
Michael walked silently across the pink marble floors toward jade green doors that swung open at his approach. The man who had accompanied him did not enter the room, but bowed and departed.
Across the vast room with high dome ceiling, Michael saw the prince standing in the shadow of an arched window. Silently, the man motioned him forward. Michael's footsteps were noiseless as he moved across the red Persian rug.
The prince still hadn't come out of the shadows, and all Michael could see was a white robe and a well-manicured hand with a huge ruby ring.
"Why have you brought me here?" Michael demanded.
"To save your life, my friend."
Michael was shocked when Khaldun stepped out of the shadows. "But you—you can't be the—"
Khaldun bowed his head and smiled before clasping Michael's hand. "My brother, I have had you watched since you left the boat. I was sorry that my men were too late to save you from the attack in the alleyway, but they waited to see that you were safely inside Lady Mallory's home."
"I don't understand."
"When it was reported to me that you were riding into the desert with men from the Mutullib tribe, I knew your life was in danger."
"But how—"
"The Mutullib are ruled by my uncle, Sheik Sidi Ahmed, and they have no liking for Inglizi, er . . . English. Sidi is my mother's brother, though my mother considers him unworthy. You see, he is dead to her because he sides with the enemies of Egypt."
"Is he Turkish?"
Khaldun nodded. "As is my mother. But she honors my father and his beliefs. My uncle bestows his loyalty on the radicals who would divide this country. They would like to see Egypt fall."
"But the men who guided me into the desert assured me that they were taking me to my father."
"This I do not know for sure. It could be that they know where your father is being held. But I do know you would not have left my uncle's city alive."
"Is it possible that your uncle holds my father captive?"
"I do not know the answer to that, but I shall find out for you."
Michael understood many things now—why the men had tried to kill Khaldun on the ship. "It seems I owe you my life."
"There will be no talk of what is owed between us, for you are as a brother to me. Does not a brother help a brother?"
"It's fortunate for me that you had me watched. I suppose in my eagerness to find my father I forgot to be cautious."
"Even now I have my spies looking for your father. The desert sand speaks to my people. We will find him. But we will talk of this over breakfast. You must be famished."
Shortly afterward, Michael sat across the low table from Prince Khaldun. He took a drink of the strong, dark coffee and smiled. "Why didn't you tell me who you really were?"
"It was my father's wish that I hide my identity since there would be those who would try to keep me from reaching my home. As you saw, our enemies found me anyway. I would be dead but for you."
Michael saw sadness in Khaldun's eyes. "How is your father?"
"He was gravely wounded while on a hunting expedition. We cannot prove if the deed was done maliciously, because the man who fired the shot killed himself before my father's men could stop him. The physicians hold out very little hope that my father will recover, for his wound is severe."
"Could it have been your uncle's treachery?" "That is what I believe, but as yet, I have no proof." "Why don't we go to your uncle and demand answers?" "Patience, my friend. I must warn you that my uncle barricades himself inside a great fortress. If your father is his prisoner, it will not be easy to rescue him."
"Nothing has been easy since I arrived in your country." The prince smiled slightly. "That is not all true. You were reunited with the beautiful Lady Mallory." "Under unfortunate circumstances." "Is she not of your heart?" "If you are asking if I love her, the answer is no." "Then I am free to seek her out, am I not?" Michael was thoughtful for a moment. He had a strange reluctance to lie to Khaldun, but it was necessary—Khaldun must not th
ink there could ever be anything between him and Mallory. "I'm hesitant to speak of an emotion that is yet so new to me. My love for Lady Mallory has not yet been put into words."
Khaldun looked disappointed for a moment, but then he smiled. "You Inglizi have no fire in your blood. Perhaps it is because you come from a cold country, devoid of the desert heat." Michael nodded. "Perhaps." Prince Khaldun looked at his friend, taking in his appearance. "If you want the desert to reveal her secrets to you, Michael, you must appear to be as one with her." "I will do anything you think necessary to find my father. Will you help me?"
"I can, and I shall. First, you must sleep. Then we will see about having you properly clothed. It would be good if you were to train in Bedouin warfare. You must also think like a Bedouin and not be too trusting of others."
"Yes, I see what you mean. I followed those assassins as trustingly as a newborn lamb being led to the slaughter."
"You have much to learn of our ways, my friend. But there will be those who are eager to teach you."
At last Michael had tangible hope that he would find his father. "I'm impatient to learn anything you can teach me. I now know that I came to your country ill equipped."
"It is good that you know this. But the desert yields her secrets slowly. If your father is still alive, he will be alive when you are better prepared to rescue him." Prince Khaldun clapped Michael on the back. "All will be well, my friend. We will leave it in the hands of Allah."
Chapter 14
Michael found it difficult to curb his impatience. Time had little meaning to these desert people. Three weeks had passed since he'd arrived at the hidden kingdom, and he was still no closer to finding his father than he had been in Cairo.
Michael had not been idle. Each morning he was up early, tirelessly training. He practiced with the best warriors of the Jebeliya. His wounds had healed, and his sword arm was becoming strong. He had been a student of the greatest fencing master in Europe, and those skills now served him well. He used his agility and knowledge in the daily contests. In no time, he could wield a scimitar and split a melon from the back of a galloping horse.
The day of his most glorious triumph came when he beat the Jebeliya champion three bouts in a row. Thus he was honored as the new champion. Michael was also learning that Khaldun's people were generous with those they liked, for that day he won the bouts, the whole tribe cheered, but no one louder than the defeated champion.
Michael adapted easily to the native dress, which was not as confining as his English clothing. His robe and headdress were black, the kaffiyeh held in place by three golden cords befitting a man of his high rank. He exchanged his heavy English riding boots for the lighter Bedouin boots, which were more suitable for the desert.
The city of Kamar Ginena, which, translated, meant moon garden, had been built seven hundred years earlier by the Jebeliya. Many of the tribe were descendants of freed slaves, and on rare occasions, children were born with blue eyes and light-colored hair.
Michael discovered that the Jebeliya were also fierce warriors and were feared by most of the bedouin tribes. Few ever challenged them, and no one entered their city without permission. They had great pride and loyalty, and were devoted first to the tribe and second to their families.
The city itself was fed by twelve underground springs and bloomed like a beautiful garden. Food was plentiful there, and what couldn't be grown or made in the city, was acquired from the caravans that passed on the route three days' journey to the south.
Michael had become friends with Yanni, the fierce captain of the guard. Yanni taught him many ways to survive in the harsh desert, and how to live off the land if he was ever lost.
When Michael heard that Yanni was preparing to make the journey to meet a caravan, he volunteered to go along. Khaldun agreed that Michael was ready for his first excursion into the desert.
Khaldun and his escort rode with them until noon the first day. When the prince turned back to the city, he smiled and raised his hand. "Yanni, bring back my friend in one piece." His laughter rang out. "And see that he doesn't scar his pretty face, or the women of our city will weep."
There was a strong comradery between the twenty black-robed men that rode silently across the desert. On they rode in silence as the ever-shifting wind covered all traces left by their horses' hooves.
Michael's muscles were hard, his sword arm true, and he had a confidence he'd not had before. He was a warrior, trained, molded, and honed by the fiercest fighting men in the world. There was no fear in his heart, and no feat he would not attempt.
The first night, they set up camp behind a huge sand dune, the black tents blending in with the night sky. Guards were posted on top of the dunes so they could observe anyone who might approach from any direction. In some ways, Michael thought these bedouin were like children, laughing and enjoying life. That night they sang songs and joked among themselves. By then Michael had learned enough of their language to laugh at their jests.
By daylight on the third day, they were nearing the caravan trail. Before they topped a hill, Yanni held up his hand, and the men came to a silent halt.
"My ears tell me there is trouble," he told Michael. "Can you hear the sounds of battle?"
Michael shook his head, but listened until he did indeed hear the clashing of swords. Without an issued order, each man drew his sword, and urged their horses up the hill and over the top.
Michael rode beside Yanni, his sword ready, his jaw set with determination.
It took only a moment to assess the trouble. The caravan was small, with just thirty camels, and the merchants were hopelessly outnumbered by their assailants.
The black-robed Jebeliya came charging down the last sand dune, their swords clashing with those of the attackers.
Although they were outnumbered, the tide of battle was soon turned in favor of the powerful Jebeliya. At one point, Michael found himself surrounded on all sides by the enemy. He swung his sword with precision—attack, withdraw—attack, charge. Sweat blinded him, and blood made the sword slippery in his hands. He yielded his sword with a vengeance—slashing, cutting, unaware of anything but the battle that raged.
He was no longer the pampered English lord. All semblance of civilization had been stripped from him as he fought, to kill or be killed. There was no fear in his heart, and no remorse for the men who fell beneath his sword.
Soon someone came up behind him, and he swung to meet the foe. "Have done, my friend." Yanni laughed. "Can you not see that you have won the day?"
In a daze, Michael looked down at the dead enemy strewn on the ground at his feet. Today was the first time he had taken a human life, and he suddenly felt sick inside. At the time of battle, he'd thought only of surviving. Now he had time to consider his actions. He turned away from the tribesmen who were stripping the dead of their possessions.
"The first time is always the hardest," Yanni told him with great insight into what he was feeling. "But do not waste your sympathy on these dung beetles, they are of an enemy tribe. They are of the same tribe that brought you into the desert when I rescued you."
"Prince Khaldun's uncle's tribe?"
"Sidi has the loyalty of many tribes, and this one has no honor. They prey on caravans and think nothing of killing for profit."
The leader of the caravan came forward, bowing several times before Michael, and holding out a small open chest, filled with gold coins. Michael didn't understand what the man was saying, so he turned to Yanni to translate.
The captain of the guard laughed and took the chest, placing it in Michael's hand. "He calls you Akhdar 'em Akraba, the green-eyed scorpion. He says your sting is deadly and your name will be feared by all that hear it. He begs you to take this small token of his gratitude."
Michael shook his head and pushed the chest away. "Tell him I don't want his gratitude or his treasure."
"You must take it, to refuse would be an insult to him." Yanni laughed. "This poor excuse for a man will tell everyone
how the green-eyed scorpion saved his caravan. By the time he reaches Cairo, you will be legend."
Michael reluctantly took the chest and placed it in his saddlebag. He then dismounted and walked a little way from the caravan, praying for a breeze to cool him and carry away the stench of death. Uncapping his flask, he dashed water in his face and took a deep drink.
He didn't feel like a legend. He only hoped he wouldn't be sick.
Drawing in another deep breath, he felt the heat scorch his lungs. When he was able to face the others, he walked back down the hill to his horse. If the Jebeliya knew what he was feeling, none spoke of it.
While Yanni traded with the caravan, Michael sat beneath a makeshift tent he'd constructed by draping his flowing robe over his sword. He was aware of the many glances of respect that were cast his way, but he didn't feel he deserved the admiration. He could only wonder what his father would think of him if he'd witnessed the battle.
Michael was glad when the transactions had been completed and they were on their way back to Kamar Ginena. He had learned something about himself today— he was capable of killing without mercy. He only hoped he never had to do it again.
Michael would never know how it had happened, but news of the battle had preceded the returning heroes, and the people of the city lined the roadway, cheering as they entered the gates. Long after Michael had entered the palace, he could still hear the people chanting, "El Akraba the scorpion, the scorpion."
Khaldun was not among the throng that welcomed them, so Michael surmised the prince must be out of the city. He went directly to his room in the palace and bathed, scrubbing away the blood, but he could not rid himself of the disgust he felt for what he had done.
Michael lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He'd become as ruthless as any bedouin that roamed the desert. He was no better than Sheik Sidi Ahmed.
Hearing a knock on his door, he moved off the bed and opened it to find Khaldun's body servant. "My prince has asked if you will accompany me to the royal quarters. The king desires to meet you."
Desert Song (DeWinter's Song 3) Page 11
