“We shall talk about that later.” Dabir offered her his waterskin, which she accepted numbly. “Sit at the fire for now and warm yourself. We’ll need to leave as soon as we can sort this out.”
She glanced desperately to me. “Dabir is right,” I told her. “You may not know what you did, but you saved us, and for that we are grateful.” I offered her a smile, and gestured to the embers of the fire. For the first time during any journey I wished that there were more women along, so that they could look after her properly.
It was then that the stewards of the caravanserai arrived, demanding explanation. Dabir did not like brandishing the caliph’s amulet in public, for he said it reduced freeborn men to slaves, but his patience was thin. The moment the owners raised their voices, he fished it from his robe via his neck chain. And soon the owners were bestowing salaams and such ridiculous apologies that Dabir was visibly embarrassed. They offered no more complaints, and insisted even upon reimbursing the money Dabir had paid for firewood and the rental of the space.
While Dabir dealt with them, I ordered Bishr and Ishaq to take axes to the ram—still quivering in its ice block—while Gamal and I handled the soldier; it was a little more challenging until we roped its arms to its sides. Before we were completely through, the soldiers I’d sent after Gazi returned. They reported him fleeing northwest, which was, naturally, our intended course.
We stopped hacking at Koury’s monsters once we had them down to the ice, reckoning that they were ruined enough—the pieces stopped moving once separated from the main body. We enlisted help to set bonfires around the snakes and surrounded them with ax-wielding spotters. By then Abdul had patched up Kharouf and readied a status report. We’d been very lucky. A few of the men had been bruised by the wooden soldiers, and one had been kicked in the shoulder by a horse, but only Kharouf was seriously injured. His deep slash had been sewn and bandaged. He would be near useless as a warrior for a while, though he could still stand watches.
Dabir and I conferenced briefly while the men readied our gear. He speculated that Koury must have been somewhere nearby, but wondered if he might be able to control the wooden creatures from a greater distance. There was no way to know. When I pointed out that Najya seemed to be controlling the spirit’s powers just fine, and to our benefit, he looked more troubled than pleased.
“For now,” he said. “The sooner we get to Jibril, the better.”
The journey of the next days was not so eventful, for there were no further encounters with any Sebitti. But we quickly learned that the snowfall was not an isolated storm, for it stretched on for miles, and miles. There was no end to it.
One good thing came of that fight. My men needed no warning to stay alert, and gave no trouble when I instructed them to wear their full armor from this point on, even though the metal was uncomfortable. I donned my own, an expensive linked shirt reinforced with stiff bands in key places, notably my shoulders. The armor was situated over my garments and under my cloak so that I did not feel its cold, but the thin metal coif dangling from the back and sides of my helm sometimes brushed my neck as we rode, like the icy breath of some djinn. Yet I’d had enough close head shots from Gazi that I tolerated the discomfort.
From then on, we looked, and probably felt, more martial. While I appreciated that the men took their duties even more seriously, I was troubled by the way they suspiciously eyed poor Najya. Homely Gamal especially was nervous in her presence, and I caught him making the sign against the evil eye whenever she looked his direction. Only steadfast Abdul had not changed his attitude.
It was not hard to understand their concern. The soldiers knew only that the governor had instructed them to safeguard us wherever we went, for the good of Mosul and the caliphate, and to kill the wizards—which we’d failed to do. They knew little of the bone spear, or the woman, but had now glimpsed potent magics from her and, at best, thought she had been cursed.
It is no good having the men in your command grumbling superstitiously, and when we stopped in a bare-bones caravanserai that night after our attack I gathered them to relate a little of the truth—that Najya had been imprisoned by the wizards we hunted and that the governor was sending us not only to stop them, but to free her of their spells. I thought to play to their vanity, for who would not want to aid a beautiful woman in overcoming villany? After I spoke, Abdul stood up and shamed them even better than I had done, mocking them first that they should be afraid of a woman and second that they should turn against someone in an hour of need. They promised then to be less wary of her.
Unfortunately the damage had been done, for Najya had seen their looks and overheard their muttering. She kept to herself and retired early to her tent. I thought at first she merely rested before taking up practice with me, but she did not emerge, so after prayers I went to stand beside the canvas.
“Najya,” I said, “I am ready to help your sword work.”
A long moment passed before her response, and I had to strain to hear her. “That will not be necessary,” she said.
“Aye, it is,” I answered. “I lost the wager.”
Her response was sharp. “I release you from the obligation.”
I sighed. “This is no time to sulk. You may well need to defend yourself. The dangers are greater even than we realized. Come out, and let me see your technique.”
So long was the delay that I thought I had missed another soft reply. But just as I was readying to prod her once more, she answered.
“I will be out shortly.”
Anyone who has waited on a woman knows they have a different understanding of time. I lingered for a while, listening to her rustle about, then warmed myself by performing a few sword forms.
The snow was gray under the light of the waxing moon, lacking only a fingernail from full. The crisp air caught in my lungs as I worked, and my breath misted as I changed my stances.
When Najya came forth I saw that she had left off her veil and that she wore only a light cloak over her dress. Her hair had been pulled back tightly, and she carried the sheathed sword I had found for her on the governor’s wall, one a few inches shorter than standard length.
“You will be cold,” I told her.
“I am fine,” she insisted curtly.
Sensing that she was in a difficult mood, I decided against further argument. “Come, then.”
I led her away from the circles of our men, who watched, curious, but did not speak.
We stopped twelve paces from where our horses were picketed, in the shadow of the caravanserai wall, the old stones of which stood a spear’s length higher than my head.
“Let me see your stances and strikes.”
Her chin rose defiantly. “You said that we would spar.”
“Not until we cover our blades. And not until I see your technique. Show me what you know.”
She stepped suddenly into a high guard, feet spread adequately, leading from her right. Najya showed me a strike, her hand level, then moved through middle and low stances, concluding finally with two overhead variations, one over her right shoulder, one over her left.
Clearly her father had drilled her many times, or her footwork would not be both instinctive and precise. “Why did you not lift directly over your head?” I asked.
“Father said I was not strong enough to make that strike worthwhile, and that I would be better to block over one shoulder or the other.”
“What of a trailing stance?”
“I have not practiced it as much. Father said it, too, required more strength.”
Her father had been correct. “What else did he tell you?”
“That most sword fights are over in the first strikes.”
“Anything else?”
“That I was unlikely to hold my own against a stronger opponent, and that I must be swift and accurate instead.”
Her father had the truth of it, and I reflected for a moment on the depth of his love, that he should so carefully work to give her these skills. “Most m
en rely on the power of their family to protect their women.”
“Father was not like most men. Sometimes he was on campaign for most of a year.” Pride rang in her voice now. “He used to tell my little brother I was more skilled than he.”
“I doubt your brother liked that.” I chuckled. “Forms are one thing. How well do you fight?”
“Shall I show you?” Once again her eyes flashed with amusement. She had cast off her dark mood like a cloak tossed down on a warm day.
“Shortly.” I passed over a thick strip of leather. “Wrap that about your blade.”
This she did, while I fastened one about my curved saber, then tied it carefully. I tucked it under one arm, then inspected the ties on her sword. Once more, I saw that she knew what she was about.
She grinned at me as I handed back her weapon. “Are you ready?”
“A moment. Let me first see your strikes.”
“I have already shown you.”
“I will call the blow, and you will attack. I will parry, and then call for another.”
She bowed her head in understanding. Then did we begin a simplified sparring exercise. Najya was hesitant at first, but soon we fell into a comfortable pattern. Once I was sure she could increase speed and maintain control, I told her to block. At first I informed her where I would strike, and then I varied, encouraging her to return my attacks. This she did, with growing speed. She performed well, though she lacked stamina, and before long I saw her panting. She raised an arm to wipe her forehead.
I was readying to step back to chide her for resting in the midst of a battle, when she renewed the assault with what I thought was a high strike until she swung hard for my midsection. I barely caught the blow, but there was no satisfied grin from her. Aye, her mouth parted in a snarl and she came on with swift, vicious determination. Before, we had traded. Now she left me no room to counter.
“Good,” I told her. “Good!” Her attacks were nimble enough to disable all but the most experienced swordsmen. Being that she was a woman, of course, opponents with skill could just fend her off and wait for her to tire. But she did not. She rained blows, and as I maneuvered away I bethought of the men who must be watching. I would hear about this, surely. Did she mean to humiliate me? Aye, I could parry, then thrust, but I did not wish to hit her so hard. Najya seemed to have forgotten entirely that we sparred. Somehow I had underestimated my ability to anger her.
It was as I blocked a cut to my head that the front end of her sword’s leather came free. Fully three hand spans of the steel were revealed, the guard dangling like a shirtsleeve from the lower two-thirds of the weapon. I thought that would slow her, but she came on even more furiously.
“Najya,” I shouted, deflecting a blow. “The cover’s off!”
It was only as she drove at me with the point that I understood I was probably dueling something other than Najya.
The spirit had taken over.
Some of the soldiers had stepped up, bandaged Kharouf among them, and I sensed rather than saw their concern, for I had no sight to spare.
Najya shrieked and drove in with a fierce overhead blow, the same she’d said she lacked the strength to make. This I took on the side of my blade, and the power of it spread down through my arms and thence to my back and spine. Once more she shouted, but before she could land the blow I stepped in close and locked our hilts. I stared into her eyes. “Najya!” I cried, even as she strained against my blade. “Najya!”
All at once the fury faded and confusion bloomed across her face. Her strength ebbed and she slowly pulled back
“What’s happened—” Her eyes fell to her blade, and the drooping leather sleeve, and she flushed. “Asim … Asim, I am sorry. Did I hurt you?”
Gamal chuckled, and then the laughter spread to the other watching soldiers. I ignored them, but Najya’s flush deepened.
She lowered her eyes and spoke so softly that I almost did not hear her. “I am sorry.” She dropped the sword in the snow, turned, and dashed back to her tent. I was too troubled even to heed the jests of the soldiers who asked if she was too much woman for me, or if I was too little man.
I took her sword back to her tent and stood outside it. “Najya.”
A long moment passed before she answered. “I am here.”
“I have brought your sword.” I tried to put the best possible interpretation on what had happened. “It is not uncommon, in the heat of battle, to lose one’s temper—”
“That is not what happened,” she said bitterly. “You do not understand.” And then the canvas was thrust aside and her eyes stared despondently up at me, as if daring me to disagree. “There is something else within me, Asim. It struggles to win free, and control me.”
I licked my lips, wishing she hadn’t deduced that. You can be sure, at this point, that others were listening, for our combat had drawn much attention.
“Nonsense,” I said, feigning good cheer. I crouched low. “You have a warrior’s spirit, but it is yours.”
She looked on me with lips pressed tight. I raised a finger toward them. “We go to Harran, to help you,” I said softly. “We must not frighten the men.” I lay the sword in my hands, hilt toward her. “This talk of possession, in their hearing … Leave off it.”
She bowed her head as though in defeat, which troubled me further.
“Feel no shame. Nothing that has befallen is your doing.”
She said nothing, but she gently took the sword from me and lay it behind her.
“And your sword work is quite fine. The finest,” I finished, “I have ever seen by a woman.”
She gave me a last searching look, then withdrew without another word.
Dabir was furious, of course. I did not even have time to admit I knew I’d made a bad choice before he called me apart to ask how I could possibly have thought sparring with Najya was a good way to create a tranquil atmosphere. I could but turn up my hands.
Dabir repeated an admonition to keep her calm in at least two different ways, then, thankfully, fell silent on the matter, though I heard much about the fight from the men on our ride the next day, and, indeed, into the evening. No one but Kharouf, who grew more serious, seemed to take anything but amusement from the story, and, oddly enough, the combat seemed to have won over the men, who now spoke of her as their “little warrior.” I could not be sure what Najya thought, for she kept her distance and would not return my looks. She politely refused my offer of shatranj the next evening, and I realized with a pang how much I had come to look forward to her company.
6
The next morning we reached Harran. It was an ancient place, passed back and forth between many hands, many times, which is likely why it is so well fortified. Dabir had described it as sitting in the midst of a sun-scorched wasteland, but had neglected to mention a small river that winds along its eastern wall. In those strange times, ice rimmed the channel and dry, white snow blew across the horizon, but tracks of men and beast showed where the main trails lay. The wind had swept a few areas clean so that the flat earth shone brown and dark, and in other places piled the snow into high drifts reminiscent of the dunes I’d seen in the Empty Quarter.
As we hove into sight of the gate midmorning, we passed two long caravans moving toward us and saw another approaching the wall from the west. These we watched with care, but neither Sebitti nor their agents crept forth to challenge us.
“What are those?” I asked of Dabir, and pointed out strange structures clustered just outside the city—ribbed cylinders with small arched doorways half again the height of a man. They looked like no other dwellings I had ever seen, resembling nothing so much as immense overturned beehives. “Do people live in such things?”
“They do, and have,” he answered. “For a very, very long time. Adam and Eve might very well have lived in one of those, for they fled here after their expulsion. Harran must have been a rude shock after Eden.” Dabir smiled wryly. “To the south is a shrine to Sarah and Ibrahim, who dwelt and worshi
pped near a spring. As a result, there are many folk who go between the places on pilgrimage, and sight of ascetics and anchorites is common. Also,” he added, “there are thieves and beggars who play at being holy men.”
“That is no great surprise.”
“Sadly.”
Harran, I learned, prospered chiefly because it lay along a central trade route, so those portions of the city given over to merchants were well-designed. All the markets were roofed over with wood, forming long corridors filled with stalls. Even in that chill weather folk walked up and down them, looking over goods from many lands. There were rugs for sale, and spices, and weapons, and furniture, and food being served for hungry and thirsty passersby. The scent of cooked sheep set my stomach to grumbling. Dabir bought up a generous portion of lamb to give as a gift to his friend, and then we passed on. A brisk trade was running for robes and blankets in the markets, and folk shouted back and forth about prices that seemed high for such things—of course it is the way of merchants to raise the numbers when goods are in demand. Also there was talk of the strange cold weather. I overheard many wild theories about its cause—including the wrath of Allah, who is merciful—but not a one mentioned snow spirits or ancient bones.
The crowd was thick in places. I saw haughty Persians and garrulous Jews, stuffy Greeks with their guards, and shrewd-eyed Egyptians. There were even some Khazars, swaggering in their high boots, heads topped by furred hats. I watched carefully as we made our way through the city, alert always for men who monitored us too closely. Dabir led the way, the wrapped spear held upright in one hand like a staff, though he did not touch it to the ground. Najya walked behind me. This day she hid her face in a deep robe. Abdul led the escort behind.
Soon we fifteen had passed beyond the merchants’ quarter and into an older section of the city. We stabled the horses and stowed some of our gear at an inn, then turned down a winding side street, where Dabir stopped beneath a weathered sign with the image of an open scroll. The shop doors must once have been painted red, but the color had faded almost completely to a dull brown.
The Bones of the Old Ones Page 9
