Zulu Heart

by Steven Barnes

  The townsmen scurried to their places. Hamed used torchlight to check his timepiece. Good. Five hours remained before dawn. Plenty of time to bring this to a conclusion. Still, he felt a nagging doubt: this Aidan was a strange one, unlike other whites he had known. He might be trouble.

  Ah well, all the better to end this now, tonight, before their little village could grow, before they could grow strong, before …

  Somewhat to Hamed’s surprise, he realized that he felt a bit of fear. And somehow, that was the most disturbing thing of all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Despite mashed thumbs and frequent, painful splinters, Hamed’s preparations for the siege engine were very nearly complete. In its construction, several of the crannog’s shed doors had been taken apart and lashed together as makeshift barriers. The result was ugly, unwieldy, and hopefully, deadly as Satan’s forked tongue.

  “It begins,” he said. “The sight will curdle what little blood flows in their miserable veins.” Despite his bravado, he felt as if he had aged years in the hours since he had set out from town.

  “I’d like to see some of that blood,” said a townsman. “That was my cousin they gut-shot. I fear his wife is soon a widow.”

  “You’ll see all you want, and more,” Hamed promised. “Are you prepared?”

  They began to move the shield toward the village. The crannog loomed up before them, night-black, crawling with early-morning mist.

  “Nothing,” said a townsman. “This is not to my liking.”

  “I’ll wager it’s hemp’s kept their courage up—and like enough, they’re sleeping that off by now. They’ll wake soon—and wish they still were dreaming.” They had crept out of the gardens and onto the bridge connecting the crannog to land.

  Without warning, shots rang out from the forest behind them.

  One of the men crouching behind the barricade was struck low in the back. “Camel biraz!” he screamed, and collapsed.

  Several rifles opened up on them from behind the stockade as well. With rifles on both sides the townsfolk were horribly vulnerable.

  Hamed loosed an inarticulate stream of blasphemies, then managed to get hold of himself. “We’re trapped!”

  As they crouched behind their now achingly insufficient makeshift stockade, bullets ripping at them from both sides, it was hard to disagree with that judgment.

  The assistant constable ducked as a bullet slammed splinters from wood mere digits from his head. “They must have snuck men to shore while we were building. Biraz!”

  The townsmen trembled, and then broke. “I’m getting the hell out of here!” one screamed.

  “Wait—” yelled Hamed. Then, a bullet gouged his leg. “Damn!” he yelled, hobbling. “Wait for me!”

  He limped as fast as he could, crouching, zigging and zagging. The rest of the townsfolk were running now, dragging their wounded, all thoughts of courage and victory at least temporarily abandoned. Bullets smacked the ground around him. One man stumbled and fell but was helped up, and the rout was complete.

  For a few minutes there was silence: the wounded had been carried off.

  Then slowly, pale-skinned men began to emerge from the forest, cradling their rifles. Very cautiously, more like hunters than soldiers, they entered the clearing, and then retreated to the gates. Women rose up from the top of the barricade, rifles in hand. Hesitantly and then with greater spirit, they began to cheer.

  Donough peeked from behind a tree a little narrower than his own shoulders. “We did it! We rightly did it!” he screamed and waved to Aidan, up on the ramparts.

  Aidan waved back, weary but satisfied. “Let’s not celebrate just yet,” he called soberly. “They may return.”

  “Not tonight, love,” said Sophia, taking her place beside him. “They are afraid, and it will take time to gather their courage again. Let us hope that Oba is a good man.”

  “You are far too optimistic.” Aidan stretched and yawned. He covered his mouth. “Sorry.”

  “You’ve been up since dawn yesterday. I say you need some rest.”

  “Let me make sure everyone’s fed,” he said. “And get a rotation going, and then we’ll see.”

  “And where did you learn that?” She smiled. They both knew the answer.

  “What?”

  “To not surround them. To leave them a route of escape.”

  “Guess,” he said, and laughed.

  She slipped her arm about Aidan’s waist, and hugged. “And wouldn’t he be surprised to see the use you put it to.”

  “Maybe. But maybe not.”

  “I’ll get your meal ready,” said Sophia. “And then sleep?”

  “Bed first. Then food. Then sleep.”

  Sophia giggled with delight. “Oh!” And she went off to their home. Aidan turned back to his men.

  “All right now!” yelled Aidan. For the first time in a day and a half, he was beginning to feel that underappreciated emotion called hope. “Steady does it….”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Because Aidan knew that only his presence and reputation had held his men together, he was loath to take rest until sunrise brought a new day and the possibility of Oba’s intervention.

  So despite deep and numbing fatigue, he remained on the crannog’s ramparts. “See anything?”

  Donough peered out into the mist. “Not yet—wait! What is that?”

  Another freedman shifted restlessly. “The blacks have demons at their command. I know. My brother saw them.” He paused in painful memory. “Before they tore his eyes out.”

  “No demons,” Aidan said. “Animals they are, called ‘thoths.’ Trained to hunt us, and keep from our sight. We burned them to death in my day.”

  “Really?” the freedman looked up at Aidan with awe.

  Donough pointed toward the woods. “Look!”

  Stirring at the edge of the trees, torches cast wavering light. In the borderland between light and shadow capered monstrous figures.

  “Send him out!” cried a wavering, phantasmal voice. “Send him out! We cannot long hold back the gruagach!”

  “I knew it!” cried a young mother, her infant in a sling at her breast. “They’ll call demons, and slay us all.”

  From deep in the darkness a light flashed, a sound like a whiplash cracked, and Hans fell back, clapping his hand to his head. “Gott!” he moaned. Instantly, a pair of women ran to him, dragging and carrying him to safety and care.

  “Stand fast!” screamed Aidan. “Demons don’t need rifles, men do. And men bleed.”

  “We don’t stand a chance!” one wild-eyed Roman yelled. “This is Aidan’s fault! Give him up, says I—”

  Donough swung a fist like a rock and caught that man a thunderous blow over the ear. The coward fell to the ground, bleeding, too stunned to do little save cradle his wounds. “Next man—or woman—talks such trash gets ’is neck broke,” the giant growled. “We fight!”

  Aidan took cold satisfaction from his old friend’s actions. Most of his men and women stood strong, but cowards and children whimpered in the shadows. He could empathize. More than empathize. For three years he had feared this night’s coming. The entire affair triggered long-dormant memories: the fall of his father’s crannog, terror and murder in the night, of Northmen masked like animals, those masks concealing men more dangerous than any beast.

  Fear could paralyze, but it could also vanquish fatigue and body ache. Instead of retreating to his bed, Aidan remained at the barricade, directing fire and keeping his men alert.

  For long hours they watched, changing positions so that sharpshooters could not draw beads on them, spying from knotholes and then popping up to take their shots, cheering when their efforts were rewarded with a curse or groan.

  And before the morning rose over the eastern woods, the blacks began to retreat, no longer laughing or daring to caper and taunt. It was the townsmen who lost their nerve, not the men and women of the O’Dere crannog.

  “Done well, Aidan,” Donough said
, when an hour passed without a single hostile sound from the forest.

  Aidan clasped his arm. “You were at my side all the way.”

  “World’s a strange place,” the bigger man said. “I’m startin’ to think we might be better soldiers than fishermen. Ain’t that a thing?”

  That was a strange comment, and one that mirrored ideas long since stirring in Aidan’s own mind.

  “Or am I just being stupid again?” asked Donough.

  “No,” Aidan said thoughtfully. “You might be right. I just don’t know what to think about it.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Aidan considered. “There are some things you can know about yourself, and never act on. But what happens if you think you’re one kind of man, and you turn out to be another? That can turn your whole life around.”

  Donough nodded. His blue eyes were still crisp and clear. The night’s exertions seemed to have had little effect on him. “That it can.”

  Aidan heaved himself up. “Enough o’ this philosophizin’. This fight isn’t over yet. There’ll be more souls set free before it’s over. We ain’t started to see ugly yet.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Despite their fears, morning came without further incident. Aidan, utterly exhausted after almost two days without sleep, had finally been persuaded to bed.

  The fog seemed to seep upward from the earth itself, wreathing garlands along the grass.

  A mixed team of men and women guarded the crannog’s ramparts. One man’s head lolled, and he appeared to be dozing off. The settler to his right flat-handed him across the face in reprimand. He jerked upright, shaking himself, not certain exactly what had just happened, but head stinging from the effects nonetheless.

  The chastised man peered out, and saw nothing but the morning fog. Then his eyes opened wide.

  “Townsmen!” a freedman cried. “They’re back. They’re back!”

  Like centaurs emerging from a primeval glade, a line of horsemen trotted in out of the fog.

  One of the wall guards ran across the village, stumbling across a sleeping dog. He found Aidan’s hut, and rapped plaintively at the door.

  After a moment, Aidan answered, yawning and cinching up his pants. “An attack?”

  “Horsemen, sir.”

  Sophia appeared behind him, belting a gown around her waist. “Soldiers?”

  “We’ll see,” said Aidan. He pulled a shirt on and grabbed his rifle. He sprinted for the wall in a loose-hipped gait that belied his anxiety.

  The Irishman vaulted up the wall, and then peered out. At first his expression was one of concern, but then he began to grin.

  “Sir? Sir?” asked a freedman.

  “Open the gates.”

  Donough jerked his head around in shock. “What? More townsmen?”

  “Not with horses like those. These are highborn, and … God above, the banner! See the banner? Dar Kush!” The flag of Bilalistan was a crescent moon and lion upon a field of red; that of Dar Kush consisted of these two images, plus that of nasab asad, the ancestral fighting knife passed down for generations in the Wakil’s family.

  Aidan felt weak with relief.

  “Dar Kush?” Confusion creased Stavros’s bruised face. “What is this?”

  “Blind me twice, it’s Kai!” said Aidan, leaping down from the barricade. “Open the gate!”

  Stavros was aghast. “But … they’re black!”

  “Nobody’s perfect,” Aidan said.

  Aidan unbarred the gate himself, and threw it open. He walked out on the little bridge that connected the crannog to the land. The gate swung open, and Aidan stood in the middle of the opening, Donough coming to stand at his side. Donough held a spear, Aidan a rifle.

  Approaching were a line of magnificent Arabian and Zulu mares. Seated upon them were a squad of fierce, lightly armored Moorish knights, armed with swords and rifles.

  Watching from the battlements, the freedmen were mesmerized by the sight.

  At the front of the line was Kai of Dar Kush. His dark, smooth face was neutral, but Aidan knew him well enough to know that the expression was a mask disguising a mind that had already absorbed everything in the environment. He rode perhaps the finest horse Aidan had ever seen, a black mare so alert and aware he would not have been surprised to hear her speak. From hoof to mane, bit to tail, she was as perfect a physical specimen as gold could buy. Aidan shook his head in admiration. Nothing but the best for his old friend.

  Although the men following Kai sat erect and terribly formal, their keen eyes noted the unmistakable signs of battle, and were at the alert.

  Kai’s expression was neutral as he approached. His horse stopped. “As-slaamu Alaykum.”

  “Waalaykum salaam.”

  “I come in peace. Might a weary traveler find water for his horses and comfort for his men?”

  Aidan inclined his head gravely. “I welcome the exalted and honorable Wakil of New Djibouti to my humble abode. Come, sit and share bread with us. We haven’t much, but what we have is yours.”

  “A thousand thanks,” Kai said, and dismounted.

  Kai examined the makeshift battlements, the torn earth, burned buildings. He bent, and plucked up a bit of furrowed earth, rubbing it between his fingers. It was tacky with blood. “Well, Aidan, from the look of things I’d say you haven’t kept as far out of trouble as I might have hoped.”

  “You know me. If there’s a fight around, I’ve just got to have a piece of it.”

  He and Aidan circled each other, noting clothing, weaponry, and trimness of waist. Finally Kai chuckled. “Still ugly as ever, I see.”

  “And apparently,” Aidan replied, “among your people effeminacy remains no barrier to power.”

  There was a pause, a long moment in which the two regarded each other almost as if they were afraid to break the silence or close the distance. Then they could restrain themselves no longer, and embraced heartily, smacking each other with rib-rattling buffets about the back and shoulders.

  “Al-Muqit be praised!” Kai cried. “It is beyond wonderful to see you again.”

  “Kai, Kai…,” Aidan said, shaking his head. “If yesterday I had had any idea how soon I would see you, it would have rolled a stone from my heart.”

  Aidan turned and addressed the onlookers, who stared. “Let it be known by all that this is he of whom I have spoken, the Wakil of New Djibouti, my brother, Kai of Dar Kush. Let every courtesy be extended to him, and to his men.”

  “What happened here?” Kai asked. He gestured toward the field as he spoke.

  Aidan grimaced. “A little problem with the local townsfolk.”

  “Was the law involved?”

  Aidan nodded. “They waited until the chief constable was abed. His assistant was here, but this was an unofficial party.”

  “I see. Kebwe?”

  Kebwe looked down from his mount. “Yes, Captain?”

  “Take a third of the men, and go to town. I want this matter sorted out.”

  “Murad!” Kebwe called. “Azul! Follow me!”

  One of the freedmen sidled up and took the opportunity to whisper to Aidan, “This man will side with us against his own kind?”

  “This man will uphold the law,” Aidan said. He paused, considering. “Or the right. Whichever is higher.”

  He called to his people. “Food! Drink!” He paused, shaking his head. “Ah, to hell with it: Festival!”

  Within an hour, a joyous party had bloomed to life. Kai’s men ate and drank (water) and admired the pretty Celt and Frankish girls. One of his old compatriots, the flat-faced Dahomy archer Makur, groped out, calling to a pale-skinned wench who danced enticingly just beyond range.

  “Mind your manners,” laughed Kai.

  “But she smiled at me!” protested Makur. The Dahomy was a lieutenant in Djibouti Pride, the military regiment that had once belonged to Kai’s brother and now rested in Kai’s hands. Unlike Kai’s guard, who were employees of Dar Kush, Djibouti Pride consisted of young me
n of good breeding and education, officers all. In civilian life they were lawyers, merchants, heirs to industrial empires. At least three times a year they gathered to drill, but aside from those times, or war, they lived normal lives.

  Makur had stood with Kai at the Mosque of the Fathers. Although seriously involved in his father’s construction business, Makur had leapt at the opportunity to take a week’s travel with Kai and his guard.

  “We are visitors here, upon an errand.”

  The lieutenant nodded reluctantly. “Yes, Captain.”

  A pale hand appeared before Kai’s face. “More milk, sir?” asked a familiar voice.

  “Yes, I—”

  Kai turned to face Sophia, who smiled at him radiantly. He had not seen her in the half hour since entering the crannog, and had been too polite to mention the fact. It was, of course, possible that she might deliberately avoid him, at least for a time. Their personal history was regrettably complex.

  Kai held his cup out in a rock-steady hand and had never been more grateful for the appearance of calm.

  “Yes?”

  “Sophia,” Kai said. Her name had not passed his lips in months.

  “Kai.”

  He shook his head in admiration. “You look radiant.” She had been his first true lover, the first to teach him the arts by which a man truly pleased his woman. Her teaching had been a bewitchment.

  “Thank you.”

  “I think that this life suits you well.”

  She inclined her head graciously. “And you yours. I heard that you and Lamiya are joyously wed.”

  “And a child!” Kai laughed. “A beautiful daughter, Aliyah. With the grace of Allah, she will resemble her mother in all things.”

  Their eyes locked until the contact grew a bit too intense, and she lowered her eyes. She smiled shyly. “It is very good to see you, Kai,” she said. “I hope life has been kind.”