breasts were not much concealed, as I had torn the garment; the calves of her
legs, drawn up, were marvelous; her face, her hair, was beautiful.
“You are an exquisitely beautiful slave, Vella,” I said.
“One men wish to own?” she said.
“Yes,’ I said.”
“And on this world,” she wept, “I can be owned!”
“You are owned,” I told her.
“Yes,” she wept. “I know. I know that I am owned.”
“I think,” I said, “that I will give you to Hakim of Tor.”
She suddenly looked at me. “No! No!” she wept. “No, please, no!”
“I can do what I wish,” I informed her.
“Oh, no, no, no!” she wept. She knew then the true misery of the slave girl.
I went to her and pulled down the rag from her right shoulder. With a lipstick,
from one of the tiny drawers in the vanity, I inscribed Taharic script on her
shoulder.
“What does it say?” she wept.
“It says,” I said, “‘I am the slave girl of Hakim of Tor.”‘
She looked at the writing in horror upon her body. “No, Tarl, please, no!” she
cried.
I stood up. She looked up at me.
“Tarl!” she wept.
“Be silent,” I said, “Slave Girl.”
She put her head down. “Yes,” she said.
“Yes?” I asked.
She looked up. There were tears in her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered, “Master.”
I strode from her, and closed the door behind me. There was slaughter to be done
in the halls. It was the work of men. There was a time for work, and a time for
the pleasures of slave girls. It was now the time for work. I strode toward the
sound of metal clashing in the distance.
25 The Second Kasbah Falls; What Was Done to Tarna
“Where is Ibn Saran!” demanded Haroun, in the flowing white of the high Pasha of
the Kavars.
The man kneeling before him, wrists bound behind his back, cried out, “I do not
know! I do not know!”
“The kasbah is invested,” said another man. “It is ours. He is not within the
kasbah. He did not escape.
“He must be still within!” cried another man.
Haroun, or Hassan, as I continued to think of him, with his boot, spurned the
bound prisoner.
“He must be still within the kasbah!” cried he who had shouted before.
“Burn the kasbah,” shouted another.
“No,” said Haroun. The kasbah was too valuable to burn. He wanted it, for
Kavars.
I looked at the bound prisoners in the great room, kneeling. Ibn Saran was
clearly not among them.
Outside, in the shadow of the kasbah wall, there were many other prisoners. Ibn
Saran was not among them either. Ibn Saran was not the only man missing. I did
not detect, among the prisoners or the fallen” the small Abdul, the water
carrier and henchman of the great Abdul, Ibn Saran, the Salt Ubar, nor Hamid,
traitor to the Aretai, who had struck Suleiman Pasha.
Haroun spun about, his burnoose swirling, and, angrily, leaped to the dais of
the Salt Ubar, and strode upon it, like a frustrated larl.
“Let us assume, Pasha,” said I to Hassan, “that Ibn Saran entered this kasbah.”
“He did,” cried a man,
“Let us assume further that our search has been most thorough and that our lines
resisted penetration.”
“These seem reasonable assumptions,” said Haroun, “but how is it possible they
can all be true and yet Ibn Saran neither fallen nor in chains?”
“There is another kasbah nearby, that of his confederate, Tama,” I said.
“It could not be reached across the desert,” said a man.
“Yes! Yes!” cried Haroun. “Come with me!” Followed by many men, carrying lamps,
be descended to the pits and dungeons and storage areas below the kasbah. An
hour later, beneath a trap door, And behind what appeared to be shelving in a
small underground storage room, we found the door.
Broken open, it proved to lead to a dark tunnel. This tunnel provided a
communication, under the desert, with the neighboring but small kasbah of Tarna,
the desert chieftainess.
“Ibn Saran,” said a man, “is doubtless in the kasbah of Tarna.”
“But we have not invested that kasbah,” moaned a man.
“Thus,” cried another, “Ibn Saran has slipped through our lines. He will then
flee from the kasbah of Tama. We have lost him.”
“I think not.” smiled Haroun.
The men were silent. Then his vizier, Baram, Sheik of Bezhad, spoke. “How can it
be that we have not lost him, Pasha,” he asked.
“Because,” said Haroun, “the kasbah of Tama is invested.”
“That is impossible,” said Suleiman Pasha, leaning on a man, a scimitar still in
his hand. “No Aretai are there.” Other pashas, too, spoke. The Char had not
invested it, nor the Luraz, nor the Tajuks or the Arani, or the others.
“By whom, Pasha,” asked Suleiman, “if not by Kavars, and not by Aretai, and not
by we others, is the kasbah of Tarna invested?”
“By a thousand lances, a thousand riders of the kaiila,” said Haroun.
“And whence did you procure these thousand lances?” asked Suleiman.
Haroun smiled. “Let us discuss these matters over small cups of Bazi tea at the
end of the day,” he suggested. “There are more important matters to attend to at
the moment.”
Suleiman grinned. “Lead on, sleen of a Kavar,” he said. “You have the audacity
of Hassan the bandit, to whom you bear a striking resemblance,”
“I have been told that,” said Haroun. “He must be a dashing, handsome fellow.”
“That matter may be discussed over small cups of Bazi tea at the end of the
day,” said Suleiman, looking narrowly at Haroun.
“True,” said Haroun.
Hassan then turned and led the way into the tunnel. Hundreds of men, including
myself, followed him, many bearing lamps.
It was on the height of the highest tower of the kasbah of Tarna that Hassan, I
close behind him, cornered Ibn Saran.
“Comrades!” said Ibn Saran. Then he lifted his scimitar.
“He is mine,” said Hassan.
“Beware,” I said.
Immediately the men engaged. Seldom had I witnessed more brilliant play of the
scimitar.
Then the two men stepped back from one another, “You fight well,” said Ibn
Saran. He stood unsteadily. “I could always beat you,” he said “
“That was years ago, said Hassan.
“Yes,” said Ibn Saran, “that was years ago.” Ibn Saran lifted his scimitar to me
in salute.
“One gains a victory,” I said. “One loses, an enemy.”
Ibn Saran inclined his head to me, in Taharic courtesy. Then his face went
white, and he turned, and staggered to the parapet of the tower. He fell to the
desert below.
Hassan sheathed his sword. “I had two brothers,” he said. “One fought for
Priest-Kings. He died in the desert. The other fought for Kurii. He died on the
tower of Tarna’s kasbah.”
“And you?” I asked.
“I thought to remain neutral,” he said. “I discovered I could not do so.”
“There is no neutrality,” I said.
“No,” be said. Then he looked at me.
“Once,” he said, “I had two brothers.” He
clasped me about the shoulders. There were tears in his eyes. “Now,” he said,
“now I have only one.
We had shared salt at Red Rock, on a burning roof.
“My brother,” I said.
“My brother,” he said.
Hassan shook himself. “There is work to do,” he said. We hurried down from the
tower, to the wall below. There I saw, from the wall, on the desert below,
prisoners being herded back to the kasbah, men who had attempted to flee the
walls and escape into the desert.
Herded at the point of a lance, bound, was Abdul, the water carrier. At the
point of another lance, too, herded, ropes on his neck, between two kaiila,
staggering, bloody, was Hamid, who had been the lieutenant to Shakar, captain of
the Aretai. Shakar himself rushed forth from the kasbah to take charge of the
miserable Hamid. Hamid, whatever might be his guilt in the matter of the
striking of Suleiman Pasha, had obviously fought with the men of the Salt Ubar,
and had raised his blade against his own tribe, the Aretai.
Other prisoners, too, were being brought back from the desert. Haroun’s lances
had well invested the kasbah.
Hassan and I went down to the yard of the kasbah.
Startled was I to discover in the courtyards, mounted in the high saddle of the
kaiila, the leader of Hassan’s mystery lancers, who had invested the kasbah of
Tarna. He swept aside his wind veil.
“T`Zshal!” I cried.
He, bearded, grinned down at me from the saddle, a lance in his hand.
“I sent,” said Hassan, Haroun, high Pasha of Kavars, “a thousand kaiila, a
thousand lances, supplies, to Klima. I thought such men might prove useful.”
T’Zshal raised the lance. The kaiila reared. “We shall not forget the Kavars,
Pasha,” said T’Zshal.
I feared that Hassan had made a terrible mistake. Who would dare to arm such
men?
T’Zshal turned the kaiila expertly. He had once been of the Tahari, and then,
with a scattering of sand, men following him, returned to the desert, again to
supervise his men in their encircling ring of will, steel and kaiila flesh.
Hamid and Abdul knelt in the sand, bound.
Hassan held his blade to the throat of Hamid. “Who struck Suleiman Pasha?” he
inquired. Hamid looked up at him. Suleiman and Shakar stood near. “It was I,”
said Hamid.
“Take him away,” said Suleiman Pasha. Hamid was dragged away.
“How did you know it was he who struck me?” asked Suleiman.
“I was there,” said Hassan. “I saw it.”
“Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars!” cried Shakar.
Hassan smiled.
“No!” he cried. “There were none there but Aretai, Ibn Saran, Hakim of Tor and”
Shakar stopped.
“And Hassan the bandit.” said Hassan.
“You!” cried Suleiman, laughing.
“Surely you did not think there could be two such handsome, dashing fellows?”
asked Hassan.
“Kavar sleen!” laughed Suleiman.
“Do not be too broadcast with my additional identity,” requested Hassan. “It is
useful at times, particularly when the duties of the pasha become too
oppressive.
“I know what you mean,” said Suleiman. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“I, too, will guard its nature,” said Shakar.
“You are Hakim of Tor, are you not?” asked Suleiman, turning to me.
“Yes, Pasha,” I said, stepping forward.
“Grievously did we wrong you,” he said.
I shrugged. “There are still pockets of resistance to be cleared up in the
kasbah,” I said. “I beg your indulgence, that I may be excused.”
“May your eye be keen, your steel swift,” said Suleiman Pasha.
I bowed.
“And what of this small sleen?” asked Shakar, indicating the small Abdul, who
knelt, cowering, in the sand.
“He, too,” said Suleiman Pasha, “let him be taken away.
A rope was put on the throat of Abdul and he was dragged whimpering from our
presence.
I looked to the central building of the kasbah. Within it, here and there, in
rooms, men still fought.
“Find me Tarna,” said Suleiman Pasha. “Bring her to me.” Men rushed from his
side. I did not envy the woman. She was free. She had broken wells. Prolonged
and hideous tortures awaited her, culminating in her public impalement, nude,
upon the walls of the great kasbah at Nine Wells.
The men of the Tahari are not patient with those who break wells. They look not
leniently upon this crime.
I slipped to one side, and left the group.
Tarna, in her quarters, spun to face me. She was startled. She had not known I
was there. I had touched the ring. A moment later, she turning, saw me, standing
in the room.
“You!” she cried.
Her eyes were wild. She was distraught. She wore the mannish garb of the Tahari,
save that she did not wear the wind veil nor the kafflyeh and agal. Her face and
head, proud and beautiful, were bare. Her hair was wild, long, loose behind her,
behind the thrown back hood of the burnoose. The garments she wore were torn and
stained. The left trouser leg had been slashed. There were long scimitar slashes
at the left sleeve, which hung in tatters. I did not think she had been wounded.
There was dirt at the left side of her face.
“You have come to take me!” she cried. She carried a scimitar.
“Your war is lost,” I told her. “It is done.”
She looked upon me in fury. For an instant there were tears in her eyes, bright
and hot. I saw that she was a woman. Then again she was Tarna.
“Never!” she cried.
“It is true,” I told her.
“No!” she cried.
We could bear men fighting in the distance, somewhere in the corridors beyond.
“The kasbah has fallen,” I told her. “Ibn Saran is dead. Haroun, high Pasha of
the Kavars and Suleiman, high Pasha of the Aretai, are already within the
walls.”
“I know,” she said, miserably. “I know.”
“You were relieved of your command,” I told her. “You were no longer of use.
Even those men who once served you fight now, decimated, for their lives.” I
regarded her. “The kasbah has fallen,” I said.
She looked at me.
“You are alone,” I said. “It is over.”
“I know,” she said. Then she lifted her head, angrily, proudly, “How did you
know where to find me?” she asked.
“I am not unfamiliar with the quarters of Tarna,” I said.
“Of course,” she said. She smiled. “And now you have come to take me,” she
laughed.
“Yes,” I told her.
“Doubtless for he who brings me in, his rope on my neck, before the noble Pashas
Haroun and Suleiman, there will be a high reward,” she said.
“I would suppose that would be the case,” I said.
“Fool!” she said. “Sleen! I am Tarna!” She lifted the scimitar. “I am more than
a match for any man!” she cried.
I met her charge. She was not unskillful. I fended her blows. I did not lay the
weight of my own steel on hers, that I not tire her arm. I let her strike, and
slash, and feint and thrust. Twice she drew back suddenly in fear, almost a
wince, or reflex, realizing she had exposed herself to my blade, but I had not
struck her.
“You are not a match for a warrior,” I told her. It was true. I had crossed
steel with hundreds of men, in practice and in the fierce games of war, who
could have finished her, swiftly and with ease, had they chosen to do so.
In fury, again, she attacked.
Again I met her attack, toying with the beauty.
She wept, striking wildly. I was within her guard, the blade at her belly.
She stepped back. Again she fought. This time I moved toward her, letting her
feel the weight of the steel, the weight of a man’s arm. Suddenly she found
herself backed against a pillar. Her guard was down. She could scarcely lift her
arm. My blade was at her breast. I stepped back. She stumbled from the pillar,
wild. Again she lifted the scimitar; again she tried to attack. I met her blade,
high, forcing it down; she slipped to one knee, looking up, trying to keep the
blade away; she wept; she had no leverage, her strength was gone; I thrust her
back, and she fell on her back before me on the tiles; my left boot, heavy, was
on her right wrist; the small band opened and the scimitar slipped to the tiles;
the point of the blade was at her throat.
“Stand up,” I told her.
I broke her scimitar at the hilt and flung it to a corner of the room.
She stood in the center of the room. “Put your rope on my neck,” she said. “You
have taken me, Warrior.”
I walked about her, examining her. She stood, angrily, inspected.
With the blade of my scimitar I brushed back the slashed, left leg of her
trousers. She had an excellent leg within.
“Please,” she said.
“Remove your boots,” I told her. In fury, she removed them. She then stood,
barefoot, on the tiles in the center of the room.
“You will lead me barefoot before the Pashas?” she asked. “Is your vengeance not
sweet enough, that you will so degrade me?”
“Are you not my prisoner?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Then I will do with you as I please,” I told her.
“Oh, no!” she wept.
In a moment I told her to kneel. She knelt on the tiles, her head down, her head
in her bands. She was stripped completely by my scimitar.
“What have we here?’’ asked Hassan, entering the room. To my interest he had
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