'It's Toshak!' Svengal yelled.
Diagonally opposite them, the Skandian traitor was seated astride a rearing horse, striking left and right with a battleaxe at a group of Bedullin warriors who had tried to stop him.
He beat his way clear, leaving two of them lying ominously still, and set his horse towards the wide entrance to the road leading to the main gate. Svengal ran forward a few paces and launched his spear after the retreating horseman, but it was a futile gesture and the missile landed, clattering, twenty metres short.
Then Halt heard that strange humming sound again, rising gradually in pitch. He glanced around to see Evanlyn, feet braced apart, whirling the long leather sling around her head, letting the speed build up.
'He's wearing a helmet,' he cautioned. Toshak had been prepared to fight his way clear. He was fully armed and Halt knew that the sling would be useless against his heavy iron helmet.
'I know,' said Evanlyn briefly, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Then there was a whistling slap as she cast the heavy marble ball after the fleeing Toshak. It flew across the square, too fast for the eye to follow, and slammed painfully into the target she had set herself – the horse's rump.
Stung by the sudden burning impact, the horse reared and lost its footing on the cobbles of the square. It staggered sideways on its rear legs, trying to regain its balance. The unexpected, violent movement and change of direction was too much for Toshak and he slid backwards over the horse's withers, to fall with a crash on the cobblestones.
'Good shot,' Halt told Evanlyn. She grinned.
'I figured he'd sit a horse as well as most Skandians,' she said.
Momentarily winded, Toshak regained his feet to find himself surrounded by a ring of vengeful Bedullin. The desert warriors circled him cautiously, kept at bay by the threat of the massive battleaxe. A true Skandian, Toshak hadn't released his grip on the weapon when he fell.
He eyed the circle of enemies now, determined to sell his life dearly. Toshak might be a traitor but he was no coward.
'All right,' he said, to nobody in particular. 'Who's going to be first?'
'I think that would be me.'
Erak shouldered his way through the Bedullin warriors and stood facing his enemy. Toshak nodded several times, and smiled. He knew he was going to die but at least he'd have the satisfaction of taking the hated Oberjarl with him. He glanced down scornfully at the Tualaghi sabre Erak was carrying. It looked no bigger than a dagger in the Oberjarl's massive fist.
'You're fighting an axe with that toothpick, Erak?' he sneered. Erak studied the weapon and pursed his lips. He looked round the watching circle and saw a better alternative. He removed his kheffiyeh and wrapped it round the palm and fingers of his left hand. Then he set the sabre down and reached his right hand out to Horace.
'D'you think I could borrow that bodkin of yours, Horace?' he said.
Horace stepped forward, reversed the huge executioner's sword and placed the hilt in Erak's outstretched hand. 'Be my guest,' he said.
Erak swiped the long sword back and forth several times, then nodded in satisfaction.
'That'll do,' he said. 'Now step back, everyone. I've got work to do.'
The circle of spectators quickly backed off several paces as he launched himself at Toshak, the sword swinging down in a blow that would have split the traitor down to the waist.
There was a massive, ringing clang as Toshak caught the blow on the top of his double-bladed axe head. He twisted his wrists, jerking the sword to one side, then it was his turn and he swung in a flailing round arm blow with the axe.
Erak leapt back just in time, the heavy double-bladed head whooshing through the air only millimetres from his ribs. He was already counterattacking with the sword and this time Toshak swayed to one side, letting the huge blade slice down just clear of him, striking sparks from the stones on the ground.
He tried an overhead cut and now Evanlyn understood why Erak had bound his hand with the kheffiyeh. He gripped the blade with his left hand and the hilt in his right to block the force of the axe blow. A grip on the hilt alone wouldn't have had sufficient leverage to stop the massive axe, she realised.
The two men strained against each other for several seconds, their weapons locked together. They were both massively built, each one as powerful as an ox. But Erak had been a prisoner for some weeks now and his strength was reduced by the meagre diet and the punishment he had taken from his captors. In a straight-out contest of brute strength like this, Toshak had the advantage and he began to force the Oberjarl back, a pace at a time.
Realising he was overmatched, Erak struck out quickly with a flat-footed kick to Toshak's thigh. The blow staggered the traitor and Erak was able to spin away, leaping suddenly to avoid a lightning fast axe stroke as Toshak recovered his balance.
Then they rushed at each other again and stood toe to toe, hammering blows at each other. Parrying and blocking, sliding to one side to evade each other's weapons and beating at each other in a final trial of strength and speed. There was no science or subtlety to it. Each used the advantage his weapon gave him – Erak the extra reach of the sword, Toshak the massive weight of the battleaxe.
And it was that weight that began to tell as he rained blow after blow down at Erak, forcing the weakened Oberjarl onto the defensive.
Svengal watched in an agony of concern as his leader began to give ground, a few centimetres at a time at first, then in gradually greater amounts. A light of triumph came into Toshak's eyes as he saw the Oberjarl faltering, felt him giving way. He redoubled the effort he was putting into his strokes, feeling Erak's weakening resistance, seeing his knees buckle slightly with each blow. Now Toshak was swinging two blows to Erak's one and the momentum of the battle was with him and it could only be a matter of time.
Erak's eyes were haunted and his breath came in ragged gasps. He caught one final, overpowering axe blow on the blade of the sword and the massive force behind it buckled his knees and drove him back and down onto the cobbles.
There was a groan from the spectators as they saw the Oberjarl fall. Toshak leapt forward with a snarl of triumph, the mighty axe rising in a two-handed grip for the killing blow. Then he saw something strange.
Erak was smiling.
Too late, Toshak realised he had been tricked. Erak was nowhere near as tired and clumsy as he had seemed. And he was holding a weapon with a much longer reach than any battleaxe. With a mighty roar, Erak used his left arm to thrust himself up from the cobbles while he drove the sword deep into Toshak's unprotected body. Then, releasing the sword, he sidestepped the axe stroke that came half a second too late and watched his enemy, impaled by the terrible sword, stagger, drop his axe and fall to the ground.
Toshak's eyes were wide open, in pain and fear. His fingers scrabbled awkwardly on the cobbles and he was mouthing something to Erak. The Oberjarl understood and nodded. With the toe of his boot, he nudged the axe alongside his enemy's scrabbling hand. Toshak's fingers closed over the haft and he nodded once.
Skandians, Horace knew, believed that if they were to die in battle without a weapon in their hand, their soul would wander for all eternity. Even Toshak didn't deserve that.
'Thank… you… ' Toshak sighed, the words almost inaudible. Then his eyes closed and he died.
'You should have left him to wander,' Svengal said coldly. Erak looked at him, eyebrows raised.
'Would you?' he asked and Svengal hesitated. At the end, Toshak had fought well and that counted for a lot with Skandians.
'No,' he admitted.
Chapter 49
The long column wound slowly across the desert, heading for the oasis where the Khoresh Bedullin tribe were camped.
The mounted Bedullin warriors herded a file of manacled Tualaghi prisoners before them, the bandits forced to walk while their captors rode. The Tualaghi, no longer the scourge of the desert, were a pitiful, footsore group – more like beggars than the feared raiders they had been. In a final
symbol of their downfall, Selethen and three of his officers had walked among the bandits, tearing the blue veils from their faces and throwing them on the ground. Mindful of the way they had treated his bodyguard, the Wakir also removed their boots, letting them hobble on cut and bruised feet for the Journey.
Unlike Yusal, however, he provided them with sufficient water.
Before the party left Maashava, Selethen called the people together in the market square. Standing above them, on the platform that had been intended for his execution, he harangued the crowd, reminding them of how they had cried for his blood only a few days earlier. The townspeople hung their heads and shuffled their feet guiltily. He assured them that he would be in contact with the Wakir of their province and that a heavy tax would be levied. The first part of this would be a requirement for Maashava to refurbish its walls and watchtowers and organise an effective defence force, he told them. The Maashavites nodded gloomily. The walls were in a parlous state and repairing them would mean months of hot, heavy work. But, philosophically, they accepted his words. He was right, after all. They should be better prepared to defend themselves against future marauders.
There was at least a little good news to brighten the townspeople's spirits. Selethen decided to leave thirty of the Tualaghi captives behind to do the heavy work.
'They'll have a hard time of it,' Erak said to the Wakir when he heard about that arrangement. Selethen turned pitiless eyes on him.
'They slaughtered the men escorting you, remember?' he said coldly and Erak nodded. He had no real sympathy to waste on the Tualaghi.
The remaining prisoners would be taken from the Jass Par Oasis to Mararoc, where they would spend their lives at hard labour. Selethen had negotiated with Umar for an escort of Bedullin warriors to conduct them there. Umar agreed readily. He would be glad to see so many potential enemies taken away and kept in chains. Like Erak, he had no sympathy for them.
***
The returning war party, and its additional members, received a noisy and enthusiastic greeting when they arrived at the oasis. The Bedullin women stood in two welcoming lines, shrilling a welcome in an eerie, ululating chant, as their menfolk rode slowly back into the massive grove of trees.
The Tualaghi prisoners, following behind, were greeted with an ominous silence. They shuffled past the double line of silent women, their heads bent and their eyes down. They were still unaccustomed to showing the world their faces and they were only too aware that their lives rested on a knife edge.
Their former leader, Yusal, travelled on a litter behind a camel. He was still concussed from the massive blow he had taken to the forehead when Evanlyn's heavy marble missile had struck him. On the infrequent occasions when he regained consciousness, he raved and gibbered. Sometimes he was even seen with tears running down his cheeks. Evanlyn regarded the result of her handiwork with some misgivings.
'Do you think he'll recover his senses?' she asked the healer who had accompanied the Bedullin war party. The older man touched the massive blue and yellow bruise that disfigured the Tualaghi's forehead and shrugged.
'Head wounds are uncertain,' he told her. 'Maybe tomorrow he'll improve. Maybe in a year. Maybe never.' He smiled at her. 'Don't be too concerned, young lady. He doesn't merit any pity.'
She nodded. But she wasn't completely comforted. She didn't like the fact that she had reduced a man – no matter how evil he might be – to a drooling idiot.
Her spirits recovered on the second night back at the oasis, when the Khoresh Bedullin organised a feast of welcome and celebration.
They ate spiced roast lamb, and peppers blackened in the fire until their tough outer skins could be peeled away, then stuffed with flavoured rice and a cereal the Bedullin called couscous – light and fluffy, spiced with saffron and cumin and cardamom and garnished with plump sultanas and thin flakes of toasted almonds.
There were other delicious dishes of mutton or chicken, cooked in strange conical clay cookpots called tagines and mixed with more spices, dates, apricots and root vegetables. The cone-shaped lids of the tagines retained the flavoured steam from the cooking liquids, rendering the meat so succulent and tender that it fell from the bone.
The meal was eaten with the hands, and pieces of fresh flat bread were tom up to make implements. It was a delicious, greasy-fingered evening of eating to excess – a piece of indulgence the group felt they owed themselves after the hardships of their desert campaign.
Halt, Gilan, Evanlyn, Horace and the two Skandians were given a prominent position in the circle sitting around the massive fire. Selethen and Will, however, were in the principal places of honour, seated to the right of Umar and his wife, Cielema, respectively. Evanlyn smiled at Horace and jerked her thumb towards the young Ranger, currently engaged in animated conversation with the Bedullin leader and his wife. The two older people roared with laughter at something he had said and he ducked his head, grinning, pleased that he had amused them.
'He falls on his feet wherever he goes, doesn't he?' she said, a trifle wistfully. Horace looked across the fire at his old friend and nodded.
'People like him,' he replied. Then he added, 'There's a lot to like, after all.'
'Yes,' Evanlyn said, her eyes fixed on Will. For a moment, studying her, Horace saw a brief shadow of sadness pass across her face. He jogged her with an elbow, a little more enthusiastically than good manners dictated.
'Sling us a peach, will you?' he said. She raised an eyebrow at him and grinned.
'You don't mean that literally, do you?' she said. He smiled, glad to see she had shaken off her melancholy, knowing that she wouldn't be able to resist the pun on his use of the word 'sling'. He held up his hands before his face in mock horror.
'Please! Spare me that!' he said and they both laughed.
The Bedullin, as a general rule, didn't use alcohol, but out of deference to the two Skandians, several flasks of arariki, a brandy made from fermented dates and peaches, were provided. Now Erak and Svengal, at their own insistence, decided they would perform a sea chanty for the enjoyment and education of the assembled group. They stood on rather unsteady legs and began to bellow out the ribald tale of a penguin who fell hopelessly in love with a humpback whale.
Since the desert-dwelling audience had never seen either animal and so had no idea of the discrepancy in their sizes, much of the humour fell flat. So did much of the melody. But they applauded the enthusiasm of the singers, and the sheer volume at which they performed, and the two sea wolves resumed their seats, confident they had upheld the honour of Skandia.
Halt was quiet, Gilan thought. But then, Halt usually was quiet at events like this. Halt's eyes were intent on the animated young face of his apprentice as he talked and laughed with the Bedullin Aseikh and his wife.
'He did well,' Gilan said and Halt turned to him, a rare smile touching the bearded face.
'He did,' he agreed.
'Told you he would,' Gilan said, grinning.
Halt nodded acknowledgement. 'Yes. You did. You were right.'
Gilan shifted to face Halt more directly, remembering something Halt had said some days previously.
'But you knew, didn't you? You said to us when we were in Maashava that Yusal had forgotten that Will was out there. So you knew he'd survived. How was that?'
Halt's face grew serious as he considered the question. 'I think knew is too definite a term. I sensed it. I've always had a sense about Will. There's a feeling of destiny to that boy. I've felt it since the first day he joined me.'
'And now it's nearly time to turn him loose,' Gilan said gently. He saw a mixture of sadness and pride competing in Halt's eyes. Then the grizzled Ranger sighed.
'Yes it is,' he said.
***
After the feast broke up, Evanlyn's party sat with Umar and Selethen around a smaller fire. Cielema passed around coffee.
'Perhaps it's time we talked a little business,' Selethen began, his eyes on Evanlyn. 'There is the small matter of Erak's ransom.'
He paused expectantly, waiting for Evanlyn to produce the money draft and her seal ring. Both items had been recovered from Yusal. Evanlyn, however, showed no sign of doing so.
'His ransom?' she asked and he nodded impatiently. 'Yes. You agreed to ransom him. I'm sure you can recall that,' he added sardonically.
Evanlyn nodded several times, went to speak, then stopped, her hand raised in midair. Then, as if uncertain, she said to the Wakir, 'Just explain the concept of ransom to me if you would?'
Selethen frowned. He had hoped to hurry through this matter and have it settled before anyone thought too deeply about it. It seemed he wasn't going to get away with it.
'I think we all know what a ransom is,' he said evasively. Evanlyn smiled at him.
'Humour me. I'm an addle-headed girl.'
Across the fire, Cielema hid a smile behind her hand. Umar, who had been told the background to this discussion by Will, leaned forward helpfully.
'If I might assist here. A ransom is paid by one party when a second party is holding a third party hostage.'
'That's a lot of parties,' Horace whispered to Will and the young Ranger grinned.
'S-o-o-o,' Evanlyn said, 'if I were the first party, I would pay an agreed amount to the second party who is holding the third party? Is that correct?'
'Correct,' Selethen said, thin-lipped. Evanlyn frowned at him, a puzzled expression on her face.
'You can't really expect me to pay sixty-six thousand reels of silver to Yusal, can you?'
'To Yusal!' the Wakir exclaimed, coming close to choking on his coffee. 'Why in the name of all that's holy would you pay it to Yusal?'
Evanlyn spread her hands in an ingenuous gesture. 'Well, he was the second party, wasn't he? He was the one holding Erak hostage when we found him. Not you,' she added, after a significant pause.
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