Lion's Blood

by Steven Barnes

  Ali's hand shook as he accepted it. "Father . . ."

  "No time for pleasant lies," said Abu Ali. "You have completed Asr, and Malik's word has been kept. Bring back your brother, and your wife." Elenya, weeping, washed his brow with a moistened towel.

  "I swear." Ali kissed Nasab Asad's blade, and then slid it under his belt. "On your soul, I swear it."

  Malik and nine warriors approached them on horseback. There were two empty saddles, and Ali swung up on one of them. Malik looked down on Bitta.

  "You may accompany us," he said.

  She said nothing, for she had no tongue to speak, but her dark eyes gleamed and she climbed up on the second horse, seated so firmly that she might have been born there. Malik laughed without humor and threw her a sword. She caught it by the guard, examined its edge, lashed it through the air twice, then caught a belt and scabbard tossed by another of Malik's men.

  Her teeth gleamed.

  Elenya, still kneeling by her father's side, stared worshipfully up at her brother. "Ali. Bring them back."

  He reared his horse up. "I swear!" he cried. "Hai!"

  And the twelve of them rode like demons. Ali spared one brief glance back at his father's shrunken form, wondering if that would be his last sight of the living man who had sired him, vowing to complete this, his first quest, with honor.

  Driving his horse without mercy, Ali and the rescue party pursued the wagons. The tracks had traveled north and then west along the teff field's access road, transferring to a narrow path beside one of the canals, and then finally to a trade road heading toward the frontier.

  Malik lead the pack, Ali immediately behind him, but Bitta was third, ahead of all nine of Malik's seasoned warriors, her black robes fluttering around her as though she were some kind of avenging spirit.

  Ali did not want or need the rest, but twice Malik forced them to pause, giving their horses a chance to drink, the men a chance to stretch their aching legs and backs. The rebels were getting away! Still, he was heartened by the confidence that men on horses could outpace wagons.

  By dusk, sharp-eyed Bitta had spotted the wagon on the horizon ahead of them.

  Distant explosions proved that the escaping slaves had spotted them, and were wasting their ammunition at impossible range.

  Ali's horse foamed at the mouth as he drove his heels into her side. The mare seemed to have been caught up in the race, seemed to understand what was needed of her. As she, too, spied the wagons ahead of them, he needed no crop or spur to push her to extreme effort.

  Bitta drew even with Ali, and her face bore nothing gentle or feminine: it was pure hellish will, and for an instant Ali was taken aback by the intensity. Never had he seen rage or purpose or any other emotion so distort the woman's visage.

  They halved the distance between them, then halved it again. The escapees ventured another rifle salvo, and one of Malik's men screamed. Ali turned and glimpsed him fall, a hand clapped to his throat.

  The rear wagon hit a rut and jounced into the air. A slave flew through the air, landing headfirst against the packed earth.

  Panicking now, the fugitives fired another volley of shots. Ali heard a bullet buzz past him like some impossibly accelerated bee.

  Then Malik was among the escapees, slashing left and right. One of the white horsemen wheeled and came at Bitta, swinging his rifle like a club.

  Ali had an instant to watch her lean out of the way and answer with a hacking stroke that sent his arm flopping into the dust.

  Then Ali had engaged his own enemy, and there was no more time for thought. Blood seemed to run into his eyes. His mind seemed to go blank, was like a blanket stretched for shadow-play, momentary flashes of an arm . . . a leg . . . a sword . . . a screaming face . . .

  And his sword behaving as if it were a living thing, a creature that sought vengeance, that craved flesh for sustenance. As if it were the master, and he the obedient servant.

  The lead wagon was trundling completely out of control, a dozen servants packed into it screaming in horror as the reins flopped beyond their reach. One servant tried to jump out on the horses to take command, only to fall beneath the hooves and wheels, howling as his ribs and spine were crushed.

  The wagon hit a rut, a wheel buckled, and it leapt into the air, spun ninety degrees, and arced down and plowed thunderously back down into the earth.

  The wounded and the dead sprawled, crawling blindly, sobbing and crying out, struggling to stand and hobble away toward the imagined safety of the west.

  The single intact wagon wheel rotated slowly, and then stopped.

  "Surrender!" Malik called. "On your knees, hands behind your heads, damn you!"

  As the survivors struggled to obey, Malik and Ali drew abreast. The road behind them was littered with dead. Wounded servants were sprawled like crushed insects, mothers protecting their children, men trying to protect their women.

  "Do you see them?" Ali called, anxiously searching among the littered bodies. No sign. Oh please, Allah, please, let her be well. He did not always know what he felt for Lamiya: she was beautiful and proud, too willful perhaps, but she was family. She was his. And if the slaves had hurt her, if their actions had caused her any harm . . .

  Bitta jumped off her steed. She gasped for breath, face slicked with sweat. Her anxious gaze went immediately to the overturned wagon, and she set her back against it.

  "Help her!" Malik called, and Ali leapt down and pushed with her, heaved it up and onto its side to reveal the crushed and bloody figures of—

  Two more servants.

  With shocking suddenness, Ali realized that they had been tricked into believing the slaves would go west, and while they had pursued the wagon, Brian had spirited away his fiancée, and his brother.

  "Lamiya!" he screamed. The scream reverberated through the trees, across the sky, and down the empty road . . .

  Far away, in one of Lake A'zam's tributary streams, floated a flat-bottomed boat barely large enough for its passengers. Brian, Aidan, Sophia and her baby, Olaf, and Tom Leary crowded together in the skiff. Kai and Lamiya lay bound and gagged at their feet.

  From where they lay, Kai could see smoke rising from the direction of Dar Kush. He heard the distant shouts and gunshots as slaves were rounded up. All day he and Lamiya had lain camouflaged in the brush, silently suffering the biting of insects and the chafing of their bonds. Rags binding their mouths prevented cries for help, and although twice searching parties had come within a stone's throw, they had gone undiscovered.

  When night fell again, Brian used an oar to push them out into the stream, heading south toward Djibouti harbor.

  "It's been hot," Olaf said to the gagged Lamiya. "If I untie your gag to give you water, do you promise not to scream?"

  Lamiya glared at him, but at last nodded agreement. Aidan ungagged her, and offered the teat of a water skin. Lamiya accepted it in silence, paused, and then spit the entire mouthful into his face. Brian laughed roughly.

  Lamiya's gag was slipped back into place, and Kai was offered water in turn. Placing health above satisfaction, he took it.

  "Kai . . ." Aidan said. "We have no intention of harming you. Will you swear not to try to escape before we reach the harbor?"

  Kai watched the waterway as they slid south. "You will need my advice on navigation. There are places on the river where your boat could founder."

  Brian laughed again. "You expect us to trust you?"

  "As you wish. I won't offer twice."

  Aidan ran his friend's words over in his mind, and made a critical decision. "He wouldn't lie to me."

  Brian regarded them both, then grunted assent and freed Kai's hands. "No tricks," he said, as if wishing Kai would try one.

  Sophia tried to approach Lamiya. "It is a long trip, ma'am. Some water would soothe the way."

  Lamiya glared at her. "I want nothing from either of you."

  Sophia backed away. The night was deep and dark. Aidan, Brian, and Father Leary took turns at the oars,
sculling quietly with the current, every stroke taking them closer to Brian's planned destination. To freedom, or death.

  Which was, after all, freedom of a sort.

  "There is a bend coming up in the river," Kai said. "You should move further toward the deep water."

  "A fine suggestion," Aidan said. "You're an excellent helper, Kai. Perhaps I should take you with us. You'd fetch a fine price."

  "You find this humorous?"

  "It has its moments."

  "For instance—when my father was shot?"

  "I watched my father die," Aidan said. "Shot by the men you paid to steal me. Your gold bought his blood. Are you sorry for that?"

  Wisely, Kai said nothing.

  Aidan shrugged. "That was long ago. I am sorry for the Wakil's wounds. I would not have had that happen. Kai—can you tell me that you, or your father, would not have done as much to seek your freedom?"

  Kai sat straighter in the boat. "I don't indulge in fantasy while my father lies dying."

  "I hope he is fine," Aidan said, the weight of sincerity in every word. "And that you see him soon. I hope that one day you will understand. That there might be some place in this world where you and I could sit, and drink coffee, and watch each other's children play."

  Kai wanted to discount the sentiment, but he could not. "Freedom is a dream," he said, and turned away.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  If not for the circumstances, Kai might have found the journey downstream almost peaceful. Frogs sang to them as they floated, and the wings of night insects beat feverishly among the fronds. A salt wind blew from the south, stirring the trees and whispering of freedom.

  But that fragile peace was interrupted when, distantly to the north and west, they saw lantern lights burning, heard angry shouts.

  "Shhh," Brian whispered. He grinned and set the point of his knife over Lamiya's heart. The rebel seemed almost buoyant, giddy. Kai could feel it from one-eared Olaf and Sophia as well: it was almost as if they were drunken with freedom.

  The voices retreated to the west. The rebels whispered among themselves, then Tom Leary pointed east. "Look," he whispered. The eastern horizon blushed rose as the new sun prepared to greet the day.

  Brian sculled the boat into a sheltered little cove. "Aidan," he said. "You have first watch. Olaf, relieve him in three hours."

  Brian covered himself with a blanket, curled up like a cat, and began snoring at once. Kai climbed over him to the back of the boat, carrying a water skin.

  Lamiya's hands had been retied in front of her, and her face was unfettered: she had finally promised not to scream if they removed her gag. He thought that she looked tired and strained. At that moment, he would gladly have given his inheritance to comfort her, or free her from this nightmare.

  "Here," he said, offering water. "You need this."

  She caught the sides of the skin with her bound hands. "You are very friendly with them."

  He shrugged. "Any animal caught in a trap will seek freedom."

  She sipped again, as if just discovering the depth and intensity of her thirst. "We're going to die, aren't we?" Her tone was coldly matter-of-fact.

  "No," Kai answered. Don't lie to her. Not now. "Perhaps."

  They sat together, sharing the quiet. "I'm cold," she said.

  "It will be warmer soon."

  "You could run. You could make it, Kai."

  "I would never leave you alone."

  She looked at him curiously, as if not entirely satisfied by his answer.

  "Ali would be very displeased," he offered.

  "Ah," she said. "Ali."

  "Do you love my brother very much?"

  Lamiya sighed. Then: "He is a good man. Our marriage unites two countries."

  No answer at all, that. And yet in the pauses between her words, he sensed a meaning he dared not acknowledge. Both of them were weak, and tired. She was afraid, and in that mortal anguish would turn to whatever might comfort her. He was imagining things, that was all.

  " ‘It is low tide,' " he murmured, stirring his hand in the morning's cool water.

  "Kai?"

  He laughed. "Hafiz," he said.

  "Ah." She closed her eyes with pleasure, lashes trembling against her cheek. "One of my favorite poets. Humor me."

  Kai reflected for a moment, and then recited:

  "Why all this talk of the beloved,

  Music and dancing, and

  Liquid ruby light we can lift in a cup?

  Because it is low tide,

  A very low tide in this age

  And around most hearts."

  Kai felt himself waver. Felt that he was speaking of things better left unsaid. Low tide, indeed. He could not help but continue:

  "We are exquisite coral reefs,

  Dying when exposed to strange

  Elements.

  Allah is the wine ocean we crave—we miss

  Flowing in and out of our pores."

  Kai paused, stopped. That was all he could say to her, even with the shelter of night. But to his surprise, she finished the poem, her voice a honeyed whisper.

  "Find that flame, that existence

  That wonderful man

  Who can burn beneath the water.

  No other kind of light

  Will cook the food you need."

  Kai could not breathe, could not speak. He had no label for the emotions he felt now. Could the slaves' mood be somehow, impossibly, infectious? He should have felt only horror and rage: his father was gravely wounded, perhaps dying! But somehow that fear was less than a sense of. . . freedom. Yes. There it was. Here, upon the river, he was just a man, without obligations, temporarily unable to control his fate and therefore not obliged to a responsibility for others.

  He remembered Aidan's words, a dream that one day their children might play together. And his careless answer: Freedom is a dream. For Aidan? For himself?

  Then what was this moment with Lamiya, so close to her that he could smell the salt of her skin mingling with soap and perfume. A chance for him to feel, even for a moment, that the two of them were together, separate from all obligations and controls, drifting in a tide of the heart.

  Only in such a world could either of them possibly ignore the strictures that had guided them from birth.

  Kai was suddenly, painfully, jarred by his own thoughts. What was he saying! His mind had strayed into a place of betrayal: of his brother, of his father's wishes, of Nandi's affections. And how presumptuous even to think that Lamiya could ever consider him as anything but a brother. He was deeply embarrassed, confused, prayed that she could not somehow read his heart. "Lamiya . . ." he finally said.

  She was very close, both of them hidden in shadow. "Shhh."

  He closed his eyes, vanquished by her single word.

  Lamiya kissed him. It was not a sister's kiss.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Aidan knelt in the front of the boat, preparing to accept a crust of bread from Tom Leary, when he saw Kai come groggily to waking. At first he felt sorry for his old friend, then grinned as he reckoned that the Wakil's son was pretending to be less alert than he was.

  Then he relaxed: Olaf would watch the hostages while he took the sacrament. His father had believed in the magic of the river, believed that a thankful heart would draw fish and game, that the woods were filled with spirits, that the moon was a lady and the sun her mate.

  But there was magic in Tom Leary's ceremony as well. It was magic that turned crumbs into the body of Jesus Christ, or a sip of water into wine and thence into the blood of the Savior.

  Did these things happen? Stranger things abounded in the world. Stranger miracles he had witnessed since leaving the crannog. And perhaps, he thought as he sipped from the water skin, a bit of faith might transform slaves into free men.

  Aidan swallowed as Tom Leary said "the body and blood of Jesus Christ," wondering if that salt taste in the back of his throat was God's magic at work. Perhaps, and perhaps there was magic enough for
one last, greater miracle.

  He rose from his knees and moved toward the back of the skiff as Sophia took his place. Kai was watching him, and Aidan felt a mixture of sadness and dirty triumph. So. Kai knew now that he had lied about conversion, that he had used his friend’s faith to gain greater leeway in movement and action around Dar Kush. Could the rebellion have succeeded without such subterfuge? Thinking back over the events of the past weeks, he thought perhaps so. Yes.

  But still he could not help but feel a dark satisfaction that the deception had worked.

  Aidan felt utterly calm and resigned, almost blissful. One way or another, this night would see the end of it. Moving carefully, cautious not to shake the boat, Aidan came to his friend. "Here," he said. "You should have this back." And so saying he lifted the crescent moon medallion from around his neck and gave it back to Kai.

  Kai held it, eyes moving from the moon to Aidan's face. He looked, not angered, but deeply pained. Aidan almost wished that he could feel guilty, or ashamed, but he couldn't.

  "You lied to me," Kai said.

  "What would you have done?" Aidan asked.

  "Found another way."

  Midnight in Djibouti harbor.

  Oceangoing steamscrews and two sail-ships lay at anchor, in the second largest port in all Bilalistan. During the day it was a bustling, cosmopolitan center of commerce: ships arrived from around the world carrying spices, coffee, silk, exotic fruit, slaves, rare metals and gems, seed stock and livestock. During the day the dockside markets rang with the calls of merchants and traders, auctioneers and agents.

  Even if there had not been a sober need for quiet, Aidan O'Dere would not have found words. He was hypnotized by the colossal image of Bilal standing astride a man-made island like some manner of dark angel passing judgment on mankind's sins. Aidan was stunned by the sight. Eight years ago, had it been, since he entered this bay, chained and unable even to read the words emblazoned upon the mighty base?