Wulf decided not to answer that at once. “I feel good,” he said instead. “Maybe lucky’s a better word. People have tried to kill me lately, and haven’t managed it. How long does it take to go all the way through this pass?”
“At this rate, several hours.”
“I doubt if a force of Moslem cavalry would move any faster.”
“Not if they aren’t sure what’s beyond,” said Bhakrann.
“You said that Okba captured Koseila, who got away.”
“That’s right,” Bhakrann drawled, not admiringly. “He was one to be with what he thought was the strong side. He was a Christian for a while, then maybe a Moslem. Okba took him and treated him like a slave. We Imazighen didn’t care greatly; we thought Koseila had more or less renegaded from us. But he turned Imazighen once more, when Okba ordered him to slaughter a sheep for supper.”
“That would be an insult. What happened?”
“He smeared blood on his beard. He told them that blood would make hair grow strong. But it’s an old Imazighen custom. Blood on your beard means you’re going to kill somebody.”
“And he killed Okba,” said Wulf. “No, I mean you did. But Koseila commanded you.”
“The Cahena commanded,” said Bhakrann. “Koseila just fought and got killed, and we didn’t care much. We had the Cahena.”
They rode in the shade of high pinnacles. Wulf sipped from his bottle.
“She must be remarkable,” he ventured.
“That’s an understatement. She has spirits to advise her, she has magic to serve her. And when you meet her, you’ll probably think she’s the most beautiful woman you ever saw.”
Wulf thought of beautiful women he had known at Constantinople, at Carthage, elsewhere. He changed the subject. “Do I see the end of the pass up there ahead?”
“Pretty far ahead, yes.” Bhakrann looked back the way they had come. “At least there weren’t more Moslems behind that scouting party, or we’d have Cham and the others rushing to catch up with us. I don’t expect any invaders to try this pass tonight.”
“No, it’ll be dark in this little furrow,” agreed Wulf.
“You’re quick to see things,” said Bhakrann. “Keep that quickness. We’ll need some quickness in the next few days.”
On they rode. The far end of the pass became a patch of light, widened. They saw open country beyond. They came out at midafternoon, with the sun dropping down the pale sky ahead of them. The road was broad, without grass or bush on it.
“Doesn’t this road lead to Bagai?” Wulf asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“That’s where I judge the Moslems will want to reach.”
“They won’t get there,” predicted Bhakrann grimly.
They found a wayside stream and let the horses drink.
“This is the first water we’ve seen since that well your friends dug last night,” Wulf remarked.
“True.” Bhakrann nodded, twitching a bridle to keep a horse from drinking too fast. “I’ve a theory that your main body of Moslems stopped at that well, to dig up more water for itself. Stopped to dig, while those fellows on the best horses hurried after us and then wished they hadn’t caught up.”
“Then your friends can see them a long way off across flat country and ride back to report pretty soon,” said Wulf. “It’s a good part of a day’s ride from that well to this little flow. An army can get thirsty in a day, both horses and men.”
“You’re a real help,” said Bhakrann.
“Probably it’s a good thing you didn’t kill me, there on the way out of Carthage.”
“Probably,” and Bhakrann flashed him a brief grin.
On they fared, leading the spare horses. The sun dropped lower and lower toward where the horizon rose in a distant ridge. An hour more, and Wulf thought he caught a flash up there ahead. He shaded his eyes.
“Is that a river?” he asked Bhakrann.
“Yes, and a fairly good one for this time of year.”
“And a place for a camp. How soon will your people be in sight?”
“Take a good look,” invited Bhakrann. “They’re coming into sight now.”
* * *
IV
Again Wulf saw riders coming into view over a horizon, though this time there were more than a handful. A score or so appeared, then another knot of them, another, more. As they advanced down the tufted slope, they fanned into a spaced line — two hundred or so, as Wulf estimated, trotting in a disciplined formation. They halted well back from the river as though on a signal, and sat their saddles. Behind came a dozen or more groups, larger and closer drawn, fifty or sixty in each. These, too, reined in behind the first line. Still others paused on the ridge, waiting like dark, low-lying puffs of cloud against the afternoon sky.
Bhakrann drew ahead. “Don’t hurry,” he cautioned Wulf. “They want to be sure who we are. I’ll go in front and do the talking.” He leaned back and handed the reins of his led horses to Wulf. “Can you manage these?”
“Of course,” said Wulf.
Following Bhakrann, he let his eyes quarter the formation of waiting horsemen. As the intervening space grew less, he saw glitters from weapons and headpieces and bridle housings. At midpoint, a man on a gray horse held some sort of flag, oblong and deep red. It, too, flashed in the sun, as though with spangles.
Bhakrann uttered a prolonged, quavering cry and flourished his shield above his head, and trotted his horse at an angle to the left, then back to the right. The flag waved in answer. Half a dozen men rode clear of the line. The hoofs of their horses flung up flashes from the stream. Bhakrann rode toward them, shouting something. Then he beckoned with his shield for Wulf to come.
Bhakrann rode to the center of the group, talking to everyone at once. Those men frowned expectantly toward Wulf. They had tufty beards and hooded cloaks and ready javelins.
“His name’s Wulf. He fought his way out of Carthage,” Bhakrann was saying. “He can help us.”
“Of what people are you?” challenged one of the waiting men.
“He’s a Saxon,” Bhakrann answered for Wulf. “Never mind wondering what a Saxon is. I said he’s a good man. Here, take charge of these horses and ride back ahead of us. Tell her that I’m bringing him. Wulf, wait with me.”
More questioning scowls all around from the men of the party as they turned their animals and trotted back across the stream.
“Give them time to get there and tell what I said,” Bhakrann warned. “There, they’re reporting. Ride with me, very slowly. You’re going to meet the Cahena.”
They walked their horses into the stream. On the far bank, the leader of the group that had talked to Bhakrann was talking to someone else. Wulf felt eyes upon him and silence along the line, except for a horse’s whickering.
The water flowed brown and slow beneath the bellies of their mounts. On ground beyond, Bhakrann said, “Get down,” and they dismounted.
Directly opposite, a dozen men stood around the flag, holding their bridles. Others came forward on foot, the flag-bearer among them. They were tall, crudely armored, bearded, all but the one who led the way.
That one was small and slim in a long, loose cloak of blue, with a head swaddled in a white scarf. A slender hand set the butt of a javelin to the ground with each step. Small, pointed boots of soft brown leather stirred under the robe’s swaying hem.
Wulf pulled the reins over his horse’s head and waited with Bhakrann. The group drew around them. The small one stood under the banner, casting a slender shadow in the light of the lowering sun.
“Kneel,” whispered Bhakrann, and dropped to hands and knees. His bearded head sank to kiss the brown grass where the shadow lay.
“Stand up, Bhakrann,” said the soft, slow voice of a woman. “Where are the others I sent with you?”
He rose. “They’re still back there, Cahena, watching the Moslems move this way.”
“I’ll send others to help them watch.” The veiled head moved. “I knew this stranger
would come and help us, too.”
Then it was the Cahena who spoke so softly, this woman with a face half masked in white folds. Wulf stood before her. She was one of those who somehow look taller than they really are.
“My name is Wulf, lady,” he volunteered. “I escaped from —”
“I’m talking to Bhakrann,” she cut him off, not sharply but authoritatively. “How did you meet this man, Bhakrann?”
Bhakrann told, in a voice more hushed than Wulf had ever heard him use before. He made much of Wulf’s catching a javelin in midair, of Wulf’s sure thrust that killed the Moslem pursuer. He declared his judgment of Wulf as a man worth knowing, and quoted Wulf’s account of the taking of Carthage and the ordeal of escape.
“And he calls himself a Saxon,” the Cahena said.
Her gaze fastened on Wulf. He saw her eyes between folds of the scarf. They were deep, dark eyes, set aslant in a face that seemed gently tawny, like the skin of some sweet fruit. Silently she looked at Wulf, the probe of her eyes almost like the touch of hands, while he counted five to himself.
“If you’re a Saxon, what are you doing here?” she flung at him suddenly.
He kept silent long enough to count another slow five. “Lady,” he said then, “I’ve been a soldier. I went where there was war, among the Franks, Romans, Byzantines. I fought the Arabs in Asia until the fighting got slack. I came to Carthage, and then the Moslems took the town.”
“You think they’ll come here?” she said.
“Yes. They want to fight you and beat you, Cahena.”
“How many are there at Carthage?”
“Maybe thirty thousand. And I gather that an advance force has started this way. We fought a few of their fastest scouts. I judge they want a strong point to use as a headquarters and supply base. Like Bagai.”
“Do you know Bagai?” she asked, her eyes ever at him.
“I’ve never been there, but the old Romans had an armed camp there. It must be a logical fortification site.”
“We’ll do something about that. Thirty thousand, you say they have? How big would such a force be?”
“Perhaps a tenth of their number.”
“And how far away from us would it be?” she asked.
“I can only guess, but perhaps a day away just now.”
She turned and looked up the slope at her gathered host. The movement of her body was silkily sure.
“Sunset,” she said. “Plenty of water. We’ll camp.” Her javelin pointed. “I want a guard there where stream bends. Above the guard, water for drinking. Below him, water for the horses and camels and anyone who wants to bathe or wash clothes. You,” she said to a tall man, “go and give that order.”
The man strode quickly to his horse and rode along the line, beckoning others to ride upstream with him. The Cahena turned her slanted eyes back to Wulf.
“I knew you were coming,” she said, with sudden music in her voice. “In a little while there’ll be something for supper. You come — you, too, Bhakrann — and we’ll talk some more.”
She turned and left him, her companions with her. Their javelins fenced her like a clump of reeds. Wulf watched, his hand on the neck of his horse. He had time to see what shone on the red flag. It was a geometric pattern of glass beads.
“You should have knelt and kissed her shadow,” muttered Bhakrann beside him. “You’re ready enough to stay alive in most places, but you were in danger then. She might have had you killed offhand.”
“Why wasn’t I killed?” asked Wulf.
“If she’d pointed a finger, there’d have been half a dozen javelins in you — too many to dodge. But her spirits seem to speak for you. Anyway, remember you’re with the Imazighen now. When we eat with her, bear yourself becomingly. I take it you’ve traveled enough to pick up good manners.”
“I’ll do my best,” promised Wulf, and Bhakrann’s beard twitched in a grin.
“Hai, and your best is pretty good. We’ll camp here for the night, or maybe half of it. She might have us marching any moment.”
The moon rose, broad and pale, across the flat land to the east, while the sun dived behind the western ridge. Horsemen were strung like pickets on the far side of the stream. Several others headed off into the distance.
“There go some to join the scouts we left,” Bhakrann said. “Good men, with the sense to see without being seen. Let’s go and see some people ourselves. You’ve been wondering what the Imazighen are like, haven’t you?”
They remounted their own horses.
Far and wide over the sweep of the ridge, men were camping. They gathered in small bands, half a dozen or so to each, with horses staked to crop the scanty grass. Javelins were stuck in the earth, pair by pair. The men squatted without fires in the dusk, eating what they had brought with them and drinking from skin bottles.
Bhakrann hailed those groups, one after another. At last he paused where swarthy men with tufts or tussocks of beards sat in a circle. Several of them rose, and one spoke:
“Bhakrann, do you know when we’re going to fight?”
“Not yet, but it’s coming. Wulf, these men are Djerwa, which means they’re the best we have.”
Teeth glittered in the beards, like chips of quartz.
“This is Wulf ,“ Bhakrann said. “He’s a Saxon, from a long way across the sea and across the land beyond that. He and I are friends. Watch Wulf when we fight. Maybe you’ll learn something.”
“Does he fight our way?” asked another man.
“He fights his own way, and it’s a good way,” snapped Bhakrann.
He and Wulf rode to another squatting place, spoke to the men there, and visited more. At last Bhakrann wheeled toward the river again. The sun had set. Moonlight washed the landscape. The air grew chillier.
“I think she’s ready to eat, Wulf ,“ said Bhakrann, pointing to where a rosy hint of light showed beyond some sort of screen. “She doesn’t want to be kept waiting for that, or anything else.”
“Wouldn’t it be good for me to meet a few more of these people?” Wulf asked.
“Those you’ve met are telling about you to others. The whole camp will get to know your name and that I’ve said you can fight. Let’s ask somebody here to keep an eye on our horses.”
On foot they approached the soft red light. It showed by the river, well away from the other little camps. It was shut in, Wulf saw, with cloaks or blankets fastened to javelins stuck all around, with the light winking above. As Bhakrann and Wulf walked toward it, they saw a ring of guards. One made a gesture of recognition and let them pass. Bhakrann found an opening in the makeshift wall of cloaks and led Wulf inside.
The enclosed space was a dozen yards across. Against one screening cloak was set up a little tent, made by propping a dark cloth on sticks. At the center a small fire burned down to coals, with several sitting figures around it. Directly opposite the entrance sat the Cahena, on a folded saddlecloth. The others were warriors, bareheaded, in jerkins strengthened with chains and slices of iron.
“Bhakrann,” said the Cahena’s rich, low voice. “Wulf. Come and eat with us.”
Close to the fire were propped green twigs, strung with bits of meat to roast. The various diners held their hands in their laps. Wulf and Bhakrann found places to sit.
“Wulf, this is Daris,” said the Cahena. “He’s a Neffusa.”
Daris was as gaunt as a rake, but sinewy. His beard looked brown in the light of the coals.
“This is Ketriazar,” the Cahena introduced another. “A Mediuni.”
Ketriazar sat, thick-chested. His face was pitted, as though by an old plague of boils.
“And Yaunis,” said the Cahena.
Yaunis nodded. He had something of elegance about him, for all his patterned cloak was shabby. His dark beard was trimmed somewhat in a fashion Wulf had seen in Constantinople. His eyes were long and humorous.
“And Mallul,” the Cahena said, looking at the one who sat next to her. “My son, a Djerwa like Bhakrann, like
me.”
“Wulf,” said Mallul, the only one of the party to speak. He was young, perhaps twenty or so. His soft-bearded face was handsome. Across his knees lay a curved Arabian sword.
Now Wulf looked at the Cahena. She sat cross-legged, dressed in a loose dark skirt and tunic. Her scarf had been put aside, and her long black hair fell like great wings upon her shoulders. It was smooth, thick hair, with faint lights in it. Her face was a fine oval. Her nose was short and straight, with flared nostrils. Her strong, delicate chin had the slightest of depressions, not quite a dimple. Her slanted eyes held their own radiance. Bhakrann had been right, she was beautiful.
“Now let’s have our supper,” she said.
As though the others had been waiting for her word, they all reached for the twigs with meat skewered on them. Someone passed a loose-woven basket of flat cakes. Wulf. took meat — it was goat, he saw — and a cake of. barley bread. Ketriazar offered him a leather bottle and a brass cup, and he poured wine for himself. It was sharp but good. All ate hungrily, except the Cahena.
She took no meat. She barely nibbled at a handful of dried figs and broken morsels of bread, and sipped slowly at her cup of wine. Silence all around while they ate. At last the Cahena wiped her hands on a white cloth and spoke.
“Two scouts have come back,” she said. “They say that three thousand or so Moslems are camped at the eastern end of that pass, with their own scouts into it. We don’t have as many as that, but we’ll face them.”
“Yes,” agreed Mallul, as though dutifully.
The Cahena turned to Wulf. “I knew you’d come to us,” she addressed him. “I have voices to tell me things. I want to hear more about the Moslems. Meanwhile, you’ve seen a little of us Imazighen. What do you think about us?”
“I ask myself about your weapons,” he said carefully.
“What about our weapons?”
“I haven’t seen all your men, of course, but those I did see haven’t enough javelins.”
“Not enough javelins?” Yaunis half cried. “Every man has two and hits what he throws at.”
“Which leaves him only one javelin to stab with,” said Wulf. “The Moslems have bows, and they’re good with them. But one missile to a man doesn’t seem enough to me.”
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1986 Page 4
