Mallul rode away, and Wulf and the Cahena continued side by side across a grassy level. Scraps of pallid mist showed, and Wulf had time to remember his dream, perhaps his vision, of the striding creature with its bull’s head. Bhakrann had said he had seen something actual. He could still see it, in his imagination.
“Tell me what you’re thinking of,” the Cahena bade him, and he told her. She listened seriously.
“Yes,” she said, “we know that one. He smells blood before a battle. We call him Khro.”
“Do you worship him?”
“Not exactly, but we fear him. Yet you say he didn’t come near you.” Wulf heard the hoofs of their horses, stirring the grass. “Now, your plan sounds perfect. If we win, it’ll be your doing.”
“No plan’s ever perfect,” said Wulf. “They’ll have the advantage of the rising sun in our faces. We’ll have to make up for that by a quick, hard blow that will disorganize them.”
“You think of everything,” she said, not quite mockingly.
“Nobody thinks of everything. Any battle plan has mistakes. The side with the fewest mistakes will win.”
“That’s true. What’s the worst mistake a commander can make?”
“Not having enough men at the right place and time,” he said.
“If we could always have that.” She smiled, but only faintly. “Maybe they have more than we do just now, but if we use your plan? You must have been a good commander, Wulf.”
“I never had more than two squadrons at once, but I’ve always read whatever I could about battles. Julius Caesar, Tacitus, the reports of Belisarius — whatever came to hand.”
“You can read and write,” she said, impressed. “I never learned to do either. When we’ve won this battle, you can talk to my councillor Djalout. He’s at home on Arwa — he’s too old to come on campaigns. Sometimes I’ve thought him the wisest of men.”
“As you’re the wisest of women, Cahena.”
“You talk like a courtier. Warrior and courtier, that’s a combination. Luck rode into our camp with you.”
“You overwhelm me,” he said, and her laugh trilled.
“I doubt if you’ve ever been really overwhelmed,” she said.
A scout trotted to them to report a stream just ahead.
“Stream?” repeated the Cahena. “Tell the other scouts to stop where they are and send to the other columns. We’ll pause at the stream. The horses can drink and the men can eat breakfast, if they have food. Later, we’ll have dinner from whatever we take away from the Moslems.”
She sounded as if she counted it already done.
At the crawling thread of water, the horses dipped grateful noses. Wulf did not choose to drink where they drank, and sipped from his water bottle and ate morsels of stale barley bread. The Cahena talked to another scout, who said that the pass was directly ahead.
“It’s not far from dawn,” the Cahena said, gazing expertly at the stars. “Now we move forward slowly. Send to Yaunis and Ketriazar to come close, but keep distance for their flanking movements. Bhakrann? Wulf? Ride with me again.”
Up ahead, the starry sky had a wash of paleness. The jagged, dark hunch of the high ground rose against it.
“We’re almost there, and probably the Moslems are almost there, too,” said the Cahena. “How do we maneuver now, Wulf?”
“Draw closer still, but not so close that we can’t retire. When we fall back, do it quick in column, then spread out in line.”
“Forward again,” she commanded over her shoulder. “Bhakrann, ride to the rear and pass the word of what’s to be done.”
They moved at a walk. Wulf was glad that the horses seemed fairly fresh for what was coming. He touched the neck of his own horse, and it made a rippling sound with its lips.
As the sun showed rosy promise above the height, the Cahena halted them yet again. Wulf felt his heart race, as always before action. There was light enough to show Bhakrann’s bearded face, tensely scowling. The Cahena gazed, as though she had ridden out to see the dawn. Behind her, a rider carried the red banner.
Time crawled. The sun’s rim crept dazzlingly into view. Wulf saw the pass, a broad, dark jowly mouth. Bhakrann spat.
“All right, where are they?” he demanded impatiently.
“Wait,” the Cahena said. “They want to be sure what they’ll find.”
“We’re in plain sight as they come out, this middle column anyway,” growled Bhakrann. “They’ll see us before we see them.”
“There they are,” said Wulf, and there they were.
Tiny figures appeared, a scatter of them first, then more. They looked like little mounted chessmen with fluttering robes. As they emerged, they moved off to left and right, with disciplined rapidity. Wulf hoped that the Imazighen could act as purposefully. More emerged, hundreds. They spread into a close-drawn line that looked to be half a mile long.
“Look, a standard,” said Wulf. It was green on a long staff.
“They’re going to charge,” said Bhakrann tensely.
“Let them,” said the Cahena, not at all tensely.
She poised a javelin as though she knew how to use it. Mallul, behind her, also had a javelin at the ready.
The distant riders had formed their close line. Wulf judged that there must be four hundred of them. From somewhere at their center came a faint, tremulous note of music.
“That’s a signal trumpet,” said Wulf.
“They’ll charge before they’re all out on this side,” said the Cahena. “Just as Wulf said. Mallul, ride back and get us ready to retire in formation.”
Still other Moslems came into view behind the line, forming groups. Another faraway trumpet blast, a concerted cry of voices. The line moved forward at a well-controlled walk. Wulf watched for tense moments. Above either side of the pass appeared dark dots, dismounted men up there, those who had scouted the way. They wouldn’t get into this fight.
The advancing riders quickened their pace to a trot.
“Fall back!” called out the Cahena, and the order was passed along. Wulf was now at the rear of the column. Riding, he watched the developing pursuit. Another cry beat up in the morning air, an exultant cry as of victory already won. He saw the wink of flourished blades. He urged his horse to a trot and looked left, then right. The other Imazighen columns were moving in.
“Our friends are charging!” he shouted his loudest. “Fall into line and counterattack!”
Wild cries, everywhere. The right and left columns of the Imazighen spread their fronts as they rode. From the approaching Moslems, a massed shout. Wulf heard it:
“Ululululallahu akhbar!”
Back pealed a many-voiced response:
“There is also the Cahena!”
Bhakrann cantered past. “Let’s get them!” he roared.
The far end of the central formation peeled out. Here they came, the savage Imazighen horsemen, into a moving line of their own. Wulf recognized gaunt Cham among them. They bent above tossing manes, their shields up, their javelins lifted. He wheeled his trusty horse and rode straight at the oncoming enemy.
A dozen leaps took him ahead of nearer companions. “Come on!” Wulf yelled back as he galloped. Behind him drummed the hoofs.
He must make them come on. Here was the time in a fight when you brought your men into it, hard and deadly. Then you were just another warrior yourself, trying to kill, to keep from being killed.
The Moslem horses flew at Wulf, bigger with every instant. To the front rushed a man on a bounding spotted horse with a tasseled bridle. A chief, anyway a champion, eager to be first to fight. First to fight could be first to fall, Wulf thought, like that enemy scout just days ago.
He tried to judge everything at once. This was a big man on a bigger horse than Wulf’s. Black turban, black beard, square shield, flashing blade. As they drove together, Wulf kneed his horse’s flank to veer right. They were close, close enough to strike.
Wulf felt the shock of a downsweeping blow on the meta
l rim of his shield, heard the ring of his own mighty slash on the other’s helmet. The Moslem crumpled and fell flat among scattered tufts of coarse, thistly grass as Wulf reined clear of him.
“Yallah —” someone screamed, and another foe rode at him.
Something purred past Wulf. A javelin smote the charging Moslem’s belly. Wulf saw the look of blank amazement on the shaggy face, saw the body fold in around the transfixing shaft, tumble to earth. He didn’t know who had sped that javelin, whom to thank. He rode after the countercharge.
It had scrambled around him and past. The air was rent with shouts. He spared a glance to see the rear elements of the enemy force swerving leftward to meet the rush of the Imazighen right column. Even as they swerved, the other column swooped from the opposite side. The enemy had no shields on their right arms to guard in that direction. Wulf saw a streaky flight of javelins, saw men go down in swirls of garments. Then more adversaries here, and he must fight them.
Horses danced around each other, men struck at each other. The Imazighen were at stab-distance with their javelins. They rode through enemy ranks that were ranks no more, that frayed, fell back to defend themselves on three sides. Wulf chopped a turbaned man to earth. He saw the Cahena, close at his left, her blue robe streaming like a banner.
A Moslem made his way toward her. She moved her whole lithe body to launch a javelin. The man took it in his chest and toppled backward as though yanked by a rope. A dozen Imazighen saw.
“There is also the Cahena!” they howled all together, like a fierce declaration of faith.
She trampled over her fallen enemy. Wulf drummed his horse’s flanks to speed up and join her. Another Moslem reined around in front of them. Wulf saw his thicket of beard, the iron helmet-spike above his turban. He hewed at Wulf, who caught the blade’s sweep with his shield and, at close quarters, dashed the shield against the Moslem’s body, then drove his own point home. It rattled, it must be rending its way through chain mail. The man floundered to earth as Wulf tore his weapon free and got ahead of the Cahena to speed toward the main jumble of battle.
Writhing, furious faces came at him, dropped away as he struck, were replaced by other faces. He saw the Cahena among a handful of her followers, facing a press of Moslems. He rode in, with thrust and cut before anyone knew he was there. The Cahena’s men plied javelins. Moments, and the enemies were cleared away.
Things had disorganized into swirls and knots of combatants, but everywhere the Moslems fell back to the mouth of the pass. Moslems attacked were never as deadly as Moslems attacking. Javelins stabbed and were wrenched clear. Wulf took time to exult.
“Hai!” blared Bhakrann’s voice from somewhere near at hand. “Don’t leave one of them alive!”
Others heard him, closed in savagely, striking, trampling. The Moslems fled, those who could still flee, who had not fallen before the murderous countercharge.
“Cahena!” a man bawled. “There is also the Cahena!”
Almost as the yell rang out, the fight was over. Into the pass scampered the defeated remnant. The field was strewn with bodies, slackly dead or writhing with the pain of wounds.
And from all sides, a great clamor of triumph. Wulf dabbed at his streaming face with his sleeve.
“Quick!” he thundered to those near him. “Hold everyone back from the pass — we’ve beaten them!”
* * *
VI
Half a dozen mounted men scurried to carry Wulf’s orders. They’d begun to obey him, do what he said. Dismounting, he wondered how long this fight had lasted. Longer than it seemed, probably. His horse breathed deeply. Sweat lathered its flanks. He told it that it was a good horse, had borne him well, had helped him to kill.
Chiefs scolded their warriors away from the pass. Everyone shouted, exulted. No living enemies could be seen, only bodies. Men were off their horses, picking up javelins or plundering.
“Don’t kill any wounded!” Wulf shouted. “There’s a good reason for letting them live!”
“See that order is obeyed, Mallul,” he heard the Cahena say.
Wulf raked off his helmet and let the wind stir his soggy hair. Another horse came near. The rider touched Wulf’s shoulder. The Cahena leaned above him, glowing with a smile, her eyes starlike under the backflung veil. Her beauty, so close to him, was like a physical impact.
“We won, Cahena,” said Wulf, catching triumph from her.
“You won, Wulf. It was your battle.”
“I killed only a few of all these,” he said.
“It was your battle,” she said again. “You planned it. We had to beat them, and we did. We couldn’t have failed.”
He put on his helmet again. “Something can always go wrong,” he said. “If that had happened —”
“If that had happened,” rumbled Bhakrann, riding to join them, “we’d have felt that you’d tricked us into their hands.”
Reining in, he gazed at fallen bodies, at riderless horses being caught. Wulf and he exchanged grins.
“If that had happened, several were ready to stick you full of javelins,” Bhakrann said.
Wulf wiped more sweat. “Whose thought was that?” he challenged.
“Mine,” said Bhakrann, grinning more broadly.
A warrior came cantering. He saluted with a bloody javelin.
“Cahena, we found their commander’s body,” he reported. “He’s wearing a gold-worked coat and a jewel-hilted sword. He had a treasure of gold and silver in his saddlebags.”
“Bhakrann!” cried the Cahena. “Ride and get those saddlebags, get any money they carried. Let the word go out, each man can take a weapon, but whatever food the enemy has is to be gathered and shared out to all of us. The money comes here to me.”
Bhakrann loped away with the messenger.
“Wulf,” said the Cahena above him, and he turned to her. “That was Bhakrann’s thought, Wulf,” she said gently. “About killing you. It wasn’t mine.”
“Then you trusted me.”
Down came her slim hands. He put up his own big ones and she took them and pressed them.
“Yes,” she said, more gently still. “I was told to trust you.”
At the pass, chieftains still shouted their men back from riding in. Several horsemen came to where Wulf and the Cahena waited, bringing bags and parcels of bread and dates and raisins, strips of salted meat, skin bags of water. The Cahena ordered these things heaped together, with a guard beside them. She was joined by Yaunis and Ketriazar and Daris, then by Bhakrann. They dismounted and conferred intently.
Wulf thrust his bloody sword into the earth and wiped it with a rag tom from his cloak. Sheathing it, he stood with an arm across his saddle, watching here and there.
“What’s to be done before we pull back?” the Cahena asked him.
“Get word through the pass for them to come get their wounded,” he said. “Let them have the burden of them.”
She studied him. “You think of the right things.”
A close-huddled knot of unhappy men approached on foot, under guard. One guard sprawled to kiss the Cahena’s shadow.
“These are prisoners, Cahena,” he said, rising. “Shall we kill them or keep them?”
She surveyed the prisoners. They were a score, sullen and beaten.
“Neither one,” she replied. “They can carry a message for us.”
One of the group shuffled his feet and tried to readjust his turban, that must have been pulled off to take his helmet. His striped gown was smeared with dirt, as though he had been rolled on the ground. From his belt dangled an empty scabbard.
“Are you an officer?” the Cahena inquired.
“I led our first squadron into destruction,” he replied dully, in passable Imazighen. “I’m Ayoub ibn Saud. I should have died.”
“But you’re alive. Go back and tell your general, the one who sacked Carthage and sent you here to be slaughtered.”
“Hassan ibn an-Numan,” supplied Wulf from beside her.
“
You call him the good old man,” said the Cahena. “If he’s a wise old man, he’ll pay attention to my words. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” said Ayoub ibn Saud wretchedly.
“Say that this is the word of the Cahena, who rules here. As I defeated your advance party today, I’ll defeat him if he dares come. Do you hear?”
“I hear.” Plainly, Ayoub ibn Saud did not like to hear.
“He can have that country around Carthage,” she pronounced. “But here, the land is ours.” She straightened her slim body. “There’s no room here for as much as the sole of his foot. If he’d been here today, we’d have killed him.”
Her eyes stabbed at the captive like weapons.
“Your friends can come and gather up their wounded and bury their dead. Now go, you and these others who are lucky to be alive.”
Ayoub ibn Saud gestured with a trembling hand. “Kill me now,” he said. “I’d rather be dead than say that to Hassan ibn an-Numan.”
A silent moment, while the Cahena studied him.
“Then I’ll give you a letter to carry to him,” she said at last. “Wulf, you write Arabic. Where can we get a pen and parchment?”
The things were found. Wulf spread the parchment against his saddle and wrote the message as the Cahena had spoken it, then rolled it up. The Cahena issued more orders.
“Give these prisoners one water bottle and some bread,” she directed. “Start them for the pass on foot. But give the message carrier a horse to make speed with.”
One of Yaunis’s men led up a brown horse. Ayoub ibn Saud mounted it. Wulf handed him the letter. He rode away, his shoulders sagging in his dirty striped gown.
“A javelin thrown from here would straighten his back for him,” said Bhakrann to Wulf.
“Ride with him, Bhakrann,” commanded the Cahena at once. “See that nobody stops those Moslems. Watch them all the way to the pass.”
Bhakrann trotted after Ayoub ibn Saud. His shoulders sagged, too, as though he disliked the assignment. The Cahena smiled, a touch of a smile. Her face was tawny golden in the sun.
“Did I do well to order that, Wulf?” she asked.
She looked at him, almost like a child waiting for praise.
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1986 Page 6
