by Peter Grant
Taghri's Prize
Peter Grant
Sedgefield Press
Copyright © 2019 by Peter Grant. All rights reserved.
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Cover by Beaulistic Book Services
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This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise – without prior written permission of the author and publisher, except as provided by copyright law in the United States of America.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
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This book is dedicated to the memory of Alan Garner, Ursula K. Le Guin, C. S. Lewis, George MacDonald and J. R. R. Tolkien, whose works of fantasy kept a young boy enthralled as he grew up, until he now finds himself writing (albeit not nearly as well as they) in the same genre.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Author’s Note
About the Author
Books by Peter Grant
1
The noonday sun hung directly overhead, its heat seeming to sear through the cotton ghutra over his helmet, turning the metal into an instrument of torture that threatened to boil his brain. Taghri cursed softly to himself. The traders’ caravan had plodded its way through heat like this for the past week. It would reach the city tonight. It couldn’t be soon enough for him.
He rose in his stirrups to peer ahead. The point escort was cresting a hill, followed by several dozen camels carrying heavy pack saddles. He twisted around to look behind him, where a score of heavily laden carts drawn by pairs of oxen labored up the rise, the animals’ chests heaving with their exertions, the shrill cries and prodding goads of the drovers urging them onward. They’d better be careful, he thought to himself. If they push them too hard, the oxen will drop from heat exhaustion before we reach the city. They can’t afford to have the carts stuck outside the walls all night. This close to the city, at this time of year, there’ll be bandits and brigands aplenty.
The vehicles were followed by the second half of the escort, another dozen men on horseback. He frowned. The guards were good enough fighters as individuals, but their tactics were poor. They should have fewer people at the head and tail, and a few guards spaced out along the length of the caravan, to cover against surprise attacks from the bushes that lined the road. He was the only armed man in the middle of the convoy, and he was only here because he didn’t want to eat the carts’ dust all the way to Alconteral.
He glanced at the pack horse plodding obediently behind his mount. It was lightly loaded, so it was enduring the heat better than the oxen. Even so, he hoped the caravan would halt soon to water the animals. They could use it, and so could he.
His musings were interrupted by faint shouts and noises at the head of the caravan. He jerked upright in his saddle, peering forward as the all-too-familiar clash of metal against metal was added to the hubbub. Raiders!
He reined his horse around, tugging on the lead rope, and tied his pack horse to the rear of the nearest cart. He shouted to the nervous drover, “Stay with the cart, and let my pack horse follow it! I’m going to help!”
He glanced over his shoulder. The rear escorts had drawn their weapons, but were making no move to join their comrades at the front of the caravan – a sign that someone there knew his business. One of the oldest tricks in the book was to cause a distraction to draw all the defenders away from their stations, then attack what they’d abandoned.
As he galloped up the verge of the road, passing the laden camels, the noise grew louder. He reached down and drew the long-barreled pedrenyal from its saddle holster, cocking the lock and glancing down to make sure the flint was firmly seated.
As he crested the hill, a confused whirling dust-cloud filled with fighting men opened to his gaze. Twenty to thirty raiders on foot were trying to close with half that number of mounted caravan guards and pull them off their horses. The riders were slashing left and right, trying to keep the attackers at a distance, but they couldn’t defend both sides of their bodies at once, and they weren’t covering each other. Even as he watched, a guard was dragged bodily from his saddle. A curved blade slashed across his throat as he hit the ground, and blood spouted. The bodies of two of his comrades already lay motionless in the dust. One of them was the escort commander, which explained the disorganization among the defenders.
Taghri raised his voice in a monstrous bellow. “GUARDS! TO ME! Fall back and form on me!”
As he spoke, he aimed at one of the raiders, a young man who was shouting and gesturing to his comrades, clearly giving orders. He was dressed and armed better than they were, too, with a full breastplate and helmet. That won’t help you against this piece, Taghri thought grimly as he pressed the trigger. With a throaty bellow, the long barrel spat smoke and flame, and a heavy ball spun through the air to slam into and through the raider’s breastplate. His face took on a momentary expression of agony as he staggered in his tracks, then he slumped to the ground.
A wail of dismay rose from the other raiders, even as the guards fell back and formed a line on either side of Taghri. The attackers wavered for a moment, eyes fixed on the fallen man as if in despair. He gave them no time to regroup. He re-holstered the pedrenyal as the last men joined him, then drew his scimitar. “With me, CHARGE!”
The line sprang forward. Now that they had someone giving orders, who clearly knew what he was about, the guards were much steadier. They slammed into the nearest raiders, knocking some of them off their feet, slashing at the heads and shoulders of those who tried to stand their ground. Another wavering cry rose from the attackers, then they turned as one and ran for the bushes. Some of the guards made as if to follow them, but one of their number raised his voice. “Stand! Stand! Don’t go after them! We must stay with the caravan!”
Taghri turned to look at him, his face incredulous. “Why, in the name of all the gods?”
“We’re paid to guard the merchants’ goods, not go charging off after bandits!” the other shouted back. “We can’t guard against more of those scum if we’re chasing this group!”
“There can’t be more of them! Look, you can see their galley on the beach, half a parasang away!” He pointed. “A small ship like that can’t have more than a hundred slaves, chained to the oars, and thirty or so fighting men – and we’ve killed nine of them here!” He gestured to the bodies on the ground, some still moving. “We can get there faster on horseback than they can on foot, and cut the rest off!”
“No! That’s not our job!”
“Then you do your job, and I’ll go after them!” he shouted back. He sheathed his scimitar, heedless of the blood on its blade, then spurred his horse into the bushes.
He stayed away from the path the raiders had taken as he guided his steed around trees and through brush towards the ship. He heard scattered shouts from behind him, and some curses from the raiders as they spot
ted him, but he ignored them all as he drove his horse mercilessly. He had to get as far ahead of the raiders as possible, to give himself time to deal with any of them guarding the ship, before the others arrived.
His horse burst out of the bushes and hit the soft sand of the beach, staggering as it strove to keep its balance. The bow of the ship, grounded on the sand, was very close now. Three raiders stood waiting next to it. They shouted with anger as they saw him. Two drew short, stubby swords, while the third reached for an arrow from a quiver at his side and put it to his bowstring.
Mustn’t give them time to get organized! Taghri thought as he spurred his horse towards them. He pulled off the cord wound around his ghutrah, holding the cloth over the steel helmet, and shook it loose with his right hand as he reached into his waist pouch with his left, controlling the horse with his knees. He pulled a smooth, round stone from the pouch as the archer launched his first arrow. It soared into the air, then swooped down, driving deep into his horse’s neck. The animal screamed in pain, stumbling. Taghri almost lost his balance, and was forced to grab at the saddle with one hand. He savagely spurred the horse onward.
As the archer withdrew a second arrow from the quiver, Taghri dropped the stone into the pocket prepared for it in the middle of the cord, then swung the sling in a figure-eight pattern across and over his shoulders, to gain the maximum energy. A longer sling would have produced greater power and range, but couldn’t be used from the saddle for fear of hitting the horse. Before the bowman could shoot again, he launched the stone with all his strength. It flew straight and true. He was close enough by now to hear the crack of breaking bone as it slammed into the archer’s ribs. The bowman cried out in agony, dropping his weapon and falling to his knees as he clutched at the point of impact. His two comrades stared at him with disbelieving eyes.
Fools! he sneered mentally as he covered the last few paces. He slid from the saddle of the staggering horse, dropping the sling and drawing his scimitar once more. The first raider parried awkwardly, but Taghri’s expert sideways cut, driven with the full power of his muscular body and all his hard-won experience, sliced into his right arm. He felt the jolt as his blade struck bone, and withdrew it with a sliding, carving motion, almost severing the limb. His victim screamed and dropped his cutlass, falling to the sand, clutching his arm as blood fountained.
The last opponent flinched bodily as he heard the shout of agony, and slashed wildly at the looming figure; but he was no swordsman. Taghri parried his clumsy blow contemptuously, then swung his scimitar in an overhand blow that came down on the top of his opponent’s head and cleaved it in half, right down to the chin. The man dropped without a sound.
Ignoring the men on the sand and his horse staggering beyond them, blood pouring down its neck from the arrow wound, he charged up the gangplank. He rose above the bulwarks between the two bow cannon. A hundred-odd naked slaves, chained two to an oar on either side of a central walkway, looked up at him, desperation, fear and confusion in their eyes.
“WHERE ARE THE KEYS TO YOUR CHAINS?” Taghri bellowed.
A confused babble of voices answered him. One of the rowers, halfway down the ship, stood and shouted, “SHUT UP!” As the rest heeded his command, he called, “In the captain’s cabin, sir!”
Taghri began to run down the walkway. “Who’s the captain, and who are you?”
“He’s Sidi, youngest son of Abu Reis. He took most of his crew to raid a caravan. Most of us are from Khaiman. Abu Reis captured us in a slave raid last year.”
Taghri paused by the speaker. “We beat off the attack. I’m going to look for the keys. Can you row this ship backwards, away from the beach, so the surviving raiders can’t re-board her?”
“Oh, shaitan, yes!” The slave looked around at his comrades in chains. “There’s no drummer, so take your time from me! Oars ready!” The slaves, faces suddenly shining with eagerness, raised the blades out of the water. “Back water! Together! In! Out! In! Out! Come on, dig deep, even if your blades hit the sand! Push her back!”
Taghri felt the ship beginning to stir, grating on the sand, as he thrust open a door at the rear of the walkway, beneath the raised poop deck, and hurried inside. No-one was visible at first glance. A richly furnished cabin right at the stern was obviously the captain’s. He threw papers, cushions and hangings around as he ransacked it, looking for a keyring, cursing the gloom.
Against one bulkhead was a small trunk, made of wood reinforced with iron straps. He tried to pick it up, but it was bolted to the floor and would not move. However, as he touched it, his hands suddenly tingled. He let go for a moment, staring down in astonishment. What the…? He tried again, only to feel the same tingling. Frustrated, he kicked the trunk, only to bruise his toes. Hopping on one foot, he let out a blistering oath as he staggered back – and saw a large keyring hanging from a nail in the bulkhead, at waist height above the trunk.
He grabbed it and hurried back outside. The slaves were secured by four long chains, running from stern to bow, passing through ankle irons on every rower. He opened the first padlock, and the rower seated above it yelled to his compatriot in the bows, “Pull the chain out!” The end of the chain rattled its way forward, freeing every rower as it passed.
Taghri tossed the keys to the newly-freed rower. “Unlock the others, quickly! Can those bastards swim?” He nodded towards the shore.
“I don’t think so. I’ve never seen them do it, anyway.” He was already opening the padlock that secured a second chain.
“Good – and we’re already far enough away from the shore that they won’t be able to wade out to us.”
He hurriedly checked the other compartments beneath the poop. All were empty except one, a small chamber next to the captain’s cabin. To his utter astonishment, it held a half-naked woman, young and attractive, her hands chained to a ring bolt in the bulkhead. She cursed him as he entered.
“You spawn of shaitan! Have you come to torment me also?”
Half-grinning, he held up both hands. “No, I haven’t. Were you Sidi’s captive?”
“Yes, curse his name to all eternity! Wait – you said ‘were’. Is he dead?” Wild hope dawned in her eyes.
“I hope so. At any rate, he’s still on land, and we’ve pushed back into the water. I’ve just captured this ship, and I’m releasing the slave rowers. As soon as I can get the keys from them, I’ll come back here and release you, too. Who are you? Are you his concubine?”
She flushed scarlet, trying to cover her exposed breasts with her arms. “No! My father is Dregat, ruler of Kalba. I’m his oldest daughter, Gulbahar. Sidi Reis captured my ship two weeks ago. He planned to ransom me to my father.”
“That’s a lovely name. Wait here.”
She sniffed. “I can hardly go anywhere else, can I? Bring back some clothes with you, so I may dress myself!”
He grinned as he turned away, closing the door behind him. The girl had spirit.
On deck, the self-appointed leader of the slaves had brought the ship to a halt, a hundred yards or so off the beach. He had run to the bows, where he was making very rude gestures at the raiders, who were waving their fists and cursing at the ship from the shore. Alongside him, a couple of his oar-mates were lifting their loincloths and exposing their buttocks to their former captors.
Laughing, Taghri retrieved the keys, went back into the cabin, and unlocked Gulbahar’s fetters.
“Come with me. I’ll put you in the captain’s cabin for now. Find something with which to cover yourself. Don’t touch anything else in there. It’s all mine now, by right of conquest.”
Her eyes flashed. “Does that apply to me, too?”
“Don’t be silly! You’re free now, like all the other slaves aboard this ship. I’ll take you to Alconteral, just down the coast, and you can go home from there.”
He hurried back on deck, and called the crew’s spokesman to come to him. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Elhac. I was the skipper of a merchant ba
ghlah from Khaiman. Abu Reis captured my ship during a raid on the harbor last year. All my surviving crew are – were slaves aboard this galley, too.”
“Listen, I’m no sailor. I can’t skipper this ship, and I can’t go back ashore on my own. There are too many of the raiders there.” He paused to utter a sulphurous oath as he saw his horse stagger and fall to its knees. “Damn them! He was a fine steed. That arrow’s killed him, though. He’s bleeding to death. I’ve lost all I had on him, too, including my pedrenyal.” He gestured to one of the raiders, who was holding the long-barreled handgun while another rooted through his saddlebags to find powder and shot to reload it.
He turned to face the slaves, more than half of whom were now free, and raised his voice. “Listen to me, all of you! I captured this galley in combat, so she’s my prize of war, but I’ll make a deal with you. Row her to Alconteral, a little further down the coast. Once there, I’ll give you the ship and everything aboard her, save only the captain’s cabin. Everything in that is mine. You can sell the ship and the rest of her contents, which will give all of you enough money to buy passage back to your home ports. Do we have a bargain?”
A great, roaring cheer came from the freed slaves. He grinned. It seemed they approved – and he’d seen enough while ransacking the captain’s cabin to know he was now a relatively wealthy man.
“Right. Take your places at the oars. You,” gesturing to El-hac, “take command. Get us farther away from the beach before they figure out how to reload my gun. Get clear of the rocks lining the coast, then steer that way.” He pointed. “We’ll reach Alconteral in about two hours.”
