Erak's Ransom (20 page)

Then Tug faltered.
It was the slightest break in rhythm and pace but Will felt it and knew it was all over. Sandstorm saw it too and lunged ahead of them, a metre ... two ... five ... the clods of dirt and sand flew up in Will's face, stinging the small area of skin exposed around his eyes, forcing him to grit his eyes almost shut.
There were three hundred metres to go and Sandstorm was fifteen metres ahead of them. Tears blurred Will's vision as he realised he had lost the race — and his horse.
He knew he could ask Tug for more. He could urge him to try to catch up. And he knew the little horse would respond until the effort killed him. Tug had already hit the wall. Sandstorm's pace had been too much. The early lead it had given him had been too great. He was twenty metres ahead of them.
And then he faltered.
Will saw the slight stagger in his step, the loss of rhythm, the slackening in the blinding speed. If only they'd waited, he thought bitterly. Tug had been too eager. But now the twenty-metre lead would be enough to carry the exhausted Sandstorm across the finish line ahead of his equally exhausted opponent.
He had barely had the thought when he felt Tug accelerate beneath him.
All the power, all the certainty, all the balance was back in his stride as he went to another level of performance, a level Will had never seen before. Tug stretched out and reeled in Sandstorm as if the taller horse were standing still. An amazed Will crouched low over Tug's neck, little more than a passenger. He realised that he had never had any idea of how fast Tug could run. It seemed there was no upper limit. Tug would simply run as fast as the situation demanded.
He realised that Tug had controlled the race, pretending to falter when he did to goad Sandstorm into a final spurt. The loss of stride and balance had been a feint and Sandstorm had swallowed the bait, accelerating away and exhausting his last reserves just thirty metres too soon. That was the gap between them when Tug rocketed over the finish line.
Will had already dismounted, and was hugging the little horse's neck when Sandstorm, now slowed to a canter, sweat-streaked and blowing, staggered wearily over the line behind him. And now the Bedullin did cheer for the foreign horse. Because they loved good horses and they realised they had just seen one of the best. And besides, since none of the bets were predicated on Tug's winning, nobody had lost any money to anyone else — although those who had bet on a thirty-metre margin were tempted to claim their winnings.
Umar took Sandstorm's rein when Hassan slid down from the saddle. Before the young man could speak, the
Aseikh
slapped him on the shoulder.
'You did your best,' he said. 'Good race.'
Others were echoing the sentiment when Hassan pushed his way through the crowd to offer his hand to Will. He shook his head admiringly.
'I was never going to win, was I?' he asked. 'You knew that.'
Will, grinning widely, shook his hand. 'Actually, I didn't know it,' he said. He jerked his head at Tug. 'He did.'

Halt estimated that there were approximately thirty men riding down the slope towards them. 'They're coming this side too,' Evanlyn said behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder showed a similar number of riders sweeping down behind them, fanning out to encircle the waiting Arridi troops. Halt faced front again. He and Gilan took a moment to read the approaching speed of the riders. Then they moved as one.
'Now,' said Halt quietly and they both drew and shot once, then twice, then three and four times, lowering the elevation each time to compensate for the rapidly reducing range. After four devastating two-arrow volleys, Evanlyn called out behind them:
'Fifty metres at the back!'
The two archers pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees and sent more arrows ripping into the charging Tualaghi behind them. Already, half a dozen riderless horses were running wildly with the group charging from the front, their riders lying in crumpled heaps in the sand behind them. Now another five joined them from the rear group before they drew so close to the shield wall that Halt and Gilan had to cease fire. Evanlyn marvelled at the highspeed accuracy of the two Rangers. Eleven enemy troopers out of the fight in a matter of seconds! That was an attrition rate no commander could hope to sustain for long.
Now it was the turn of the waiting men in the shield wall as the riders crashed into it.
But few of the horses made direct, head-on contact. The bristling fence of lances, their sharpened heads gleaming in the sun, forced most of them to swerve aside at the last moment, in spite of their riders' urging and whipping them to continue their head-long charge. The riders rapidly lost momentum and found themselves at a disadvantage as the Arridis' long lances thrust up at them. Most of them dismounted, leaving their horses with comrades detailed for the task, and joined the fight on foot. The battle became a heaving, shoving, hand-to-hand melee, with curved swords rising and falling, hacking and stabbing along the line. Men cried out in pain on both sides as they went down. Then cried out again as comrades and foes trod them down in their efforts to reach the enemy.
Horace scanned the shield wall, eyes slitted in concentration, looking for the first weak spot where the Tualaghi might break through. To the left front, an Arridi trooper slipped and was cut down by one of the Tualaghi, who instantly moved into the gap in the line, hacking wildly to left and right, widening the breach so that two of his comrades forced their way in and the line began to bulge inwards.
Horace drew in breath and turned to the four troopers with him. Before he could act, however, there was a bull-like roar from beside him and Svengal went forward at the run, the huge axe whirring in a circle above his head. Realising he'd only get in the Skandian's way if he joined him, Horace relaxed and gestured for the four men to stand fast as well.
Svengal hit the Tualaghi who had broken through like a battering ram. He smashed into them with his shield, and in spite of the pressure of the men behind them urging them forward, hurled them back, off balance and staggering. Then he began dropping them left and right with sweeping blows of his axe before they could recover.
Almost as soon as it had appeared, the breach in the wall was restored and the line closed up. Svengal returned to the point where Horace was waiting.
'Let me know any time you need a hand,' the young warrior said mildly. Svengal glared at him. There was a dangerous light in his eyes.
'Unlikely,' he said shortly. Then he was off again as the Tualaghi threatened to break through in another spot, slamming into them with shield and axe, forcing them back, trampling over one who had fallen under his charge. But this time, Horace had no time to watch. He was needed at another trouble spot and he led his four men in a wedge formation, running to the point where a group of Tualaghi had forced their way inside the wall. As Horace approached, one of them went down with an arrow in his chest. Then Horace and his men were on them, forcing them back.
There was no time for fancy swordsmanship. It was shove and cut and cut again and parry with the shield and hit and hit and hit! Horace's amazing dexterity stood him in good stead as he rained blows down on the Tualaghi with bewildering speed and force, forcing them back in growing panic.
It was a panic that spread through the attackers and they began to stream away from the shield wall — first in ones and twos, then in larger groups. They retrieved their horses, mounted and fled up the slope, pursued by triumphant jeers and catcalls from the defenders.
Gilan raised his bow and looked a question at Halt, who shook his head.
'Save your arrows,' he said. 'We'll need them later.'
'Can't say I like the idea of shooting men in the back,' Gilan agreed. He replaced the arrow in his quiver.
Selethen was approaching them. His white outer tunic was ripped and stained with blood and dirt. He was cleaning his sword blade as he came.
'That hurt them,' he said. 'You shot well,' he added, nodding in acknowledgement to the two Rangers. Their rapid-fire archery had disconcerted the attacking troops, he knew.
'I doubt they'll try another frontal attack,' Halt said and the
Wakir
nodded agreement. He gestured to the rim of the hill, where a group of three horsemen were watching, raining abuse on the retreating troops as they rode past them. At one stage, the tallest of the three leaned over in his saddle and struck at a retreating soldier with his riding whip.
'Unless I miss my guess, that's Yusal Makali up there. He's one of their more capable war leaders. He's cunning and cruel and he's no idiot. He's just seen what a frontal assault will cost him. Now we'll have to see what he tries next.'
'It's cost us as well,' Gilan said quietly, nodding to where the Arridi troops were tending to their wounded. There were too many of them for comfort. The Tualaghi may have lost men in the attack, but at least ten Arridi soldiers lay dead or wounded.
Svengal and Horace had moved to join them. Both were cleaning their weapons, as Selethen had done. Svengal's face was still red with battle rage, his eyes still wild in his head.
'What are they waiting for?' he said, his voice louder than the occasion demanded. 'Why don't they get on with it?'
Halt eyed him with concern. 'Calm down, Svengal,' he warned. He could see that the Skandian, frustrated by weeks of inaction, was close to the berserk rage that could strike a Skandian in the heat of battle. 'Odds are they won't attack again. You cost them too many casualties. Good work, too, Horace,' he added as an aside. He had seen the young man's devastating counterattack. Horace nodded. His sword was clean now and he resheathed it.
'What do you think they'll do next, Halt?' he asked.
Before he answered, the Ranger squinted up at the sun, now almost directly overhead and hammering down on them.
'I think they'll wait for heat and thirst to do their work for them,' he said. 'That's what I'd do in their place.'
He was right. The rest of the day passed with no further attack from the Tualaghi. Instead, the Araluans and their Arridi comrades sweltered under the blasting heat of the sun.
Their water supplies were low. Expecting to reach the Khor-Abash Wells sometime that day, Selethen had relaxed his normally strict water discipline. Now he estimated that with strict rationing, they had water for two more days.
The Tualaghi, of course, could send riders for all the water they needed. All they had to do was keep watch over the little camp in the middle of the depression. Wary of the accuracy shown by the two bowmen among the enemy, they kept below the ridge. But from time to time they could be seen briefly as the watch changed and sentries were relieved. Halt had no doubt that their low black tents were pitched just beyond the ridge.
As darkness fell, Selethen drew his men in, shortening the perimeter so that half his force could sleep. At least, that was the idea. An hour after nightfall, the quick, darting attacks began.
There were never more than a dozen Tualaghi involved. But they would rise shrieking from the desert, having crept within stone's throw of the camp. Then they would dash in on the shield wall, killing a man here, losing one of their own there, then withdrawing, carrying their wounded with them. They were nuisance attacks, pure and simple. But they kept the entire Arridi camp alert and watchful throughout the night, preventing them from resting.
Even though the attacks were feints, each one had to be countered as Halt and the others never knew when a genuine attack in force might come.
The result was a nervous, sleepless night for the Arridi troops, punctuated by brief moments of violence and sudden terror.
In the light of dawn, Halt turned bleary, red-rimmed eyes to the ridge line. He could see occasional movement there but nothing that presented him with a worthwhile target. The Arridi had lost four men killed in the first mass attack, and another two succumbed to their wounds overnight. There were several more wounded and most of these needed water — which was now in short supply. Selethen reluctantly told his medical orderlies to reduce the amount of water the wounded were receiving. It was a hard decision. Water was just about the only comfort they had out in the desert.
He was visiting the wounded when Halt called to him. A white flag was waving over the crest of the ridge.
'They want to parley,' Halt said.
The tall rider Selethen had identified as Yusal Makali rode down the slope, accompanied by a rider carrying the white flag. Selethen, with Halt carrying a similar flag, stepped through the line of Arridi warriors and walked to meet them.
'Yusal knows I'll respect the flag of truce. Yet he'd ignore it in a moment if it suited him,' Selethen said bitterly. 'I wish I could ask you to simply shoot him as he rides in.'
Halt shrugged. 'We could do it, of course, but that wouldn't solve the problem that we're trapped and outnumbered. And we might not get another chance to negotiate.'
They stopped half a dozen metres from the two mounted men. Yusal swung down from the saddle and advanced to meet them.
He was taller than the average Arridi or Tualaghi, Halt saw, standing a good head above Halt himself and some centimetres taller than Selethen. He wore white, flowing robes and a
kheffiyeh.
White was a sensible colour in the searing desert heat. But whereas Selethen's robes were all white, Yusal's were trimmed in dark blue. And while the Arridi would wind the ends of the headdress around his face for protection, the Tualaghi left his flowing free. But the lower half of his face was hidden behind a dark blue, mask-like veil. Halt had heard the Arridi refer to their enemies as 'the Veiled Ones, Forgotten of God'. Now he understood the reference.
Yusal's skin, what could be seen of it above the mask, was dark brown — burnt by years of desert sun and wind. Although the mask covered his lower face, it was obvious that the nose was prominent and curved, like a bird of prey's beak. His eyes were deep-set and hooded, under heavy brows and thick eyebrows. They were deep brown, almost black. They were the only feature Halt could make out yet he knew he would recognise Yusal again if he saw him without the veil. The eyes were cold, black and pitiless. There was no trace of mercy or warmth in them. They were a killer's eyes.
'So,
Wakir
Seley el'then,' Yusal said, 'why are you following me?'
The voice was muffled slightly by the veil. But it was harsh and unfriendly, like the eyes. So much for pleasantries, Halt thought.
Selethen was equally to the point. 'You killed twenty of my men. And you have a prisoner with you. We want him.'
Yusal shrugged. The movement was a contemptuous one. 'Come and take him then,' he challenged. There was a moment of silence. Then he added, 'You're in a bad position, Seley el'then. You're surrounded. You're outnumbered and your water's running short.'
The last. statement was a guess, of course. Yusal had no idea how little water they had and Selethen wasn't about to inform him.
'We have plenty of water,' he said evenly and again, Yusal shrugged. Selethen's statements meant little to him.
'If you say so. The fact is, you will run out eventually, while I can send for all the water I need. I can afford to wait while thirst and heat starts to kill your men. You can't.'
He glanced back up the slope that surrounded them on all sides.
'You can attack us if you like. But it's uphill and we outnumber you four to one. There's only one way such an attack will end.'
'We might surprise you,' Halt said and the dark, hooded eyes swung to him, studying him, boring into him. Halt realised the unwavering stare and the silence that accompanied it were intended to unnerve him. He raised one eyebrow in a bored fashion.
'You're one of the archers, aren't you?' Yusal said. 'But in spite of your marksmanship, once the battle gets to close quarters, numbers will tell.'.
'You requested this parley, Yasal,' Selethen said. 'Was it merely to tell us how hopeless our position is? Or did you have something worthwhile to say?' He allowed the same tone of contempt that the Tualaghi had used to creep into his words.
Yusal looked back at him.
'Surrender,' he said simply and Selethen responded with a short bark of laughter.
'And have you kill us out of hand?' he asked.
The Tualaghi leader shook his head. 'You're worth money to me, Selethen. I can ask a large ransom for you. I'd be mad to kill you. And I'm sure there are people who will pay for the foreigners with you as well. I've kept the other Skandian alive for that very reason. Why would I do differently with you?'
Selethen hesitated. The Tualaghi were motivated by greed above all else and he was inclined to believe Yusal. As he thought about it, the Tualaghi leader voiced the alternative.
'Or stay here and die of thirst. It's only a matter of time. When you're weaker, we'll have no problem walking in and taking the weapons from your hands. And if you make me wait, I might not be so charitable.'
He turned away, as if disinterested, no matter which course Selethen might choose. The
Wakir
took Halt's sleeve and led him a few paces away.
'This concerns your people as well. What do you say?' he asked in a low voice. Halt looked at the tall figure standing a few metres away, his back to them.
'Do you believe him?' he asked and Selethen nodded, a fractional movement of his head.
'A Tualaghi will do anything for money,' he said. 'At least this way we'll have a chance. As he says, if we wait, we'll grow progressively weaker until we have to give in anyway.'