Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1986 (23 page)

“Who’s that?” he called softly, and walked toward
the shape. Tall, ungainly — he had seen it before, with its horns that curved
like a dark crescent moon.

“Khro?” he challenged, and closed in, hand on his
sword. The shape drew away, lost itself in the night. At least Wulf wasn’t
being chosen. But many would be killed tomorrow. Wulf stared after Khro. Not
all magic was gone from the land. Here prowled the most baleful magic of all,
the chooser of the dead.

He went back to where he had left his cloak and
saddle. He sat down and shivered, from a chill that was not of the night air.
He stretched out and put his drawn sword beside him. Again he slept.

He woke in the first gray dawn. Bhakrann was up,
too, and Daris and Ketriazar. They and the subchiefs got the men on their feet
to gobble a cold breakfast and saddle up. The host formed on Wulf’s orders of
the day before and moved eastward. Bhakrann and a wide scattering of scouts
pulled out far in front. Then came a line of squadrons in close order, and
behind that the others in columns.

They traveled over a land of dry grass and clumps
of thirsty trees.
Here and there showed cindery remains of
habitations, destroyed by the Cahena’s orders.
Bhakrann led them along a
succession of valleys chained with hills far to the east. No signs of an enemy,
though scouts gazed into the distance. Again Bhakrann found pools of water,
somewhat stagnant, for the
noon
halt. The
sun was hot in the sky. Wulf mopped his face and wrung out his damp beard.

“All right, where are they?” Ketriazar prodded.
“My men want action.”

“They’ll get it, sometime this afternoon,” said
Bhakrann.

They pressed on, under the glower of the sun. The
men pulled up their hoods against its rays. Wulf rode here and there, studying
the horses, glad that they bore up well. Bhakrann moved ahead to talk with
scouts who rode in, then out again. At midafternoon he joined Wulf and pointed
to a hilltop where a horseman showed.

“Enemy in sight,” Bhakrann said.

The distant rider held a javelin crosswise above
his head in both hands. Peering, Wulf saw the javelin raised to arm’s length,
then drawn down and raised again and again.

“Enemy in sight,” Wulf agreed,
“and in large numbers.”

Susi brought up the spare horse with Wulf’s armor.
Wulf wriggled into his mail jacket and set his helmet on his head. He slid his
left arm into the loops of his shield. Then he beckoned to Daris.

“Hold our main body where it is,” Wulf said. “Come
on, Bhakrann, let’s ride up there.”

They loped to where the signaler waited. A jumble
of big rocks crowned the ridge. They dismounted and peered past the rocks.

On a great expanse of plain beyond, the whole
world seemed flooded with riders. In close formations they moved purposefully
southeast. Wulf had never seen such a great armed gathering.

“Do you know where they are now?” Bhakrann asked
him. “They’re moving toward that height where the Cahena is.”

“And we’re past their flank, we can get behind it,
and they don’t know it,” Wulf exulted fiercely. “Signal for our main body to
come.”

Bhakrann gesticulated. Men of the forward elements
turned in their saddle to repeat his signal. The squadrons advanced in
formation.

“Ride back there, Bhakrann,” directed Wulf. “Let
them be at a trot when they reach here, and when they cross this ridge,
charge.”

“Where will you be?” demanded Bhakrann.

“Right here.
I’ll lead that charge in person.”

They hurried up behind Wulf, and he kicked his
horse’s sides and galloped ahead. Hoofs drummed like thunder. A yell went up:

“There is also the Cahena!”

They howled her name, they believed in her. Wulf’s
sword swept from its sheath, he laid it flat on his thigh. Up there ahead,
enemy riders drew rein, looked uncomprehendingly on a rush of men they hadn’t
suspected. Almost at once, Wulf was there.

“I am Wulf the Saxon!” he brayed his name, and cut
a man out of the saddle. He drove into the press of Moslems. He heard a mighty
shock of sound, horses driving against horses. Another enemy slashed at him. He
blocked the blow with his shield and drove his point into a mailed chest.
“Ahi!”
he heard a voice he knew. Bhakrann was at his work, with the sword once borne
by Okba. All around Wulf, everywhere, the fight was joined.

They’re five to one against us, he thought grimly.
Each of us has to kill five. He himself had accounted for two. A Moslem rode
against him. Their horses jammed flanks. The Moslem’s blade rang deafeningly on
his helmet, glanced away, and Wulf slashed hard at the neck and sent the man
sprawling from the saddle.
Three now.
He sought
another.

He’d live through this. Khro had chosen men to
die, but not Wulf. Again he slashed, parried, thrust. Bhakrann rode past,
skillfully transfixing an enemy. Just here, the Moslems were in disorder. The
Imazighen were killing them, driving them into a great disorganized jumble.

“Allahu akhbar!”
That was an officer on a gray horse, with flashing gold
worked into his cloak. He tried to rally his men, he rushed at Wulf. Then,
abruptly, he reined away.

“It’s Shaitan!” he shrieked.
“The
devil!”

He was afraid. Wulf rode for him. Others came
between, barred the way. Wulf’s own men were there, too, stabbing with
javelins. Wulf headed into the thick of the churning press.

They faltered before the Imazighen attack. The
Moslems had gone into a disorganized muddle, retreated, trying to get away.
They hadn’t expected this, didn’t like it. Wulf’s Imazighen shoved at them,
holding a line of sorts. Suddenly, almost in a moment it seemed, the Moslems
scuttled far away, leaving rumpled bodies strewn on the dry grass. To Wulf’s either
hand, the attackers paused as though by mutual consent.

Wulf drew a deep breath. He was sweating; he had
fought hard. He rode along his line, shouting praises, encouragements. Then
somebody yelled and pointed. The Moslems had rallied, were countercharging in a
close line of their own.

“Javelins, close range!” thundered Wulf.

Bhakrann called out the same order. It was
repeated by subchiefs. The men sat their horses, poised their javelins. They
grinned in relish, they knew their own skill. Just now they felt like winners.
They had killed and driven their enemies. Wulf hoped to win. Something must be
done and he, Wulf, must do it.

The enemy came at a trot, rending the air with war
cries.
“Allahu akhbar!”
A storm of javelins
soared at them. Horses and men went down. Back came the yell of the Imazighen:

“There is also the Cahena!”

More javelins flew. More Moslems fell. The
Imazighen line rushed forward, as though on an order Wulf had not given. Almost
at once, the two forces were together, stabbing, hewing.

Again Wulf chopped a man out of his saddle. They
seemed to come at him and go down. Another was there, but Wulf’s bigger horse
struck the smaller, made it stumble, go sprawling. Beyond, yet another foe
wheeled and dashed to the rear.

“I am Wulf the Saxon!” Wulf yelled his name
loudly. He saw his men striking with swords, thrusting with javelins. Some of
them fell, but Moslems fell, too. Again he thought a Moslem attacked is less
terrible than a Moslem attacking.

Almost as he thought that, the Moslems had fallen
back for more than a hundred yards. He flourished his sword high and rode to
the front, and his warriors came with him.

“There is also the Cahena!” they bellowed.

Wulf reined his horse to let the squadrons go past
him. He had been wrong to fight mindlessly, like a common warrior. He was
supposed to be the general here. He shouted and beckoned to half a dozen
riders, and they came.

“You’ll be my couriers, carry my orders,” he said.
“You on the red horse, go there to the left. Tell whatever subchief you find to
hold his men and let fresh fighters pass him. Say to gather up javelins and
throw them again.”

The man hurried with the message. Wulf rode behind
the line where fighting had started again. He rejoiced grimly that the
Imazighen had the better of it, that the Moslems faltered back from them.
Ketriazar hurried to him.

“We’re winning!”
exulted
Ketriazar. “We’ve killed some of their leaders, and leaderless men are lost.
Look to the far right!”

Off there, the Imazighen seemed to be encircling a
flank of the Moslems.

“Here!” Wulf called to a courier. “Ride there
fast. Tell our chiefs to advance carefully, look out for a counterattack!”

He did well to order that. A cloud of enemy came
cantering back, somewhat organized. It was met with a murderous flight of javelins,
and then there was
more fierce
hand-to-hand fighting.

Wulf and Ketriazar rode toward the thick of the
encounter, with a score of others. Bhakrann was there before them, was into it,
yelling like a fiend. Wulf saw him hurl a javelin and fetch down an enemy, then
hew with a sword. Wulf struck and slashed. He was panting, his arm and shoulder
felt tired. His horse was splashed with the blood Wulf had drawn — how many had
he killed? His ears rang, he struggled, but he did not glory in the fighting he
did so well. He hated it.

It went like that — clashes, lulls, clashes again.
Wulf ordered up fresh squadrons and more fresh squadrons, and the Moslems
seemed never to be ready.
Behind his own line, Wulf saw that
his Imazighen were fiercer, deadlier.
Their javelins sang to the mark,
felling horses and riders. At close quarters, they won flurried duels more
often than the Moslems.
So many were dying.
Vulgar
deaths, unknown to fame — Homer had said that, somewhere in his
Iliad.
And always shattering noise.
Buffets of horses in
contact, clashes of metal, the oaths and shouts of warriors — these shook the
sky that was getting to be an evening sky. How long had they fought?

The Moslem host still blackened the land. Wulf had
hurt them on the flank, had nibbled the flank away, but there were still
overwhelming numbers of them who had not yet been in battle. Suddenly he called
for his couriers to ride everywhere and command a withdrawal. He himself rode
away toward the right, and met Ketriazar.

“Our men don’t want to pull away,” said Ketriazar.
“We’ve fought them hard, fought them well,
killed
more
of them than they’ve killed of us.”

“Where’s Daris?” asked Wulf, reining around to
watch the retirement he had ordered.

“Killed,” snapped Ketriazar.

Bhakrann came to them. “Those Moslems aren’t
pressing our retreat,” he shouted. “We’ve been too harsh for them. What now,
Wulf?”

“Get clear away, head back to the north of
Thrysdus,” said Wulf. “Join our friends there if we can find them.”

The three trotted their horses together. Their
warriors had changed their line of battle into a heavy column. They moved to
the west, where the sun had dropped low. That fight had gone on for hours. Wulf
looked at the horses of the column, and was glad that most of them seemed in
good shape. Horses had endurance. He had known horses to travel all day and
part of the night without collapsing.

The loud din of battle had died away. There were
only murmurs, chorused hoofbeats. The throngs of the Moslems were there, not
pressing in great numbers. But three of them rode out, glittering men on richly
decked horses, waving their curved blades and shouting.

“Champions,” said Wulf. “They’re challenging,
daring any of us to come out for single combat.”

“Why keep them waiting?” said Bhakrann, and turned
his mount away from the Imazighen column.

“Come on, Ketriazar,” called Wulf, and also rode
forward. Opposite him, a Moslem in a brightly striped cloak roared at him and
waved his sword.

“I am Wulf the Saxon!” Wulf yelled back, and drove
in close. Their shields rang together. Wulf parried the other’s scimitar and
sliced at the turban-bound headpiece. The man went tumbling to the ground and
slumped on hands and knees. Wulf caught the reins of the riderless horse and
looked down to where the Moslem staggered erect. He had dropped his weapon. He
glared up at Wulf.

“Oh, I’m not going to kill you,” Wulf said to him,
“but I’ll keep your horse. It looks like a good one.”

He cantered back to his own men. They hailed him
with hoarse applause. Bhakrann came back, too, his sword dripping red.

“I killed my man,” he told Wulf. “I knew him — he
was one of those officers we held for ransom. How did you fare?”

“I spared my man’s life.”

“Spared his life?” cried Bhakrann. “Why?”

“I just didn’t feel like killing him. But this
horse of his is a fine one, worth taking.”

Wulf dismounted from his own weary animal and
vaulted aboard the captured one. It was nervous, but he stroked its neck and
spoke to it in Arabic and it subsided. Ketriazar, too, was back, wiping his
blade on the mane of his steed. Over opposite the close-drawn Imazighen
formation, the Moslems hung back. The fate of their champions had daunted them.
Wulf sent along orders for his own squadrons to move clear of the vast enemy
horde, to head westward and seek for the warriors who had stayed with the
Cahena.

They headed for the red blotch of the sinking sun.
Wulf took time to check on himself. He had a slight wound on the cheek; he did
not remember getting it. He was thirsty and drank from a leather flask,
swirling the water in his hot mouth. He was tired, too. His big chest heaved,
his face dripped sweat,
his
sword arm ached. He sent
more orders for a complete detachment from the enemy, for seeking out their
friends and joining them, perhaps to share in more fighting.

Twilight was upon the land. The great clutter of
Moslems was not easy to see anymore. Wulf and Ketriazar and Bhakrann rode along
the column, speaking to wounded men, asking about the resolutely enduring
horses. Bhakrann’s scouts searched in front of the march, leading toward where
the Cahena must have made her stand.

Night came, and half a moon gave them some light
on their way. Wulf found bread and figs to eat. Ketriazar came to ride at his
left.

“How do you think we fought?” Ketriazar asked.

“Pretty well, but we didn’t do what we came to
do,” Wulf said. “There weren’t enough of us; it was five to one against us. I
was mistaken in what I tried.”

“We had to do something,” argued Ketriazar. “If
every man of us was a man like you, we’d have chewed them up and spit them
out.”

“Since we didn’t really win, we lost,” said Wulf.
“And I mourn for our friends who died in that useless fight.”

“I mourn Daris. I wonder who’ll be chief of his
Nefussa.”

They rode into the night. At last Wulf sent word
along for a halt beside some ponds. They rested for an hour, then back in the
saddle, marching on toward the west. The half of the moon climbed. The hours
passed. It became the shadowed early morning.

From the head of column rose a din of voices. Wulf
trotted his horse there. He could hear Bhakrann yelling at the men.

“No, let him alone, he’s one of us,” Bhakrann was
shouting. “He was left back here with the Cahena.
Wulf, look
who’s here — Zeoui!”

Zeoui it was, on the weariest of horses. His mail
shirt was chopped and blood-spattered. He saluted Wulf listlessly.

“We got beaten,” he said in a wretched voice.

“I suppose so,” said Wulf, his own voice unhappy.
“That army of theirs reached for miles and miles. While we fought them on one
flank, the other flank reached you and fought you. What exactly happened?”

Zeoui made a helpless gesture. “They charged us
and charged over us. Those of us who didn’t run out of there are lying dead on
the field.”

“The Cahena —” Bhakrann started to say.

“She got away. We made her run. Somebody grabbed
her bridle and hurried her off. And Yaunis got killed. He charged into the
thick of them to give the Cahena a chance.”

“How many did your party lose?” Wulf asked.

“I can’t say how many.
A lot.
The Moslems gobbled us. Those poor archers — just boys, most of them — they did
some killing, but they were wiped out.”

Wulf felt a chill. “Daphne?” he asked.

“They killed her, and her father, Jonas.”

Wulf sank his head. She was dead. Daphne was dead,
Daphne who had loved him so much, and he had never quite loved her.
Dead.
She was better off dead than captured by those
invaders.