Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1986 (25 page)

“Wulf?” she whispered. “We’re alone here. The
others went away when I sent them.”

“Djalout didn’t go. He’s still sitting, just
outside.”

“Go see why he’s waiting. Then come back.”

Wulf went. Djalout sat where he had sat, his head
on his arms. Wulf stooped above him, spoke his name. Djalout did not stir. Wulf
put his hand on Djalout’s shoulder, then took it away and turned back to where
the Cahena waited, expectantly waited, at the door of her shelter.

“Tell him to go,” she said.

“Djalout won’t be going,” Wulf told her. “Djalout
has died.”

Wulf found Bhakrann, waked him,
led
him to where Djalout sat so motionlessly. They straightened Djalout out to lie
on his back and folded his arms across his chest. Then they dug a shallow grave
with their daggers. The Cahena stood and watched. They lowered Djalout into the
hole and spread his old cloak over him and scooped back the earth. From here
and there they fetched big rocks and set them like a pavement over the grave,
to discourage beasts of prey.

“Something ought to be said for him,” said
Bhakrann.
“A prayer, maybe.”

“I’ve forgotten all the prayers I used to know,”
said Wulf, sheathing his dagger.

“I’m afraid that I have, too,” confessed Bhakrann.

The Cahena came to join them beside the grave.
“Let me speak,” she said. She gazed up into the night. Her face looked
amber-brown.

“Our friend has died,” she said slowly. “He knew
that he was going to die. He wasn’t afraid. He was able to die in peace, not in
battle.”

“Yes,” said Bhakrann. Wulf could barely hear him.

“He was good,” said the Cahena. “He was faithful.
He was wise — much wisdom has died with him. Peace to him as he rests.”

Bhakrann and Wulf sat down and looked at the array
of stones. The Cahena sat with them. Wulf gazed off to where a shadow
moved,
a tall shadow. Did it have horns? It faded away.

Wulf sat with his knees drawn up, his arms crossed
upon them. He was bitterly tired. At last he lowered his face upon his arms.
That was how Djalout had sat at the last. Wulf slept.

He woke in the dark. The stars told him it would
be two hours before sunrise, there in the east from which enemies would come
marching. He got up, stretched his arms and legs, and walked among sleepers. A
couple of sentries squatted there. Looking at those who slept, Wulf reflected
that Ketriazar was right — these were veterans, with gray in their beards.
They had followed and worshipped the Cahena for so many years that
they knew no other worship.
They were with her at the last. They would
rather die with her than live under the rule of Moslems.

Bhakrann came tramping. “What now?” he asked.
“What’s waiting?”

“Nothing will be waiting. Those invaders will be
coming,” said Wulf. “I told you
once,
Hassan heard
that he must defeat the Cahena before he could conquer this land. She beat him
once, and now he wants to destroy her. He’ll get here sometime
today,
will make a forced march to do it.”

“Thirsty?” Bhakrann offered a wine flask and Wulf
took a swallow. “That was Djalout’s wine,” said Bhakrann. “I took it. He’s past
the need of it. I’m going to miss him.”

“Not for long,” said Wulf. “At the end of this
coming day, you and I will be on his trail. I predict that we’ll die in
battle.”

Bhakrann drank and wiped his mouth and laughed. It
was a short, ugly laugh.

“I hope it’s a quick death. It ought to be an
adventure, seeing what comes after death.”

“Does anything come after death?” asked Wulf. “Who
knows?”

“Who knows?” Bhakrann echoed him. “I never heard
anyone say, except a bunch of priests and magicians.”

“How does anyone know?”

“We’ll find out, my brother. Remember when she
said you and I were to be brothers? We’ve been brothers, Wulf.”

Bhakrann’s broad, hard hand clapped Wulf’s
shoulder.

Wulf glanced at the stars. “It’s moving toward
morning,” he said. “Maybe we should eat. Is there anything?”

“I have some couscous. Let’s make a fire.”

Wulf gathered dry branches and scraped flint and
steel to kindle them. They blazed up,
then
died down
to make red coals. Bhakrann filled a brass dish with water and set it on stones
to heat. When the water stirred and muttered, Bhakrann trickled in handfuls of
couscous. Wulf scraped a clove of garlic into powder over the dish. They
watched the cocking. A dark figure loomed. It was Ketriazar.

“If you’ll let me join you, I have a bit of smoked
pork,” he said.

He drew his dagger and cut the meat into shavings
to mix into the couscous.

“What food will the men have?” asked Bhakrann.

“They’re lucky,” said Ketriazar. “They found some
camels last night and slaughtered them. I hope they divide it evenly.”

Bhakrann stirred the couscous with a twig. “It’s
done,” he reported, and gingerly twitched the bowl from the fire. “Let it stand
until
it’s
cool enough to eat.”

The Cahena approached, with her mantle over her
robe.

“What are you doing here?” she inquired.

Bhakrann stooped to kiss her shadow in the
firelight. “We’re making breakfast, Lady Cahena. Will you have some? And here’s
wine — it was Djalout’s.”

“Djalout.”
She sat beside Wulf. “I couldn’t sleep. He’s buried so
close to where I lay.” Her shoulder, her knee, touched against Wulf. “It’s
strange, being without him. He was my councillor for so long.”

“He died because he felt it was time.” Bhakrann
nodded, studying the bowl. “This can be eaten now, I think.”

Ketriazar and Bhakrann dipped into the dish with
their fingers to roll balls of the couscous to swallow. The Cahena took only
small pinches.

“You don’t eat, Wulf,” she said.

“I’d better eat, to face what’s coming,” he said,
and helped himself.

“To face what’s coming,” repeated Ketriazar.

“Death is coming,” said the Cahena.

“Death is always coming, to everybody,” said Wulf.
“We sit here expecting it. But the best death is what’s unexpected.”

Bhakrann looked up quickly. “Somebody who could
write ought to put down these wise things you say.”

“That’s been written already,” said Wulf.
“Plutarch quoted Julius Caesar.”

“Who was Plutarch?” asked Ketriazar.

“A Roman who tried to write the lives of
everybody,” said Wulf.

The Cahena almost snuggled against Wulf. “You’re a
comforting talker,” she half crooned.
“Even about death.”

“Are you afraid to die?” he asked her.

“No. It should be restful, like sleep. Djalout
knows by now.”

They finished the bowl of couscous, down to the
last grain. Bhakrann passed the leather wine bottle. Somewhere far
to
eastward showed the faintest wash of gray, dawn coming.
The Cahena got up and so did the others. Her hand took hold of Wulf’s wrist.

“Where do you go now?” she asked him.

“Here and there among the men,
to see how they fare.
Last night, we
talked about where the Moslems were. I expect them to make all the speed they
can, get here by midafternoon, try to finish us.”

“How do we die, Wulf?”

“Like a brave dog, with its teeth in a throat,” he
growled, and her hand let go of him.

“Well said,” declared Bhakrann. “How do we form
for battle?”

Wulf pondered for a moment. Then: “Back of us here
is a steep, rocky slope, too rough for horses. I advise we go up there. We’ll
fight on foot, and they’ll have to do the same, at whatever point is narrowest.
We’ll be past needing horses, needing anything but to line up and face them.”

“I’ll be next to you,” the Cahena said at his ear.
“We’re all agreed that death is coming. Let’s meet him together.”

“Meet Khro?” he said, and she flinched. “Don’t be
afraid to say his name. I’ve said it right to his ugly face. I’ve tried to get
close to him, and so far he’s always moved away.”

“But he’s here. He’s the only god left here.”

“God?”
Wulf said after her. “With those horns, he’s more like
what I was told about Satan when I was a boy in
England
. Maybe we need evil spirits around us, to help us
understand life and death. Maybe there were evil spirits before there were good
ones. Maybe men feared spirits before they worshipped them.”

“Maybe,” she said.

“Now, I’m going back among the men. They’ll be
waking up.”

They walked together here and there, to where
sleepers stirred and rekindled fires. Wulf asked again and again if there was
food. Most groups had something to eat, not much. One or two warriors seemed
happily excited, spoke of beating the Moslems. If anybody was afraid, he did
not say so.

As the sun showed its bright rim to eastward, two
men galloped in. They were Cham and Zeoui, who had scouted far to the rear, and
now they reported that they had ridden all night to say that the Moslem host
pressed grimly after them.

“They marched even after their evening prayers,”
said Cham. “There’s a whole world of them, all mounted, all full of fight. It looks
like a sure way to death.”

“You’re right,” said Wulf cheerfully. “They that
take the sword will perish by the sword.”

The Cahena widened her brilliant eyes. “Bhakrann’s
right, you say witty things.”

“That saying is attributed to Jesus,” Wulf said.

Bhakrann gave Cham and Zeoui what food he had,
stale scraps of barley cakes.

The sun climbed. It was afternoon when more scouts
came back, to say that the enemy was following. In the distance, Wulf and the
Cahena saw a far-flung darkness that moved on the land.
Hassan’s
army.

“How do you order us, Wulf?” she asked.

“Up that rocky height behind,” he said. “The
horses can’t go up, for us or for those people coming. Up above, arrange our
line, two deep, and wait for them to come into close range before we throw javelins.
We’ll signal for that. Have we a trumpet?”

“Here’s one we captured from them,” said Bhakrann,
showing the instrument.

“A blast on that for the javelin
throwing.”
Wulf gestured to his
companions. “Let’s get them started up there.”

They scrambled up through the rocks, and the
formation was quickly drawn up at the top, one line in open order and a second
line behind. The men had sheaves of javelins. They stuck them into the earth
within quick reach. All glared toward where the Moslems approached. Wulf walked
along his double line. The Cahena paced beside him, and Ketriazar and Bhakrann
followed.

“Where shall we take position?” the Cahena asked.
She had taken the trumpet from Bhakrann.

“More or less at the middle, where their main
charge will come,” Wulf said. “There’s still time for you to try to escape from
here.”

“Would you come?”

“Not when the battle’s almost here.”

“Then I won’t run, either.”

The vast formation flowed on the level ground
below them. Wulf could see individual men and horses. They came at a slow trot
— they had marched far that day, and must fight now at the end of the march. A
concerted shout rose among them. Wulf came back to the center of his own
position. He slung his shield to his left arm and loosened his sword in its
sheath. The Cahena breathed at his side. She bore a javelin in her right hand,
the trumpet in her left. Her eyes shone. She was ready.

The Moslems had halted their close-drawn approach.
They were dismounting, a great swarm of them. Some held the horses, the others
moved into a close line, with another line and another line behind. In front of
these paced officers. There were shouted orders, and a deafening cry of
“Allah!”
and the great press of men moved forward and upward on the rough ascent.

Wulf stood at his own forefront, tense and gazing.
Up they came from below. Blades flashed, shields poised.
Nearer,
nearer.
He measured the distance with his eye. He looked at the Cahena.

“All right,” he said. “Sound that trumpet.”

Its note blared out, strident, penetrating. The men
in Wulf’s line raised their own cry:

“There is also the Cahena!”

And the air was full of whizzing javelins. Men of
the charging phalanx went down. Others shoved forward to take the places of the
fallen. More javelins, a flying flock of them, and more men going down. The
Moslems strove against the storm. Here they were, bristling beards, glaring
eyes.

“Everybody
get
a man!”
bawled the voice of Bhakrann, and Bhakrann rushed forward. The sword that had
been Okba’s made deadly play against the blade of an enemy. Another Moslem
rushed to his comrade’s aid and went down under a slashing blow. But yet
another buried his point in Bhakrann’s chest, and Bhakrann, too, went
sprawling. All that in swift seconds, as Wulf leaped into the fight.

Everywhere the clash of combat, javelins, swords,
loud voices shouting war cries. Wulf faced a man in a white turban, a man with
teeth clenched in the darkness of his beard, a curved sword upflung. Wulf beat
the descending steel aside and thrust to the throat, cleared his point as his
man almost somersaulted away. He engaged another swordsman, when a javelin
darted to transfix the man’s chest. The Cahena was there to strike that blow,
even as a dozen Moslems drove upon her and Wulf.