Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1986 (4 page)

The Moslem had churned more than two hundred yards
ahead of his party. He screamed some sort of shrill war cry. Wulf reined to
leftward, circled, and came around to face him.

He saw the chestnut strive close, saw the rider,
wiry and active as a monkey, poise the spear. That rider wore a white turban
wound on a steel cap with a spike at the top. Wulf drew his sword to poise it
on his thigh. He’d have to do this man’s business quickly. They came at each
other. Wulf saw the staring eyes, the tossing black beard beneath the turbaned
headpiece. The spear lifted. Wulf nudged his horse’s flank to slip to the side.
The spear darted. He nudged his horse’s flank to send it to the side. He struck
the spear out of line, shot past, and whirled to come up on the man’s left.

The Moslem, too, spun his mount, so swiftly that
it turned on its rear legs. Wulf rode close and slashed off the lance’s head
with a sweep of his sword. He clamped his knees to his saddle and slid his
point straight into the middle of the black beard.

As the Moslem tumbled in a flutter of garments,
Wulf cleared his point. He heard a quavering cry. His comrades came racing
back.
Another whoop, almost like an echo, from the oncoming
Moslems.
An arrow sang past Wulf’s head. He swiveled his horse to meet
the onslaught.

At that moment the Djerwa launched their javelins
in a single flight. Loud they yelled as two of the Moslems bounced from their
saddles, transfixed. The others did not wait to meet Bhakrann’s charge. They
rode away, as swiftly as they had come.

Bhakrann pulled up and sprang to earth to drag his
javelin free from a fallen body. The other Djerwa chased after the horses from
which three enemies had been struck, heading them off and catching them. Wulf,
too, dismounted to look at the man he had stabbed. That man was stone dead, his
teeth clenched on a lock of his beard.
A great
gout of
blood soaked his yellow tunic. The fleeing Moslems made speed for the high
ground to eastward.

“Hai,
they run from us!” exulted Tifan, an, bringing back one of the captured horses.

“We ran from them as long as they outnumbered us,”
said Bhakrann. “We’d have kept on running if Wulf here hadn’t stopped to fight.
Now they’ll hurry back and report to their friends. Here,” — he beckoned to
Cham and Zeoui, who led the other two captured horses — “come here where I can
talk to you. You three take these horses of theirs, they’re faster than yours.
Their swords, too, and their food and water bottles.
Cham’s
your chief, he’ll give the orders. Head back yonder and see how many of them
are coming.”

“More than those we chased away?” asked Cham.

“You don’t think that just seven were invading all
by themselves,” Bhakrann answered, withering him. “Those were the fastest and
most daring scouts, out of a force that probably thinks it’s big enough to wipe
out anything this far from
Carthage
and beyond. See what’s to be seen. Wulf and I will head
through the pass, and you can catch up and report when there’s something worth
reporting.”

Cham and Zeoui and Tifan plundered the bodies of
the Moslems for weapons and steel caps and mounted the horses they had taken.
Bhakrann and Wulf held the bridles of the animals they had left and watched
them ride away.

“I haven’t had time to say you reaped that fellow
like a tag of barley,” Bhakrann remarked. He gazed down at the body. “That’s a
good mail shirt under his tunic. You might like it.”

“None of these three wore armor big enough for
me,” said Wulf. “Maybe some of your friends would like them.”

“Help me get them off these carcasses.”

They draped the shirts over the saddle of the
horse Cham had left. Then they mounted, Bhakrann leading one spare horse, Wulf
two, and rode away toward the pass.

They reached it well before
noon
. It was a good travelway through the chain of heights, and
seemed to be much used. Ambling, they talked. Bhakrann told of the two battles
in which Moslems had been beaten, in which Okba, then Zoheir, had been killed.
His story sounded as if the Moslems had been considerably outnumbered.

“How did they form line of battle?” asked Wulf.

“They didn’t. We struck Okba’s camp before he
could form anything. And as soon as Zoheir saw how many we were, he ran. But
not fast enough.”

“Didn’t Koseila get killed?”

“He got into the fight too far ahead of the rest.
Like that man you killed just now. You use a sword well.”

“When you turn your head in the sun, your beard
has a red light,” said Wulf.

“Yes,” Bhakrann growled. “Yes, it does. Speaking
of beards, I see you’re letting yours grow. You won’t look so strange among us.
By the way, you seem to think we had it easy in those battles.”

“Easier than you’ll have it now,” said Wulf.
“They’ll bring a big army, and they’ll have all the money and equipment of
Egypt
behind them, and behind that all the resources of the
other places they’ve conquered.”

“That’s a long way to bring such a load of
things,” said Bhakrann. “Maybe we’ll have their plunder when the fighting’s
over.”

The road through the pass was hard-packed.
Bhakrann said that trading caravans went through to
Carthage
and elsewhere. Wulf looked at the heights to either side.
Eight or ten camels might have traveled the pass abreast, but no more than
that.

“Good,” he said aloud.

“What’s good?” asked Bhakrann.

Wulf decided not to answer that at once. “I feel
good,” he said instead. “Maybe lucky’s a better word. People have tried to kill
me lately, and haven’t managed it. How long does it take to go all the way
through this pass?”

“At this rate, several hours.”

“I doubt if a force of Moslem cavalry would move
any faster.”

“Not if they aren’t sure what’s beyond,” said
Bhakrann.

“You said that Okba captured Koseila, who got
away.”

“That’s right,” Bhakrann drawled, not admiringly.
“He was one to be with what he thought was the strong side. He was a Christian
for a while, then maybe a Moslem. Okba took him and treated him like a slave.
We Imazighen didn’t care greatly; we thought Koseila had more or less renegaded
from us. But he turned Imazighen once more, when Okba ordered him to slaughter
a sheep for supper.”

“That would be an insult. What happened?”

“He smeared blood on his beard. He told them that
blood would make hair grow strong. But it’s an old Imazighen custom. Blood on
your beard means you’re going to kill somebody.”

“And he killed Okba,” said Wulf. “No, I mean you
did. But Koseila commanded you.”

“The Cahena commanded,” said Bhakrann. “Koseila
just fought and got killed, and we didn’t care much. We had the Cahena.”

They rode in the shade of high pinnacles. Wulf
sipped from his bottle.

“She must be remarkable,” he ventured.

“That’s an understatement. She has spirits to
advise her, she has magic to serve her. And when you meet her, you’ll probably
think she’s the most beautiful woman you ever saw.”

Wulf thought of beautiful women he had known at
Constantinople
,
at
Carthage
, elsewhere. He changed the subject. “Do I see the end of
the pass up there ahead?”

“Pretty far ahead, yes.”
Bhakrann looked back the way they had come. “At least
there weren’t more Moslems behind that scouting
party,
or we’d have Cham and the others rushing to catch up with us. I don’t expect
any invaders to try this pass tonight.”

“No, it’ll be dark in this little furrow,” agreed
Wulf.

“You’re quick to see things,” said Bhakrann. “Keep
that quickness. We’ll need some quickness in the next few days.”

On they rode. The far end of the pass became a
patch of light, widened. They saw open country beyond. They came out at
midafternoon, with the sun dropping down the pale sky ahead of them. The road
was broad, without grass or bush on it.

“Doesn’t this road lead to Bagai?” Wulf asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“That’s where I judge the Moslems will want to
reach.”

“They won’t get there,” predicted Bhakrann grimly.

They found a wayside stream and let the horses
drink.

“This is the first water we’ve seen since that
well your friends dug last night,” Wulf remarked.

“True.” Bhakrann nodded, twitching a bridle to
keep a horse from drinking too fast. “I’ve a theory that your main body of
Moslems stopped at that well, to dig up more water for itself. Stopped to dig,
while those fellows on the best horses hurried after us and then wished they
hadn’t caught up.”

“Then your friends can see them a long way off
across flat country and ride back to report pretty soon,” said Wulf. “It’s a
good part of a day’s ride from that well to this little flow. An army can get
thirsty in a day, both horses and men.”

“You’re a real help,” said Bhakrann.

“Probably it’s a good thing you didn’t kill me,
there on the way out of
Carthage
.”

“Probably,” and Bhakrann flashed him a brief grin.

On they fared, leading the spare horses. The
sun dropped lower and lower
toward where the horizon rose in
a distant ridge. An hour more, and Wulf thought he caught a flash up there
ahead. He shaded his eyes.

“Is that a river?” he asked Bhakrann.

“Yes, and a fairly good one for this time of
year.”

“And a place for a camp.
How soon will your people be in sight?”

“Take a good look,” invited Bhakrann. “They’re
coming into sight now.”

Again Wulf saw riders coming into view over a
horizon, though this time there were more than a handful. A score or so
appeared, then another knot of them, another, more. As they advanced down the
tufted slope, they fanned into a spaced line — two hundred or so, as Wulf
estimated, trotting in a disciplined formation. They halted well back from the
river as though on a signal, and sat their saddles. Behind came a dozen or more
groups, larger and closer drawn, fifty or sixty in each. These, too, reined in
behind the first line. Still others paused on the ridge, waiting like dark,
low-lying puffs of cloud against the afternoon sky.

Bhakrann drew ahead. “Don’t hurry,” he cautioned
Wulf. “They want to be sure who we are. I’ll go in front and do the talking.”
He leaned back and handed the reins of his led horses to Wulf. “Can you manage these?”

“Of course,” said Wulf.

Following Bhakrann, he let his eyes quarter the
formation of waiting horsemen. As the intervening space grew less, he saw
glitters from weapons and headpieces and bridle housings. At midpoint, a man on
a gray horse held some sort of flag, oblong and deep red. It, too, flashed in
the sun, as though with spangles.

Bhakrann uttered a prolonged, quavering cry and
flourished his shield above his head, and trotted his horse at an angle to the
left, then back to the right. The flag waved in answer. Half a dozen men rode
clear of the line. The hoofs of their horses flung up flashes from the stream.
Bhakrann rode toward them, shouting something. Then he beckoned with his shield
for Wulf to come.

Bhakrann rode to the center of the group, talking
to everyone at once. Those men frowned expectantly toward Wulf. They had tufty
beards and hooded cloaks and ready javelins.

“His name’s Wulf. He fought his way out of
Carthage
,” Bhakrann was saying. “He can help us.”

“Of what people are you?” challenged one of the
waiting men.

“He’s a Saxon,” Bhakrann answered for Wulf. “Never
mind wondering what a Saxon is. I said he’s a good man. Here, take charge of
these horses and ride back ahead of us. Tell her that I’m bringing him. Wulf,
wait with me.”

More questioning scowls all
around from the men of the party as they turned their animals and trotted back
across the stream.

“Give them time to get there and tell what I
said,” Bhakrann warned. “There, they’re reporting. Ride with me, very slowly.
You’re going to meet the Cahena.”

They walked their horses into the stream. On the
far bank, the leader of the group that had talked to Bhakrann was talking to
someone else. Wulf felt eyes upon him and silence along the line, except for a
horse’s whickering.

The water flowed brown and slow beneath the
bellies of their mounts. On ground beyond, Bhakrann said, “Get down,” and they
dismounted.

Directly opposite, a dozen men stood around the
flag, holding their bridles. Others came forward on foot, the flag-bearer among
them. They were tall, crudely armored, bearded, all but the one who led the
way.

That one was small and slim in a long, loose cloak
of blue, with a head swaddled in a white scarf. A slender hand set the butt of
a javelin to the ground with each step. Small, pointed boots of soft brown
leather stirred under the robe’s swaying hem.

Wulf pulled the reins over his horse’s head and
waited with Bhakrann. The group drew around them. The small one stood under the
banner, casting a slender shadow in the light of the lowering sun.

“Kneel,” whispered Bhakrann, and dropped to hands
and knees. His bearded head sank to kiss the brown grass where the shadow lay.

“Stand up, Bhakrann,” said the soft, slow voice of
a woman. “Where are the others I sent with you?”

He rose. “They’re still back there, Cahena,
watching the Moslems move this way.”

“I’ll send others to help them watch.” The veiled
head moved. “I knew this stranger would come and help us, too.”

Then it was the Cahena who spoke so softly, this
woman with a face half masked in white folds. Wulf stood before her. She was
one of those who somehow look taller than they really are.

“My name is Wulf, lady,” he volunteered. “I
escaped from —”

“I’m talking to Bhakrann,” she cut him off, not
sharply but authoritatively. “How did you meet this man, Bhakrann?”

Bhakrann told, in a voice more hushed than Wulf
had ever heard him use before. He made much of Wulf’s catching a javelin in
midair, of Wulf’s sure thrust that killed the Moslem pursuer. He declared his
judgment of Wulf as a man worth knowing, and quoted Wulf’s account of the
taking of
Carthage
and the ordeal of escape.

“And he calls himself a Saxon,” the Cahena said.

Her gaze fastened on Wulf. He saw her eyes between
folds of the scarf. They were deep, dark eyes, set aslant in a face that seemed
gently tawny, like the skin of some sweet fruit. Silently she looked at Wulf,
the probe of her eyes almost like the touch of hands, while he counted five to
himself.

“If you’re a Saxon, what
are you
doing here?” she flung at him suddenly.

He kept silent long enough to count another slow
five. “Lady,” he said then, “I’ve been a soldier. I went where there was war,
among the Franks, Romans,
Byzantines
. I fought the
Arabs in
Asia
until the fighting got slack. I came to
Carthage
, and then the Moslems took the town.”

“You think they’ll come here?” she said.

“Yes. They want to fight you and beat you,
Cahena.”

“How many are there at
Carthage
?”

“Maybe thirty thousand.
And I gather that an advance force has started this way.
We fought a few of their fastest scouts. I judge they want a strong point to
use as a headquarters and supply base. Like Bagai.”

“Do you know Bagai?” she
asked,
her eyes ever at him.

“I’ve never been there, but the old Romans had an
armed camp there. It must be a logical fortification site.”

“We’ll do something about that. Thirty thousand,
you say they have? How big would such a force be?”

“Perhaps a tenth of their
number.”

“And how far away from us would it be?” she asked.

“I can only guess, but perhaps a day away just now.”

She turned and looked up the slope at her gathered
host. The movement of her body was silkily sure.

“Sunset,” she said.
“Plenty of
water.
We’ll camp.” Her javelin pointed. “I want a guard there where
stream bends.
Above the guard, water for drinking.
Below him, water for the horses and camels and anyone who wants to bathe or
wash clothes. You,” she said to a tall man, “go and give that order.”

The man strode quickly to his horse and rode along
the line, beckoning others to ride upstream with him. The Cahena turned her
slanted eyes back to Wulf.

“I knew you were coming,” she said, with sudden
music in her voice. “In a little while there’ll be something for supper. You
come — you, too, Bhakrann — and we’ll talk some more.”

She turned and left him, her companions with her.
Their javelins fenced her like a clump of reeds. Wulf
watched,
his hand on the neck of his horse. He had time to see what shone on the red
flag. It was a geometric pattern of glass beads.

“You should have knelt and kissed her shadow,” muttered
Bhakrann beside him. “You’re ready enough to stay alive in most places, but you
were in danger then. She might have had you killed offhand.”

“Why wasn’t I killed?” asked Wulf.

“If she’d pointed a finger, there’d have been half
a dozen javelins in you — too many to dodge. But her spirits seem to speak for
you. Anyway, remember you’re with the Imazighen now. When we eat with her, bear
yourself becomingly. I take it you’ve traveled enough to pick up good manners.”

“I’ll do my best,” promised Wulf, and Bhakrann’s
beard twitched in a grin.

“
Hai,
and your best is pretty good. We’ll camp here for the
night, or maybe half of it. She might have us marching any moment.”

The moon rose, broad and pale, across the flat
land to the east, while the sun dived behind the western ridge. Horsemen were
strung like pickets on the far side of the stream. Several others headed off
into the distance.

“There go some to join the scouts we left,”
Bhakrann said. “Good men, with the sense to see without being seen. Let’s go
and see some people ourselves. You’ve been wondering what the Imazighen are
like, haven’t you?”

They remounted their own horses.

Far and wide over the sweep of the ridge, men were
camping. They gathered in small bands, half a dozen or so to each, with horses
staked to crop the scanty grass. Javelins were stuck in the earth, pair by
pair. The men squatted without fires in the dusk, eating what they had brought
with them and drinking from skin bottles.

Bhakrann hailed those groups, one after another.
At last he paused where swarthy men with tufts or tussocks of beards sat in a
circle. Several of them rose, and one spoke:

“Bhakrann, do you know when we’re going to fight?”

“Not yet, but
it’s
coming. Wulf, these men are Djerwa, which means they’re the best we have.”

Teeth glittered in the beards, like chips of
quartz.

“This is
Wulf ,“
Bhakrann
said. “He’s a Saxon, from a long way across the sea and across the land beyond that.
He and I are friends. Watch Wulf when we fight. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

“Does he fight our way?” asked another man.

“He fights his own way, and it’s a good way,”
snapped Bhakrann.

He and Wulf rode to another squatting place, spoke
to the men there, and visited more. At last Bhakrann wheeled toward the river
again. The sun had set. Moonlight washed the landscape. The air grew chillier.

“I think she’s ready to eat,
Wulf
,“
said Bhakrann, pointing to where a rosy hint of light showed beyond
some sort of screen. “She doesn’t want to be kept waiting for that, or anything
else.”

“Wouldn’t it be good for me to meet a few more of
these people?” Wulf asked.

“Those you’ve met are telling about you to others.
The whole camp will get to know your name and that I’ve said you can fight.
Let’s ask somebody here to keep an eye on our horses.”

On foot they approached the soft red light. It
showed by the river, well away from the other little camps. It was shut in,
Wulf saw, with cloaks or blankets fastened to javelins stuck all around, with
the light winking above. As Bhakrann and Wulf walked toward it, they saw a ring
of guards. One made a gesture of recognition and let them pass. Bhakrann found
an opening in the makeshift wall of cloaks and led Wulf inside.

The enclosed space was a dozen yards across. Against
one screening cloak was set up a little tent, made by propping a dark cloth on
sticks. At the center a small fire burned down to coals, with several sitting
figures around it. Directly opposite the entrance sat the Cahena, on a folded
saddlecloth. The others were warriors, bareheaded, in jerkins strengthened with
chains and slices of iron.

“Bhakrann,” said the Cahena’s rich, low voice.
“Wulf.
Come and eat with us.”

Close to the fire were propped green twigs, strung
with bits of meat to roast. The various diners held their hands in their laps.
Wulf and Bhakrann found places to sit.

“Wulf, this is Daris,” said the Cahena. “He’s a
Neffusa.”

Daris was as gaunt as a rake, but sinewy. His
beard looked brown in the light of the coals.

“This is Ketriazar,” the Cahena introduced
another.
“A Mediuni.”

Ketriazar sat, thick-chested. His face was pitted,
as though by an old plague of boils.

“And Yaunis,” said the Cahena.

Yaunis nodded. He had something of elegance about
him, for
all his
patterned cloak was shabby. His dark
beard was trimmed somewhat in a fashion Wulf had seen in
Constantinople
.
His eyes were long and humorous.

“And Mallul,” the Cahena said, looking at the one
who sat next to her.
“My son, a Djerwa like Bhakrann, like
me.”

“Wulf,” said Mallul, the only one of the party to
speak. He was young, perhaps twenty or so. His soft-bearded face was handsome.
Across his knees lay a curved Arabian sword.

Now Wulf looked at the Cahena. She sat
cross-legged, dressed in a loose dark skirt and tunic. Her scarf had been put
aside, and her long black hair fell like great wings upon her shoulders. It was
smooth, thick hair, with faint lights in it. Her face was a fine oval. Her nose
was short and straight, with flared nostrils. Her strong, delicate chin had the
slightest of depressions, not quite a dimple. Her slanted eyes held their own
radiance. Bhakrann had been right, she was beautiful.