The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “Yes, I am a woman. And which of you men will perform the magic to keep the beasts quiet until we get them away from camp? You, Sayah? You, Abdullah? Hah!”

  Wrapping the black mask around her face, Zohra turned away, obviously considering the argument ended. The young men, huddled together in a stand of the tall, tasseled grass growing about the water of the oasis, shook their heads. But none of them continued the argument.

  Zohra’s magic would undoubtedly be essential to them in handling the horses, particularly since few of these men had ever ridden. Most had spent the week covertly observing the spahis: watching to see how they mounted the beasts, listening for what words were used to command them, taking note of how often the animals were fed and watered, what they ate, and so forth. The only question that remained unanswered for the Hrana was how the horses would react to strangers. This was where Zohra’s magic could provide help, that and her knowledge of the beasts. They knew her presence was valuable, but—if given a choice— most of the Hrana would sooner have gone forth into the desert with a pouch full of snakes as with the unpredictable, hotheaded daughter of their Sheykh.

  “Very well, you can come,” came Sayah’s grudging whisper. “Are all ready?”

  Zohra’s half brother, a few months her junior and still unmarried, Sayah had been the Hrana’s choice to lead the raid. Cool and calculating, the exact opposite of his impulsive sister, Sayah was courageous as well, having once fought off a starving wolf with his bare hands. Like the other Hrana, he had also been forced to stand and watch in helpless fury as Majiid’s raiders swept down on their swift horses and stole the choicest of his flock. Sayah had a few private plans of his own in regard to the horses they were about to acquire; plans he thought best not to mention to his sister, since all of them ended in killing her husband.

  Receiving grim, eager replies to his question, Sayah nodded in satisfaction. At his signal the band of thieves crept through the tall grass toward the place where the horses were tethered for the night. Behind them the camp slumbered in a silence that must have appeared unnatural had they stopped to consider it. The night was too still, too calm. No dog barked. No man laughed. No child cried. None of the batir noticed, however, or—if they did—they passed it off as the oppression of the coming storm.

  The rain had ceased, but its smell was in the breathless, heavy air. The night was darker than any could believe possible; the raiders could not even see each other as they padded soft-footed over the ground.

  “Truly Akhran is with us!” murmured Zohra to her brother. “You are right, my son,” growled Majiid. “The coming of this strange storm is proof that Hazrat Akhran is helping us protect our own!”

  “Shh, Father. Keep still,” hissed Khardan.

  His hand reached out to stroke the neck of his trembling horse. The creature shifted restlessly but remained silent, nervous and excited, aroused by the presence hiding in their midst, sensing the tension of the coming battle. Any experienced horseman approaching the herd would have noted the restless pawing and head-shaking and been on his guard. Khardan was counting upon the fact that Zohra and her batir were too inexperienced in the ways of horses to realize something was amiss.

  Standing beside his father, surrounded by the other Akar— each man armed not only with steel but with an oil-coated torch— Khardan could feel Majiid’s tall, muscular frame quivering with suppressed anger and bloodlust. Khardan had broken the news of the raid to his father only moments before going out to catch the thieves. As his son had foreseen, Majiid flew into such a rage that Sond was forced to hold him by the elbows or the Sheykh would have sped through the camp like an ‘efreet and throttled Jaafar on the spot. After much difficulty, Sond and Khardan forced the old man to listen to their plan and he finally accepted it, with the understanding that he alone be allowed to skewer Jaafar.

  As to Zohra, Majiid pronounced that she was a witch and should be dealt with summarily, suggesting several fitting punishments, the most merciful of which was having her stoned to death.

  Khardan felt his father’s hand close over his. It was the silent signal, being passed from man to man, that the scouts had detected the presence of the batir. Shaking with eagerness and the excitement of battle, Khardan reached out and squeezed the hand of the man crouched near him, then he readied the flint he would strike to light the torch.

  Khardan held his breath, straining to hear the soft swish of feet upon the sandy rock floor. Then his muscles tensed. He had not heard, but he had smelled something.

  Jasmine.

  Swiftly striking the flint, he shoved it close to the brand. The oil burst into flame. Majiid, wielding his flaming torch, let out a fearful yell and leaped onto the back of his warhorse. Frightened by the sudden fire, the animal reared back, lashing out with its hooves. Scrambling for his own horse, Khardan barely escaped being bashed in the head, and from the sounds of a groan and a dull thud, one of the batir wasn’t so lucky.

  At their Sheykh’s signal the rest of the Akar lit their torches and vaulted onto the backs of their horses, their sabers flashing in the firelight. The Hrana, on foot and completely at the mercy of the horsemen, drew their own weapons, striking out at their enemy in bitter anger and disappointment at their failure.

  The light and noise drew the attention of the camp, most of whose people had been lying in wait, listening. The djinn Fedj appeared in their midst with a bang, only to be confronted coolly by Sond.

  “What are you doing to my people?” Jaafar shrieked, running from the tent of one of his wives, his white nightclothes flapping around his bare ankles.

  “I’ll tell you what I’m doing! I’m going to roast you over a slow fire, you fornicator of sheep!” Majiid shouted, literally foaming at the mouth. Kicking his excited horse in the flanks, Majiid charged straight for Jaafar, swinging his saber in a blow that would have set the Sheykh to tending the sheep of Akhran had it connected. Due to his own failing eyesight and the flaring torches, Majiid miscalculated, his blade whistled harmlessly over Jaafar’s head.

  Wheeling his horse, Majiid galloped back for another charge. “You’ve set your witch-daughter and her demons to stealing my horses!”

  “Taste your own poison!” Jaafar cried.

  With unexpected nimbleness the wiry old man ducked Majiid’s vicious slash. Grabbing the Sheykh’s leg as the horse galloped by, Jaafar pulled Majiid from the saddle. The two went over in a tumble, rolling about on the desert floor, fists flailing, seeming in dire peril of being trampled by the wildly excited horses.

  Khardan, after the first signal, kept himself clear of the fight. Charging through the crowd, his torch held high, his eyes went from one black-robed figure to another, impatiently lashing out at anyone who got in his way. At last he found the one for whom he had been searching. Slimmer than the rest, moving with an unmistakable grace, this figure—dagger in hand—was grimly facing an opponent whose saber must within seconds slice her in two.

  “Mine!” shouted the Calif, urging his horse forward at a gallop. Neatly cutting between the attacker and his blackrobed victim, Khardan struck the man’s arm down with the flat of his own blade. Leaning over, he caught hold of Zohra around the waist and hoisted her—headfirst, kicking and screaming—up and over his saddle.

  “Death will not rob me of my chance to see you humbled, wife!” cried Khardan, grinning.

  “Oh, won’t he?” Zohra muttered viciously. Dangling head down, fighting to free herself, she raised her dagger.

  Khardan saw the blade flash and grappled for it. His horse plunged beneath them, trying to keep its footing.

  “Damn you!” the Calif swore, a searing pain tearing through his leg. He could not reach the knife, but a mass of thick, black hair came into his hands. Gripping it firmly, Khardan yanked Zohra’s head back. Shrieking in pain, Zohra dropped her knife; twisting, she managed to sink her teeth into Khardan’s arm.

  Horses surged around them. Swords flared in the torchlight. Flaming brands smashed down on heads; riders were dr
agged from their steeds; steel blades clashed in the night. Standing on the outskirts of the battle, women wailed and pleaded, their children crying out in fear. Their cries went unheard. Pandemonium reigned, reason was lost in hatred, there was only anger and the lust to kill.

  Sond and Fedj fought with gigantic scimitars, stabbing each other’s immortal flesh a hundred times over. Majiid was bashing Jaafar’s head into the ground. Sayah clashed with Khardan’s brother Achmed, neither giving ground nor gaining any, each recognizing the makings of a valiant warrior in his opponent.

  In the confusion no one heard the tinkling of camel bells. Only when a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated a mehariste did the battling tribes realize that a stranger was in their midst.

  At the sight the women hastily grabbed up children and ran for the shelter of their tents. The ringing of steel and the grunts and shouts of the combatants slowly died away as, one by one, the Hrana and the Akar looked around dazedly to see what was happening.

  The flames of the torches, flickering in the rising wind of the breaking storm, revealed a short, squat figure swathed in rich fabric seated upon one of the swift racing camels whose worth was known the desert over. The light glinted off the silver and turquoise of a very fine saddle, glistened in the crimson-red silken tassels that hung about the camel’s knees, and gleamed brightly in the golden, jewel-studded fringed headdress the animal wore on its head.

  “Salaam aleikum, my friends!” called out a voice. “It is I, Zeid al Saban, and I have been sent by Hazrat Akhran to see what I could not believe—the two of you, bitter enemies, now joined by marriage and living together in peace. The sight of such brotherhood as I witness here at this moment brings tears to my eyes.”

  Sheykh Zeid raised his hands to heaven. “Praise be to Akhran! It is a miracle!”

  Chapter 11

  “Praise be to Akhran,” muttered Majiid, wiping blood from his mouth.

  “Praise be to Akhran,” echoed Jaafar glumly, spitting out a tooth.

  “Praise be to Pukah!” cried the irreverent djinn, springing up out of the sand in front of the camel. “This is all my doing!”

  No one paid any attention to him. Zeid’s eyes were on the heavens. Majiid’s and Jaafar’s eyes were on each other. As much as each Sheykh hated the other, each distrusted Zeid more. Leader of a large tribe of nomads that lived in the southern region of the Pagrah desert, the short, squat figure seated elegantly on the mehari was wealthy, shrewd, and calculating. Although the desert was his home, his camel trading took Sheykh Zeid to all the major cities of Tara-kan. He was cosmopolitan, wise in the ways of the world and its politics, and his people outnumbered the separate tribes of Jaafar and Majiid two to one.

  Mounted on their swift meharis, the Aran were fierce and deadly fighters. There had been rumors of late that Zeid—bored with his holdings in the south—had been thinking of extending his wealth by threatening the tribes to the north, force them to acknowledge him as suzerain—overlord—and pay him tribute. This was in the minds of both Majiid and Jaafar, and it passed, unspoken, between them as they exchanged grim glances. Two bitter enemies suddenly became reluctant allies.

  Elbowing Pukah out of the way, the Sheykhs hastened to pay their respects to their guest, offering him the hospitality of their tents. Behind them their tribes watched warily, weapons in hand, waiting for some sign from their leaders.

  Zeid received the Sheykhs with all ease and politeness. Although alone in the midst of those he knew to be his enemies, the Sheykh of the south was not worried. Even if his intentions toward them had been hostile and he had made those intentions known, Zeid’s rank as guest made him inviolate. By ancient tradition the guest could remain three days with his host, who must— during that time—show him all hospitality, pledging his life and the lives of his tribe to protect the guest from any enemies. At the end of three days the host must further provide safe escort to his guest the distance of one day’s journeying.

  “Adar-ya-yan!” Zeid ordered, tapping the camel with a slender stick. The beast sank to its knees—first front and then rear— allowing the Sheykh to descend from his magnificent saddle with dignity.

  “Bilhana, wishing you joy, cousin!” said Majiid loudly, opening his broad arms wide in a gesture of welcome.

  “Bilshifa, wishing you health, my dear cousin!” said Jaafar, rather more loudly, opening his arms even wider.

  Embracing Zeid in turn, the Sheykhs kissed him on both cheeks with the ritual gesture that formally sealed the guest covenant. Then they studied the camel with appreciative eyes, all the while praising the saddle and its fine workmanship. It would never do to praise the camel, for such praise of a living thing invites the evil eye of envy, which was well-known to cause the object thus stricken to sicken and die.

  Zeid, in his turn, glanced about in search of something of his hosts’ to praise. Seeing, however, one of the Sheykhs clad only in his nightrobes and the other battered and bloodstained, Zeid was somewhat at a loss. He was also intensely curious to find out what was going on. The Sheykh fell back upon an old resource, knowing the surest way to a father’s heart.

  “Your eldest son, Majiid. What is the young man’s name— Khardan? Yes, Khardan. I have heard many tales of his courage and daring in battle. Might I request the honor of his introduction?”

  “Certainly, certainly.” Bowing effusively, Majiid darted a glance about for his son, hoping desperately that Khardan wasn’t covered to the elbows with his enemy’s blood.

  “Khardan!” the Sheykh’s voice boomed into the night. As the sight of the mehariste had put an end to the fight between the fathers, so it put an end to the battle between husband and wife.

  “Zeid!” hissed Khardan, hastily pulling the struggling Zohra into a sitting position across the front of this horse. “Stop it!” he said, shaking her and forcing her to look into the ring of torchlight.

  Zohra peered out through her disheveled mass of black hair and recognized the camel rider and the danger at the same time. Hastily she shrank back out of the light, hiding her face in her husband’s robes. As Sheykh’s daughter, Zohra had long been involved in political discussions. If Zeid saw her here, sporting among the men, it would forever lower both her father and her husband in the powerful Sheykh’s estimation, giving him a distinct advantage over them in any type of bargaining or negotiation. She must leave quickly, without letting anyone see her.

  Swallowing her bitter anger and disappointment, Zohra hurriedly began to wind the men’s robes she wore as closely around her as possible. Understanding her intent, Khardan swiftly and silently edged his horse backward into the shadows.

  Zohra’s hands shook and she became entangled in the garments. Khardan reached out his hand to help her, but Zohra— acutely aware of the firm body pressed by necessity against hers (at least one could assume it was by necessity since both were still on horseback)—angrily jerked away from him.

  “Don’t touch me!” she ordered sullenly.

  “Khardan!” Majiid’s voice echoed over the field. “Coming, my father!” Khardan called. “Hurry!” he whispered urgently to his wife.

  Refusing to look at him, Zohra grabbed her long hair and twisting it into a coil, tucked it beneath the folds of the black robe. She was preparing to slip down off the horse when Khardan detained her, sliding a firm arm around her waist. Zohra’s black eyes flared dangerously in the flickering torchlight, her lips parted in a silent snarl.

  Coolly ignoring her rage, Khardan took off his own headcloth and tossed it over his wife’s black hair.

  “That beautiful face of yours would never be taken for a man’s. Keep it covered.”

  Staring at him, Zohra’s black eyes widened in astonishment.

  “Khardan!” Majiid’s voice held a note of impatience. Wrapping the face cloth over her mouth and nose, Zohra slid off the back of the horse.

  “Wife,” Khardan’s voice called out softly but sternly. Zohra glanced up at him. He gestured to the wound in his leg that was bleeding p
rofusely. “I must make a good impression,” he said in low tones.

  Understanding his meaning, the black eyes—all that were visible of the face hidden by the mask—glared at him in sudden anger.

  Khardan, smiling, shrugged his shoulders.

  Fumbling for a pouch beneath her robes, Zohra withdrew a green stone streaked with red. Laying it against the knife wound, she bitterly repeated the magic charm that would cause the flesh to close, the blood of the wound to purify. This done, she cast her husband one last look, sharper than a tiger’s tooth, and melted away into the shadows of the night.

  Khardan, grinning widely, kicked his horse’s flanks and galloped up to greet his father’s guest. Arriving before the Sheykhs, the Calif caused his horse to go down on its knees, both animal and the man astride it bowing in respect and displaying a nice bit of horsemanship at the same time.

  “Ah, excellent, young man, excellent!” Zeid clapped his hands together in true delight.

  Jumping off his horse, Khardan was formally introduced to the Sheykh by his father. The usual pleasantries were exchanged.

  “And I hear,”—Zeid nodded at Pukah, who, blissfully ignorant of the tension in the air, had been beaming upon the assembled company as though he had created them all with his own hands—”that you are newly married and to a beautiful wife— daughter of our cousin.”

  The Sheykh bowed to Jaafar, who bowed nervously in return, wondering where his unruly daughter was.

  “Why are you out here instead of languishing in the arms of love?” Zeid asked casually.

  Jaafar shot a swift glance at Majiid, who was eyeing his son worriedly beneath frowning brows. But Khardan, with an easy laugh, made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Why, Sheykh Zeid, you have come in time to witness the fantasia being held in honor of my wedding.”

  “Fantasia?” repeated Zeid in amazement. “This is what you consider a game, is it?”

  His eyes went to the men lying groaning on the ground, to their attackers, standing above them, sabers running red with blood. It was the middle of the night. An unusual time for a contest. The Sheykh’s eyes, narrow and shrewd, returned to Khardan, studying the young man intently.