The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Mathew only partially heard. He was staring into nothing, seeing again—in his mind—Zohra’s description of the vision.

  “That’s it!” he breathed.

  “What?” Startled by the timbre of his voice, she looked up from her jewels.

  “The hawks were fighting among themselves! The eagles came at them, diving out of the sky!”

  “There, you see?” Zohra cast him a triumphant glance. “When armies fall from the skies, then we can worry. Until that moment”—she turned back to adorning herself with her jewelry—”all this stupid battle means is that we will miss our ride this morning.”

  The storm drifted resolutely down out of the foothills. Only one person in camp paid any attention to the approaching clouds. Meryem, her hand parting the tent flap, stared at it intently, watching it come nearer and nearer. So preoccupied was she that she did not notice Khardan approach until his hand brushed hers.

  Startled, she gave a little scream. Swiftly Khardan slipped inside the tent, and Meryem was in his arms.

  “Oh, my beloved!” she whispered, shimmering blue eyes searching his face. “I don’t want to you to go!”

  What could he do but kiss the trembling lips and brush away the tear that crept down her soft cheek?

  “Do not grieve,” he said lightly. “This is what we have prayed to Akhran for!”

  She stared at him in perplexity.

  “But you wanted peace with Sheykh Zeid. . .”

  “And we shall have it—after his fat stomach has been relieved of a few pounds.” Khardan patted the hilt of his sword. “When he acknowledges us the victor, I intend to offer him the chance to fight together. The chance to raid Kich! What’s the matter? I thought you would be pleased.”

  Meryem’s glance had strayed to the storm cloud. Swiftly she looked back at Khardan.

  “I—I am afraid,” she faltered. “Afraid of losing you!”

  She buried her face in his chest. Khardan stroked the golden hair, but there was a note of irritation in his voice when he answered.

  “Have you so little faith in my skill as a warrior?”

  “Oh, no!” Meryem hastily dried her tears. “I am being a foolish female. Forgive me!”

  “Forgive you for being female? Never!” Khardan said I teasingly, kissing the supplicating hands she held up so prettily before her. “I will punish you for it the rest of your life.”

  The thought of such punishment made Meryem’s heart beat so rapidly she feared he might notice and consider it unmaidenly. Hoping the flush staining her cheeks would be taken for confusion and not the immodest desire that swept her body, Meryem hurriedly lowered her head before his intense gaze. Removing a necklace she wore around her throat, she offered it to him timidly.

  “What is this?” he asked, taking the object in his hand. “A silver shield,” she said. “I want you to wear it. It was. . . my father’s, the Sultan’s. My mother made it for him, to protect him in battle. Its protection isn’t very powerful. But it carries with it my love.”

  “That is all the power I need!” Khardan whispered, clasping the shield tightly in his hand. He kissed her again, nearly crushing her in his embrace.

  With difficulty Meryem caught her breath. “Promise me you will wear it?” she said insistently.

  “You shall put it on me with your own hands!”

  Almost reverently he removed the head-cloth.

  Meryem saw the four long scratch marks upon his face and gave a small scream. “What is this?” she asked, reaching out hesitantly to touch them. “You are hurt!”

  “Nothing!” Khardan said harshly, averting his face, bowing his head so that she could slip the silken ribbon over his curling black hair. “A tangle with a wildcat, that is all.”

  Thinking she knew the particular breed of cat, Meryem smiled to herself with pleasure. Wisely saying nothing more, she slid the ribbon over his head, her fingers brushing through his hair. She felt his body tremble at her touch, and she stepped back quickly, her worried glance straying, once again, to the approaching storm.

  The ram’s horn, bleating loudly, recalled Khardan’s attention. “Good-bye, gazelle-eyes!” he said, his face flushed with passion and excitement. “Do not weep! I will be safe!” His hand closed over the silver shield.

  “I know you will!” Meryem said with a brave, tearful, secret smile.

  Chapter 24

  Seated astride the magical ebony horse, the Amir looked down from his vantage point on the back of the cloud-shaped ‘efreet, watching as the meharistes of Sheykh Zeid dashed across the dunes, their swift camels seemingly outpacing the wind. Below him he could see the activity in the camp around the Tel: the men racing for their horses, the women with their children gathered outside their tents, waving their outstretched hands in the air, their shrill voices raised in an eerie war chant to hearten their men.

  Gathered around the Amir was a vast army, each soldier mounted upon a steed as magical as his own. Unaccustomed to the height and the strangeness of being carried through the skies on the back of an ‘efreet, many of Qannadi’s men cast nervous glances beneath them. More than a few faces were pale and sweating, and several—to their eternal shame—leaned over their saddles and were quietly sick. But these were well-disciplined, seasoned troops. They spoke no word. Their eyes upon their captains, who were meeting with the Amir, they waited for the signal that would send them from this black, lightning-fringed cloud to the ground below where they would do what they did best—fight and conquer.

  “You have your orders. You know what to do,” the Amir said crisply. “The Imam asks me to remind you that you fight to bring the light of Quar to the darkness of the souls of these kafir. We fight these men only long enough to show the strength and might of our army. I want to divide them, demoralize them. I don’t want them killed!”

  The captains answered in the affirmative, but with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

  “Wreck their camp as we did that of the sheepherders earlier this day. Leave the elderly and the infirm behind, unharmed. We don’t want them. They are of no use to us. Women of childbearing age and children are to be captured and taken back to the city. They are not to be molested. Any man caught violating a woman will swiftly find himself a place among the palace eunuchs.”

  The captains nodded. The Amir was always strict in regard to this, as several eunuchs had reason to know to their bitter sorrow. The Amir had performed the operation himself, on the spot, with his own sword. It was not that he was a kindly man. He was simply a good general, having seen in wars in his youth how quickly a well-disciplined army can degenerate into an uncontrollable mob if allowed to slip the leash.

  The Amir glared around his troops, letting his threat sink in. Fixing his eyes upon two of his captains, Qannadi continued, speaking to them specifically. “Those of you riding south to attack the Aran, the same orders apply. All captives are to be brought to Kich. Any questions?”

  “We don’t like this about the men, sir; just leaving them out here. We’ve heard about these nomads. They fight like ten thousand devils, and they would cut out their own hearts before they’d surrender. Begging the Amir’s pardon, but they’ll never convert to Quar. Let us kill them and send Him their souls now instead of later. “

  There were mutterings of agreement. Privately Qannadi sided with his captains. He knew that the nomads would eventually have to be wiped out. Unfortunately the Imam would have to come to see this, too. And right now the only thing those almond eyes—blind with holy zeal—saw was the glory of converting an entire people to the knowledge of the One, True God.

  “You have your orders,” Qannadi said harshly. “See that they are obeyed. “When the men have been beaten on the field and left to starve, they will receive word that their families are being well-treated in Kich and have found true spiritual solace in Quar.” Qannadi was repeating the Imam’s words. But those who knew him well saw the slight twist of the man’s lip.

  “However, if you are attacked,” the Amir said slow
ly and precisely, “there is nothing you can do but kill to defend yourselves.”

  Nodding, relaxing, the men grinned.

  “But when I give the order to withdraw, all fighting is to cease. Take a few prisoners among the men—in particular strong, young ones. Is this understood? Any further questions . . . Fine. The blessing of Quar be with you.”

  At this point the captains would have responded with a mighty shout, but they had been counseled to keep strict silence and so they disbanded in quiet, each man returning to his command.

  “Gasim, a word with you.” The Amir gestured to his favorite, the one-eyed captain who had been casting that eye upon the lovely Meryem. Gasim rode up in response to the Amir’s command, bringing his horse close alongside that of his commander. “Captain”—the Amir’s voice was low—”you know that I put up with this nonsense of taking prisoners to keep the Imam happy. There is one man, however, whose soul must be in Quar’s hands this night.”

  Gasim raised his single eyebrow, the other being concealed behind the patch that covered the empty socket where his eye had been prior to a vicious sword slash. “Name him, my General.”

  “Their Calif—Khardan. You know him by sight. You saw him at the palace.”

  “Yes, Amir.” Gasim nodded, but Qannadi saw the man appeared uneasy.

  “What’s the matter?” The Amir’s voice grated.

  “It is just. . . the Imam said that the Sheykhs and the Calif were to be left alive, to lead their people to the knowledge of the truth of the God. . .” Gasim hesitated.

  The Arnir shifted in his saddle and leaned forward, thrusting his chin into Gasim’s face. “Whose wrath do you fear most? Mine upon this world or Quar’s in the next?”

  There could be only one answer to that. Gasim was well acquainted with the Amir’s legendary torture chambers.

  “Khardan will die!” he said softly, bowing.

  “I thought he might,” Qannadi returned wryly, sitting back in his saddle. “Bring me his head so that I may know my orders have been carried out. You are dismissed.”

  The captain saluted and galloped off, the hooves of his horse eerily silent as they beat upon the cloudy chest of the ‘efreet.

  “You know what you are to do, Kaug?” the Amir asked, looking into the two huge staring eyes among the mist.

  “Yes, Effendi.”

  The Amir’s gaze returned to the desert beneath him. The spahis, mounted upon their horses, were galloping out to meet the camel riders—swords flashing in the air, their voices raised in wild shouts.

  An odd way to welcome friendly allies, Qannadi thought idly. But what could you expect of these savages?

  Lifting his hand, he gave the signal.

  Chapter 25

  Leaving Zohra’s tent, Mathew looked up at a swiftly moving, dark-black cloud and saw an army descending from the sky. At first he could neither speak nor react. Paralyzed with astonishment, he stared, openmouthed. Soldiers—hundreds of them—mounted on winged horses, soared out of the towering thunderhead. They rode in tight formation, spiraling downward like a human cyclone, heading for the ground, heading for the camp around the Tel. The golden ram’s head, stitched upon their uniforms, now bore the wings of eagles sprouting from its skull.

  Mathew gave a strangled cry. Hearing him shout, Zohra ran from her tent. Several women, standing near him, their eyes on the husbands who were just galloping out of sight, turned to stare at him in alarm. Wordlessly, unable to talk, Mathew pointed. The first riders were just touching the ground, their magical steeds hitting the desert floor at a gallop.

  Zohra clutched at her chest, her heart frozen by cold, numbing fear. “The vision!” she gasped. “Soldiers of Quar!”

  A fierce wind swept down out of the cloud, raising a stinging, blinding storm of sand that swirled around the camp. Catching hold of tent poles, the wind—like a huge hand—yanked them from the ground and sent them flying, bringing the fabric crashing down upon those inside. Shrieks and wails of terror rose into the air. The winds increased to gale force and the darkness deepened, split occasionally by jagged lightning and deafening cracks of thunder.

  Some of the women tried to flee, to escape, running after the spahis, who had already disappeared. Blankets, swept along the desert floor by the wind, encircled the legs of their victims, tripping them, bringing them down. It seemed as though all inanimate objects had suddenly come to malevolent life. Brassware, iron pans, and crockery slammed into their former mistresses, knocking them senseless to the ground. Rugs wrapped around their weavers, smothering them.

  Then, out of the storm came the soldiers of Quar. They rode through the camp, the storm winds dying swiftly to allow them to do their work. Leaning down, the soldiers grabbed wailing children up in their arms and carried them off. Others dragged the comatose bodies of the women across the saddles and ordered their steeds back to the air.

  Not all their prey was easily captured. Although supposedly sheltered and protected in the harems, the women of the desert were in reality the same valiant warriors as their husbands and fathers and brothers. The women did not fight for glory but they fought nonetheless—a daily battle, a battle against the elements, a battle to survive.

  Badia caught up a broken tent pole and swung it. Smashing against the shoulders of a soldier, it knocked him from his mount. A brass pot, hurled with deadly efficiency by a grandmother with long years of matrimonial bickering behind her, struck a soldier on the back of his head, felling him instantly. A twelve-year-old girl leaped for the bridle of a galloping horse. Catching hold of it, she used her weight to drag the animal off balance as she had seen her father do many times during the baigha games. The horse fell, its rider tumbled to the ground. The girl’s younger brother and sisters fell upon the soldier, beating him with sticks and pummeling him with their small fists.

  But the battle, against overwhelming odds, was a losing one.

  The wind blew Mathew off his feet, driving him to his hands and knees. He caught a glimpse of Zohra running back into her tent, then—blinded by the stinging sand—he could see nothing. Fighting the whipping gale, he struggled to stand and saw Zohra emerge, dagger in hand, just as the tent blew down.

  The tent! Mathew thought instantly of two things: the fish and his magic. Panicked, he turned to see his own tent take wing and flap off like a huge bird, his scrolls and parchments sailing after it. This time the wind inadvertently aided him, for it was at his back as he ran to save his possessions. Lunging after them, he caught what scrolls and parchments he could, searching frantically as he scrambled here and there among the debris for the glass globe, containing the two fish.

  A glint of light caught his eye. There was the globe—right beneath the pounding hooves of a galloping horse!

  Mathew heard echoing in his ears the cold voice promising what would happen to him if he lost the fish. His heart in his throat, he watched, cringing, as the iron shoes smashed the globe into the ground. The horse’s rider, clutching two squirming, screaming children in his arms, thundered past Mathew without a glance. Dazed by the confusion about him, the young wizard was turning away in despair to look for Zohra when the same flash of light caught his attention. Looking down, he saw the glass globe, blown by the wind, rolling toward him.

  Numb with shock, Mathew stared at it in disbelief. It was completely unharmed, not even scratched.

  “Mat-hew!” He heard a shout behind him. Hastily he picked up the glass globe and, after a quick glimpse to ascertain that the fish were safe and unharmed, thrust it into the bodice of his women’s robes.

  “Mat-hew!” The shout was a warning.

  Whirling, Mathew saw a soldier on horseback reaching out to grab the “woman” and haul her up into the saddle. Reacting with a coolness that astonished him, Mathew caught hold of the soldier’s outstretched arm. Bracing himself, he pulled with all his strength, jerking the man from the saddle.

  The soldier fell on top of Mathew, carrying them both to the ground. Grappling with the man, Mathew fough
t to free himself, then he heard a horrifying scream and felt the heavy body on top of his go rigid, then limp, sagging over him. The silken scarves of a chador swirled about Mathew’s head like a blue and golden cloud. The weight was yanked off him, a hand helped him to his feet. Standing up, Mathew saw Zohra remove her bloodstained dagger from the soldier back.

  Her long black hair streaming in the wind, she turned, dagger in hand, ready to face her next foe.

  “Zohra!” Mathew shouted desperately above the shrieks and screams, the neighing of horses, the yells and commands, “Zohra, we must find Khardan!”

  If she heard him, she paid no attention to him.

  Frantically Mathew spun her around to face him. “Khardan!” he screamed.

  Seeing a soldier intent on riding them down, Mathew dove for cover beneath a partially collapsed tent, dragging a struggling Zohra with him.

  Though Mathew knew they wouldn’t be safe here long, the tent offered some protection and there might be—there had to be—time enough to make Zohra understand the danger.

  “Listen to me!” Mathew gasped. Crouched in the darkness, he caught hold of the woman by the shoulders. “Think of the vision! We have to find Khardan and convince him to flee!”

  “Flee! hah!” Zohra’s eyes flamed. She stared at him contemptuously. “Remain here if you want, coward! You will be safe in your women’s clothing. Khardan will die fighting, as will I!”

  “Then night will come to you and your people!” Mathew cried.

  Starting to crawl out the tent, Zohra paused. Outside, hooves thundered about them, the cries of women and children echoed shrilly in their ears.

  “Think of the vision, Zohra!” Mathew said urgently. “The falcon pierced by many wounds. Night falling. Or the falcon, wings mired in the mud, struggling to fight with the coming of day!”

  Zohra stared at Mathew, but he knew, from the expression on her livid face that her eyes did not see him. They were seeing, once again, the vision. The dagger fell from nerveless fingers. Her hand—covered with the soldier’s blood—pressed against her heart.