Empires of Sand

by Empires of Sand (retail) (epub)

  As caravan master, Abdul ben Henna was so pleased at the fees he was able to charge on behalf of his brother that he stole a third for himself. He brooded about his theft for nearly a day, and then decided to steal half instead, quickly sending the remainder to his brother before it disappeared altogether. That was the easy part. It was just before departing, while negotiating with a group of the accursed Tuareg, as was the custom, that he made two mistakes.

  He paid too much, and he paid the wrong Tuareg.

  The caravan was halfway to its destination when he met the true masters of the road, who demanded their just due. At first Abdul refused, incensed by the Tuareg duplicity. Stubbornly, he ordered the caravan to proceed over the objections of the merchants, who knew that one did not deny the Tuareg devils their tribute.

  That night Abdul ben Henna’s younger brother was slain by hands unseen, and five camels disappeared. In the morning the Tuareg returned, just two of the tall arrogant scoundrels blocking the passage of an entire caravan. They announced that due to rogue bandits known to be in the area, the price for safe passage had doubled. Yet again Abdul turned a deaf ear to the entreaties of the merchants who demanded that payment be made. He ordered the Tuareg out of his way on pain of death. The caravan pressed on.

  The next night another man died and four more camels were lost. To the mutinous rumblings of the merchants, Abdul insisted that he could deal with the situation. That night he doubled the guards around the perimeter and kept fires of brush and camel dung burning brightly. He himself patrolled the length and breadth of the caravan, his eyes searching the blackness. Near one o’clock in the morning he nodded off. Near two o’clock one of the merchants died and the throat of Abdul’s own camel was cut. No one heard a thing.

  With twenty more nights to Ghadames, the merchants had had enough of their brash young caravan master. They told Abdul that the next life given to the Tuareg would be his own. Abdul capitulated, but his humiliation was not complete. Even with the profits stolen from his brother, he had insufficient money. He was reduced to borrowing from his clients to cover the shortfall. It had taken Abdul’s brother a year to make up the loss of camels and money, and he had cast Abdul out of the house.

  Abdul ben Henna had waited patiently for vengeance. Now his opportunity had come with rumors of the resumption of war between the Ihaggaren and the Kel Ajjer. Seasoned caravan masters shook their heads in dismay at the news. Upheaval among the Tuareg could upset the rhythms and routes of the desert. But Abdul exulted. Any war that pitted Tuareg devil against Tuareg demon was a good war; praise Allah if all the vermin killed each other. Best of all, there was fortune to be found in a war of the blue men: spoils unguarded and camels to steal.

  He wasted no time assembling a party of four other men for the razzia: his sons Kadder and Baba, and two of his brothers, Bashaga and Hammad. He trusted none of them, but they were tough caravanners who traveled fast and knew the desert as well as he did. Most of all, they shared his hatred of the Tuareg. It was a timeless feud, passed from generation to generation, from father to son, from uncle to nephew. The Tuareg killed the Shamba and the Shamba killed the Tuareg. There was no beginning to it and no end, only widows and orphans and hot angry blood that ran to the sand.

  The raiding party stole fast camels and food from a caravan and raced south into the desert. There were forms to be followed before any razzia, and they did so meticulously. First was the matter of alms for the needy. Because they were on the road, it was customary to turn their offerings over to their leader, who would pass them on to the intended after the raid. To do this Abdul swore in the name of his father, and his father’s father. The others knew he would keep the money, and made certain not to give too much. Next was the solemn pledge of a fifth of their spoils for Allah. In actual practice this might range anywhere from a tenth down to nothing and a promise about the next raid. It was a matter between a man and his God. Finally, they prayed for success, beseeching Allah to be as merciless in their cause as he was merciful to the faithful. Abdul ben Henna led them in prayer, his voice strong as it floated over the barren waste: “Oh Sidi Abd-el-Kader, let us throw fear into the hearts of those who disbelieve, and they will be gathered unto hell, that Allah may separate the wicked from the good.” It was a prayer Allah was likely to heed, since the blue men were well known among the faithful as the abandoned of God.

  By the time the Shamba party arrived at the approaches to the Hoggar, they were traveling only at night, hiding by day in the rocks, careful always to cover the telltale signs of their passage. They stopped making cook fires, forsaking tea and eating nothing but dates. They made no noise, their eyes ever watchful. Despite their expectation that most of the Tuareg men had gone to war, the Shamba were cautious. Even with Allah riding on one’s shoulder, one did not enter lightly into the fortress of the Hoggar, whose rocks and valleys hid a thousand perils. A lowly shepherd girl could give them away, or a dog.

  They had found the camp exactly where they expected, near Tadent where the pastures were good and the air was cool. As they had hoped, there were few men. “Only one blue devil,” Abdul whispered excitedly, watching Moussa cross the camp. “The rest are slaves, and women and children.” His temples pulsed with hatred as he watched the peaceful scene. He longed to kill them all. Yes, even the children, for a dead child could not grow up to wear the veil. He willed himself to keep his discipline, to content himself with the business at hand. The Tuareg man would no doubt die, but Abdul’s mission was to find glory with plunder, not with fire. He was there to steal camels. If children also died in the raid, mektoub. It was written and a blessing, even if it was not his purpose.

  He had ordered his brother Bashaga to slip away and reconnoiter the gorges behind the camp where most of the camels would be kept. Bashaga had returned after dark, out of breath. “Hamdullilah,” he gasped, pointing to the upper gorge. “There are more than forty camels near the wells! There are no guards. No shepherds.”

  Abdul ben Henna blessed his great fortune. Forty camels! How munificent was Allah! Was this not a sign of His blessing? Oh, how the vile. Tuareg would feel his vengeance this day. He would take his rightful place at the head of a great caravan once again, and he would do it all on the backs of Tuareg camels!

  Abdul issued his orders. “Hammad, Kadder. You will enter the camp and cut the throats of their goats.” It was not strictly necessary to do so, but it would make a few enemy bellies cry with hunger. “Mind you, only those far enough away that you will not be heard. You must move more softly than a breeze. Baba, you will collect the camels hobbled near the camp. Bashaga and I will take the camels from the well. We will all meet at the spot where we camped two nights ago. Keep your eyes open! Go now, with Allah!”

  The men split into two parties and melted into the night. Hammad stripped and wrapped his clothes in a bundle. He put his pistol inside, leaving the handle out so he could grab it quickly. Then he tied the bundle with a cord and slung it around his back. He saw his nephew Kadder’s puzzled look. Stripping was a common practice among the Arabs of the northern oases, of Oran and Morocco, not of the Shamba. “My clothes are too light in color,” Hammad said. “It is harder for them to see a naked man. You should do it too.”

  Kadder snickered. “One of us looking like a fool will be enough,” he said.

  “Suit yourself,” Hammad shrugged. He loved stripping for a razzia. It excited him, the wind on his back, the earth under his feet, and the blood everywhere…

  * * *

  The hours passed and the camp slept. Hammad moved silently among the goats, crouching low, his knife busy, his arms and legs and feet drenched in blood. It was strangely sensual, being naked and slitting throats. He dipped a hand into a fresh wound and rubbed the blood on himself until he was slippery with it. It was wet and warm, and a thrill ran through his body. He worked quickly, slicing deeply. Like willing sacrifices the goats moved to make room for him but made no unusual noise, raised no alarm. There was only a light burbling sound
when they died, and no one to hear it but Hammad. Most cooperative, he thought, wiping his hands on his thighs. Hammad noticed that he had moved dangerously close to one of the Tuareg tents. The smell of blood was strong, but there was something stronger.

  Incense. Sweet. Feminine. Hammad listened for the sounds of his nephew and heard nothing. He decided he had done enough goats. He crawled closer to the tent, to investigate.

  * * *

  Kadder grunted as he slipped and fell. One of the goats bleated in panic and shot through his grasp. He cursed under his breath and froze, awaiting the sounds of alarm.

  Nothing.

  He kept on. Ten, fifteen, eighteen. They died quietly and quickly. A shame to waste them, he thought, but a pleasure to deny them to the blue devils. “Work Allah’s retribution,” his father had said, and Kadder wielded an obliging blade.

  Suddenly he stiffened and whirled around in a crouch. Standing behind him was a human shape. It was small but close, and the person had obviously seen him. Kadder had no idea why no alarm had been raised, why there were no shouts, but it didn’t matter. Without a sound he leapt forward and up, his blade flashing swift and deadly and deep. As he struck he saw it was just a shepherd boy, aroused from his sleep by some noise. The boy fell to the ground, overwhelmed by his attacker. Kadder felt the familiar things through his blade: the skin, the vessels, the sinews. His heart pounded as he cut. He noticed to his surprise it wasn’t much different than killing a goat.

  The struggling stopped. The hated thing was dead.

  * * *

  Serena was shocked from her deep sleep by a great weight that smothered her. One hand covered her mouth, another moved down her body, then groped roughly between her legs. She felt the hot breath of her assailant, his beard rough against her cheek. A surge of adrenaline swept through her as she realized what was happening. She struggled fiercely, lifting her shoulders, trying to throw him off, but he was too heavy, too strong. He worked to rip away her clothes. He found the end of her shawl and stuffed it in her mouth, muffling her growing cry.

  “Quiet,” he hissed in Arabic. He pressed the tip of his knife against her throat. “Do you understand me, Tuareg whore? Quiet!” Eyes wide, she nodded that she understood. His body was wet with the blood of the goats, his penis hard, throbbing. He took her hand and made her hold it. She could see almost nothing for the dark, but when she felt him the horror of it gripped her and a wave of nausea swept over her, fear and revulsion and disgust all mixed together with hatred, but she felt the cold steel at the same time, and her struggles stopped. Her chest was heaving. She felt him working at her shift. He wrenched at it roughly, trying to rip it away, trying to hurry, stopping only to put her hand back on him when she let go, holding it there, insistent, tugging, showing her what he wanted, then reaching again for her skirt, groping.

  Serena closed her eyes and felt the blade at her neck and tried desperately to think. A thousand terrors screamed in her brain. Have they killed Moussa? The amenokal? Is it the Kel Ajjer? No, no, they would not do this to me, and this man wears no veil. Tebu? Shamba? Yes, they would do this, and either of them would kill me when they finish. They will kill us all!

  With a conscious effort she forced herself to be calm, pushing the hysteria away. She must not panic. She ran her mind’s eye over her tent, looking for weapons. Earlier that evening she had been working on a leather pelt. Where is my knife?

  * * *

  Lufti shivered as he returned to his sleeping mat. The fever had dropped, but he still felt horrible. His head pounded and lights flashed when he closed his eyes. He still woke up often during the night, and had gotten up to urinate. On his way he became nauseated, and his stomach heaved and he vomited, kneeling down and supporting himself with shaking arms as he fought the spasms. The episode didn’t pass for twenty minutes. When he felt better he rose to return to his sleeping mat, which he had moved during his illness away across the clearing from the nobles’ tents. Head throbbing, he absently made his way. Suddenly he tripped over something. He went down fast and hard, banging his head on the rocks. He groaned, his night going from bad to worse. He sat up and rubbed his forehead, and felt moisture. He smelled it. Blood! He felt around in the dark and his hands found a goat. Then another, and another. All of them dead. His heart began to pound, his fever forgotten, and he was on his knees, his eyes making out the dim shapes of the bodies. They were everywhere! Goats, dead! What on earth—? Then he found Sala. The mute boy, the little Kel Ulli shepherd, his body twisted, his throat cut. Lufti’s fingers fumbled at Sala’s flesh, his fingers telling his brain something he couldn’t comprehend. How could this be? There had been no noise, nothing. Who could do such—

  And then in a flash he knew, and he stood. “Ouksad!” Lufti shouted, cupping his hands over his mouth. His voice shattered the quiet night. “Ouksad! Aradaaaaaaarrr!”

  * * *

  Hammad kept his hand around Serena’s, forcing her to squeeze him, pushing her hand up and down, up and down, faster, faster, as his hips started to buck. He was everywhere with his other hand, on her breasts, between her legs, pawing, demanding, brutal, He got her shift all the way up and started to enter her. She wailed inside, her mind shrieking in silent helpless fury at the animal she knew she could not stop.

  Then Lufti’s scream pierced the night. She felt Hammad stiffen for an instant at the sound.

  It was enough.

  With all her strength she yanked his testicles, closing her hand around them and squeezing as she pulled, ever tighter until her hand shook with the effort. She felt one crush beneath her grip. With a roar Hammad straightened up and she let go. She pushed him back and he fell to the ground. She was up and over him in a blur, ripping the shawl from her mouth as she flew for the leather pouch containing her knife.

  Through tears of rage and pain Hammad saw her leaping. He still had the knife in his hand and stabbed at her. He caught her on her leg, his blade finding cloth and soft flesh, but she kept moving, past him and out of reach. One hand on his groin, the other clutching his blade, he struggled to his feet. By God, the witch had nearly castrated him! His balls were on fire, his belly seized with a pain so intense he wanted to throw up. He fought for control. He wanted to kill her, knew he must kill her, knew he must do so quickly. There would be only seconds to get away from camp before the Tuareg were all over him and escape became impossible. She snatched something from the floor and whirled to face him. He couldn’t make it out, but knew it would be a weapon. There was no time to get at the pistol in his bundle of clothing. He had to finish her now, with his knife. He had killed a score of men and feared nothing from this woman.

  His pain forgotten, he lunged.

  * * *

  Moussa didn’t want to let himself wake up. His dreams were rich and soft and new. He was just learning to hold on to them, to feel them, to let his mind weave soft silken threads between reality and fantasy. It was a sweet netherworld, fleeting but for a precious moment he could savor all the rest of the day.

  But then he heard Lufti, his brain realizing that the shrill scream was not part of the dream, and he was awake instantly. He heard the word clearly at last.

  Aradar! Raid!

  He threw his cover back and leapt from his mat, grabbing his sword as he ran out of the tent, his senses alert, his eyes sorting out shapes and forms in the darkness. He raced through the camp. There was pandemonium, people running everywhere. There was no sign of the raiders. He didn’t see Lufti. He started for the camels. They were after the camels, of course. First, last, and always, the camels.

  “Moussa!” He heard his mother’s voice, and found her before her tent. She had lit a torch and was wrapping a cloth around her leg, which was bleeding. “Mother! Are you all right? What—?”

  “In my tent,” she said, motioning over her shoulder. “Shamba, I think, only it’s hard to be sure. He’s too light to be Tebu. He was carrying this.” She held out a knife that had a distinctive curve at the tip. Shamba, most certainly. Serena wa
s trying to control herself, but Moussa saw her hands were shaking, that she was trembling all over. A crimson stain was growing quickly on her bandage. He helped her inside, where she sank to the mat. Automatically, he started to tend to her wound.

  “Leave it,” she told him. “I am all right. You must see to the others, to the rest of the camp.”

  Moussa knew she was right. He stood up and saw the body on the floor. A bundle of clothing lay nearby. He knelt and quickly unraveled it. He found a pistol and a small cloth packet with extra ammunition. The pistol was corroded and would certainly misfire and kill a man trying to use it. He cast it aside. A pouch held three silver coins. Beyond that just a ragged shirt, trousers, and sandals. Nothing more of the man. Alms and tatters and rust. The intruder was lying on one side, legs drawn up toward his chest. One hand was between his legs, clutching his groin, the other grasping at the hilt of Serena’s knife protruding from his throat. His face was bright red, eyes wide open and bulging grotesquely. He was covered with blood. Moussa shuddered. The man had died hard. The enormity of the attack swept over him in a wave of disbelief. He was shocked to think the Shamba had come so close to killing them all.