Swords of Arabia: Warlord

by Anthony Litton

  “I don't know, Lord. The sounds are from about where they'd be if they kept the course and speed of earlier, but I don't know,” he finished, shaking his grey head worriedly.

  Long minutes of anxious waiting were suddenly broken when, to their initial alarm, a boat suddenly appeared in front of them; but then they heard Turki's voice calling softly across the water.

  “Nasir? Nasir, is that you? Is that your boat?”

  “Praise be! Yes, it's me, Nasir! What happened?” he whispered, as their sister boat pulled along side. “Ya Allah!” he gasped as Turki shone a small lantern into his own boat, carefully shading it so its glow didn't travel too far. It didn't need to – it lit up the interior of his small craft quite clearly enough for his brother and the others on their vessel to see the men in the well. Of the twelve men who'd embarked with Turki only three were still standing unharmed; another one was clutching his stomach as blood poured through his hands onto the faces and torso's of those in the well. They were beyond caring, as Nasir could see. They were all dead. Turki himself was covered in blood and seemed wounded.

  “Merciful Allah! What happened? Were you attacked!”

  “Oh yes, we were attacked alright – from within!” said his older brother bitterly.

  “From within?” echoed Nasir, stupidly, his mind still struggling with the enormity of what he was seeing.

  “Yes, little brother, from within. Our esteemed brother, Fouad seems to have given us a crew of traitors. We had to defend ourselves, and we suggest you do the same.” With that, Turki and the remaining survivors pulled out revolvers and started shooting Nasir's crew.

  Nasir, stunned from the speed of events, let precious moments go by; yet more time was lost when, at some primeval level, he accepted the need for his brother's ruthless actions. Then, his mind re-took control as he remembered some of the men in his crew, Nawwaf, a childhood playmate, ferocious in childish competition, equally ferocious in his friendship, even more so in his loyalty; Mamduh, the son of a long-time supporter of their house, even when their very survival had seemed in doubt. And, finally, to doubt their loyalty was to doubt his brother Fouad's judgement in selecting the crew. There was too much not right. He pulled his own gun as he shouted, “Stop! Stop!” as his crew dived for what scanty cover there was in the small boat. Seeing his words not being heeded, he took a deep breath – and shot the man nearest to his brother.

  The surprise was total – and more than enough to bring the shooting to an abrupt halt.

  “Nasir! Brother! What are you doing!” screamed Turki, as he stumbled out of the way, both of his henchman's crumpling figure and his brother's line of fire.

  “These men are loyal. I'll not have them shot like dogs,” said Nasir flatly, keeping his gun levelled at the others of Turki's crew. They in turn had theirs pointed at him, but all were loth to be the one to shoot their Sheikh's brother; unless – or until – they got a sign from their leader.

  “You doubt me? Your own brother?” spat Turki, aiming his own gun at Nasir.

  “I doubt you as little as I doubt the loyalty of my friends,” replied Nasir. “Something is wrong, that is all, and we need to talk before we shoot those we have trusted until now – those who still have my trust,” he added quietly.

  The moment seemed to last forever as brother eyed brother, each with the means of ending the other's life held steady in their hands.

  “Hey, brother! You're right! We need to talk,” said Turki with a forced laugh, lowering his gun and gesturing his men to do the same.

  His questioning look being met with a nod, he balanced himself to allow for the gentle rocking of the boat and moved as if to step into Nasir's boat. The younger man courteously put out a hand to steady him as he moved to step aboard. And found himself staring into the gun that Turki, all signs of any friendship, now completely disappeared, had again swiftly raised.

  “I'm sorry, Brother,” he said not really sounding it.

  “Why?” Nasir asked calmly, not flinching, though he saw his death in Turki's eyes.

  Turki shrugged his shoulders, even as he kept the gun pointed at Nasir.

  “It's simple. Our brother is doomed. This year, next year; it doesn’t matter but he will fall to ibn Saud and I have no plans to go down with him.

  “So you betray Fouad and have become the al Saud's dog!” spat Nasir. “A lone dog, Brother, a lone dog, barking alone in the wastelands. With the tribes and the family behind him Fouad will win, and your betrayal of him will stain your name for all time!”

  “A lone dog, you say?” responded Turki with a strange smile on his face, as he prepared to fire. “You and Fouad and those bitches, his mother and that cursed woman, once his wife, have no idea, no idea at............”

  Nasir was suddenly pushed to the deck as gunfire broke out again. But not from Turki. As Nasir crashed to the floor, a heavy body was suddenly on top of him, shielding him from his brother's bullet and, at the same moment, its owner thrust something at Turki. Nasir saw his brother's face change from gloating to astonishment, then to twisted pain as he looked down in shocked bewilderment at the spear sticking out from his chest, suddenly and awfully pumping great gouts of blood. His lips moved soundlessly as he pitched forward into Nasir's boat and crashed to the deck. His face landed only inches from that of his brother, whose stunned gaze looked into eyes that were already sightless, unfocused in death.

  The gunfire swiftly died away and the body on top of him was half lifted, half dragged off him. Nasir got groggily to his feet. Two of Turki's henchmen lay dead; another had thrown down his gun in a desperate attempt to save his life and the fourth man, already wounded, had lapsed into unconsciousness.

  He looked dazedly around as he struggled to his feet and, looking down at the crumpled figure, saw that it was Nawwaf who'd shielded him. He dropped to his feet beside his childhood friend. He choked back a gasp of relief as he saw that, though wounded, his face a mask of pain, his friend was breathing strongly.

  “Thank you my friend. Thank you,” Nasir said simply.

  Nawwaf started to shrugged the thanks away, then stopped, grimacing at the pain from Turki's bullet lanced through his shoulder. “I did nothing you would not have done. Besides, I got used to looking after you as boys. Habits die hard!” he smiled through his pain. “And anyway, you could have believed Turki and shot us! Is....is...?” he asked hesitantly, suddenly fearful of what he'd done.

  “Yes; yes, he is,” responded Nasir, who didn't need to look at his brother to know the answer; no one looked out of eyes like that this side of eternity.

  Seeing all was safe around him, Nasir turned and knelt at Turki's side. They'd never been close, the ten years’ difference being a barrier the older man had never shown much interest in scaling. In this he was unlike other men in the extended family, such as Fouad and Mohammed. They'd accepted it as their duty to aid in the rearing of the family's youngsters. Then, to their surprise, they found pleasure in it and revelled in their charges' youthful exuberance, even as they safely channelled it.

  Nonetheless he had been a familiar figure for all of Nasir's life and to see him dead, so suddenly and brutally and in such appalling circumstances left him shocked and disorientated. His mind filled with images of Turki alive and laughing, enjoying life and what it had to offer.

  After a few seconds a hand gently shaking his shoulder brought him back to the present and their confused and, perhaps, dangerous situation.

  “Lord, we need to decide what to do now,” a soft voice said. He looked up and saw one of the senior guards looking down urgently at him. “Do we go on or do we return to the town?”

  “What..? Oh yes, yes, we must decide,” he said, taking a deep breath. As he started to speak, his voice began to fill with the confidence needed to do what was necessary. Three things, he realised immediately. First, attempt to find out why Turki and his men had attacked them, then decide on what should happen to their mission in the light of what had occurred and, crucially, get urgent wo
rd to Fouad. They had no way of knowing if Turki's attack had taken place in isolation or was part of a wider conspiracy. Either way, Fouad needed to know as swiftly as possible to be able to deal decisively with whatever situation arose.

  “Keep their boat fast until we decide what we do next,” Nasir said, as he rose and moved quickly to where Turki's two surviving henchmen had been roughly dragged and tied up near the stern of the small boat.

  “Tell me your name and why my brother killed your crew and came to attack us,” he said quietly, addressing the only one conscious, damping down hard on his almost overwhelming urge to wrap the man in chains and throw him overboard.

  “I…I don't know, Lord. I only know the Lord Turki said we had been betrayed and we must defend ourselves,” his voice trailed off under the flare of Nasir's anger, plain in his eyes.

  Nasir didn't believe him and, reaching over, he pressed deeply into the wound in the man's shoulder. “You will tell me, and soon,” he said pressing ever deeper.

  “No, Lord, no! I know nothing, nothing!” The man sobbed, as the pain knifed through him.

  “Do you want me to question him, Lord?” asked Mansour, moving to his side.

  “No,” Nasir shook head reluctantly. “We don't have the time; and if we did, I would not give up that pleasure to anyone,” he snarled, turning away from the injured man. The latter was left torn between relief at his escape and concern as to what the future held for him; nothing good, to judge by the faces of his captors.

  “What about our going to al Hofuf? Should we not turn back? It's obvious our journey is known about,” Nawwaf asked,, his voice now faint from his loss of blood.

  Nasir shook his head. Suddenly what they had to do was clear in his mind. “No, we must continue. We have to carry our message down to al Hofuf. Besides its importance, it's the Lord Fouad's last order to us.”

  “But what about our wounded?” Majid, another crew member, asked, with concern. “They need attending to and if they come with us, they could slow us down.” There were two dead also, but speed wouldn't help them now.

  “They must go back and quickly. Nawwaf, take my brother's boat and four of our remaining men to man the oars. We will all have to do double time to make up for their absence. Take the prisoners also; they can be questioned the better in the Lord Fouad's dungeons,” he added coldly. “Make sure you see my brother and tell him of what's happened here, the moment you dock. Let no one delay you. Even if he's sleeping, have him roused. He must know what's happened as soon as possible. There's no telling where the traitors' tentacles reach. I will send a brief letter explaining what has happened, and how I owe my life to you all,” he added, seeing Nawwaf's worried look, and interpreting it correctly.

  He quickly dictated his words to his injured friend, who could both read and write, and, fortunately, still scrawl well enough despite his wound. The message was hastily scribbled whilst Nasir's other men loaded the wounded onto Turki's boat. They ensured the prisoners were tied up and that the dead were truly dead. Nasir vetoed jettisoning their corpses at sea. Despite what his brother had attempted, he didn't want to insult his dead body in such a way, so they were to be sent back to Narash as well.

  “May Allah be with us all on our separate journeys,” he said as, all arrangements made, the two boats prepared to separate. He watched as the second boat pulled away and was soon lost in the inky darkness. Only then, did he take his own place at the oars and order his depleted crew to make what speed they could to al Hofuf.

  *

  Fouad, was tired beyond exhaustion. He did not, however, allow any hint of this to show in his face as he sat in conference with some of the more important tribal and family elders. He couldn't. Any weakness would, he knew, draw out the jackals at present skulking in the deep shadows of his lands and, he was increasingly aware, within his family, all waiting with deadly patience for their moment to strike.

  He is getting old before his time, Zahirah, sitting in her usual place behind the screens, thought suddenly, as she studied his face. Though still some years short of forty, and physically still vigorous, she saw that her ex-husband was showing the outward physical signs of the terrible internal pressures he was under. Pressures he'd been under almost continuously since the moment he succeeded his father fifteen years previously. His once rich black hair and short beard were shot through with gray, and new lines on his face had appeared, scoring deep ridges down his cheeks.

  His face itself remained expressionless, however, and his upright bearing gave away nothing of those internal pressures, as he listened quietly to the elders debate which of their allied tribes were still loyal, which were still loyal but restless and which could not be trusted at all. To hold his alliances together was like trying to empty the waters of the Gulf or dig holes in the desert sand using only his hands, she thought.

  Impressed and angry at the same time, she watched his cold patience as he listened to the same men use the same arguments they'd done a thousand times before. He had to, she knew. Powerful though he was, he needed the elders firmly on his side, otherwise everything would fragment and Narash collapse in on itself, and lie easy prey to the ferocious ibn Saud.

  Her attention was caught suddenly as the great doors to the council chamber were opened and a messenger quietly entered and passed Fouad a letter. That it was important, she realised immediately, as such messages would normally have been routed via his chamberlain.

  Courteously excusing himself, Fouad opened the letter and quickly scanned its brief contents. His face impassive, he passed it across to his chamberlain and whispered briefly to him. Isaac rose, and with a brief glance over to the screen, left the chamber. Fouad turned calmly back to the elders and continued to listen as their discussion continued, his face giving away nothing of the savage shock the letter's contents had given him.

  Chapter 23

  Correctly reading the chamberlain's glance, Zahirah rose and quietly left the room by the small door at the rear of the screen. As she nodded to the guard that it could now be locked, she noticed others hurrying to join him. She moved quickly to the main corridor leading to the room's entrance where, as expected, she saw Isaac who was issuing orders to the guards as he waited for her.

  “What has happened?” she asked, without preamble as the guards moved away.

  “We know little except that Turki's dead, and the purpose of the boats journey is no longer, it seems, a secret,” he replied grimly, without any of his usual flowery unctuousness. His face was pale as he passed over Nawwaf's hastily scrawled letter.

  She read the letter as quickly as she could. Coming late to reading, had left her slow to absorb whatever was on the written page, though not slow to act once she knew the message.

  “Where are the men? Away from everyone?” she demanded, handing the letter back.

  “Yes, and all now together under guard, until we can be sure who actually is a friend and who is not. Fortunately, Nawwaf, the man who seems to have taken charge, despite being wounded, kept his head and made sure all stayed hidden near the palace and sent just the one man with the message.”

  She nodded, “Yes, I know the man. He was close to ..to .. Mohammed,” she said, her voice catching despite herself. “The letter says little beyond the existence of a plot, Turki being dead and that he was its leader and for us to believe what Nawwaf tells us.” She shook her head in confusion, “And that they will continue their journey.”

  “Yes, and warns Lord Fouad to be extra vigilant; and stressing that Nawwaf saved his life. Strange words and little enough to go on,” he added, as he shook his head in exasperation.

  “Enough, though. You sent the extra guards for around Lord Fouad, I assume?” She was unsurprised at the speed with which he'd moved. The chamberlain was too devoted to the Sheikh to delay even a second after a warning such as this.

  He nodded. “We need to go and see the men. He asked that we do that. He didn't want to alert anyone to what was happening, so he'll stay until the meeting is over.
”

  “Yes, I assumed so,” she said as they made their way quickly down the dark corridors, lit by flickering oil lamps, to the large room where the returned men had been brought and were now being held. They were all under guard until Isaac and Zahirah could distinguish friend from foe. Nodded through by the guards stationed outside the door, they entered a room full of the smell of sweat, blood and fear.

  Zahirah, her nose wrinkling under the onslaught, sent for slaves to tend the wounded and bring water for the others to wash. She then joined Isaac and Nawwaf who was half-sitting, propped up against the wall, talking quietly in one corner.

  “Nawwaf tells me that Turki attacked his own men and then tried to kill Nasir,” said the stunned official, turning to her.

  “Is this certain?” she asked Nawwaf, as surprised as the elderly chamberlain, but better schooled at concealing her thoughts.

  “Yes, Lady, quite certain; these men here saw it,” he said pointing to his fellow crewmen resting nearby. “And those two,” he went on, his voice hardening as he pointed to the two survivors of Turki's men huddled in the far corner, “were assisting Lord Turki in his plan.”

  Under the skilled questioning of Isaac and Zahirah, Nawwaf and the others quickly told all they knew.

  Then the question that Nawwaf had been dreading.

  “How did the Lord Turki die? Did Lord Nasir kill him?” asked Zahirah

  The young man gulped, wished he was still unconscious and said simply, “No, Lady, I did.”

  Isaac paled as he imagined Fouad's response to someone killing one of his brothers.

  Zahirah, however, saw things very differently. “But you say he was going to kill the Lord Nasir? So you saved his life,” she added, approvingly, as Nawwaf simply nodded.

  “It's now clear why Nasir said what he did in his letter,” she said quietly to Isaac.

  The chamberlain, grimaced as he agreed. “It is still not information I would wish to be the one telling the Lord Fouad,” he muttered as he turned his attention to the two prisoners.