Forcibly Jafar tried to dredge up the brutal memories of that day when he had been forced to become a man, to remember the crimson blood draining from his father's body, the screams of his mother. Yet all he could see was Alysson, the image of her pale face and the sadness in her lustrous eyes.
With a silent oath, Jafar dragged the glass's focus from
Bourmont and aimed it further along the column. The knot in his stomach twisted as he found another familiar face, this one ruddy and round.
Alysson's French uncle. And beside him, her Indian servant.
He had expected as much, though he'd hoped fervently they would remain behind. It was a foolish, futile gesture to accompany the colonel. They had no experience with war, with death. But he couldn't blame either of them for making the attempt. If Alysson had belonged to him, he too would have tried to save her.
Beside him, he felt Farhat tense. When the Berber pointed, Jafar followed the direction of his gaze. To the north, in the distance, rode Ben Hamadi's calvary, moving like a swift cloud over the plain, spurring storms of sand. In the wind streamed Abdel Kader's standard, white with an open hand in the center. The Arabs charged toward the enemy, a great sweep of them, though they had not yet been seen by the French.
Jafar nodded. "The time has come."
The time for vengeance. The time for ending the blood feud.
He forced thoughts of Alysson from his mind, welcoming the chilling calm that settled over him.
Backing carefully away from the ledge, Jafar murmured his final orders to the men who would remain above. Then he and Farhat climbed down the steep slope, into the chasm where the horses stood. They mounted silently.
Then they waited.
In a few moments, the tension of silence was broken by the sound of steel-shod hooves echoing off rock.
Jafar raised his hand.
Presently a low rumbling noise filled the air as an avalanche of rock and earth tumbled into the pass, followed by startled French oaths and shouts of alarm.
Jafar's arm dropped sharply.
Immediately the Berbers commenced firing at the oncoming enemy . . . not directly at the Frenchmen but all around them, so as not to hit the colonel. The pleasure of killing Bourmont belonged strictly to their lord.
The Frenchmen were disciplined troops, however.
Warned by the noise and tumult of the avalanche, they reacted well to the ambush and brought their rearing mounts under control.
"Aux armes! Aux armes!" came the cry from several of the leaders. In response, the cavalry troops regrouped in the crowded gorge, their column drawn up in a square, facing outward with rifles and bayonets, equally defended on all sides so as to resist a vigorous attack.
And it was vigorous. The Berbers charged with hoarse shouts, urging their mounts along the rocky pass, while those who had been concealed by the rocks rose up before them, swarming over the rugged ground, brandishing glistening swords and firing to shake the steadiness of the French column.
The gorge became closely packed with horses and men. Jafar preceded his warriors to the attack, plowing through the clustering files of French soldiers on his plunging charger, sweeping bayonets aside with his long blade. He felt at ease, cool even in the midst of battle, fearing neither bullet nor saber nor lance. His entire attention, his every nerve, was focused on finding the son of the man who had been his blood enemy for so many years.
Some five yards away, he saw Bourmont putting up a courageous effort amidst the flash of steel blades and the peal of the musketry. Beside the colonel, a volley caught a blue-uniformed man in the chest, while another fell, pierced by sharp metal. Jafar, surrounded by the screams of wounded horses, smoke wreathing around his head, pressed forward, deftly deflecting slashing enemy sabers and thrusting bayonets.
In the next moment the skirmish turned desperate for the French forces. They tried ineffectually to repulse the savage Berbers, who, incredibly, rode directly into their midst. Bewildered by the tactic, the French troops made a straggling and futile defense. Before the onslaught, their line was swept away, their formation broken.
"Alez! Alez!" Bourmont shouted. Obeying the order, his men leapt off their horses and gained cover to try to ward off the attack while they reloaded their weapons.
The Berbers reacted with cries of triumph. Their main goal had been to drive the enemy into the hills while their lord engaged the French commander in combat. Jafar took full advantage of the opportunity. Finally having a clear path, he charged the colonel, sword drawn.
Bourmont swung up his rifle to deflect the blow, but it never came. Instead, Jafar sent his stallion crashing into the colonel's mount. Suddenly unhorsed, the colonel leapt to his feet, drawing his own saber.
Jafar smiled in grim satisfaction. He sprang down from his stallion and attacked, vengeance driving him. The gleaming blades came together with a clash.
They fought hand to hand, violently, each straining for supremacy, both knowing this would be a fight to the death.
For a long moment neither man could gain the advantage. Bourmont proved to be a courageous adversary, but Jafar had the greater skill. That, and the knowledge that justice was on his side. He fought with all the fierce determination inside him—seventeen years of unassuaged rage and bitterness. His heart pounded with hatred, while blood lust surged in his veins, rivaling the explosion of gunshots.
Then abruptly the frequency of shots lessened, reduced to scattered fire. In one corner of his mind, Jafar was aware of the sudden lull in the fighting. He could sense his men watching, and knew the battle was over. By now his warriors would have taken many of the French troops prisoner, and followed the others who had retreated in confusion.
Over the clanging of swords, he could hear another welcome sound. Beyond the avalanche of earth and boulders, shouts of joy resounded along the gorge. They came from Ben Hamadi's troops as the major contingent of French troops wavered, broke ranks, and fled from the victorious Arabs.
Jafar redoubled his efforts. With a fierce thrust of his arm, he sent the colonel's saber flying and Bourmont stumbling to the ground. The colonel lay there frozen, his chest heaving with exertion as he stared up at the savage black- robed Berber above him.
Jafar raised his sword to deliver the fatal blow. "Know you that I avenge the blood of my father!'' he called out in French, his voice a harsh cry that echoed off the rocky walls of the gorge.
Gervase de Bourmont stared up at him, unmoving. Jafar's arm hung poised in the air as he met his enemy's dark gaze. There was resignation but not fear in the eyes riveted on him. A man who sees his own death with regret but not trembling.
Perhaps it was trick of light, but the image before Jafar wavered and changed. Masculine features became feminine. Dark eyes faded to gray. Lustrous gray, filled with despair.
For the briefest moment, Jafar shut his own eyes tightly. But Alysson's haunting image remained; the memory of her anguish smote him.
Alysson.
Her tears.
Her torment.
Her love for this Frenchman.
With a cry akin to agony, Jafar brought the blade crashing down. Yet at the last possible instant his aim swerved. He made no contact with human flesh. Instead, the sword point thrust deep into the earth, a scant four inches from the colonel's head.
Chapter 15
The commotion startled Alysson from a restless sleep.
Was that rifle fire she heard?
Groggy and disoriented, she glanced in alarm around the darkened tent, only to realize it was the dead of night. So why did the bustiing sounds of activity make it seem that the camp was awake and stirring? Jafar. Had he returned? Her heart began a slow, painful pounding.
Abruptly Alysson struggled to her feet and groped for a garment to pull over her chemise. Then she hastened to the tent entrance. Within her, fear vied with weariness for supremacy. She hadn't slept at all two nights ago after Jafar had ridden off to battle with his warriors, and tonight she had only managed to nod off from s
heer exhaustion. Nor had she entirely recovered her strength from her nearly fatal bout with fever.
When she raised the tent flap, her gaze swept the chaotic scene: horses and men returning from battle. Women and retainers rushing out to greet them. Some firing muskets in welcome, some waving flaming torches, all chattering excitedly. Had the Berbers been victorious?
Alysson dug her fingernails into her palms, her breath arrested as she searched the crowd for the man who held her fate in his hands. Jafar, her captor. Had he survived the battle? Had he succeeded in carrying out his blood vengeance?
Then she spied him, moving toward her on his black stallion, accepting as his due the rejoicing and the glad cries of his people. On some vague level of consciousness, Alysson was aware that the slow, painful strokes of her heartbeat eased the slightest measure. He was alive. He had returned to her unharmed.
Her throat aching with unshed tears of relief, she focused her gaze on Jafar, on his lean, proud face, a face that against all expectations of reason and prudence had become dear to her.
A silence seemed to descend over the camp as he drew his mount to a halt before his tent. Alysson couldn't speak. She simply stared at him. Jafar, too, was silent. He sat looking down at her, his expression hard and remote in the torchlight, and totally unreadable.
She desperately wanted to know about Gervase, about the outcome of the battle, but she couldn't force herself to ask and hear the dreaded answer. She couldn't face knowing he was dead, any more than she could face knowing Jafar was his killer.
Suddenly, Alysson caught the weak sound of a snarled oath from a short distance away. An oath that was delivered in French.
For an instant she swayed on her feet, not daring to believe. But that cursing, plaintive voice came again out of the darkness, a voice as dear to her as Jafar's.
"Sweet heaven . . ." she whispered through a mist of mingled hope and fear. "Uncle Honoré."
She moved blindly across the camp, tripping and stumbling over the long skirts of her burnous until in a. gesture of impatience she jerked them up. She saw her favorite uncle through a haze of tears, recognizing the thinning silver hair shining in the torchlight. Honoré was lying on a stretcher, one end of which was drawn by a horse, the other dragging the ground. It was the kind of device appropriate for an invalid, or a wounded man. And his voice was feeble, even though he was busy swearing in pithy French that these heathens were trying to kill him.
Alysson halted in confusion. A whimper of miserable joy hung in the back of her throat as slowly she knelt beside his stretcher. "Mon oncle," she murmured, her own voice a hoarse rasp.
He left off cursing to stare at her. "Sacre Dieu . . . Alysson! My beloved child . . ."
She flung her arms around him just as he reached for her, and for a long moment, they clung to each other, both weeping with relief to see the other alive. Finally, with a groan of pain, Honoré held her away, grimacing as he searched her face. “I was sick with worry for you, my dear. You are unharmed?"
Tears streaming down her cheeks, Alysson nodded, drinking in the sight of his beloved face. "Yes, I am fine-"
Before she could complete the sentence and ask about her uncle's health, a small dark man stepped forward from the shadows and made a deep salaam. "Memsahib? My heart is filled with gladness to find you."
"Chand!"
Leaping to her feet, Alysson launched herself at her Indian servant, wrapping her arms around him in a stranglehold, laughing through her tears as she drew comfort from Chand's dear, familiar presence.
"Memsahib! This is not seemly!" Chand exclaimed. He gave a dignified sniff as he pried himself loose, but she caught the sheen of tears in his dark eyes before his expression sobered.
"Memsahib, I beg you to heed me. Your ancle is gravely wounded.''
Alysson's heart leaped again with dread as her gaze flew ro Honoré. Gravely wounded? But he did not look as if he were at death's door. Pale, perhaps. And disgruntled. But not dying. Hes. pulse regained a mors normal rhythm. Most likely, Chand was exaggerating as usual.
When she eyed him anxiously, the Indian hastened to speak in heavily accented French. "Is there a place where we may take the sahib so that I may attend to him?''
"Yes, my dear," Honord put in, resuming bis querulous tone, "have you any influence over these barbarians? They have strapped are into this contraption and won't let me out. I vow I am oieediag to death. One of those Arab deads stuck a sword blade in ray ribs, skewered me as if I were a pig to be roasted."
Influence? Alysson thought with desperation. She had no power of persuasion over these Berbers, especially the am whose opinion mattered most, the lord whose word was law here in this wild land. Helplessly she glanced around her, only to have her gaze arrested. Jafar had come to stand behind her and was silently observing her.
She guessed that he had overheard her conversation, for all she had to do was say, "Please", in a soft, pleading whisper, before he gestured to someone in the shadows.
"Gastar will aid you," he said abruptly, almost angrily, before turning toward his tent.
Alysson watched in bewilderment as he strode away. She didn't know what he was thinking, or why he was treating her so brusquely bow, after the infinite tenderness he had shown her during her illness. But men the old Berber wohise who had helped nurse her through her fever came shuffling forward. Seeing Gastar, Alysson felt a twinge of guilt. She hsd never even dtaaked die woman for saving her life. For that matter she had never thanked Jafar, either.
Her gaze followed his tall, black-cloaked figure for another moment, before she managed to drag her thoughts to attention. She had to see to her uncle before she could consider Jafar's actions or his cold treatment of her.
She listened anxiously as Gastar issued incomprehensible orders to several Berber men, theo followed as her uncle was carried into a nearby tent. After Honoré was released from the bindings of the stretcher and transferred to a comfortable pallet, though, all Alysson could do was wait. Both she and Chand were left with nothing to do as Gastar worked with swift efficiency over her patient.
That in itself became a problem. Chand was insulted by the old woman's assumption of his duties, not liking to be relegated to the role of spectator, but Alysson prevented him from making a scene with reassurances of Gastar's competence in healing. Even so, Alysson held her breath as the bloodstained bandage covering Honoré's chest was peeled away.
She was eminently grateful to discover that her uncle's wounds weren't as terrible as she feared. The right side of his chest was slashed by a bloody gash, and at least two ribs were broken, but the wound was clean, and the torn flesh easily sutured. She held her uncle's hand as Gastar performed the necessary operation and bound his ribs once again.
It was only when Honoré had been given a potion and was sleeping soundly, however, that Alysson had the time and opportunity to question Chand about what had happened. The French forces had been routed with little effort, she learned.
"At the battle's end, I was engaged in seeing to the La~ rousse Sahib's wound when the Berber lord discovered us." Chand shuddered, his fear at reliving the moment becoming evident. "I thought he would murder us! I prayed to Allah for mercy, and my prayers were answered, for the Berber lord commanded his men to aid us."
"But why?" Alysson asked, puzzled that lafar should offer comfort to his hated adversaries. "Did he give you a reason?''
Chand shook his turbaned head. "Only that the Larousse Sahib should not be allowed to die. It was not my place to question the Berber's wishes."
"No, of course not. But what happened then?"
"The lord's men saw to all the wounded, even those of the French army, and buried the dead. Then they brought us here . . . only us. There were others taken prisoner but I know not what became of them." His gloomy tone held a hint of fear. "Now we have found you, memsahib, praise Allah, but we are prisoners with you. What does it mean? Does the Berber lord wish to torture us?"
Alysson was quick with her denial.
"I am certain he would never consider such a thing!" She couldn't vouch for Jafar's benign intentions toward the French, but she couldn't believe he would torture a wounded man and an innocent servant.
A frown knitting her brow, she glanced down at her beloved uncle, whose limp hand she still held. She was infinitely grateful to Jafar for bringing her wounded uncle to her, but why had he done it? Simple charity? In the nomad tradition, offering hospitality even to an enemy was a sacred duty. To refuse asylum was a stain upon the Arab character. Perhaps this was so with the Berbers as well. Yet that didn't explain his singling out her uncle . . . unless Jafar intended to use Honoré as another political hostage. That was the only explanation that made sense.
But there were many other aspects of this situation that did not make sense. Why, for example had Jafar taken the time to care for the wounded and bury the dead of his enemies—
The thought made Alysson's throat tighten. Men had died because of her. Her uncle had nearly lost his life, and her devoted servant had sacrificed his freedom, all because of her. "I'm sorry, Chand," she murmured, her voice quivering.
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