"I am not here for material rewards," Sir Guy replied, 'but we have a saying in my country that the workman is worthy of his wage."
"It is an expression that we in this country understand well," Dorian said. "But now the heat passes. There will be time for us to speak again on the morrow. We can ride out to fly my falcons."
The hawking party, a hundred horsemen strong, left Isakanderbad and rode along the edge of the cliff that looked down upon the dry river-course hundreds of feet below. The lowering sun cast mysterious blue shadows over the splendid chaos of tumbled walls and cliffs, and serpentine wadis.
"Why would Alexander choose such a wild and desolate place to build a city?" Verity wondered aloud.
"Three thousand years ago there was a mighty river and the valley floor would have been a garden of green," Mansur replied.
"It is sad to think that so little is left of such a mighty enterprise. He built so much and it was destroyed in a single lifetime by the lesser men who inherited it from him."
"Even Isakander's tomb is lost." Gradually Mansur lured her into conversation, and slowly she lowered her guard and responded to him more readily. He was delighted to find in her a companion who shared his love of history, but as their discussion deepened he found that she was a scholar and her knowledge exceeded his own. He was content to listen to her rather than express his own opinions. He enjoyed the sound of her voice, and her use of the Arabic language.
The huntsmen had scouted the desert for days before and they were able to lead the Caliph to the most likely area in which they might find game. This was a wide, level plain, studded with clumps of low saltbush. It stretched away to the limit of the eye. Now, as it cooled, the air was sweet and clear as a mountain stream, and Verity felt alive and vital. Yet there was a restlessness in her, as though something extraordinary was about to happen, something that might change her life for ever.
Suddenly al-Salil called for a gallop and the horns rang out. They spurred forward together like a squadron of cavalry. Hoofs drummed on the hard-baked sand, and the wind sang past Verity's ears. The mare ran lightly under her, seeming to skim the ground like a swallow in flight, and she laughed. She looked over at Mansur, who rode beside her, and they laughed together for no other reason than that they were young and full of the joy of life.
Suddenly there was a shriller horn blast. A shout of excitement went
up from the huntsmen. Ahead of the line a pair of bustards had been started from the cover of the saltbushes by the thunder of hoofs. They ran with their necks out-thrust, their heads held low to the ground. They were huge birds, larger than a wild goose. Although their plumage was cinnamon brown, blue and dark red it was so cunningly blended to match the desert terrain that they seemed ethereal and as insubstantial as wraiths.
At the sound of the horn the line of riders reined in. The horses milled, circled and chewed their bits, eager to run again, but they held their places in the line while al-Salil rode forward with a falcon on his wrist. It was a desert saker, the loveliest and fiercest of all falcons.
In the short time since they had been in Oman, Dorian had made this particular bird his favourite. It was a tercel, and therefore the more beautiful gender of the species. At three years of age, it was at the peak of its strength and swiftness. He had named it Khamseen, after the furious desert wind.
With the line of horsemen halted, the bustards had not been driven into flight. They had gone back into cover in the saltbush. They must have been lying flat against the earth with their long necks thrust out. They remained still as the desert rocks that surrounded them, concealed from the eyes of the hunters by their colouring.
Al-Salil walked his mount slowly towards the patch of scrub where they had last been seen. Excitement built in the line of watchers. Although Verity did not share the passion of the true falconer, she found her breath coming short and the hand that held the reins was trembling slightly. She glanced sideways at Mansur and his features were rapt. For the first time she felt herself completely in tune with him.
Suddenly there was a harsh, croaking cry, and from under the front hoofs of al-Salil's stallion a huge body launched itself into flight. Verity was astonished at how swiftly and strongly the bustard rose into the air. The whistling beat of the wings carried clearly in the silence. Their span was as wide as the full stretch of a man's arms, blunt at the tips and deep as they hurled the bird aloft.
The watchers began a soft chant as the Caliph slipped the hood off the tercel's marvellously savage head. It blinked its yellow eyes and looked to the sky. The bass drummer began a slow beat that boomed out across the plain, exciting both watchers and falcon.
"Khamseen! Khamseen!" they chanted. The tercel saw the bustard outlined against the hard blue and hated against the jesses that restrained him. He hung for a moment upside down, beating his wings as he struggled to be free. The Caliph lifted him high, slipped the jesses and launched him into the air.
On swift blade-sharp wings the tercel rose, higher and higher, circling. His head moved from side to side as he watched the huge flapping bird that sped across the plain below him. The drummer increased the beat and the watchers raised their voices: "Khamseen! Khamseen!"
The tercel reached the heights, a tiny black shape on sickle wings against the steely blue, towering over his massive prey. Then, abruptly, he cocked his wings back and dropped like a javelin, plummeting towards the earth. The drummer beat a frenetic crescendo, then abruptly cut it short.
In the silence they heard the wind fluting over the wings, and the tercel's stoop was so swift as to cheat the eye. He hit the bustard with a sound like the clash of fighting stags' antlers. The bustard seemed to burst into a cloud of feathers that streamed away on the breeze.
A triumphant cry went up from a hundred throats. Verity found that she was gasping as though she had surfaced from a deep dive below the sea.
Al-Salil recovered his falcon, fed him the bustard's liver and stroked him while he gulped it down. Then he called for another bird. With it on his wrist, he rode ahead with Sir Guy and most of his councillors. In the passion of the hunt that gripped them all, there was no discussion. Verity was no longer needed to translate for them, and she lingered with Mansur. Subtly he slowed his horse and she kept pace with him, so rapt in their talk that she seemed not to realize they were falling further and further behind the Caliph's party.
The antagonism between them evaporated as they talked, and both were animated by the other's proximity. When Verity laughed it was a fetching sound that delighted Mansur, and her handsome, rather austere features were enlivened almost to the point of beauty.
Slowly they forgot the large, colourful entourage in which they rode, and became isolated in the midst of the multitude. A distant shout and the beat of the war drum jerked them back to reality. Mansur rose in his stirrups and shouted with astonishment, "Look! Do you not see them?" The men around them were shouting and the horns blared out; the drummers beat a frenzy.
"What is it? What has happened?" His change of mood was infectious and Verity pressed up close beside him. Then she saw what had caused the pandemonium. On the far slope of the valley the small party of huntsmen led by al-Salil was at full gallop. While casting for bustard they had put up much more dangerous game.
Lions!" Mansur cried. "Ten at least, maybe more! Come, follow me. We must not miss this sport." Verity pushed her mare to keep pace with him as they raced down their side of the valley.
The pride that al-Salil and his hunters were driving before them, were swift, tawny shapes darting through the patches of saltbush, flitting in and out of the steep-sided wadis that rent the tortured desert ground.
The Caliph had passed his falcon to one of the hunters, and they had all snatched their long weapons from the lance-bearers. They were in full chase after the pride, their cries thin and faint with distance. Then there was a sudden terrible roar of pain and fury as al-Salil leaned from the saddle and speared one of the swift shapes. Verity saw the lion bowled
over by the lance thrust, rolling and bellowing in a cloud of pale dust. Al-Salil cleared his weapon with an expert backward sweep and rode on after his next victim, leaving the downed lion grunting its last with the lung blood pumping from its jaws. The riders coming up behind him lanced the dying beast again and again.
Then another of the huntsmen scored with the lance, and another, and all became a wild confusion of racing horses and fleeing yellow cats. The hunters shouted each time they hit. The horses whinnied and shrilled under them, driven mad by the smell of lion blood mingled with the roaring of the wounded cats. The horns blew, the drums pounded and the dust shrouded it all.
Mansur snatched a lance from the bearer who rode behind him and galloped after his father. Verity kept pace with him but the hunt swept away over the crest of the hill before they could join in with the sport.
They passed two dead lions stretched out among the saltbush. Their carcasses were riddled with wounds, and the horses shied at the terrifying scent. By the time they reached the ridge and looked over, the hunt was scattered across the plain. Almost a mile away, they could make out al SaliPs distinctive figure in his flowing white robes leading the hunt, but there was no longer any sign of the lion pride. They had disappeared like brown smoke into the vastness of the desert.
"Too late," Mansur lamented, and reined in his mount. "They have run away from us. We will simply use up the horses to no profit if we try to chase after them."
"Your Highness!" In her agitation Verity did not seem aware that she had used his title. "I had a glimpse of one of the lions breaking away along the ridge." She pointed off towards the left. "It seemed to be heading back towards the river."
"Come, then, my lady." Mansur turned his stallion back. "Show me where you saw it."
She led him along the high ground, and then at an angle off the skyline. Within a quarter of a mile they were out of sight of the rest of the entourage, cantering alone through the wilderness. The excitement was still high in both of them, and they laughed together without
reason. Verity's hat blew from her head and when Mansur would have turned back to retrieve it, she called, "Leave it! We shall find it later." She tossed her blue silk scarf into the air. "This will mark the spot for us when we return."
As she cantered on she shook out her hair. Until now she had covered it with a wide-meshed silk net. Mansur was astonished by its length as it floated over her shoulders in a dense honey-brown cloud, thick and lustrous in the soft evening sunlight. With her hair down her appearance was completely altered. She seemed to have become a wild thing, free and unfettered by the restraints of society and convention.
Mansur had fallen a little behind her, but he was content to follow and watch her. He felt a deep longing welling within him. This is my woman. This is the one I have waited and longed for. As he thought it, he caught a flicker of movement ahead of her running horse. It might have been the flit of the wings of one of the drab little thrushes, but he knew it was not.
He concentrated his attention and the complete picture leaped into his mind. It was a lion: the lash of its tail had alerted him. It was crouching in a shallow gully directly in Verity's path. It was flattened against the ground, which was the same pale brown as its sleek hide. Its ears were laid flat against its skull, so that it looked like a monstrous serpent coiled to strike. Its eyes were an implacable gold. There was pink froth on its thin black lips, and a lance wound high in its shoulder, which had angled down to pierce the lung.
"Verity!" Mansur screamed. "It's there, right in your path. Turn back! For God's sake, turn back!"
She looked back over her shoulder, her green eyes wide with surprise. He did not realize that he had shouted at her in English. Perhaps she was so taken aback by his change of language that she did not understand the import. She made no effort to check her mare, and galloped on towards the crouching lion.
Mansur spurred his stallion to the top of his speed, but he had dropped too far back to catch them. At the last moment the mare sensed the presence of the lion, and shied violently to one side. Verity was almost hurled from the saddle, but she snatched at the pommel and prevented herself going right over. She lost her seat, however, and one toot was out of its stirrup. As she was thrown forward over the mare's neck she hung on with both arms. The mare threw her head at the stench of the lion and the reins were jerked from Verity's hand. She was no longer in control.
The lion charged at the mare from the side. It was uttering deep chesty grunts and with each one bloody froth burst from its lips. The
mare pivoted away and Verity was flung to one side, hanging down her flank with one foot trapped in the stirrup. The lion sprang upwards with both front paws reaching out, the claws fully extended, great yellow hooks that could slice through hide and muscle to the bone.
It struck the mare with a force that sent her staggering back on her haunches, but the lion's claws were sunk into her hindquarters. The mare shrilled with terror and agony and kicked out with both back legs. Verity was trapped between the two plunging bodies and her screams cut across Mansur's nerves. It sounded as though she was mortally wounded.
His stallion was already at full charge. Mansur couched his lance and steered the horse under him with his heels, altering the angle of his attack, reaching forward with the bright lance-head dancing before him like a silver insect. The lion humped up over the mare's back, hanging on to her with the strength of those massive forelegs as she reared and bucked. It was roaring in a continuous bellow of sound. Its flanks were roped with muscle and the rack of its ribs was clearly outlined beneath the skin. He aimed the lance just behind the straining shoulder. It struck cleanly exactly at the spot he had intended. He ran the steel in with the impetus of the stallion's weight. It was almost effortless, just the jar as the steel touched bone, then glided on to transfix the lion from shoulder to shoulder. The beast arched its spine backwards in mortal agony, and the shaft of the lance snapped like a reed. The mare tore herself free of the hooked claws and raced away, the blood from her wounds slicked down her quarters. Still writhing and contorting the lion rolled in the low scrub.
Verity was half under the mare, clinging to the side of her neck, one foot still trapped in a stirrup. If she lost her grip she would be thrown to the ground and dragged along, with the back of her head bouncing along on the stones until her skull cracked open like an eggshell. She had no more breath to spare for screams. She hung on with all her strength, as the mare bolted.
Despite the bloody gashes in her hindquarters the horse ran hard. She was mad with terror, her eyeballs rolled back until the red lining of the sockets glared and silver ropes of saliva trailed from her open mouth. Verity tried to pull herself back into the saddle but her efforts merely goaded the mare to greater speed. In extreme terror she seemed endowed with fresh strength.
Mansur dropped the broken stub of the lance and shouted at the stallion, hammering his heels into the animal's heaving flanks, whipping him across the shoulders with the loose ends of his reins, but he could not catch the mare. They raced back down the slope, and at the bottom
the mare turned towards the ancient riverbed. Mansur sent the stallion after her.
For half a mile they ran on, and the gap between the horses never changed, until the mare's dreadful injuries began to tell. Her stride shortened almost imperceptibly and her back hoofs began to throw outside the line of her run.
"Hold hard, Verity!" Mansur shouted encouragement. "I am gaining on you now. Don't let go!"
Then he saw the brink of the precipice open directly ahead of the mare, and he looked down the sheer wall of rock into the river valley two hundred feet below. Black despair clamped down on his heart as he imagined mare and girl hurled out over the cliff and dropping to the rocks far beneath.
He drove the stallion on with the strength of his arms and legs, and fierce resolve in his heart. The mare weakened visibly and the gap between them closed, but only slowly. At the last moment the mare saw the earth open ahead of her a
nd tried to turn away, but as her front hoofs bit into the loose earth of the rim it broke away under her. She reared and teetered in wild panic, then toppled backwards.
As the mare went over Mansur threw himself from the back of the stallion and on the edge of the precipice he reached out and grabbed Verity's ankle. He was almost jerked out over the drop, but then her stirrup leather snapped and her leg was free. Still her weight dragged him face down on the sill, but he held on with all his strength. The mare fell away under them, dropping fifty feet before striking the cliff face and screaming in terror as she bounded out into the void.
Verity swung like a pendulum, dangling upside down from his right hand by one leg. The skirts of her coat fell over her head, but she dared not move, knowing that it might break his precarious grip on her ankle. She could hear his harsh panting above her, but she dared not look up. Then his voice reached her. "Stay like that. I am going to pull you up." His voice was strangled with the effort.
Wilbur Smith - C11 Blue Horizon Page 63