The gates were locked. "Open!" he called.
Only an old woman answered him, her face barely visible behind the slats. Her pale red hair was streaked with gray. "Away! Ye bring death."
"I bring freedom."
"Freedom of the grave." She spit on the ground at his feet. "Ye'll fail. And die. They'll peel the skin from our shoulders for yer sins."
There was a jostling behind her, and three strong young men came to the gate. Their hair was as red as hers once had been. Her sons.
"Aidan? We got your message—we're with you."
"No!" the old woman groaned, clawing at them. "Don't go. It's hopeless." Aidan stood his ground. "Where there is life," he said, "there is hope." The gate opened, but only a few slaves slipped out. "Come!" Aidan called. "Hurry!"
After they were gone, the old woman gave him a withering glance. "God help ye," she said, and shut the gate.
Malik slept alone, one arm still splayed out as if embracing Sophia. An hour had passed since their lovemaking, and the sheets had cooled and dried. Contentment calmed his angry face, as if he dreamed of her surprisingly receptive body, her singularly passionate response to his caresses.
He awakened suddenly, responding to subtle cues that would have escaped the attention of an ordinary man. Soundlessly, he rolled out of bed. His naked skin glistening in the moonlight.
What had awakened him . . . ? His eyes narrowed. His chamber door was three digits open, increasing to four as he watched.
"Who goes there?" he cried.
With no further warning the door flew wide, hard enough to crash against the wall. Three slaves burst in, bearing swords. He recognized them, of course. Musawwir, his handyman and armorer; Quami and N'Bonga, brothers who were Scot-Viking half-breeds. There was no need for words: upraised swords spoke eloquently.
Naked and unarmed, Malik snarled, a wolf at bay.
He charged and hurled a chair at Musawwir, the man in front. The chair smashed the armorer's legs and tumbled him to the floor, and as he went, Malik plucked the sword from his hand. He pivoted so that the staggering Musawwir fell between him and the others. A precisely judged knee to the jaw collapsed Musawwir into a boneless heap. Malik pivoted just in time to parry N'Bonga's clumsy thrust.
Malik snarled, possessed by a kind of wild and crazy rapture. He struck N'Bonga in the face with the hilt of his sword and rolled down, pivoting and pulling the half-breed with him, thrusting his heel into the servant's stomach, heaving upward to catapult the man across the room. Quami was forced to dodge his hurtling body. Before Malik could rise, though, Quami was on him.
On all fours, Malik scuttled like a crab, fighting from the floor, parrying, blocking, and finally pivoting to slash strongly, cutting halfway through Quami's left calf. Blood spurted from the severed artery and the slave toppled, screaming and writhing to the floor.
Malik stood as N'Bonga rose unsteadily to his feet. Almost casually, Malik thrust his sword into N'Bonga's stomach. The man made a high-pitched keening sound, mouth open as if someone had cut the wires controlling his face.
"Look at me," Malik whispered. Slowly, N'Bonga raised his eyes. They were wide and red-rimmed, devoid of all hope.
"Farewell," Malik said, then twisted and withdrew his blade.
Musawwir had recovered from the knee to the face and returned to consciousness with Malik's sword at his throat.
Malik smiled and turned his head, intending to gloat to Sophia that her friends' little plot had failed miserably. For the first time, he noticed that the bed was empty. Unreasoning rage exploded behind his eyes, and he screamed her name until his throat went raw, but there was no answer at all.
Sophia and her baby were already miles down the road, hunched down in a horse-drawn wagon crowded with eight other slaves. She held Mahon desperately tight, praying that Malik was dead, and that despite all odds Aidan and Brian had succeeded in their part of the plot.
And hoping that someone would find Malik's daughter Azinza soon, bundled safe in her crib in Sophia's room. Safe but alone, and if awake, then probably frightened.
So are we all, she thought.
I am afraid, Aidan thought. And this is a time for boldness, not fear.
After another hour's rowing, Aidan was exhausted, but still managed to run from the dock to Ghost Town in time to watch the members of his tuath rouse themselves from slumber, emerging from their huts into Ghost Town's square to face Brian, who stood before them wearing his facial scars like a badge of honor. Aidan felt as if his insides had turned to ice water, but Brian seemed as solid as rock.
"My people!" Brian called to the slaves, who no longer yawned and stretched, but stood wrapped in thin coats or blankets, shivering in shock. "Tonight is the night we have dreamed of, prayed for in the groves, since many of us were children. It is a time for action. A time for freedom."
"What have you done?" old Festus asked, wringing his hands nervously.
"Freed you!" he cried. "To die, or live, as free people, as some of you were born. If not you, your parents, or grandparents. There's not a one of you who doesn't remember, deep inside, that your labor, the sweat of your brow, used to be yours . . . that your children were yours, not things that could be sold away. Your women were yours. Your bodies and hearts yours. We worship our good Lord Jesus Christ, or the very earth and sky and trees—not some filthy black Muhammad and his Allah. Rise up!" he
screamed. "This night is the night. Take sword and rifle in hand, and we will have our lives again—or bathe this land in blood!"
Judging by their faces, they had been roused from slumber to be thrust into nightmare. Some of them began to display a bit of excitement, but most looked like they wanted to find a hole and crawl in.
"We're with you, Brian," Molly said. "What do we do now?"
"First," Brian said, "we finish old business."
A general commotion among the assembled was accompanied by kicking, thrashing, and screaming as Aengus, the kitchen master, was dragged out. He was no longer laughing and confident. In fact, he was a bloody mess of rags and torn, bruised flesh, his corpulent face swollen and pocked. His arms were bound behind him.
Brian held his hands up, and the crowd quieted. "Here's part of the reason none of us have ever escaped. We fought more than the bloody blacks. We were betrayed by one of our own!"
Aengus managed to rise to his knees. "Please—you can't do this."
Brian came close. "We can't? How could you? We trusted you, and you sold us. Was it good, licking up after the masters? Was it worth it?"
Aengus's neck was noosed, and the rope pulled tight. Hands tied behind him, he could not loosen the knot. Slowly, his face darkened as he struggled for breath.
Brian lowered his voice to an intimate whisper in Aengus's ear. "You just lie there and strangle awhile. Think on your sins. Decide which God will judge you. And hope you picked right."
The traitor sputtered, a thin string of spit depending from the corner of his mouth, his eyes red and staring.
As if that had dismissed the matter, Brian addressed the crowd again. Most of them stared at Aengus, who twitched, purpling, in the dust.
"Now—who's with me?"
"They'll hunt us down!" old Festus quavered.
"We've speared the thoths in their pen," Brian said. "They were just animals, not demons at all. Their handlers are with them in hell. Who's with me?"
Muttering, only half of the servants stepped forward. The others looked aghast at the dying Aengus, muttering and turning away in fear, perhaps wondering if that would soon be their fate as well.
Brian was disgusted. "The rest of you—stay the hell out of our way." He turned without another word and returned to the house.
As Aidan watched and paced, Sophia's wagon drew abreast of the estate gates. Several of the villagers drew the latch and swung the door wide; she stepped down, her eyes fixed on Aidan so intently she seemed entranced.
His feet seemed to move of their own accord. His eyes took in all of her at once,
including the blessed sight of Mahon bundled in her arms.
Aidan crushed her to him, their mouths fusing as if it were the first and last kiss of their lives. He brushed his lips against Mahon's smooth warm brow, drinking in his scent. Their three hearts beating in harmony, any doubts he might have harbored, any fears that their love couldn't survive its terrible trial, dissolved in that moment.
"God," he murmured. "Sophia. Mahon. My family."
"Don't say it," she murmured. "Not any of it. It's all past now. All past." She soothed his hair as if he were a child.
It's not past, he thought. It's just beginning. But if there existed any hope for freedom at all, he would take the chance.
Then Aidan held Mahon on high, tears standing in his eyes. His small, precious, fragile family was together again. Aidan, Sophia, Mahon. Together.
I'm keeping my word, Mother, he said in silence. I'm keeping my word.
Chapter Fifty-five
First came sound: low, harsh laughter, the kind used by desperate men to mask their anxiety. In gradual degrees, Kai returned to consciousness. His mind awoke before his body began to move, and he kept his eyes closed. From the mutters and grim chuckles, he believed that no one noticed his return to awareness. Vertiginous waves of nausea hammered at him, but he forced himself to remain still until his wits had further returned. He wiggled his arms experimentally, and discovered that they were bound.
He fluttered his eyes open a fraction, saw endless shelves of books and scrolls, and realized that he was lying on his side in his father's downstairs study.
When he opened his eyes more widely he saw brother Ali's face, purpled with rage. Ali was seated on the floor, only a few cubits away, arms apparently fastened behind his back. His legs stretched out straight on the floor, bound by leather thongs. The next thing Kai saw was Olaf, the right side of his face tied with a bloody bandage. He was armed with a muzzle loader, a wicked-looking kitchen knife thrust into his belt. He heard Brian's voice behind him, and struggled to turn over to see him.
Brian was darkly exultant. "Well, masters, a new day is dawning, one I'm sure you never thought you'd see."
"Burn in hell," Ali said.
"After you, sir," Brian said, and lashed Ali's mouth with the back of his hand. Ali spit red onto the Persian carpet, but his disdainful expression never changed.
There seemed no purpose in continuing to pretend unconsciousness. With a loud groan he sat up and opened his eyes. The guards glanced at him, one of them checked his bonds, and then they ignored him.
Kai searched the room, recognizing the five servants who had gone rogue: rough, hard men, good workers all. He shuddered to think how that muscle and animal endurance might now be turned against them.
Why hadn't he seen this coming? Damn! In retrospect, it all made sense.
But then, almost everything does. In retrospect.
He still had courage. These scum temporarily had the upper hand, but he was a black man, blessed with the intelligence and clarity Allah had denied these savages. That was all the edge he needed. They had but to make a single mistake, and their pitiful rebellion was done.
And they would. No matter how well planned this part of their plan appeared to have been, they would make a mistake . . .
Kai's head throbbed abominably, and he could taste a thread of blood leaking from a bruised cheek. Still, he was relatively fortunate: Abu Ali's scalp was clotted, Ali's eye was swollen and he bled from nose and mouth. Babatunde, Lamiya, and Elenya lay bound in their nightgowns, apparently untouched. Bitta was just now stirring to groaning, bleary consciousness.
Brian squatted next to Ali, balanced easily on the balls of his feet. "I promised Aidan not to kill ye or yer brother, you know? But I would take great pleasure in peeling off yer pretty face, leave it hangin' on the wall."
Ali glared at him.
"Ye like that?" Brian grinned. "Would Allah still know ye? What do ye say, Babatunde?"
"Al-Wasi," the Sufi said, "the All-Comprehending, knows His own."
Brian pressed the point of a knife into the flesh beneath Babatunde's jaw. "Yer a good man. Are ye ready to stand before Allah?"
Babatunde met his eyes unblinkingly. Despite his flowing, flowered blue nightshirt, he maintained his dignity. “Today I stand. Tomorrow, so stand we all. We will meet again, hands untied, no sword between us."
Brian's voice was as soft as snakeskin. "And what will be between us, pray tell?"
Truth."
Brian's grin widened, as if he appreciated that answer. Before he could reply Sophia and Aidan entered the room. Aidan refused to meet Kai's gaze, but Sophia glared at him defiantly, clutching Mahon as if his mere existence justified any action.
Brian nodded. "Good boy, Aidan," he said. "She'll be safe with the other women." He waved to Cormac, and the slave took Sophia's arm, leading her away.
Kai and his family were all bound in one corner of the room, under guard. Brian and a few of the others were gathered around the Wakil's desk, talking so softly that Aidan had to join the circle to hear their words.
A map was spread out on the great table, and they were whispering plans.
"We have choices," Brian said, "a thing that they never wanted us to know. It's been damned near impossible just to look at a good map."
The new freemen looked at their leader with hopeful, frightened eyes. "What are they, Brian?"
"Choose your direction," he said.
"North."
"North," said Brian, "is Vineland."
His followers grumbled.
"True!" Brian whispered. "They're the ones sold us, or our grandparents, to begin with. But I hear gold can buy safety, and there's gold in this house. Gold earned by our sweat and sacrifice."
"South?" Molly asked. "What about south?"
“The Aztecs."
“They'll eat us!"
"Not so loud," he cautioned, glancing over at the Wakil and his clan. "If they hear us, we have to kill them. They'll chase runaway slaves to the edge of the province. Kill the Wakil, and you'll never stop running."
Molly nodded ruefully.
"So," Brian said. "So we've been told the Aztecs eat human flesh. Could be truth . . . could be lies. West are the Apache. They've been pushed off their land, and have little love for Bilalistan."
He turned to Aidan. "How did it go at Berhar's?"
"Poorly," he replied. "Only a dozen joined us."
"This is bad," said Olaf. He scratched at the crimsoned bandage lumped over his earhole. "This isn't what you promised!"
"Shut up!" Aidan said. "No one believes we can make a go of it. Let us take a few homesteads, raze a few farms, and they'll come flocking."
"Or maybe we'll get the skin ripped off our faces—"
"Then go back! We don't need you—"
Their argument was interrupted by the sound of shots. Aidan's head whipped around. "What the hell . . . ?" One of the field workers rushed into the room, his chest bloodied. He collapsed in Brian's arms. "Malik!" he groaned. "Malik has come."
Sophia looked stricken. "God! I thought he was dead!"
Raw panic clawed at Aidan. "Brian!" he said. "What now?"
"This house is a fortress," their leader snapped. "Gunter! Troy! Spread the word. Draw those damned curtains! Guard the hostages and take your stations. This thing is only beginning."
Swiftly, the rebels assumed their positions. Brian sent runners to the slaves downstairs, and Aidan heard hollow thumps as furniture was dragged or tumbled against doors and windows.
The minutes dragged on, and Aidan grew even more alarmed at the nervousness displayed by the other men in the room. It would only take one foolish action to bathe the entire affair in blood. It was a clutch of very frightened slaves who held the Wakil, his family, and a few loyal servants under rifle point. From time to time he could hear shots and screams from outside. Unable to repress curiosity, Aidan peeked out through the curtained window.
Just beyond rifle range, Malik reined his horse back, a d
emonic black mare snorting gusts of steam from her nostrils. Chaos and death were abroad in that night. As rebel slaves struggled to pull him from his mount, Malik slashed and hacked with his sword, and with every swift, brutal motion a man reeled back damaged or dying.
The night filled with wails and carnage. Malik seemed to look directly at Aidan's window, shaking his sword, before confronting two more slaves who rushed in wielding flaming torches. Sparks and sword-strokes flew. A scream. Two screams: one of rage, one of anguish. One man stumbled to the ground, right hand gripping the stump of a left wrist. The other tried to flee. Malik drew his jambaya and threw. The fleeing man went down like a felled tree, a strange new stalk growing at the base of his skull.
"Bastard!" Brian said behind him.
Abu Ali shook the blood from his face. "Brian. Listen to me. There doesn't have to be any more bloodshed."
"Oh," Brian replied quietly. "I'm afraid there does."
A voice cut through the chaos, freezing them all. "Brian!"
Aidan and Brian peered back out. Astride his steed, Malik held his bloody sword out like a firebrand in his right hand. In his left, he held a severed head by a rope of limp blond hair.
"Brian!" Malik screamed. "I know you're behind this, you son of an Irish whore. Come out! Let's settle this, the two of us!"
The slaves looked to Brian, wondering if he would take the challenge. Brian's answering laugh was bitter. "Champions? I know enough about these bastards to know that they'd never offer single combat if the odds were even. We have what he wants."
He cracked the window. "Malik! I have your brother and his precious whelps. I want safe passage to the west, and you can have them. My word for yours!"
"You'll never get there, Brian!"
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