The Quest tes-4

by Wilbur Smith

He, too, was concentrating on Meren, and he was in Meren's blind zone.

  Meren did not see him so made no effort to defend himself. Imbali swung out on the rope stirrup and threw her axe, which cartwheeled through the air. The Basmara's weight was on his back foot - he was in the very moment of his throw, unable to dodge or duck. The axe struck him in the middle of the forehead and buried itself deep in his skull. Imbali leant down to retrieve it as they swept by. Taita shot an arrow into the body of the third spearman, who dropped the weapon he had been about to throw and tried to pull the arrow out of his belly but the barbs had bitten deep.

  The fourth and last warrior stood his ground. He was poised to make his throw, the shaft of the spear resting on his right shoulder. His eyes were bloodshot with battle rage, and Taita saw that they were fastened on Fenn. She was sitting high on Whirlwind's back, a perfect target. The Basmara grimaced with the effort of launching the heavy spear at her.

  Taita nocked another arrow from his quiver. 'Down, Fenn,' he commanded, in the voice of power. 'Lie flat!' She dropped forward and pressed her face into Whirlwind's mane. Taita threw up his bow, drew until the bowstring touched his nose and lips, then released the arrow.

  The spearman was already swinging his body into the forward stroke, but Taita's flint arrowhead hit the notch at the base of his throat and killed him instantly. However, the spear had already left his hand. Taita watched, helpless, as it flew straight at Fenn. She had her face down and did not see it coming, but Whirlwind did. As it flitted across his nose he shied violently to one side and threw up his head so that Taita lost sight of the spear for a moment. He thought that it had missed her and he felt a leap of relief. But then he heard her cry out in pain and surprise, and saw her writhe on the colt's back.

  'Are you hit?' Taita shouted, but she did not reply. Then he saw the shaft of the spear dangling down Whirlwind's flank, dragging along the ground behind him.

  Taita turned Windsmoke behind the colt and saw at once that the

  head of the spear was lodged in Fenn's bare thigh. She had dropped the reins and was clinging with both hands to the colt's neck. She turned towards him, and Taita saw that she was ash pale, her green eyes seeming to fill half of her face as she stared at him. The shaft of the spear was bucking and kicking as it bounced along the ground, and he knew that the razor edges of the head were working brutally in her flesh, worrying and enlarging the wound. It had lodged close to the femoral artery. If it severed that great blood vessel she would be dead within minutes.

  'Hold hard, my darling,' he called, and glanced over his shoulder. He saw a pack of Basmara in full pursuit after them, baying as they raced through the forest. 'We dare not stop. If we do, they will be upon us in an instant. I am coming to get you.'

  Taita drew his sword and came up beside the colt. He measured his stroke carefully. The sight of the girl in such anguish seemed to restore the strength he had thought lost so many years ago. He focused his mind on the jerking spear. As he swung the heavy bronze blade he shouted a word of power: 'Kydash!'

  In his grip the weapon seemed to take on a life of its own. There is a spot on the cutting edge of a well-balanced blade where all the weight and energy of the blow is concentrated. It caught the hardwood shaft precisely a finger's length above the leather bindings that secured the shank of the head and sliced through it as though it were a green twig.

  The shaft dropped away, and he saw the instant relief that lit Fenn's features.

  'I am coming to get you,' he told her, as he slipped the blade back into its scabbard. 'Be ready.' He pushed Windsmoke in beside her colt and Fenn opened her arms to him trustingly. He slipped his own arm round her waist and lifted her across the gap. She wrapped her arms round his neck as he sat her sideways across Windsmoke's withers.

  'I was so afraid, Taita,' she whispered, 'until you came. Now I know it will be all right.'

  'Hold tight,' he ordered, 'or it will be all wrong.' With his teeth he tore a strip of linen from the hem of her tunic, then pressed the stub of the severed shaft flat against her upper thigh and secured it with the linen. 'Not very neat or pretty,' he told her, 'but you are bravest girl I know, and that will hold it firmly until we get back to Tamafupa.'

  The pursuing Basmara dropped back, and soon disappeared from sight among the trees. They were able to rein down to a trot, but still reached the gates of Tamafupa before the sun had made its noon.

  'Stand the garrison to arms,' Taita ordered Meren. 'Those devils will

  be upon us before another hour has passed.' He lifted Fenn down from Windsmoke's back, carried her to the hut they shared and laid her gently on her sleeping mat.'

  Taita spoke reassuringly to Fenn as he washed away the clotted black blood from around the shank of the spearhead. Then he began a thorough examination of her leg. Until he was ready to operate, he would not remove the linen strip with which he had secured it.

  'You were always a favourite of the gods,' he told her at last. 'The spear has missed the big artery by the breadth of your little fingernail. If we hadn't stopped the sharp edges sawing away inside you they would have ruptured it. Now, lie quietly while I mix you something to drink.'

  He measured a strong dose of the red sheppen powder into a ceramic bowl and topped it up with hot water from the pan that stood on the coals of the central fireplace. 'Drink this. It will make you sleepy and dull the pain.'

  While the drug took effect he searched in his leather medical bag.

  There was a separate compartment in which he kept his silver spoons.

  To his knowledge only one other surgeon had ever owned a set, and he was dead. When he was ready he called Meren, who was hovering at the door of the hut. 'You know what to do,' he said.

  'Of course. You know how many times I have done this before,' Meren replied.

  'You have washed your hands, of course?' Taita asked.

  Meren's expression changed. 'Yes,' he said doubtfully.

  'When?'

  'This morning, before we rode out on patrol.'

  'Wash them again.'

  'I see no reason for it,' Meren muttered, as he always did, but he went to the pan on the fire and filled a bowl.

  'We will need another pair of hands,' Taita decided, as he held the silver cups in the flames. 'Call Imbali.'

  'Imbali? She is a savage. What about one of our own men?'

  'She is strong and clever,' Taita contradicted him. What was more to the point, she was female. Taita did not want another man handling Fenn's naked body. It was bad enough that he must use Meren, but not

  another rough soldier - and the Shilluk women were flighty creatures.

  'Call Imbali,' he repeated, 'and make sure she washes her hands also.'

  Although the red sheppen had sedated Fenn, she groaned and stirred when he disturbed the spearhead. Taita nodded at Meren. Between them they lifted Fenn into a sitting position, then Meren squatted behind her, folded her arms across her chest and pinioned them.

  'Ready,' he said.

  Taita glanced at Imbali, who was kneeling at Fenn's feet. 'Hold her legs straight. Make sure she does not move.' Imbali leant forward and gripped Fenn's ankles. Taita took a deep breath, and focused his mind.

  While he flexed his long, bony fingers, he reviewed every move he must make. Speed and decisiveness were the keys to success. The longer the patient suffered, the more damage was inflicted on body and spirit, and the lower the chances of recovery. Quickly he cut the linen strip that held the spearhead, and gently lifted it into the vertical. Fenn groaned again. Meren had the leather gag ready and slipped it between her teeth to prevent her biting through her tongue.

  'Make sure she does not spit it out,' Taita told him. He leant closer and studied the wound. The movements of the flint had already enlarged it considerably, but not enough to allow him to introduce the silver spoons into the gash. He palpated the swollen flesh and traced the regular pulsing of the great artery. He slipped his first and second finger into the wound to stretch it open, then ra
n them down into the warm raw flesh until he touched the sharp points of the barbs buried there.

  Fenn screamed and struggled. Meren and Imbali tightened their grip.

  Taita stretched the wound channel a little wider. Although his movements were so quick, they were controlled and precise: within seconds he had located the points of the barbs. Fenn's flesh and muscle fibres were clinging to them. With his free hand he took up the spoons, placed them over the shank and ran them into the wound, one on each side of the spearhead. He guided them over the sharp flint to mask it so that he could draw out the spearhead without it snagging.

  'You are killing me!' Fenn screamed. Meren and Imbali were using all their strength, but they could hardly hold her as she wriggled and squirmed. Twice Taita managed to guide the spoons over the barbs, but each time she twisted them loose. At the next attempt, he felt them slide into place. He closed the polished metal over the barbs, and in the same movement drew them upwards. There was a clinging suction as the bloody lips of the wound resisted the movement. With his fingertips deep

  in Fenn's flesh he could feel the artery thudding steadily. It seemed to reverberate through his soul. He concentrated on guiding the spoons past it. If even a sliver of the flint was protruding from the enclosing metal it might catch the artery and slice it open. Smoothly he applied more pressure. He felt the mouth of the wound begin to yield, and then, abruptly, the blood-smeared silver spoons and the flint spearhead came free. Quickly he withdrew his fingers from the wound, and pressed the gaping lips of raw flesh together. With his free hand he snatched the thick linen pad Meren handed to him and pressed it over the wound to staunch the bleeding. Fenn's head fell back. Her screams became soft moans, the tension went out of her limbs, and the rigid arch of her spine relaxed.

  'Your skill never fails to astonish me,' Meren whispered. 'Each time I see you work like that I am in awe. You are the greatest surgeon who ever lived.'

  'We can discuss that later,' Taita replied. 'Now you can help me to stitch her up.'

  Taita was laying the final horsehair stitch when they heard a shout from the northern watch-tower. He did not look up at Meren as he tied the knot that closed the wound. 'I believe that the Basmara have arrived.

  You must go to your duties now. You may take Imbali with you. Thank you for your help, good Meren. If the wound does not mortify, the child will have much to thank you for too.'

  After he had bandaged Fenn's leg, Taita went to the door of the hut and called for Lala, the most reliable and sensible of the Shilluk wives.

  She came with her naked baby on her hip. She and Fenn were close friends. They spent much time together, talking and playing with the infant. Lala burst into loud lamentations when she saw Fenn pale and blood-smeared. Taita took some time to calm her and rehearse her in her duties. Then he left her to watch over Fenn while she slept off the effects of the red sheppen.

  Taita scrambled up the makeshift ladder to join Meren at the north wall of the stockade. Meren greeted him gravely and, without another word, pointed down the valley. The Basmara were advancing in three separate formations. They came at a steady trot.

  Their headdresses nodded and waved in the breeze of their passage, and their columns wound like long black serpents through the forest.

  They were singing again, a deep repetitive chant that chilled the blood of the defenders and made their skin crawl. Taita turned to look along the parapet. Their entire active strength was assembled there, and he was sobered by how few they were.

  'Thirty-two of us,' he said softly, 'and at least six hundred of them.'

  'Then we are evenly matched, Magus, and we are in for some rich sport, I wager,' Meren averred. Taita shook his head in mock-disbelief at such phlegm in the face of the storm that was about to break over them.

  Nakonto stood with the Imbali and her women at the far end of the parapet. Taita walked over to them. As always, Imbali's noble Nilotic features were calm and remote.

  'You know these people, Imbali. How will they attack?' he asked.

  'First they will count our numbers and test our mettle,' she replied, without hesitation.

  'How will they do that?'

  'They will rush directly at the wall to make us show ourselves.'

  'Will they try to set fire to the stockade?'

  'No, Shaman. This is their own town. Their ancestors are buried here.

  They would never burn their graves.'

  Taita returned to Meren's side. 'It is time for you to set up the dummies along the parapet,' he said, and Meren passed the order to the Shilluk wives. They had already placed the dummies in position below the parapet. Now they scampered along the stockade lifting them so that the false heads were visible to the Basmara over the top of the wall.

  'We have seemingly double the strength of our garrison at a single stroke,' Taita remarked. 'It should make the Basmara treat us with a little more respect.'

  They watched the formations of spearmen manoeuvre across the ash strewn ground on which the huts had burnt. The Basmara massed their three regiments in distinct columns, captains at the front.

  'Their drill is sloppy and their formations are untidy and confused.'

  Meren's tone was scornful. 'This is a rabble, not an army.'

  'But a large rabble, while we are a very small army,' Taita pointed'out.

  'Let us delay our celebrations until after the victory.'; The singing ceased, and a heavy silence fell over the field. A single figure left the Basmara ranks and advanced half-way to the stockade. He wore the tall pink flamingo headdress. He posed in front of his men to let them admire his warlike appearance, then harangued them in a high pitched shriek, punctuating each statement with a leap high in the air and a clash of spear against war shield.

  'What is he saying?' Meren was puzzled.

  'I can only guess that he is not being friendly to us.' Taita smiled.

  'I will encourage him with an arrow.'

  'He is seventy paces beyond your longest shot.' Taita restrained him.

  'We have no arrows to waste.'

  They watched Basma, the paramount chief of the Basmara, strut back to his waiting regiments. This time he took up a command position behind the rear ranks. Another silence fell over the field. There was no movement. Even the wind had died away. The tension was as oppressive as the lull before a tropical thunderstorm. Then Chief Basma screeched, 'Haul Haul' and his regiments started forward.

  'Steady!' Meren cautioned his men. 'Let them get in close. Hold your arrows!'

  The massed ranks of the Basmara swept past the outer markers and they began to chant their war-cry. The spears drummed on the shields.

  At every fifth pace they stamped their bare feet in unison. The rattles on their ankles clashed, and the ground jumped at the impact. The fine dust from the ashes of the burned city rose waist high around them so they seemed to wade through water. They came up to the one-hundred-pace markers. The chanting and drumming swelled into a frenzy.

  'Steady!' Meren bellowed, so that his voice carried above the din.

  'Hold hard!' The front rank was coming up to the fifty-pace marker.

  They could see every detail of the weird patterns painted on the Basmara faces. The leaders were past the markers now; and were so close that the archers on the stockade were looking down upon them.

  'Nock and aim!' Meren roared. Up came the bows. They arced as the archers drew. Their eyes narrowed as they aimed along the shafts. Meren knew better than to let them hold the draw, until their arms began to judder. His next command came only a breath behind the last. At that precise moment the dense ranks reached the thirty-pace markers.

  'Let fly!' he shouted, and they loosed as one man. At that range not a single arrow missed. They flew in a massed, silent cloud. It was a mark of

  236 I

  their mettle that no two archers aimed at the same Basmara warrior. The first rank went down as though they had fallen into a pit in the earth.

  'Loose at will!' Meren howled. His archers noc
ked the second arrow with practised dexterity. They threw up, drew and released in one movement, making it appear easy and unhurried. The next rank of Basmara went down, and moments later, the next fell on top of them.

  Those that followed stumbled over growing mounds of corpses.

  'Arrows here!' The cry went up along the top of the parapet, and the Shilluk women scurried forward, bowed under the bundles they carried on their shoulders. The Basmara kept coming, and the archers shot at them until at last they milled about below the stockade trying for a handhold on the poles of the wall to hoist themselves up. Some reached the top, but Nakonto, Imbali and her women were waiting for them.

  The battleaxes rose and fell as though they were chopping firewood.

  Nakonto's cries were murderous as he plied his stabbing spear.

  At last a shrill piping of ivory whistles brought the carnage to an abrupt end. The regiments melted away across the ash-dusted field to where Basma waited to regroup the survivors.

  Meren strode along the parapet. 'Is anyone wounded? No? Good.

  When you go out to pick up your arrows, watch out for those who are feigning dead. It's a favourite trick of such devils.'

  They opened the gates and rushed out to gather up the arrows. The barbs of many were buried in the dead flesh and had to be chopped out with sword or axe. It was grisly work and they were soon as blood spattered as a gang of butchers. Once they had the arrows they collected the spears of the fallen Basmara. Then they ran back into the stockade and slammed the gates.

  The women brought up the waterskins with baskets of dried fish and dhurra cakes. While most of the men were still chewing, the chanting began again and their captains called them back to the parapet: 'Stand to your arms!'

  The Basmara came again in a tight phalanx, but this time the leaders carried long poles they had cut in the forest. When they were shot down by the archers on the wall, the men that followed picked up the poles they had dropped and carried them forward. Fifty or more men died before the poles reached the outer wall of the stockade. The Basmara crowded forward to lift one end of a pole and prop it against the top of the wall. Immediately they swarmed up it, their short stabbing spears clamped in their teeth.