Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1986

by Cahena (v3. 1)

  The stream was broad and shimmery and, from the way a horseman splashed across, it was shallow and firm-bottomed. The horseman was Bhakrann, sweaty and hard-panting as he reined in beside the Cahena and Wulf. He pointed across the water.

  “Look there,” he bade them.

  The land beyond was fairly level, with coarse grass in bunches and tufts of timber. In the distance stirred a dark mass of movement.

  “There they are,” wheezed Bhakrann. “I was among them. I’ve been there so many times that Hassan knows me, thinks I’m one of them — once he saluted me as a friend. I heard him give orders that they ride to that opposite bank in battle formation and stop for the night, staying in their saddles.”

  “He’s a fool,” said the Cahena. “We’ll dismount to wait.”

  “He promised them victory,” went on Bhakrann. “I rode here as if I were his scout, then I outran other scouts and came to tell you.”

  The Cahena hurried messengers to order all elements of her force to halt a hundred yards or so from the river and to call the chieftains to her. Those chieftains came at a gallop and dismounted to kiss her shadow in the evening light. Wulf joined them in a group around her.

  “We’ll wait for their charge here, probably at first light,” she announced. “Our line of spearmen on foot will sleep in formation, three deep. The mounted companies will camp behind them, unloose the saddle girths but not take the saddles off, and keep their weapons to hand. No fires anywhere, eat cold rations. And every fourth man will be on watch, with reliefs every two hours. I won’t sleep at all myself, won’t even pitch my tent.”

  “I won’t sleep, either,” Wulf volunteered.

  “Nor I,” said Daris. “Nor I, nor I,” said Yaunis and Ketriazar.

  “What shall I do with my archers?” asked Lartius.

  “Group them at our far left, just behind the spearmen there,” directed the Cahena. “The enemy won’t have their shields to guard them from that angle. Send for Jonas; have him bring his archers to join those others.”

  She looked levelly at one chieftain after another.

  “I suggest that everybody pray to whatever gods or spirits he worships,” she said. “Send that word through the army.”

  All hurried away to do that.

  Over across the river, the great blotch of the invading host had halted. It stretched left and right, as far as Wulf could see. The sun had set in the west. A tenseness crept into the dusk.

  At the place where Wulf’s camp was made, Djalout spread his bedding.

  “Prayer, she’s said, to any kind of god,” said Djalout. “Do you pray?”

  “Do you?” asked Wulf, without answering the question.

  “Which god should I pray to? I was born a Jew, I professed Islam, I went to Egypt and was a Christian there.”

  He stroked his beard as he spoke, and Wulf stroked his own.

  “Jews, Moslems, Christians,” Wulf said. “They all worship what once must have been the same ruler of heaven and earth. Maybe there’s just one god for all those faiths, under different names.”

  “Where those faiths rule, yes.” Djalout nodded. “But what about out here? What god listens out here?”

  “I don’t know,” said Wulf. He raised his voice: “Susi, don’t worry about my horse. I’ll make a little tour before I turn in.”

  He mounted and rode at a walk along the great extension of the spearmen. There were thousands of them, their three close-ordered lines extending for two miles or so. Those of Lartius’s command chattered together, somewhat nervously, and here and there one of them drank from his wine bottle that had been forbidden on the march. Beyond, with the line formed by Yaunis, there was less noise. He heard murmurs, as though of the prayers urged by the Cahena. He thought of what Djalout had said about gods. To whom, to what, should Wulf pray? He hadn’t prayed since leaving Carthage.

  Turning, he walked his horse back to where the Djerwa had taken possession.

  Those spearmen had lain down side by side, muffled in cloaks, except for those on guard. A hundred yards or so behind the triple line were gatherings of horsemen, riders and beasts at rest. He saw young Uchia, some paces to the rear of the prone spearmen, sitting with hands clasped around his updrawn knees, his head sunk between his shoulders. Wulf smiled in the dark. There sat a tired young man, drowsing after the long march that had brought him to the battle he craved.

  And Wulf saw something else, moving down the bank in the shadows behind Uchia, a something itself strangely shadowy.

  Wulf stared. It was a something taller than a man, a gnarled, angle-jointed body of a something, that stooped to brood over Uchia. Its massive head sprouted great curved horns. It was Khro.

  Khro, attention riveted upon Uchia. Selecting Uchia. Khro, with horns like the crescent moon, with a jutting bull-muzzle, with gauntly splayed shoulders, with uncouthly straddled legs. Light from somewhere in the sky picked up a glint in the fixed eyes.

  Wulf sat his saddle and watched. The Minotaur must have been like that in its Cretan labyrinth, when Theseus groped his way to it and killed it. Might Khro be the ghost of the man-devouring monster Theseus had killed, risen here to do more evil? But Khro could be faced and driven. There had been the crude picture on the tomb at last night’s camp, the horned thing running from the charioteer. On sudden impulse, Wulf rasped his sword out of its sheath. He twitched his rein and rode straight in.

  For one moment he saw Khro plain, horrible. Then Khro went blurred, vanished before his eyes like a puff of smoke. Khro was gone, would not face Wulf, would not choose him for death. Khro had faded to somewhere else, to choose others.

  Wulf shrugged his big shoulders to keep from shivering, and sheathed his sword again. He was safe from Khro, but many would die in the coming battle. Wulf mourned those deaths and wondered if Khro visited the Moslem array, singled out victims there.

  He dismounted upslope from where his companions slept, and loosened his saddle girth and stroked the horse’s head and spoke soothingly to it. The other horses slept, standing with planted hoofs, like the good saddle horses they were. Wulf slowly paced on foot, behind the lines of recumbent warriors.

  He had said, with the Cahena, that he would not sleep that night. And he could not sleep now. How could he, when he had seen Khro on the prowl?

  * * *

  XIV

  Wulf sat on tufty grass for a space, sat in the dark not far from Uchia, half sprawled in his sleep. The warriors lay in their lines. They did not stir. They might have been lines of dead, struck down where they had stood in battle. It might be like that tomorrow, if the Moslems prevailed.

  Nobody made a sound. If the men on guard prayed as they had been ordered to, they did not pray aloud. Wulf thought again of what Djalout had said, how perhaps other gods ruled here than the civilized deities of Israel, Christianity, Islam. There was Khro, for instance, Khro the messenger of death, who might have been a god once, who now crept in the dark before a battle to choose those who would die.

  What happened to gods when their peoples perished, or turned away after other faiths? Did gods die then? What had happened to the gods of Greece and Rome, of Babylon and Canaan, what about the three hundred and sixty grotesque idols at Mecca, one for every day of the Arabian year, before Mohammed cast them out? It might be unchancy to be a god when worship stopped, when prayers were chanted no more, when the odor of incense, of sacrificial blood died out of the air above the altar. In Wulf’s England the church was strong, but here and there the people still built the Beltane fires, stayed awake all night to welcome midsummer, trembled in fear of the spirits out and wandering on the eve of All Hallows. And what about here, with the Imazighen bowing to gods of all sorts? How long could those gods live and prevail?

  Wulf’s eyes were wide awake in the night. He did not feel weary, not even when he got up on his feet and paced here and there. He looked off to where the Cahena must be awake, too, thinking of what dawn would bring. She knew, she said, that her people would triumph, that fr
om the Moslem host would come a gift of help, of inspiration. She was sure of victory, and Wulf was sure, too. But the fight would be terrible, spreading far over the land, a greater battle than any he had ever seen, had ever imagined.

  Wulf had said to Bhakrann that he did not love war, and he had said the truth. War was ugly. But when it came upon you, you’d better be good at it.

  To pass that long night, anticipating and preparing, was an exercise in endurance. It was like wearing a way through rock. Wulf glanced to where Djalout slept, remembered that conversation about gods. The Christian Deus, the Hebrew Yahweh, the Moslem Allah — all of them somehow the same to begin with, all of them versions of a spirit all-powerful and all-knowing, perhaps with a blizzard of beard, with hands that could hold the sun and moon and stars. Perhaps with a smile caught deep in that beard, with kind, understanding eyes. No need to tremble before such a presence. But here, Djalout had said, other gods reigned, obscure, grotesque, dubious. Would they, those strange and terrible ones, decide the victory tomorrow, the defeat tomorrow?

  Wulf cursed the thought away. He would be fighting men, not gods or devils. Moslems were strong in war, but he had killed Moslems in his time and would kill Moslems when morning came. The Cahena had sworn that he, Wulf, would live through whatever happened. Uchia, slumbering yonder, had been given no such promise. And Khro had focused fatal attention upon poor young Uchia.

  “You’re awake,” said Bhakrann, strolling up to stand beside Wulf. “So am I. You and I don’t need to sleep before a fight.”

  Wulf had taken a leather bottle in his hand. “Have some wine,” he invited, and Bhakrann took the bottle and drank, and Wulf had a swallow himself.

  “There’s an iron taste to your wine,” Bhakrann said. “Many will taste iron pretty soon. I’m ready. I wish it was happening now.”

  Wulf strained his eyes to peer across the darkened river. He saw red glows here and there — the enemy had campfires, while the Cahena’s host lay in deep night. “I’m as ready as you are, Bhakrann,” he said, “but I don’t particularly look forward to it. I’ve come a long way across the world, fighting. It’s lost whatever novelty it might have had when I started out twelve or thirteen years ago.

  “You’re bored with it,” suggested Bhakrann.

  “Not exactly. I’d better not be bored when I’m going to have to fight for my life.”

  Bhakrann chuckled. “You’ve been seeing too much of Djalout,” he said. “You’re beginning to talk like him. Now, I’m going to walk around here and there. Care to come along?”

  They strode, side by side, between the close-drawn triple rank of sleeping spearmen and the silent bivouac of men and horses up the bank to the rear. Here and there moved javelin-bearing men on guard, craning their necks to look beyond the river.

  “Our Djerwa will fight to win,” said Bhakrann. “What do you expect from all those city people with Lartius?”

  “I’ll have to wait and see,” replied Wulf. “Anyway, he brought archers, and maybe they’ll do something. The Cahena sent the few archers from Tiergal to form up with the ones that Lartius brought. Jonas is with them.”

  “And so is his daughter Daphne,” said Bhakrann. “She’s a fine-looking young woman, have you noticed?”

  “I have.”

  Wulf fancied he heard a murmur of voices somewhere. He had heard that sort of murmur before, when the Cahena had called it up in her inner cave at Tiergal. He frowned. Did he imagine it?

  “We’ll win,” he said fiercely, to Bhakrann and all the world. “Whip them, show them a quick way back from here. The Cahena says so.”

  Bhakrann showed his teeth in a smile. “You believe what she says about it, then?”

  “Yes,” said Wulf.

  “You believe everything she says about anything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ve become an Imazighen,” said Bhakrann. “A Djerwa. I believe, too. We’ll win, and you and I will live to see it.”

  Djalout’s talk about deities here in their own land — Wulf remembered that talk.

  “‘Happy he who knows the country gods,’” he quoted aloud. “‘Pan and old Sylvanus and the sisterhood of the nymphs.’”

  “What did you say?” asked Bhakrann.

  “It was Virgil who said it,” replied Wulf. “I read it in his Georgics.”

  “That’s right, you can read. I told you I couldn’t.”

  Wulf smiled, feeling relaxed for the first time that night. “Maybe when this war business is over, I’ll teach you your letters.”

  They dawdled along to the flank of the Djerwa formation. A young officer of Lartius’s following met them and asked what they thought the morning would bring. A mounted scout came to join them. It was Zeoui. He reported that he had been across the river and that the Moslems were waking up.

  “They’re forming in three big bunches,” said Zeoui. “They’re thicker than fleas on a goat and a lot more dangerous. They’ll try to hit us all along our line.”

  “We’ll be ready,” said Bhakrann, and he looked up at the stars. “It’s almost morning. You from those Cirta people, better go get them on their feet. Tell them not to be any more afraid than they can help.”

  The officer headed away. “Look after your own men and their fears,” he said over his shoulder.

  Wulf made swift strides back toward the center of the Djerwa position. The Cahena was there, surrounded by aides. He knew her robe-draped outline, even in the dark.

  “I know what they’ll try to do, and where,” she said when Wulf told the news brought by Zeoui. “Their middle force will come straight across here.” Her eyes were bright in the darkness, her face seemed to be carved skillfully, nobly, out of stone. “Get the men ready,” she said.

  Wulf shouted orders. He heard Uchia and other subchiefs repeat them, all the way left and right. The dark shapes of the spearmen rose, holding their triple line. Wulf ran to his horse, tightened the saddle girth. “Good horse,” he said, touching the sleek neck. He hurried into his mail jacket and put on the helmet Bhakrann had given him. Susi and Gharna readied their own mounts, slung their sheaves of javelins at their backs.

  “The sun’s coming up,” Bhakrann roared somewhere. “They’ll be coming up, too. Let’s all get at least one of them apiece.”

  Rosy light showed far to the east. Wulf saw the great spread of the enemy force on the far shore of the stream. He reined over to take a leader’s place in front of a ready formation of the Djerwa cavalry. Swiftly he slung his shield to his left arm and loosened his great sword in its sheath. Over yonder, the Moslems had drawn into great, clotted masses. Many Moslems, many.

  “Ulululallahu akhbar!”

  That war cry thundered up from thousands of throats. There they came, at a gallop. They were at the brink, they splashed across. The sun’s bright rim had risen off there behind them. Wulf could see individual riders in the charge, close together, weapons flashing above their heads.

  “Allahu akhbar —”

  God is great, they yelled, they believed. Here they came, the crowd of them, straight at the waiting line.

  “There is also the Cahena!” roared back the spearmen, into the hurrying faces of the enemy.

  “Stand to it!” Wulf heard the excited cry of Uchia, there on foot with the triple line. Here came the rushing horses, and then up rose the stout, slanted spears, each with its butt driven hard into the soil, a sudden deadly hedge. And the horses came upon the points with a crash like falling timbers, and they screamed with agony as they impaled themselves.

  Hoofs and heads and manes tossed. Gray, brown, and black bodies crashed down. Riders flew from their saddles. More riders clattered from behind, and the second and then the third lines planted their weapons to meet that headlong assault. Here and there the men on foot were borne down, but the charge had been thrown into a bloody confusion. Fallen men and horses built into a floundering wall. Rear elements stumbled and broke against it.

  “It worked!” cried Wulf. “Now —”


  He lifted his sword high and urged his war horse forward. Spearmen fell away to right and left before him, running to find their own mounts and join the counterattack. A wordless howl beat up from the men riding behind Wulf. He saw Uchia on foot to one side, and even as Wulf saw him Uchia went down under the frantic blow of a Moslem scimitar. Riding in, Wulf sped a swift slash and down went the slayer, across Uchia’s body. Wulf put his horse to a mighty jump over two chargers that struggled in crippled pain on the ground, and drove in among the discomfited Moslems beyond.

  Most of those were splashing back across the river, but some made a stand against him. He blocked a blow with his shield and slid his own point into the adversary’s shaggy throat. “Ohoy!” yelled Wulf, the Saxon battle shout. His companions hurled javelins with deadly accuracy. Enemy riders swung away from that tumbled press of death and terror. They ran, they were demoralized. They fled across the river. Wulf led his men after them.

  “There is also the Cahena!”

  That was Bhakrann, cutting down a Moslem. Wulf, speeding past him, spared a look to the left. Over acres of ground, Moslems retreated. Lartius had managed to tam them back. It must be happening everywhere. Hassan’s army, put to that overconfident charge, had been stopped, was being routed.

  Wulf sent his horse churning across the shallow river. Here and there on the far side, Moslems held up their hands in token of surrender. Imazighen warriors snatched the weapons from such captives, pushed them from their horses, herded them toward the river, away from the battle that suddenly was not so much of a battle.

  “Don’t kill any prisoners,” Wulf shouted to one group.

  “We won’t,” came back a cheerful bawled assurance. “The Cahena says not to.”

  Others spurred to join Wulf. They rode toward a knot of Moslems that had stopped, trying to oppose the pursuit. Wulf was the first to charge into that party, hewing as he charged. But he had ceased to be a commander, had become just a death-dealing warrior. Fighting thus, with one and then another, he had lost touch with the main aspect of the action. Anyway, the enemy was running again, and he checked his panting horse to watch. This battle, what was it all about? Why had these strangers come all the way from Carthage, come all the way from the east beyond, intruding into the very mouth of hungry death? Senseless, senseless. Now they ran. Senseless the battle had been, like all battles.