Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1986

by Cahena (v3. 1)

  He and his followers reached a little cluster of farmhouses. Past that, the Moslems flogged their horses to a lathery sweat, with miles of level ground ahead, ground dotted with groves and strung with little streams. Up overhead soared vultures, their wings motionless in flight, looking for the dead meat provided them here. Wulf pressed his men after that retreating army. Wulf sweated, too. He steamed inside his mail and under his helmet, and his beard felt clammily wet. He spared a look to either flank. Moslems ran everywhere, except for those who would run no more, who lay motionless and waited for the vultures. The Cahena’s forces harried the retreat.

  The sun glowered, well up in the eastern sky. Wulf wondered how long this confused violence had gone on. He had been so murderously busy that it had seemed only moments. But he was tired with it; his horse was tired, too. Near at hand trotted a riderless gray horse, a big animal that could bear his weight. He caught its bridle and tamed his own fagged beast over to Susi, who came up behind. He swung into the saddle of the gray. That was a handsome saddle, silver-mounted, it must have belonged to a Moslem officer.

  Ahead of him, the pursuit had lagged somewhat. The wide level of ground was strewn with bodies, like sheaves of grain on a harvest field. He rode near two of them, lying on their faces with javelins jutting upward from their backs. Victorious Imazighen scurried here and there, plundering dead and captured Moslems of weapons, armor, purses. Bhakrann rode near Wulf and waved his sword, which ran red to its very hilt.

  “I don’t know how many I’ve killed,” he said. “I don’t count the ones who were running. By now, they’re all running. Look up there, we’ve captured some of their supplies.”

  Yells of self-congratulation rose where a line of baggage camels had been overtaken, each beast laden with food. Wulf rode there, rummaged in a pannier, and brought out a scone of wheat bread. Gratefully, he bit into it. Beyond him he saw Lartius, exploring a captured bundle of dried fruits. Munching, he hailed Wulf.

  “These Moslems didn’t bring along any wine,” he complained. “Too bad, my men are running low on wine.

  “From what I could see, your force did very well against that attack,” said Wulf, and Lartius smiled.

  “Our archers more or less slaughtered them,” he said. “Ours, and some from among the Djerwa. One of those was a young woman, a very handsome young woman. I think her name’s Daphne.”

  “She’s Grecian. Her father is an armorer among us, an archer, too.”

  Lartius ate a fig. “I wouldn’t mind taking her with me to Cirta, to have in my household.”

  Wulf only half heard him. He looked ahead. Off in the distance, near a grove of scrubby trees, moved a horse with a man walking beside it.

  “Who’s that?” he wondered aloud, and shook his reins and rode to see.

  Trotting briskly, he narrowed the distance. Neither that horse nor that man moved faster than a walk. Both must be weary. Closer, and Wulf saw that the man wore a white turban. A Moslem, then, an enemy, left behind by the retreat of his fellows. Wulf kicked his horse’s flank to make it canter and closed in, sword in hand.

  “Surrender!” he shouted in Arabic.

  The man dropped the rein of his horse and tumed. He was slim and young, with a rich scarlet cloak. He wore a gold brooch at the front of his turban. His pointed beard was like black silk. He drew a scimitar that shone like silver, and fell on guard.

  Wulf reined in at close quarters, leaned, and with a flick of his own blade sent the scimitar bounding and flashing across the grass-tufted earth. He swung out of his saddle.

  The young Moslem flung out his slim, empty hands, palms up.

  “I am Khalid ibn Yezid al-Kasai,” he said. “A companion of General Hassan ibn an-Numan, an officer of his army. Go on and kill me. I’m not afraid to die.”

  * * *

  XV

  Wulf smiled in his sweaty beard. He felt like smiling. Far away to the east the rout of the Moslems was being harried, and he found himself relaxed, the easiest he had felt all morning. At the girdle of the young man he spied a jeweled dagger hilt, and, still holding his sword ready, he shot out his left hand and drew away the weapon. It was beautifully keen. Quickly he bent and shoved it into the top of his boot.

  “Why should I kill you?” he asked genially. “I’ve never yet killed a helpless man. No, you’re my prisoner.”

  “You savages kill, I know that,” said Khalid ibn Yezid. “Go on and kill me. It’s the will of Allah.”

  Wulf laughed aloud and shook his helmeted head. “It’s not my will. And we don’t kill prisoners. Our queen says not to do that.”

  “Your queen, your sorceress.” Khalid’s white teeth showed. “Your demon-obeying enchantress. I’ve heard about her. She must have used black magic to win today.”

  “If it was magic, it wasn’t black magic.” Again Wulf looked to where distant horsemen harried other distant horsemen. “Khalid, you call yourself. That s the name of a great Arabian champion.”

  “Khalid ibn an-Walid, the sword of Islam. I’m his namesake, a close relation to his family.” Khalid drew a long, unhappy breath. “If you won’t kill me, what will you do with me?”

  He had lowered his hands to his sides; he wavered on his feet. He was young, exhausted, unhappy. Wulf walked to where Khalid’s fallen scimitar lay and picked it up. It was a beautiful weapon, its blade engraved with its owner’s name in Arabic, and not a fleck of blood on it. Plainly Khalid had done no serious fighting. Wulf tucked the scimitar under his arm and faced Khalid again.

  “We’ll go to headquarters,” he said, and looked at Khalid’s horse, standing with lowered head. “Get up and ride, Khalid. You can’t get away. Your poor beast can no more than walk with you.”

  Khalid listlessly mounted the sagging beast. Wulf noted that under Khalid’s rich robe was a richer coat of gold-flecked mail, and that gold tassels dangled from the toes of his handsome red boots. Wulf wiped his own big blade on the hem of his cloak, which was already blood-spotted, and swung into his own saddle. Susi joined them, leading Wulf’s other horse. Wulf pointed back to where men gathered around the captured baggage camels. The Cahena’s red banner rose among them.

  “We’ll report there,” said Wulf.

  Susi led the spare horse on the far side of Khalid as they headed back, and Wulf examined the captured scimitar. It balanced beautifully in the hand. “A splendid weapon,” he said to Khalid, sticking it back inside his belt.

  “It’s mine no longer,” mourned Khalid as they approached the red banner.

  The Cahena directed the unloading of some of the sulky camels, but told drivers to send most of the beasts forward with their burdens. “We’ll distribute some rations here, but we’ll need more with the pursuit,” Wulf heard her say. “Where’s a messenger? Send to Lartius and Yaunis, let them look out for captured supplies. Any gold we find is to be brought here to me.”

  She looked up as Wulf and Khalid dismounted. Wulf knelt and touched his face to her shadow, then stood up. He knew that he was rumpled and sweaty, that his clothes were blood-splashed, that he was hardly a courtierlike figure.

  “Well, Wulf?” she prompted crisply, as though they had never lain in each other’s arms. “Who’s this with you, a captured enemy?”

  She had discarded her cloak and stood in her blue and white gown. It clung to the sweat domes of her breasts, to the lyre curve of her hips. Khalid stared at her lovely face. Then he, too, prostrated himself and kissed her shadow.

  The Cahena looked down at him. “Who is he, Wulf?”

  “An Arab of the Arabs, Lady Cahena,” said Wulf. “He calls himself Khalid ibn Yezid, one of Hassan’s officer-companions.”

  “Get up,” the Cahena commanded Khalid in her halting Arabic. “You’ve picked up Imazighen manners quickly.”

  Khalid rose, quite gracefully. Again he gazed at her.

  “Nobody told me of the Queen Cahena’s beauty,” he said.

  She understood that, at least partially. “You’re a handsome young man yourse
lf,” she said. “And a Moslem officer, an Arab.”

  “Of the Koreish, the tribe of our prophet Mohammed.”

  Narrowly she studied him. “Put him with those other officers we’ve captured,” she said. “Maybe I’ll talk to him when there’s time for talking.”

  A guard marched Khalid away. He looked back at the Cahena. She turned her attention to Wulf.

  “You look as if you’ve been bloodily busy,” she remarked. “Are you wounded?”

  “Only tired, Lady Cahena. I confess that I forgot my duties as a commander. I got into the fighting like any other warrior.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “You planned our fight, then you left me to direct things. Things have gone well without you.”

  But she smiled to say it, and how perfect her teeth were, how red her lips were. “We’ll press on, all along the line,” she said. “Fifteen miles east there are streams and springs, Bhakrann says, and our horses and men will need to drink. These camels will follow more slowly. Go over there with Djalout, Wulf. You and he are the wisest and best-educated men we have, and you two can make some sort of record of those supplies.”

  With that, she walked away, giving orders to subchiefs and sending messengers here and there.

  Djalout stood with a sheet of parchment spread against the saddle of his patient mule. In one hand he held a wooden inkstand, and with a pen in the other he made lines of figures on the parchment. Wulf talked to men in charge of the camels and repeated to Djalout numbers of sacked wheat flour, roasts of beef and mutton, parcels of dried fruits. The Cahena paused beside the two of them.

  “Our fighting men are moving ahead, slowly. See, it’s noon or nearly; our men and horses will feel the sun. Follow me when you’re done here and leave orders for these supplies and any others to follow you.”

  She smiled at Wulf almost conspiratorially as she rode away. Wulf looked up at the sun. It was almost overhead. Where had time gone since daybreak? He’d been too busy to notice its flight.

  Djalout quickly oompleted his record, complaining that he had oversimplified. Wulf got on his horse and rode toward the front, with Susi and Gharna behind. The heat was oppressive, and they kept their horses at a walk. It was more than an hour before they overtook the Cahena and her aides. Ketriazar was there, briefly, to report that there was little opposition to the march of his tribesmen. The Cahena shaded her eyes with a slender palm to gaze eastward.

  “We’re chasing them everywhere,” she said. “Find me couriers to tell the chiefs to keep the pursuit up, with men from behind to relieve the front elements and others to pick up all the plunder. Those Moslems are throwing away everything — arms, provisions — so as to ride faster. Let’s keep after them, all along our advance.”

  “Well planned, Lady Cahena,” said Wulf. “Brilliant.”

  She turned her smile on him. “I’ve listened to you and learned from you. Let’s follow the battle along.”

  It had almost ceased to be a battle. The Cahena’s warriors kept the enemy on the run, scooping in the slowest of them. At one grove of trees there was an effort to make a stand, plucky but futile. Well to the rear, patrons gathered spoils. They herded riderless Moslem horses away, loaded mules and donkeys with trophies. Other trains of camels were captured, with burdens of food and equipment.

  The sweltering heat of the day passed, the sun sank away to westward. Bhakrann rode back from the front to say that twelve miles ahead was a low area, with water.

  “We’ll stop there tonight,” said the Cahena. “Make camp, put out patrols, and pursue again at dawn tomorrow.”

  Messengers carried the Cahena’s orders here and there. Wulf rode with her, looking eastward to what happened. The Imazighen horsemen advanced, advanced. Far in the distance were swirls of action, where Moslems tried to fight back. Guards herded leashes of disconsolate prisoners away. Several handsomely equipped Moslem officers were presented to the Cahena.

  “We’re not afraid to be killed,” declared one gray-bearded man.

  “I believe you,” managed the Cahena in her halting Arabic. “But you won’t die at our hands. Keep these officers together, you guards. I’ll talk to them when I can find the time.”

  The pursuit went more slowly. The fleeing Moslems kept well away, except for some whose horses broke down. Those surrendered scowlingly, were brought back

  “What’s to be done with these?” the Cahena asked Wulf.

  “Keep the officers, but let the others go, the way you did when we fought them at the pass last year,” he said at once. “If we keep them, we must feed them. Take their weapons, anything worth taking, and let them go. They can tell their friends we can’t be beaten.”

  “That’s good advice,” she said, and passed the order along. She and her staff followed the now distant advance at a walk. Wulf rode with her, Susi and Gharna behind him.

  “You’re right, I don’t command armies well,” Wulf confessed. “It’s you who have commanded well.”

  “I’ve said I’ve followed your general plans. You’re wise and brave, Wulf, and you’ve done your duty. But don’t ride to the front and get killed. Don’t leave me to mourn you.”

  She smiled as she spoke, but her bright eyes were serious. They rode close together, and Wulf almost put out his big hand to take her slim one.

  “You saw that I wouldn’t be killed,” he reminded her gently. “You told me that. My luck has been good so far.”

  “It will stay good,” she said back. “I’ve seen that, I’ve heard it. You’ll live through this war — live to be old.” Again her eyes upon him. “Though not even I can see you as old.”

  The afternoon sun fell away behind them. They rode over dead Moslems, and vultures sailed in the sky. Here and there they were loudly cheered by Imazighen salvage parties. Some of the men had donned captured armor, captured cloaks, many had fine horses and brought along the Imazighen horses they had ridden before.

  The Cahena and Wulf and the escort kept their own beasts to a walk. Here and there, men shepherded camels carrying supplies. Wulf had time to realize how tired he was. His right arm was sore from shoulder to fingertip. He had not slept or eaten since yesterday. He wondered how he himself had escaped even a slight wound. The whole day, the whole fight, had been another example of the blind toil of warfare.

  “You seem to be thinking deeply,” the Cahena said beside him.

  “I only wish this battle was over,” Wulf replied.

  “It is over, more or less. When we camp this evening, the Moslems won’t be waiting for us anywhere within reach.”

  She spoke with her customary assurance. Her voices must be telling her.

  They proceeded for some three hours. Water flashed in the sun up ahead. They came to where streams and pools lay, among green grass and groves of trees. Here and there were houses with thatched roofs and clay walls, and men and women chattering at the doors. The Cahena was hailed with a deafening chorus of welcome.

  “Talk to them, Wulf,” she directed. “I’ll see to our camp.”

  A hairy villager told Wulf that the Moslems had been through their little settlement twice, advancing and retreating. Nobody had been hurt, but the Moslems had driven away their cattle and sheep and goats, and the people were hungry.

  With the Cahena’s approval, Wulf issued generous rations of captured food, and the villagers praised him as they ate. Meanwhile, men pitched a tall Moslem tent of red and white striped cloth for the Cahena’s headquarters. Wulf went to see to his own arrangements. He had three Arabian horses now, and Susi and Gharna unsaddled them and watered them from a pool, then picketed them. Wulf stripped to the waist and scrubbed himself with sand and water. As he put on his tunic again, Bhakrann strolled by.

  “They’ve been running from us all day,” he exulted, pointing. The grove-tufted plain extended for miles. Heat waves stirred above it in the afternoon light. Nothing else moved there.

  “We dogged them all the way past the horizon,” said Bhakrann. “Ahi, they ran like deer, those we di
dn’t catch. I must have killed six or eight. How many did you kill, Wulf?”

  “I don’t know,” said Wulf. “What’s going on over there?”

  Near the Cahena’s tent, someone had lighted a fire. Wulf saw women dance back and forth before it. Voices rose, singing to the accompaniment of instruments. Wulf strolled that way, with Bhakrann and Djalout.

  The women postured to and fro. At both sides away from the fire, groups of warriors sat and watched.

  “A victory dance,” muttered Djalout.

  The dancers were not naked this time, though they were dressed sketchily enough. Daphne twirled and quivered there, her hair flying and whipping as though in a gale. Suddenly she stood still and flung up a hand.

  “Lady Cahena!” she cried loudly, and prostrated herself. The others bowed and knelt. The Cahena walked toward them from the big tent. She wore a white robe that both swayed and clung, and around her temples was bound a narrow white fillet. Wulf wondered if these things were captured from the enemy, too.

  “No,” she called. “Go on with your dance. I came to watch.”

  “Sing to us, Lady Cahena,” pleaded a woman.

  “Sing! Sing!” chorused others.

  The Cahena smiled. “Well, if you wish it, why not? Do I see a harp there? Let me have it.”

  The harp was brought. The Cahena took it, struck the strings, and listened. She tightened one, another, and again struck a chord. All waited silently.

  Now she picked the strings, evoked a melody of minors. She sang, richly, tunefully:

  “I hear, I hear;

  Voices whisper in the shadows. They say,

  Your people are strong, wise, brave.