Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1986

by Cahena (v3. 1)

  They loped to where the signaler waited. A jumble of big rocks crowned the ridge. They dismounted and peered past the rocks.

  On a great expanse of plain beyond, the whole world seemed flooded with riders. In close formations they moved purposefully southeast. Wulf had never seen such a great armed gathering.

  “Do you know where they are now?” Bhakrann asked him. “They’re moving toward that height where the Cahena is.”

  “And we’re past their flank, we can get behind it, and they don’t know it,” Wulf exulted fiercely. “Signal for our main body to come.”

  Bhakrann gesticulated. Men of the forward elements turned in their saddle to repeat his signal. The squadrons advanced in formation.

  “Ride back there, Bhakrann,” directed Wulf. “Let them be at a trot when they reach here, and when they cross this ridge, charge.”

  “Where will you be?” demanded Bhakrann.

  “Right here. I’ll lead that charge in person.”

  * * *

  XXIII

  They hurried up behind Wulf, and he kicked his horse’s sides and galloped ahead. Hoofs drummed like thunder. A yell went up:

  “There is also the Cahena!”

  They howled her name, they believed in her. Wulf’s sword swept from its sheath, he laid it flat on his thigh. Up there ahead, enemy riders drew rein, looked uncomprehendingly on a rush of men they hadn’t suspected. Almost at once, Wulf was there.

  “I am Wulf the Saxon!” he brayed his name, and cut a man out of the saddle. He drove into the press of Moslems. He heard a mighty shock of sound, horses driving against horses. Another enemy slashed at him. He blocked the blow with his shield and drove his point into a mailed chest. “Ahi!” he heard a voice he knew. Bhakrann was at his work, with the sword once borne by Okba. All around Wulf, everywhere, the fight was joined.

  They’re five to one against us, he thought grimly. Each of us has to kill five. He himself had accounted for two. A Moslem rode against him. Their horses jammed flanks. The Moslem’s blade rang deafeningly on his helmet, glanced away, and Wulf slashed hard at the neck and sent the man sprawling from the saddle. Three now. He sought another.

  He’d live through this. Khro had chosen men to die, but not Wulf. Again he slashed, parried, thrust. Bhakrann rode past, skillfully transfixing an enemy. Just here, the Moslems were in disorder. The Imazighen were killing them, driving them into a great disorganized jumble.

  “Allahu akhbar!” That was an officer on a gray horse, with flashing gold worked into his cloak. He tried to rally his men, he rushed at Wulf. Then, abruptly, he reined away.

  “It’s Shaitan!” he shrieked. “The devil!”

  He was afraid. Wulf rode for him. Others came between, barred the way. Wulf’s own men were there, too, stabbing with javelins. Wulf headed into the thick of the churning press.

  They faltered before the Imazighen attack. The Moslems had gone into a disorganized muddle, retreated, trying to get away. They hadn’t expected this, didn’t like it. Wulf’s Imazighen shoved at them, holding a line of sorts. Suddenly, almost in a moment it seemed, the Moslems scuttled far away, leaving rumpled bodies strewn on the dry grass. To Wulf’s either hand, the attackers paused as though by mutual consent.

  Wulf drew a deep breath. He was sweating; he had fought hard. He rode along his line, shouting praises, encouragements. Then somebody yelled and pointed. The Moslems had rallied, were countercharging in a close line of their own.

  “Javelins, close range!” thundered Wulf.

  Bhakrann called out the same order. It was repeated by subchiefs. The men sat their horses, poised their javelins. They grinned in relish, they knew their own skill. Just now they felt like winners. They had killed and driven their enemies. Wulf hoped to win. Something must be done and he, Wulf, must do it.

  The enemy came at a trot, rending the air with war cries. “Allahu akhbar!” A storm of javelins soared at them. Horses and men went down. Back came the yell of the Imazighen:

  “There is also the Cahena!”

  More javelins flew. More Moslems fell. The Imazighen line rushed forward, as though on an order Wulf had not given. Almost at once, the two forces were together, stabbing, hewing.

  Again Wulf chopped a man out of his saddle. They seemed to come at him and go down. Another was there, but Wulf’s bigger horse struck the smaller, made it stumble, go sprawling. Beyond, yet another foe wheeled and dashed to the rear.

  “I am Wulf the Saxon!” Wulf yelled his name loudly. He saw his men striking with swords, thrusting with javelins. Some of them fell, but Moslems fell, too. Again he thought a Moslem attacked is less terrible than a Moslem attacking.

  Almost as he thought that, the Moslems had fallen back for more than a hundred yards. He flourished his sword high and rode to the front, and his warriors came with him.

  “There is also the Cahena!” they bellowed.

  Wulf reined his horse to let the squadrons go past him. He had been wrong to fight mindlessly, like a common warrior. He was supposed to be the general here. He shouted and beckoned to half a dozen riders, and they came.

  “You’ll be my couriers, carry my orders,” he said. “You on the red horse, go there to the left. Tell whatever subchief you find to hold his men and let fresh fighters pass him. Say to gather up javelins and throw them again.”

  The man hurried with the message. Wulf rode behind the line where fighting had started again. He rejoiced grimly that the Imazighen had the better of it, that the Moslems faltered back from them. Ketriazar hurried to him.

  “We’re winning!” exulted Ketriazar. “We’ve killed some of their leaders, and leaderless men are lost. Look to the far right!”

  Off there, the Imazighen seemed to be encircling a flank of the Moslems.

  “Here!” Wulf called to a courier. “Ride there fast. Tell our chiefs to advance carefully, look out for a counterattack!”

  He did well to order that. A cloud of enemy came cantering back, somewhat organized. It was met with a murderous flight of javelins, and then there was more fierce hand-to-hand fighting.

  Wulf and Ketriazar rode toward the thick of the encounter, with a score of others. Bhakrann was there before them, was into it, yelling like a fiend. Wulf saw him hurl a javelin and fetch down an enemy, then hew with a sword. Wulf struck and slashed. He was panting, his arm and shoulder felt tired. His horse was splashed with the blood Wulf had drawn — how many had he killed? His ears rang, he struggled, but he did not glory in the fighting he did so well. He hated it.

  It went like that — clashes, lulls, clashes again. Wulf ordered up fresh squadrons and more fresh squadrons, and the Moslems seemed never to be ready. Behind his own line, Wulf saw that his Imazighen were fiercer, deadlier. Their javelins sang to the mark, felling horses and riders. At close quarters, they won flurried duels more often than the Moslems. So many were dying. Vulgar deaths, unknown to fame — Homer had said that, somewhere in his Iliad. And always shattering noise. Buffets of horses in contact, clashes of metal, the oaths and shouts of warriors — these shook the sky that was getting to be an evening sky. How long had they fought?

  The Moslem host still blackened the land. Wulf had hurt them on the flank, had nibbled the flank away, but there were still overwhelming numbers of them who had not yet been in battle. Suddenly he called for his couriers to ride everywhere and command a withdrawal. He himself rode away toward the right, and met Ketriazar.

  “Our men don’t want to pull away,” said Ketriazar. “We’ve fought them hard, fought them well, killed more of them than they’ve killed of us.”

  “Where’s Daris?” asked Wulf, reining around to watch the retirement he had ordered.

  “Killed,” snapped Ketriazar.

  Bhakrann came to them. “Those Moslems aren’t pressing our retreat,” he shouted. “We’ve been too harsh for them. What now, Wulf?”

  “Get clear away, head back to the north of Thrysdus,” said Wulf. “Join our friends there if we can find them.”

 
; The three trotted their horses together. Their warriors had changed their line of battle into a heavy column. They moved to the west, where the sun had dropped low. That fight had gone on for hours. Wulf looked at the horses of the column, and was glad that most of them seemed in good shape. Horses had endurance. He had known horses to travel all day and part of the night without collapsing.

  The loud din of battle had died away. There were only murmurs, chorused hoofbeats. The throngs of the Moslems were there, not pressing in great numbers. But three of them rode out, glittering men on richly decked horses, waving their curved blades and shouting.

  “Champions,” said Wulf. “They’re challenging, daring any of us to come out for single combat.”

  “Why keep them waiting?” said Bhakrann, and turned his mount away from the Imazighen column.

  “Come on, Ketriazar,” called Wulf, and also rode forward. Opposite him, a Moslem in a brightly striped cloak roared at him and waved his sword.

  “I am Wulf the Saxon!” Wulf yelled back, and drove in close. Their shields rang together. Wulf parried the other’s scimitar and sliced at the turban-bound headpiece. The man went tumbling to the ground and slumped on hands and knees. Wulf caught the reins of the riderless horse and looked down to where the Moslem staggered erect. He had dropped his weapon. He glared up at Wulf.

  “Oh, I’m not going to kill you,” Wulf said to him, “but I’ll keep your horse. It looks like a good one.”

  He cantered back to his own men. They hailed him with hoarse applause. Bhakrann came back, too, his sword dripping red.

  “I killed my man,” he told Wulf. “I knew him — he was one of those officers we held for ransom. How did you fare?”

  “I spared my man’s life.”

  “Spared his life?” cried Bhakrann. “Why?”

  “I just didn’t feel like killing him. But this horse of his is a fine one, worth taking.”

  Wulf dismounted from his own weary animal and vaulted aboard the captured one. It was nervous, but he stroked its neck and spoke to it in Arabic and it subsided. Ketriazar, too, was back, wiping his blade on the mane of his steed. Over opposite the close-drawn Imazighen formation, the Moslems hung back. The fate of their champions had daunted them. Wulf sent along orders for his own squadrons to move clear of the vast enemy horde, to head westward and seek for the warriors who had stayed with the Cahena.

  They headed for the red blotch of the sinking sun. Wulf took time to check on himself. He had a slight wound on the cheek; he did not remember getting it. He was thirsty and drank from a leather flask, swirling the water in his hot mouth. He was tired, too. His big chest heaved, his face dripped sweat, his sword arm ached. He sent more orders for a complete detachment from the enemy, for seeking out their friends and joining them, perhaps to share in more fighting.

  Twilight was upon the land. The great clutter of Moslems was not easy to see anymore. Wulf and Ketriazar and Bhakrann rode along the column, speaking to wounded men, asking about the resolutely enduring horses. Bhakrann’s scouts searched in front of the march, leading toward where the Cahena must have made her stand.

  Night came, and half a moon gave them some light on their way. Wulf found bread and figs to eat. Ketriazar came to ride at his left.

  “How do you think we fought?” Ketriazar asked.

  “Pretty well, but we didn’t do what we came to do,” Wulf said. “There weren’t enough of us; it was five to one against us. I was mistaken in what I tried.”

  “We had to do something,” argued Ketriazar. “If every man of us was a man like you, we’d have chewed them up and spit them out.”

  “Since we didn’t really win, we lost,” said Wulf. “And I mourn for our friends who died in that useless fight.”

  “I mourn Daris. I wonder who’ll be chief of his Nefussa.”

  They rode into the night. At last Wulf sent word along for a halt beside some ponds. They rested for an hour, then back in the saddle, marching on toward the west. The half of the moon climbed. The hours passed. It became the shadowed early morning.

  From the head of column rose a din of voices. Wulf trotted his horse there. He could hear Bhakrann yelling at the men.

  “No, let him alone, he’s one of us,” Bhakrann was shouting. “He was left back here with the Cahena. Wulf, look who’s here — Zeoui!”

  Zeoui it was, on the weariest of horses. His mail shirt was chopped and blood-spattered. He saluted Wulf listlessly.

  “We got beaten,” he said in a wretched voice.

  “I suppose so,” said Wulf, his own voice unhappy. “That army of theirs reached for miles and miles. While we fought them on one flank, the other flank reached you and fought you. What exactly happened?”

  Zeoui made a helpless gesture. “They charged us and charged over us. Those of us who didn’t run out of there are lying dead on the field.”

  “The Cahena —” Bhakrann started to say.

  “She got away. We made her run. Somebody grabbed her bridle and hurried her off. And Yaunis got killed. He charged into the thick of them to give the Cahena a chance.”

  “How many did your party lose?” Wulf asked.

  “I can’t say how many. A lot. The Moslems gobbled us. Those poor archers — just boys, most of them — they did some killing, but they were wiped out.”

  Wulf felt a chill. “Daphne?” he asked.

  “They killed her, and her father, Jonas.”

  Wulf sank his head. She was dead. Daphne was dead, Daphne who had loved him so much, and he had never quite loved her. Dead. She was better off dead than captured by those invaders.

  “I see,” Wulf said after a moment. “Come on, let’s move ahead and join the Cahena. Guide us, Zeoui.”

  Silent again, he rode along. Bhakrann came to his side.

  “Too bad,” Bhakrann said. “Too bad about Daphne. She was a fine girl, a brave girl.”

  “She was so good,” said Wulf, striving against his tears.

  Bhakrann glanced keenly at him in the night. “Yes,” he agreed.

  * * *

  XXIV

  The bloodred sun glowed in the east from which they had fled when they came to the campground of the Cahena and her surviving followers.

  It was a disorganized camp, men hunched around little fires, gnawing at scraps of food. Some of them told Wulf about what had happened on the height above Thrysdus. The Moslems had stormed up and killed and killed, until those who escaped the killing ran. As for Thrysdus, women and children and other noncombatants had fled earlier, nobody knew where. The Moslems had taken Thrysdus back, would call it El-Djem again, would revel in its plunder.

  While Bhakrann and Wulf listened, a messenger came to say that the Cahena summoned Wulf. He followed the messenger, leading his horse. Her red banner drooped limply. She rose from beside a little blaze of twigs.

  Inside her blue robe, her figure was noble. Under her white scarf, her face looked drawn, plaintive. “Wulf,” she greeted him.

  “Lady Cahena.” He knelt to kiss her shadow.

  “Sit with me,” she said. “Have you eaten? I have some fruit here. What happened with you and your men?”

  “We failed,” he replied shortly. “We crumpled their flank a little, but we didn’t turn it enough. While we tried, their main force tackled you, miles away.” He scowled. “We failed. I didn’t do what I set out to do.”

  Her head bowed. “Such hosts of Moslems,” she whispered.

  “Too many for us.”

  “My fault.” She looked up at him again. “I drove my people away with my mad order of destruction. If I hadn’t, we could have kept Lartius, kept all those other deserters. Enough fighting men to drive the enemy back into Egypt again.”

  Her hand was on Wulf’s arm. It trembled there.

  “You’re all I have left,” she said. “I’ve lost. I don’t hear voices, see visions. All the gods are gone, except maybe Allah — he came here with the Moslems. Should we put trust in Allah now?”

  “We’d better trust
ourselves.” He gazed here and there across the camp. “They must have killed most of you.”

  She took her hand back and cupped her chin in it. “They killed lots of us, but lots more just wandered off, trying to hide.”

  Mallul came and sat down with them. “What now?” he asked.

  “What now?” repeated the Cahena.

  “We keep retreating,” said Wulf. “Get to Arwa. That’s a rough part of the world, all ridges and hollows, but we know it and the Moslems don’t. If we can get to where they can come at us only a few at a time, maybe we have a chance.”

  “Not much of a chance,” said Mallul. “They fight like devils. They think if they die fighting for Mohammed, they’ll go to paradise, all among their beautiful houri concubines.”

  Khalid must have told Mallul about that, but Mallul had not mentioned Khalid, not before the Cahena.

  “I’ll talk to you in private,” the Cahena said to Wulf, and Mallul got up, bowed, and walked away. The Cahena gazed at Wulf. Her eyes were weary, darkly circled.

  “What if I said I’m sorry?” she asked. “Sorry for being weak, for what I believed, what I did?”

  “You did what you thought was right,” said Wulf. “Maybe you’ve changed your mind, but at the time you thought it was right.”

  “Sorry,” she said again. “I’ve lived long years without saying I was sorry for anything.”

  “You’ve ruled well,” said Wulf.

  “Until I listened to a false voice.” Her slim, tawny hand was on his great, dinted one. “There’s been talk about that creature you destroyed and burned, up there at the Tomb of the Christian Woman. That maybe magic left the land when she died. But magic left when I turned away from voices I knew and listened to a voice that lied.”

  “Khalid,” Wulf decided to say at last.

  “He turned against us, after all he said and did to make us think he was with us.” She took her hand back and clenched it until the knuckles turned white. “I wish he was dead.”