“If I get within reach of him, he’ll be dead,” said Wulf evenly.
“Wulf!” she cried his name. “Do you remember what we were to each other? Back in Tiergal?”
“How could I forget?”
“I was deceived. I was foolish. But can we again —”
“Lady Cahena,” he interrupted, “don’t talk of it now. We’d better keep retreating. If what followers you brought this far are rested, if their horses can travel, head for Arwa. I’ll keep my own men here for another hour and then follow you like a rear guard. Up yonder, we’ll find another campsite.”
“How wise you are,” she said caressingly. “How good and strong you are. Why didn’t I remember that? I almost lost you.”
“You and your men had better get started.”
They both rose. He kicked dirt over the fire. She seemed as though she would say something more, but he bowed and walked away. He looked back to see Mallul carrying the limp red banner.
Among his own men, he talked to Bhakrann. Some of the command had drifted away — deserters, Bhakrann called them. Cham was there, and Zeoui. What had happened to Tifan nobody knew, but Cham thought he had died in that assault on the Moslem flank. Wulf waited an hour before he ordered the squadrons to follow the Cahena as a rear guard.
Rain came up suddenly, drenching cloaks. The march fared on and away from that rain, and again the sun was hot and bothersome. On they strove, with only brief rest stops, and in the afternoon they caught up with the Cahena’s followers. Ketriazar and Bhakrann rode on either side of Wulf. Both scowled gloomily.
“When will we see those Moslems, and how will we fight them?” Ketriazar wondered.
“Let’s hope we’ll be on Arwa by the time they come,” said Wulf. “Be on ground we know and can use to our advantage. We’ll be badly outnumbered.”
“A lot of our people feel they’ve beaten already,” said Ketriazar. “They keep slipping away. I hate that. I’m staying with the Cahena — it’s too late for me to do anything else.”
“Too late for almost anything,” said Bhakrann. “But if we die fighting, that’s a good death and a quick one. I’ve expected it ever since I was a boy.”
And the red glint was in his beard.
“I’ll say that, too,” said Wulf. “But I haven’t seen Khro skulking anywhere near.”
“Don’t say that name,” warned Ketriazar.
“Why not say Khro’s name? Why not remind him?” demanded Bhakrann. “I’m like Wulf — I’m past being afraid of him.”
Djalout came on his mule to speak to Wulf. He sagged in his saddle, his beard looked limp. “Who could have predicted this disaster?” he asked. “I couldn’t, and usually I predict better than most.”
“Predictions are in short supply with us,” said Wulf. “Maybe the Moslems are better at those than we are.”
“They leave everything to kismet,” said Djalout. “To fate. Which just now seems to favor them. Here, will you have a swallow of wine? I brought a good article away from Thrysdus.”
He passed a leather bottle across to Wulf, who drank. Djalout was right, it was good wine. Ketriazar and Bhakrann had mouthfuls, and Djalout took the bottle back and drank in turn. How gray his face was, how hollow his eyes.
“It seems shorter, going back,” he said. “If we get back.”
They marched until sundown and dismounted where the ground rose away westward toward Arwa. Water was there, and stretches of grass fit for grazing horses. The Cahena’s standard was planted, a sort of tentlike structure of cloaks and saddle blankets was put up on poles. Messengers summoned Wulf, Bhakrann, and Ketriazar. The Cahena sat by a little fire, a mantle drawn over her blue robe. Djalout half crouched at her left. She motioned Wulf to the place at her right. Mallul came also, and several subchiefs.
“Thank you all for standing by me,” the Cahena addressed them, clear-voiced. “Though maybe my thanks isn’t much anymore. Wulf, we look to you for advice on what to do now.”
“I’d say, seek some point where the enemy will have trouble closing in,” offered Wulf at once. “A rocky height where we can make our defense.”
“Lady Cahena, we’re a day or so ahead of them,” said Djalout. “Isn’t that right, Bhakrann?”
“So I hear from my scouts,” Bhakrann replied.
“That’s time enough to find proper ground,” said Ketriazar.
“Why meet them at all?” asked Djalout. “Why not go over Arwa, off to the Atlas mountain country? They wouldn’t even know where that was.”
“No,” said the Cahena flatly, and her eyes glowed like chips of jet.
They stared. Wulf wondered who had come to stand behind her, what tall shadowy thing.
“No,” she said again. “I’m through running like a lost sheep ahead of wild dogs. I won’t run any farther than where we are now.”
Wulf got up. That shape behind the Cahena, it was towering, its head wore horns. He knew what it was.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” said Wulf, and took a step. The horned one drew away into a scrub of eucalyptus. He moved after it.
“Khro,” he addressed it in a whisper. It did not wait. He moved through the eucalyptus after it. In a clear space beyond, it retreated.
“Choosing those who’ll die, Khro?” Wulf asked. “Do you choose me?”
Khro vanished, like smoke. Wulf came back to the gathering around the little fire.
“I thought someone was listening,” he said.
They all waited for the Cahena to speak. She spoke:
“Maybe some of my sight of the future has come back. All of you can run if you want to. Go to the Atlas, go anywhere and leave me alone here. I’ve been a queen. I’ve ruled the lmazighen, the Christians, even the Moslems here and there. I’ve lived as a queen. I’m ready to die as a queen. They can kill me. I’ll make them kill me.”
Was Khro back? A shadow flitted. Wulf could not be sure.
“Maybe the Moslem god, their Allah, is here now,” said the Cahena. “So go on, leave me here alone.”
“Leave you?” repeated Mallul.
“You, my son Mallul, ride back and meet those Moslems. Tell them to explain their faith to you, say you’ll be a Moslem like them. Ride fast, carry a white cloth in your hand for a sign of truth. That’s an order, Mallul. I order you to join them.”
Mallul got to his feet. “When?”
“Now. At once. There’s enough of a moon to show you the way. Get your horse and go.”
Mallul shrugged. “Good-bye,” he said to all of them, and walked slowly out of the group.
“You, Wulf,” the Cahena said. “You go, too.”
He actually laughed. “Do you think that they’d accept me? After they’ve watched me kill so many of them? No, Lady Cahena, I stay here. I’ll die here, if it’s my time to die.”
“I’ll die here, too,” said Djalout from where he sat. He crossed his arms on his updrawn knees and put his face down on them. The Cahena gazed into the coals of the fire.
“How many men do we have left?” Wulf asked.
“I don’t know exactly, but not very many,” said Ketriazar. “They’ve been drifting away from us all the way here. Riding off one by one, or in little parties, thinking they can pretend to be simple, peaceable native people if they run into any Moslems. The ones that are staying are mostly my tough old Medusis, they’re used to trouble.”
“Used to trouble,” repeated Bhakrann. “So am I.”
“You men will need rest,” said the Cahena. “The enemy will be here tomorrow. Go get some sleep. Wulf, will you wait?”
The others got up, all but Djalout, who sat where he was, his head bowed. They went away to wherever they were camped. The Cahena moved to the hanging that made a flap to her makeshift tent.
“Will you come in, Wulf?” she asked him, half shyly.
He followed her. Inside was only the faintest wash of light. She stood there, almost against him. He heard a whisper of fabric as she dropped her mantle.
“Wulf, shall I ask your fo
rgiveness?”
“Who am I to forgive you?” he said. “I’ve loved you.”
“Loved!” she half wailed the word. “Loved — that means you don’t love me anymore?”
“It seemed to me that I had your permission to go.”
“You have my permission to come back. Wulf, we’ve condemned ourselves to die at the hands of the Moslems. But now, tonight — can’t we live?”
Her slender hand drew his big one to her. She had opened her robe. She put his palm to the swell of her naked breast. The nipple rose tautly. She breathed deeply.
“Wulf?” she whispered. “We’re alone here. The others went away when I sent them.”
“Djalout didn’t go. He’s still sitting, just outside.”
“Go see why he’s waiting. Then come back.”
Wulf went. Djalout sat where he had sat, his head on his arms. Wulf stooped above him, spoke his name. Djalout did not stir. Wulf put his hand on Djalout’s shoulder, then took it away and turned back to where the Cahena waited, expectantly waited, at the door of her shelter.
“Tell him to go,” she said.
“Djalout won’t be going,” Wulf told her. “Djalout has died.”
* * *
XXV
Wulf found Bhakrann, waked him, led him to where Djalout sat so motionlessly. They straightened Djalout out to lie on his back and folded his arms across his chest. Then they dug a shallow grave with their daggers. The Cahena stood and watched. They lowered Djalout into the hole and spread his old cloak over him and scooped back the earth. From here and there they fetched big rocks and set them like a pavement over the grave, to discourage beasts of prey.
“Something ought to be said for him,” said Bhakrann. “A prayer, maybe.”
“I’ve forgotten all the prayers I used to know,” said Wulf, sheathing his dagger.
“I’m afraid that I have, too,” confessed Bhakrann.
The Cahena came to join them beside the grave. “Let me speak,” she said. She gazed up into the night. Her face looked amber-brown.
“Our friend has died,” she said slowly. “He knew that he was going to die. He wasn’t afraid. He was able to die in peace, not in battle.”
“Yes,” said Bhakrann. Wulf could barely hear him.
“He was good,” said the Cahena. “He was faithful. He was wise — much wisdom has died with him. Peace to him as he rests.”
Bhakrann and Wulf sat down and looked at the array of stones. The Cahena sat with them. Wulf gazed off to where a shadow moved, a tall shadow. Did it have horns? It faded away.
Wulf sat with his knees drawn up, his arms crossed upon them. He was bitterly tired. At last he lowered his face upon his arms. That was how Djalout had sat at the last. Wulf slept.
He woke in the dark. The stars told him it would be two hours before sunrise, there in the east from which enemies would come marching. He got up, stretched his arms and legs, and walked among sleepers. A couple of sentries squatted there. Looking at those who slept, Wulf reflected that Ketriazar was right — these were veterans, with gray in their beards. They had followed and worshipped the Cahena for so many years that they knew no other worship. They were with her at the last. They would rather die with her than live under the rule of Moslems.
Bhakrann came tramping. “What now?” he asked. “What’s waiting?”
“Nothing will be waiting. Those invaders will be coming,” said Wulf. “I told you once, Hassan heard that he must defeat the Cahena before he could conquer this land. She beat him once, and now he wants to destroy her. He’ll get here sometime today, will make a forced march to do it.”
“Thirsty?” Bhakrann offered a wine flask and Wulf took a swallow. “That was Djalout’s wine,” said Bhakrann. “I took it. He’s past the need of it. I’m going to miss him.”
“Not for long,” said Wulf. “At the end of this coming day, you and I will be on his trail. I predict that we’ll die in battle.”
Bhakrann drank and wiped his mouth and laughed. It was a short, ugly laugh.
“I hope it’s a quick death. It ought to be an adventure, seeing what comes after death.”
“Does anything come after death?” asked Wulf. “Who knows?”
“Who knows?” Bhakrann echoed him. “I never heard anyone say, except a bunch of priests and magicians.”
“How does anyone know?”
“We’ll find out, my brother. Remember when she said you and I were to be brothers? We’ve been brothers, Wulf.”
Bhakrann’s broad, hard hand clapped Wulf’s shoulder.
Wulf glanced at the stars. “It’s moving toward morning,” he said. “Maybe we should eat. Is there anything?”
“I have some couscous. Let’s make a fire.”
Wulf gathered dry branches and scraped flint and steel to kindle them. They blazed up, then died down to make red coals. Bhakrann filled a brass dish with water and set it on stones to heat. When the water stirred and muttered, Bhakrann trickled in handfuls of couscous. Wulf scraped a clove of garlic into powder over the dish. They watched the cocking. A dark figure loomed. It was Ketriazar.
“If you’ll let me join you, I have a bit of smoked pork,” he said.
He drew his dagger and cut the meat into shavings to mix into the couscous.
“What food will the men have?” asked Bhakrann.
“They’re lucky,” said Ketriazar. “They found some camels last night and slaughtered them. I hope they divide it evenly.”
Bhakrann stirred the couscous with a twig. “It’s done,” he reported, and gingerly twitched the bowl from the fire. “Let it stand until it’s cool enough to eat.”
The Cahena approached, with her mantle over her robe.
“What are you doing here?” she inquired.
Bhakrann stooped to kiss her shadow in the firelight. “We’re making breakfast, Lady Cahena. Will you have some? And here’s wine — it was Djalout’s.”
“Djalout.” She sat beside Wulf. “I couldn’t sleep. He’s buried so close to where I lay.” Her shoulder, her knee, touched against Wulf. “It’s strange, being without him. He was my councillor for so long.”
“He died because he felt it was time.” Bhakrann nodded, studying the bowl. “This can be eaten now, I think.”
Ketriazar and Bhakrann dipped into the dish with their fingers to roll balls of the couscous to swallow. The Cahena took only small pinches.
“You don’t eat, Wulf,” she said.
“I’d better eat, to face what’s coming,” he said, and helped himself.
“To face what’s coming,” repeated Ketriazar.
“Death is coming,” said the Cahena.
“Death is always coming, to everybody,” said Wulf. “We sit here expecting it. But the best death is what’s unexpected.”
Bhakrann looked up quickly. “Somebody who could write ought to put down these wise things you say.”
“That’s been written already,” said Wulf. “Plutarch quoted Julius Caesar.”
“Who was Plutarch?” asked Ketriazar.
“A Roman who tried to write the lives of everybody,” said Wulf.
The Cahena almost snuggled against Wulf. “You’re a comforting talker,” she half crooned. “Even about death.”
“Are you afraid to die?” he asked her.
“No. It should be restful, like sleep. Djalout knows by now.”
They finished the bowl of couscous, down to the last grain. Bhakrann passed the leather wine bottle. Somewhere far to eastward showed the faintest wash of gray, dawn coming. The Cahena got up and so did the others. Her hand took hold of Wulf’s wrist.
“Where do you go now?” she asked him.
“Here and there among the men, to see how they fare. Last night, we talked about where the Moslems were. I expect them to make all the speed they can, get here by midafternoon, try to finish us.”
“How do we die, Wulf?”
“Like a brave dog, with its teeth in a throat,” he growled, and her hand let go of him.
Wulf pondered for a moment. Then: “Back of us here is a steep, rocky slope, too rough for horses. I advise we go up there. We’ll fight on foot, and they’ll have to do the same, at whatever point is narrowest. We’ll be past needing horses, needing anything but to line up and face them.”
“I’ll be next to you,” the Cahena said at his ear. “We’re all agreed that death is coming. Let’s meet him together.”
“Meet Khro?” he said, and she flinched. “Don’t be afraid to say his name. I’ve said it right to his ugly face. I’ve tried to get close to him, and so far he’s always moved away.”
“But he’s here. He’s the only god left here.”
“God?” Wulf said after her. “With those horns, he’s more like what I was told about Satan when I was a boy in England. Maybe we need evil spirits around us, to help us understand life and death. Maybe there were evil spirits before there were good ones. Maybe men feared spirits before they worshipped them.”
“Maybe,” she said.
“Now, I’m going back among the men. They’ll be waking up.”
They walked together here and there, to where sleepers stirred and rekindled fires. Wulf asked again and again if there was food. Most groups had something to eat, not much. One or two warriors seemed happily excited, spoke of beating the Moslems. If anybody was afraid, he did not say so.
As the sun showed its bright rim to eastward, two men galloped in. They were Cham and Zeoui, who had scouted far to the rear, and now they reported that they had ridden all night to say that the Moslem host pressed grimly after them.
“They marched even after their evening prayers,” said Cham. “There’s a whole world of them, all mounted, all full of fight. It looks like a sure way to death.”
“You’re right,” said Wulf cheerfully. “They that take the sword will perish by the sword.”
The Cahena widened her brilliant eyes. “Bhakrann’s right, you say witty things.”
“That saying is attributed to Jesus,” Wulf said.
Bhakrann gave Cham and Zeoui what food he had, stale scraps of barley cakes.
The sun climbed. It was afternoon when more scouts came back, to say that the enemy was following. In the distance, Wulf and the Cahena saw a far-flung darkness that moved on the land. Hassan’s army.
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1986 Page 24