Worm Winds of Zanzibar (The Alex Trueman Chronicles Book 2)

by Martin Dukes

  “Come on!” came the Boss’s huge voice. “Let’s move. We need to be well clear of this place by dusk. Khalid, check who’s out on point. We don’t want any more surprises.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  There was a sudden flurry of noise and movement as the party spurred their horses along the trail after the slave column. Alex had never ridden a horse before and had never felt any particular desire to do so. Mark Twain’s assessment of them, “Dangerous at both ends and uncomfortable in the middle,” was something he would have appreciated. Nor was this the ideal initiation into the world of equestrianism. It was certainly a hellishly jerky and uncomfortable experience, one that made him feel that his teeth were going to be rattled straight out of his head. Blood was pooling heavily there, causing bright pinpricks to appear before his eyes and a curious thin buzzing to din in his ears. Blackness enveloped him, a blackness shot through with rage and despair.

  “I’m a slave,” cried a distant voice in his head that faded, faded and was gone.

  Chapter Three

  Alex was jolted into consciousness after a period of time that might have been a minute, an hour or a day for all he knew. There was a great deal of shouting going on, and the horse beneath him was rearing and plunging. Suddenly he was aware of the sharp crack of a rifle. There was another, and another. Jerking his head up, he was in time to see an arrow zip past and embed itself shuddering in the horse’s neck. The horse screamed, shrill, sickeningly loud, a mind shredding sound that jolted every fibre of his being into sudden wakefulness, and then the beast plunged earthward with a bone-jarring impact. Alex found himself flung to the ground, the wind knocked out of him, labouring for breath as he writhed to twist himself onto his side. A whirling melee of human and equine legs occupied the forefront of his vision. Steel clashed on steel. Oaths, grunts and bloodcurdling screams rent the air as a battle raged around him. The man he thought of as Rifle thudded to the earth next to him, the stubby black shaft of a crossbow bolt protruding from between his shoulder blades. He coughed blood twice, gasped and was still, eyes staring sightlessly. The noise was tremendous. Alex twitched from side to side as he tried to make sense of the chaos around him, his heart pounding in his breast. Surely within moments some flailing horse’s hoof would dash his brains out, or some misdirected spear would skewer him to the ground like an insect to a collector’s card. And then it was over. There were whoops of victory and distant hoof beats as victors chased vanquished away.

  “There’s another one here,” said a voice behind him. A hand rolled him onto his back, none too gently, and Alex found himself looking up into the face of a young man of Arab appearance, a smear of blood dashed across his cheek and brow. “A milkskin, too!”

  Alex found himself speechless for the moment, overcome by the various competing sources of discomfort within his frame. Turned on his back, helpless as a turtle, his arms and hands were pressed into a fair sized rock.

  “Gnnnn!” he groaned, trying to writhe back onto his side.

  “Cut him loose then,” said another voice, a sweet, blissful voice of wisdom and reason.

  Within moments the cords that secured his wrists so painfully were cut and he rolled to his knees, rubbing sore wrists ruefully and stretching his aching limbs.

  “Thank you so much,” he said, looking up at the owner of the voice that had freed him. A great wave of relief passed over him, so much so that tears welled in his eyes and his voice died in his throat. Through a film of tears he saw another young man of Arab appearance, dressed in white garments generously splashed with blood. He wore baggy trousers with soft calf-length boots, and a sky blue cloak was thrown back over one shoulder. As Alex blinked away tears he saw that his saviour wore a gilded mail shirt, spangled with glittering gems of some sort. The hand from which a bloodied scimitar presently hung was generously endowed with jewelled gold rings. All these factors spoke of high status, but upon clambering painfully to his feet Alex found that small stature was the next observation coming his way. He had been rescued from sale as a slave by a boy, perhaps somewhat older than him but half a head shorter.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” said the boy, his smooth, beardless features suddenly split by a broad grin.

  “There are two more over here,” announced a voice from behind Alex.

  “Two more! God be praised!” The youth absolutely began to jump up and down with excitement. “Two more. I told you, Suja. It is just as I saw in my dream – three wriggling white worms. Was he not like a wriggling white worm just now? Would you deny it, Suja? Am I not right?”

  Suja, a sober, bearded warrior appeared at the young hero’s side and did a fair job of expressing delight and amazement.

  “It is so, Excellency. Your vision was surely ordained in heaven,” said another fawning lackey, this one coming up at a brisk trot and fairly throwing himself at his lordship’s feet.

  “Abase yourself,” barked a gruff voice at Alex’s side. This quickly proved to belong to another bearded fellow with an ugly scar from brow to cheek. “Do you not know that you stand before the Sultan of Zanzibar?” He placed a rough hand on Alex’s shoulder and was about to throw him down in the dust again when the youth shook a warning finger. Scarface backed off.

  “No, I forbid it, Khalid! This is my talisman, my sign from heaven. I shall treat him like a brother. Bring the others here also.”

  He beamed at Alex and made a low bow.

  “I am God’s servant, Jalil bin Ibrahim, Jewel of the Eastern Seas, Protector of the Faithful, Sultan of Zanzibar and you are under my protection. And whom do I have the honour to address?”

  “Oh, er, Alex Truman,” said Alex, glancing warily about him and feeling that his own name was a little on the plain side.

  “Well, you, Alex Truman, have brought about a great victory, for today I have slain Omar bin Omar, the most notorious slaver on the coast. Ha!” He signalled to another lackey, who pressed a bloody bundle into Jalil’s hands. “This token I give to you.”

  He held out the bundle for Alex to take, a bundle that quickly proved to be the severed head of the fellow known to Alex as ‘the Boss’. Bile rose in Alex’s gut as he gazed upon the bulging dead eyes, the lolling tongue in the black face. It was all he could do to hang on to the horrible thing.

  “That’s really sweet of you,” he managed to blurt. “You shouldn’t have. Honestly.” Beneath the waves of horror sweeping across the forefront of his mind it occurred to him that it might be bad form to refuse gifts from a Sultan. “I’ll, er, treasure it always,” he said, making a fair pretence of holding it up to admire its finer qualities. “Lovely… really great.”

  “Excellent,” said the blood spattered Sultan, clapping his little hands enthusiastically, applause quickly taken up by the little group that was assembling around them.

  “Do you think someone would mind looking after it for me, for the time being?” asked Alex weakly, conscious that his hands had started to shake uncontrollably. “I’ll have a really good look at it later.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  A troop of horseman trotted past and then, a moment later, Kelly and Henry came trudging across with a small crowd of what were presumably the Sultan’s attendants. Kelly’s face was pale and blotchy, despite her sunburn, but she was managing to look relieved rather than terrified now that the immediate crisis seemed to be over. She threw herself into his arms and they embraced, her slender body trembling somewhat against his.

  “I thought we were going to die,” she murmured, glancing over his shoulder at the Sultan and his attendants.

  “How come you can talk to them?” asked Henry, practically enough. “You’re rubbish at languages at school.”

  “Where are your jeans?” demanded Alex, eyebrows raised, ignoring Henry’s enquiries for the moment. Henry was wearing a pair of extraordinarily baggy trousers such as their hosts favoured.

  “Don’t ask,” he said with a frown. “Who are these guys then?” he asked, indicating the Sultan and hi
s court. “I guess we’re not going to get murdered now, are we?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Alex. “Things are looking up. I’ll sort you out with some translation gear when it’s a bit less busy. You’ll just have to trust me for now. Nod and look enthusiastic, that’s all.”

  He ushered Henry and Alex towards the Sultan, who was looking on benevolently whilst a couple of young men kept him up to date with casualty figures from the recent bout of unpleasantness.

  “Your Excellency,” said Alex, remembering how the flunky had addressed him. “These are my friends, Henry and Kelly,” he was going to say. “May I beg to introduce to you my esteemed colleagues, Henry and Kelly?” he heard himself say instead. It was as though the translation devices in his ears brought with them an understanding of etiquette and protocol, too. His earlier ramblings must have been a product of shock and confusion beyond the powers of the earpieces to correct.

  Getting at least the gist of this, Henry and Kelly nodded their heads and looked enthusiastic.

  “Your friends are my friends,” said the Sultan generously. “And each of you is an honoured guest in my realm. You have brought me such good fortune.” He clapped his hands. “But what a poor host you must think me. You have suffered such indignity. How you must thirst. Tariq, food and drink for our guests. Please forgive me, Alex; I shall join you presently when I have seen the wounded attended to and questioned our captives.”

  “What’s going on?” asked Kelly urgently, as the elderly fellow called Tariq ushered them away towards the shade of a stand of palms.

  “You need to get these in your ears for a start,” said Alex, handing out earpieces. “You’ll be amazed, honestly.”

  There was still a great deal going on around them, a hundred or so armed men going about their duties in what was an open area amongst scattered trees on the western edge of the oasis. A rocky, brush-covered bluff to the south had apparently provided cover for the Sultan’s ambush of the slavers as they emerged along the trail. The same bluff was to their backs now as shadows lengthened across the battlefield and they slumped gratefully at the foot of a huge date palm. Here a great pile of sacks and bundles had been gathered, at least part of it loot from the slavers, but some of it contained the small force’s marching rations. Tariq soon busied himself breaking out a variety of foodstuffs whilst his guests looked on ravenously.

  “It’s only simple fare, I’m afraid,” said Tariq, handing out strips of some kind of dried meat. “And there is only water to wash it down with. Even his Highness dines no better on a raid like this. I promise you better when we get back to Zanzibar.”

  Alex, a stern critic of his school’s catering regime, nevertheless found nothing to criticise in the coarse, chewy meat strip he was presently working his way through enthusiastically.

  “No, it’s good,” he said, jaws working diligently. “Beef, is it?”

  “Goat,” said Tariq. “And a bit of horse. Rather hard on the teeth, perhaps, but it lasts for months. There’s flatbread, too.”

  By this time Tariq had found some plates and was distributing what looked like pitta bread and nuts. There were dates too, and what might have been dried figs. Without a great deal of conversation Alex, Henry and Kelly sat down cross-legged and concentrated on filling their shrunken, aching bellies. At length, when they had drunk their fill from water skins provided by their hosts, they flung themselves back on the short, scrubby grass and breathed deep, luxurious sighs of relief.

  “I honestly thought we’d had it,” said Henry, gazing past waving palm branches to where the first stars were glinting shyly in the purple evening firmament. “I was thinking, that’s it! This chap’s going to actually slit my throat. And as for the ride. OMG! I swear I never want to see a horse again in my life.”

  “I like horses,” said Kelly. “But not like that. I actually thought my head was going to drop off. I must have been dry retching for hours once all the sick was jolted out of me. My throat feels like it’s red raw all the way down.”

  “Didn’t you pass out?” asked Alex, rolling over towards her and then squirming until a relatively unbruised part of him was in contact with the ground. “I don’t know how long I was out for.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. We must have been going a couple of hours, I should think, before these guys came rushing in.”

  “I thought I was going to die then, too,” said Henry. “The guy who was riding with me fell off and the horse took off on its own. Then it fell into a ditch and I got chucked into a thorn bush. Look.” He picked a thorn out of his ankle and held it up between thumb and forefinger. ”I’m going to be picking these out for days.”

  “Have you thought about where we are?” asked Alex after a while.

  “Zanzibar,” said Kelly. “Wherever that is. That’s what the guy said, isn’t it?”

  “I think when we are is the crucial question,” said Henry. “We’ve travelled back in time, haven’t we?” He regarded Alex seriously. “I’d say the guns and stuff are nineteenth century or something like that. I saw some in a museum like them. And Zanzibar’s an island off the east coast of Africa.”

  Henry, a keen student of just about everything at school, and a big reader too, could be relied upon to know this kind of thing.

  “So, you’re okay with the idea of having travelled back in time, then?” asked Alex, rather impressed with Henry’s apparent acceptance of the way things seemed to be.

  “Well, it’s not ideal,” said Henry, with masterly understatement, his expression hard to read in the gathering gloom. “But the way things were shaping up earlier today, you’ve got to look at it as a bit of a let off.”

  A looming shadow that proved to be Tariq placed a small bundle at Henry’s feet.

  “Here, master,” he said. “I have cleaned the excrement from your garments.”

  “Oh, er, thanks,” said Henry, glancing awkwardly at Alex and Kelly. “Very decent of you.” And then to his companions, “What are you laughing at? Eh? What’s so funny?... Eh?... Eh?”

  It became clear that the Sultan had no plans to go anywhere that night. After the dead were buried and the casualties treated, his little force pitched tents and set up camp with impressive efficiency. Soon the horses were tethered under the trees and camp fires cast a ruddy glow amongst the tents, deep shadows snaking out until merging imperceptibly with the inky blackness of the desert night. The Sultan’s warriors gathered round the fires, celebrating their victory, talking, laughing and singing late into the night. Small tents were found for the travellers, one for Kelly and one for the boys. When it became apparent that none of them had any idea how to set them up, two laughing warriors came across to do the job. They were nothing like any of the tents Alex had ever seen; his own was rather low but easily large enough to accommodate him and Henry. But first there were the social niceties of the evening.

  “His Excellency will see you now,” said Tariq, having delivered a big pile of blankets to them. “His tent is the large striped one yonder.”

  ‘Large’ was a relative term, since all the camp equipment presumably had to be small enough to be carried on horseback. Nevertheless, it was clearly a cut above the others, made from what might have been white and purple silk and just large enough for the Sultan to stand up inside it, Alex guessed. The Sultan himself was sitting outside on a pile of rugs, wrapped up in furs against the chill of the night and surrounded by his attendants and councillors. A cheerful fire blazed at the centre of the circle, kept going by servants bringing dried timber from the surrounding scrubland. Plates of food and skins of water were doing the rounds, but the provisions seemed to be pretty much the same as they had been offered earlier on. A delicious smell wafting across from another fire suggested that better fare might soon be forthcoming.

  “Greetings, my friends,” cried the Sultan with heart-warming enthusiasm, springing to his feet. He gestured at those around him to shuffle up a bit. “Make room for our lucky talismen who, by heaven’s blessin
g, have brought us victory today.”

  Alex, Kelly and Henry stepped awkwardly amongst the squatting figures to the place that was being cleared for them, with varying degrees of reluctance, Alex sensed. Upturned faces, unevenly lit by firelight, held expressions that conveyed a variety of emotions ranging from curiosity to barely contained hostility. It seemed that not everyone shared their host’s appreciation of them.

  “Here, Alex, come and sit beside me.” The young Sultan patted a shaggy rug. “You must introduce me to your friends now that there is time to talk at last.”

  Alex did the honours, surprising himself by remembering the stream of honorifics that was the Sultan’s official title. Kelly and Henry, equipped with the translation devices, were able to nod their heads and mutter the kind of pleasantries required by the circumstances.

  “Kelly. What a delightful name,” gushed the Sultan. “Such music to the ears. And such eyes; eyes that a thousand poets could praise in all eternity. Features so exquisite, so finely formed, as delicate as the most precious porcelain.” He placed a finger gently under her chin and tilted her head upwards the better to admire her. Alex felt his hackles rise.

  “And this is Henry,” said the Sultan, moving things swiftly on. “Excellent. Well, you must think me a poor host.” He clapped his hands. “Bring us food; bring us what poor morsels we can muster for our distinguished guests.”

  “What was all that about?” muttered Henry darkly, whilst the Sultan got on with instructing his domestics.

  “You’re just jealous because he didn’t say the poets were going to get all steamed up about your eyes,” Alex told him.