Desert God

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘But not quite cunning enough.’ I spoke aloud with satisfaction.

  Zaras and his men were watching me with expressions of confusion and total mystification, which only deepened further as I turned my back on Tehuti’s palpable footprints, and led them back to where the two groups of Bedouin had parted company.

  As I set off in pursuit of the smaller southerly group I expected Zaras or at least one of his men to protest, and I was somewhat disappointed when none of them could summon up enough courage to challenge my decision. With every league I led them southwards the warmth radiating from the golden head of the goddess I held in my hand grew stronger.

  I knew how Tehuti was suffering by this time. She had been wearing only a light cotton tunic when the Jackal captured her. This would have given her very little protection from the wooden saddle under her or the sun above her. I had seen the blood from her torn feet where she had been forced to walk. The feet of an Egyptian princess are more delicate than those of a peasant girl.

  One consolation for me was my conviction that the Jackal would never have allowed himself or any of his men to violate her barely mature body. She was much too valuable in her virgin state. He must be astute enough to realize that he could buy ten thousand pretty slave girls for her ransom price. Nevertheless, I was sorely tempted to increase the pace, and push the camels to their utmost to save her from even one more hour of her torment.

  My usual good sense restrained me. I knew that the Jackal might have a few more desperate tricks to play, and that I had to have something in reserve to counter those. I kept the camels down to that relaxed trot, but there were no more stops to drink or rest. We rode on through the morning.

  Then an hour after the sun had made its noon I led the climb up another ridge of compacted sandstone and when I reached the summit I was looking down into a wide basin of ground many leagues across. This was a valley of giant natural sculptures that had been fashioned by the winds of eternity. Ramparts and pinnacles of petrified red rock thrust their heads so high that they seemed to brush the belly of the pale blue sky, but their bases had been eaten away by the wind until they were slender pillars upon which their massive heads were balanced.

  My eyes were the oldest in the cohort, but as usual they proved to be the sharpest. I was the first to pick out the fugitives. Even when I pointed them out to Zaras and the men they could not make out the cluster of humanity in the shadows at the base of one of the gigantic stone monoliths. To be fair to them the heated air rising from the sun-baked rocks trembled and quivered with mirage, disturbing their vision.

  Then a pinpoint of sunlight was reflected off a blade or the tip of a lance, and this immediately focused their attention. There were shouts of triumph and bloodthirsty battle cries from the cohort behind me, but I knew that the worst was yet to come. We were now facing desperate men, and Tehuti was in greater peril than she had ever been since the Jackal had seized her.

  With an abrupt gesture I silenced the men and led them back behind the ridge. I left a trustworthy sergeant and two of his men to keep the Bedouin under surveillance. Then once we were off the skyline I allowed the rest of my cohort to dismount, to rest and ready their weapons for combat.

  From the pack on my camel’s back I took down my war bow in its leather carrying bag and my arrow quiver. I carried these with me when I led Zaras aside. I found a seat on a slab of sandstone, and I beckoned Zaras to sit beside me.

  ‘All their horses are down. They cannot run any further. The Jackal has chosen his ground on which to make his last stand,’ I began and then I went on to explain exactly what he had to do if we were to extricate Tehuti unhurt from the Jackal’s clutches. When I finished I made him repeat my instructions, so that there could be no misunderstanding.

  While we were talking I rebraced my bow with a new bowstring. Then from the quiver I selected three arrows which appeared at first glance to be perfect. These I rolled between my hands to detect the slightest distortion. When they passed my stringent scrutiny I tucked them under my belt. I left the arrows which I had rejected in the quiver which I strapped to my back. It was unlikely that I would get a chance to shoot more than a single arrow, and that would have to be at extreme range. If another opportunity presented itself I would not have a moment to waste in making my arrow selection.

  ‘I am ready, Zaras.’ I stood up and slapped his shoulder. ‘Are you?’

  He jumped to his feet. ‘Yes, Taita! I am ready to die for the princess.’ It was a melodramatic declaration, but I was moved by his sincerity. Young love has a peculiar splendour all of its own.

  ‘I think both Princess Tehuti and I would prefer you to remain alive,’ I remarked drily, and I led him back to join the waiting cohort.

  While Zaras was giving them their orders I appropriated the crocodile-skin cuirass and bronze helmet from one of the guardsmen and donned them to conceal my distinctive robes and long flowing hair. I did not wish to stand out from amongst my men.

  When our preparations were completed we remounted, and crossing back over the ridge we started down into the valley of sandstone monoliths, walking the camels sedately towards the place where the Jackal and his men were waiting for us.

  I took this last opportunity to adjust the leather guard over my left forearm to protect myself from the lash of the bowstring. The wound that I had already inflicted on myself was still open and weeping.

  Zaras was leading the cohort. Our men were bunched up in close order twenty paces behind him. I was no longer riding in the van beside Zaras.

  Inconspicuous in my borrowed armour, I hung back on the extreme left flank of the second rank. I concealed my war bow under the saddle-cloth of my camel, where it could not be seen by the enemy until I raised it.

  Zaras rode well out in front our formation, where he could focus the Jackal’s attention upon himself. He had reversed his sword, holding it high with the hilt uppermost. This was the universal sign of truce.

  I knew that the Jackal would be expecting this invitation to parley, for we were locked in a stalemate. He could not escape. All his horses were down, and his men were played out.

  On the other hand we could not charge in to finish it while he still had a knife to Tehuti’s throat.

  I had to rely on Zaras to get me within certain bowshot of the Jackal without triggering his murderous reaction. As we closed I was able to study the ground more effectively.

  From my reading of their spoor I knew that the number of Al Hawsawi’s men had been whittled down by splitting and by the hostile desert to fifteen survivors. I had fifty-six guardsmen, including Zaras. All of them were relatively fresh and in fighting condition. There could be only one outcome if it came down to a fight to the finish. They would all die, but then so would Princess Tehuti.

  Al Hawsawi had chosen with care his final position under the towering loom of the sandstone monolith. The rock secured both his flanks, but it gave him an additional advantage. The shelving sandstone roof that extended out over his position limited the range of even my great war bow. I could not stand off at a distance and loft my arrow high enough to kill the Jackal without my arrow first striking the roof of rock above his head. I had to get into closer quarters and shoot on a much flatter trajectory.

  However, the red rock was also the Jackal’s prison wall. It cut off any line of retreat. He had to negotiate an exchange with us: the lives of his men and himself for that of my princess.

  Led by Zaras we rode slowly towards where the Jackal was waiting at bay.

  Now I was able to see that the horses of the Bedouin had all succumbed to the thirst and the harsh conditions. The Arabs had dragged the last few carcasses into a half-circle facing outwards towards us. Behind this makeshift and pathetically inadequate stockade the survivors now crouched. Just the tops of their heads were showing, together with the tips of the lances and curved scimitar blades which they presented to us.

  As we closed with them I could see that there were at least three of the Arabs holding bows wi
th arrows nocked, ready to let them fly at us. But the Bedouin are not archers of any consequence. Their bows are feeble, with half the range of the mighty recurved weapon that was clamped under the saddle-cloth beneath my knee, ready to my hand.

  Now everything depended on how close to these meagre fortifications Zaras was able to bring me before Al Hawsawi called a halt to our approach. I was judging the shortening range with every pace my camel took under me.

  We reached the critical point from which I knew that I could lower my trajectory and reach any of the Arabs with my arrow without fear of hitting the stone roof that hung over their heads. I grunted with relief. Every pace forward that my camel took from here onwards placed me in a stronger position.

  The guardsman riding in the rank ahead of me was screening me as I reached down and took my grip on the war bow. Then without glancing down I selected an arrow from those on my belt with my free hand. I laid it across the top end of the hand grip of my bow and held it there with the forefinger of my left hand.

  My camel carried me forward another five slow and stately paces, before a man came to his feet in the centre of the Bedouin line and faced us. He threw back the hood of his burnous to uncover his face, and he roared at us in Arabic.

  ‘Stop! Come no closer.’ The echoes of his voice boomed off the roof of sandstone above him.

  I recognized him at once as the black-bearded brute I had last seen three days previously throwing Tehuti on to his saddle as he leered at me under his upraised arm. This was confirmed for me immediately as he shouted again.

  ‘I am Al Hawsawi, war chief of the Bedouin. All men fear my might.’

  He reached down and from behind the carcass of his horse, where he had concealed her, he lifted Tehuti to her feet.

  Now he held her so that we could see and recognize her face. His left arm was locked around her throat from behind, choking her so she dare not struggle or cry out. In his right hand he held his naked sword. Tehuti’s body screened his as he glared at us over her shoulder.

  Al Hawsawi had stripped Tehuti of every stitch of her clothing. I knew he had done this to humiliate her, and to demonstrate how completely he dominated her. Her limbs seemed slender and childlike when compared to the massive hairy arm which he had clamped around her throat. The skin of her naked form was opalescent as mother-of-pearl. Her eyes were so huge with fear that they seemed to fill her face.

  Zaras leaped down from the back of his camel and, still proffering his reversed sword, he started walking slowly towards where Al Hawsawi was holding Tehuti. He lifted the visor of his helmet, revealing his identity just as Al Hawsawi had done.

  As she recognized Zaras I saw the terror fade from Tehuti’s eyes, to be replaced by the fierce light of courage and hope. Her lips moved as they formed his name, but the sound of it was throttled by the thick arm around her throat.

  I was proud of her then, as proud as I had ever been of her mother. But I closed my mind to all these distracting thoughts and memories. My eyes measured the range and my mind calculated the loft and drift of my arrow in flight.

  I felt the light breeze on my left shoulder, but I saw that where Al Hawsawi stood he was sheltered from it by the bulk of the great slab of sandstone. Only a master archer could be certain of that target: first the wind drift to the right and then the patch of still air as the arrow fell the last few cubits to strike its target.

  Al Hawsawi was lashing himself into a fury, hurling abuse and warning Zaras to stand where he was, and to come no closer. He held his short sword in his right hand and was pressing the point of the bronze blade up under Tehuti’s jaw, into the soft swell of her throat.

  ‘Stand your ground, or I will kill this bitch and cut out her putrid and diseased ovaries,’ he screamed at Zaras.

  ‘Nobody has to die,’ Zaras called back in a placatory and appeasing tone. ‘We can talk.’ He kept moving towards the pair. I edged my camel forward. Zaras was winning me precious ground. Every pace my mount took made my shot that much less formidable.

  What was more important was that he was forcing Al Hawsawi to turn slightly to keep facing him. He was opening the target area for my arrow.

  I needed only to divert the attention of the Jackal for the time it would take me to draw and loose, and for the arrow to fly to its mark.

  Without moving my head I emitted the cry of a hunting falcon as it begins its stoop. My life sign is that of the wounded falcon. I have perfected the cry. Even the most experienced falconer is unable to tell my imitation from that of the actual bird. The rock walls amplified and echoed the sound so that it carried clearly above Al Hawsawi’s tirade of abuse.

  All Bedouin are avid falconers, and Al Hawsawi recognized that evocative call and was not able to resist it. He cut short his stream of foul abuse, and glanced up to where he thought the cry had emanated. It was a momentary distraction, but all I needed.

  I brought my bow and my perfect arrow together and they nocked and fitted like the bodies of divine lovers cast in paradise for each other. I drew and as the bowstring touched my lips I loosed. I watched the arrow climb, reach its zenith. It skimmed the rock roof above the Jackal’s head without touching, and then began the drop.

  To me it seemed to be moving with a stately grace, but I knew that only an eye as keen as mine could follow it.

  Then I saw the Jackal’s eyes flicker in their sockets. Impossible as I knew it to be, he had seen or like a wild animal he had sensed my arrow dropping towards him. His head jerked up slightly, and his body began to turn. Then my arrow struck him high in the chest and a hand’s breadth to one side. He had moved just enough to disturb my aim, and I knew that my arrowhead had missed his heart.

  Nevertheless the weight and speed of the strike hurled him backwards. Instinctively he threw his arms open in an attempt to regain his balance, but his legs collapsed under him and he slammed into the sandstone floor.

  Tehuti was sent spinning from his grip. I saw her twist her body in the air, and she landed with the agility of a cat. She rebounded to her feet, and poised, naked and lovely, momentarily bewildered by the sudden turmoil that boiled around her.

  Zaras had been ready for the cry of the falcon; that we had agreed upon earlier. As I uttered it so he launched himself towards where Tehuti stood.

  He was as swift as a hunting cheetah. He had to run past the Jackal’s prostrate body to reach Tehuti. He saw my arrow protruding from Al Hawsawi’s upper body and he thought that I had killed him. He paid him no further attention. He reached Tehuti before any of the other Bedouin realized what was happening. He grabbed her and thrust her bodily behind him, shielding her with his own bulk. He tossed up the sword he was holding reversed in his other hand, and as it dropped he caught it by the hilt and went into the on-guard position; waiting to meet the rush of Arabs that were coming at him.

  ‘Charge!’ I urged our men forward to protect the couple. ‘Have at them, lads!’ I goaded my camel into a lumbering gallop, and at the same time nocked another arrow. I saw one of the Arab archers check his forward run and lift his bow, aiming at Zaras.

  I shot my arrow an instant before the Arab could loose his. I struck him in the throat just in time to spoil his shot. His own arrow flew wide, and the Arab fell to his knees clutching at my shaft, which protruded from his throat, bright blood spouting from his gaping mouth.

  Undaunted, one of his comrades rushed at Zaras and with his scimitar raised high launched a blow at his head. Zaras swatted the Arab’s blade aside, and then used his momentum to sever the man’s sword-arm cleanly at the elbow. The Arab screamed and stumbled backwards, clutching the stump of his arm. He tripped over the kneeling man with my arrow in his throat. They went down together in a heap, obstructing the charge of their comrades.

  I shot my third arrow and brought down another Bedouin bandit. Zaras turned his head and flashed an approving grin at me. Incredulously I realized that the young idiot was actually enjoying himself.

  ‘Come back here!’ I shouted at him. ‘Bring Tehut
i to safety.’

  He lifted her off her feet as though she was a small child, and he slung her over his left shoulder.

  ‘Put me down!’ she yelled at him and kicked her legs wildly to be free. He ignored her protests and started back to meet us as we raced forward to cover his retreat.

  Al Hawsawi still lay where my arrow had brought him down. All of us had switched our attention from him to the charging Bedouin. I was as guilty as any of them. I knew that the Jackal had managed to duck my heart shot, and that he was probably still alive. But I thought that at the least I had crippled him, and that he was no longer a menace to any of us. His inert body was spreadeagled, and his sword was trapped under him.

  Zaras had been forced to run past him to reach Tehuti. Now he was retreating and backing up towards him again. All Zaras’ attention was concentrated on the Arabs who were menacing him.

  Suddenly Al Hawsawi rolled over and sat up. Now he had his sword in his right hand, but he did not have the strength to come to his feet.

  ‘On guard, Zaras!’ I yelled at him as I groped for another arrow, but the closed lid of my quiver thwarted me. ‘Behind you, Zaras! Beware the Jackal.’

  Perhaps my voice was drowned out by the hubbub of battle; or perhaps he did not understand my warning. He took another step backwards, which brought him into range of Al Hawsawi’s blade.

  With an incoherent shout of despair the Jackal lunged at him. The thrust was from below and behind. The blow lacked power, but Al Hawsawi’s point was sharp enough to pierce Zaras’ leather skirt and go between his sturdy young legs.

  Al Hawsawi tried feebly to pull his blade free of Zaras’ clinging flesh, but he did not have the strength to do so. He fell backwards and supported himself on his elbows. As he panted hoarsely for breath the shaft of my arrow which protruded from his chest twitched in time to his breathing, and a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.