H'ard Starts: The Early Waldrop, page 3
Wanderer wanted to go off somewhere and giggle, preferably a place with gallons of water, beautiful girls, and tons of food with barrels of wine. The heat made him giddy and he caught himself swaying. Knowinghe couldn’t let his mind wander, he bent all his thoughts to ways to make the Pharaoh suffer when, and if, he made it back. The more he thought, the madder he got.
He swopped the camel with the camel stick in his right hand. It began to move a little faster, settling into a jog-trot. Wanderer was ready to accept it, then he thought once again about the Pharaoh. The old boy had been nice about it, after a dozen or so Civic Policemen had grabbed Wanderer in a tavern and drug him to the presence of His Most Elevated Tyrant. He had given Wanderer the choice of going on the mission, returning safely, and collecting a huge reward, or of refusing to go and being beheaded on the spot. Wanderer, of course, had decided that he would love a trip into the desert for a change of scenery and climate, and had accepted the Pharaoh’s agreement.
As soon as his escort had turned back, near the Sini border, Wanderer had thought that a trip to one of the seacoast strongholds would be nice, or perhaps a trip even to the war-gutted Forbidden Lands across the Middle Sea. Something told him, though, that the wily old ruler would have spies somewhere along the way, and surely as soon as he was seen on the seacoast, he could begin looking for a small army to come after him. Now, grumbling about his stupidity, he was slowly realizing what an idiot he had been for going through with his end of the bargain.
Just for spite, he swatted the camel twice across the neck as hard as he could. Off it went, looking like some gigantic spider clam – racing up and down the small dunes, and Wanderer hungon for dear life.
Inside the walls of Fata el Ercha, the people moved about quickly, shouting to each other as in a holiday spirit. All houses were lit, even the most humble. Of course, the sons of Ishmael did not drink, being faithful to the Prophet, but none checked the fruit juices to be sure that some had not fermented, and therefore the proceedings were doubly spirited.
A fat merchant swaying down the street mumbling to himself was bumped into by two spike-helmeted soldiers, who then sat down and laughed until they cried at the plight of the merchant, who was vainly trying to find his legs so that he could get up. The porcine one finally lay face down and cried into the dirt, shaking all over and calling on Allah to give him back his legs.
Elsewhere were a few more somber people, especially near the center of the town, more especially in the outer works of the palace of the local sheik who called Fata el Ercha his domain. Guards paced back and forth on the wall of the palace as well as a double guard on the grounds. The soldiers wore light mail shirts and cloaks, and seemed extremely nervous, always lingering their scimitar hilts or holding halberds at the ready. The night carried tension.
Just as the moon rose, a lone figure riding a camel was spotted by the guards on the city walls. The figure rode up to the wall, then seemed impatient when the camel halted before the closed gates.
“Since when are the gates of the town closed to the sons of the desert? Or are you afraid that the faithless Egyptians will swoop down upon your city!” shouted the figure. Wanderer knew good and well that they were afraid of just that. But telling an Arab that he was afraid of an Egyptian was inviting a chest full of quarrels. Since the Great Fire Wars, when the first Pharaoh had come and established his own religion, and the sons of the Nile had renounced the religion of Mohammed, the Arabs were sworn enemies of the Egyptians. Hence Wanderer’s desert costume, and the challenge he threw in the faces of the guards.
One of two things would happen. He would hear crossbows twang and then he wouldn’t hear much else, if they thought he wasn’t an Arab. Or the gates would open to let him in. He knew that most Arabs could bluff themselves out of anything, and he was tryinghis best to look, think, and even smell, which he did, like an Arab.
The gates opened. Cold sweat broke out on Wanderer’s brow, He swatted the camel, and it walked through the gates. One of the guards came lightly tripping down the steps from the wall.
“State your business. The city is full of too many desert jackals who come to watch the Egyptian girl be executed to suit either I or the sheik. Come, come, if you haven’t a reason, I’ll turn you back into the desert,” he said, trying to put on an official air.
Wanderer leaned down. He glared at the guard, trying not to laugh. “Have you looked at my trappings? Or cared to look at mysword?”
The guard looked at each. Then his eyes widened. His mouth fell open. His official air floated away.
“Ahab Alrashim! But we thought you dead in the holy war against the Egyptians almost two years gone. I cannot … ”
“Silence, imbecile! I have enemies everywhere. I have been in Egypt these two years, and am on my wayto Mecca to the Caliph. I have stopped to rest. Not one word that I am here, or I shall seek you out and let you taste my sword edge!” said Wanderer, glaring.
The guard turned green. He stepped back and let Wanderer pass by, making all sorts of bowing signs.
Wanderer let the camel trot down the street. He was pleased with himself that the ruse had worked. True, the trappings of the camel and the scimitar were those of Ahab Alrashim … sword and trappings taken by Wanderer as victoryspoils after he had killed Ahab in a sword fight when the Arabs had tried to take Khufu two years past. Wanderer had gone into that battle, not out of patriotism for Egypt, or love for the Pharaoh, but because his sister had lived in Khufu then and he hadn’t wanted to see her under Arab rule, or worse. The Arab Legions had seen Wanderer and Ahab skipping across the dunes, then the Egyptians had routed, and the only talk heard on the long trip back was speculation on who killed whom. Some diehard Arabs still swore that somewhere out near Khufu, Ahab and the accursed Egyptian were still at it.
Wanderer knew that the guard would keep his mouth shut. Ahab had been hated by as many as idolized him, and it was known that his vow was as good as written scripture in the Koran. If possible, Wanderer would have to swing this deal so that the guard would still be on duty when he got ready to make his getaway.
It was good that everyone knew of Ahab’s sword and the trappings of his camel rig. They were better than a pennon or a band or trumpeters when Ahab Alrashim had gone into a battle or had settled a blood feud. In fact, he was known more widely by them than he was recognized as a person. A good thing, too, for Wanderer might have been unlucky enough to have picked a guard who knew Alrashim.
Wanderer turned the camel down a narrow side street. First, he had to get to a livery and find a couple of horses …
A soldier walked along, his light mail shirt making faint tinkling noises. He was in a particularly bad mood. The captain had called out all guards who had been off duty more than five hours, because the desert men had become so spirited that they wanted to lynch the captured Egyptian girl before dawn. He shifted his pike to his left hand in order to navigate a sharp turn in the narrow street. He saw a movement from the corner of his eye before someone brought the hilt of a scimitar against his ear …
A few minutes later it was Wanderer who walked down the street near the palace – with slight tinkling noises. The pike felt very uncomfortable in his hand; the thing would be of no use in fighting because of its heaviness. It didn’t matter, he didn’t feel that he would take on too many pikemen anyway. Oh, Hell, why had he taken the Pharoah up on this deal! He knew finding the girl would be easy enough; getting her out would be impossible and there was no chance at all of him getting her back to Egypt. The Pharaoh wanted her for some special reason; something that he had left to Wanderer’s imagination.
A horn blared out, piercing Wanderer’s ears. Behind him, he heard the stomp of running feet. He wheeled around. He knew the guard couldn’t have gotten out of the ropes so soon. Instead, he saw guards, dressed like himself, running at him, but instead of laying on, they swept past him, running towards the sound of the horn. Wanderer stood a moment.
“Whatsa matter with you,” came a deep voice, “didn’t you hear the horn?”
Wanderer turned. By his insignia, the man facing him was the captain of the guards. He was a big man, wearing a breastplate and chain mail, and carrying a huge scimitar in his left hand. He had a broad face, covered partly by a huge beard and mustache.
“Come on, boy. Those hopped-up desert scum are trying to get at the girl. We got to take her to the palace, so they can execute her officially. Orders are orders! Let’s go!” he yelled, tugging at Wanderer’s arm, nearly pulling it off.
Wanderer, even as he ran, was grinning all over. He murmured a sort of thankfulness to any Egyptian god in general who happened to be listening in.
The mob gathered near the gate was giving the palace guards a hard time trying to get inside and to one of the corner turrets which served, Wanderer guessed, as the prison tower. Lots better than a dungeon; somebody might tunnel out of a dungeon, but not the upper part of a tower. After that, Wanderer didn’t have time to think. He and the big captain began applying the pike butts to some heads. Other guards were running to join them, both from the palace grounds and the other parts of the city. In a few seconds the crowd had drawn back, most of them rubbing aching heads or holding battered arms. Wanderer stood with the captain, facing the crowd.
“Why don’t you go back into the desert! It’d do us all good. At least, you can pretend you’re civilized, and wait until the Egyptian girl is tried and then you can see an execution. The Sheik has promised good entertainment!” roared the big, burly captain.
“We want the girl!” came a shout from the crowd. Others took it up.
“She’s a witch! Sorceress! Egyptian scum! Kill her!”
The crowd pressed forward again. Pikes bristled from the line of guards. Big heavy nightsticks leaped from their thongs. In a few seconds, there was a melee of screams, curses, and dull thuds in front of the gate.
“You!” screamed the big captain, as he kicked the legs from under a short man trying to get by him, at some of the guards. “Get to the barracks, call out the charioteers, and come break this up. You three” he hollered at Wanderer and two others “come with me. We’ll get the girl out!”
They sped off across the palace grounds towards the turret. Two guards stood in front of the door. The captain opened the door, began running up the steps. Wanderer clambered up after him, after dropping his pike outside. Around and around they went, up the spiral steps. The captain opened a door, and jumped in, Wanderer behind him. A fat, half-naked guard leaped to his feet, then settled back as he saw the captain.
“What’s up?” he wheezed.
“Give me the keys. Some of the people got their fingers on some juice and are trying to get to the girl. Stay here and make sure no one gets up here,” the captain said, running to the other door with the jangling keys in his hand. Wanderer went after him. The door swung open.
A girl jumped up. Wanderer didn’t have time to look at her. A job was a job. He had a glimpse of a tattered dress and darkish hair. Then the captain’s big body blocked his vision.
“C’mon girl. You’re going to the palace with us.” The captain grabbed her roughly and pulled her around. Then there was a noise like a rotten egg cracking, and the big captain doubled up like all the air had been let out of him. He fell limply to the floor, and his helmet, dented above the temple, rolled across the room.
Wanderer threw what was left of the stool in the corner. He grabbed the girl. “Play along with everything I do,” he said, pulling her to the door.
He pushed her out before him, making it look good. “Get down the stairs, scum! You’re putting us to a lot of trouble.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her towards the door that led to the stairs.
“Wait!” grumbled the huge guard. “Where’s the captain?” He stepped closer to them, then looked into the other room, saw a pair of feet sticking out. “What’s going on here?” He unsheathed a huge sword. “You’re not leaving here.” He stepped forward, and stood near the stair door.
There was a flash of silver and a meaty chunk! filled the air. The guard writhed once, then dropped the sword with a clatter. He didn’t fall, though. He was pinned to the wall by a dagger through the neck.
“What – what are you doing this for? Do you want to torture me yourself?” asked the girl, shivering.
“Our old Friend the Pharaoh wants to see you bad enough so that I’ve got to do a lot of dirty work. Now, just be quiet and go along with me.”
The girl’s eyes widened at the mention of the Pharaoh.
They clambered down the steps and out the door. The guards waited for them. Wanderer began yelling as soon as he got out.
“The captain said to help those at the gates till the chariots get there. I’ll take the girl to the palace.” Oh, damn, he thought, don’t let them wonder why the captain’s not here. It was settled a few seconds later when a noise from the gate brought their heads around. A few of the drunks had broken through and were pointing at them. Off went the guards with brandished night sticks, and in a few seconds there was a flurry of arms, legs, and headcloths. Wanderer pushed the girl towards the edge of the wall. They ran off through the low inner walls and lost themselves in the palace gardens …
The guards on the city wall were leaning on their halberds and watching the proceedings with unfeigned interest. What went on inside the palace grounds was none of their business unless the Sheik himself called on them. Besides, the royal guards never got any exercise. It would do them good. While the guards and many of the townspeople watched the scrap, one other saw two figures disappear into the gardens. He happened to be standing on one of the verandas of the palace, which was quite all right, since he owned it. Growling, he went off down the steps.
Minutes later, Wanderer and the girl sat panting under a tangle of growth where they had stopped to catch their breath. Near them, set in the wall, was one of those ornamental windows, flower-shaped, which decorated the open gaps between the flowers. Wanderer had planned to use it as a means of escape once he caught his breath. The chariots had rumbled off a few seconds earlier, and screams floated back, telling them that the palace guards were getting the drunks in shape. Wanderer knew the girl would be discovered as gone soon. Questions would be asked. Then Wanderer would probably fight the last fight of his life.
She leaned on him, breathing hard, her lips parted so that she could get air. Her hair, he noticed, was lighter in color than most Egyptian girls’, and was cut short. Her nose was a little larger than it should have been, but it took nothing away from her beauty. Her shoulders, and other parts of her body, were heaving as she breathed. She would be a good catch for any man. Wanderer had to put her aside from his mind; there wouldn’t or would be other times to think about it, depending on what happened next. Right now …
Brush crackled. Wanderer leaped up; the girl muffled a scream. He tore the scimitar from its sheath; he had no time to grab for Boarkiller strapped out of sight at his side. A figure loomed up, dressed in mail from head to foot, wearing the headcloth of a sheik.
“Abu Hrasham!” choked the girl.
Wanderer knew then who he faced. He crouched low, unused to the weight and heft of the scimitar in his hand.
“So, the Pharaoh was bold enough to send someone for the girl anyway. I think he’ll get both of you back. But without your heads.”
He leaped, swinging his sword. Wanderer parried, then spun and sent his blade licking out in a flash of silver. The sheik replied smoothly, brought his blade over Wanderer’s guard. Wanderer stumbled and somehow got his blade up in time to save his shoulder. He was fighting blindly now. He caught himself backing, tried to correct it. Each time he tried to circle, Abu deftly stemmed his advance. Wanderer knew he would be backed into the shrubbery, where the sheik could carve him to pieces while he tried to get room to swing. If he could only get Boarkiller – no time for anything but back and back and try to keep that silver death from touching him.
Both problems were solved at once. For an instant, Wanderer forgot the weapon he used. A slight opening came while the sheik tried to chop downward. Forgetting that his point was almost useless, old fighting sense made Wanderer lunge. The sheik, unused to the attack, parried wildly. He got better than he hoped for. His own point caught the hilt of Wanderer’s sword, and it went sailing over and over into the bushes. But the sheik was still backpedaling.
Wanderer ripped Boarkiller out. It seemed to snicker evilly as it came out of the sheath. It was not the desperate Wanderer who had but a moment before been fighting a futile battle. It was a cool, level-headed swordsman with the one weapon that he could use as if it were part of his body. He had found the sheik’s weak spot, and he made use of it.
Wanderer came in, swinging Boarkiller in and out, around and up and down the blade with which the sheik could barely use to parry. He bored in, teeth clenched, stance light and high on the toes, at his ease now.
It was over in a split second. The mail was made to withstand an edge, not a point. The sheik had swung high. Boarkiller changed course twice, then disappeared into the sheik’s side before he could parry either feint. The scimitar jumped from nerveless fingers, and the sheik Abu Hrasham gurgled and went down, clutching his side.
Without a second look, Wanderer caught the girl’s arm gently and pushed her to the window.
They made it to the horses, hidden behind a row of shabby houses near the gates. Wanderer got into the garb of Ahab Alrashim once again, except the camel trappings, which he stuffed into the horse’s saddle bags. So far, so good. He put a riding cloak on the girl. His biggest task lay ahead of him. He rode beside her slowly until they came within sight of the gate. He leaned over and squeezed her hand.
“You are the sister of Ahab Alrashim. You live near the Nefud Desert, and you were here visiting relatives incognito for fear that someone would swipe you to get revenge on Ahab, since he was supposed to be dead. Your name is Talwa,” he said.
