Chapter 25

Leaving Zohra’s tent, Mathew looked up at a swiftly moving, dark-black cloud and saw an army descending from the sky. At first he could neither speak nor react. Paralyzed with astonishment, he stared, openmouthed. Soldiers—hundreds of them—mounted on winged horses, soared out of the towering thunderhead. They rode in tight formation, spiraling downward like a human cyclone, heading for the ground, heading for the camp around the Tel. The golden ram’s head, stitched upon their uniforms, now bore the wings of eagles sprouting from its skull.

Mathew gave a strangled cry. Hearing him shout, Zohra ran from her tent. Several women, standing near him, their eyes on the husbands who were just galloping out of sight, turned to stare at him in alarm. Wordlessly, unable to talk, Mathew pointed. The first riders were just touching the ground, their magical steeds hitting the desert floor at a gallop.

Zohra clutched at her chest, her heart frozen by cold, numbing fear. “The vision!” she gasped. “Soldiers of Quar!”

A fierce wind swept down out of the cloud, raising a stinging, blinding storm of sand that swirled around the camp. Catching hold of tent poles, the wind—like a huge hand—yanked them from the ground and sent them flying, bringing the fabric crashing down upon those inside. Shrieks and wails of terror rose into the air. The winds increased to gale force and the darkness deepened, split occasionally by jagged lightning and deafening cracks of thunder.

Some of the women tried to flee, to escape, running after the spahis, who had already disappeared. Blankets, swept along the desert floor by the wind, encircled the legs of their victims, tripping them, bringing them down. It seemed as though all inanimate objects had suddenly come to malevolent life. Brassware, iron pans, and crockery slammed into their former mistresses, knocking them senseless to the ground. Rugs wrapped around their weavers, smothering them.

Then, out of the storm came the soldiers of Quar. They rode through the camp, the storm winds dying swiftly to allow them to do their work. Leaning down, the soldiers grabbed wailing children up in their arms and carried them off. Others dragged the comatose bodies of the women across the saddles and ordered their steeds back to the air.

Not all their prey was easily captured. Although supposedly sheltered and protected in the harems, the women of the desert were in reality the same valiant warriors as their husbands and fathers and brothers. The women did not fight for glory but they fought nonetheless—a daily battle, a battle against the elements, a battle to survive.

Badia caught up a broken tent pole and swung it. Smashing against the shoulders of a soldier, it knocked him from his mount. A brass pot, hurled with deadly efficiency by a grandmother with long years of matrimonial bickering behind her, struck a soldier on the back of his head, felling him instantly. A twelve-year-old girl leaped for the bridle of a galloping horse. Catching hold of it, she used her weight to drag the animal off balance as she had seen her father do many times during the baigha games. The horse fell, its rider tumbled to the ground. The girl’s younger brother and sisters fell upon the soldier, beating him with sticks and pummeling him with their small fists.

But the battle, against overwhelming odds, was a losing one.

The wind blew Mathew off his feet, driving him to his hands and knees. He caught a glimpse of Zohra running back into her tent, then—blinded by the stinging sand—he could see nothing. Fighting the whipping gale, he struggled to stand and saw Zohra emerge, dagger in hand, just as the tent blew down.

The tent! Mathew thought instantly of two things: the fish and his magic. Panicked, he turned to see his own tent take wing and flap off like a huge bird, his scrolls and parchments sailing after it. This time the wind inadvertently aided him, for it was at his back as he ran to save his possessions. Lunging after them, he caught what scrolls and parchments he could, searching frantically as he scrambled here and there among the debris for the glass globe, containing the two fish.

A glint of light caught his eye. There was the globe—right beneath the pounding hooves of a galloping horse!

Mathew heard echoing in his ears the cold voice promising what would happen to him if he lost the fish. His heart in his throat, he watched, cringing, as the iron shoes smashed the globe into the ground. The horse’s rider, clutching two squirming, screaming children in his arms, thundered past Mathew without a glance. Dazed by the confusion about him, the young wizard was turning away in despair to look for Zohra when the same flash of light caught his attention. Looking down, he saw the glass globe, blown by the wind, rolling toward him.

Numb with shock, Mathew stared at it in disbelief. It was completely unharmed, not even scratched.

“Mat-hew!” He heard a shout behind him. Hastily he picked up the glass globe and, after a quick glimpse to ascertain that the fish were safe and unharmed, thrust it into the bodice of his women’s robes.

“Mat-hew!” The shout was a warning.

Whirling, Mathew saw a soldier on horseback reaching out to grab the “woman” and haul her up into the saddle. Reacting with a coolness that astonished him, Mathew caught hold of the soldier’s outstretched arm. Bracing himself, he pulled with all his strength, jerking the man from the saddle.

The soldier fell on top of Mathew, carrying them both to the ground. Grappling with the man, Mathew fought to free himself, then he heard a horrifying scream and felt the heavy body on top of his go rigid, then limp, sagging over him. The silken scarves of a chador swirled about Mathew’s head like a blue and golden cloud. The weight was yanked off him, a hand helped him to his feet. Standing up, Mathew saw Zohra remove her bloodstained dagger from the soldier back.

Her long black hair streaming in the wind, she turned, dagger in hand, ready to face her next foe.

“Zohra!” Mathew shouted desperately above the shrieks and screams, the neighing of horses, the yells and commands, “Zohra, we must find Khardan!”

If she heard him, she paid no attention to him.

Frantically Mathew spun her around to face him. “Khardan!” he screamed.

Seeing a soldier intent on riding them down, Mathew dove for cover beneath a partially collapsed tent, dragging a struggling Zohra with him.

Though Mathew knew they wouldn’t be safe here long, the tent offered some protection and there might be—there had to be—time enough to make Zohra understand the danger.

“Listen to me!” Mathew gasped. Crouched in the darkness, he caught hold of the woman by the shoulders. “Think of the vision! We have to find Khardan and convince him to flee!”

“Flee! hah!” Zohra’s eyes flamed. She stared at him contemptuously. “Remain here if you want, coward! You will be safe in your women’s clothing. Khardan will die fighting, as will I!”

“Then night will come to you and your people!” Mathew cried.

Starting to crawl out the tent, Zohra paused. Outside, hooves thundered about them, the cries of women and children echoed shrilly in their ears.

“Think of the vision, Zohra!” Mathew said urgently. “The falcon pierced by many wounds. Night falling. Or the falcon, wings mired in the mud, struggling to fight with the coming of day!”

Zohra stared at Mathew, but he knew, from the expression on her livid face that her eyes did not see him. They were seeing, once again, the vision. The dagger fell from nerveless fingers. Her hand—covered with the soldier’s blood—pressed against her heart.

“I can’t ask him to do such a thing! He would despise me forever!”

“We won’t ask,” Mathew said grimly, searching about for some type of weapon and settling for an iron pot.

Absorbed in his fear, he did not notice the ominous silence that had now settled over the camp, making it possible for them to talk without yelling.

“But how will we find him?”

“Surely your men will turn back, once they know what is happening?”

“Yes!” said Zohra excitedly. “They will come to us and so will Zeid! They will fight together to defeat these foul sons of Quar!”

“Not if the vision is true. Something will happen to separate them. But you’re right. Khardan will return to the camp—if he can. Come on!”

Cautiously he emerged from the tent. Zohra crept out after him. They both halted, staring in shock. The battle was over. The camp was completely destroyed. Tents lay on the ground like dead birds, their fabric rent and shredded by wind, sword, and horses’ hooves. Livestock had been ruthlessly butchered. Waterskins lay split open, their precious liquid soaking into the desert sand. There wasn’t a thing left, it seemed, that hadn’t been broken, smashed, or ripped to shreds.

Those few who had put up a fight had been subdued at last, the soldiers carrying them up into the welcoming arms of the ‘efreet, whose huge body shrouded the sky in darkness. Now that the captives were safe, the storm wind began to rise again.

At the edge of the camp, barely visible through the swirling sand, Mathew caught a glimpse of color-rose-pink silk. Staring, he saw a strange sight. A woman with golden hair, her veil having blown from her head, was talking with a soldier on horseback. She was speaking earnestly, angrily it seemed, for she stamped her foot upon the ground and pointed insistently toward the south.

Meryem! How strange, Mathew thought. What is she doing? Why hasn’t she tried to escape? Turning to glance in the direction she indicated, Mathew drew a breath.

“Look!” he shouted, peering through the gathering gloom, his eyes gummed with sand. “There they are! There is Khardan! I can see his black horse! Hurry!” He started running. “Or we’ll be too late.”

A hand caught hold of his arm; nails dug painfully into his flesh. Turning, he saw Zohra gazing bleakly above them. From out of the clouds came another spiral of horses—fresh soldiers riding down to meet the returning nomads.

“I think, Mat-hew, that we are already too late!” she said softly.