Swords of Arabia: Warlord Read online

  Fouad nodded, his black eyes unreadable. “So it was; so it was.” Saying this, he rose from the cushioned floor of the dais and extended his own right hand toward Ali, as though to take the Vizier’s outstretched hand.

  The prisoner’s eyes flared with sudden hope as he took the gesture to mean that he was to be spared after all. So engrossed was he in his inward vision of salvation that he failed for a moment to see Fouad pick up his sword, with his other hand; only for a moment; then his eyes glazed with fear as they came to rest on the wickedly curved blade. Realisation dawned. To an extent. Even Ali couldn’t fully envisage what was to happen to him in the next few minutes and beyond. Fouad could. Fouad had planned it with a merciless cruelty which he now proceeded to put into equally merciless action.

  “Lord, pl--- a-a-h!” Ali’s plea was cut savagely short as Fouad’s blade whistled down and severed his outstretched hand at the wrist. The prisoner looked dazedly at the ruined stump of his arm. As the shock wore off, the pain started – and grew. And grew. He fainted with the intensity of his agony as severed tendons shrieked their torment.

  “Bind his wrist and bring him round,” Fouad commanded.

  Dragged back to consciousness, Ali, even through the waves of sickness, felt a flicker of hope. Dreadful though his punishment was, it looked as though his tormentor was stopping short of killing him. You don’t bind up the wounds of a man just to kill him, he thought dully.

  He was right.

  And he was wrong.

  Fouad’s next words told him how. “That, Ali ben Sa’ad, might have been the end of your punishment. Had you merely betrayed me, I might have left matters there. Had my sister spoken well of you, who knows what might have been your future.” Fouad’s voice hardened as he recalled the vicious depravity his favourite sister had had to undergo when she became Ali’s wife. Firyal, to whom the young girl had confided immediately when they were re-united, was weeping as she’d told him some, only some, of what had happened to the defenceless girl. From the moment of taking her as his wife, ben Sa’ad had systematically abused her. Only her royal blood, which made him treat her with comparative caution, had kept her alive. Previous wives of Ali had rarely lived so long after their marriage.

  “For this, Ali ben Sa’ad, you will suffer until you scream at me to let you die. You will be taken to the cells and returned to the courtyard at sunrise tomorrow. You will then have your left hand severed as has happened to your right.” Ali moaned in hysterical fear as Fouad, relentless in his revenge, continued. “You will then be returned to the cells and brought before me at the following sunrise. You will then lose your right foot. The same will happen to your left foot on the following day. At the next sunrise after that I shall take the rest of a limb; at the next, another. And so on, until all that will be left of you is a limbless horror; its extremities gone, unable to stand, feed itself or raise its hands to heaven. Then you will be carried before me, to hear my further will. Or,” he shrugged, “I may be merciful and take your head.” He gazed down with flaring hatred at the wreck attempting to grovel in front of him. “Take him away!” he barked contemptuously.

  As the sobbing Ali was dragged away, he had already dismissed him from his mind and he turned his attention to his brother. Mishari, pushed towards him, managed to maintain a little more dignity than the hapless ben Sa’ad. Although no braver, his upbringing demanded more of him. Of greater importance, however, was his confidence that his brother would not treat him as he had ben Sa’ad.

  He was the second man that morning to be both right and wrong.

  “Greetings, brother,” he addressed Fouad, then blanched at his reply.

  “You are no brother of mine! I disowned you the day of your rebellion. You are here before me only to hear your fate. Nothing else,” Fouad spat. “Be silent!” he roared, as Mishari attempted to speak. “You betrayed my trust. Not content with that, you betrayed our sister when you gave her to that baboon’s dropping.” He gestured with contemptuous hatred in the direction that ben Sa’ad had been dragged away and from which his cries could still be heard. “You thought by uniting with some of the Wahhabi sympathisers of the al Saud, I could be kept from what is mine. You now know you were wrong. So shall Saud know, and soon,” he promised grimly, his eyes for a moment burning with an inner fire. “My decision on what to do with you has been a simple one,” he continued, his eyes now burning into Mishari’s.

  “You swore an oath that you would never kill any of our Father’s sons,” Mishari interjected, his weak, handsome features starting to come apart under Fouad’s implacable gaze.

  “ ‘Nor have any harm done to you by another. And to protect you all from harm attempted by another. Nor to imprison on any pretext.’ ” Fouad nodded his agreement as he completed the promise he and his brothers had made as their father lay dying. “Be at peace, brother, all that I remember and will honour. Though you did not!” he flashed. He waited for Mishari to relax as he seemed to win not only his life but his freedom. Knowing Fouad’s honour, Mishari had not really doubted his ultimate safety, though he had anticipated his brother would make his journey to it a little uncomfortable.

  Raising his voice so that all the assembled warriors and townspeople would hear, Fouad pronounced his sentence. “You will be taken into the desert for a distance of four days’ riding. And there you will be left. You will have water for one day.” He paused to let all absorb his words. Mishari, stunned at first, began rapidly to see a way out. His remaining supporters would follow and, when he was left alone by Fouad’s men, would rescue him. His efforts to hide the sneer he felt forming on his lips became stillborn on Fouad’s next words.

  “I was instructed by our father to protect all our line. This I will do. To ensure no ill becomes you, you will have a guard of sixty men. These will ride with you to protect you from all hazards. They will, of course, carry water and supplies sufficient for their comfort. They will not, under pain of their death, share them with you. Equally, they will not harm you.”

  At these words, a great sigh rose from the crowd, as they finally saw Fouad’s intention. His honour demanded that he keep the oath made a dozen years earlier. He was doing that by not executing or imprisoning his half-brother. Equally, by providing him with guards he was protecting him from external dangers. That these guards would also prevent his being rescued was a sweet irony which would ensure his death – but not at Fouad’s hands. His vow had been kept, yet he was rid of an enemy he had already pardoned once. All present felt no sympathy with Mishari; indeed most applauded both their ruler’s wisdom and his ruthlessness.

  “I will surely die!” Mishari cried, his composure cracking.

  “Should you come across water, you will not be prevented from drinking it. Equally, should you be able to walk to an oasis you will be allowed to do so. Should you not be successful, well, it is the will of Allah!” Fouad shrugged fatalistically.

  Mishari knew then that he really was going to die. He would be taken to a spot where none of these things were likely and he would die a horrible death as the sun sucked his life’s juices from his body and what little blood he had left would boil in his veins.

  “I curse you brother,” he spat at Fouad’s indifferent face as, with a gesture, the ruler had him taken away to begin his last journey deep into the inhospitable desert.

  Fouad, ordering the remaining chief plotters to be beheaded, rose and turned to his mother and said, “And now for Saud.”

  Chapter 5

  “The Ojaida are leaving! The Ojaida are leaving!” The cry rang round the camp, as yet another sheikh led his men away from Fouad to join the tents of ibn Saud. Zahirah, her face impassive, felt her heart lift with a savage joy. The Hawk was doomed! Even he couldn’t survive the defection of yet another chief, particularly one so powerful as Majid of the Ojaida. Stealing a swift glance at her mistress, she was forced into reluctant respect, as she saw in the older woman’s face only the polite interest expected as she talked to an elderly petitioner. No one
could guess at the pain she was suffering as she saw all her son’s work collapsing, yet again, around their feet.

  Outside the tent, Fouad was similarly impassive as he watched the exodus, surrounded by his few remaining supporters. Bitter though the defections were, he scarcely blamed those so choosing. Ibn Saud was headed east, all sources were clear on that unpleasant fact. He had recently taken control of large parts of al Qassim, a large and important province, long Rashidi-held. Ominously, he had done this in the face of not only Rashidi resistance but despite the strong support the Ottoman authorities had given their allies in the form of both manpower and weapons. The new Saudi Empire was expanding incredibly swiftly – and dangerously getting much nearer Narashi borders. Ibn Saud was beginning to appear, if not invincible, then as a very dangerous and growing menace to any who opposed him.

  Such was the growing reputation of the Saudi warlord, that Fouad’s force, despite the prophecy, had started to melt away with every mile they moved further from Narash; or rather with every mile they moved nearer to Saud’s army. This fear had reduced the alliance that had left the walled town only ten days earlier, by almost half, with more desertions threatened. Fouad had only the slender hope left that ibn Saud would not reach him for the several days it would take him to either regroup or flee back to the temporary safety of Narash. He would discuss that tonight when he conferred with those still loyal. He knew in his heart though, that whatever the options discussed, he himself had only one: to stand and face Saud; and face him now. He knew very clearly, though, as he turned to enter his tent, that he could well be facing the fearsome might of his enemy with only his own loyal Narashi Bedouin. Which wouldn’t be enough. Not nearly enough.

  “Lord Fouad! Lord Fouad! A rider! Look!”

  He swung round, his intent gaze following the pointing finger of the young warrior who had first noticed, rising in the near distance, the dust which was always a sure herald of an approaching man. And news – good or bad.

  It was bad. Almost disastrous. The rider reached the outskirts of the encampment and swiftly galloped up to where Fouad stood, bringing his horse rearing to a savage halt in his desperation to warn Fouad.

  “The Saudis! They’re here! Lord Fouad, they’re here!”

  Fouad cursed the rider’s impetuosity which was already spreading yet further alarm in his ravaged camp, as he sought more specific information.

  “Over beyond those dunes, Lord,” the stammering tribesman pointed again, calmed a little by his leader’s impassivity.

  Less than three miles! Fouad thought, holding his outer show of coolness with major effort. Whether mounted on horses or camels, he knew, made little difference over such a short distance; however mounted, the enemy were scant minutes’ riding time away.

  “How many men?” he asked tersely.

  “As many as the grains of sand this hand could hold, Lord,” the Bedouin replied. Innumerate, it was the only way he knew to signify large numbers. “All on horses,” he added, further adding to the feeling of impending destruction already pervading the camp to an extent Fouad could actually taste.

  Suddenly the entire camp went quiet as everyone looked to Fouad, waiting for his decision. His eyes, blank, black and terrible, yet with an awakening fire, flicked over those faces nearest to him. In many he saw fear; in a few, resignation to death; in only a tiny number did he see the same fighting fury he felt welling up inside his own breast. He knew he could retreat to fight another day with no loss of face. Prudence in the face of a superior enemy was a very Bedouin tradition. But he wasn't going to. He had run once in his life. From Mishari. He had sworn never again to run from any man. He may die today, but if he did, it would be facing his enemy on a battlefield, not fleeing down some wadi like a frightened woman.

  May Allah spit on these accursed Saudis! he fumed, silently. How had they caught him so unprepared? The last information he had had was that they were over thirty miles away, almost a day’s hard riding for ordinary men, even on camels. Now they were within minutes of reaching him! He raised his arms as a signal he was about to speak and the silence, if anything, intensified.

  “We fight,” he announced to his thunderstruck audience. Praying that Firyal had heard the messenger and been able to do her part, he continued. “We fight for what is ours. We will have only this one chance. We men of Narash will fight and win. Or fight and die. Whatever happens today, our names will be forever remembered by other men as they sit around their fires in camps all across the endless sands. Tales will be told of our courage and daring deeds. Of how we halted the Wolves of the al Saud with their Wahhabi allies in all their arrogance and in all their strength. Of how we fought, few against many, and won. Of how our friends from the Ojaida, the Qaseera and the Malewa stood with us, when many fled.”

  He paused. His instincts as a leader of men told him he had them. He was starting to turn the tide of defeatism into something else. Not quite a feeling of victory. Not yet. For that, something else was needed. In minutes he would unveil it. “Remember the prophecy! Remember, the Holy fool’s words:

  His enemies circle; he is doomed.

  As they move in for the kill, his beak lashes

  And he beats them back.”

  He allowed the fires, smouldering hidden in his breast, to ignite and pour from his eyes, incandescent and all-consuming in their belief in his own destiny and Saud’s ruin.

  “Foes destroyed, he soars aloft

  Sweeps through the sands to

  Western coasts.”

  Mohammed’s voice took up the chant and soon Faisal and all the remaining chieftains grouped around Fouad, were joining in.

  “King of Hawks and Wolves

  And all of deserts’ dwellers!”

  He had them! No question they would fight now! Fouad knew he had turned the tide. But one final piece needed putting in place before they rode out to meet the invaders. Their opponents were already shown as an utterly ruthless enemy and one quite willing to slaughter them all to achieve their victories. Warriors mixed with religious fanatics – a fearsome mix, indeed, thought Fouad. A potent brew against which brave warriors, however many and however brave, might not be enough to win. A devil’s alchemy against which only a supreme gesture could, perhaps, give them victory.

  Without warning he turned and ripped open the front of his large tent. “Behold! The War Queen!” he announced and stepped back, so the assembled tribesmen could see. The collective gasps followed by total silence told Fouad he had achieved the effect he wanted.

  “See. There is her litter!” he continued, before they could gather their wits. He turned and pointed to where a large camel-borne litter was coming into view, followed by crowds of excited women and children. It was magnificently decorated in blue, orange and green, topped with swaying Ostrich feathers and mounted on a camel of purist snowy whiteness. Its gaudy extravagance, even more than its unexpected appearance, grabbed the attention of all, creating an overwhelming sense of both wonder and awe.

  With great ceremony, Fouad took the hand of the slender, veiled figure, dressed no less sumptuously than the litter, in robes of red silk, exuberant, vivid and eye-catching. Silver jewellery on the forehead, ears, neck, throat, wrists and fingers completed a picture of reckless luxury at odds with both the times and the harsh, unyielding deserts surrounding them. Not one of the watching tribesmen felt the incongruity though; for, in their eyes, there was none. The Narashi tradition of the War Queen where, at times of greatest danger to the sheikhdom, one of its most beautiful girls led the warriors, unveiled and sometimes bare-breasted, into the very thick of the fiercest battle was, though rarely used for many centuries, an ancient and honourable one. The protection of her and her litter was more important to a warrior than his own life. For should she be killed, or she or the litter be captured, it was the greatest of shames to her tribe. By using such a hostage to his own fortune, Fouad was raising the stakes dramatically and very publicly.

  The crowds parted for Fouad to escort th
e War Queen to her dangerous eminence, but before he did so, he increased the fruits of victory while deepening the possible pit of defeat. “Hear me well. After our victory I shall be taking a wife.” If he felt the sudden tension in the small hand clasped within his, he gave no sign as he turned, and, in keeping with tradition, removed the veil from the girl’s face.

  Not by one flicker of his eyes did he betray his total shock at seeing not the biddable and beautiful girl selected previously, but Zahirah – and a Zahirah transformed. Her beauty, always there, was transfigured by her extravagant and beautiful adornments into something exotic; pulsating an eroticism which made her a force of nature no man could withstand. Its full power hit the unprepared Fouad with all the force of a major sandstorm and he needed all the vicious, self-imposed discipline of years to keep his voice calm as he spoke further. “I shall take Zahirah of the Mujara as my wife when she returns from having given us victory.”

  The camp erupted into wild cheering. The Bedouin were slaves to the grand gesture and Fouad had given them several with bewildering speed. As he assisted Zahirah into the litter their eyes met briefly. His, with their usual impersonal coldness, strangely muted; hers, showing no fear of her coming ordeal, only indifference to him and another, even deeper, emotion. Had he had time to analyse it, he would have known it as triumph, not yet achieved, but imminent.

  Within seconds of Zahirah’s entering the litter, the camp was swarming with tribesmen mounted and jostling for a position near her. She wouldn’t lack for champions in the coming battle. Whether their new confidence, swords and few rusty rifles would, however, be sufficient to protect her from the frenzy her very presence would incite in the puritanical and vengeful fighters amongst those facing them, only the next few hours would show.