Paul listened to the muffled shrieks coming from within the cave, where Messaoud was interrogating the prisoner.
He had known they were close to Tamrit. He had felt his presence. Tamrit had grown careless. The tracks of his animals were fresh. Instead of running he had relaxed the previous evening. He had taken tea, assuming his pursuers were soft and lazy like all infidels.
Tamrit had misjudged him.
Darkness had been falling and the attackers couldn’t see well, with all the smoke and confusion and shooting. There had been two entrances to the cave. Luck had been with Tamrit and his men and most had gotten out the back. All but the one whose cries filled the air.
The patrol had gone into the cave when the shooting stopped. They counted eight rebel bodies, men with swords or guns.
But they had found other bodies too. Six women and four children, huddled together in a dark corner of the cave. Fire or smoke or bullets – anything might have killed them. He hadn’t looked closely. It was enough, that they were dead. They had been inside, with the warriors of the jihad. They had waved no flag of surrender, nor appealed for mercy, nor made their presence known. Instead they had hidden. And then they had died.
Paul noticed his hand was shaking. He took hold of his rifle to still the tremors. He needed to eat something but couldn’t. Fatigue clawed at him but there would be no rest. He was close to the breaking point, his insides trembling as badly as his hands. His eyes were glazed, almost wild. He closed them to the vision of the huddled dead in the cave.
Were they the wives and children of the rebels? Nomads? There was no way to know. They could say nothing now. There was no one left to claim them. No one left to tell.
Did it matter, really? There had been so much chaos, so much madness. No one could have known.
He told himself that, over and over. No one could have known.
There had been other instances. Once in a village, the next time a caravan. A few guilty men dead, a few innocents gone.
I am at war. War has done it.
It was growing harder to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time. He paced a great deal. He drove himself to extremes. Sometimes he felt himself unraveling inside, but he could not relent. He would show no weakness to his men. He would ask no quarter, and he would give none.
The desert is harsh. Ask the Tuareg about killing. Ask the Tuareg about mercy.
The prisoner’s shrieks grew fainter. After a time they stopped altogether.
Messaoud appeared at the entrance to the cave. His face was bloody and caked with grime. He made his way to the rocks where Paul was waiting.
“He is dead, Lieutenant.”
Paul nodded without expression.
“He said Tamrit and his men are going to Arak. I think he was telling the truth. He was beyond lying.”
“Arak?” Paul had not heard of the place.
“In the Muydir Mountains. The Hoggar, sir. Some of the Tuareg make their winter camp there. It is good news, sir. Arak is quite distant. Tamrit must have tired of our pursuit and seeks safety there.”
Paul looked out over the hills. The Hoggar Tuareg.
“Arak.”
“Oui, Lieutenant. It is a shame to lose them so, but our mission has been a success. We have driven them away from the French settlements. The threat is ended. The captain will be pleased.”
Paul shook his head. “I am not finished, Messaoud. It is not done.”
“But sir, what more is there? They have escaped. We cannot follow them. Not to Arak. It is too far south. Malish, mektoub.” He shrugged. It was unthinkable.
Paul watched the smoke rising from the mouth of the cave. A gentle wind carried it away to the south, toward the open desert where it disappeared. He could almost touch it. How like the smoke is my quarry. How close I am to touching it!
He could do it. He knew he could. His men were tough and well armed. They would not be caught offguard; they would not be out-gunned. And if he was wrong? If he failed, if death waited in Arak – yes, even if death there were certain? Well, that was all right. In death he might find release from his madness. In death he might find honor. He would die doing what he must.
“Prepare the men, Messaoud. Tamrit will be traveling more slowly now. He will never expect us to chase him into the Hoggar.”
Messaoud looked at the lieutenant as if he had gone completely over the edge. The Algerian relished killing Tuareg and the Senussi and all their lot, but had no wish to die foolishly in the pursuit of such pleasure. “Forgive me, sir, but of course they wouldn’t expect it, because they know we would be insane to try. None of us has ever gone that far. I don’t know if the men will follow, sir. We have no orders, no maps—”
“You have your orders, Messaoud, and I have no need of maps. Tell the men I will give them each a ten-thousand-franc bonus. From my own pocket. Those who are not man enough have my permission to return to Wargla.”
Messaoud passed the word and soon returned.
“Only four men want the money, sir. The rest want to go home.”
Paul stared into the smoke, his eyes unfocused. “A hundred thousand.”
This time only six men out of twenty chose to return to Wargla. Messaoud himself was one of the six. As they separated Paul issued final orders about those who had died in the cave.
“Burn their bodies.”
“But sir, they are Muslim. To burn their bodies will keep them from their heaven.”
“I said burn them, Messaoud. Let other Muslims follow them in peril of their souls.”
Lieutenant deVries, Messaoud decided, had indeed gone beyond cruel. But orders were orders and the bodies were burned.
Arak made her think of Henri.
Every year when the meager rains brought them there with their camels and goats and tents, Serena re-lived their first journey together through the magical lands near Arak. She could still see it all so clearly: the balloon rising over the dunes, the crash, her instant love for him, his danger at the hand of Tamrit, the night they made love for the first time. All her memories of Henri were sweet, but none sweeter than Arak.
Her little procession passed beneath the towering rock walls of a deep gorge, the early morning light streaming down to bathe the sand floor of the dry riverbed in soft pools of light. The sounds of their animals echoed softly against the cliffs as they moved. She watched the walls for aoudad, the wild sheep with curved horns and scraggly beards. If there were many it would mean the rains had been good, and they would be hunted with lances and the Tuareg would want for nothing. If there were few, the coming winter would be difficult, and the Tuareg would have to spread themselves far apart into many camps as they sought pasture for their animals.
Serena was coming early to Arak because Daia’s child was due, and she wanted to see her settled before the baby came. With eight children and a dozen slaves Serena had set out from their camp near Abalessa, while the noblemen concluded their affairs with their far-flung vassals and slaves who would remain behind. The men of her own douar would not arrive for a week or more, but it was no matter. Generally men got in the way when camps were to be made.
Serena watched for Lufti. He had ridden his mehari ahead, scouting for the best place. He is a good man, she thought. Moussa had done well by him. Lufti had come to her immediately upon hearing of Moussa’s death. She knew he had worshiped her son. “If it pleases I will serve you and your household as I served my master,” he said. “He would have wished me at your side.”
At first she had refused to believe the news in Mahdi’s letter, certain it was all a mistake. In the evenings she climbed to the rocks overlooking their camp and watched the northern horizon, thinking she would see his familiar figure atop his mehari, returning to camp as always. She could not allow herself to accept the fact of his death, and if she let Lufti into her household it meant a betrayal of her faith in Moussa’s survival. If she allowed him in it meant Moussa was dead. So she had declined his offer of service.
But the months had passed and he had not come, and there was no news of him from caravans or travelers. None of his vassals had seen him. Then Mahdi had given her more details when she had seen him at his wedding to Daia – not many details, but enough to dash her hopes, and as she sank into the desolation of grief her optimism had finally died. A mother wanted to die before her children, a wife before her husband. She had managed to outlive both husband and son. It was not the way of things. It was not right. She had lost everyone who was precious to her, first Henri, then her brother the amenokal, and now Moussa. Her nights were long and lonely and filled with private tears.
Serena was a strong woman; her grief would never pass, but she would not be paralyzed by it. She finally accepted Lufti’s offer. He brought Chaddy, the bride Moussa had bought for him, and their infant son, Rhissa, and all of Moussa’s animals, and overnight Serena’s ehen was transformed. She was thankful for the many distractions and took enormous delight in playing with Rhissa.
In those months she grew to love Daia as well. Serena had always wondered just how close her son and Daia had been. Daia had seemed as distraught about Moussa’s death as she herself had been. Serena knew that Daia wept for him, but if her tears seemed more than those for a friend, Serena never asked for details. It was none of her affair. It was enough that Daia said tender things about Moussa; they sat together at the fire and laughed and wept at shared memories of his mannerisms and humor. They became close friends. As Daia’s child grew larger within her Serena took a personal interest in her welfare, keeping her company while Mahdi was away, working leather with her and telling her stories about life in France. Daia always prompted her for more, even when she’d heard the stories a hundred times.
Serena did not envy Daia when it came to the man she had wed. Serena knew all the hard edges of her nephew. She knew he would be gone much from their tent, that he was destined to die violently. The tempests that raged inside him could not be stilled – not by Daia, not by anyone. His hatred for Moussa had always torn at her, but it didn’t matter anymore. Moussa was dead.
There were other things that concerned her for Daia’s sake. There had been disturbing reports about the Flatters expedition, stories of treachery and poison, and in all the accounts Mahdi had played a major role. There had been a great outcry among the Ihaggaren, but events of the year had kept the nobles scattered throughout the Hoggar, and there had been no reckoning. Moussa’s friend Taher had told her what he knew of Moussa’s efforts to preserve the honor of the Ihaggaren, and she treasured the knowledge but knew it could only have further alienated her nephew from her son.
Her reverie was interrupted by a piercing cry. Daia was on the mehari just behind her. The journey had been difficult for her. Lufti had rigged two saddles together so that she could ride nearly prone, but it had still been a long ordeal. Daia had not complained. Now Serena could see that her face had gone suddenly white.
“Daia! Are you all right?”
“The water… it – it is time,” Daia gasped, clutching the pommel of her saddle, leaning sideways as a contraction gripped her. “Ahhh!” She nearly slipped off. Serena quickly moved her mehari alongside Daia’s to give her support, while Anna, the old slave who had raised Daia, came up from behind on the other side. What she saw in Daia’s face made her worry. Like most Tuareg, Daia was stoic about pain, but her breathing was sharp and shallow. She was suffering a great deal. The women knelt their meharis and helped Daia down onto a pile of blankets. Anna stayed with her a few moments. “All is not well, Mistress Serena,” she said gravely. She had been through many deliveries. Outwardly she was calm, but Serena heard the edge to her voice. “There is difficulty. A breech, perhaps.”
“Lufti!” Serena yelled up into the rocks, her voice echoing back. Where was he? She couldn’t wait. One of their old camps lay just ahead. It was normally a good one, located in an amphitheater surrounded by rocks that provided shelter from the cold north wind. She would get them settled there. They could move later if need be. She gave instructions quickly. “Abdou, Chaddy! Quickly! Make the tents ready, there in the shade!” They hurried off to comply. The youngest of the children, excited to be stopping so soon in the day, scampered off to explore and play in the rocks. The older children pitched in to help the slaves set up camp.
In a few short moments a tent had been prepared for Daia. They lifted her inside, atop skins pulled tight like a litter. Serena and Anna helped get her settled on a soft bed of skins. Already her cheeks were flushed red and she was wet with perspiration. Serena stood aside and let Anna take over. She looked outside and saw Lufti in the distance. He waved when he saw the camp. Behind him rode another man, a Targui she recognized immediately. It was Mahdi.
Serena greeted her nephew as he dismounted. “Ma’-tt-uli,” she said without warmth. She looked behind him. “Where are the others, Mahdi? Tamrit and the rest? Surely you are not alone?”
“No. They have camped near the gorge. They did not wish to… intrude.”
“They are wise. Tamrit will never find welcome among those he dishonored. The rest would not find a warm reception here, either.”
“Speak for yourself, Aunt Serena. There are others who will not be so cold as you.”
“Perhaps. We shall see.”
Mahdi looked around, puzzled. He had expected a full camp, but saw only children and slaves. “Where are the others? The amenokal? And Attici?”
“We came ahead. Daia will deliver soon. We wished to make her comfortable.”
Mahdi nodded. “For that I thank you.” He paused a moment. He knew he had to tell her.
“There is danger for you, Serena. I fear I have brought the French to Arak.”
“Danger? What do you mean?”
Mahdi was genuinely worried now, knowing the Tuareg men had not yet arrived. He worried not for himself, but for Daia, for Serena, for all of them. Only that morning he and Tamrit had spotted their pursuers. For weeks they had seen no trace, certain that the French had stayed in the north, where the ikufar always remained.
But this Frenchman was different. He did not stop, did not rest. He had abandoned his Arabians for fast Shamba meharis and he traveled light, like a Targui himself. He traveled as if possessed, riding into forbidden land, indifferent to the fact that his life might well be forfeit as a result. It was puzzling. Ikufar did not give up their lives so easily.
“This Frenchman is the demon himself.” Tamrit had chuckled in amazement when he saw the column of tirailleurs, still specks on the horizon when the light of dawn was just bright enough to make them out. He was surprised and delighted. “Into the arms of Islam they ride,” he said.
Mahdi had initially shared his enthusiasm. He feared no man – not this officer, nor any ikufar, nor any Arab or Tuareg. He looked forward to the battle. But Mahdi had expected all the warriors of the Ihaggaren to be in Arak by now, along with their women and children and slaves. He knew Daia would be in one of the camps, waiting for him. They had talked of it after the wedding. He had come to see her and their new child, if it had been born. He had longed for the day. Now he realized he had brought peril to her very tent.
“You will have to move quickly,” Mahdi told Serena. “Without the men of the Ihaggaren you are in grave peril.”
Serena shook her head. “Daia is in labor. She is having difficulty. She cannot move, not now. Not for some time.”
“Hear me! There is no choice!” He calmed himself. He knew his aunt did not respond to orders. He had to persuade her. “There is a French officer. It will not trouble him to kill everyone in this camp. The women, even the children. No one is safe.”
Serena scoffed at that. “Have you forgotten my own past? The French are not demons, Mahdi. I know them well. Spare me, Nephew. Spread your lies among those who know no better.”
“This one is not like the others you have known, Serena. I have seen his rage. He is a demon. He is a pig.”
There was something he wasn’t telling her, she knew. “From whence springs such rage? Why has he come here? Why would such a man wish us ill?” And then it dawned on her. “Ah. Sheikh Flatters. This man seeks vengeance for your treatment of his men. Poison for poison?”
Mahdi’s disgusted grunt told her she was right. “There is no time for this. Listen to me well,” he said. “You must leave immediately. If you will not move Daia then I shall do it myself.”
“Then you will have her death on your hands. Perhaps that of the baby as well.”
Mahdi cursed. Angrily he pushed past her and went inside the tent.
He could see for himself that Daia was in great difficulty. A spasm made her go rigid, and she arched her back until it passed. Anna held her hand and wiped sweat from her brow. “Get out, woman,” Mahdi said.
Anna glared at him, but obeyed quickly.
He knelt near Daia. His face softened beneath his veil. He took her hand in his own. His voice was strong, reassuring.
“It is I, Daia. I am with you now.”
“Mahdi,” she said, trying to smile but gritting her teeth as the pain swept over her.
“It wounds me to see you suffer so.”
“It is not so bad. Like being trampled by mad camels, I think,” but at that she gave out a gasp.
“Anna!” Mahdi called out nervously. Men with mortal wounds did not worry him like a woman in labor. Anna returned at once and knelt beside her. Mahdi held Daia’s hand while the old woman worked.
“There are no inad with you, sire?” Anna asked him. The inad were smiths and surgeons, mysterious vagrants generally despised by the Tuareg but quite useful as they moved among their camps. Anna wished for one now. The baby was turned wrong. She was sure of it.
“No.”
Anna shook her head, hoping for a miracle. “Then she shall need much baraka.”
“Mistress Serena! Men approach!” Lufti called from his post atop an outcropping from which he could observe the passage that led out to the gorge. Mindful of Mahdi’s warning, Serena had sent him there to stand watch. She ran across the clearing and climbed to where he stood.
“Is it the French?”
Lufti peered at them. “No, mistress. I think not. I cannot tell. Travelers, not soldiers. I don’t know their tribe. Four men and twice as many meharis.”
She watched the little band of men. The one in front wore robes of white. His turban was oddly tied, a cross between a litham and a turban of Morocco. There was a slave behind him leading a few of the camels, followed by two men carrying rifles. Perhaps a rich merchant, she thought. It was a rare traveler, bold indeed, who entered a Tuareg camp uninvited, yet this one approached as if without a doubt as to his welcome.
He halted his mehari twenty meters from where she stood. He saw the woman and the slave and watched them without saying a word. Lufti fiddled with his knife in its sheath, uncertain and afraid and all but useless. Serena waited for a sign of the man’s intentions. At length he made a soft sound and the camel sank to its knees. Dismounting, he strode directly toward them, his bearing strong and sure. It was then that she knew, even before she could see him more closely. Lufti had seen it at the same instant. They knew his walk as surely as they knew his eyes, that strong, purposeful stride so like his father’s, yet so much his own.
“Master?” Lufti said it tentatively, in disbelief. His knife fell to the ground and he clutched the amulets around his neck, pumping them as if to summon the protection of their baraka. “Oh-oh-oh, is it you truly, or the djenoum come to take me?” At last he knew it was not a spirit. He jumped and spun and gave a great whoop. “Hamdullilah, sire, you are alive!”
Moussa broke into a run toward his mother, who stood overwhelmed. He swept her into his arms, lifting her easily. He felt her trembling, and heard the cry of delight that rose from her heart.
Then she whispered, the words pouring out in a torrent of French, the language of his childhood. “Est-ce possible – Is it – oh, mon Dieu, my son, I thought you dead! How can this be? How can this be?”
“Maman, Maman, how beautiful you look! Que tu es belle! How I have missed you!” He spun her around, hugging her tightly. She could see his face and she took it between her hands as she spun, crying as she did, tears of joy mingled with those of disbelief. She felt weak with happiness. “Come, come inside, sit, tell me, tell us all—” and then she hesitated, suddenly confused, everything crashing together in her mind, and with growing purpose she led him by the hand across the clearing and into the tent, where Mahdi was absorbed with Daia.
“Mahdi!” Serena said, her voice imperious and cold. “A most curious thing. The dead man lives!”
Mahdi stiffened. He turned, his eyes taking in the white robes, the odd jeweled turban, the partially exposed face – and he gasped when he realized who it was. He stood quickly, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Cousin.” His voice was low with menace.
Daia’s eyes opened. Mahdi had only one cousin. “Moussa?”
Moussa ignored Mahdi. His eyes brimmed with tears as he saw her. For a moment he couldn’t speak. So many thoughts he had had of her, so many dreams of this moment. Finally he managed to nod. “Eoualla. Yes.”
“How is it possible? I thought you dead! All of us – Mahdi said – I don’t underst—” Her eyes went to Mahdi, and she bucked suddenly in pain and cried out. Anna bent over her. “Mahdi,” Daia gasped. “Your letter! I have it still! You wrote that he was dead—”
“And that you saw it with your own eyes,” Serena finished for her. “And tried to help him. All this time, on your word, we thought my son dead.” The pain in her voice was terrible. “I cannot believe such cruelty, Mahdi. Not even from you.”
Mahdi said nothing, his hand squeezing, then releasing the hilt of his sword. This was the thing he had feared least, for no man could escape Timimoun. No man! His fury was enormous. He wanted to throttle Tamrit and the fool Jubar Pasha with his own hands. He cursed himself for permitting the notion of ransom to override his own instincts. He should have killed Moussa long ago. Now he was tangled in deception before the very woman for whom it had all been done. His head pounded with rage.
“I was mistaken! I did not know! I thought it was you who had fallen—”
“You said in your letter… you… buried… him… yourself!” Every word was an effort, but Daia forced them out. Inwardly Mahdi cringed at her tone. He knew this damage could not be undone.
“He wrote such things?” Moussa stared at his cousin, shaking his head as the monstrous picture grew clear in his mind. There were so many things he had not understood after hearing Jubar Pasha’s rambling story, so many gaps he could not explain. Not until now. There was more sadness than anger in him as the extent of Mahdi’s treachery became clear. The long months in the foggaras had been the work of his own cousin. “How can a man despise another so? What have I ever done to you, to earn such treachery?”
Mahdi started to protest again but Moussa cut him off.
“It is time to stop the lies, Mahdi. I had a long conversation with Jubar Pasha himself, only a fortnight ago. He told me a wild tale, a tale of Tamrit and ransom. I thought him mad. By himself Tamrit would never have known enough. I see that now. The pasha didn’t know about you – he just didn’t know.”
“Ransom? Tamrit? What is this?” Serena asked. She was even more confused than before, and was becoming alarmed as she sensed the deadly tension growing between the two men.
There was no time to answer. Daia cried out again, whether from anguish or pain no one could tell. The sound drove Mahdi to action. Without warning he sprang forward and knocked Moussa hard to the ground. They rolled outside, carrying with them one of the posts that held up a corner of the tent. Part of the tent collapsed. Anna leaned over Daia to shield her as the post crashed down. Struggling against shock and labor and fear, Daia yelled past her. “Mahdi! Stop it! Do not harm him!” Her voice was lost in the bedlam.
Mahdi’s stabbing knife materialized in his hand. Instinctively Moussa reached for his own, only to realize it wasn’t strapped to his forearm. It hadn’t been there for months. His sword and pistol were with his mehari. He was unarmed. Mahdi’s blade flashed near his neck, but caught nothing except cloth. Moussa grabbed for Mahdi’s hand, pinning it to the ground. Their eyes locked as the deadly struggle wore on. “I should have killed you long ago, Cousin!” Mahdi hissed. Hatred burned hot in eyes that already sensed triumph. I have you now, the eyes said. You are mine.
Mahdi managed to push Moussa back as he sprang up to a crouch, slashing savagely but missing each time.
Monjo, Mahmoud, and Abdulahi had been waiting atop their mounts, expecting Moussa to beckon them inside, when suddenly they saw the two men explode out of the tent. Of the three only Mahmoud was a fighter; he responded quickly when he saw the knife in Mahdi’s hand.
“Take this!” he shouted. He drew the pasha’s jeweled sword from its scabbard and flung it to his friend. Moussa caught it deftly and spun to face Mahdi. Mahdi turned and ducked. His blade flashed again, this time at Moussa’s knee. He caught flesh through the robe. Moussa gasped and staggered back, falling heavily. With incredible speed Mahdi sheathed his knife beneath his sleeve and in the same motion drew his great sword. He lunged but Moussa turned aside and the blade pinged against rock, sparks flying from the cold Spanish steel. Instantly Mahdi struck again, and a second time the blade missed Moussa’s head by a millimeter. Moussa rolled to his feet and backed away.
The fight went on that way, Mahdi the stronger and faster of the two, always on the attack, a magnificent warrior swirling and slashing, Moussa on the defensive, rolling and twisting out of the way, the light blade of the pasha’s sword no match for the heavier steel of Mahdi’s great sword. The two men moved constantly, their blades clashing with frightening speed and power.
Mahdi was a patient fighter, his breathing labored but steady as he moved in for the kill. He stroked and slashed overhead, time and again bringing the heavy steel down, Moussa parrying and blocking and stepping backward, unable to strike a blow in return, Mahdi wearing him down with strength rather than cunning or speed. The mismatch was beginning to show when Moussa, desperate, spun and dropped suddenly to a crouch, clutching his sword to his side so that it came around like a scythe. It caught Mahdi in the thigh, drawing blood. Instantly Moussa spun the other way, unableto get his sword up for another strike but managing a powerful blow with his hand to Mahdi’s head.
Mahdi shook it off, wavering only a second before springing forward to attack once again, more determined than ever. But he swung and missed, and Moussa caught his hand this time in a powerful grip strengthened by months wielding a mattock in the foggaras. Mahdi pulled away sharply, but his balance was off and he had no chance. Moussa plunged his sword to the hilt. As quickly as it had begun the deadly struggle ceased. With a long gasp Mahdi sank to the ground.
Mahdi’s last thoughts were not for himself or for his soul, or for the jihad, or of his loathing for Moussa, who even now stood above him with a pathetic and tortured look on his face. Mahdi worked hard to form the words. Moussa saw his struggle and knelt to listen.
“Get Daia to safety, Cousin,” he whispered. “The Frenchman. Tamrit will not hold him long. He will kill her. He will kill you all.”
With that he died.
The French column grew ever larger as Tamrit made last-minute preparations. It was perfect; they were riding directly into his trap. He could see their meharis plodding along in a line, one after the other, unwary lambs riding to slaughter. They were better armed, but his men outnumbered them three to one and had the advantage of surprise. His men waited on either side of the entrance to the gorge, hiding behind massive boulders. The two with carbines overlooked the approaches, while the four with muskets crouched close to the canyon floor, ready to fire their ancient weapons at his command. After the first volley the fearful wrath of Allah would descend upon the invaders as the rest of his men fell upon them with swords and lances and knives.
Tamrit was impressed with the French officer. It would be an honor to kill such an earnest man.
Paul’s column had done the unthinkable, crossing uncharted desert straight to the lair of the enemy. He was proud of the tirailleurs who followed him, but found satisfaction not in the feat itself but in knowing that his long tortured road was nearing an end.
He looked at the gorge of Arak, at the massive cliffs rising from the desert floor, and knew instantly it was there they would be waiting. Once before he had felt Tamrit’s presence, and had nearly caught him. He felt it again now, a peculiar tingling in his belly. He looked up at the soaring walls of the natural fortress. A spectacular place, he thought. A good place to die.
His men were somber but alert as they entered the forbidden country of the Tuareg. They were edgy, weapons at the ready, all eyes probing the long shadows for danger. Paul halted them and drew a tirailleur aside. He pointed to a massive granite pillar that stood like a sentinel at the entrance to the gorge. Its base was littered with boulders the size of houses, massive rocks that had broken off the walls. The pillar was reflected in a large pool of water, its image dancing through sunlight that gleamed on the surface.
“They are watching us now. Waiting for us just there, I think.”
“Oui, it is a good place, sir. But I am not so certain they even know we are following. For weeks they have given no sign.”
“They know.” Paul knew it without doubt. “Besides, you wish to take a chance?”
The tirailleur shook his head firmly. “No, sir.” Together they climbed to a place where they had a commanding view of the entrance to the gorge. Paul carefully studied the approaches and the rock walls with his field glasses, following the ledges and contours of the granite. When his plan was formulated he spoke earnestly with the tirailleur, giving instructions, pointing to ledges and boulders. Afterward they returned to the waiting patrol and ordered the men into action. Some dismounted, waiting, while others formed into what appeared to be two small scouting patrols. Before they left the lieutenant spoke briefly.
“There will be no prisoners today,” he said. “On either side.”
Grimly they disappeared in opposite directions, and were soon lost to view in the rocks.
Tamrit watched them coming.
Tamrit knew nothing of the tactics of war. He was accustomed to night attack or frontal assault. His men were out-maneuvered within moments of Paul’s attack, flanked on both sides and from above by tirailleurs who had climbed into position and rained murderous fire down on them, killing three of his riflemen before they’d had a chance to fire a single shot. The fourth musket misfired, and the two men with carbines had to scramble to safety when they saw they themselves were in exposed positions.
Nothing happened the way Tamrit thought it would. He watched his surprise evaporate, and then saw the Frenchman with a half-dozen men, surging furiously atop their meharis through the gorge toward his position. Tamrit screamed orders at his men, who fell yelling on the attacking force, the wild warriors of Islam swinging their swords as the grim tirailleurs fired at them point-blank. Some of Tamrit’s men had pistols, which they fired with little effect. The noise was deafening and the still air of the gorge filled with smoke and screams and the panicked cries of the camels. The two forces surged through each other’s ranks, and the firing all but stopped as men grew afraid to hit their own companions. The battle became a ferocious hand-to-hand struggle.
It was a thicket of death and Paul was in the middle, sword in hand, the sweat and dirt mingling in muddy streaks that poured down his brow and into his eyes as he attacked and parried and attacked again. It had all happened with furious speed, precisely as he had hoped. He was wounded twice, each time more blood than substance. The wounds seemed only to fuel his intensity as he pressed forward with a ferocity unmatched by any man there. He saw two of his tirailleurs killed in the howling crush of swordsmen, a third mortally wounded. But the rest of his men were fighting well, taking a heavy toll of their own.
Finally he saw the man he sought. His back was toward him, but Paul knew him at once by his air of command. The man was shouting orders.
Tamrit.
Paul drove his mehari through the melee, knocking down one of his own men but too intent to notice. Tamrit turned and saw him coming, his litham covering all his face except for his eyes, eyes that Paul could at last see were cobalt, eyes that were unwavering as he drew his own pistol, an ancient weapon. The two men moved toward each other, the rest of the battle forgotten, a noisy abstraction, their attention riveted on each other. Their mounts moved together and Paul was upon him, sword raised. At that instant Tamrit fired straight at his adversary’s face.
With a searing flash the powder detonated, but the old gun misfired. The ball glanced off Paul’s forehead, ripping a gash in his skin. The impact knocked him from his mehari to the ground. Paul lay stunned, burned and nearly blinded by the powder. Tamrit drove his mount forward, trying to trample him, but Paul’s own camel was in the way and in the confusion would not move. Tamrit pounded at the beast with his empty pistol, cursing, and drew his sword to strike it. Paul recovered his breath sufficiently to roll out of the way. He found his sword. Eyes burning, blinking furiously, everything a fog, he struggled unsteadily to his feet, rising up just next to Tamrit’s leg. Tamrit saw him too late. Paul drove his sword up with all his force, straight up through Tamrit’s midsection.
Tamrit took the blade with a contentment no European would ever understand. Death in the name of Allah was victory, not defeat. With a cry he toppled over, falling directly on top of Paul. On the way down Tamrit tried to stab him but missed. He could not yell, but Paul heard him choke out the words as they both went down. “Allah akbar!” Allah is great!
Staggering but fiercely determined, Paul forced himself back to his feet. He stared through burning eyes at the hated creature at his feet, a creature still alive and mumbling devotions to his God and clutching at a belly that was on fire. Paul picked up Tamrit’s greatsword and lifted it high on the memory of Remy, on the memory of them all. His head pounding with the passion of his vengeance, he brought it down with all the force he could summon. He brought it down once more and Tamrit went still. That couldn’t be all, Paul raged. It wasn’t enough. Long after there was nothing left to kill, he brought it down again and yet again, an awful sound rising in his throat as blind frenzy wielded the heavy blade.
Seeing their leader fall, three of Tamrit’s men broke free from the battle and ran up the gorge, intending to regroup in the Tuareg camps where they might find help. Still holding Tamrit’s sword, Paul looked up and saw them fleeing. It was only a moment before he was after them, chasing them up the gorge on foot, following as they disappeared into a ravine. He tugged at his belt to get his pistol. He fired once wildly, his vision blurred, eyes caked with blood and sweat and dirt, and heard the roar of battle fade behind him as he entered the ravine. The men he chased were nowhere to be seen; they had disappeared into the rocks.
I have been here before, he told himself, remembering Tadjenout. Only then they were chasing me.
He tripped and fell hard. Dazed, he staggered to his feet. Blood streamed from the wound on his head. He wiped at it with his sleeve and moved through the rocks, firing at shadows and voices and anything that moved. Were they firing back, or was that his own gun, splintering rocks and roaring in his ears? He heard a shrill scream and found a man cowering between two rocks. The man looked at him terrified, pleading. He dropped his sword and held his hands out in front of him, as if they might shield him. Paul fired and a neat hole appeared in the man’s head, and he fell.
Paul’s hands were shaking and it was hard to see. He was dizzy, so terribly dizzy. He looked around through the smoke and saw that he had come near to a camp. He saw tents with red roofs, and the bloodlust rose in his throat. The red roofs meant he was among them at last, among the hated Tuareg, and he knew he would kill them all.
He moved as if through a dream, through the smoke and the smells and the frenzy, everything slowed down, everything eerie and quiet except his own heart, his heart sounding in his head like a cannon. And then a flash, a movement. Someone running? Small – a child? He couldn’t risk waiting to find out. He fired. He missed. He moved forward, his step unsteady. A knife flew through the air and hit him in the stomach, hilt-first, and fell harmlessly to the ground. A lance clattered next to him. He saw his assailant and fired again. The man fell. Paul saw he was dressed in Arab robes and his fury rose. Where are the Tuareg? They cannot hide! He could not wait for his men, whose guns he heard dimly, firing behind him. I will kill them. I will kill them all.
He began running in a crouch, making for the tent. Suddenly a man blocked his way, a man in a white robe who carried a sword. Paul straightened to meet him, but the man deflected his charge and knocked him down. The enemy – yet he didn’t strike out with his blade.
“Paul! Stop it!” Moussa yelled, but made no move to protect himself, no move to fight.
“You. Get out of my way, damn you,” Paul rasped, out of breath. “I’ll kill you too, if you don’t.”
Exhausted, Paul pulled himself to his feet. His gun had fallen somewhere. He couldn’t see it. He wanted to raise Tamrit’s sword to strike, only his strength was failing him and the heavy blade barely moved. Again Moussa knocked him down with a ringing blow. “Stop it! Enough!”
“It is not enough! Not until everyone…” Frantically he felt for the gun, one hand sweeping across the ground, the other wiping away the salt and sweat and blood that was blinding him. And then he had it. He raised it, his eyes pulsing with hatred. Moussa stood there, just waiting to die, and Paul knew he could purge himself if only he could finish, if only he could kill them all, if only he could get his balance. The world was spinning, everything moving and bouncing and out of focus. He wiped again at his eyes and tried to steady his shaking hand, the barrel of his pistol wavering wildly. Again a blow knocked him to the ground, only this time it was not Moussa who had struck it. Paul couldn’t tell who it was, only that the blood was too thick in his eyes and he couldn’t see and he heard himself moaning like a bull, hurt and angry and ready to kill, but he couldn’t kill, he was half-blind and wounded and rolling on the ground.
And he knew his own death was at hand, that they had him now. A feeling of peace swept over him and he wasn’t afraid, not at all, but even if it was finished he wasn’t going to let them take him so easily. With a huge effort he pulled himself up, raising his gun once more.
Another figure stood before him.
He blinked and tried to clear his vision. He tried to fire but his hand wouldn’t move. Someone had it, someone was holding it. He cried out in fury, squeezing his finger. “Why won’t it work? Why can’t I kill you?” Tears welled in his eyes, tears of fury and frustration.
“Paul!”
A woman’s voice.
He hesitated, weaving, crying.
“Stop it! Paul! Do you know me?” He looked into her face, and it was swirling, everything was swirling, he was so dizzy. He struggled with his pistol, his hand shaking violently as he fought to understand. A woman. A Tuareg. Yes, he could kill her too.
“Get out of my way,” he croaked, his voice choked. “Stop hiding the murderers.”
“Paul! I know you, and you know me.”
He blinked, still trying to see the face. The voice was soothing, soothing and so familiar.
“Paul deVries, it is Serena. Your aunt, do you hear me? Stop it, do you hear? Do you kill so easily? Have you become such an animal?”
He surged against her, trying to get past, but she was strong and he was weak and she held firm.
“Must kill,” he whispered hoarsely. “All.”
She slapped him, trying to bring him to his senses. She let go of his pistol and he raised it again, but she ignored it now. “I am Targui, Paul. I was Targui when you knew me as a child, in Paris. I am Targui today. I am what you loathe. Do you hear me? I am what you hate!”
He shook his head, dazed and uncertain. It was all too much, all too confusing.
“Serena?” A Targui? Yes, of course. Does it matter? He tried to stay still, to think, but his hand was wavering and he couldn’t think.
“Moussa told me what happened to you. I am ashamed for it. But you have let it ruin you. You have become what you hate. You have become the very thing you set out to destroy!”
Still he struggled with it. He shook his head. She slapped him again, so hard he nearly lost his balance. “Paul! Do you see me? Do you hear?”
He tried to roar at her, but it was only a husky rasp. “Get away!”
Then she took his hand in hers and guided it, until the pistol barrel touched her cheek and he could feel the warmth of her breath on the back of his hand. “If you must hate so much, Paul, then you must shoot me first.”
His finger was perilously close to pulling the trigger. He saw the images of his nightmares – Remy, his arm twirling through the air, the butchers at Tadjenout, the poisoned dates and Floop, the flesh of the camel driver Djemel as his companions began to eat him.
And he saw Melika.
His head pounded with it all, and finally the visions all crashed down upon him and he fell to his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks. His pistol fell from his hand to the ground. He buried his face in her robe and cried like a baby.