Sandstorm (31 page)

He was interrupted by the sound of a battle cry. Jabbar and Isra immediately sprang to their feet, snatching up their swords and bolting from the tent. The worst place to be in a fight was inside.

Outside, the camp had turned into chaos.

"Viper," Jabbar snarled, and then there was no more talking as the enemy was upon them.

Bellowing a war cry, Isra ducked beneath an oncoming blade even as his own sword flashed, cutting the horse’s rider hard across the leg. The wound caused the man to falter, and Isra wasted no time mounting behind him and throwing the man off. Taking up the reins, he turned to the next enemy and fell into the blur of battle.

Some time later, he abruptly realized there was no one left who needed to be killed.

Rage was immediately replaced by fear, and he looked anxiously around the camp to see who had been lost. Hastily he dismounted the stolen horse, handing the reins off to a soldier who came shuffling tiredly toward him. Nodding a brief thanks, Isra plunged into the thick of the ruined camp, grief washing over him to see the fallen, heart sick as the one face he truly wanted to see did not appear – living or dead.

He hated worrying like this, no matter how many times he went into battle – no matter how many of those he might have helped start.

Would he see Sahayl fallen like this someday?

The sudden thought brought him up short, made him dizzy. For some reason that fear had never truly lodged…Isra thought suddenly that he finally really and truly understood what his honored uncle had been trying to beat into his head all these years.

"Isra!"

He jerked around sharply, hand going reflexively to his sword, but he calmed almost instantly as his uncle’s voice registered. "Honored Uncle," he said in relief, and immediately returned the embrace Jabbar gave him. "Everyone else?"

"We lost fewer than expected," Jabbar said, "but still too many. My concern is how Viper found us so quickly. We haven’t been here even half a day." His expression was grim, and Isra’s matched it.

Jabbar turned away and began barking orders. Isra fell into step alongside him, quickly joined by the Falcon Amir and two other soldiers. "What have we learned?"

"Viper, definitely," the Amir said grimly. "The markings are accurate and, like Cobra, they would be hard to duplicate in a short period of time – and I cannot imagine this many heathens willing to undergo something so permanent for the sake of a temporary disguise."

Isra snorted. "Heathens couldn’t bear the pain anyway. Weaklings, all."

Shaking his head at Isra, Jabbar motioned to the bodies that were slowly being gathered together. "I cannot believe Sons of the Lady would side with heathens against the Desert…but these are unmistakably Viper."

"Pathetic," Isra said coldly, and around him the other men murmured in agreement. He moved closer to the bodies and began to examine each of them, anxious for any clue or sign as to who exactly had managed to talk Jackal, Viper, and who knew how many other Tribes into such terrible behavior.

He hissed in surprise as yanking away a face covering revealed a mark he had not expected to see…and made his blood run cold. "Uncle," he said urgently, already making plans on the fastest way to reach Sahayl.

Jabbar knelt beside him. "By the Lady!" he said, and quickly rose to his feet, snapping new orders, sending men scurrying.

"I am going to him," Isra said, not willing to tolerate any argument.

"Of course," Jabbar said. "Ride as fast as you dare, nephew."

Isra nodded, and sprinted toward the horse that was already being brought to him, waiting impatiently as his supplies were loaded, quickly donning the travel gear brought to him.

Jabbar approached and embraced him briefly.

"Send word when all is settled," Jabbar said.

"I will, honored uncle," Isra said, but the words were absently spoken, every fiber of him focused only on reaching Sahayl in time.

Because among the Tribes that had chosen to go with the Prince was Wasp, and among the Vipers they’d killed today was a man with the distinctive mark of Wasp carved into his throat.

Wasp was cooperating with Viper, or so it now had to be assumed.

Sahayl was in danger.

Isra urged his horse to a faster pace, just barely keeping from pushing him too hard in the blistering heat.

Above him came the cry of a falcon, and Isra drew his horse up short, holding out his arm and waiting patiently as the bird descended. He stroked her chest once she was settled, admiring her. One of the finest falcons in the camp, which was saying a great deal. His uncle had attached a missive, telling him where they were going next – now that it was obvious there was or had been a snitch in the camp.

It demonstrated just how consumed by fear he was that he’d raced off without learning such things. He would be distressed at such a blatant show of how much power Sahayl had over him, but there simply wasn’t time. Isra launched the falcon into the air, knowing it would stay close to him.

That his uncle would give him one of the best falcons in the Tribe said just how worried Jabbar was. They had anticipated betrayal, of course, more than a few Tribes had to have sided with the heathens…but that they’d let one of those get so close to the Prince while he was in the middle of the Desert…

Twenty Three

Bahadur stroked the calligraphy on his cheeks, wishing for the millionth time that he could eradicate them. Change them. Anything but leave them as they were. Constant marks of shame.

No one but Jackal could read them, of course, and he’d yet to see another Jackal since fleeing from his home, but he knew what they meant. That he’d failed, that his own family hadn’t wanted him after that failure.

That he was hardly fit, as capable a fighter he might be, as welcome as he obviously was, to be as close to his Sandstorm Prince as he was.

Sahayl requested his presence, however, and as unfit as he might be he would gladly obey.

Sighing softly, he turned back toward camp as he was relieved by the next guard. At the entrance he handed his horse over to one of the men assigned to horse duty, then began to make his way toward the center of camp and the Prince’s tent.

His steps slowed as he caught sight of the sparring taking place, looking on with longing at the way the men were able to have fun even while they were working hard. In Jackal, fights only ended when blood was spilled – usually only a nick, a minor wound, but there were some that only ended in death.

It was only by the Lady’s blessing that the duel for right to protect wasn’t fatal. At one point in Jackal’s history they had been. He touched the marks on his cheek, which sometimes felt more painful than any death could.

"Jackal!" A voice bellowed above the din of the sparring, and Bahadur jerked his head up.

"Bahadur!" He faltered to a stop as he realized the soldiers really were calling to him.

"Yes?"

"You look like you know how to do more than hold a sword," a Ghost with short, lighter brown hair beckoned him close. "Care to try your hand? We all know how we cheat." The men standing around him laughed, nudging and goading each other.

Bahadur felt his lips twitch, wanting to smile. "You must cheat to win fights?"

The men laughed. "Only against each other. Like I said, we all know each other’s tricks. Care to test your mettle against a Ghost?"

"Do not complain if you find your tricks do not work," Bahadur replied, his smile defeating his efforts to maintain his restrained manner.

The man who’d initially called out to him grinned and moved into the sparring circle. "Fair enough, but the same goes to you – don’t be mad if you lose to a Ghost."

"I have never been afraid of phantoms," Bahadur said and drew his sword. He hefted it as the Ghost attacked, blocking the swing, driving him back, bring his sword down hard, jarring the lighter man’s arms.

The Ghost laughed, winked, and renewed his attack – this time attacking with fervor.

Bahadur let himself go, forgetting everything but the fight, relishing that he did not have to worry about someone – his opponent or a spectator – using foul play to harm him. Because his fellow Jackals had never wanted to kill him, or at least rarely, but they had been plenty willing to harm him. Only a couple had never completely disliked him, but they’d only been interested in how he could keep them warm. In return, they’d offered information withheld from such lesser members of the Tribe.

How like the Lady to ensure that one of his midnight trysts had resulted in stumbling across the one man in the Desert who could lead him to help.

As well as to a Sheik, a Prince, worth following. Bahadur had never wished for anything as badly as he wished that he’d been born a Ghost and not a Jackal. He grunted as he blocked the latest swing from his opponent, and stepped forward, bringing his own sword down and then jerking it up sharply, taking his opponent by surprise, sending him crashing down hard into the sand.

"Defeat!" Wafai’s familiar voice called out the end of the match, then broke into laughter.

"Tidily done, Jackal. You’re every bit the warhorse my Sandstorm Prince calls you after."

Wafai moved into the sand and helped the soldier to his feet, turning him in the direction of his comrades before turning back to face Bahadur. "Very well done, indeed."

Bahadur grinned, wiping sweat from his forehead. He wasn’t worth much, but he knew the skills he did have, and combat was definitely one of them.

"You must have given up much when you left Jackal."

Smile fading, Bahadur gave a shrug and sheathed his sword. "Not really…" His hand went of its own volition to the calligraphy on his cheeks. "I was meant to be a protector, but I did not believe in the man I was meant to protect. I lost the duel." And his honor with it, but he did not need to say that – it would be understood.

"I see," Wafai said, a strange look flickering across his face.

Bahadur lifted a brow in question.

Around the perimeter, several men laughed. "Saa, Wafai. I think you might have a challenger. He certainly yells less than you!"

Wafai glared. "Knock that sand out of your head or I’ll do it for you! If you’ve got time enough to stand around trying to be clever, I’m sure Kahlil can find something to occupy your time."

The men shut up.

Bahadur chuckled. "If I had been born Ghost, it is true I would have fought for the honor to protect our Sandstorm Prince."

That strange look flickered across Wafai’s face again. "Then fight me now."

Bahadur blinked. "What?"

"Fight me now," Wafai repeated.

"I don’t understand. Sahayl could ask for no better protector than you."

"Sahayl is the brother of my soul, and I will always be willing to die for him…but my responsibilities are greater now. By his command, I am charged with many duties – both in camp and back home at the palace. In addition, I have a wife now. My attention is being stretched in too many directions. I am no longer the best for role of protector. If you think you are fit, Jackal, then fight me for the honor."

Bahadur could only stare for a moment. Finally he shook himself and drew his sword. "He will kill you."

"He’s still in trouble for becoming a Prince without my permission," Wafai retorted. "In this, he’ll do as we say. Let’s see what you can do against someone who knows what he’s doing."

"Hey!" Bahadur’s earlier opponent bellowed in mock outrage from the sidelines. His friends snickered. "Jackal! Ground him into sand!"

Wafai rolled his eyes, then in a burst of movement drew his sword and attacked.

Bahadur barely countered in time, swords clashing loudly in the sudden silence that fell around them. He surged forward with a cry, their swords sliding apart, and moved his sword in an upward swing, arms jarring slightly as he clashed again with Wafai’s. He pulled back, then immediately surged forward again.

Then everything but the fight fell away, and he felt nothing but every swing, the way the sand moved beneath him, the sweat soaking his clothes, his hair. He let out a cry as he once more took the offensive away from Wafai, pouring his energy into it, thriving on a duel that was worth fighting.

Abruptly it was over, as he knelt over Wafai, who lay flat on the sand. He stopped, threw his sword aside. "You fight as ruthlessly as a Jackal…but Isra is right, you have a tendency to lower your guard."

Wafai grunted and accepted the helping hand Bahadur held out. "You are the only two to ever say so."

Around them the soldiers burst into cheers. "Aha! Way to bury Wafai!"

"That’s showing him!"

Wafai glared around the ring. "If you have that much energy, Ghost, draw your swords."

The men laughed, but subsided.

"Clearly the discipline around here is not what it should be," Wafai groused. He glared at the men once more for good measure, then turned back to Bahadur. "Jackal was stupid to let you go, Bahadur." He smiled suddenly. "I’m glad I decided to give you and those other two a chance. Leave it to Sahayl to pick out all the misfits and troublemakers in the Desert." He tugged a silver ring, set with a large amber stone, from his finger and tossed it to Bahadur.

"Take care of him, protector. That dratted Falcon is too hotheaded, and the nonheathen is a schemer, not a fighter." He eyed Bahadur pensively. "I assume you are to Sahayl what the other two are…Tavamara and its strange customs…take care of him." He turned away, pointing to every man who had made some remark when Bahadur had defeated him. "Go relieve the guards on duty. Stay there until I say otherwise."

The men groaned but obeyed, and in seconds the crowd had cleared as everyone set to finish their evening tasks before full dark fell.

"Where you going?" Bahadur asked. "Shouldn’t you tell Sahayl…?"

Wafai grinned. "You’re his protector now, you tell him. I’ve other duties to attend, and I want to run the perimeters myself."

"Coward."

Laughing, Wafai waved him off and vanished into the camp, calling for his horse.

Shaking his head, Bahadur retrieved his sword and slowly made his way to Sahayl’s tent. He stopped in front of it, bowing his head to the guard by the entrance as he passed through.