in Fenn's flesh he could feel the artery thudding steadily. It seemed to reverberate through his soul. He concentrated on guiding the spoons past it. If even a sliver of the flint was protruding from the enclosing metal it might catch the artery and slice it open. Smoothly he applied more pressure. He felt the mouth of the wound begin to yield, and then, abruptly, the blood-smeared silver spoons and the flint spearhead came free. Quickly he withdrew his fingers from the wound, and pressed the gaping lips of raw flesh together. With his free hand he snatched the thick linen pad Meren handed to him and pressed it over the wound to staunch the bleeding. Fenn's head fell back. Her screams became soft moans, the tension went out of her limbs, and the rigid arch of her spine relaxed.
'Your skill never fails to astonish me,' Meren whispered. 'Each time I see you work like that I am in awe. You are the greatest surgeon who ever lived.'
'We can discuss that later,' Taita replied. 'Now you can help me to stitch her up.'
Taita was laying the final horsehair stitch when they heard a shout from the northern watch-tower. He did not look up at Meren as he tied the knot that closed the wound. 'I believe that the Basmara have arrived.
You must go to your duties now. You may take Imbali with you. Thank you for your help, good Meren. If the wound does not mortify, the child will have much to thank you for too.'
After he had bandaged Fenn's leg, Taita went to the door of the hut and called for Lala, the most reliable and sensible of the Shilluk wives.
She came with her naked baby on her hip. She and Fenn were close friends. They spent much time together, talking and playing with the infant. Lala burst into loud lamentations when she saw Fenn pale and blood-smeared. Taita took some time to calm her and rehearse her in her duties. Then he left her to watch over Fenn while she slept off the effects of the red sheppen.
Taita scrambled up the makeshift ladder to join Meren at the north wall of the stockade. Meren greeted him gravely and, without another word, pointed down the valley. The Basmara were advancing in three separate formations. They came at a steady trot.
Their headdresses nodded and waved in the breeze of their passage, and their columns wound like long black serpents through the forest.
They were singing again, a deep repetitive chant that chilled the blood of the defenders and made their skin crawl. Taita turned to look along the parapet. Their entire active strength was assembled there, and he was sobered by how few they were.
'Thirty-two of us,' he said softly, 'and at least six hundred of them.'
'Then we are evenly matched, Magus, and we are in for some rich sport, I wager,' Meren averred. Taita shook his head in mock-disbelief at such phlegm in the face of the storm that was about to break over them.
Nakonto stood with the Imbali and her women at the far end of the parapet. Taita walked over to them. As always, Imbali's noble Nilotic features were calm and remote.
'You know these people, Imbali. How will they attack?' he asked.
'First they will count our numbers and test our mettle,' she replied, without hesitation.
'How will they do that?'
'They will rush directly at the wall to make us show ourselves.'
'Will they try to set fire to the stockade?'
'No, Shaman. This is their own town. Their ancestors are buried here.
They would never burn their graves.'
Taita returned to Meren's side. 'It is time for you to set up the dummies along the parapet,' he said, and Meren passed the order to the Shilluk wives. They had already placed the dummies in position below the parapet. Now they scampered along the stockade lifting them so that the false heads were visible to the Basmara over the top of the wall.
'We have seemingly double the strength of our garrison at a single stroke,' Taita remarked. 'It should make the Basmara treat us with a little more respect.'
They watched the formations of spearmen manoeuvre across the ash strewn ground on which the huts had burnt. The Basmara massed their three regiments in distinct columns, captains at the front.
'Their drill is sloppy and their formations are untidy and confused.'
Meren's tone was scornful. 'This is a rabble, not an army.'
'But a large rabble, while we are a very small army,' Taita pointed'out.
'Let us delay our celebrations until after the victory.'; The singing ceased, and a heavy silence fell over the field. A single figure left the Basmara ranks and advanced half-way to the stockade. He wore the tall pink flamingo headdress. He posed in front of his men to let them admire his warlike appearance, then harangued them in a high pitched shriek, punctuating each statement with a leap high in the air and a clash of spear against war shield.
'What is he saying?' Meren was puzzled.
'I can only guess that he is not being friendly to us.' Taita smiled.
'I will encourage him with an arrow.'
'He is seventy paces beyond your longest shot.' Taita restrained him.
'We have no arrows to waste.'
They watched Basma, the paramount chief of the Basmara, strut back to his waiting regiments. This time he took up a command position behind the rear ranks. Another silence fell over the field. There was no movement. Even the wind had died away. The tension was as oppressive as the lull before a tropical thunderstorm. Then Chief Basma screeched, 'Haul Haul' and his regiments started forward.
'Steady!' Meren cautioned his men. 'Let them get in close. Hold your arrows!'
