Her slippers were soft and she but little used to treading the desert. Sir Eric bore her like a child in his mighty arms as we stole back to the ravine where we had left the horses. It was the will of Allah that we reached them without mishap, but even as we rode up out of the ravine, the Frank holding Ettaire before him, we heard the rattle of hoofs hard by.
“Ride for the hills,” muttered Sir Eric. “There is a large band of riders close at our heels, doubtless reinforcements. If we turn back we will ride into them. Perchance we can reach the hills before dawn breaks, then we can turn back the way we wish to go.”
So we trotted out on the plain in the last darkness before dawn, made still darker by a thick, clammy fog, with the tramp of hoofs and the jingle of armor and reins close at our heels. I did not think they were reinforcements but a band of scouts, since they did not turn in to the fires but made straight out across the levels toward the hills, driving us before them, though they knew it not. Surely, I thought, Muhammad knows that hostile eyes are on him, hence this milling to and fro of riders to give an impression of great numbers.
The hoofs dwindled behind us as the scouts turned aside or rode back to the lines. The plain was alive with small groups of horsemen who rode to and fro like ghosts in the deep darkness. On each side we heard the stamp of their horses and the rattle of their arms. Tenseness gripped us. Already there was a hint of dawn in the sky, though the heavy fog veiled all. In the darkness the riders mistook us for their comrades, so far, but quickly the early light would betray us.
Once a band of horsemen swung close and hailed us; I answered quickly in Turki and they reined away, satisfied. There were many Seljuks in Muhammad’s army, yet had they come a pace closer they would have made out Sir Eric’s stature and Frankish apparel. As it was the darkness and the mists clumped all objects into shadowy masses, for the stars were dimmed and the sun was not yet.
Then the noises were all behind us, the mists thinned in light that flowed suddenly across the hills in a white tide, stars vanished and the vague shadows about us took the forms of ravines, boulders and cactus. Then it was full dawn but we were among the defiles, out of sight of the plains, which were still veiled in the mists that had forsaken the higher levels.
Sir Eric tilted up the white face of the girl and kissed her tenderly.
“Ettaire,” said he, “we are encompassed by foes, but now my heart is light.”
“And mine, my lord!” she answered, clinging to him. “I knew you would come! Oh, Eric, did the pagan lord speak truth when he said mine own uncle gave me into slavery?”
“I fear so, little Ettaire,” said he gently. “His heart is blacker than night.”
“What was Muhammad’s word to you?” I broke in.
“When I was first taken to him, upon reaching the Moslem camp,” she answered, “there was much confusion and haste, for the infidels were breaking camp and preparing to march. The sultan looked on me and spake kindly to me, bidding me not fear. When I begged to be sent back to my uncle, he told me I was a gift from my uncle. Then he gave orders that I be given tender care and rode on with his generals. I was put back in the wagon and thereafter stayed there, sleeping a little, until early last night when I was again taken to the sultan. He talked with me a space and offered me no indignity, though his talk frightened me. For his eyes glowed fiercely on me, and he swore he would make me his queen – that he would build a pyramid of skulls in my honor and fling the turbans of shahs and caliphs at my feet. But he sent me back to my wagon, saying that when he next came to me, he would bring the head of Ali bin Sulieman for a bridal gift.”
“I like it not,” said I uneasily. “This is madness – the talk of a Tatar chief rather than that of a civilized Moslem ruler. If Muhammad has been fired with love for you, he will move all Hell to take you.”
“Nay,” said Sir Eric, “I – ”
And at that moment a half score of ragged figures leaped from the rocks and seized our reins. Ettaire screamed and I made to draw my scimitar; it is not meet that a dog of the Bedoui seize thus the rein of a son of Turan. But Sir Eric caught my arm. His own sword was in its sheath, but he made no move to draw it, speaking instead in sonorous Arabic, as a man speaks who expects to be obeyed: “We are well met, children of the tents; lead us therefore, to Ali bin Sulieman whom we seek.”
At this the Arabs were taken somewhat aback and they gazed at each other.
“Cut them down,” growled one. “They are Muhammad’s spies.”
“Aye,” gibed Sir Eric, “spies ever carry their women-folk with them. Fools! We have ridden hard to find Ali bin Sulieman. If you hinder us, your hides will answer. Lead us to your chief.”
“Aye,” snarled one they called Yurzed, who seemed to be a sort of beg or lesser chief among them, “Ali bin Sulieman knows how to deal with spies. We will take you to him, as sheep are taken to the butcher. Give up thy swords, sons of evil!”
Sir Eric nodded to my glance, drawing his own long blade and delivering it hilt first.
“Even this was to come to pass,” said I bitterly. “Lo, I eat dust – take my hilt, dog – would it was the point I was passing through thy ribs.”
Yurzed grinned like a wolf. “Be at ease, Turk – time thy steel learnt the feel of a man’s hand.”
“Handle it carefully,” I snarled. “I swear, when it comes back into my hands I will bathe it in swine’s blood to cleanse it of the pollution of thy filthy fingers.”
I thought the veins in his forehead would burst with fury, but with a howl of rage, he turned his back on us, and we perforce followed him, with his ragged wolves holding tight to our reins.
I saw Sir Eric’s plan, though we dared not speak to each other. There was no doubt but that the hills swarmed with Bedouins. To seek to hack our way through them were madness. If we joined forces with them, we had a chance to live, scant though it was. If not – well, these dogs love a Turk little and a Frank none.
On all sides we caught glimpses of hairy men in dirty garments, watching us from behind rocks or from among ravines, with hard, hawk-like eyes; and presently we came to a sort of natural basin where some five hundred splendid Arab steeds sought the scanty grass that straggled there. My very mouth watered. By Allah, these Bedoui be dogs and sons of dogs, but they breed good horse flesh!
A hundred or so warriors watched the horses – tall, lean men, hard as the desert that bred them, with steel caps, round bucklers, mail shirts, long sabers and lances. No sign of fire was seen and the men looked worn and evil as with hunger and hard riding. Little loot had they of that raid! Somewhat apart from them on a sort of knoll sat a group of older warriors and there our captors led us.
Ali bin Sulieman we knew at once; like all his race he was tall and wide shouldered, tall as Sir Eric but lacking the Frank’s massiveness, built with the savage economy of a desert wolf. His eyes were piercing and menacing, his face lean and cruel. Sir Eric did not wait for him to speak: “Ali bin Sulieman,” said the Frank, “we have brought you two good swords.”
Ali bin Sulieman snarled as if Sir Eric had suggested cutting his throat.
“What is this?” he snapped, and Yurzed spake, saying: “These Franks and this dog of a Turk we found in the fringe of the hills, just at the lifting of dawn. They came from toward the Persian camp. Be on your guard, Ali bin Sulieman; Franks are crafty in speech, and this Turk is no Seljuk, meseemeth, but some devil from the East.”
“Aye,” Ali grinned ferociously, “we have notables among us! The Turk is Kosru Malik the Chagatai, whose trail the ravens follow. And unless I am mad, that shield is the shield of Sir Eric de Cogan.”
“Trust them not,” urged Yurzed. “Let us throw their heads to the Persian dogs.”
Sir Eric laughed and his eyes grew cold and hard as is the manner of Franks when they stare into the naked face of Doom.
“Many shall die first, though our swords be taken from us,” quoth he. “And, chief of the desert, ye have no men to waste. Soon ye will need all the swords ye have and they may not suffice. You are in a trap.”
Ali tugged at his beard and his eyes were evil and fearful.
“If ye be a true man, tell me whose host is that upon the plain.”
“That is the army of Muhammad Khan, sultan of Kizilshehr.”
Those about Ali cried out mockingly and angrily and Ali cursed.
“You lie! Muhammad’s wolves have harried us for a day and a night. They have hung at our flanks like jackals dogging a wounded stag. At dusk we turned on them and scattered them; then when we rode into the hills, lo, on the other side we saw a great host encamped. How can that be Muhammad?”
“Those who harried you were no more than outriders,” replied Sir Eric, “light cavalry sent by Muhammad to hang on your flanks and herd you into his trap like so many cattle. The country is up behind you; you cannot turn back. Nay, the only way is through the Persian ranks.”
