Hamid, whatever might be his guilt in the matter of the striking of Suleiman Pasha, had obviously fought with the men of the Salt Ubar, and had raised his blade against his own tribe, the Aretai.
Other prisoners, too, were being brought back from the desert. Haroun’s lances had well invested the kasbah.
Hassan and I went down to the yard of the kasbah.
Startled was I to discover in the courtyards, mounted in the high saddle of the kaiila, the leader of Hassan’s mystery lancers, who had invested the kasbah of Tarna. He swept aside his wind veil.
“T`Zshal!” I cried.
He, bearded, grinned down at me from the saddle, a lance in his hand.
“I sent,” said Hassan, Haroun, high Pasha of Kavars, “a thousand kaiila, a thousand lances, supplies, to Klima. I thought such men might prove useful.”
T’Zshal raised the lance. The kaiila reared. “We shall not forget the Kavars, Pasha,” said T’Zshal.
I feared that Hassan had made a terrible mistake. Who would dare to arm such men?
T’Zshal turned the kaiila expertly. He had once been of the Tahari, and then, with a scattering of sand, men following him, returned to the desert, again to supervise his men in their encircling ring of will, steel and kaiila flesh.
Hamid and Abdul knelt in the sand, bound.
Hassan held his blade to the throat of Hamid. “Who struck Suleiman Pasha?” he inquired. Hamid looked up at him. Suleiman and Shakar stood near. “It was I,” said Hamid.
“Take him away,” said Suleiman Pasha. Hamid was dragged away.
“How did you know it was he who struck me?” asked Suleiman.
“I was there,” said Hassan. “I saw it.”
“Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars!” cried Shakar.
Hassan smiled.
“No!” he cried. “There were none there but Aretai, Ibn Saran, Hakim of Tor and”
Shakar stopped.
“And Hassan the bandit.” said Hassan.
“You!” cried Suleiman, laughing.
“Surely you did not think there could be two such handsome, dashing fellows?” asked Hassan.
“Kavar sleen!” laughed Suleiman.
“Do not be too broadcast with my additional identity,” requested Hassan. “It is useful at times, particularly when the duties of the pasha become too oppressive.
“I know what you mean,” said Suleiman. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“I, too, will guard its nature,” said Shakar.
“You are Hakim of Tor, are you not?” asked Suleiman, turning to me.
“Yes, Pasha,” I said, stepping forward.
“Grievously did we wrong you,” he said.
I shrugged. “There are still pockets of resistance to be cleared up in the kasbah,” I said. “I beg your indulgence, that I may be excused.”
“May your eye be keen, your steel swift,” said Suleiman Pasha.
I bowed.
“And what of this small sleen?” asked Shakar, indicating the small Abdul, who knelt, cowering, in the sand.
“He, too,” said Suleiman Pasha, “let him be taken away.
A rope was put on the throat of Abdul and he was dragged whimpering from our presence.
I looked to the central building of the kasbah. Within it, here and there, in rooms, men still fought.
“Find me Tarna,” said Suleiman Pasha. “Bring her to me.” Men rushed from his side. I did not envy the woman. She was free. She had broken wells. Prolonged and hideous tortures awaited her, culminating in her public impalement, nude, upon the walls of the great kasbah at Nine Wells.
The men of the Tahari are not patient with those who break wells. They look not leniently upon this crime.
I slipped to one side, and left the group.
Tarna, in her quarters, spun to face me. She was startled. She had not known I was there. I had touched the ring. A moment later, she turning, saw me, standing in the room.
“You!” she cried.
Her eyes were wild. She was distraught. She wore the mannish garb of the Tahari, save that she did not wear the wind veil nor the kafflyeh and agal. Her face and head, proud and beautiful, were bare. Her hair was wild, long, loose behind her, behind the thrown back hood of the burnoose. The garments she wore were torn and stained. The left trouser leg had been slashed. There were long scimitar slashes at the left sleeve, which hung in tatters. I did not think she had been wounded.
There was dirt at the left side of her face.
“You have come to take me!” she cried. She carried a scimitar.
“Your war is lost,” I told her. “It is done.”
She looked upon me in fury. For an instant there were tears in her eyes, bright and hot. I saw that she was a woman. Then again she was Tarna.
“Never!” she cried.
“It is true,” I told her.
“No!” she cried.
We could bear men fighting in the distance, somewhere in the corridors beyond.
“The kasbah has fallen,” I told her. “Ibn Saran is dead. Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars and Suleiman, high Pasha of the Aretai, are already within the walls.”
“I know,” she said, miserably. “I know.”
“You were relieved of your command,” I told her. “You were no longer of use.
Even those men who once served you fight now, decimated, for their lives.” I regarded her. “The kasbah has fallen,” I said.
She looked at me.
“You are alone,” I said. “It is over.”
“I know,” she said. Then she lifted her head, angrily, proudly, “How did you know where to find me?” she asked.
“I am not unfamiliar with the quarters of Tarna,” I said.
“Of course,” she said. She smiled. “And now you have come to take me,” she laughed.
“Yes,” I told her.
“Doubtless for he who brings me in, his rope on my neck, before the noble Pashas Haroun and Suleiman, there will be a high reward,” she said.
“I would suppose that would be the case,” I said.
“Fool!” she said. “Sleen! I am Tarna!” She lifted the scimitar. “I am more than a match for any man!” she cried.
I met her charge. She was not unskillful. I fended her blows. I did not lay the weight of my own steel on hers, that I not tire her arm. I let her strike, and slash, and feint and thrust. Twice she drew back suddenly in fear, almost a wince, or reflex, realizing she had exposed herself to my blade, but I had not struck her.
“You are not a match for a warrior,” I told her. It was true. I had crossed steel with hundreds of men, in practice and in the fierce games of war, who could have finished her, swiftly and with ease, had they chosen to do so.
In fury, again, she attacked.
Again I met her attack, toying with the beauty.
She wept, striking wildly. I was within her guard, the blade at her belly.
She stepped back. Again she fought. This time I moved toward her, letting her feel the weight of the steel, the weight of a man’s arm. Suddenly she found herself backed against a pillar. Her guard was down. She could scarcely lift her arm. My blade was at her breast. I stepped back. She stumbled from the pillar, wild. Again she lifted the scimitar; again she tried to attack. I met her blade, high, forcing it down; she slipped to one knee, looking up, trying to keep the blade away; she wept; she had no leverage, her strength was gone; I thrust her back, and she fell on her back before me on the tiles; my left boot, heavy, was on her right wrist; the small band opened and the scimitar slipped to the tiles; the point of the blade was at her throat.
“Stand up,” I told her.
I broke her scimitar at the hilt and flung it to a corner of the room.
She stood in the center of the room. “Put your rope on my neck,” she said. “You have taken me, Warrior.”
I walked about her, examining her. She stood, angrily, inspected.
With the blade of my scimitar I brushed back the slashed, left leg of her trousers. She had an excellent leg within.
“Please,” she said.
“Remove your boots,” I told her. In fury, she removed them. She then stood, barefoot, on the tiles in the center of the room.
“You will lead me barefoot before the Pashas?” she asked. “Is your vengeance not sweet enough, that you will so degrade me?”
“Are you not my prisoner?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Then I will do with you as I please,” I told her.
“Oh, no!” she wept.
In a moment I told her to kneel. She knelt on the tiles, her head down, her head in her bands. She was stripped completely by my scimitar.
“What have we here?’’ asked Hassan, entering the room. To my interest he had changed his garments. He no longer wore the white of the high Pasha of the Kavars but simpler garments, those which might have befitted Hassan, the outlaw of the Tahari.
