Sands of Destiny (3 page)

“Nay, Lord,” stammered tbe merchant. “I did but jest.”

“Jest? Then you would not deny me a smile at the sight of your blood?”

“I have eaten your salt,” babbled the fat merchant, now in a terror. “I have shared your bread. You cannot kill me now.”

“You are safe beneath the laws of hospitality until the next dawn,” admitted the Sheik. “Yet do not trifle with me man of too great flesh, It comes to me that you and those like you are the first to sell their dignity for Ferengi gold. It would be as well for you to remember that. Remember too that the Veiled Ones have a long arm and that their power does not end with the ending of the desert.”

“Why speak to me so,” whined the merchant. “Have I not done as I promised? Here I have brought you many rifles from distant lands. Good weapons with which to slay the infidel. I....”

“Are the guns the same as used by the Ferengi?”

“The Foreign Legion? Lebels? Yes, it was as you so ordered.” The whine increased. “Other weapons would have come cheaper, lord, but these rifles are scarce and difficult to obtain. Much gold I had to spend in having them shipped across the water. More to close the right eyes and seal the right mouths. Of profit I do not speak, it is sufficient that I serve you, but the risk! Aye the risk!”

“It would be a greater risk should you fail to serve,” said the Toureg coldly. “Much have we of the desert stood from you and yours. Now, either you are with us or against us, there can be no middle path.” A slippered foot came into Corville’s range of vision. “Are you certain that these dogs are as dead?”

“Certain, mighty Sheik.”

“So?” There was the subtle scrape of steel sliding from leather. “It may be that they lie with ears open to our words. Test them.”

“Test them? How?”

“Fool! Can a man resist the thrust of a knife?” The Toureg stooped and deliberately thrust the point of his dagger into a man’s arm. “So, this one at least sleeps well. The others....”

“Wait, lord!” The fat merchant stepped before the tall nomad. “Think of what you do. These dogs have no idea as to what we carry and why we are here. Leave them in peace I pray you for the love of Allah. Take the things I have brought, give me the gold you have promised, and let me be on my way. With the rugs you have carried here to exchange for the loads they will not suspect that anything has occurred between us. A little hashish perhaps,” the merchant’s shrug showed how tolerated the drug traffic was by the natives, “but that is all. It will seem as though you desired sport with us and there will be no loose tongues to set the Ferengi on their guard.”

“The Ferengi! The unbelieving dogs! The infidel, the hated of Allah and the loved of Shaitan! Death to the Ferengi!”

“Aye, lord, but softly. Time to talk of death when we have driven them to the sea. In the meantime, let us act with caution and tread the path of true wisdom. Is it not written that what will be will be?”

“It is so written,” agreed the Sheik, “but it is also written that what a man is then so also is what he will become. And there are other writings in the sacred books of Allah. Yet what is your fear to me?”

“Think, lord, and you will see the hidden wisdom. Guns have I fetched you, many guns, and there can be more, many more if....” He paused, suggestively, and Corville could almost see the man’s instinctive gesturing with his thumb and forefinger.

“Gold,” said the Sheik. “You know that we have little gold.”

“And yet you could obtain more? Not gold, but other things? Money, the paper used by the Ferengi is of value, gems and precious stones, small things that a man could hide and spend for guns in the markets of the world. Money, Sheik?”

“I have no money.”

“A goat can be milked more than once,” said the merchant suggestively. “If so then you will need me and what I can offer. Find gold, my lord, and I will find rifles,”

“I can also find rifles,” said the Sheik grimly. “One does not need gold to obtain Ferengi guns. They are waiting for us to take, bullets too, plenty of both.”

“The forts?” The merchant’s voice revealed his doubt. “That’s madness. To strike now would be to warn the Ferengi and....”

“Strike?” The Toureg stepped closer, his slippers throwing sand into Corville’s face. “What mean you? Speak.”

“I have heard the rumours,” babbled the merchant. “In the bazaars they talk of it, in the coffee houses and in the places where dancing girls move to the delight of men. The Jehad.” The oily voice dropped a little and became sly. “Tell me, lord, is it not so?”

“You know too much,” whispered the Sheik. He stepped even closer,

“I know what I know, lord.” The merchant chuckled. “The Ferengi are worried, that I know, and many soldiers are to be seen in the streets of Sidi bel Abbes. There is talk of strengthening the forts and men are always ready to leave on forced marches. Even the Spahis....” He choked, gurgled, tried to speak and then, with a horrible sound toppled and fell heavily to the sand. He fell within inches of Corville.

“Fool,” gritted the Sheik. “Die for the dog you are.” He turned as a man stepped quietly towards him. “Well?”

“The camels are unloaded,” said the man respectfully, touching his breast, lips and forehead in salutation. “The guns are as we expected.” He glanced casually towards the dead merchant. “Your orders?”

“Send a rider to the tribe and warn them to prepare for the attack. Slay these fools,” he gestured contemptuously at the sleeping drivers. The rest, recruit or kill, they are good warriors and will serve to stop a Ferengi bullet.”

“As you wish, my lord. Onassis?”

“Aye. My spies have told me that they have a new commander there now. Colonel Marignay, a man new to the desert and our ways.” The Toureg laughed with a peculiar soundlessness. “He is a man of strange methods. Once a month he assembles all his men into the compound, drills them, addresses them, tires them out for his personal glory. Even the guard in the watchtower is so drilled.” He laughed again. “Thank Allah that the sun has turned his reason for the benefit of the true believer. Fort Onassis will provide us with many guns.” His voice faded as he walked away, and Corville shivered to the sweat of sudden urgency.

He had to get to Onassis to warn Marignay before the Touregs could attack.

Of the dead merchant he gave not a moment’s thought. The man had deserved to die. Anyone did who sold guns for gold, arming the very men who would kill those to whom the merchant and those like him would appeal for protection. Coupled with his direct violation of the law he had drugged the drivers, and, for all Corville knew, the outriders too. They were safe, as the Sheik had so cynically said any man was good enough to stop a bullet and they would probably agree to join in the attack both from hope of loot and love of fighting. The camel drivers, those poverty stricken unfortunates, without tribe, or pride, or possessions, they were to be sacrificed beneath a butcher’s knife to ensure their silence.

And unless Corville moved fast he would be among them.

Carefully he wriggled away from the sleeping men, thankful that the Sheik had chosen him for the ‘test’ knowing how difficult it was for any alert men to prevent an instinctive flinching from a painful wound. Behind him, a little to one side, a horse snickered as it stamped restlessly and a man, a dark shadow in his loose burnoose, the long barrel of his Jezail sticking past one shoulder, looked in guarded watchfulness at the restless beast.

Corville thinned his lips as he made his slow, and careful way towards the guard. He might be alone, he could have a companion, or there could, as there sometimes was, three or four men watching the valuable horses. Corville was lucky, the man was alone.

He collapsed as the officer hit him on the base of the neck, sagging towards the sand, his figure suddenly limp and lifeless. Rapidly the young officer donned his burnoose and slung the Jezail over his shoulder. Cautiously he approached the horses and had almost reached them when a man hailed him from the darkness.

“Hamid? What do you here?”

Corville didn’t dare reply. Even though he could speak Arabic like a native yet he knew that he could not hope to assume a voice he had never heard. Instead he stooped, appeared to examine the sand at his feet, then gestured towards the unseen guard.

“Hamid. Are you ill? What ails you?”

As he spoke the guard moved out into the moonlight. Corville gestured again and, as the man came within reach, struck heavily towards the jaw. He missed, the man swaying aside and, before the young officer could silence him, had shouted a warning into the night.

“Sacré!”
The automatic was in Corville’s hand and his finger pressing the trigger before the echoes could die away. Again the pistol blasted fire, this time towards a third guard and, as the man toppled screaming to the sand, Corville drew his sword and slashed the reins of the tethered horses. Within seconds they were free, he had mounted one, and was shrieking and yelling at the top of his voice, striking at them with the flat of the sword and lunging his own mount hard against them.

They broke and ran from the screaming demon who had aroused them from sleep, their hooves making a dull thunder as they raced across the desert and with them, riding low over the cruppers, Corville rode like a man possessed.

He had gained a little time, but only a little. The horses would soon be recaptured, Toureg horses were too well trained to bolt and not return, but he had shaken off immediate pursuit. Now, without water, without a saddle, with only the stars to guide him and limited ammunition between him and death at the hands of any small raiding party he might contact, he rode into the silence of the night.

To warn Fort Onassis.

SERGEANT JOHN SMITH

SERGEANT John Smith rose in his stirrups and stared with narrowed eyes across the burning sands before him. A big man he was, tall, sitting his mount with easy grace and trained skill. His eyes were grey, his skin burned to a copper brown and. on his left cheek, the writhing scar of an old wound traced its furrowed path from the corner of his eye down past the corner of his mouth. The puckering of the scar had lifted the upper lip a trifle so that, at all times, he seemed to be perpetually sneering at a life that, for him, had proved no bed of roses.

Behind him, marching in close file over the dunes, a small patrol of legionnaires moved with mechanical precision, the long barrels of their Lebels glinting in the sun, their blue and scarlet which, together with their white kepis, comprised their uniform, making an unnatural splotch of colour against the eternal brown sand of the desert. They were dressed in full marching order with water canteens, blankets, field packs ammunition and bayonets. Looking at them the sergeant felt quiet pride at the military bearing of his men and gestured them to continue marching while he scanned the sands ahead. His corporal, a stunted veteran of many wars, halted at his side.

“Any signs yet, John?” He spoke with the easy familiarity of an old friend and the sergeant answered in the same way.

“None. The caravan should have arrived a day ago and here we are, two days march from the fort, and still no sign of it.”

“Raiders?” Corporal Lambert spat with thoughtful accuracy at an unwary scorpion; “The Toureg are restless again I hear, and with them are some Bedouin and Riff tribesmen. A rich caravan would be tempting bait to such as they.”

“Perhaps.” The sergeant’s cultured tones were in startling contrast to the rough, untutored speech of the corporal. “And yet we should have heard had they been attacked. A survivor, maybe more, for the tribes rarely exterminate all, especially after they have won the battle.” His voice hardened. “It is only the weak and the helpless who meet the fate of their women’s knives. Wounded legionnaires and harmless traders.”

“Should we continue the march then, John?” Lambert stared after the departing column. “Our water is low, another two days and we shall all be thirsty, and the nearest oasis is at Onassis.”

“We will continue the march.” ordered the sergeant. “I am swinging the line around so as to head back tomorrow.” He pursed his lips. “It is as the Colonel ordered. All legionnaires to be assembled in the compound at dawn three days from now.”

“He is a strange one, that Colonel Marignay,” said Lambert. “The men hate him for his harshness and murmur over their wine. It is not good for men to feel so.”

“I have heard nothing you have said,” snapped John Smith. “I am a sergeant and, if I thought that the men were restless, I should have to report it to the officers. I do not like to see good men punished for speaking their minds. You comprehend?”

“As my sergeant orders,” said Lambert. “I am a man of discretion, no?”

“No.” The Sergeant twitched the reins of his mount. “Hold onto my stirrup, lazy one, and run beside me to the head of the column. I will ride ahead, to the summit of that high dune and there see what I shall see,” The mount reared a little as he touched is sides with his spurs, then settled down to a loping canter. Lambert ran beside it, hanging onto the stirrup leather, and released his hold as they drew abreast of the head of the marching column. The sergeant spurred his mount again after the corporal had left him and, slipping and sliding on the loose surface, guided his horse to the summit of the high dune.

There he halted, a picturesque figure against the skyline and, shading his eyes, stared out over the desert that stretched before him like a frozen sea.

He frowned, stared, then, taking a pair of binoculars from a case slung around his neck, lifted them to his eyes.

“Lambert.”

At the cry the corporal left the head of the column and ran towards the mounted officer. “Yes, sergeant?”

“Look!” John pointed towards a tiny spot close to the distant horizon. “Here,” he handed the corporal the field glasses. “Tell me what you see.”

“A man,” said Lambert after a moment. “An Arab. Toureg I think, and from the way the vultures circle around his head I doubt me that he has long to live.”

“I will go to him,” decided John, then looked down as Lambert held the reins. “What is it?”

“It could be a trap,” reminded the dour corporal. “It would not be the first time that an apparently wounded man has killed his would be rescuer. That man is a Toureg, and you know the Touregs, he will kill you even if it takes his last breath to do so.”

“He is sick, probably dying, I cannot watch him die without aid.”

“The dunes could be full of mounted warriors waiting to attack you.” Lambert clung more firmly to the reins. “Wait at least until the men can march with you.”

“So you think it could be an ambush?” John nodded as he thought about it. Lambert was right. Using a decoy was a favourite trick of the warring tribesmen and, as the corporal had warned, the dunes could be full of armed men ready to shoot and kill both for the sake of the weapons he carried and because he was one of the hated legionnaires. The sergeant hesitated, staring at his men. They would fight any odds, fight until their last bullet had been used and they fell back on the long, sword-like bayonets slung at their sides. But they were but few and the Touregs many. Should it be a trap then he would be responsible for their deaths and worse for the loss of their arms to the hordes ever-ready to threaten the peace of the desert. And yet, despite that knowledge, he saw a man in pain and knew that he had to help him.

“Deploy,” he ordered. “Watch. I will ride forth to that man. If, as you suspect, it is a trap, then I alone shall die. If not, then we may learn of the caravan we seek.”

“But, John....”

“Enough! It is an order.” Without a backward glance, the sergeant spurred his horse and rode towards the tiny figure ahead. Lambert stared after him, his eyes thoughtful, then snapped quick orders to his men.

Automatically they obeyed, un-slinging their rifles, checking the loading of the weapons then, with rifles at the ready, loped at increased speed towards the diminishing figure of their sergeant. Lambert grinned. He had obeyed his orders; but should trouble arise, the men would be ready to go through hell itself in defence of their beloved sergeant.

John knew nothing of his corporal’s preparations. He rode, his eyes watchful, towards the tiny figure ahead and. as he came nearer, he saw that the man staggered and fell, rose to stagger a few more paces only to fall again. John had seen men act so before. Men who were at the last stages of exhaustion from heat and thirst, literally dying on their feet with only their indomitable wills enabling them to keep going. Once they lost that will they would collapse, would lie on the sand to let the sun suck the last moisture from their bodies, unable even to beat off the hungry birds who would swoop down to peck the eyes from their still-living prey.

The sergeant did not alter his pace, ten years in the Legion had made him wise to the subtlety of the Arabs and, even though the distress of the man ahead could be genuine, yet it was still possible that the Toureg had deliberately caused that condition in one of their prisoners so as to deceive suspicious eyes Finally, still watching the desert around, he came up to the man and stared down into a face tormented with pain and thirst. A face he recognised.

“Lieutenant de Corville, Crispin!” The sergeant flung himself from his horse, snatched his canteen, and, half-supporting the near-dead man, poured a trickle of tepid water between the blackened lips. Corville shuddered. opened his eyes and tried to snatch the precious container of water. The sergeant restrained him, knowing that too much water could kill as surely as too little, knowing too that Corville, in his state of mind, was hardly responsible for his actions. Gently the scarred sergeant moistened the parched lips, allowed a small amount of the clear fluid to enter the mouth, gently massaged the swollen throat until Corville had managed to swallow it then, the initial stages over, gave the officer a half litre of water to gulp down with animal-like savagery.

“More.” Corville held out the empty cup. “Water. I beg of you give me water.”

“Later.” Smith screwed the cup back onto the canteen and slung the container over his shoulder. “Later, sir, you can have as much water to drink as you wish. Not now. Now it would bloat your stomach, give you great pain, could even do what the sun and the sand have failed to do. It could cause your death.”

“Yes,” said Corville, and blinked as he stared at the scarred face above his own. “I know you, do I not?”

“Sergeant Smith, sir, of the garrison at Fort Onassis.” John smiled. “You should know me, sir. I am of your command.”

“Onassis!” Corville forced himself to his feet. “Sergeant! The fort is about to be attacked by a party of raiding Touregs. It is imperative that the Colonel be warned of the danger. I....”

Corville sagged, his body suddenly falling limp and helpless to the sand. Heat and exhaustion had finally weakened him and the knowledge that now, after all this time, he could relax with the comforting knowledge that his message was in safe hands. He muttered as the sergeant picked him up and set him across the saddle of the horse, living again in his dream world the nightmare ride over the moonlight desert with his enemies snarling at his heels as they tried mad with rage, to stop the one man who could betray their plans. They had been clever had those Touregs. They had mounted the camels, stripped of their loads for added speed and had guarded the nearest routes to Fort Onassis. Corville had almost died when he rode into that trap and had barely escaped with a wounded horse, leaving three dead men behind him.

Then had come bitter days of searing heat and frigid nights of shivering cold. Thirst had come, and hunger, but of those two thirst was by far the worse. The horse had collapsed and he had been forced to shoot it to put it out of its misery. How long he had wandered with only the stars and the sun to guide him he never knew, but somehow, it may have been the sight of a familiar face or the familiar uniform, he knew that he was yet in time and that now he was safe. So he slumbered the deep, uneasy sleep of exhaustion while the sergeant, supporting the limp figure on his saddle, walked his horse back to his waiting men.

“Toureg?” Lambert stepped forward as the sergeant drew near. “Riff? Bedouin?”

“Neither.” John didn’t want too many of his men to learn that their officer had been found in Arab disguise. He called the corporal to one side. “It is Lieutenant de Corville. He warned me that the Touregs were about to attack Onassis and asked me to warn the Colonel.” He glanced at his men. “We must return to the fort at once. Inform the men that this is a friendly Arab we have found, the less who know of the lieutenant’s services among the Arabs the better. You understand?”

“Perfectly.” Lambert hesitated. “The lieutenant, is he well?”

“Exhaustion. I have given him water and will later give him more. He will recover soon, we caught him just in time, but another few hours would have seen the birds at his eyes and not all the water in the oceans could have saved him.”

“It is well,” said the corporal seriously. “The lieutenant is a good man.” He looked at the sergeant. “Your orders?”

“We return to the Fort. Open order with arms at the ready. Post flankers and vanguard. The lieutenant will ride my horse and I will remain at his side. Quickly now! Action!”

It was smoothly done. Men detached themselves from the column to form the vanguard, marching several hundred metres in advance of the main body. Others took up similar positions to either side, watching the desert around for danger and keeping their fingers on the triggers of their Lebels. Lambert watched the men take position then, his voice carrying to the furthest man, snapped the order to march. In a compact unit, ready for any form of trouble, the legionnaires with the unconscious officer slumped across the horse and their sergeant at his side, marched back towards the fort that was their home.

The attack came at dawn on the second day. It started with the spiteful crack of a rifle and a man, one of the legionnaires on guard, screamed as he fell, clutching at his stomach, and vomiting blood. A second rifle fired, a third and then the brightening day was rendered hideous with the yelling cry which all the legionnaires had learned to hate and fear.

“Allah il Allah! Mohammed il Akbar!”

They came like a rush of white-cowled ghosts, seeming to rise from the very sand, their rifles spitting fire and lead at the little band of legionnaires. Corville had woken with the sound of the first shot. He had almost recovered, from his journey and, though still thin and gaunt from privation, was well on the road to full recovery. Now he forced himself from automatically taking command and snapped quick instructions at the sergeant.

“Take command, Smith. I do not want the men, and more especially the Arabs, to know that I am a legionnaire in disguise. Once they learn that then my usefulness will be over.” He smiled at the scarred face of the sergeant. “Anyway, you are as capable of taking over as I. Do so.”

“Yes, my lieutenant.” Smith turned and shouted quick instructions but, even as he gave his commands, the men had anticipated them with the cunning of years of experience in desert warfare.

The first charge of the yelling Touregs was met with a hail of lead and white-burnoosed figures tumbled to the sand and there stained it with their ebbing blood. Again the savage raiders flung themselves against the beleagured men and again the long-barrelled Lebels sent them to an early Paradise. But it seemed that mere death alone could not stop the savage charge for, to men who firmly believed that Paradise waited for any man who died while attacking the infidel, death was nothing, an open door from the harshness of desert life to the promised land flowing with milk and honey, with pleasant gardens and eternal youth and fresh young Houris to serve their every whim.

And so they charged again and again, yelling their faith that there was no God but Allah and that Mohammed was his Prophet. And each time they charged there were fewer Lebels to answer their screaming defiance.