he did!” He jabbed a finger against Alsandair’s shoulder. “Get dressed, goddamn it.
We’re losing time!”
Alsandair didn’t need to ask who Striker thought had abducted Rylee. He knew it
was the man who had been trailing them earlier in the day. Forcing the terrible pain
down, the young warrior hurried to get his socks and boots on. He scooped up his
money and stuffed it into his pocket. His sword lay on the low dresser across the room
and he grabbed it, not bothering to stuff his shirt into his pants as he headed for the
door. The sheath with his dagger in it was the last thing he picked up as Kyle and he
rushed from the room.
“Can you find us horses?” Kyle asked as they pounded down the stairs. “I will talk
to the innkeeper and see what I can find out about the man who was shadowing us.”
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“He’s a slaver,” Alsandair said, and felt that frigid finger gouge a bloody furrow
down his back.
“I figured as much. Get the horses,” Kyle snapped. “We’ll worry about the rest
when we catch up to him.”
They had reached the bottom of the stairs. “You don’t think she’s still in Sulan?”
Alsandair asked. “Wouldn’t he—?”
“They are long gone from here, Farrell!” Kyle hissed. “You can be damned sure he
had a buyer for her before he ever snatched her!”
The truth nearly crippled Alsandair and it was all he could do to stumble out of the
inn in search of the stables. He was panting with the pain, but his heart hurt much
worse than his head at that moment and his anger was building like magma in a
volcano. By the time he reached the stables, his face was as hard as flint and his eyes as
cold as the winds in the deepest part of the Abyss.
“Two of your best mounts, saddled and ready to go within the next fifteen
minutes,” he snapped.
The stable owner gave the Outlander a shrug, his hands palms up at his shoulder.
“Milord, I am sorry but—”
Alsandair snaked out a hand, grabbed the stableman and jerked him forward,
almost nose to nose. He glared into the suddenly frightened man’s bloodless face. “You
like breathing, pog?” he snarled, insulting the man.
The stableman nodded, unable to speak.
“You want to keep on breathing?”
Again the man nodded, his lips trembling.
“Two of your best mounts, saddled and ready to go within the next ten minutes,”
Alsandair said, shoving the hapless man away from him. “If they aren’t ready, I’ll slit
your throat and you won’t have to worry about taking another breath. Is that
understood?”
Trembling violently, the man nodded and stumbled as Alsandair pushed him
away. He hurried to do the young man’s bidding.
Alsandair left the stable—walking fast, his hand on the hilt of his dagger—and
headed back toward the inn. He had almost reached it when the door opened.
Kyle came striding toward Alsandair, his lips pressed tightly together. Over his
shoulder was a serviceable-looking sword and clutched in his hand was a crossbow and
quiver of bolts. He was fairly quivering with rage and when Alsandair would have
questioned him, he shook his head angrily. “Not now,” he snapped. “Where are the
horses?”
“Being saddled,” Alsandair said. “I was coming to get you.” He glanced at the
sword. “Do you know how to use that weapon?”
“I wouldn’t be wearing it if I didn’t,” Kyle growled. He turned toward the docks.
“What are we doing?” Alsandair asked, falling into step beside the older man.
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“We need help and I know where to get it,” Kyle said mysteriously.
It was to a seedy dockside tavern that Kyle led Alsandair. The night was still young
and the grimy building into which they strode smelled of musky body odors, vomit and
spilled urine. The air was thick with the smoke of hashish and the press of drunken
bodies stumbling against them disgusted Alsandair. Strident music came from a trio of
beggarly looking musicians whose enthusiasm for their playing was even less than their
ability to play the strange instruments upon which they plucked. The din hurt the ears
and did little to drown out the coarse laughter and curses filling the room.
“Who the hell are you going to get help from in a place like this?” the young
warrior demanded.
“Just shut the fuck up and let me do what has to be done,” Kyle told him.
Threading his way through the throng to a rickety set of stairs at the back of the
tavern, Kyle shoved men out of his way and hissed at whores who would have stepped
up to him to offer their wares. He took the stairs two at a time with Alsandair close
behind.
A door at the very end of a dark, odorous hallway was Kyle’s destination and when
he reached it he lifted his hand, rapped four times, paused and then rapped twice more.
The door opened a crack to reveal a bloodshot eye. “Aye?” a gravelly voice
inquired.
“I’m looking for Khalid,” Kyle stated in Jentu.
“And who are you?” the doorkeeper snorted.
“Let him in,” someone said from the recesses of the room beyond.
The doorkeeper stepped back just enough to allow Kyle to enter but stepped in
front of Alsandair to deny him entrance.
“He’s with me,” Kyle stated.
“Stand aside, Jubal,” came the order.
Once inside the room, Alsandair saw there were nine men sitting at a large gaming
table. A huge pile of coins lay in the middle of the felt top. Beside the table stood a
beautiful young woman whose lush body was barely clothed in a diaphanous outfit
that caught and held his attention despite the worry flitting through his mind.
“Khaleel!” the woman chirped, and threw herself at Kyle, wrapping her slender
arms around his neck and pressing her barely clad body to his.
“Khaleel?” Alsandair questioned, looking at Kyle.
“Enough, Zaina,” Kyle said, removing her arms from him. “I am here on business.”
He swatted her on her shapely rear.
The sultry beauty thrust her lips out in a pout and stepped back. “You grow boring
in your advanced years, Khaleel,” she complained.
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“What brings you to my establishment, akhooya?” one of the men at the table asked,
and when Alsandair turned to look at him, the resemblance between he and Kyle was
too striking for them not to be related.
“You know of a Kanusian named Munthir Bourguiba?” Kyle asked.
“Son of a diseased jackal!” one of the gamblers proclaimed then turned his head to
spit on the floor.
“Safiy, that is a disgusting habit you need to break,” the young woman complained.
The spitting man lowered his head, a tight grin on his thin face.
“I know of him,” the man who looked so much like Kyle replied. “Has he taken
something that belongs to you?”
“To my friend,” Kyle stated, nudging his chin toward Alsandair.
Dark, fathomless eyes slid to Alsandair. “And he is?”
“Commander Alsandair Farrell of the First Anlusian Guard,” Kyle stated, putting a
hand to Alsandair’s shoulder. “He
is the betrothed of the one stolen from us.”
A low buzz went about the table in a language Alsandair did not know and he felt
the weight of every eye on him.
“Anlusian?” The man sat back in his chair and folded his arms, regarding Alsandair
intently. “You are a long way from your home, sadik,” he said.
“Who are you?” Alsandair asked.
The man smiled, showing strong white teeth in his dark face. “I am Khalid al-
Rashid,” he replied. “Younger brother to Khaleel.”
Alsandair nodded. He’d figured as much.
“Will you help me find Bourguiba and take back my friend’s woman?” Kyle asked.
“Of course,” Khalid replied. He unfolded his arms and got up from the table, the
men sitting with him quickly getting to their feet as well. “Give me twenty minutes to—
”
“We don’t have twenty minutes!” Alsandair interrupted. “Milady—”
“Will be perfectly safe until Bourguiba arrives at the wadi where he will meet with
his buyer,” Khalid interrupted. “He’ll allow no one to touch her since he will want a
good price for her.” He looked at Kyle. “She is beautiful?”
“And spirited,” Kyle answered. “You know to whom it is he intends to offer her?”
“Fortunately I do and I have long been seeking a way to rid the world of his vile
presence. Until now I have had no reason to go after him.” He grinned and there was
sheer malevolence in his black gaze. “Now, I have reason.”
“The man who took my woman belongs to me,” Alsandair said through clenched
teeth.
Khalid inclined his head. “And that is as it should be, sadik.” He looked at Kyle.
“You have mounts?”
“At the stable,” Kyle replied.
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Turning to Safiy—the man who had spat on the floor—Khalid rattled off commands
in his harsh tongue and all the men save the doorkeeper hurried from the room.
“You have ruined my evening, Khaleel,” the young woman said, flouncing down in
a chair.
“Keep her out of mischief, Jubal,” Khalid told the doorkeeper. “Her safety is on
your head.”
Jubal bowed respectfully and said something in another language Alsandair had
never heard.
Gathering up a wicked-looking scimitar and two daggers from an inlaid cabinet
hanging on the wall, Khalid then picked up his heavy black robe and indicated Kyle
and Alsandair were to precede him from the room.
Once out in the chill coastal night, Alsandair found the eight men who had been
gambling with Khalid already mounted and waiting, three of them holding the leads of
the horses meant for their leader, Kyle and Alsandair. Along with them were roughly
twenty more riders and each one of them looked as though he was more than capable of
murdering an enemy without giving it a thought.
“The one we seek has an hour lead on us, rabba,” Safiy told Khalid. “He will take
the road to Futuwah.”
“Then we’ll head for Sabil and await him and his buyer,” Khalid announced. He
vaulted into the saddle of a magnificent black Rysalian stallion. He shifted to a
comfortable position and waited for Kyle and Alsandair to mount. He met his brother’s
eye. “It is Prince Ammar al-Shishakli who will journey to the wadi to retrieve the
woman.”
“He will come himself?” Kyle asked, surprised at both the name and his brother’s
statement.
“He fears no one,” Khalid said with a tight smile, “and believes himself invincible
in Midworld.” He tugged on his horse’s reins. “Tonight, I intend he find out such is not
the case.”
Alsandair knew vengeance when he heard it in a man’s voice and as Khalid dug his
heels into his stallion’s flanks and took the lead, he understood he was with a man
much like himself.
Setting a fast pace, Khalid and Kyle rode side by side with Alsandair right behind
them on a sorrel that was as fast as the wind. Moving out into the vast desert sands
beyond the coastal town of Sulan, only the sound of the horses’ trappings could be
heard in the still night air. At such a brisk clip no conversation could be held, but
Alsandair had questions tumbling around inside his aching head that he longed to ask.
It was obvious to him that Khalid was a man of power in Sulan. As they had ridden
out of town, those who had encountered them stopped to bow respectfully as the tall
man went past. His posture was that of someone who expected such deference and
knew he would get it.
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Reaching up to rub at the pain eating away at his temple, Alsandair could feel the
discomfort magnifying with each step his steed took. Though the sorrel was light-
footed and his gait was even, the bouncing was doing nothing to lessen the migraine
agony. His nausea was once more lurking in his throat and he was afraid he would be
required to stop to relieve his gut of the roiling vetch. He doubted Kyle or his brother
would halt the men should that happen so he gritted his teeth and forced himself to
swallow down the bile threatening to erupt.
For nearly an hour Khalid led them deeper into the desert and when he began
slowing—holding his hand up to alert his men—those riding with him slowed their
mounts to an easy trot behind him. A few minutes later, Khalid pulled his horse up and
abreast with them.
Kyle nodded then leaned over to speak to Alsandair, careful his low voice would
not carry in the stillness.
“The wadi is just over this next dune. We’ll dismount and go in on foot.”
Alsandair nodded and swung his leg over his steed’s head then dropped lightly to
the ground. The pain jolted him like a sledgehammer to his forehead but he kept quiet.
Khalid slid to the sand and handed the reins of his horse to Kyle. He motioned that
he would take a look before the others made a move.
Watching the Sulanian move stealthily up the dune then stretch out on his belly to
look over it, Alsandair felt the sweat oozing in the center of his palms. It was always a
sign that danger was nearby and he was about to move into the threat. He would have
preferred to be free of the pain ripping at his skull but he knew he’d not let it
incapacitate him in any way.
Gone only a minute or two, when Khalid came back he took Kyle and Alsandair
aside.
“There are four men with Bourguiba,” he reported then looked into Alsandair’s
eyes. “Your woman and child seem fine.”
“Child?” Alsandair questioned, his brow furrowing.
“Not yours?”
Alsandair shook his head in denial.
Under the faint moonlight overhead Khalid’s face became a brutal mask. “Then it is
a boy child destined for al-Shishakli’s seraglio to become an akroot.”
“A what?” Alsandair asked.
“Aerach,” Kyle translated into Anlusian. When Alsandair just looked at him, Kyle
grimaced. “Al-Shishakli will use the boy for sex and turn him into—”
“Aye, Kyle,” Alsandair whispered, his face turning red. “I understand.”
“We will not allow that to happen,” Khalid said.
“Their asses are grass,” Kyle muttered.
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“And we have the scythe,” Khalid finished.
It was a warrior’s taunt with which Alsandair was familiar. He saw the brothers
grin devilishly at one another then Khalid gave the signal for all of them to move
silently up the sandstone rise to await the attack on the slaver and his buyer when al-
Shishakli showed up.
For Alsandair, climbing the dune was rough going and it did nothing to help the
headache that had now become a clawing nightmare in his brain. Just putting one foot
ahead of the other was an excruciating agony. By the time he reached the summit, he
hurt so bad even drawing breath intensified the pain.
Crouched side by side, the thirty men made no sound at all as they looked down at
the wadi. It was not the rainy season so the streambed was nearly dry. Broom brush
speckled the desert floor and a palm grove wound by the depression in the sand where
the stream meandered when filled. Sandstone mountains ringed the wadi on three sides
and in the moonlight cast a reddish glow back from the campfire around which the
slavers sat.
Relieved to see Rylee sitting calmly by the fire—though her wrists and ankles were
tied together—and sipping from a cup, he studied her as best he could and did not
detect any damage done to her. Her face was lit by the campfire and he could make out
no bruises on that creamy countenance. She sat with a small boy huddled against her,
the child’s head in her lap, and she appeared to be speaking quietly to her little charge.
Khalid reached over to tap Alsandair on the shoulder then pointed off to their right.
From the west, a party of riders traveled slowly down a serpentine path between
two tall rust-colored bluffs. Counting the approaching party, Alsandair reckoned the
odds were still in their favor for al-Shishakli had brought only ten men with him. With
the slavers numbering nine, he and the men with him still had a clear advantage.
Though he was in absolute misery, the berserker in his Anlusian blood began a wild
war chant and he became anxious to test his mettle against the newcomers.
“Easy,” he heard Khalid advise.
When all their enemies were congregated at the meeting place and al-Shishakli had
been helped down from his large white stallion, Khalid gave the signal and he and his