The Sheik Retold(48)

"But—"

He quelled my protest with a shake of his head. "You must understand these people. They have looked forward to this war their entire lives. This war means victory or death to them. There is nothing else."

Ahmed's color was ashen, and his once-pristine robes were saturated with his blood. The vicomte had bandaged his wounds, but there was little else he could do. I swayed against the arm of one of the watchful tribesmen who gazed at his chief with a barely audible ejaculation of "Allah! Allah!" His words sent a whispered supplication to my own lips to the God we both worshipped so differently. Ahmed must not die. God would not be so cruel.

I stayed with Ahmed as the men hastily constructed a litter from two tent poles and a large piece of tent canvas. They used horses to transport the litter with a man riding on either side. I followed directly behind, my heart jolting painfully in my chest with every jar to Ahmed's limp body.

The journey back to Ahmed Ben Hassan's camp seemed as interminable as it was terrible. I remembered little other than the agony of dread and apprehension, of waiting for some dire word from Vicomte Saint Hubert, who kept a constant eye on his patient.

The short twilight had gone, and a brilliant moon shone high in the heavens, illuminating the surrounding country with a clear white light. The summits stood out silver-white in the gleaming moonlight; the hollows filled with dark shadow, like black pools of deep, still water. At any other time, the beauty of the scene, the glamour of the Eastern night, and the company of this band of fierce fighters might have stirred me profoundly, but the reason for it all instilled a cold fear in my heart.

We had left the level country and were amongst the long, successive ranges of undulating ground. My horse stumbled over a body and nearly fell, recovering himself with a wild scramble and the eerie echo of an iron hoof striking against a dead man's skull. The howling of jackals was close. The horses snorted and sidled at the fallen bodies that lay in our path. Two lean, slinking forms loped off into the night.

"Damn Jackals!" the viscount muttered.

It was the scene of our ambuscade. We continued past a semicircle of dead Arabs that proved the efficiency of Gaston's shooting. We were near the spot where he and I had made our last stand. At bottom of one of the slopes, the vicomte pulled up suddenly with a low, hissing exclamation. I looked first to Ahmed, but he seemed no better or worse than before. I then realized that something else had overset the vicomte—a sight that nearly stopped my own heart from beating.

Just past the dead body of Silver Star, ghostly white in the moonlight and far apart from all the other bodies, was another white shape lying spread-eagled on the sand. The vicomte hastily dismounted, along with another man I had not noticed earlier, a man who looked almost identical to the fallen Gaston, my loyal servant and faithful protector. My throat clogged with emotion as the vicomte and his man, Henri, reached the still figure. I closed my eyes on a sob only to open them again at the sound of Gaston's choking voice.

"Madam—Ibraheim Omair," he whispered before lapsing back into unconsciousness.

He was still alive! It could not be! I fell from my horse and stumbled across the hard ground. Saint Hubert was already performing a hurried examination. There was an ugly gash in Gaston's forehead where the first bullet had stunned him and another had ploughed through his shoulder; a third wound still bled freely, but he briefly came to again under Saint Hubert's handling.

Gaston's eyes fluttered open once more. I caught his hand. "I am here, mon ami," I murmured. "I am safe. Thank you for protecting my life."

"Bon. It is good then, madam." His parched lips formed a faint smile. I offered him water from my pouch, but his head fell back after only a few sips. I was glad he'd not inquired after his master.

***

We lingered only long enough to refill our skins, water our horses, and construct a second litter for Gaston. Once we set out again, we were soon met by a band of Ahmed's men who had been alerted by a vanguard the vicomte had sent out. They served as our escort the rest of the way back to camp.

The dawn was breaking upon our arrival. Through bleary, sleep-deprived eyes, I had an impression of rows of unusually silent men grouped beside the tent, but I paid little heed to anything besides the long, limp figure being lifted down almost reverently from between the lathered horses. The men carried their sheik into the tent and laid him on the divan.

The vicomte's servant was already inside putting out the instruments that his master would need. The man's likeness to his twin was striking. Even their manner was identical—always perfect, silent, and quick. The only discernible difference seemed to be Gaston's clean-shaven visage versus Henri's neat, dark moustache.

Saint Hubert cleared the tent of the sheik's men while I stood beside the divan looking down upon him. Ahmed's head and face were soaked in blood that had burst through the bandages, and his whole body bore evidence of the terrible struggle. One blood-covered hand hung down, almost touching the rug. I knelt and held it in my own. His skin was strangely cool and his fingers lay nerveless in mine. I laid his hand back down on the cushions, catching my lip between my teeth to stop the trembling. Saint Hubert came up behind me, rolling up his shirt sleeves.

"Mademoiselle, you have been through enough," he said gently. "Go and rest while I do what I can for Ahmed. I will come to you as soon as I am finished."

I regarded him fiercely. "It's no good telling me to go away, because I won't. I shall go mad if you don't let me do something. See! My hands are quite steady." I held them out and snatched them back again when the tremble of my fingers gave lie to my words.