“What are we waiting for?” said Jawad. He spat a foul concoction of qat and tobacco onto the dark rock. “An invitation?”
"He won't let them escape.” Ebro continued polishing his saddle. Jawad was part goblin, it was rumoured in the camp, and everybody knew goblins were as impatient as they were nasty.
He watched Jawad take out his jambaya, and use the tip of its curved blade to pick black sand and camel dung from under the gnarled toenails of his right foot. Jawad spat again, achieving a good few yards this time, and hurled the dagger to split the phlegm with a whump. He was good with the jambaya. It was not designed as a throwing knife. Ebro did not know anybody but Jawad who could throw one and make it stick, let alone hit what he was aiming at.
It was better for close up work, though.
"Still claim the haft is made from unicorn's horn?” said Ebro. They had travelled together long enough to risk the jibe. He had seen the squat raider strike with deadly suddenness rather than accept an insult.
Jawad showed his black and yellow teeth.
"It's the blade that matters.” Jawad peered at the honed steel as he retrieved it. He watched the blade flash in the sun as he turned it.
"Use a mirror if you want to warn them we're here,” Ebro said. “Else you'll be likely to break your precious blade on these damn rocks.”
Jawad swore, but put it back into its wooden sheath. They were all twitchy, but Jawad was never still at the best of times, even when using hashish. Waiting was the worst part of it. All the rest...the killing, the spoils, the women, well, that was the point after all. But sitting about waiting for Al-Shaitan to make his mind up...
Ebro stole a look up at the dark figure on the prow of the hill. The desert raider stood as he had stood, on and off, for three days: high above his barren domain atop the Black Mountain. He was as dark as the rock itself, wrapped in the dyed cotton of the nomadic desert tribes and he was as motionless as Jawad was fidgety. Al-Shaitan was not paying any attention to his men.
Just as well, Ebro thought. What's he looking at anyway?
*
Al-Shaitan watched the white haired princess through the blue spyglass.
The spyglass was the work of wizards, without a doubt. To the naked eye, the Princess's caravan was just a trail of black ants crawling across the yellow and red bowl that shimmered beneath the Black Mountain. But through the spyglass, the Princess was beautiful, with rosy cheeks and white teeth and hair that flashed silver in the sun. Even from that mighty distance, he could feel the life in her, see the vibrancy in her arms as they flew wide when she laughed and her hands cupped over her red lips to contain her ungraceful mirth.
Something about that white hair, and the way she waved her arms...
He raised the glass to his eye and focused it upon her. She was light as he was dark.
Legends said Al-Shaitan had ruled this desert for a thousand years. He smiled at that. But how long had he ruled here? Time in this blighted land telescoped like the glass he held to his eye.
He could not know her. She was young, barely more than a child. But there was something, something lost in his memory. Like the forgotten taste of exotic wine. Something he had known once, but he knew not when.
He knew his men moaned and became restless in their tents, but he knew also that none would dare speak aloud of their frustration. They wished to swoop upon the camels and wagons and mules, whooping and snarling; they were impatient for blood and spoils. He could understand that. There were women in the camp and much wealth.
But the Princess fascinated him, with her beauty and her vivacity.
So, he watched her as she ran her hand softly down her pony's trembling flank, whispering soothing words in its ear. He watched her cradle her white kitten in both arms as it waited patiently to wriggle free. He watched her pout and push the kitten away when it bit her. He saw the flash of anger in her eyes and the hands on her hips as she argued with the Captain of her bodyguard.
No doubt her captain was counselling speed. Al-Shaitan smiled again. Wise counsel, but there was no speed your caravan could reach that would take her from my clutches.
He had watched now for five days, toying with the idea of possessing her. He wondered if that spirit, that spark of life that was uniquely hers, would last in his hands, or turn to ash and dry sand and trickle back through his fingers and escape into the desert winds.
Now it was almost too late, the Caravan had almost passed beyond the lands he considered his own. All the while his men muttered louder and with more discontent.
It would do them good, he thought. They are cut-throats and bandits, but without discipline they are just a rabble. I have made them into an army to hold the desert against the world.
He smiled a wolf's smile. Yes, the Caravan was well-armed and guarded, but Al-Shaitan and his men were ferocious like the summer sandstorms and would scatter them like last year’s leaves.
They would move. He would have her tonight.
*
Captain Lars shielded his eyes with his right hand as he watched for another flash of light on the Black Mountain. They had been travelling for most of the moon's cycle along the rutted and ancient road that ran through the heart of Har-Kullakan. He knew it was death to leave the road, but it was also exposed. All the eyes of this accursed land would be watching the caravan as it progressed...all the eyes including those of Al-Shaitan.
Today, Lars had allowed himself to consider the possibility that they would make it through the barren sands unscathed. Such thinking was dangerous here. Safer to expect attack, keep all the senses alert.
He wanted to move on immediately, but this was the hottest part of the day. No point flogging the horses until they wilted. He lowered his hand to adjusted the short sword at his hip, then snatched it away hurriedly. The grip was too hot to touch in this unthinkable heat.
He turned back towards the Caravan.