On the Edge of Battle.
Wait.
The thought was more to himself than to her, but it came clearly over the link in the early morning. The camp of the enemy dissolved slowly in the early light as the line of horsemen formed up, as far across the horizon as they could see. From her perch she could see a line of dust, but she could hear the calculation in Ava's head, the grim total of being outnumbered by better-armed troops. The pungent but pleasant odor of frankincense drifted up to her perch.
Wait.
The line stopped out of effective range, shouts and taunts distant in the air. Letting the defenders see their number. Slowly the line began moving forward.
Wait.
He and she were both caught by surprise when the radiologists let loose their first volleys. Sudden flashes of blue light surrounding groups of horsemen. Tiny bits of disruption in the great mass of the enemy as it moved forward, gaining speed.
More flashes and the djinn appeared, and suddenly she was busy in battle. Concentrating on the minds of the figures she could just barely see. She was momentarily distracted by an explosion near the center of the line, loud even from here, coupled with the more urgent thought of wait warring against a tightly controlled fear. Again and again she attacked djinn; from her distant seat she couldn't see the other attacks on the creatures, but two winked out, then two more, and finally the last vanished.
She looked around for where the djinn might have gone to and saw that the lines were closer, much closer. Something, probably tossed by Smith, disrupted the advance across large areas; but could only slow, not stop, them. In the center, wounded but dedicated troops picked up speed for the final charge. He was shouting orders, a continuous barrage of Arabic, and she could see in his mind's eye the red cloth he had tied to a bush that morning, having paced out an even hundred yards.
Wait she felt again, feeling a momentary surge of adrenaline as a bullet sounded loud nearby. Suddenly an order for the first rank to fire, a pause, the second rank, a narrowing of focus ignoring all else as he joined the third rank and the fourth fired. Joy riding on top of the adrenaline as she caught the thought of the vanished enemy unit. She stifled a cheer seeing, in dismay, that, as the right flank made contact, the enemy rifles drove off the Omani soldiers. The opposing armies met in a swirl of dust.
Fire -- another command, another and another as the battle met up and down the line. She scanned quickly, looking for more djinn, and the sounds of the battle grew all along the line.
She had been looking elsewhere when she heard him shouting a new order, swords, and his focus narrowed again. Pain, no, shock as his weapon impacted something riding past, an ignored pain along his hand where it met something unyielding. She looked into the dust for him, but could not see at this distance who was fighting who, and had to content herself with distracting late arriving soldiers from firing. Blue blasts continued throughout the army, and he was still fighting, hand to hand. Frustration as his sword did not move fast enough as another horseman bore down after the last; bile rising in his throat as he knew he was going to be too late. Sudden relief as an arriving Omani horseman appeared out of the dust and cut down the attacker. Orders suddenly to recover the rifles, concentrating on adding fire where it could be done.
The sun was high as the troops disengaged. Forester is hurt, some kind of backlash came the thought, businesslike.
The guards below the palm tree platform were probably a tad bemused when the taller, dark-robed figure climbed down and stood waiting at the edge of the frankincense perimeter, facing the scenes of carnage. It was with great effort that she did not hasten forward when she could make out Mr. Blake supporting another figure. Lord Ava -- Terence -- had warned her that the natives would not take easily to allowing her to heal. She had to wait for the injured to be brought to her.
Once the young tutor's wound had closed under her touch and she had hushed his stammering thanks, she could not help looking around for the dark hair and well-knit form of his lordship. Their -- understanding -- was still so new and -- as she had cause to know -- human life was so fragile.
He had come with Blake and Forester, and he stood just to the side as she healed the tutor. Clothes and face streaked with dust and more, hand clumsily bandaged, rifle slung across his shoulder. He stepped suddenly forward, arms reaching around her, holding on, hugging her tightly to him. Relief.
If you had fallen, her mind breathed the words softly, fragile in themselves, I think I could not have kept from coming to you. I have never done something so hard as this watching from afar.
The link stopped. "Oh, come now," he said jocularly, pulling away slightly to look down at her. "It wouldn't do for an Anglishman to fall in such a little dustup."
She smiled briefly. "Will any of the Omani accept healing from me? Or is that, too, one of the things you meant when you once said that I would not be allowed to heal? Is it something women simply may not do in Arabia?"
He disengaged, breathing easier. "I am not sure. They have skilled surgeons, they say. The viziers seem to be busy. I would suspect that the worst wounded could be healed, if they are unconscious, they would not object I do not think." He smiled. "Let me go see what might be diplomatically arranged."
She watched him go. When she turned around the Sultana was standing there in the shade of the tower. She smiled and leaned close to Dr. Davis, soft perfume covering the smell of the desert. "He deserves what pleasure he can find, don't you think, Cookie?" She turned back to give further orders to the staff for the feast.
"Aftermath" copyright 2004 P.Shea. The contents of this site are copyright 2004 Sheryl A. Knowles unless otherwise specified. All rights reserved.