Swords of Arabia: Betrayal (4 page)

The
man
nodded
weakly.
He
did
know
–
and
he
also
knew
that
his
life
was
over.
He
had
no
hope
of
mercy
from
the
men
around
him.
They
were
too
loyal
to
the
memory
of
Fouad
to
look
kindly
on
anyone
they
thought
was
betraying
him.
Despite
this,
human
nature
being
what
it
is,
he
made
one
last
attempt
to
save
his
life.

“Please!
I
know
no
names.
I
only
know
I
was
paid
to
keep
someone
informed.
We
need
the
money,
we
are
poor
and
have
many
needs,”
he
added.

“And
now
your
family
will
have
no
one
to
provide
for
them
and
will
suffer
even
more
want.
It
is
a
choice
you
have
made
yourself,”
Nawwaf,
said
flatly,
his
black
eyes
as
cold
as
death.

Zahirah
leant
forward
suddenly
and
whispered
in
his
ear.
He
looked
surprised
for
a
moment,
then
nodded
appreciatively.
Ay
!
She is a clever one!
he
thought
as
he
looked
down
again
at
the
man,
now
sobbing
openly
at
his
feet.

“The
Lady
Zahirah
is
kinder
than
I
would
be,”
Nawwaf
said
bleakly,
shaking
his

head
at
the
renewed
hope
in
the
man’s
eyes.
“No,
you
will
still
die
for
your
attempted
betrayal,
but
she
wishes
me
to
tell
you
that
if
you
divulge
all
you
know,
she
will
provide
for
your
family
on
her
return
to
the
town.
They
will
neither
starve
nor
be
mistreated
in
any
way.”

The
man
sobbed,
both
in
acceptance
of
his
own
death,
and
with
the
removal
of
his
fears
about
his
family
after
that
death.
He
nodded
and
whispered
a
name
which
stunned
the
few
who
heard
it.

Salman
.

A
prince
of
the
ruling
house
and, ominously, a
full
brother
to
Mishari,
Faoud’s
rival,
defeated
over
ten
years
previously.

Ya Allah! Will that ulcer never heal?
Zahirah
thought
savagely;
things
are
serious
indeed,
she
thought,
watching
dispassionately
as
Nawwaf
killed
the
man
with
one
shot
to
the
head.

Scant
hours
later,
as
dawn
was
starting
to
lighten
the
night
sky,
exhausted
and
near
the
end
of
their
endurance,
they
were
almost
within
sight
of
the
town.
Then,
suddenly,
they
saw
a
column
of
dust
moving
rapidly
toward
them.
Friend or enemy?
thought
Nawwaf
as
he
kept
the
column
racing
ahead.
He
had
no
option;
they
had
to
win
the
race
to
the
town
and,
if
the
approaching
column
was
bent
on
attacking
them,
then
swift
movement
was
the
best
tactic;
hit
them
head
on.
For
Zahirah,
the
approaching
riders
raised
nothing
but
anger
and
an
implacable
determination
to
sweep
whoever
it
was
out
of
the
way
of
her
warriors.
Nothing
would
stop
her
reaching
the
town
and
making
certain
her
family
was
safe;
nothing.
She
had
already
paid
too
high
a
price
to
risk
losing
everything
now.
If
the
approaching
men
were
allies
so
be
it,
she
would
welcome,
and,
in
due
course,
reward,
them.
If
not,
their
bodies
would
be
crushed
under
the
hooves
of
her
camels
and
their
bones
left
to
bleach
under
the
remorseless
desert
sun.
She
had
lost
her
husband
to
bloodshed,
she
would
have
no
hesitation
in
shedding
more
to
achieve
what
he, and she, had
decided
was
to
be.
As
ever
with
her,
nothing
of
this
showed
on
her
face.
Having
ordered
that
the
curtains
of
her
litter
be
opened,
she
watched
impassively
as
the
mounted
warriors
raced
towards
them.

Then,
some
of
the
tension
in
their
column
relaxed
and
the
riders
halted,
as
they
all
saw
that
the
approaching
force
was
small.
Friend
or
foe,
they
were
not
a
real
risk
to
her
forces.

They
weren’t
–
but
the
message
they
brought
was.

“We
have
messages
for
the
Lord
Nasir
and
the
Lady
Zahirah,”
gasped
the
rider
at
the
column’s
front
as
he
dragged
his
horse
to
a
savage
halt,
it’s
hooves
spraying
gravel
and
sand.
“From
Mish’al
ibn
Nawwaf,”
he
added,
as
he
drew
a
harsh
breath.
He
turned
towards
Nasir
who,
on
hearing
of
the
approaching
riders,
had,
with
a
strength
than
stunned
his
attendants
and
almost
killed
him,
risen
from
his
pallet,
left
his
litter
and
was
upright
by
the
time
the
racing
riders
reached
them.