The Tafurs held and, insofar as their untrained desperation permitted, fought as Adalric had bade them, chopping at the scorpion’s legs as if they were felling trees. Their tactics might be prolonging the battle but weren’t accomplishing much more. Unfazed by any trivial hurts he might be suffering, Ibrahim reached again and again, claws cutting and pulping anyone he caught.
Perhaps the solution was to strike at a more vulnerable spot in the giant’s anatomy, but people were already swinging and jabbing at every portion within reach. Adalric ran to one of the houses bordering the marketplace, climbed onto the roof, and then discerned in the moments that had taken him, Ibrahim had scuttled farther away.
Adalric waved his sword and shouted the Turkish word for “captain.” The enemy commander looked up. “Push him back this way!”
The Turkish officer hesitated, but then he shouted, “Charge!” Scimitar extended, he ran at the titanic scorpion, and other men pounded after him.
Claws spread to punish their recklessness, but at the same time, reflexively perhaps, Ibrahim gave ground. His retreat carried him back toward Adalric’s perch, and the knight leaped.
He landed on the scorpion’s rounded back and immediately started to slip off. He twisted, threw himself down, and sat astride, his legs splayed by the creature’s bulk.
He then peered about to determine whether Ibrahim had noticed him. It appeared not. The monster arachnid was too busy killing the men on the ground.
Adalric had intended to make his way up the creature’s body to the head, but he now feared that if he tried, the violence of Ibrahim’s movements would buck him off. Praying that scorpions had vital, cleavable spines, he cut repeatedly.
Like his comrades attacking Ibrahim’s lower parts, he only inflicted shallow wounds. The arachnid’s natural armor was too hard and thick. Yet suddenly instinct screamed that he’d caused sufficient discomfort to draw his foe’s attention.
A glance assured him that Ibrahim’s pincers were incapable of reaching around to pluck a man from his back. He then looked behind him. The tail with its bulbous segments was swinging up, and he felt a surge of hope. Because scorpions sometimes stung themselves to death. Perhaps he could make that happen now!
Heart pounding, he waited until the sting plummeted at him. He dived forward, and shell crunched.
He’d expected his frantic evasion to toss him off Ibrahim’s back, but through luck more than agility, he stayed put. No doubt the scorpion would shake him off momentarily, when its death spasms began.
But they didn’t. His whole life, people had told Adalric scorpions could perish of their own venom, but evidently it wasn’t true. The sting whirled up for another stroke and, feeling defeated, cheated, he half wanted to let it pierce him and be done.
Then he noticed the ragged breach in the shell and the puncture beneath. Effectively poisoned or not, the wound was more severe than the petty cracking and chipping his own attacks had produced.
He wrenched himself around, scrambled forward, and managed to stay atop the scorpion yet again. He thrust his sword into Ibrahim’s wound and yanked it out. He wondered how many more times he could do so before the sting found him.
He stabbed three times in all. Then the scorpion’s back heaved and flung him into space. He slammed down with all his weight on one twisted foot. His ankle snapped, and he pitched forward onto the ground.
He rolled onto his back. To his amazement, Ibrahim was toppling. It seemed such a glory that he almost didn’t care if the creature crashed down on him. As appeared likely, for there was no time for a lame man to struggle to rise and hobble out of the way.
But he didn’t have to. The scorpion’s body thudded down behind him, and he lay safe amid the feebly kicking legs.
Zeki surveyed the surviving soldiers. There were more Turks left than Franks, and their superiority with regard to gear and deportment was apparent. Perhaps he could take the infidels prisoner or kill them. Arguably, it was his duty. But he doubted anyone had the stomach for such a confrontation, least of all himself.
The stings on his back throbbing, he walked over to the Franks’ leader. Though younger than expected, the knight was broad-shouldered, brawny, and capable-looking, the sort of officer who had often inspired Zeki’s envy. But he didn’t feel that way now. Perhaps he was too tired or numbed by the terrors he’d endured.
A man who knew about setting bones had wrapped the Christian’s ankle, and someone else had brought him a stool to sit on. Judging from his glower, those kindnesses hadn’t filled the knight with gratitude. “One of your archers told me,” he said in broken Turkish, “that you unleashed the sorcerer and brought all this down on our heads.”
Zeki resisted the urge to look away from the other commander’s flinty gaze. “I believed Ibrahim’s magic was a weapon like any other. When I understood otherwise, I tried to make amends.”
The Christian’s expression softened. Now he simply looked as exhausted as Zeki felt. “I suppose you did at that. What happens now?”
“Obviously, I can’t let you to strip the village of food. But we can have a truce. You and your men can go away.”
“Under the circumstances, that will do.” The infidel snorted. “It will be strange to go back to the war as if this nightmare never happened.”
“Well, we needn’t forget quite yet. Sup with us tonight and depart tomorrow.”
THE VALLEY OF DEATH
David Amendola
"What killed these Englishmen?"
Lieutenant Hartmann put his hands on his hips and asked the question as he squinted in the glare of the sun and looked at the four skeletons lying next to the heavily-laden truck.
"What do you mean?" asked Lieutenant Dietrich, a short, stern-looking man.
Hartmann pointed. "I don't see any bullets or shell fragments among their bones. No shell holes either. And their vehicle doesn't have any damage."
He nodded at the truck, a one-and-a-half ton Canadian Chevrolet painted in a camouflage pattern of pale blue and tan. It was rusted and covered with dust. Customized for the desert, it had been stripped of its windshield, doors, and roof and equipped with wide tires. It was armed with two Vickers machine guns, one mounted in the back and the other up front in the open cab.
Hartmann glanced around inside. "Plenty of food and water." He inspected the truck itself. "Fuel tank is half-full."
Dietrich shooed away flies. "I don't really care what they died of. We need to keep moving if we want to reach the escarpment by nightfall."
The glint of metal caught Hartmann's eye. Stooping, he picked up brass casings scattered in the dust. He inspected the dead men's weapons – Lee-Enfield rifles, Webley revolvers, a Thompson submachine gun. "They fired their guns, but it doesn't look like they got many shots off. They were caught by surprise."
Dietrich glanced at his watch.
Hartmann ignored his colleague's impatience, scratching the stubble on his chin. "These weren't regular soldiers. Look how they're dressed: Arab headcloths, shorts, sandals. And their equipment – sun compass, theodolite, air almanac. They're from the Long Range Desert Group. I've heard they sometimes sneak in here."
"Who are they?"
"An elite reconnaissance unit. But they usually operate in patrols of several vehicles, not just one. Wonder what they were doing here." Hartmann searched the truck and found codes, notebooks, and other documents. He was fluent in English so he skimmed through them.
"And?" asked Dietrich.
"Same as us apparently. A survey team." He blew dust off a map case, opened it, and studied the contents. "Here's a map they sketched. Looks like this crossing really does go all the way through the depression."