Declan laughed and they trotted past three more heavily laden beasts while Bashir shouted to the drivers that they should urge their mounts to all possible speed and scatter across the open land approaches to the caravanserai so as to make it more difficult for any robbers who might chase them. During the next interval between camels, Bashir spoke to him again.
"It was a pleasure and an education fighting beside you, Declan," he said, pointing toward the other end of the camel train. "There is nothing more you can do here, so leave before a chance arrow finds you. Ride back to your master's wagon and… What's wrong?"
Declan had looked in the direction of Bashir's pointing finger, and the sight had made him swear long and luridly. He did not know what Ma'el's translation charm around his neck was making of the Gaelic words, but Bashir was looking impressed.
"My master is what's wrong," he replied furiously, "or rather he and the other servant have done a stupid thing. After I advised them and they agreed, to stay far behind the caravan, they have rejoined the end of it. How can a great and wise magician be so utterly dim-witted at times?"
"Then ride ahead and join him at once," said Bashir. He swiveled in his saddle and called back, "Mareth, take your bowmen to that wagon at the end and help defend it." In a quieter voice he went on, "We will have to make a stand somewhere, so whatever force remains to me will help you for as long as we are able. That much, at least, we owe you. And if your master is a great magician…" his tone became skeptical, "… he may have a spell that will save us. Ride now."
As he galloped closer to the wagon Declan could see Ma'el and Sinead on the driving bench and that the horse, like the majority of the camels he had passed, was unharmed in spite of the arrows flying around them. It seemed that in this land the lives of heavy pack animals were of much more value than those of the servants who drove them so that a camel or a horse would not be deliberately killed. But the thought of Sinead and Ma'el lying riddled with arrows or their bodies hacked to pieces with scimitars did nothing to improve his temper.
"Whose stupidity was this?" he shouted as he pulled his horse to a standstill level with them. "We agreed that you would stay well behind the caravan, out of sight of the robbers, where I might have joined you later. That way we all would have been safe…"
"You would not have been safe!" Sinead broke in. "On the chart we saw the absurdly small party that set out from the caravanserai to rescue us, with your white horse and your cloak showing bravely as you rode to join them. Stupid yourself. I asked Ma'el to rejoin the caravan to try and save your stupid life, and he said that for my sake he would try…"
"Then my thanks to you both," he broke in. With an edge of anger still in his voice he looked at Ma'el and went on, "but your nobility is going to get all of us killed. Master, we are fighting, or rather defending ourselves against hopeless odds and…"
An arrow thudded into the driving bench a few inches from Ma'el's hip. He looked up at the high ground whence it had come and his expression was that of a general calmly studying the tactical situation on a battlefield. Then he rose unhurriedly to his feet and inclined his head gently as he moved aside the curtain behind him.
"I must leave you now," he said, "because there are small course and distance adjustments I must make. Pass the word that I am about to produce a work of great and terrifying magic. They will better understand you if you use their own words and refer to it as a djinn, but that, appearances to the contrary, it will not harm the men of the camel train or our defenders in any way…"
"What kind of djinn?" Declan broke in. "There isn't time for magical tricks…"
"… Some little time will elapse before it arrives," he went on as if Declan had not spoken, "so Sinead and yourself must try to stay alive lest my considerable efforts on your behalf are wasted."
Another arrow hit the curtain of skins he had just pulled shut behind him. It bounced away and fell as if it had struck a rock. Declan pointed at the curtain and said, "I don't suppose…?"
Sinead shook her head. "Ma'el allows nobody to see inside. Nobody."
"Then hide under the wagon," he said. "You should be safe from the arrows there."
"What about you?" she asked.
"It would not be fitting," Declan replied as he unlimbered his long-axe, "for me to hide under a wagon."
Before she could reply, Bashir rode up with Mareth's bowmen running close behind him. He waved his scimitar at the groups of the enemy soldiers moving down the slopes towards them.
'They must have believed our lie that more men are coming to our aid," he said, "because their intention now seems to be to attack and cut out this end of the caravan before our imaginary reinforcements arrive, so this is where the battle will end. We need all the fighters we can get, skilled or otherwise…" he glanced at Sinead, "… so give the boy a weapon."
"She is a healer," said Declan, stressing the first word, "and has forsworn all acts of violence."
"A female healer," said Bashir, showing his teeth briefly. "That explains your anxiety to rejoin your master and, of course, his other servant. But no matter. Give her a sword anyway. If nothing else she may want to fall on it rather than let this bunch of two-legged jackals take her."
He wheeled his horse and went galloping toward the nearest group of the enemy who were charging down on them. Unsheathing his gladius, Declan grasped it carefully by the tip and extended the hilt toward Sinead. She looked very seriously at him as she took it, but before she could speak he fastened the retaining strap of the long-axe tightly around his wrist because he would need to use it one-handed. Without another word he urged his mount forward to follow and draw level with Bashir.
Of the horsemen who had set out from the caravanserai, only Bashir and Declan remained mounted and those on foot, including Mareth's bowmen, numbered less than twenty with the number diminishing with every moment that passed. Because they were the only two mounted targets on their side, the opposing bowmen were giving them most of their attention so that the arrows were whispering past them thick and fast. Declan waved at Bashir and pointed at the largest and closest group of the enemy, three mounted men surrounded by a handful of others keeping pace with them on foot, and propelled the horse forward with a slap on its rump. Bashir nodded, showing his teeth again in a ferocious smile as he took the new direction.
He could not speak for Bashir, Declan told himself, but his action was not especially brave nor stupid. It was simply that with the number of arrows being aimed in his direction, he thought that a safer place to be was in the middle of the enemy group where the bowmen would be hampered by their unwillingness to risk rutting their friends. Bashir might have had the same thought, but the likelihood was that the other was braver than he was and less thoughtful.
As the enemy group came charging down the slope Bashir, being careful to stay out of range of his swinging axe, and Declan rode up to meet them. Used one-handed, the long-axe was not a precise weapon, so he had decided to swing it as wide and fast as he could in a continuous figure-of-eight while he leaned as far as he could to each side and straightening up between swings so that the shaft would not hit his mount's head. Two very brave and unthinking swordsmen tried to attack simultaneously from both flanks. One of them had his scimitar raised to make a jabbing strike upward at Declan's stomach when the twin points of the axe caught and ran down the other's blade to shatter the hilt and make a bloody ruin of the hand holding it. The man screamed and staggered backward out of range. When the swing continued on the other side, that enemy tried to drop below the level of the axehead, no doubt intending to slash upward at Declan's legs or body when it had gone safely past. But he did not duck low enough and his burnoose was suddenly a blood-soaked rag.