Ali took a single backward step that brought him nearer Ben Akbar. The
move could have been interpreted as a wholly natural desire to find such
comfort as he might in his camel, the one friend he had or was likely to
have. But Ali's purpose was more practical.
Unless every imaginable advantage was on his side, the wielder of a
dagger hadn't the faintest chance of overcoming anyone armed with a
scimitar, but Ali intended to concede no point not already and
unavoidably given by the difference in weapons. When The Jackal swung,
which he would do when he considered the moment right, he would not
miss. But if Ali was agile enough at ducking, and ducked in the right
direction, it did not necessarily follow that he must be killed
outright.
For a split second immediately following his blow, The Jackal would be
off guard. Before he recovered, always supposing he was still able to
move, Ali might go forward with his dagger and work some execution, or
at least inflict some damage, of his own. All else failing, there was
reason to hope that Ben Akbar would trample his foe after he went down.
Ali studied The Jackal.
Of medium height and probably middle-aged, he was veiled in a certain
mystic aura that defied penetration and prevented even a reasonably
accurate guess as to how many years he had been on earth. He blended in
a curious manner with the harsh and wild desert background, as though he
had been a part of it from the beginning. His hair was concealed beneath
a hood, but not even a thick beard succeeded in hiding a cruel mouth.
His nose was thin and aquiline, with nostrils that seemed forever to be
questing. His eyes were unreadable, but they possessed certain depths
that combined with a broad sweep of forehead and a vast arrogance of
manner to mark The Jackal as a man apart.
Ali remembered the first time he had run across him, or rather, evidence
of his work.
It was Ali's third year with the caravans, and they were going from
Mersin to Erzerum, with seven hundred camels and an assorted load, when
they overtook all that remained of the caravan preceding them. It had
been the entourage of some wealthy Amir, traveling north with his family
and a powerful guard of soldiers. When Ali arrived, The Jackal had been
there and gone, but he had left his trademark.
All human males, from babes in the arms of his wives to the gray-bearded
Amir himself, lay where they had fallen. The older women and the girl
children were massacred, too. Only the young girls had been carried away
with the remainder of the legitimate booty.
Savagely cruel though it was, the raid was equally audacious. Of the
many bandit leaders infesting the caravan routes, few had the
imagination to plan a successful attack on a heavily-guarded Amir's
caravan or the courage to proceed, once such an attack was planned.
Thereafter, at sporadic intervals, Ali found additional evidence that
The Jackal was still at work, and there could be no mistake about his
identity. His raids were noted for cruelty and for the fact that he
never bothered with any except wealthy caravans. Three years later, Ali
met The Jackal.
The caravan for which Ali was handling camels came to an oasis one day
out of Ankara and found another caravan already encamped. However,
there was ample room for both and no apparent reason for either to
challenge the other. Ali took care of the camels for which he was
responsible, then set about to do something he would have done before
had an opportunity offered itself.
He had been in Antioch, temporarily idle, when he happened across a
youngster mishandling some half-broken baggage camels. He had stepped in
to bring the situation under control. On succeeding, he discovered that
the young man had disappeared while he was occupied, and an older person
was quietly watching him instead. The older man, whom Ali thought was
the caravan master, invited him to come along as a camel driver.
Ali had accepted and discovered, too late, that the imperious youngster
who'd been mishandling baggage camels was the real caravan master, which
position he held solely by virtue of the fact that his father was Pasha
of Damascus. He didn't like Ali and he missed no opportunity to
demonstrate his disapproval. Ali had stayed with the caravan until
reaching this oasis for the simple reason that there was no other
choice. If he had left sooner, he would have been one lone man in a land
noted for the brief span of life enjoyed by solitary travelers. But he
felt that he could make it from here to Ankara without difficulty and
he'd had more than his fill of the Pasha's son. He went to the caravan
master's tent to demand his pay.
He found the youngster engaged in amiable conversation with the man who
now stood before him, The Jackal, who said he was master of the other
caravan. Ali also found that, in the eyes of the Pasha's son, his own
state was less than exalted. He was ordered out of the tent.
When Ali refused to leave without first receiving his pay, the youngster
unsheathed a dagger and advanced with the obvious intention of having
him carried out feet first. Unluckily for the Pasha's son, Ali also had
a dagger and his skill with the same exceeded by a comfortable margin
any adroitness the other might claim. Ali got his due wages, which he
took from a moneybag, and the Pasha's son had fainted from a series of
dagger wounds in his right arm.
Ali was on the point of leaving when The Jackal, who had offered not the
faintest interference, rose, complimented him on a superb bit of dagger
work and thanked him for making it easier to sack the caravan. He intended
to do this tomorrow, somewhere between the oasis and Ankara, but the
Pasha's son had presented an awkward problem. The Jackal, who introduced
himself as such, had no fear of soldiers in reasonable numbers but he was
not prepared to cope with the armies that must inevitably take the field
against whoever molested a son of the Pasha--this despite the fact that
the Pasha had no fewer than twenty-nine known sons. The Jackal had been
trying to persuade the young man to leave and go into Ankara when Ali's
dagger had settled the matter in a most satisfactory fashion.
The Jackal was not ungrateful, and, to prove his gratitude, he would
arrange for Ali to ride into Ankara with a small group of his own men,
who would leave shortly. After they had gone, The Jackal would see to it
that a sufficient number of his own trusty brigands, under such oaths as
might be appropriate, would swear that they had seen the Pasha's son
struck down by an unknown assailant.
Ali had ridden and so had escaped the next morning's massacre, which
several travelers had reported as taking place after the Pasha's son had
been "_killed by an assassin_." Thereafter, he had waited for lightning
to strike although he had only injured his attacker in self defense, but
so far, it hadn't which meant that The Jackal had kept his lips sealed.
Now it no longer mattered. The Jackal would cut his own mother down if
by so doing he served his own ends.
Suddenly, "Why hesitate, Abdullah?" somebody growled.
Another man came from the brush to stand beside The Jackal. Then there
was another...and more...until nineteen men were grouped about The
Jackal and facing Ali. The Jackal stepped aside. Another took his place.
Ali glanced briefly at The Jackal. He looked at the others, all good
Moslems and all wearing on their turbans the distinctive emblem that
marked them as members of the Pasha's crack personal soldiery. The
present "Abdullah," the former Jackal, wore the same emblem but, until
now, it had escaped Ali's notice because, not in his wildest flight of
imagination had he dreamed he'd ever see it on a Druse.
The soldier who'd spoken and for whom The Jackal had stepped aside,
evidently the commander of this patrol, spoke again and directed his
words to Ali, "Where found you the _dalul_, dog?"