[piosenniel]

The main body of warriors was pulled from the camp, hidden from the prying eyes of those who approached. Left to greet the eight who came were the Elders of the Baobab tribe and seven of their warriors. Three who knelt on one knee before the Elders in their ceremonial garb, and four who stood just behind them. To their left were the mounted Painted Sands warriors accompanying the representatives of their clans.

Jamílah stood just to the right of Faruq as the small group approached. Her eyes were drawn to the woman who seemed to lead them. A woman of some power, she thought. The same height as herself, she noted. Slender, like a reed. And like a reed, bendable when the strong wind blows, not breakable. This one would bear watching, she nodded to herself. The men with her were typical warriors she thought, of the sort that are bought for a price. Their eyes were cold and hard, and the long rays of the westering sun lit their hands with blood red tints where it shone on them.

What the woman spoke was not as important to Jamílah as was the manner in which it was spoken. ‘Honey on the lips cannot hide the rotten heart within.’ The old saying came to her mind more than once as the woman told of the glories of the Eye and the rewards for service. And yet, behind the silken words lay the steeled threat of destruction. ‘Better to be slain,’ Jamílah murmured to herself, as she watched the long-haired woman weave her web of words, ‘than to die piece by piece under the tutelage of the Eye.’

She looked closely into the woman’s eyes when she glanced her way. A dark sullen fire burned there that brought no warmth to the spirit. Much like the eyes of the young who had been drawn away by the promises of this false master. Dead spirits . . . ghosts . . . husks of men whose life had been consumed.

There was silence from the listeners when the woman finished with her speech. Then, the rustling of a slight breeze could be heard through the tall grass. The tribesmen of the painted Sands drew back a little, the sound of their low voices drifting in the air, just on the edge of perception. The woman, a cold smile, on her lips, cocked her head as if she were listening.

The Elders of the Baobab only looked at the priestess, and turning slightly to nod at Faruq for a brief moment, brought their gazes once more to bear on her.

‘Your foul master has already taken much of our precious treasure,’ he said, stepping forward, the Speaker’s stick clasped firmly in his hands. ‘We will not give him more.’

‘There is no need for us to consider your terms . . . your demands. We reject them utterly.’

‘Be gone, dark, faithless spirit. Your accursed message is given and death is near you. Return to your slave-master! Let him listen to your words. We will listen no more.’

There came a bristling of spears and the rattling of swords as the men who accompanied the priestess grew angry at the words spoken to her. But the warriors of the tribe now stood tall about the Elders. And the mounted warriors of the Painted Sands moved forward, blades drawn, their faces filled with a fell light, their eyes deadly.

Then fear, or a wiser caution, overcame their wrath and they turned in haste making their way back to where Sevora, and the Eye, awaited them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

His face was grim when returned to the camp. Husam and a party of Baobab had tracked the priestess and her group until they’d left the arms of hills that held the valley. He nodded to Nasr and Jamílah as they ran to meet him, and after a few words, they walked with him to Faruq’s tent. A number of men were meeting with Faruq, leaders of various warrior groupings from both the Baobab and the Painted Sands. They turned as he entered, noting his air of disquiet, and bade him speak.

‘One of the trackers,’ he said. ‘Young Khaliq, the one who saw the warrior of the Eye throw down the boundary pole and laugh . . . he came close enough to hear them talking when they paused. He heard that man boast that they would crush us like so much dirt beneath their boot heels.’ He paused, drawing a great breath in to collect himself, warding off with a shake of his head the hand that Nasr placed on his shoulder in comfort. ‘We could not get to him in time. His anger took him and he rushed down upon the ignorant, heartless man, killing him with his spear.’

There was a collective gasp as the weight of this action sank in.

‘We could not get to him,’ he said again, his voice carrying over the rising storm of words that had begun. ‘They cut him down with their swords, and killed him savagely as he lay on the ground at their feet. And even the woman laughed as if it were mere sport as she ordered them away from their game and back to their journey.’