Some five yards away, he saw Bourmont putting up a courageous effort amidst the flash of steel blades and the peal of the musketry. Beside the colonel, a volley caught a blue-uniformed man in the chest, while another fell, pierced by sharp metal. Jafar, surrounded by the screams of wounded horses, smoke wreathing around his head, pressed forward, deftly deflecting slashing enemy sabers and thrusting bayonets.
In the next moment the skirmish turned desperate for the French forces. They tried ineffectually to repulse the savage Berbers, who, incredibly, rode directly into their midst. Bewildered by the tactic, the French troops made a straggling and futile defense. Before the onslaught, their line was swept away, their formation broken.
"Alez! Alez!" Bourmont shouted. Obeying the order, his men leapt off their horses and gained cover to try to ward off the attack while they reloaded their weapons.
The Berbers reacted with cries of triumph. Their main goal had been to drive the enemy into the hills while their lord engaged the French commander in combat. Jafar took full advantage of the opportunity. Finally having a clear path, he charged the colonel, sword drawn.
Bourmont swung up his rifle to deflect the blow, but it never came. Instead, Jafar sent his stallion crashing into the colonel's mount. Suddenly unhorsed, the colonel leapt to his feet, drawing his own saber.
Jafar smiled in grim satisfaction. He sprang down from his stallion and attacked, vengeance driving him. The gleaming blades came together with a clash.
They fought hand to hand, violently, each straining for supremacy, both knowing this would be a fight to the death.
For a long moment neither man could gain the advantage. Bourmont proved to be a courageous adversary, but Jafar had the greater skill. That, and the knowledge that justice was on his side. He fought with all the fierce determination inside him—seventeen years of unassuaged rage and bitterness. His heart pounded with hatred, while blood lust surged in his veins, rivaling the explosion of gunshots.
Then abruptly the frequency of shots lessened, reduced to scattered fire. In one corner of his mind, Jafar was aware of the sudden lull in the fighting. He could sense his men watching, and knew the battle was over. By now his warriors would have taken many of the French troops prisoner, and followed the others who had retreated in confusion.
Over the clanging of swords, he could hear another welcome sound. Beyond the avalanche of earth and boulders, shouts of joy resounded along the gorge. They came from Ben Hamadi's troops as the major contingent of French troops wavered, broke ranks, and fled from the victorious Arabs.
Jafar redoubled his efforts. With a fierce thrust of his arm, he sent the colonel's saber flying and Bourmont stumbling to the ground. The colonel lay there frozen, his chest heaving with exertion as he stared up at the savage black- robed Berber above him.
Jafar raised his sword to deliver the fatal blow. "Know you that I avenge the blood of my father!'' he called out in French, his voice a harsh cry that echoed off the rocky walls of the gorge.
Gervase de Bourmont stared up at him, unmoving. Jafar's arm hung poised in the air as he met his enemy's dark gaze. There was resignation but not fear in the eyes riveted on him. A man who sees his own death with regret but not trembling.
Perhaps it was trick of light, but the image before Jafar wavered and changed. Masculine features became feminine. Dark eyes faded to gray. Lustrous gray, filled with despair.
For the briefest moment, Jafar shut his own eyes tightly. But Alysson's haunting image remained; the memory of her anguish smote him.
Alysson.
Her tears.
Her torment.
Her love for this Frenchman.
With a cry akin to agony, Jafar brought the blade crashing down. Yet at the last possible instant his aim swerved. He made no contact with human flesh. Instead, the sword point thrust deep into the earth, a scant four inches from the colonel's head.
Chapter 15
The commotion startled Alysson from a restless sleep.
Was that rifle fire she heard?
Groggy and disoriented, she glanced in alarm around the darkened tent, only to realize it was the dead of night. So why did the bustiing sounds of activity make it seem that the camp was awake and stirring? Jafar. Had he returned? Her heart began a slow, painful pounding.
Abruptly Alysson struggled to her feet and groped for a garment to pull over her chemise. Then she hastened to the tent entrance. Within her, fear vied with weariness for supremacy. She hadn't slept at all two nights ago after Jafar had ridden off to battle with his warriors, and tonight she had only managed to nod off from s
heer exhaustion. Nor had she entirely recovered her strength from her nearly fatal bout with fever.
When she raised the tent flap, her gaze swept the chaotic scene: horses and men returning from battle. Women and retainers rushing out to greet them. Some firing muskets in welcome, some waving flaming torches, all chattering excitedly. Had the Berbers been victorious?
Alysson dug her fingernails into her palms, her breath arrested as she searched the crowd for the man who held her fate in his hands. Jafar, her captor. Had he survived the battle? Had he succeeded in carrying out his blood vengeance?
Then she spied him, moving toward her on his black stallion, accepting as his due the rejoicing and the glad cries of his people. On some vague level of consciousness, Alysson was aware that the slow, painful strokes of her heartbeat eased the slightest measure. He was alive. He had returned to her unharmed.
Her throat aching with unshed tears of relief, she focused her gaze on Jafar, on his lean, proud face, a face that against all expectations of reason and prudence had become dear to her.