Lord of Desire

As for the vast remainder of the French troops, Khalifa Ben Hamadi would keep them occupied by falling on the enemy's flank. Here in the gorge, the Berbers would be led by Jafar's chief lieutenant, Farhat. Jafar wanted to be entirely free to meet his longtime enemy the colonel face-to- face.

"It is as you said, lord," Farhat murmured, handing the spyglass back to Jafar. "The colonel is in the lead."

Jafar held the glass to his eye, running it over the French troops as they filed through the mouth of the gorge. There were some eight hundred men, all mounted, most wearing lightweight blue unif

orms and kepis with neckcloths. At the rear rode a detachment of men dressed like the native Bedouins—a crack cavalry unit of Arab spahis employed by the French army.

The column was armed with two howitzers, yet the colonel's forces would never have the chance to fire their cannon; Jafar's warriors would prevent it. They stood ready to fire at his signal on the slender column as it wound through the rocky pass.

Jafar's glass swept nearer, over the leaders, and his jaw muscles clenched as he found the face he was seeking.

Bourmont. The name whispered like a demon through his mind.

Yet, oddly, he couldn't summon the fierce hatred that had always accompanied the thought of his blood enemy. Rather he felt numb, except for the tight knot in the pit of his stomach, and a dull ache in the vicinity where his heart should be.

How could that be so? For seventeen years he had waited for this moment. For seventeen years vengeance had driven him. Vengeance for the torturous murders of his parents.

Forcibly Jafar tried to dredge up the brutal memories of that day when he had been forced to become a man, to remember the crimson blood draining from his father's body, the screams of his mother. Yet all he could see was Alysson, the image of her pale face and the sadness in her lustrous eyes.

With a silent oath, Jafar dragged the glass's focus from

Bourmont and aimed it further along the column. The knot in his stomach twisted as he found another familiar face, this one ruddy and round.

Alysson's French uncle. And beside him, her Indian servant.

He had expected as much, though he'd hoped fervently they would remain behind. It was a foolish, futile gesture to accompany the colonel. They had no experience with war, with death. But he couldn't blame either of them for making the attempt. If Alysson had belonged to him, he too would have tried to save her.

Beside him, he felt Farhat tense. When the Berber pointed, Jafar followed the direction of his gaze. To the north, in the distance, rode Ben Hamadi's calvary, moving like a swift cloud over the plain, spurring storms of sand. In the wind streamed Abdel Kader's standard, white with an open hand in the center. The Arabs charged toward the enemy, a great sweep of them, though they had not yet been seen by the French.

Jafar nodded. "The time has come."

The time for vengeance. The time for ending the blood feud.

He forced thoughts of Alysson from his mind, welcoming the chilling calm that settled over him.

Backing carefully away from the ledge, Jafar murmured his final orders to the men who would remain above. Then he and Farhat climbed down the steep slope, into the chasm where the horses stood. They mounted silently.

Then they waited.

In a few moments, the tension of silence was broken by the sound of steel-shod hooves echoing off rock.

Jafar raised his hand.

Presently a low rumbling noise filled the air as an avalanche of rock and earth tumbled into the pass, followed by startled French oaths and shouts of alarm.

Jafar's arm dropped sharply.

Immediately the Berbers commenced firing at the oncoming enemy . . . not directly at the Frenchmen but all around them, so as not to hit the colonel. The pleasure of killing Bourmont belonged strictly to their lord.

The Frenchmen were disciplined troops, however.

Warned by the noise and tumult of the avalanche, they reacted well to the ambush and brought their rearing mounts under control.

"Aux armes! Aux armes!" came the cry from several of the leaders. In response, the cavalry troops regrouped in the crowded gorge, their column drawn up in a square, facing outward with rifles and bayonets, equally defended on all sides so as to resist a vigorous attack.

And it was vigorous. The Berbers charged with hoarse shouts, urging their mounts along the rocky pass, while those who had been concealed by the rocks rose up before them, swarming over the rugged ground, brandishing glistening swords and firing to shake the steadiness of the French column.

The gorge became closely packed with horses and men. Jafar preceded his warriors to the attack, plowing through the clustering files of French soldiers on his plunging charger, sweeping bayonets aside with his long blade. He felt at ease, cool even in the midst of battle, fearing neither bullet nor saber nor lance. His entire attention, his every nerve, was focused on finding the son of the man who had been his blood enemy for so many years.