Read Swords of Arabia: Betrayal Online
Authors: Anthony Litton
Swords of Arabia: Betrayal
© Anthony Litton 2014
Anthony Litton has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
Not
one
of
the
people
assembled
for
the
majlis
had
any
certainty
of
their
still
being
alive
at
the
end
of
the
day,
let
alone
of
the
meeting’s
success.
But
then – what
was
success?
The
diverse
groups
influential
enough
to
affect
the
decision
to
be
made
were
fiercely,
viciously,
divided
between
those
who
supported
one
path
and
those
who
supported
its
bitter
alternative.
There
were
even
a
few
who
sneered
at
both
and
would
have
no
truck
with
either,
whatever
the
majlis
decided.
Most,
however,
agreed
that
a
decision –
a
choice –
must
be
made.
The
great
war
raging
in
far-off
Europe
had,
finally,
fully
reached
Arabia.
Two
great
imperial
powers
were
locked
in
a
death
struggle
and
were
now
soliciting
–
demanding
–
that
their
Arab
‘friends’
support
them,
one
against
the
other.
Each
powerful
grouping
within
the
assembly
was
adamant
in
its
support
of
one
or
the
other
of
those
great
external
powers.
Any
choice
would
offend
almost
half
of
those
with
power
and
influence
in
the
sheikhdom.
And
the
sheikhdom
had
already
had
too
much
happen
to
be
sure
that
it
had
any
stability
left;
any
at
all.
The
small
group
of
individuals
with
the
power
to
make
the
final
decision
knew
this.
They
also
knew
that
too
much
had
happened
too
quickly
and
too
recently
for
them
to
be
sure
that,
once
the
decision
had
been
made,
they
themselves
would
survive long enough
to
implement
it.
Then,
when
the
first
gunshots
echoed
round
the
large
room,
and
the
first
of
their
friends
fell,
shot
through
the
head
at
point
blank
range,
they
knew
the
time
left
was
even
less
than
they’d
feared.
As
the
room
suddenly
came
alive
with
armed
men,
all
with
their
weapons
pointed
directly
at
them,
they
realised
that,
perhaps,
there
was
no
time
left;
no
time
at
all.
Ya Allah! Ya Allah! The pain! Why am I fighting it? Why?
The figure twisting in agony seemed to listen to his own counsel, and let himself drift back into an unconsciousness blessedly free from the grinding, biting pain.
No! There’s a reason! There’s a reason!
He
fought
against
the
beckoning
oblivion.
Still
unconscious,
he
flinched.
The
dipping
and
swaying
of
the
swiftly
moving
camels,
carrying
the
party
headlong
across
the
rock-strewn
sands,
caused
his
wounds,
which
were
grievous,
to
grind
against
the
bullets
which had caused
them.
Even
the
well-padded
litter
he
was
travelling
in
scarcely
cushioned
the
jolting
and
jarring.
Bone
and
flesh
ground
against
embedded
metal
and
would
have
caused
screams
of
pain
had
the
figure
been
conscious;
but
then
again,
perhaps
not.
For
his
physical
pain
was
nothing
compared
to
what
awaited
him
when
–
if
–
he
regained
consciousness.
Then
suddenly:
Fouad! Zahirah!
Consciousness
suddenly
started
to
pour
back
into
the
battered
mind
of
the
wounded
man,
and
his
groans
became
louder
as
both
the
pain
and
the
returning
memories
became
all
but
unbearable.
He
remembered
now
–
remembered
everything
that
had
happened
before
his
world
went
black.
The
shots,
the
attack,
Fouad
and
Zahirah’s
last
conversation.
Then nothing, until
his
brief
return
to
consciousness
just
in
time
to
witness
the
short
and
simple
burial
of
his
brother
in
a
secret,
but
now
carefully
marked,
spot,
Then
blackness
again,
before
this
–
their
headlong
dash
to
the
coast.
“Keep
still,
Lord!
You
will
cause
the
bleeding
to
start
again.
And
you
have
already
lost
much
blood!”
The
gentle
voice
chided
him,
its
owner
attempting
to
restrain
him
as
he
fought
against
the
pain
and
the
fogginess
still
clouding
his
mind.
He
hadn’t
known
why,
but
he’d
known
it
was
important
to
remember
everything;
even
though
at
some
deep
level
he’d
known
he
didn’t
want
to,
didn’t
want
to
at
all.
But
now
–
he
did
remember
everything!
The
catastrophe
that
had
overtaken
them
in
the
ruins
of
the
isolated
village.
Fouad
was
dead
and,
if
he
knew
Zahirah,
she
was
even
now
racing
back
to
Narash
to
protect
her
family
and
secure
the
position
of
Talal,
their
son.
But
she
would
fail.
With
a
sick
feeling
deep
inside
him
that
had
nothing
to
do
with
his
wounds,
he
knew
that
she
wouldn’t
succeed.
It
could
be
no
other
way.
She
was
a
woman,
now
without
her
husband.
No
one,
now,
to
give
her
the
power
and
authority
she
would
need,
both
immediately,
and
in
the
dangerous,
the
frighteningly
dangerous,
days
ahead.
“The
Lady
Zahirah!
Call
her!”
he
gasped,
struggling
to
rise.
“Lord,
please!”
The
attendant’s
voice
trailed
off.
Under
the
strictest
of
instructions
from
her
fiery
mistress
to
ensure
that
the
Lord
Nasir
was
kept
safe
during
their
race
back
to
the
coast,
and
the
Lord
Nasir’s
equally
fierce
demand
that
she
immediately
call
that
mistress,
she
gave
in.
She
leaned
out
of
the
covered
litter
and
called
to
one
of
the
guards
racing
alongside
it.
As
she
did
so,
she
did
her
best
to
shield
the
damaged
man
from
the
hot
blinding
sunlight
which
poured
into
the
shadowy
interior.
Within
seconds,
the
camel
carrying
Zahirah’s
litter
had
been
turned
back
from
the
head
of
the
column
by
the
man
leading
it
from
his
own
mount
and
moved
alongside
Nasir’s.
Zahirah
held
aside
the
litter’s
hangings
as
their
camels
slowed
and
she
looked
across
with
concern
at
the
young
warrior,
badly
injured
in
defending
her
and
her
husband.
“Nasir!
Take
care!
The
bullets
bit
deep
and
are
still
inside
you!”
“No
matter!
Zahirah,
how
long
have
I
been
unconscious?
She
hesitated
and
then
answered
truthfully
“One
full
day
and
a
part
of
this,
the
second.”
“And
how
are
the
men?”
he
asked
quietly
She
hesitated,
knowing
that
what
he
was
really
asking
was
whether
they
were
still
following
her,
a
woman.
“They
are
still
with
us;
all
who
started
with
us,”
she
answered,
after
a
brief
pause.
“And
their
mood?”
“Most
are
still
content
to
stay
in
the
race
with
us,”
she
answered,
“though
many
are getting
restless.
We
are
holding
them
at
present,
we
have
to!
We
can’t
allow
anyone
to
get
back
to
the
town
before
us.
But…”
she
shrugged
with
some
bitterness,
“It’s
getting
difficult,
even
with
the
loyal
outriders
Nawwaf
put
in
place
holding
the
column.
He’s
holding
the
waverers:
for
now,
at
least.”