Love Storm (24 page)

Ivan and the trackers grimly pressed their mounts to match the galloping stride; he understood the need that impelled the prince's wicked, reckless pace.

Brief rest stops for the horses were combined with questions for the inhabitants concerning a carriage with a lone woman, followed by a guide known as Ma'amed. They were on the right trail. She had indeed passed this way. The first night they spent camped out in the open; they slept in their clothes, wrapped in fur-lined greatcoats to ward off the chill of the mountain night. At dawn Alex impatiently woke everyone, and they breakfasted at the first posthouse, where the inevitable questions were asked.

The band pounded into Gumuk at noon of the second day. Alex had picked up nine hours on his quarry. If it was three more days to the mountain aul, he might overtake Zena before she reached it.

He wasn't particularly concerned with Zena's grandfather's authority, since the absolute verity of the Kuzan influence had long ago been established. Little did Alex realize how important gold was in the civilized world for establishing this prerogative, and little did he realize that with the wild mountain men of
Daghestan
money had no power.

Inquiries at the lodgings in town acquainted the party with both the date of Zena's departure and the direction she had taken.

On the evening of their second day out of Grozny, the party slept with shepherds above the region of trees at the top of a mountain pass.

It was too cold for Alex to sleep well, although the shepherds seemed inured to the frigid temperatures. He endured the discomfort in commendable silence with only an occasional silent grimace.

The ground was covered with hoarfrost when Alex rose at 3:30
a.m
., unable to sleep for the cold. One of the trackers blew up the fire with great alacrity, put a saucepan on it, and soon had some hot mutton broth that helped thaw everyone a bit. The horses were given a feed or barley, and by then the mist began to fade away.

Looking east and west, part of a main mountain chain became visible. For one brief moment the mountains were tinged with the flush of dawn and glowed a vivid golden magenta, then relapsed into their normal frost-bound appearance. To the north the view was bounded by a rugged chain of mountains with large patches of snow here and there. At their feet lay a steep precipice, the bottom of which was invisible.

Taking leave of the shepherds, the group regained the path and immediately began ascending a bare mountainside by steep zigzags. After a climb of about 1,000 feet, they reached the summit of the pass, which according to the map was 9,283 feet above sea level. In about two and three-quarters hours' time the path turned sharply to the right and descended to the bottom of the valley, then gradually ascended again. The trail progressed up and down the mountain peaks and valleys. By late afternoon the horses were extremely exhausted. The afternoon had been spent over bad ground under a broiling sun.

"We'd better stop soon and rest the horses. They're pretty nearly exhausted. You'll lame some of them soon if we don't stop. They're starting to stumble."

Alex nodded agreement, Ivan was correct. They needed the horses. "How about that next valley, then? The pasture looks good," Alex said.

The descent to the bottom was very steep and had to be made by a series of zigzags down the grassy mountain slope.

"We'll spend the night here," Alex muttered, his thoughts far ahead. He worried about Zena and a single guide in these treacherous mountain paths. There were trails that permitted only one horse to cling to the side of the rocky cliff with thousands of feet of empty air below. And the country was absolutely desolate. They hadn't met a single soul since leaving the shepherds that morning.

Alex lay morosely on the ground with his saddle as a pillow and prayed they would overtake Zena and her guide soon.

Zena and Ma'amed had spent the first night in a caravansary in the form of a subterranean stone house.

"Only last January," Ma'amed said, "ten men died here from the cold." In the winter months there were men in charge of the caravansary who lived there, but as it was spring and the danger was past, Zena and Ma'amed had the house to themselves.

Early the next morning their trek continued. Zena and her guide were making good progress on their rough mountain ponies; the animals knew how to amble steadily along at the rate of five miles an hour. In midafternoon they approached another of the numerous defiles that cut through the rugged, craggy mountain landscape. Ma'amed rode ahead, and they entered the cleft single file, for the path would not permit two abreast.

A volley of shots rang out int he silent valley, and suddenly all was turmoil as Ma'amed's horse reared squealing in agony as it was struck in the neck. Then another burst came, and the guide slid slowly out of his saddle to the ground, spreading stains of crimson appearing on his brow and chest. Zena screamed in horror as her eyes focused on the crumpled, bloody body of Ma'amed lying awkwardly on the jagged schist, one leg unnaturally disposed beneath him. Terrified at the attack from where and by whom she knew not, bereft of her guide now dead at her feet, Zena

pulled her horse around so sharply that it went back on its haunches and wheeling took flight.

Her mount was unhurt, and at her urging raced powerfully over the rough ground at breakneck speed. Discharges of rifle fire followed Zena's panic-stricken flight, bullets whining past her as she rode. Bending low over the pony's neck, she gave it its head. Glancing once behind, Zena shuddered to see four fierce mountain warriors brandishing rifles and shashkas and racing after her, laughing and shouting to each other as they rode effortlessly on their fine Kabardinian horses.

Within minutes they had overtaken her and glancing sideways she could see their horses' heads level with her. A large chestnut surged ahead, swerved close, and a man rising in his stirrups with apparent ease, despite the mad gallop, plucked her out of her saddle, and she was swung into the arms of a laughing hawk-faced warrior. Another grasped the bridle of her stalwart pony and hauled it to a standstill.

The galloping horses were pulled in with a suddenness that amazed her, and all four riders began to shout raucous, wild cries. Zena was clasped in the powerful arms of their leader, terrified by their savage appearance heightened by faces blackened with gunpowder. With a whoop of triumph Zena's captor leaped to the ground, pulling her with him. The other three wild men jumped down also, crowding around their prize. One of them seized her only to have her wrenched from his grasp by yet another warrior. She was passed from hand to hand, sick with terror, for who could hear her or help her in these bleak, wild mountains.

Her clothes were torn from her, leaving her in chemise, petticoats, and a pair of kid boots from Moscow's finest bootery. Zena screamed and tried to break away, but her attempt to escape brought her a cut across the shoulders with a heavy whip. The bandit leader grinned sardonically, and the shocking torment of the whiplash served to convulse Zena into a maddened fury. Fear was dismissed momentarily.

Zena's face was scarlet with blind rage and humiliation. She drew herself up haughtily, her blue eyes flashing sparks of anger, and broke into a torrent of abuse, crying finally, "Iskender-Khan will have your heads. I am his granddaughter. "

The arrogant leader's whip hand lowered slowly to his side. He stood staring at her, his face incredulous. "You Giaour woman
⁵
? Iskender-Khan's granddaughter?" he said in awed tones.

"I am, you . . . you assassin," she raged, her eyes glittering dangerously as she thought of her mortally wounded guide.

The leader abruptly turned on his heel, and a whispered conference among the four bandits ensued. Heads nodded in agreement as dark eyes flicked over Zena briefly.

The leader returned in minutes, threw a large burka over Zena's nakedness, and said expressionlessly. "So be it. We go to Mingrelia, then. Iskender-Khan's kanly ["blood feud"] may not reach us there."

For the next few days their pace was forced as they drove themselves through the wild, almost impassable, back country, avoiding traveled trails and mountain paths as much as possible. They struggled up tracks so steep that they often had to dismount to save the horses. The little band pressed on mercilessly, the specter of Iskender-Khan's vengeance spurring them on.

Progress was difficult as they drove themselves rigorously for several days, struggling hand over hand up sheer ravines before descending again to torrid, almost impenetrable brush that had to be hacked through with their shashkas. This nightmare journey was punctuated by a series of river crossings each more alarming than the last. Sometimes they had to swim the raging, icy torrents beside their horses, sometimes they had to cross a chasm bridged by a single felled tree.

Zena's chemise and petticoats were ripped to shreds, her body torn by brambles, bruised and scorched by the burning sun, and frostbitten by the snows through which they foundered crossing the high passes. The heavy burka protected her from much of the abuse, but the loose cape was often pushed aside as she crawled and climbed up and down steep mountainsides.

Their food consisted of a few pieces of dried meat or Koumeli, a mixture of rough millet flour that the mountaineers moistened with water and kneaded into a sort of dough. Occasionally they supplemented this meager fare with a handful of rhododendron leaves they regarded as particularly sustaining.

Zena's captors deliberately took the most circuitous routes, wishing to avoid other travelers. None of the men molested her now, for the threat of Iskender-Khan's revenge was fearfully real. She must not be harmed. If she died kanly demanded compensation. But over the days of the torturous journey Zena gradually gave way to exhaustion and suffering. Each day, each painful step took her farther away from her grandfather's aul, from hope or help. It was a timeless, fearful journey into the unknown, and Zena was so starved and weary she could hardly distinguish day from night and didn't care if she lived or died.

Taking pity on his captive, the leader offered her a handful of apricots and an apple one day. "I know you Giaour are used to eating every day," he said with a kindly curiosity.

Within the code of the mountains these brigands were not outlaws. The only acceptable roles for the mountain men were warrior or brigand. Abreks were an honored caste in the Caucasus. They were proud of their profession and hated all authority. They were a knighthood, even if robber knights, seeking danger for danger's sake, stealing to give to their lovers and wives. Fighting was a way of life.

Slave trading too was accepted within the traditions of mountain law, and so these captors of Zena's weren't anxious over the moral issues of abduction and slave selling. These independent brigands were fearful only of being recognized by Iskender-Khan as the captors of his granddaughter.

It was dusk when they descended the steep approaches to Suram. They had been on the move for four days, and the rattered, exhausted, pale woman was scarcely recognizable as the finely dressed young baroness who had left Gumuk less than a week ago.

Riding slowly through the village streets, the party reached heavy iron-studded gates that creaked open, and Zena's horse was led into a large courtyard hedged by rough masonry walls with a wooden gallery running around three sides. There was a great bustle of men and horses, and some veiled trousered women ducked into low doorways beneath the galleries. Torchlight flickered, glinting off the silver mounted pistols and shashkas of her captors.

Into the circle of light strode a tall, gray-bearded figure dressed in a long white cloak. He regarded Zena intently. "Khazi," he softly admonished the band's leader, "You've misused the poor thing."

"Haste was imperative," the hawk-faced warrior answered shortly.

"Of course, I understand. A prize such as this is much sought after. Never fear, the bruises and cuts will heal. Quite an exquisite beauty, although I shouldn't tell you that, or your price will escalate." He laughed softly. "My indiscretion is of no consequence. A pearl of such refinement will sell readily. Will you stay the night?" he asked politely.

"No."

"Very well. Name your price, it's yours. You can be on your way. Come inside and I'll have your money fetched."

As the leader dismounted, the white-robed figure snapped his fingers and two servants appeared. "Carry the woman upstairs. Have her bathed and fed."

As the brigands were riding out of the courtyard, their payment in gold comfortably weighing down their saddle bags, Zena was carried into a tapestry-draped room and deposited on silken cushions piled on the carpeted floor. She was in the home of Mulloh Shouaib, the most prominent slave trader in Mingrelia.

An outraged oath was torn from Alex's throat, while curses and the vilest abuse were heaped on the heads of Zena's captors when Alex's party arrived at the scene of the attack. The horse tracks, blood stains, and bullet trajectories etched on the granite walls of the defile all told a grim tale of ambuscade. The traces of Zena's flight were revealed at the site of her capture—torn remnants of her riding habit and blouse. Alex flew into a rage, breathing maddened revenge. If the brigands had been within a range at that moment, he would have torn them limb from limb. Since that option wasn't available, the inexorable journey continued. Alex's mind dwelt on various and sundry forms of slow torture the culprits would endure once captured. It would be an agonizing death, and he would relish gloatingly each anguished groan and scream of pain.