THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) (39 page)

“Yes, child. If only. But fate often plays cruel games with mortals. Heartbroken, I was forced to give up the search, though the desire to seek them forever remained. But then,” and here his old eyes brightened like stars, “that starless evening when Ramagar came to my tents seeking shelter, I realized that the Fates had not betrayed me. For when I saw you, from the very first moment, something within me already knew, although I dared not let myself admit it. Before me stood a lovely woman, yet still a child. And her eyes were his—Etron’s—her smile, her gestures. It was almost like seeing my son reborn.

“At first I could not believe; I wondered if perhaps my mind was slipping from me, as it frequently does to old men. But when we spoke, you and I, and I listened and watched, I knew I had not been wrong. I dared not tell you of it, certain you would think me demented. Indeed I doubted if I would ever tell you, knowing that only pain and bitter memories would come of it. Yet now, when we face such dangers on the morrow, I could hold back no longer. I had to say it while there was still time, so that should I… not return with you … you will know that I loved you, and that all I have is yours.”

Mariana looked into his eyes and saw the glow of truth. And she too thought back to the evening when they had first met, recalling her own strange affinity for the old haj. Perhaps in some way she had known of their bond as well. But that no longer mattered. What did matter was that now, a thousand leagues from home, she had found the family she’d been seeking all her life.

“Do you believe what I’ve told you?” the haj asked at length.

Tears welled again, as she said, “I do believe you … Grandfather.” And as her voice cracked, she fell into his strong waiting arms and sobbed.

19

Deeper and deeper into Speca’s curious landscape the band of adventurers marched, ever mindful of the lengthening distance between themselves and the sea, constantly oppressed by the darkness that swirled above their heads.

After hours of making their way over barren hills and into a valley, they paused to consider the best route to follow. On one side lay a shallow wisp of a stream, whose waters seemed tinted yellow in the subdued light; on the other, a sharply sloping trail appeared to lead to the blackened forests where deadened trunks stood limb to limb, taller than houses, as foreboding as they were dense.

Argyle and the Prince debated heatedly for a few moments over which direction they should follow. It seemed likely that both led sooner or later to the walled city where the Devil’s Tower stood as a grim monument for all Speca’s subjugated peoples to see.

Mariana stood quietly at the edge of the gathered group, sweeping her gaze along the stream, gloomily noting vast stretches of crushed rock strewn in jumbled masses on either side. It mattered little to her which of the two choices was finally agreed upon; each seemed inhospitable enough. Like everything else in this barbaric wilderness, the selection was of one clump of rot over another.

While the discussion continued—Ramagar and the haj agreeing with the lord of Aran and the others siding with the Prince—Mariana first caught sight of a cloud of dust suddenly rising from the edge of the plain beyond the dale. The source of the dust was hidden by a line of broken ridges and cliffs set in the valley, but now it was beginning to swirl and thicken and a faint rumbling sound rose with it.

The girl stood frozen; against the backdrop of the Darkness it was too difficult to ascertain what was going on, but the rumble was steadily growing in intensity, starting to shake the ground beneath her feet, and sounding more and more like the clamor of racing horses.

“Druids!” she cried.

Argyle spun like a cat, his sword drawn in the blink of an eye. As everybody hit the dirt, Ramagar grabbed the girl by her tunic and yanked her down into the damp soil beside him.

The horses were growing closer, hoofbeats shattering the stilled air like cannon. Slowly, the thief and Argyle inched their way to the crest and, poking their heads between two enormous rocks, peered uneasily out at the plain.

Far away, crossing the empty flat with deranged speed, came a grim procession of fine black stallions, blue manes flowing in the wind, coats sleek and shiny with perspiration. Magnificent horses, Ramagar noted, perhaps the best he had ever seen. Riding low in the leather saddles were the soldiers, tall, lean men, not as burly perhaps as the gruesome Night-Watchers, but equally as alien, and equally as intimidating. Brutish fellows from the looks of them, dour and cruel. At least twenty in number, they all wore silver and black tunics, crimson cloaks curling behind. Upon their heads were plumed helmets, thin mail across their chests. They rode their steeds with expertise, clearly masters of Speca’s wild trails. Never once did they halt or even pause as they crossed the treacherous flat and disappeared inside the Black Forest.

“They seem to be in quite a hurry to get where they’re going,” Ramagar observed dryly.

Argyle spit into the wind as response.

The thief tapped a finger against his teeth warily. “Do you suppose they’ve had wind of us?”

The brooding lord shrugged. “Best we don’t stop to ask,” was all he said.

Ramagar slid back down to his waiting companions, careful to keep his body low, even though now the Druid troops were gone.

The band gathered closer, kneeling and listening uneasily as the thief explained what he had seen. “We were fortunate this time,” he told them all. “I doubt many patrols will pass while we’re still in this
wilderness.”
His eyes scanned the surrounding scape briefly, his hand grandly gesturing as if to add emphasis to his words.

“But there’ll be plenty about the closer we get to the city,” added the Prince gloomily. “We’ll have to be more alert. Between the soldiers and the Death-Stalkers our hands are going to be full…”

Mariana shuddered, recalling Argyle’s warning while they were still on Aran. The Death-Stalkers! Hideous birds of prey, trained to swoop down and kill, they combed the skies of Darkness at will, ready and eager to do the bidding of their Druid masters. They were said to attack in frightful numbers, shrieking as they dived upon their hapless prey, be it man or beast. And when they were done, only bones were left to give testimony to the deed.

It was a sobering reminder to everyone—and they trembled to ponder what other horrors yet unknown they might encounter in this land.

Heaving a sigh, Ramagar picked up his knapsack, fitted the straps, and easily slung it back over his shoulder. “Sitting here and worrying isn’t going to help us any,” he said. “Let’s get moving again. Now, which route shall we take?”

“It seems our Druid friends have already decided that for us,” the Prince replied. “Since they rode toward the forest, our best bet is to follow the stream after all.”

He glanced around at his companions one by one. There was no dissent; everybody seemed eager to avoid the soldiers at all costs. As they made ready to leave each pair of eyes drifted occasionally toward the sky, this time not with concern for the dismal array of clouds, but rather in anxious fear of the flying enemy who could be swooping unseen upon them at this very moment.

After a last-second check of weapons and gear, Argyle as before took the lead, beginning the eastward trek anew. The moss-filled yellow waters reflected an eerie night pall as the band followed the stream, which coiled snake-like, this way and that, up sharp inclines and down steeper ones. Worn boots tramped first over mud, then over coarse and hard sand, grated and pebble-strewn, lifeless except for scattered blue-tinted shoots that shot up like stunted trees, their grotesque roots bending awkwardly to suck every bit of moisture in the way a spider devours a fly.

Up and down, over hills and dales, ridges and hillocks, the band of adventurers marched, teeth gritted, eyes ever straight ahead on the treacherous path, their flesh becoming numbed by the bitter bite of the mountain wind. The gusts blew with more vicious force than before as the mountains loomed ever closer; whipping and whistling along the chalky cliff set to the north, tearing down the craggy drops in the west, the wind increased dramatically as the band came closer to the valley’s end and the vast plain that spread out from there like a blanket.

By normal reckoning, the time should have been close to evening when Argyle called for a brief rest. Thankfully, they spread out along the grainy banks of the water and sighed with pleasure as they rubbed aching feet and shut stinging eyes.

As a cold meal of biscuits and dried beef was passed around, the haj restlessly got up to take a closer look at an interesting sight. Among the crushed rock and rubble of the hill beyond their resting place, set against the base of twin hillocks, there was a clump of scant vegetation that had somehow managed to break through the hard ground and nurture itself without benefit of sunlight. He waved to Mariana, who had strayed farther upstream from the others so that she could wash, and beckoned the girl to put down her bar of soap and join him.

With a smile and a shrug she eagerly came to his side, and without the need for words they climbed partway up the face to get a better look at what seemed to be a small vegetable garden.

The haj yanked out a herb, studied the root, and took a bite. “Tastes like squash to me,” he said, smacking his lips.

Mariana looked at him. “Squash? But that’s not possible!”

“And look!” added the haj, pointing to a tiny clump of shrubbery. “Those are berry bushes!” He ran to inspect, nimble fingers plucking, teeth biting, tongue tasting.

“I don’t believe it! Look, Mariana!” he held out a handful. “These are cranberry. Wild, to be sure, but cranberry! And these,” he stuck out his other hand, “are without question bunchberry…”

“Are you sure?” asked the startled girl, taking one and hesitantly biting. “How could berries—how could anything—grow in a climate like this?” But then she tasted the berry and stared at the haj.

“Well?” the swineherd asked.

“Mmmm! They’re good!”

“Delicious, Mariana! Ravishingly delicious! Come on, let’s get back and call the others! Like as I would to hoard all of this for ourselves, my conscience won’t allow me to be such a glutton.”

He belched, swallowing a mouthful; the girl grinned. “Won’t everybody by surprised!” And her skirt swirled as she hurried to go. A lumbering shadow cast darkly from atop the hill, and they both froze in their tracks.

It was a man, a towering figure of a man. Hands on hips, he stood sternly glaring down at the two intruders, his form a powerful silhouette in the pervasive dark.

Mariana gulped; the haj stepped in front of her, ready to field any blows the frightful figure might deliver.

“Is he a Druid?” Mariana whispered faintly.

“He wears no uniform,” observed the haj. “But he’s frightening enough all the same …” His hand inched its way toward the hidden dagger beneath his robe and his fingers toyed for the hilt. “When I say,” he told her, “run as fast as you can. Bring Argyle—”

The thought went unfinished as another grim silhouette appeared along the crest. And then another, quickly followed by another. The haj turned slowly, his eyes sweeping the terrain for avenues of escape—there were none.

From among the group a thick-set man, dressed in various skins, the skull of some wild beast adorning his head, came slowly walking down the slope. Long blond hair, unkempt and stringy, fell over his shoulders. He sported a long blond beard, much in the fashion of Argyle’s, and stared at the strangers from a deeply set pair of cold blue eyes. Thin lips folded back in a curious expression; he examined the strangers close up, a scowl deepening. In his hand he carried a long shaft of wood, the tip finely honed into a razorsharp point.

This is no Druid, thought Mariana. More like a barbarian. A wildman.

The wildman screwed his eyes, fluidly taking note of the haj’s curious garb. He had never seen a man of the East, it was plain, nor a girl with skin bronzed by the sun. It dawned on Mariana as he gaped at her that he had probably never seen the sun either.

“We … we are not enemies,” she said, gathering her courage and speaking in her broken understanding of Northern tongues.

The wildman stepped back a pace, mistrust written all over his rugged features.

“We are friends,” the haj quickly added, and he put up his hands palms first to show his intent was peaceful.

At that, the wildman raised his spear, prodding the tip at the haj’s belly. He shouted something to his companions, and two more wildmen came bolting down the hill with rope in their hands.

“They mean to take us prisoner!” gasped Burlu, beside himself with fear. He now realized how stupid it had been for him to have wandered off from the others like this. What would happen to them now? What would Ramagar do when he realized Mariana was missing?

The haj shuddered involuntarily. A fine mess of matters he had made of things, all right. But maybe if he could catch his guards off balance … make a quick run toward the others …

The tip of the spear pressed in tighter, and the wildman indicated for them both to hold out their hands. Submissively they did, wincing as the bonds were strapped about their wrists.

As the points of other spears dug into their backs, the first wildman gestured his hand in a direction far behind the berry bushes and toward a rocky cluster of mounds at the edge of the valley.

“I think he wants us to walk that way,” said Mariana.

Burlu groaned, lamenting their fate. Prisoners. Caught like rank amateurs by a handful of barbarians. And as he began to shuffle along, he wondered if perhaps they would have fared better coming face to face with the Druids. Compared to these wildmen, even they had seemed civilized.

Shoved and badgered, not a word or a glance allowed between them, Mariana and the haj were mercilessly forced along a path of treacherous shale, until at last they came to a spot where the valley narrowed before them to a twisting defile barely wide enough for the two of them to pass side by side. Mariana saw other wildmen about keeping stoic watch from the bluffs and ridges above.

Their captor gestured and they followed him along a smooth rock wall through the defile. A thin trickle of fresh water flowed down one side of the rock, indicating either a pool or a catch basin somewhere below. There was no vegetation to be seen in these parts, save for the long green shoots they had encountered earlier, which here grew far taller than before, with stems stout and firm, unbending in the mountain wind. An odd sight, thought Mariana, as if these plants were declaring their defiance of the bleak world around them by their very growth.