THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) (43 page)

Thorhall sighed at the sight, shaking his head. “Once this valley had been a refuge for forest life,” he commented sadly. “They say that herds of caribou and elk roamed these hills by the thousands …”

“And mighty redwoods grew as tall as the mountains,” added the Prince, recalling his father’s teachings. “There were brooks, and fields of sweet grass. Birds sang in the morning, and a traveler could spy the smoke rising from farm chimneys and be sure of a welcome breakfast.”

Ramagar put his arm around his friend’s shoulder and smiled wistfully. “It will be so again,” he promised. “The soil will be fertile as before, and there will be flowers, wildflowers in abundance.”

Wishing it could be, the Prince hung his head and nodded. It would take a lifetime to recreate what had been lost, to renew the barren wastes that covered the land from shore to shore.

A cruel wind whipped savagely down from the mountains and across the shadowy cliffs as they prepared to enter the valley.

“Best we should not stay put in one place for too long,” Thorhall told them all. “A sitting target is easy prey for Death-Stalkers.”

And the stranded Aranian led them on, among the great tapering rocks, until they came upon a hard path of packed dirt. The twists of the path were reasonably clear, but at each side the clinging white mist thickened.

“This trail remains for some way,” Thorhall said. “With any luck we can stay on it all day and perhaps come within sight of the Devil’s Tower itself.”

Mariana rubbed at her arms, feeling the chill quicken to her weary bones. Treading carefully over sharp pebbles, she glanced nervously at both sides of the trail. She knew that if any one of them happened to step more than a few meters off the road, they would quickly be lost from sight in the mist. With a shiver she turned her gaze ahead, thankful that Ramagar and the haj were both close by. Otherwise, she would probably have taken Thorhall’s advice and turned back long before.

After hiking for a while they began to gain altitude. The narrow path was winding its way higher on an increasingly steep incline. For the first time, the travelers were able to look far past the mists, and they could see that the climb was heading them along the valley’s edge toward the reaches of the cliffs and ridges—a happenstance, they were soon to realize, not without importance.

It was while they crossed over an extremely treacherous ledge of cracked shale set along a craggy peak that the haj, blinking as he stopped dead in his tracks, mumbled aloud in disbelief. “Dungeons of the Caliph! Look at that!”

Mariana spun and stared. Nestled at the edge of the gray chalk cliff stood a nest, carefully woven, made of weed and moss and broken bits of branch. Half buried among various niches, well concealed from the bite of the wind, were two unhatched eggs beneath the lip of moss. They were brownish-yellow in color, each as big as an oversized melon.

The haj reached out his hand to inspect. “Don’t touch them!” warned Thorhall with a grimace.

Burlu adroitly pulled back his hand. “Why? What’s the matter?”

“These are nestlings. Hideous offspring of our enemy, the Death-Stalkers…”

Ramagar ran his fingertips over the hilt of his dagger. “These are bird eggs?” he asked incredulously. “Look at the size of them!”

The nearer of the two eggs suddenly showed a crack; Mariana put a hand to her mouth, and her eyes widened in wonder. First came a scraping and then a crunching, and before any of them knew it, a piece of shell had been tossed aside and a long, hawk-like black beak protruded from the opening.

“It’s hatching!” cried Oro.

The Prince pushed the staring hunchback aside and stepped in closer to examine. At first glance the bird seemed much like a vulture or any other carrion, what with its long, thin neck and dark, intense beaded eyes. The nestling pushed its beak toward the sky and rolled its infant eyes until they came to rest on the agog strangers. Colorless and bald, it tilted its misshapen head and peered curiously.

The Prince moved in closer; instinctively the nestling drew back. Powerfully the carrion hunched its body and rose up, splitting more chunks of shell and scattering them to the wind. Then it howled its high-pitched wail, a shrill cry for its mother.

“We’d better move away from here quickly,” urged Thorhall, already looking skyward for sight of its parent Death-Stalker.

Argyle also scanned the clouded heavens. “You mean you want us to let this … this …
monster
live?”

“It can’t harm us; not yet, anyway—”

But Thorhall’s words went unheeded. Before anyone could move fast enough to stop him, the lord of Aran lifted his mighty ax with both hands, swung it above his head, and heaved again and again. The fragile shell smashed into a thousand bits. The dying bird screamed an awful scream, so ghastly that Mariana was sure it was the worst sound she had ever heard.

His tunic and cloak both splattered with dark blood, Argyle commenced to smash the yet unbroken egg. As the ax fell, a slimy yellow liquid oozed from within the rupture, bringing with it a foul and putrid smell.

Sickened, everyone looked away while Argyle cleaned his weapon on the rocks and moved away from the deepening pool of blood and mucus. “At least those two won’t fly these dreaded skies,” he commented sourly.

Thorhall shook his head. “Perhaps not, but their mother will. And she’ll be looking for the slayer of her young.”

Argyle scoffed. “Be this bird devil or no, let her come.” He lifted his ax again. “I am prepared …”

A distant cry caused Mariana to raise her head sharply. A shapeless dark form suddenly appeared from behind the swirling clouds, moving across the sky with lightning speed. As yet it showed no form, but one fact was singularly apparent: the gliding bird was huge, its wingspan as long as a horse. And the carrion was shrieking at the top of its lungs in an insane, witless moan of grief.

“Quick!” shouted Ramagar, yanking Mariana by the arm and pulling her off her feet. “Get to the bluffs! It’s attacking!”

Helter-skelter the small band dashed, bounding for cover among the grainy and broken ridges that slanted along the side of the cliff. The bird was coming head-on, blazing fury in her red slotted eyes. Her nest ravished, her unborn dead, she sought no reason to her anger, only the heat of unleashed rage seeking retribution.

Huge, gleaming talons spread malevolently as the great bird began her rapid descent. Peering down at the heights and her shattered nest, she caught sight of the scampering adventurers and with a terrific wail came charging upon them.

Mariana screamed as talons
whooshed
inches from her scalp; the dancing girl rolled over barely in time, gazing straight into the hideous face as the bird spread her black feathers and darted up to the sky.

Eyes burning with frenzy, the soaring Death-Stalker closed in again. On one knee, Argyle swung his ax; tattered feathers danced before his anguished eyes while the bird squawked and glided up, unharmed. Then down again she was flying, flapping wildly and crying, beak parted to emit her deathly screech.

Thorhall leaped to his feet, brandishing his spear in a desperate attempt to parry the thrust of the talons. As the bird circled and dived, his heart began to pound in further agitation. The calls of the mother had not been lost on empty air; fanned by the gusty winds, her wail had carried the length and breadth of the valley, and now, from every point in the dark sky came more of the menacing carrion. Perhaps a dozen more in all, each as fearsome, each as frenzied.

Ramagar’s twin-edged dagger slashed wildly as the host of Death-Stalkers tore at his body; the haj reeled with the sting of claws slashing along the side of his throat. Mariana screamed as young Homer drew back against a boulder and with both hands flaying vainly tried to ward off the terrible blows.

A piercing cry filled the air; Mariana saw one of the carrion twist in a tizzy as Argyle’s ax broadsided the beast and severed a wing from its haunch. The bird twisted and moaned, blood spouting like an evil fountain, then it smashed against a crevice and plummeted to its death in the bogs below.

The Prince swung his blade with all his might; the nest mother yanked back her head, but not in time. The slash was deep, running down from her throat to her plumed breast. For an instant the mighty bird wavered, then forward she toppled, clawing and scratching as life ebbed out of her. The Prince spun and fended off the blows, then again Blue Fire struck, deep, deep into her black heart. And there, pinned against the edge of the ridge, the carrion mother gasped for breath and futilely tried to lift her wings once more to fly.

Her demise cheered the hearts of the adventurers, yet the fight was far from its conclusion. More birds had entered the fray, some even larger than those yet encountered. Rank by rank they swooped in unison, well trained by their Druid masters, and intent on slaughtering the invaders of their lands.

The haj’s knife hacked and slashed and cut and stabbed, while three carrion tore at his robe, ripping the garment to shreds. When Argyle had finished with his latest victim he made a mad dash to the Easterner’s side, and together they managed to draw themselves back until the overhanging ledge gave protection from the scraping claws.

Overhead the sky had begun to rumble. Flashes of terrifying lightning filled the heavens with unholy light. Ramagar, panting to catch his breath, looked up and shuddered. Far, far away, he could see another scourge coming this way: a low black mass, an uncountable number of Death-Stalkers in overwhelming, unstoppable force.

And the harsh rain began to fall, slanting sharply and painfully in the angry wind.

“Away from the heights!” cried Thorhall in desperation. He made a quick, lurching motion to lead the way back down. But in midstride he staggered as a vicious carrion cackled and swept in low, screeching horribly. Thorhall swung around but the blow of the weighty bird toppled him completely.

Like hell’s fire itself three more hideous Death-Stalkers were upon him. Thorhall tossed about in a frenzy, bellowing as he struggled to regain his feet. Bloodied hands covered a bloodied face, and the birds closed in to tear at his flesh.

Argyle and Ramagar raced from the others, wielding their weapons. Carrion hovered every inch of the way. Thorhall, barely conscious, started to crawl as best he could to reach his rescuers. Slashing claws cut through air to keep the newcomers at bay, but Argyle, nearly crazed at the sight of his wounded friend, stood boldly before them, swinging his weapon, whistling it above his head with such force and fury that the carrion had to retreat.

Ramagar deftly took hold of the injured Aranian amid the thunder of Argyle’s war cries and the exultant song of the birds who spread their wings toward the sky with small shreads of Thorhall’s flesh hanging from their mouths.

It took a very long time before everyone made it under the lip of an overhanging ledge. There, Mariana threw herself into Ramagar’s arms, sobbing and not able to look down at the writhing body of their latest companion. The haj kneeled beside Thorhall and examined his wounds. Then with a dour face, he said, “He’s been badly gored, and lost too much blood. But if we can get him to safety—”

“He’ll live?” asked Argyle.

Burlu nodded hesitantly.

Silently they all stood beneath the ledge’s lip, staring again at the massing horde and pondering their fate. Bruised and injured as they were, they knew that as long as they stayed away from the open, they would be safe from immediate attack.

“Scavengers!” cried Argyle, shaking his hairy fist. It was only the strong grip of the thief that stopped the lord of Aran from bolting into the open and challenging the birds to come down and fight.

Above, the winged enemy had begun a grisly dance; their appetites partially sated by the battle, they seemed for the moment to be content to bide their time and watch the while their prey contemplated the next move.

Thunder was crashing everywhere in terrible volume, and the wind’s howl sounded more and more like a laugh, a cruel and vengeful laugh, as it roared its way from one end of the valley to the other.

“What do we do now?” groaned Oro, lips quivering as he huddled close to the ledge wall for shelter.

The Prince glanced down at Thorhall and sighed. “Our friend was right about one thing,” he said glumly. “We won’t stand much of a chance while still on these damned heights.” He wiped rainwater from his brow and grimaced at the circling carrion.

“A wise observation,” said the haj grumpily as he tended a cut on his leg. “But what are we to do about it? Surely Thorhall proved we’ll never be able to make our way back down. We dare not even try.” Thorhall whined softly in his pain and Burlu shuddered.

Hands on hips, Ramagar sighed. The haj was absolutely right, he saw, peering down from the ledge to the tricky open path they had climbed. Even contemplating trying to reach the dubious safety of the bogs was foolish. Yet staying put, here in the middle of the Death-Stalkers’ nesting lands, was even more fraught with danger. Only the Fates themselves knew how many other horrid carrion might soon be coming to join their cackling comrades. It was a sad predicament, leaving at best only one possible choice.

“We’ll have to go forward,” said Ramagar with determination.

Oro looked up, aghast. “What? Go forward, you say? You expect us to climb over these cliffs in rain like this? With those, those
beasts
waiting for us?”

The Prince beat a fist against his thigh. His sharp eyes quickly scanned the local terrain. “It doesn’t look to me like we’d have a chance,” he said at length.

A sly smile cracked Ramagar’s lips. “Ah, but you may be wrong. Look again, my friends; note the formations of the ridges and ledges. If we could cling close to the walls, stay at all times beneath overhanging bluffs, we’ll be given excellent protection. Our carrion friends won’t be able to swoop directly down on top of us—they’ll be forced to dive in low, swoop up from the defiles, attack only from the front…”

“So?”

“So that means they can only try and get at us one at a time, two at best. And with the wind against them to boot. If we can only hold them off until the hills descend again, we can make it all the way.”