Winged Raiders of the Desert (7 page)

“I'm too little for that.” Jake shrugged.

“You think size is all that counts in a man? No,” she said, “courage is what counts. If you have that, it doesn't matter how big you are.”

Jake stared at her and said, with a smile, “Well, Mistress, I guess it's time for me to fix your supper.”

“No, we'll fix it together,” Lareen said. She smiled at him warmly, and suddenly Jake felt good all over. The two of them enjoyed their meal. Finally, afterward, he taught her some more songs, and she sang them back to him almost as if she were a tape recorder. When he mentioned this, she asked at once, “What's a tape recorder?”

Jake stared at her, then shrugged. “Just another useless invention I used to have,” he said.

E
lmas, Chief Interrogator of the Sanhedrin, stood before a large map examining various marks in the form of small black crosses. From time to time a look of satisfaction gleamed in his small eyes, and his lips curled upward in a ruthless smile. His office was circular, studded with torches that cast a flickering glow over the thick form of the Chief Interrogator.

Back in the shadows a dark form lurked. This was Malon, the lieutenant of Elmas. He had learned long ago to read the countenance of his chief, and when the brow of the thickset figure wrinkled, he flinched slightly.

“What is it, Sire?” he asked quickly.

Elmas turned and put a baleful stare on Malon. “We are not making enough progress,” he grunted. His face was fat and creased with thick folds, and there was an elephantine clumsiness in him as he suddenly slapped the wall with his fist. “Goél's forces seem to be surviving. I want them stamped out!”

“But, Sire, we have slain many in the past weeks—”

“I don't want many, I want
all
of them dead. Why didn't you—”

The stone door slid to one side, its rollers creaking, and a red-robed figure came in quickly. “Sire,” he said, “you are summoned to the castle of the Dark Lord.”

The face of Elmas was pale in any case, but it grew even more pasty at this word.

“What did he say exactly?”

“Just for you to come quickly.”

Elmas pulled himself together. Reaching toward a hook he withdrew a cape, threw it about his shoulders, and left his office. A journey to the castle of the Dark Lord was not a pleasant thing to contemplate. He settled himself inside his private carriage, and the horses began driving forward as he commanded the coachman, “Be quick to the castle!”

The horse hooves thundered over the road, and the carriage swayed from side to side. As the miles rolled by, Elmas sat hunched inside, wondering what would be awaiting him when he arrived. He was not a man without courage, but a visit to the Dark Lord always seemed to drain him of all strength.

It was growing dark when the carriage pulled up in front of the castle, a rising stone structure without ornament that seemed to cover the sky as he dismounted from his carriage. Ignoring the coachman, he advanced toward the door, which was a steel grate. A dark-cloaked warrior appeared from nowhere and cried, “What is your business?”

“The Dark Lord commands my presence. I am Elmas, Chief Interrogator of the Sanhedrin.”

“Enter.”

At the word, the gate rose creaking and grinding. The screech of its passage grated on the nerves of Elmas, and as he passed under he saw the sharp teeth along the lower edge and shivered to think what it would be like to be caught under them. He passed over a moat and, looking down, saw the waters stir with long, serpentine forms. Once a head emerged, filled with what seemed to be hundreds of razor sharp teeth. He shuddered, drew his cloak about him, and passed quickly over.

He was intercepted by another guard, who took him at once down a series of labyrinthine passageways. He passed many cell doors, and from some of them he heard the pitiful crying of the victims imprisoned inside. Once again he
wished that he were anywhere except in the service of the Dark Lord. It paid well, but it was dangerous work!

“Wait here.”

As the guard left him outside a huge door, guarded by four stalwart ruffians, Elmas thought,
I see now how little power I have. I make men tremble with my commands, but when the Dark Lord calls, it is I who am filled with terror.

His guard reappeared, motioned silently, and stepped aside.

Elmas entered the room filled with memories of other visits. It was an enormous room with a cathedral ceiling, and torches lit the gloom, casting flickering shadows over a huge table that was big enough to seat a hundred men. The walls were draped with black, all bearing a strange silver device like a broken cross. At one end sat a throne on an elevated dais.

On the throne, a figure sat. The Dark Lord wore a black cloak with a hood that covered his features. Nevertheless, Elmas could see the burning red eyes that glittered in the murky darkness.

“Come closer, fool.”

Elmas moved forward, his knees feeling weak as water. He fell on them at once, bowed, and said, “I come at your command, Most Dread Lord.”

Silence filled the room, and Elmas was afraid to look up. Finally he lifted his eyes, and as he did the Dark Lord said, “As usual, you have failed. I do not know why I have allowed you to live so long.”

“If Your Majesty will be more specific—”

“
I speak of the Seven Sleepers!”
The Dark Lord rose and came down the steps. He was tall and forbidding, and the hand that extended from the robe was strong and like an eagles talon. Lifting one arm, he cried, “I have commanded you to kill them all, and you have failed!”

The hand closed around Elmas's throat. He felt the air leaving his body and cried out in a gurgling plea, “Stop! Please! Your Majesty!” The air seemed to grow hot, and he fell forward on his face, gagging and choking.

The tall figure slowly let his hand drop and waited until Elmas was able to sit up. “You have failed me, but the others are even bigger fools. I have word of the Seven Sleepers.”

Elmas got to his feet shakily, and his voice quavered as he said, “Tell me where they are, Sire.”

“Little good it will do. You always fail where they are concerned.” Nevertheless, the Dark Lord turned to say, “They are in the desert country at a place called the Citadel.”

“Yes, Sire, I know the place. I will send at once to have them killed.”

“You have sent before and never have found them.”

“This time we will not fail, Your Majesty.” Elmas spoke with more assurance than he felt. Somehow, when the Seven Sleepers were mentioned, he always felt a quake of fear. He well knew the prophecies that, when the Seven Sleepers woke, the darkness would be rolled back. Nevertheless, he knew better than to speak his thoughts before the Dark Lord. Instead he said, “I have one who knows that country. His name is Jalor, and he was chief of the Shadow Wings before I sent him on an undercover mission to the Winged Raiders. He is acting as my spy there even as we speak.”

“Then use him. Many of the Shadow Wings are fierce warriors. Surely they can kill seven children.”

“Yes, Sire, I will go at once, if there is nothing else.”

The Dark Lord nodded and gestured with imperial disgust. “Get out! And see that you do not fail.”

Elmas scrambled to his feet and moved backward, bowing as he went. Finally he turned, and the door
slammed shut behind him. He drew a shaking hand across his forehead, then glanced up to see the guards grinning at him. With a grunt he drew his robe about him and stalked out of the room. His guard was waiting, and then he was in his carriage headed back for the home of the Sanhedrin.

As soon as he arrived, he commanded, “Send word to Jalor that I must speak with him.”

“Yes, Sire, at once!”

Two days later the door opened, and a red-robed priest announced, “Jalor—my lord Elmas.”

A small man entered and stood before the Chief Interrogator. “You sent for me, my lord?” he asked. He was undersized, yet there was strength in his trim body. He had hawklike features and a pair of penetrating eyes. His mouth was thin and cruel.

“Yes, I have a mission for you, Jalor.”

“Command me, Sire!”

“It concerns your kinsmen, the Shadow Wings. I have work for them to do. It concerns the Winged Raiders.”

An expression of hatred flashed across the face of Jalor. “Chief White Storm is a strong warrior but a fool.”

“He may be a fool, but his band is fierce. Can you engage the Shadow Wings in a battle against the Winged Raiders?”

Jalor hesitated. “It would be difficult, Sire. We would have to use trickery, but … but wait—I have a plan.” He hesitated, then said, “The Dark Lord himself has commanded this?”

“Yes, and he also commands that you slay the Seven Sleepers. They have escaped time and time again. I cannot explain it. They are mere children, and they have eluded our most powerful attempts.”

“They are the servants of Goél.” Jalor nodded. “This time they will die. Let me explain my plan …”

A
s the days passed and turned into weeks, the Sleepers began slowly to learn the difficult task of flying. All of them had difficulty, none more than Wash. The smallest of the Sleepers found himself having nightmares, for he had a deep fear of high places.

He said nothing to his friends, but Reb, who knew him better than any other, said one day, “It's gonna be all right, Wash. Goél doesn't want us to lose.” He grinned, and the sun caught his sandy hair, and his blue eyes glowed. “Far as I know, Goél don't sponsor no losers.”

Wash was dusting himself off. He had just taken a hard fall after coming in for a landing. “There's two things about this here flying I don't like,” he said mournfully.

“What's that, Wash?”

“Going up—and coming down.”

Reb laughed and slapped the smaller boy on the shoulder. “You're gonna love it before it's all done. Come on, let's go see how the girls are doing.”

They made their way to another part of the plateau where they found Abbey and Sarah taking an advanced lesson from Lareen. The girls had been at it for more than three hours.

* * *

Lareen was giving them a pep talk. “It's a chance for us girls to catch up with the men,” she told them. “I want to show everyone that girls can fly just as well as men and boys.”

Abbey shook her head. “I don't think that'll ever work,” she said. “Even if we did learn to do all this flying, we still wouldn't be as good with a bow, and we couldn't fight like the men.”

But Lareen was adamant. “I'm going to prove you wrong, Abbey,” she said. “Now this time, come on, and let's try a little formation flying.”

“Look! Here comes Josh and Dave,” Abbey said. “Maybe they want to go with us. And look! There's Wash and Reb.”

“That's all of us except Jake,” Sarah said. “No, here he comes.” She motioned over to where Jake was approaching, and soon all seven of the Sleepers were gathered.

Lareen said, “This time we're going to try something fun. Have you ever seen a group of ducks when they fly in formation?”

“I have,” Reb said. “Sometimes they make a V.”

“That's right,” Lareen said. “Now, I'll be the point of the V, and you line up on each side of me. Josh, you and Sarah and Reb get on one side. Dave, you get on the other side with Abigail, Jake, and Wash.” She got them lined up and cried out, “Come on, let's go!”

Josh had learned to like flying, something he never thought he would. When he launched out, he watched the earth fall away. It was a wonderful feeling. The wind was whistling, blowing his hair back. He managed to spread his wings just right, and now all eight of them soared upward.

Lareen called out commands, and soon they had reached a current of air and formed a V. Far below Josh could see some of the tribe looking almost like ants. Far away he saw a river curling in long serpentine coils. There were spots of green in the various oases, and Josh thought,
If the people of the desert had a scout that could fly, they
could always find water. Some of them have died of thirst just because they couldn't see it. Now that's an idea.

Finally the lesson was over, and they came back to earth.

Afterward they went to have a meal, and Josh noticed that Swiftwind didn't get too far away from Lareen.

“You know what I think?” he said to Sarah, who was sitting beside him.

“Of course I know what you think,” Sarah said calmly. She bit into a piece of freshly made bread, chewed on it thoughtfully, and said, “You're thinking that one of these days Swiftwind and Lareen are going to get married and live happily ever after.”

Josh stared at her in astonishment. “How did you know I thought that?”

Sarah laughed. “Josh, your face is just like a book. You can't cover a thing that you feel. You've always been that way, even when we were growing up.”

Josh stared at her solemnly. “I haven't thought about growing up in a long time.” He ran his hand over his hair and looked at Sarah. “You're a lot different, Sarah.”

“Different from what?”

“Different from the little girl who first came to live with us back on Oldworld. You're almost a woman now.”

Sarah flushed and shot a quick glance at him. She was a graceful girl with bright, alert, brown eyes and very black hair that she had tied in a ponytail. She had changed, she knew, and so had Josh. He had always been very tall, but before he had been gangling and awkward. Now, at fifteen, he was filling out and with his auburn hair and almost electric blue eyes was turning into a fine-looking young man. She did not say so, however, but shrugged and said, “Well, we've come a long way since those days.”

“What do you think is going to happen here?” Josh asked. He picked up a stick and drew a picture in the dirt.
“Flying is fun, but I don't see how we're making any headway.”

“Why, Josh, that's not so!” Sarah said quickly. “We're not slaves anymore, and the chief is listening to us about Goél's ways more than I'd ever expected.”

“Yes, but there's still a lot of people who don't believe in him.” He had gotten a little discouraged. “I don't trust Darkwind. He smiles a lot, but have you ever noticed that his smiles don't go as far as his eyes?”

“Yes, I've noticed, and he's having more influence than he did when we first came.”

“Come on, let's go talk to Jake. Maybe we can get Lareen convinced about Goél. Then she can convince her father.”

The two went on their way—and were totally unaware that they had been watched by two figures.

* * *

Far above the plain where they had sat, Darkwind was talking with Jalor. Jalor turned now and said, “I have been commanded to destroy the Sleepers.”

“Good!” Darkwind said. “I can see that they are going to be trouble.” He moved restlessly and fingered the knife in his belt. It had a silver handle, and he was fond of pulling it out and testing its keen edge with his thumb. He did so now and said, “I will take care of them myself.”

“No, it will not be that way,” Jalor said. He was smaller than Darkwind, but there was a power in him that gave the younger man pause. “We need to do more than kill the Sleepers, although that is part of our task.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“Yes, the Shadow Wings must take over this tribe. There's been too much time wasted trying to convert White Storm. He will never change.”

“Then he must die too.” Darkwind hesitated, then added, “That would put Swiftwind, his son, in as chief, and he's no better than his father.”

Jalor turned his dark face toward the younger man. “If you will be obedient to me,
you
will be the chief of the Winged Raiders.”

Instantly Darkwind nodded. He had a sinister face, and there was cruelty in his dark eyes. “I will do as you say. What is your plan?”

“Come, we will go on a little trip.”

“Trip? Where will we go?”

“We will go to the Shadow Wings. Only a few of us have infiltrated White Storms band, but we have done so without raising anyone's suspicion. The foolish White Storm thinks I am his loyal warrior! There is a way to accomplish our purpose. Come.”

Jalor sprang into the air and was followed by Darkwind. The two soared high, headed toward the north where the Shadow Wings had their camp. As they went, both were thinking of what was to come.

Darkwind was thinking,
I will be chief. Then we shall see.

But Jalor had only one thought:
Let Darkwind be chief if he pleases, but he will always bow his knee to the Dark Lord and to me.