It seemed like an eternity until the sandstorm passed over. The howl of the wind was terrific, a gruesome screeching like the cry of the damned, and Sharon shuddered with the frightening premonition of evil. Slowly, though, the wind abated, gusting frenziedly across the dunes, carrying the storm out of sight. The fugitives lifted themselves from their places and peered about.
The scape of the desert had radically altered; new mountains stood in silver moonlight where before there had been ruts and valleys, and at the places where there had been only flat tablelands now stood dunes. The map of their desert world had been totally changed; only the menacing peaks of the Steppes remained in place as before — huge monstrosities, unbending against time and elements, a stark reality that not everything was different.
“We must not lose more time,” said Zadek, ignoring the painful itch of his flesh caused by the pounding sand.
Sharon nodded knowingly; she pushed back wildly tousled hair and took the reins of her wheezing camel. The dromedary dropped to its knees and let her mount; then, with the others behind, she moved on, awed by the silver glow of the modified landscape. And this time they rode straight through the night, cold as it was, not once pausing to rest until well after the crack of dawn and the new sun hung like a ball of flame in the east.
Days passed painfully slowly, as though they had embarked upon a cruel and never-ending odyssey. The red-hued mountains of the Steppes were well-defined shapes by now but always teasingly out of reach, no matter how far or fast they traveled. Late that evening the riders came to an oasis. The swaying palms seemed more a mirage in the crimson shadows of the setting sun, but the oasis proved no illusion, and, thankfully, they reached it just as the chill of night began. In the morning, they washed themselves of sand in the placid, clear water of the pond, stuffed their saddlebags with fresh dates, replenished their waterskins, and rested beneath the leafy branches of the palms. Then they moved on again, refreshed, with renewed zeal and hope.
By the fifth day of the arduous trek the sands of the desert had started to recede, bit by bit but surely. Scattered signs of weeds and other vegetation had here and there begun to poke out from the rocky, hard soil. Soon they were climbing in elevation, along hills barren and difficult, passing trees with trunks long since dead and withered, now bent grotesquely out of shape by both weather and time. A little more than a day later, Sharon excitedly pointed and laughed; rabbits appeared from a hole and scampered across a field of pale, yellowed grass. And beyond the field, there were real trees, alive and healthy, full-budded leaves dangling and swaying from thickly barked branches.
Zadek dismounted and looked about. Up in the crevices, feeding from weed at the heights of nearby hillocks, stood wild mountain goats, animals that had long ago adapted themselves to this land of outcasts. For the first time since their ordeal began, the mullah permitted himself to smile.
He glanced over his shoulder, gazing at the extensive dunes, alluvial plains and depressions, and heaved a sigh of relief. The saline soil at his feet told them that they still had a long way to go, but at last they had crossed the desert and stood upon the threshold of the Steppes.
Turning back to the bare hills, his eyes intently followed the winding course of a wadi. “Beyond these scrublands we should reach the first Kazir village,” he told his companions knowingly. “Best we make all haste. Kazirs look doubtfully upon strangers who enter their Lands after darkness has fallen. It is one of their customs: A welcome visitor arrives only in the brightness of day.”
Sharon felt her brief moment of elation suddenly vanish. So painful had been her ordeal in escaping from Samarkand that she had given scant consideration to what might happen at journey’s end. Now, as she looked at the Steppes before them, betoum and jujube trees lining the crests of the red hills like silent sentries, she was thrown back into unwanted reality.
Kazirs, she thought with a small shudder; the very name still roused fear inside her. This was the traditional enemy she had been taught both to loathe and to respect. In Samarkand, death was the immediate sentence for any trespasser caught inside the city walls; she wondered now if perhaps the Kazirs had a similar law for her.
The gravelly voice of Zadek broke through her troubled thoughts. “There is no need to be frightened,” he assured her, as if reading her mind. He climbed back into the saddle, his camel chewing on a saltbush. “We have much to barter with the tribesmen; our knowledge of the Huns and their khan in exchange for Kazir hospitality.”
“I hope you’re right,” mumbled Asif.
Kazirs, it was said, were renowned for their gracious cordiality to friendly strangers — surpassed only by their cunning and wrathful treatment of those considered to be enemies. Zadek pondered these two extremes; then he scowled, dug his boot deeply into his dromedary’s flank, and urged the beast forward.
*
The bottom of the brilliant crimson disk that was the setting sun barely touched the peak of the highest scrub hill. Sharon leaned forward in her saddle, hand tightly clutching at the leather horn. Along the crevices of the rocky hills at either side, a handful of stray sheep were feeding. At sight of the strangers, the sheep scrambled away, prancing over the heights and behind the trees. She pulled in gently at the reins, and the camel’s bridle jangled. Then she stood in the stirrups and peered around slowly, thinking it certainly curious that these sheep had run freely, with no shepherd or sheep dog to keep them close to the herd.
“How far to the village, teacher?” she asked.
Zadek shared her open uneasiness. He indicated beyond the next hill. Without another word, they started up again, trudging toward the crest; As they went over the rise, the fugitives were greeted by a small, fertile valley nestled tightly between lumbering hills, flaming scarlet in the evening light. Past clusters of fruit trees and furrowed fields they could see the village, a horseshoe arrangement of stone houses with thatched roofs, guarded by a low wall on one side and the face of the rocky hill on the other.
The mullah searched the terrain slowly, doubtfully. The air was as still and quiet as in the moments before a storm. Nothing seemed to move, not a blade of grass, not a leaf.
“Where is everyone?” said Sharon. She too was disturbed by the unsettling calm. Surely at sundown, the time for supper, there would be some signs of activity: farmers returning from the fields, women drawing water from the stream or wells, smoke rising from the chimneys. From here, the village looked deserted.
Zadek led them down the dusty path. A few chickens gobbled from a broken coop set beside a tiny, windowless house.
“We’re alone,” said Asif anxiously.
Zadek peered about darkly. The light of day was growing dimmer, and he had to strain his eyes to see.
“What do you think it is?” said the princess.
The priest of Islam halted his camel. Looming shadows danced down from the ledges of the hills, casting strange shapes over the road and leaving them in darkness.
“There are two possibilities,” he answered sourly. “First, that Kazir lookouts saw us coming and evacuated the village. They are peculiar folk, wary of any stranger. Although we may not see them, you can be certain that even at this moment they are watching us.”
Sharon arched herself to peer up at the crevices. It would be easy for armed men to be observing them now, hiding behind the boulders with taut bows ready to loose.
“And the other possibility?” she asked.
“That we were not the first to arrive.” His eyes slitted and he hissed to himself. “Kabul’s armies could have passed this way days ago.”
They rode on, reaching the village just as the last glimmer of sunlight faded and the azure sky began to sparkle with a plethora of stars.
“Teacher, look there.”
As Zadek yanked the reins and swung his camel round to see, Asif clutched his arms around the mullah’s waist more tightly. A long, feathered spear had been implanted in the ground near the stream. Zadek dismounted and walked cautiously to the water. He kneeled, put
his hand into the stream, and tasted a finger with his tongue. Then he spat. “Poisoned; the stream’s been poisoned.”
The spear, in the shadows of twilight, seemed to be piercing through a rock. Zadek came closer to inspect it. He stared at the shaft and grimaced; it was no rock that the tip had been dug into but a skull — a human skull.
“Huns?” gasped Sharon.
Zadek nodded. “We had better move on.”
“But to where?” cried the anguished girl. “The khan’s soldiers by now must have taken everything. The Steppes no longer offer us refuge, teacher. You were wrong. We shall have to flee to other lands.”
He shook his head severely as he looked toward the mountains in the distance, ragged peaks jutting past the moon, groping at the clouds and stars. “No, Sharon, I am not wrong.”
“But here is the proof!” she protested, and her arm swept grandly in an arc encompassing the silent village. “If our city fell to the barbarians,” she said, “then what chance had these simple villagers against their hordes? It defies common sense, teacher. Surely the armies of Samarkand could do more than common hillmen.”
The mullah smiled an enigmatic smile, his eyes still focused upon the heartland of the Steppes, and replied, “There are things in this world that you do not yet understand, child. My mother’s people have not been taken — although I admit that their struggle could have been costly. But the Kazirs live free, I promise you.”
Sharon scoffed; a defiant glare smoldering in her eyes told him that her Samarkand ways and beliefs would not so easily change.
He overlooked the slight. “We must ride deeper — into the mountains, where the Stronghold lies.”
She was yet unconvinced. Looking at him evenly, she said, “And how are we to find this ‘Stronghold’? How are we to find these bold fighters?”
Zadek smiled again, answering simply, “We won’t have to; the Kazirs shall find us.”
Part Three - She Who Bears the Mark
Chapter Eleven
A sand runner poked its head up slowly from behind the fallen tree and peered out cautiously, its bug eyes darting in different directions. Across the low mound a family of beetles crawled along the rim of a damp rock. The sharp-eyed lizard stood alert and ready, its head held high, the front part of its scaly body raised on the forelimbs so that its webbed fingers cleared the hot sand. Then like hellfire it bolted, scurrying toward the insects, lashing out its tongue and scooping them up to digest.
Sharon watched the curious episode with interest, amused as the lizard, finished with its prey, burrowed like a rabbit deeper into the earth to await its next meal. How strange this whole new world was to her, this world of desert and Steppes, where the sun beat down mercilessly by day upon a parched earth, and nights were as cold and bitter as any she had ever known. There was little vegetation; not very much, save the most stubborn of weeds, would grow here in this nearly waterless land. Yet the desert teemed with life, dozens of species, all sharing what little there was. Very strange.
One learns to adapt, she mused. Given time and circumstance, you can get used to anything.
She flipped the pebbles she had been toying with into the sandy pool — fresh water, unspoiled. It had been three long, dreary days since they had left the deserted village, pressing north as Zadek had insisted, ever gaining in elevation until now, from the rocky ledges, they could peer down at will at the vast sweep of desert behind. Until today, there had been no repeat of the carefully nurtured valley they had passed — no more villages, no sign of farms. Still, as they climbed into the mountains, there was a change in the air. No longer stale; everything seemed somehow fresh, exhilarating, clean. Yes, that was it, Sharon told herself; the Steppes were clean, unspoiled by either man or beast. From the lofty heights of the peaks, it made no difference what man or tribe ruled the world below; here you were free, wild, untamed — closer to God.
She sighed. No wonder the Kazirs had chosen the Steppes for their exile; you could hide here for a lifetime and never once be seen.
Time drifted past slowly. Zadek had rested himself comfortably beneath the shade of a palm, Asif close by, lost in a deep sleep after the long morning’s ride. It was pointless going on in the midday sun; and Zadek had been most astute in his sense of direction, finding this grassy oasis just when it was needed most.
Sharon pressed a clean, damp compress over her swollen body. The wounds were beginning to itch — a good sign; her sun-bronzed flesh was healing. Lazily she watched the last of her pebbles sink to the shallow bottom, then continued braiding her hair. She frowned at the tears in her soiled khafti, wishing she had a change of clothes. She dreamed of silk, the soft Persian silk of ghararas, their gentle touch against her skin. She would probably never see a gharara again, much less own one, she knew. Only the rough-sewn cloth of the desert for her wardrobe now; wild flowers in place of exotic perfume; sand instead of soap.
She was drifting through a peaceful daydream, half asleep, when a series of sharp grating sounds interrupted her fantasy. She listened for a moment, vaguely puzzled by what seemed a scraping against rock. It wasn’t the camels; they stood tethered beside the trees, chomping scud. A wild animal, perhaps? A wolf or mountain cat creeping up along the cliffs? She tensed and sat up straighter. Her gaze spanned the crest of the hillock. Green grass, deep and rich, swayed slightly in the mild breeze. Behind, where the grass receded and the arid soil of the Steppes returned, she could see nothing but the sharply jutting ledges in the rock wall that rose well above the oasis.
The sound stopped; she stood up. Long shadows were working their way down from the heights, lengthening as the afternoon sun tiptoed its way to the western horizon. She shaded her eyes and squinted, looking almost straight up at the cliffs. They were as empty as before, encrusted mica in the rock reflecting the light blindingly.
I must be imagining things.
Then there it was, a hulking shadow looming above her, and at the top of the heights stood the silhouette of a man. Sharon put her hand to her mouth and gasped.
The intruder put his hands to his hips, massive hands at the end of massive arms bulging with muscles, and stared down at the trio of strangers. If he seemed frightened or upset by their presence, he did not show it. He arched his head over, looking first at the mute girl, then at her sleeping companions. Sharon got her first good glimpse of him as he took a step forward. He was tall and broad, his head shaven completely except for a single thick lock of hair at the center of his crown, knotted, which fell down the back of his neck like a ponytail. His neck was like a bull’s, his fists powerful and awesome. He wore a peasant tunic under a fur vest; his boots were made of fur as well, but ruggedly sewn and almost reaching his knees. Sharon had never seen boots like that before.
The intruder studied her intently, and she shivered when he put a hand to his fiercely clipped dark beard and scratched at his chin. A long double-edged dagger hung in a sheath from his burly waist, glinting in sunlight. But he made no move to draw the blade.
Sharon stepped lightly toward Zadek, nudging him with the toe of her shoe. “Teacher … teacher …”
The mullah stirred with a yawn. He looked up at the startled girl, perplexed, then bounded to his feet at sight of the moving shadow cast down from the cliff.
“Say nothing and don’t move,” rasped Zadek. “Don’t even breathe too quickly!”
Sharon gulped, her heart pounding in her chest. She wasn’t breathing at all.
The mullah pushed off the hood of his robe and extended both his arms skyward, showing the intruder that he held no weapon. That they were confronted by no mere hillman, the priest of Islam was certain; nor was he a Hun, by his dress. That left only one possibility.
“We are not enemies,” he called. “See; we bear no arms.” He unstrapped his dagger slowly and openly, letting it fall to the ground. Unimpressed by this display, the intruder made no move or reply.
“Take us to your village,” Zadek went on. “We have come from the sacred city” —
at this the watchful bear of a man flinched — “and wish to convey to your elders dire news.”
The intruder lifted his right arm and made a secret gesture with his hand. To Sharon’s amazement, other men suddenly appeared from behind nearby trees. They had been here for some time, she realized, hiding and watching, never once betraying themselves.
Zadek turned to greet them; he bowed, hands in a pyramid, then opened them, palms forward. “We are friends.”
“Take them!” called the man on the cliff.
His companions drew razor-sharp knives and wielded them before the princess and the mullah. A few drew cord and blindfolds from their tunics, and before the priest of Islam could protest, they had pulled Asif to his feet and begun to tie all three at the wrists and ankles.
“What are you doing?” cried Zadek. “We are not your enemies —”
A blade at his throat warned him to be silent. And while the three of them stood mute and shivering, the blindfolds were tightened over their eyes and the bonds knotted and expertly secured. They were led slowly to the camels and lifted into the saddles.
“Signal the camp,” Sharon heard someone mutter. The sound of running steps followed; she was sure she heard the galloping of a horse beyond the rise.
Then, bumpily, the camels trod from the smooth oasis grass onto the rocks, first upward, then sharply down. Their captors never spoke, not even among themselves, and it was only the cold bite of the wind hours later that told Sharon that day was done and the long night started. Wherever they were being taken, it was far from where they were — a new journey, perhaps the most hazardous they would take; and what waited at its completion they were too frightened even to guess.
Chapter Twelve
It was a flat, almost perfectly circular patch of land that they had been brought to — striped like the scales of a snake, unbroken except for a dark scattering of rock. The circle was totally surrounded by high granite cliffs, sharp and jagged, with a series of ledges layered right to the top.
Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2 Page 12