Empires of Sand

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Empires of Sand Page 53

by Empires of Sand (retail) (epub)


  As he raced along, the sides of the canyon grew perceptibly steeper, until they were almost vertical walls, punctuated by occasional steep narrow gorges cut deeply into the rock that disappeared out of view.

  The rocky floor was growing progressively sandier – a light sprinkle at first, then a thin layer that crunched under his feet, finally a thick bed of it that sucked at his boots, slowing his progress and making him work harder for it. The muscles in his thighs began to feel the drag, aching with each stride, his lungs hurting, his breath strained and ragged, spots of light dancing in his eyes. He’d been sprinting flat-out for fifteen minutes. He was in good shape, but the Hoggar was high above sea level, its air thin. Finally, unable to maintain the pace, he had to stop to catch his breath. Chest heaving, he rested his arm with the rifle against one of the pillars and looked back over his shoulder. Nothing but the pillars met his eyes. His ears were ringing with his effort, and he heard nothing. For an exhilarating instant he thought his pursuers had given up. Surely they could not have kept up his pace. The thought lasted only an instant. Around the last pillar, sword in one hand, Gras rifle in the other, came a Targui, hot after him. The man had removed his sandals and was bloodying his feet for speed.

  They saw each other simultaneously, both half-expecting it, but both surprised nonetheless. The Targui drew up sharply, dropping his sword and raising the rifle. Paul was gone before the deafening shot came, protected by the rock he’d rested on. The Targui gave a high-pitched cry, picked up his sword, and ran on. Within seconds another was there, and then the last.

  They all shrilled. They knew what the Frenchman was running into. They had him.

  Paul ran on, astonished at the speed and determination of the Tuareg. Consumed with his own efforts, he’d given no thought to theirs and had believed himself much farther in front. He would have to go faster. He ran just a few minutes more when he stopped short. There were no more pillars before him. He’d run through the last passage. The canyon was no canyon at all. It was a box, and he’d found its end. His eyes raced along the wall, exploring shadows, niches, looking for something, anything to let him continue. There was only sheer, jagged rock before him, with steep gorges, ledges, and outcroppings. He was no mountain climber. He thought about trying to cut back through the canyon, to lose himself in the pillars and slip by his hunters, but the canyon was too narrow for that. Undoubtedly they knew what he now faced and would be spreading out, ready. He had no idea how many there were, or whether they all had rifles or just the one. Regardless, this was no place to defend himself. He had to go on.

  In desperation he saw his only chance – one of the steep gorges, cut by the raging waters of the millennia, barely big enough for a man at its opening, and very, very steep. Its course was lost to view less than ten meters up. Maybe it wouldn’t be too steep to climb. Maybe it would lead him up to the ridge of the canyon, nearly a hundred and fifty meters over his head. At ieast it would give him the high ground and better cover. He had to try.

  As he raced for it, another shot came. It was nowhere close to him. At least one of them, he thought, was a poor shot. He turned and fired his pistol three times while he ran, wildly, quickly, not aiming, simply meaning to force them to cover. Amplified by the rocks, his shots nearly deafened him, sounding more like a cannon than a pistol. He reached the gorge and leapt up the first few steps. They were easy and short, like large stairs, but as he bounded up they were taller and closer together. He quickly found his weapons a hindrance. He needed at least one hand free. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and around his neck, so that it hung against his back. Still holding the pistol, he started to pull himself up a long series of the steplike rocks. Except for the faults, the stone was worn smooth. He hoisted himself up, ran across the top to the next ledge, and repeated the motion, climbing steadily up.

  He reached the halfway point when another shot came. The bullet smashed into the step above him, showering him with chips of rock. He let himself drop to the slab below, raised his pistol, and turned. There was nothing, only the steep steps twisting down. He waited, crouching as low as he could without losing his balance, holding the pistol extended, ready to fire. There was only one place they could be. The range was too great for accuracy with a pistol, but unslinging his rifle could be a deadly delay.

  Then he saw the dull black barrel, and the soft edge of a black shesh, low, at the bend. He aimed and waited a second longer, until the cloth became a head and a shoulder. He fired. He missed the head, where he’d aimed, but the rock next to the shesh exploded, peppering the Targui with rock shards. He heard a terrible scream and saw the shesh disappear backward, the rifle falling. Paul fired once more at the same spot, then turned and hoisted himself up two more of the slabs. The gorge was still curving as it led him upward. He’d soon be out of their rifle sight again, and perhaps find a place where he could use his own rifle. The Targui’s awful shrieks tore at his concentration as the sound of agony engulfed the gorge. Paul swallowed hard, grimacing at the noise. The rocks must have shredded the man’s eyes. He kept moving, pushing the thought from his mind.

  The incline and height of the rocks increased sharply, making his climb more difficult. He needed his other hand totally free, as he knew his pursuers would as well. He holstered his pistol. He’d gotten more than three-quarters of the way to the top when even two free hands were barely enough to continue upward. The steps began sloping on top, so that there was less and less to stand on. His legs pushed, toes searching for holds, arms pulling, fingers clutching, each new ascent more difficult than the last as the steps began to disappear altogether, until he found himself clinging to a nearly vertical slab of granite. Still he pushed upward, his chest and stomach in constant contact with the rock beneath, his hold growing more tenuous each moment. He looked up. Rock walls soared above him on both sides. He prayed there was somewhere to keep going, because he couldn’t see it now. Up and up he climbed, every so often finding a small outcropping to grasp, but having to stretch more for each one, his legs almost dangling free as his boots sought purchase in the rock niches. Several times small rocks he tested for support broke free and clattered down the mountain. They fell, hit, split apart, and hit again, until they made a distant thud at the bottom. He shut his eyes, thinking he might sound like that, only softer. If it got any steeper, he knew, he couldn’t hold on any longer.

  He stopped and looked down through the hole between his armpit and the rock, past his boots, and saw two blue-clad figures twenty meters below, scaling up behind him. He closed his eyes. The view downward was dizzying, spreading a rush of fear from his belly to his limbs. He had never climbed before, never known the terror height could bring. It was insane, he thought. They could see each other clearly but were powerless to do anything except cling like flies to a wall. Perhaps the hunters would have abandoned their quarry, perhaps the quarry would have stood and fought had they known where his flight was leading, but with each successive rock, each new handhold, their course had become fixed, irrevocable, and they were forced to go on. He choked down the fear, opened his eyes, looked upward, and kept climbing.

  He reached a ledge at last. His fingers found it first, a body’s width away. He gently felt with his right boot for a hold, tested one, rejected it, then found one that worked. Jamming his boot in, supporting his full weight on his toes, he pushed himself up, stretching precariously across the distance, and held on to the ledge as he shifted across. He pushed up until his right leg was straight, then worked his left knee up between his body and the rock and onto the ledge. He shifted most of his weight onto it and carefully brought the other knee up, all the time trying not to lean even a millimeter backward in the certainty that it would be too much and he’d be gone. His entire body trembled from the exertion and the electric clamor of his nerves. He stood up a bit at a time, spread-eagled, his face brushing the rock – the only way his body could stay close enough to the wall. Just turning his head threw his balance out. He scraped his nose on the rock, co
mfortable only when his cheek rested flat against it.

  The ledge coursed gently upward toward the wall that formed one side of the gorge. He could see another ledge above him, probably at or near the top. He could see the branches of a tree! Heartened, he began sidestepping up the ledge, left foot groping out, body shifting along sideways, right foot following, left foot moving up once again, his hands trying to find small holds, his cheek pressed to the rock.

  When he had nearly reached the wall he stopped and stared. There was no way across. There was a chasm more than three meters wide that dropped down out of sight. He tried to still his terror. If the ledge didn’t continue around the corner, he knew he’d never be able to turn around and get down again – not with the Tuareg, not without wings. Slowly he made his way to the end of the ledge, carefully looking around the corner. His eyes shut tight in despair. The rock was smooth. The ledge disappeared.

  Shaking, he turned to look the other way. One of the Tuareg, rifle slung over his shoulder, had already reached the ledge. The other followed close behind. Desperately, Paul’s hands explored the surface above him, searching for a hold, for anything to help him go up. He felt a hole. He couldn’t tell how deep it was, but it gave him an idea. Pressing hard against the wall, he raised one hand back over his neck until he felt the strap of his rifle. He brought the strap up and over his head, each movement slow, drawn out, and terrifying, and then let the strap slip down his arm until it reached his elbow, and he could reach the gun with his hand. Gripping the rifle near the stock, he brought his arm up along the rock, the barrel scraping as it went, until he had the weapon over his head. He held the rifle to the wall and pressed on it while he worked his way up the barrel, until his hand was halfway between the stock and the end. He slipped his fingers behind the steel, gripped it firmly, and braced himself. He swung the stock end of the rifle away from the wall, its weight making him gasp as it pressed hard against the fleshy web between his thumb and forefinger, his knuckles white and wrist straining as he fought to keep the stock high. As it swung outward, he slipped the barrel into the hole he’d found, and worked the tip in. He nearly lost his balance as the end disappeared, the weight of the stock still pulling his arm back, then he had it. He worked the rifle deeper and deeper until the barrel was jammed in the hole as far as it would go. It would have to do. The Targui was sidestepping toward him.

  Paul grabbed the protruding stock with both hands. His feet lost their hold on the ledge, and with a horrible lurch his full weight dropped onto the rifle, his feet swinging clear. Barely five meters away, the Targui watched him silently. He saw Paul swing, looked up and saw the ledge, above, and looked back at the Frenchman, dangling from his rifle. Waiting for the swinging to stop, Paul saw the Targui’s brown eyes through the slit. They were coldly intent. The Targui reached a decision. Using the same slow, careful motions that Paul had just finished, the man began to unsling his rifle.

  Paul knew he had only seconds to get up. He pulled hard, muscles shaking, until his chin was over the top of the rifle. Red-faced, straining, he pushed more, until he had first one elbow, then the other on top, then pushing farther still until his chest was up, then his stomach. Their eyes were fixed on each other in the deadly race, their motions slow, cautious, deliberate, each man clinging to his own precarious balance. The Targui’s gun was now down to the crook of his elbow. His hand was working to clasp the stock.

  Holding his arms rigid, his eyes steady on the Targui, Paul drew himself up until his knees were over the top. With his left arm he reached up for support on the wall. With his right he reached slowly for his holster. His knees pressed painfully into the steel and wood, but his mind was focused on the man before him, and his rifle, beginning its upward swing, his hand on the trigger. Paul’s fingers, shaky from the strain, fumbled desperately at the snap and opened it at last.

  They heard the noise at the same instant. Without looking they knew what it was. Each of them stopped dead still, not daring to move, pressing close to the wall to stay out of the way. Small pebbles came first, with sand, then bigger rocks, smashing down, their noise preceding them. Paul clenched his teeth, sucked in his breath, and closed his eyes. He felt small pebbles hit him on the head, and expected to die.

  He heard a cry and opened his eyes. One of the rocks hit the Targui’s shoulder, knocking the rifle from his hand. The shock knocked his arm sharply downward, destroying his balance. In horrified fascination, Paul watched as the arm waved frantically to recover, but there was no hope, and he was gone – his head dropping first, then his feet, his robes rippling in the rush of air. He hit the rock below with a horrible crunching and snapping noise, arms and legs flopping, and kept falling. The first blow loosened the end of his shesh, and as he continued downward the material streamed out behind him, waving like a long flag in the wind. He hit again, the sound more muffled, and kept falling, his body turning over and over as it slammed into rocks and fell through the air. After what seemed an eternity he came to rest on one of the small steps, his shesh trailed up to the one above. From the beginning, the man had uttered not a sound.

  Paul swallowed, his mind numb. More loose pebbles fell. He looked at the remaining Targui, still frozen in position and staring at the heap of blue far below, transfixed.

  Shakily Paul stood up on his rifle, his stomach churning, the rifle wiggling a little under his feet as he straightened up, but then holding steady. He reached for his pistol, unholstered it, and raised it. He couldn’t miss. The Targui’s gaze left the rocks below and went slowly up to the Frenchman standing on his rifle. Without flinching, he waited.

  Paul felt the trigger beneath his finger, his eyes fixed on the target’s head. He hesitated. The Targui had no rifle, no firearms at all. Just his great sword, still sheathed, useless against him here. For a full minute Paul held him in his sight, his aim unwavering. He dropped his eyes to the rifle on which he was standing. Slowly he lowered his pistol. Still the Targui did not move. Using hand signals, Paul showed him what he wanted. At first the Targui made no move, but when Paul started to raise his weapon again, he carefully drew the sword from its sheath. He held it for a moment, then tossed it over the edge. The steel flashed. The blade clanged against the rock and was gone. His eyes never left Paul.

  When the silence returned, Paul put his pistol back in its holster. He boosted himself up onto the upper ledge, his body nearly collapsing in relief as he felt solid ground at last. The shelf was wide, the top an easy few steps up. He rested a moment, then turned around. He leaned down over the edge, stretching as far as he could. His toes fought for a hold in the rocks behind him as he worked the rifle free. He nearly lost it as it came out, but he had the barrel, and pulled it up onto the ledge, scooting back until he was on flat ground again. He peered over the edge. The Targui hadn’t moved. Paul was satisfied. The man couldn’t follow him, and couldn’t turn around to get down without a rope. He would learn to fly or grow old on the side of the rock.

  Paul stood. The barrel of his rifle had bent. The gun was useless. With all the force he could summon, he flung it out over the edge, as if the effort might shake off the terror. He turned and climbed the rest of the way up.

  He thought he’d never seen a view as beautiful as the one he faced when he reached the top. He stood on a plateau, a massive bed of rock surrounded by low mountains. Serkout rose behind them to the northeast, dwarfing everything before it. Large boulders and rock formations were scattered over the plateau, looking oddly out of place on the flat surface, as if gathered by the gods from their rightful places and set down. The mountains were rugged as always, but here their coarse line was broken by spectacular mantles of sand spilling out from between them, some dropping like waterfalls, collecting in pools on the mountainsides as water would, others like magnificent glaciers, pushed by the ageless hand of time through the passes, creeping down the valleys, inexorably smothering everything in the way. The rock was dark gray, the sand a rich light mixture of gray and gold. The sun was low in the sky
, its light mellowing the colors. Paul thought he could be looking at snow and ice on Alpen passes at home. The sky glowed eerily through the light haze in the atmosphere, pink and purple bands of color seeming to radiate from the rocks.

  It was getting late. He was weak from hunger and fatigue. As much as he wanted to stop and rest a few moments, there was no time. He had to make his way to the southeast, back to the base camp.

  He began walking, but hesitated. His pistol was nearly empty. He stopped to reload it, sitting cross-legged on the ground. As he was slipping the shells in, an uncontrollable trembling seized him. His arms, hands, legs, shoulders – everything refused to work, to do anything but submit to violent shuddering. It was frightening. His hand went numb and he dropped the pistol, unable to maintain his grip. He slipped to his back and stretched out and stared at the sky, trying to regain control, but the shaking grew worse. A torrent of fear and wonder washed over him, a sense of unreality coursing through his awareness. He began to think of the immensity of what had happened. He couldn’t measure the change that had taken place in his life, or even quite define it. He could only barely comprehend its scope, and feel helpless in its magnitude. That morning he had been one man among many, a minor officer safe in obscurity and the illusion of the Hoggar’s serenity. His life had been so easy, so absurdly easy. Until today. Until Tadjenout. He shut his eyes to close out the sky, and for a moment felt vague tentacles of dread settling over his mind, reaching down into the places where all was blackness and he could not see.

 

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