Jeff’s first impulse was to sprint for camp in warning yet something rooted him in place. He listened intently and identified the sound—it was the clanking of leg irons.
“More slaves. That explains why the ones in Tradertown have not been moved out to the ships. The Arzak want to wait until the last group arrives before jamming them into cargo holds. There has got to be something I can do!”
Jogging toward Tradertown he suddenly swerved off the road by a hill. Jumping a ditch, Jeff cursed under his breath.
“What is it that’s bothering me? What’s the point of this? I’ve got to get back!”
Worming his way up the hill through thorns and saw grass, he found a spot that allowed an unobstructed view of the road. He sucked on a cut thumb and swatted insects until a column of slaves shuffled into view.
“Ten, twelve, umm—looks like eighteen slaves and six guards.”
Jeff scrambled down the hill when the way was clear. He set out in pursuit planning to press on by the slaves. It was getting on in the day and his anxiety for Zimma’s safety was nearly intolerable. Drawing no more than suspicious glances when he passed the column, Jeff darted quick glances at the slaves. They were emaciated, showed raw whip scars through caked dirt, had long beards and smelled like a pit toilet. His stomach turned in helpless sympathy.
Disturbingly long shadows reminded Jeff of the need to move, and he increased his pace to a jog. He hadn’t gone far when the same baffling sense slowed him to a fast walk.
“What the hell is going on? It might have something to do with those slaves, but they’re no different than the others I’ve seen. I’ve got to get back before that asshole hits our booth!”
Entering Tradertown, internal conflict had slowed his pace to a crawl again. Snarling, “Dammit to hell!” Jeff turned off the road into some shade and waited for the column to catch up. The first slave was nearly abreast when he took a casual pose.
Slave after slave shuffled by to the clanking of chains and leg irons. He had no reaction to any of them other than excruciating pity. Some gibbered insanity, others pleaded for water, most were silent shells with nothing in their eyes at all. They passed one by one until he could not bear the sight. Turning to leave, a rasping croak stopped him in his tracks.
“Jeff?”
The clanking stopped and Jeff whirled around. Several guards were mercilessly whipping a slave that had fallen. One look at the slave next in line and a firestorm of emotion exploded. Jeff felt lightheaded and leaned against a tree trunk to keep from falling.
God, not him! It can’t be him! Not here! Nearly a double, but someone else! Jeff gripped a tree limb hard enough to crack it. A mental probe burned away disbelief. It was Carl Jorgenson.
“Jeff?” Carl lifted his arms in supplication.
His wrists were shackled to a chain around his waist. When his arms stopped, Carl looked down with a confused expression. He tugged at the chain and began to cry.
Jeff experienced a terrible form of epiphany. There was no world or meaning other than the moment and Carl’s tears, but he could do nothing. Given to action, drawn by risk, confident of his ability, yet he could not even touch his best friend. The slave that had fallen was on his feet and one of the guards laid a whip across Carl’s shoulders with a sickening crack.
“Get moving, dog, or you’ll get more. You stop like that again and there’s no water tonight.”
Carl’s eyes went blank and he lowered his head. Emotional agony tore at Jeff’s heart. The limb snapped off in his hand, but he did not draw the Colt. Then they were gone.
Hurrying to their booth, Jeff tried to make sense of it. “Carl must have been near Hoodo Pass when the earthquake struck. If I got tossed here, why not him? But how in hell did the Arzaks get him?” One thing was certain. If Carl didn’t leave on the Baktar, neither would he.
Only Belstan was present when he entered the booth. “Where’s Zimma? On the ship?”
Belstan briefly looked up from counting the day’s proceeds. “No, a customer mentioned some trade goods on the other side of the bazaar that drew her interest. She would not be denied. I sent one of the crew as escort rather than have her venture out alone.”
“Oh, shit! How long ago? Quickly!”
Jumping to his feet in alarm, Belstan knocked the table over and spilled a pile of coins onto the floor.
“A short span only. Why? What has happened?”
Jeff had the Colt out. He briefed Belstan while slipping the sixth round into place. “I’m going to get Zimma. What you can’t carry in one load to the launch must be left behind. Pull away from shore and wait. Their commander will move any time now.” Jeff got directions, scooped up spare cartridges and tore out the back.
Tradertown was in deep shadow. Vendors were closing up shop and customer traffic had thinned out to nothing. He frantically searched the location Belstan had given him. It was deserted except for shop owners. The proprietor Zimma had gone to visit recoiled when he saw Jeff’s expression.
“Yes, she was here, then was invited to look at more goods over there by someone’s servant.”
The trader’s finger pointed in a direction that made Jeff’s heart stop for a second. “Oh, God help us, that’s the Arzak section.” He slammed his fist onto the booth’s counter, making the trader jump. “Damnation! Why didn’t she use her head? Now they’ve got her, too!” He left at a run.
Darting from shadow to shadow, Jeff kicked himself for not having come back sooner. “But dammit,” he fumed, “I would have missed Carl!”
The Arzak section was also deserted, and Jeff felt a blast of panic. Where? he thought. Where would they take her? He remembered the elaborate tent he had earlier concluded must be Arzak HQ.
It was dark when he arrived at the Arzak military encampment. Slipping from tent to tent, Jeff dodged several guards. With the jungle and safe cover only yards away, he was forced to dive for cover. Two Arzaks stopped several feet away. Inhaling what looked like cigars to an orange glow, they chatted amiably and traded bad jokes. Whatever they were smoking made Jeff’s head swim. Come on, move it, assholes! he thought desperately. What have they done to her by now?
He was about to explode when the Arzaks flipped butt ends cartwheeling sparks and wandered off. Ghosting through the jungle toward his goal, Jeff stumbled over an obstruction. Lying at his feet was the mutilated body of a Baktar crewman. Jeff’s mind crossed a threshold and settled into its coldly calculating state where doubt, remorse and pity had no place. He stepped over the body and moved quietly to the edge of the jungle. Ten yards of open ground separated him from Arzak HQ.
Willing his pulse to slow down, Jeff listened intently. Nothing more than harsh snatches of conversation. Laughter filtered through tent walls then faded to silence. Jeff was about to leave when he heard scuffling sounds and a loud order. No guards were in sight. Drawing knife and saber, he dashed to the back of the tent.
Jeff thought he heard cloth tearing but wasn’t sure. More laughter and what had to be a ringing slap. A crash as something was knocked over. Listening for concrete evidence of Zimma’s presence, his body jerked at a terrified shriek that was quickly cut off. Lips set in a feral snarl he slit a seam far enough so he could see.
Three soldiers were lifting Zimma onto a table. She twisted and thrashed trying to get free, but they laughed and forced her legs apart. She scratched one of them and he backhanded her across the face. Blood shot from her nose and soaked the gag in her mouth. Laughing at the sight, the guards fondled her breasts.
Zimma was naked except for underpants, which were being cut off. Two guards on duty at the tent door looked on with their lust showing and sidled closer. The commander’s erection was visible as he spread Zimma’s thighs farther and moved between her legs.
One of the guards stared stupidly when a knife blade suddenly pierced the tent wall and slit a seam from top to bottom.
“You son of a bitch!”
Leaping through the cut, Jeff drove his saber through the comm
ander’s body. Kicking the writhing body off his sword with a snarl, he swung a roundhouse cut that nearly decapitated one of those holding Zimma. Shouts of alarm rang out as the saber pierced the throat of another guard. Arzaks stationed at the tent door turned to run but bounced off others trying to enter. Jerking Zimma off the table, Jeff thrust her behind him and shifted the saber to his left hand. The .357 flew into his right.
Five Arzaks started their rush with drawn swords. Jeff dropped to a knee and fired at the nearest one, the crashing ring of the explosion deafening in the confined space. Hit in the chest, the guard was blown backward into the man behind who was also struck by the bullet as it continued its path. Jeff fired a second then a third time, knocking over two more and filling the tent with gunsmoke and blast concussions. The last Arzak turned tail and ran out of the tent wailing terror.
Holstering the .357, Jeff ripped the gag off. Zimma didn’t seem to recognize him, just stared blankly and wiped at the blood running down her chin. One side of her face was turning purple, and red handprints were visible on both breasts. Fury that had been building since he discovered Carl had not been satisfied, but the need for revenge was pushed aside by the sound of thudding boots. Jeff hoisted Zimma into a fireman’s carry and staggered out the rear of the tent.
Once into the forest he stopped to get his breath. Zimma was beginning to struggle so he set her down. Pulling her along, Jeff raced to the body of the Baktar seaman and stripped it of trousers and tunic. He handed them to Zimma, but she let them drop.
“It’s Jeff, Zimma. You must put these on.” He held the clothing out to her again. Shouts and screams were hardly softened by screening trees, and a bugle was braying the alarm over and over. “Oh, baby, please! We can’t stay here!”
Zimma shook her head violently, spit blood from her mouth and put on the clothing with Jeff’s help. Taking her hand, they moved deeper into the woods. When the uproar faded to a faint commotion, he stopped to wipe blood from her face. It was a simple act of concern that triggered such a rush of emotion that Zimma burst into great sobs of relief. She really was safe. Jeff held her until she quieted.
“It is difficult to ask this of you. There is another person I am going release tonight. I must do this or not return.”
After only a heartbeat, Zimma nodded. Anger had overcome terror. Jeff took her hand again and hurried toward the slave tent. This was a golden opportunity to free Carl. In fact, it was now or never.
With infinite care, Jeff sliced open a rear panel of the wall tent that served as a holding pen and peered inside. A single oil lamp did little more than create shadows. Three guards, and it looked like the slaves were chained to two massive posts. Two of the guards were peering out the entrance trying to figure out what was going on. There wasn’t a chance he could silence all of the guards before they raised the alarm. Hopefully there were no more stationed outside.
It suddenly occurred to Jeff that there might be more than one holding pen. Carl might not be in this one. He studied the pile of slaves and exhaled slowly. Curled up in a ball, Carl was sleeping in a tangle of chains.
Jeff whispered, “Ready?” Zimma gripped his hand in reply. Knife at the ready, he stepped inside.
Slipping up behind the nearest guard, Jeff clamped a hand over his mouth and cut his throat. The two guards at the entrance noticed the motion and came on with a shout. Jeff waited until they were within a few yards and shot them both.
“The keys! We must find them! We only have minutes!”
“Here they are!” Zimma plucked a ring of keys from the first guard Jeff had killed.
Panicked by the gunshots, slaves clanked around in a confused jumble while Zimma unlocked chains with flying fingers. Jeff reloaded and hurried to Carl. He was looking around with dazed eyes and little comprehension.
“Off your ass, Jorgenson. We’ve got to move.”
Tearing the irons off Carl’s ankles, Jeff dragged him to the front of the tent. He stopped at the entrance and held an arm out to prevent Zimma from leaving, allowing slaves to run from the tent in twos and threes. Angry shouts and orders to stop rang out accompanied by the crack of whips. Jeff counted to ten and looked outside.
The larger moon was well up and the smaller above the treetops, serving to reveal Arzaks racing around the area shouting questions, orders and counter-orders. Bonfires were beginning to roar as wood was heaped on, adding dancing orange light to the confusion. Grimly satisfied, Jeff took Carl’s hand and they moved at a cautious trot toward the shore.
They made it to the far side of the bazaar before Jeff heard loud commands not far behind. It was still at least three hundred yards to the beach. They would never make it. He stopped behind a booth and took Zimma by the shoulders.
“You must go on and take Carl with you. I think Belstan will be waiting a short ways from the beach. Call him! If he isn’t waiting, swim for the Baktar. I must stay and gain time.”
“I cannot leave you to face the soldiers alone!”
“What can you do, Zimma? You have no weapon. Someone must get Carl to the beach. Please do this for me.”
Zimma wanted to refuse but realized there was little she could do to help. Suddenly they were in each other’s arms. Jeff crushed Zimma to him and quickly released her. Turning away, he jogged back the way they had come. Zimma caught Carl’s hand and pulled him toward the beach. Before fading into the night, she threw an agonized look over her shoulder.
Concealed behind a trading booth, Jeff waited. Shortly he detected a vague group of figures moving cautiously from shadow to shadow in the moonlight. Jeff counted seven in the group and waited with drawn saber. He planned to cut down as many as possible in the first assault, then turn to the Colt.
When they were abreast he jumped out of hiding with sword in motion. Surprise was complete. Before they could rally, two Arzak were down and the rest fell back. He was about to draw the pistol when he was attacked from the side and had to beat off a furious assault. Unnoticed, a second group of four Arzaks had circled in from his left. Jeff put his back to the booth and held them off, but could not spare even the few seconds it would take to draw the Colt.
It was not many minutes before he began to grow very tired. He knew the end was not far unless he could get at the pistol. Jeff went for it but felt a searing shock in his left leg and nearly collapsed as a blade drove home. Eager to make the kill, more Arzak crowded in on the fight with excited shouts. Within seconds he had taken another cut on his left side.
Numb with fatigue and blood loss, Jeff was only vaguely aware when the pressure of their attack slackened to nothing and Arzak shouts of victory gave way to mortal shrieks.
Standing with his back to the booth holding his side, Jeff slid to the ground in a sprawl. He watched the battle with vacant interest as blood pooled beneath him then all was black.
Chapter Thirteen
A Time to Run
Later, Jeff could remember only disjointed scenes and impressions from the first two days after receiving wounds that had nearly killed him. He faded in and out of consciousness, the only consistent picture that of Zimma’s face hovering over him. Distantly, he noted the ever-darker circles under her eyes. On occasion Belstan’s voice drifted in from the background.
Jeff entered full consciousness swaying in a hammock strung amidships on the Baktar’s deck, the sun warming him as he moved from shadow to light and back again. He tried to lift his head but could not. Zimma’s face abruptly appeared and looked down at him.
A large bruise on her cheek was turning green, and her lips and nose were badly swollen. He managed a wan smile. Tears fell on his face when Zimma laid her cheek on his. That evening, having been carried below and fortified with a mug of broth, Jeff learned what had transpired after parting from Zimma and Carl.
At the shore, Zimma and Carl had literally stumbled into Belstan. He had indeed left the beach, but only to collect the Baktar’s crew and return. Upon hearing what had happened to her and of the death of their fellow crewman, t
he Baktars were in a fury. They would have rushed headlong into battle had not Belstan organized and led the attack.
Seven Arzaks remained when they arrived. The crew wanted blood and none of the Arzak remained alive after a furious counterattack. While the battle swirled around her, Zimma tried to stop the blood flow from Jeff’s leg but could do no more than slow it down. She called for help and one of the older men applied a tourniquet to his thigh above the laceration. The chest wound was not bleeding badly and would have to wait.
Hoisting Jeff on their shoulders, they beat a hasty retreat to the ship with a fresh contingent of Arzaks on their heels. The captain had remained on board to prepare. The launch had no more than settled on the deck when the anchor heaved out of the water and the Baktar gathered way to the north on a fading zephyr.
At that point in the recitation, Jeff broke in with an urgent whisper. “My sword. Where’s my sword?”
Belstan chuckled and came over to where he was lying carrying the saber. “Now I am convinced you will heal. I was certain you would ask. We have also put your weapon-of-six-deaths under lock and key.”
“How is Carl?”
“He is in the next cabin sleeping.” Belstan shook his head in sadness and disgust. “Long have Borgo and Arzak traded in slaves, robbing them of their lives and, much more heinous, their minds. Some, when by chance or circumstance freed, recover their will while others live on as a shadow of what they were or could have been.” He smiled and waved an optimistic finger about. “This one, I believe, has good prospects. The spark of awareness and interest in life appear to be returning.”
Three days had passed since leaving Tradertown. Considering the fluky winds, the captain estimated they were still two days out. Jeff spent the rest of the trip flat on his back in a cot or swaying in the hammock. His body was so weak he could hardly shift position, but Zimma was always there to help.
Exile to the Stars (The Alarai Chronicles) Page 24