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

by Graham Diamond

  Mariana looked at him curiously. The haj had spoken of his first son, and of his third. The middle son had purposely been omitted, and she wondered why.

  “And what of the second?” she asked.

  At this the haj frowned. “Another sad tale, Mariana. Why speak of it?” He took her small hand in his own and pressed it gently. “It’s time you had children of your own,” he told her in a fatherly tone. “Your own family and sons …”

  Mariana flushed. “I hope to,” she confided. “As soon as this business is ended.”

  He squeezed her hand harder. “Promise me, child, that you will. I must know it before … before I die. Promise me!”

  She was startled by him. With a gasp, she said, “Die? What do you mean? What is this morbid talk? Why are you saying such things?”

  Burlu sighed again. “Because I suspect what lies ahead for us, and I know I am old …” His smile returned; he touched her cheek, brushing his fingertips toward her mouth. “But you shall live, Mariana. I vowed it long ago. Even should every man among us be lost to the Druids, you shall live.” He leaned in closer and looked at her sternly. “Now promise me you’ll keep your word.”

  “Of course I promise,” she replied, taken aback and feeling frightened. “But why even ask it?”

  “Because it’s important to me. Very important.” He shut his eyes, and she watched in surprise as a single tear rolled down his face. She wondered why he was telling all this to her now.

  His eyes opened again; he gazed at her fondly. “You still have no idea of why I say these things, do you?”

  Dark curls fell over her eyes as she shook her head.

  The haj smiled. “Then perhaps it it time we spoke, Mariana. And when we are done, many mysteries will be explained.”

  She hadn’t an inkling of what he meant; she began to wonder if some fever had overtaken him. In all the time she had known haj Burlu, she had never seen him act or speak so strangely. This sudden change left her feeling uneasy.

  “Where were you born, child?” he asked suddenly.

  “In Kalimar. Outside of the city, somewhere. Or so I have been told.”

  “And your parents?”

  Mariana sniffed. “Both dead. My father when I was an infant, my mother when I was four. It was then that I was taken to the Jandari and raised by an old woman I called my aunt, though she really was no family at all. In fact, except for Ramagar, I have never had any family to call my own.”

  “None?” questioned the haj.

  Mariana shrugged. “At least none that I knew of. Why?”

  Burlu made no attempt to answer her question, only asked another of his own. “Your mother, what was her name?”

  “Rhia. Those who knew her say she was a very beautiful woman.”

  “She must have been,” reflected the haj. “Very beautiful indeed. And you very much like her. Except for the eyes, those could only be his. I would know them anywhere …”

  A strange sensation was growing and spreading through Mariana’s body. She shivered as goose bumps rose down her neck. “I don’t… understand. What—what are you saying?”

  The haj’s eyes were wet with tears now; he could not stop the flow, nor did he want to. “Do you still not know?”

  She shook her head.

  “I have known it since the first night you came to my tents,” he admitted. “Known for certain since the very instant I saw you. There could be no question of it. Now now, not then.”

  She was staring blankly, and the haj gently ran his fingers through her silky hair. “Your father, Mariana. Do you know his name? Did your mother tell you that much?”

  The girl swallowed and nodded.

  “And that name, was it… Etron?”

  Her heart leaped to her throat and she gasped. “Yes! How did you know?”

  The old haj lifted his shoulders, putting his hands to his face while he cried. “Etron was my son, Mariana. My second son, gone to Kalimar to seek his fortunes.” Then he looked up at the astounded girl and tried to smile. “And you are my … granddaughter.”

  Mariana opened her mouth to speak but could find no words. It could not be true! But then, she hoped it was, for she had already come to love the haj as if he were her grandfather. Yet the news was so sudden, so unreal, that it left her head swimming.

  “Is … is all this really true?” she asked with a sniff, her eyes wide and bright. “Or… are you just teasing me?”

  The haj drew her close, cradling her against him as they both shed tears. “Never would I lie to you, Mariana,” he said. “I swear it by all I hold dear. The blood that flowed through Etron’s veins flows through your own. You are my granddaughter …”

  For a time they both sat in silence. Mariana’s heart was filled with joy, yet also with sorrow for the father she had never known.

  “What was he like? My father, I mean,” she said after a while.

  The haj sighed; he gently toyed with her dark locks, twisting little curls around his finger. “Etron was a … a father you would have been proud of, child. Tall, handsome, valiant. Even as Ramagar is. It broke my heart to see him leave home and set out for Kalimar. Yet, young men must follow their destinies, be they for good or ill. Alas, after he left my tents I never saw him again…”

  “What happened to him?” asked the girl.

  “A trader from the city sought shelter one night, several years after Etron had gone. By chance he had heard of my son, and he told me that the lad had taken a wife and been given a daughter. But then my guest’s eyes grew dull, and he cast his glance away, reluctant to speak further. But I entreated him until he told me how Etron had died, died not more than three weeks before of a terrible fever that had swept the city.” Here the haj paused to reflect on that crushing hour, to relive the pain that had never quite ceased.

  “Not long after,” he began anew, “I sent to the city two of my most trusted and able servants. They combed Kalimar high and low for Etron’s wife and their baby daughter. But the city is so vast, and there are countless thousands to be found there with tales equally as sad. At last my servants came home. As I waited with eagerness beside my tents I saw the long faces they wore, and I had no need to hear them speak the words. Etron’s widow was lost, never to be found. And likewise the young daughter whose name I did not even know …”

  “If only my mother had stayed,” whispered Mariana.

  “Yes, child. If only. But fate often plays cruel games with mortals. Heartbroken, I was forced to give up the search, though the desire to seek them forever remained. But then,” and here his old eyes brightened like stars, “that starless evening when Ramagar came to my tents seeking shelter, I realized that the Fates had not betrayed me. For when I saw you, from the very first moment, something within me already knew, although I dared not let myself admit it. Before me stood a lovely woman, yet still a child. And her eyes were his—Etron’s—her smile, her gestures. It was almost like seeing my son reborn.

  “At first I could not believe; I wondered if perhaps my mind was slipping from me, as it frequently does to old men. But when we spoke, you and I, and I listened and watched, I knew I had not been wrong. I dared not tell you of it, certain you would think me demented. Indeed I doubted if I would ever tell you, knowing that only pain and bitter memories would come of it. Yet now, when we face such dangers on the morrow, I could hold back no longer. I had to say it while there was still time, so that should I… not return with you … you will know that I loved you, and that all I have is yours.”

  Mariana looked into his eyes and saw the glow of truth. And she too thought back to the evening when they had first met, recalling her own strange affinity for the old haj. Perhaps in some way she had known of their bond as well. But that no longer mattered. What did matter was that now, a thousand leagues from home, she had found the family she’d been seeking all her life.

  “Do you believe what I’ve told you?” the haj asked at length.

  Tears welled again, as she said, “I do believe you �
�� Grandfather.” And as her voice cracked, she fell into his strong waiting arms and sobbed.

  19

  Deeper and deeper into Speca’s curious landscape the band of adventurers marched, ever mindful of the lengthening distance between themselves and the sea, constantly oppressed by the darkness that swirled above their heads.

  After hours of making their way over barren hills and into a valley, they paused to consider the best route to follow. On one side lay a shallow wisp of a stream, whose waters seemed tinted yellow in the subdued light; on the other, a sharply sloping trail appeared to lead to the blackened forests where deadened trunks stood limb to limb, taller than houses, as foreboding as they were dense.

  Argyle and the Prince debated heatedly for a few moments over which direction they should follow. It seemed likely that both led sooner or later to the walled city where the Devil’s Tower stood as a grim monument for all Speca’s subjugated peoples to see.

  Mariana stood quietly at the edge of the gathered group, sweeping her gaze along the stream, gloomily noting vast stretches of crushed rock strewn in jumbled masses on either side. It mattered little to her which of the two choices was finally agreed upon; each seemed inhospitable enough. Like everything else in this barbaric wilderness, the selection was of one clump of rot over another.

  While the discussion continued—Ramagar and the haj agreeing with the lord of Aran and the others siding with the Prince—Mariana first caught sight of a cloud of dust suddenly rising from the edge of the plain beyond the dale. The source of the dust was hidden by a line of broken ridges and cliffs set in the valley, but now it was beginning to swirl and thicken and a faint rumbling sound rose with it.

  The girl stood frozen; against the backdrop of the Darkness it was too difficult to ascertain what was going on, but the rumble was steadily growing in intensity, starting to shake the ground beneath her feet, and sounding more and more like the clamor of racing horses.

  “Druids!” she cried.

  Argyle spun like a cat, his sword drawn in the blink of an eye. As everybody hit the dirt, Ramagar grabbed the girl by her tunic and yanked her down into the damp soil beside him.

  The horses were growing closer, hoofbeats shattering the stilled air like cannon. Slowly, the thief and Argyle inched their way to the crest and, poking their heads between two enormous rocks, peered uneasily out at the plain.

  Far away, crossing the empty flat with deranged speed, came a grim procession of fine black stallions, blue manes flowing in the wind, coats sleek and shiny with perspiration. Magnificent horses, Ramagar noted, perhaps the best he had ever seen. Riding low in the leather saddles were the soldiers, tall, lean men, not as burly perhaps as the gruesome Night-Watchers, but equally as alien, and equally as intimidating. Brutish fellows from the looks of them, dour and cruel. At least twenty in number, they all wore silver and black tunics, crimson cloaks curling behind. Upon their heads were plumed helmets, thin mail across their chests. They rode their steeds with expertise, clearly masters of Speca’s wild trails. Never once did they halt or even pause as they crossed the treacherous flat and disappeared inside the Black Forest.

  “They seem to be in quite a hurry to get where they’re going,” Ramagar observed dryly.

  Argyle spit into the wind as response.

  The thief tapped a finger against his teeth warily. “Do you suppose they’ve had wind of us?”

  The brooding lord shrugged. “Best we don’t stop to ask,” was all he said.

  Ramagar slid back down to his waiting companions, careful to keep his body low, even though now the Druid troops were gone.

  The band gathered closer, kneeling and listening uneasily as the thief explained what he had seen. “We were fortunate this time,” he told them all. “I doubt many patrols will pass while we’re still in this wilderness.” His eyes scanned the surrounding scape briefly, his hand grandly gesturing as if to add emphasis to his words.

  “But there’ll be plenty about the closer we get to the city,” added the Prince gloomily. “We’ll have to be more alert. Between the soldiers and the Death-Stalkers our hands are going to be full…”

  Mariana shuddered, recalling Argyle’s warning while they were still on Aran. The Death-Stalkers! Hideous birds of prey, trained to swoop down and kill, they combed the skies of Darkness at will, ready and eager to do the bidding of their Druid masters. They were said to attack in frightful numbers, shrieking as they dived upon their hapless prey, be it man or beast. And when they were done, only bones were left to give testimony to the deed.

  It was a sobering reminder to everyone—and they trembled to ponder what other horrors yet unknown they might encounter in this land.

  Heaving a sigh, Ramagar picked up his knapsack, fitted the straps, and easily slung it back over his shoulder. “Sitting here and worrying isn’t going to help us any,” he said. “Let’s get moving again. Now, which route shall we take?”

  “It seems our Druid friends have already decided that for us,” the Prince replied. “Since they rode toward the forest, our best bet is to follow the stream after all.”

  He glanced around at his companions one by one. There was no dissent; everybody seemed eager to avoid the soldiers at all costs. As they made ready to leave each pair of eyes drifted occasionally toward the sky, this time not with concern for the dismal array of clouds, but rather in anxious fear of the flying enemy who could be swooping unseen upon them at this very moment.

  After a last-second check of weapons and gear, Argyle as before took the lead, beginning the eastward trek anew. The moss-filled yellow waters reflected an eerie night pall as the band followed the stream, which coiled snake-like, this way and that, up sharp inclines and down steeper ones. Worn boots tramped first over mud, then over coarse and hard sand, grated and pebble-strewn, lifeless except for scattered blue-tinted shoots that shot up like stunted trees, their grotesque roots bending awkwardly to suck every bit of moisture in the way a spider devours a fly.

  Up and down, over hills and dales, ridges and hillocks, the band of adventurers marched, teeth gritted, eyes ever straight ahead on the treacherous path, their flesh becoming numbed by the bitter bite of the mountain wind. The gusts blew with more vicious force than before as the mountains loomed ever closer; whipping and whistling along the chalky cliff set to the north, tearing down the craggy drops in the west, the wind increased dramatically as the band came closer to the valley’s end and the vast plain that spread out from there like a blanket.

  By normal reckoning, the time should have been close to evening when Argyle called for a brief rest. Thankfully, they spread out along the grainy banks of the water and sighed with pleasure as they rubbed aching feet and shut stinging eyes.

  As a cold meal of biscuits and dried beef was passed around, the haj restlessly got up to take a closer look at an interesting sight. Among the crushed rock and rubble of the hill beyond their resting place, set against the base of twin hillocks, there was a clump of scant vegetation that had somehow managed to break through the hard ground and nurture itself without benefit of sunlight. He waved to Mariana, who had strayed farther upstream from the others so that she could wash, and beckoned the girl to put down her bar of soap and join him.

  With a smile and a shrug she eagerly came to his side, and without the need for words they climbed partway up the face to get a better look at what seemed to be a small vegetable garden.

  The haj yanked out a herb, studied the root, and took a bite. “Tastes like squash to me,” he said, smacking his lips.

  Mariana looked at him. “Squash? But that’s not possible!”

  “And look!” added the haj, pointing to a tiny clump of shrubbery. “Those are berry bushes!” He ran to inspect, nimble fingers plucking, teeth biting, tongue tasting.

  “I don’t believe it! Look, Mariana!” he held out a handful. “These are cranberry. Wild, to be sure, but cranberry! And these,” he stuck out his other hand, “are without question bunchberry…”

  “Are you
sure?” asked the startled girl, taking one and hesitantly biting. “How could berries—how could anything—grow in a climate like this?” But then she tasted the berry and stared at the haj.

  “Well?” the swineherd asked.

  “Mmmm! They’re good!”

  “Delicious, Mariana! Ravishingly delicious! Come on, let’s get back and call the others! Like as I would to hoard all of this for ourselves, my conscience won’t allow me to be such a glutton.”

  He belched, swallowing a mouthful; the girl grinned. “Won’t everybody by surprised!” And her skirt swirled as she hurried to go. A lumbering shadow cast darkly from atop the hill, and they both froze in their tracks.

  It was a man, a towering figure of a man. Hands on hips, he stood sternly glaring down at the two intruders, his form a powerful silhouette in the pervasive dark.

  Mariana gulped; the haj stepped in front of her, ready to field any blows the frightful figure might deliver.

  “Is he a Druid?” Mariana whispered faintly.

  “He wears no uniform,” observed the haj. “But he’s frightening enough all the same …” His hand inched its way toward the hidden dagger beneath his robe and his fingers toyed for the hilt. “When I say,” he told her, “run as fast as you can. Bring Argyle—”

  The thought went unfinished as another grim silhouette appeared along the crest. And then another, quickly followed by another. The haj turned slowly, his eyes sweeping the terrain for avenues of escape—there were none.

  From among the group a thick-set man, dressed in various skins, the skull of some wild beast adorning his head, came slowly walking down the slope. Long blond hair, unkempt and stringy, fell over his shoulders. He sported a long blond beard, much in the fashion of Argyle’s, and stared at the strangers from a deeply set pair of cold blue eyes. Thin lips folded back in a curious expression; he examined the strangers close up, a scowl deepening. In his hand he carried a long shaft of wood, the tip finely honed into a razorsharp point.

  This is no Druid, thought Mariana. More like a barbarian. A wildman.