Thoughts of the female comforts he was missing fueled his anger. If things did not change soon the tribe would have to eat the horse. He jerked the reigns again. The terrified animal whinnied piteously and dropped its haunches to the ground. It spread its front legs and stiffened them against the grade, but it was too late to avoid a fall. Out of control, man and horse slid downhill in a cascade of rock and dirt. Nessif threw out his legs and pitched backward over the horse's rump. The fall knocked the breath out of him with a loud whoof. He stifled an outcry as he felt sharp rocks bite into his back. He lay still for a moment, sensing for injuries, then sat up. The short sword he wore on a thong around his waist had struck hard against the rocks. He picked it up and examined the blade. There was a small nick on one edge near the point. He clenched his teeth and glared at the cringing animal. It had managed to regain its feet and stood shivering a few yards downhill. It walled its eyes and nickered softly.
Nessif put a finger to his lower lip and gingerly probed a cut received from the fall. He licked his lips and spat a mixture of dirt and blood onto the ground. The other members of his party had stopped and were squatting on their haunches around him. They saw the look in their chief's eyes and kept silent. He shot each of them a fierce glance, then glared at the horse. He wiped a dribble of bloody saliva from his beard with the back of his hand as he got to his feet. The Morruk leader reached out to one of his men and said in a voice trembling with rage, "Give me your staff, Hanik!"
Hanik recognized the dangerous tone of his master's voice. He had heard it many times, and knew that a murderous rage was about to be unleashed on the animal. Obediently he handed the long wooden staff to Nessif, who snarled and grasped the staff in both hands. The muscles in his brawny arms bulged from the pressure of his grip as he took a step toward the horse.
"Nessif?" Hanik dared to speak. He knew the danger of interfering, but in this case foresight superseded caution. If his chief did not regain control of his temper, he would beat the animal to death. Nessif jerked his head around and glared at the tribesman, his face livid.
"The sun climbs, my lord," Hanik said respectfully. He could feel his knees trembling. "If the gods reward our search we may need this despicable beast to help carry whatever we find."
Nessif eyed his subordinate through a red haze. Hanik reminded him of a rat in a man's clothing. He was always around in times of crisis, offering sage advice, or trying to ingratiate himself with the tribal elders. Nessif suspected that he had aspirations of someday replacing him as chief, but was clever enough not to let it show openly. Someday he would have to deal with Hanik, but at this particular moment there was no denying the logic of his reasoning. He fought down his anger and threw the staff to the ground at Hanik's feet. For the moment he would put this little rat's interference in abeyance and continue with their mission. Confident that a day of reckoning would come, he filed the incident away in his small brain. For the time being he put his pride aside and led the horse the rest of the way down the slope on foot. An hour later they were standing at the rock where Leahy had signaled with the flashlight.
Nessif had remounted the horse after leaving the mountain and now sat watching his brigands search the ground for signs. They scurried around for several minutes, checking for disturbances in the soil. When they were satisfied with the area around the rock, they followed the spoor to a place where someone had apparently rested during the night. After a moment, two of the men detached themselves from the group and walked to the mouth of the crevasse from which Leahy had previously emerged. They knelt and examined the ground. One of them brushed his fingers across the dirt and nodded to his companion.
Nessif nudged the horse and guided it to where they were squatted. He appeared to be waiting patiently for them to read the signs, but the veneer of calmness soon wore off. Succumbing to his tumultuous nature he shouted, “Will you keep me waiting until the sun bakes my brains?"
Jakar, a red-haired little man with a diagonal scar across his forehead and cheek, stepped quickly to the side of Nessif's mount. He pointed to the east. "The tracks lead into the desert, my chief," he said. "But whoever or whatever left them came from beneath the earth."
Nessif was well aware that they were near the edge of the burial ground the Egyptians called the Valley of the Kings. He had robbed too many graves to be superstitious about spirits, but Jakar's words sent a small chill down his spine. "From beneath the earth?" His voice carried a note of uncertainty.
"From there." Jakar pointed to the crevasse.
Nessif looked, letting his eyes wander along the ragged line of the fissure. It split the desert floor for more than a mile.
"Should we backtrack and investigate, my lord?" Jakar asked.
Nessif hesitated. There was a legend about a demon that had laid waste to the Egyptians many years ago. The legend told of how the sky fell upon the great Egyptian army, and of the smoke that blackened the air for many days. It was only through the cunning of the great pharaoh that the demon was defeated and cast into the darkness beneath the earth. Perhaps the mighty sandstorm that had preceded the flashing of the light was an omen foretelling the demon's return. Nessif knew that most legends had some factual basis, but he was unsure about which parts of this particular one were fact and which were myth. The Egyptians had a habit of expanding an event into something different from what it really was, but one thing was certain: Something had defeated them in a disastrous battle near the eastern sea. Knowing what he did about the power of the Egyptian army, he reasoned that it would have taken some supernatural force to accomplish that feat.
Hanik’s whining voice brought Nessif out of his meditation. "Shall we investigate, fearless one?" He stood beside the horse, smiling up at his chief.
Nessif swallowed hard. He took note of Hanik's sarcastic tone and felt the flush of anger on the back of his neck. He was tempted to order them into the crevasse, but he would have to go with them if he did. Instead of responding to Hanik's veiled challenge to his courage he remained silent, appearing to be considering his options. At last he scratched thoughtfully at his beard and said, "Nothing is to be gained from seeing where someone has been, Hanik. Rather, we will overtake this wielder of the strange light and see what manner of creature it is that emerges from beneath the ground.” He paused momentarily for effect, smug in thinking of such a crafty answer, then commanded, “Forward!"
The Morruks started off at a steady trot toward the east, following Leahy’s trail. Nessif gave the horse a hard kick in the ribs, but was careful to hold back on the reigns until his men were well ahead of him.
As far as Leahy could see in any direction there was nothing but desert. It was not a desert of rolling dunes, but was more like the surface of the moon. Jutting rock shared the landscape with flat stretches of stony soil and sand. To the south he could see a few hills whose tops looked like they were dotted with dark vegetation, but everywhere else there was only desolation. He had been walking steadily for over two hours and the flat mountain was now well behind him. He turned to look at it, but the distance was too great for the smoke to be visible. The possibility that someone from the mountaintop had seen his signal had already occurred to him, but so far there was nothing to suggest that such speculation was valid. The only sign of life he had encountered in the vast emptiness was a scorpion. Nor had there been any sign of the other members of his team. While walking, he reconstructed the events of the last eighteen hours. Taylor and the others had undoubtedly weathered the storm on the surface, and then conducted a search for him. Failing to locate him, they would have deduced that he had fallen into the crevasse and been buried alive. A deep feeling of loneliness came over him at the thought that Taylor might think he was dead. He knew the agony he would experience if their positions were reversed. The pain she must be feeling hurt him deeply.
He also thought about the strange footprints in the sand at the bottom of the crevasse. He rejected the possibility that they had been made by any of his people. They were much t
oo large and too far apart for that. The distance between the impressions was over two feet farther than he could step with his longest stride. Whoever, or whatever, had left them would have to be more than seven feet tall. He knew he was fortunate to have been securely hidden inside the cave when the unknown walker had passed in the night. Shading his eyes, he looked up at the deep blue expanse of sky, unbroken by clouds. The contrail he had seen just before the time warp occurred would not exist there for another three thousand years. Here, now, birds still held dominion over the air.
The L-suit was keeping his body comfortable, but the sun was beginning to broil the land. Feeling the heat on his head, he shucked off the pack and dug out an Arab headdress. It looked exactly like the ones worn by many of the Middle Eastern people of his own day. Having a good initial design, it had changed little over the millennia. He put it on and adjusted the cloth across the back of his neck. The scant shade it provided made him feel more comfortable.
It was still early morning, but the heat rising from the desert made the air seem to flow like water across the thin line of the horizon. He put the pack back on and glanced behind him again. He stiffened. For the barest instant the sun had glinted off something metallic in the far distance. He stood frozen for a full minute, straining his eyes, but the glint did not recur. He scanned the ground in that direction and saw that his passage was clearly discernible in the soft earth. If he was being followed, it would not be difficult to track him. He turned a full circle looking for cover, but there was nothing. The largest boulder in the contiguous area would barely conceal a rabbit. He could not risk a fight, so the only remaining course of action was flight. He hooked his thumbs through the pack straps and moved out at a brisk pace.
From his army days he remembered that military marching speed was about three miles per hour. If he could maintain that pace he might be able to stay ahead of any pursuit until he reached the river, or until nightfall, whichever came first. He leaned forward against the weight of the pack and fell into a steady cadence. There was no way he could know that Nessif and his band of cutthroats were seasoned by many years of experience in the technique of pursuing and pulling down fleeing prey. In the desert the Morruks were unequaled in the hunt, and at that very moment they were rapidly gaining on him.
He managed to stay ahead of the pursuers for almost two hours. During that time the gentle rising and falling of the terrain had changed to a more plain-like configuration. Because of that, he was able to spot them at a great distance. At first they appeared only as flickering black dots, barely moving, but he soon made out at least a half dozen men on foot and one on horseback. Distortion from the hot air gave them a wavering, ghostly appearance as they closed the distance. They were obviously traveling at a speed he could not match, so he shucked off the pack and waited for them. He drank some water and watched them draw closer. Within five minutes they had reached him. They stopped about ten yards away and stood silently surveying him.
It was his first contact with ancient man, so excitement and apprehension stirred him with equal force. There were eight of them including the one on the horse. The tallest one of them was not over five-feet-six. Their clothing was ragged and dirty, and they all had a gaunt, starved appearance. Even at this distance he could smell their stink. All but one of them wore beards, and a nasty scar cut downwards across the beardless one’s forehead and cheek. Leahy guessed the rider to be their leader by virtue of the fact that he was the only one mounted. He was also larger and appeared to be better fed than the rest. A big hooked nose and flabby lips protruded through his black beard. Even at thirty feet, Leahy could see beady eyes shining beneath his thick eyebrows. He did not need his many years of police experience to know that these men were brigands. Except for the rider, who carried a short sword on a cord around his waist, they were all armed with long wooden staffs. Judging from the way they held them, he had no doubt they were skilled in their use. No other weapons were visible, but anything might be concealed beneath the knee-length robes they wore. He looked at the rider's sword and nodded to himself. The polished blade had been the source of the reflected sunlight he had seen earlier.
He was about to try communicating with them when the horseman spoke sharply to his men. As though they were preparing to attack a dangerous opponent, they moved to within ten feet and formed a loose circle around him. He pressed his fingers against the Beretta but did not take it from his pocket. Poised, he stood waiting for their next move.
The rider edged his mount a little closer and barked some unintelligible words at him. "Norant djor kolmet!"
Leahy did not recognize the language but there was no mistaking the belligerent tone. He shook his head to show that he did not understand.
The men on foot shifted nervously and looked at their leader. “Sorban!” he spat. “Efenok rearret morleki djor setarm!” He jerked angrily on the reigns. The horse reared slightly then settled down.
From the look of the animal Leahy wondered how it had the strength to hold up under the man's weight. It seemed to be in no better shape than the scabby men. While his attention was on the rider the men around him took a tentative step inward, tightening the circle. He tensed visibly and they stopped. He shot the ones within his field of vision a steely look, then locked eyes with the rider.
"I don't understand you," he said in Egyptian. His voice revealed no sign of the apprehension he felt.
The mounted man looked surprised. "Egyptian," he replied. "You do not look Egyptian." His accent in that language was worse than Leahy’s. "Who are you, and what manner of dress is that?"
Leahy glanced down at the L-suit. He wished he had put on the robe while waiting for these men to reach him, but there was no helping it now. "Yosemite Sam," he answered in the same curt tone that Nessif had used, "and this is a Santa Claus suit." He pronounced the two names in English.
Nessif pursed his lips and gave Leahy a sideways look, apparently considering the answer. He scratched his beard and said, "A strange name." He leaned forward as though to get a better look at the stranger. "Why are you in the desert alone and unarmed, Yosemite Sam? Do you not know that such conduct can be dangerous?" The veiled threat solicited smirks and a few chuckles from the men.
"Who wants to know?" Leahy responded.
Nessif stiffened and puffed out his chest. “I am Nessif Eguic Famaed, master of all you see before you. No one passes here without my permission! Those who violate my domain must pay the penalty." He threw his head back in a haughty gesture.
Leahy glanced at the wasteland around them, surveying the master's domain with a critical expression. If this was the extent of his kingdom, he ruled over nothing but rocks and scorpions. He looked up at Nessif, who sat waiting for a reply to his challenge. In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Leahy had to smile. The big hooked nose sticking out of Nessif’s beard looked like the dorsal fin of a hairy shark. Knowing their intentions were to rob and probably kill him, he saw no advantage in diplomacy. Moreover, his experience with such men had taught him that to show fear or weakness was to invite attack. "I go where I please without asking anyone's permission," he said in an arrogant tone.
The remark caused a ripple of agitation among Nessif's men, but the Morruk ignored the challenge to his authority. "What is your tribe?" he demanded. "I do not recognize the weave of this Santa Claus suit." In Nessif's accent, the English words sounded like sundu clus.
Leahy regarded him with a cool gaze. He knew that most men of Nessif Eguic Famaed's profession were cowards, and had no courage unless they outnumbered their opponents or could strike from behind. Instead of answering the question, he sneered and asked, “What do you want?"
Nessif uttered a low laugh and edged the horse slightly closer. He fingered the hilt of his sword, and as though reacting to a signal, the circle of men around Leahy tightened a little.
"What is that?" He pointed to the pack at Leahy’s feet.
Leahy nudged it with the toe of his boot. "Nothing that concerns you.
"
Nessif nodded to the man with the scar, Jakar. He scurried forward and knelt at the pack. In a swift movement Leahy spun sideways and kicked him full in the face. Jakar screamed and fell backward, blood gushing from a smashed nose. The other men jerked up their staffs and assumed offensive positions, looking to their leader for instructions.
Nessif was livid with rage. "Fool!" he screamed at Leahy. "You have sealed your death!"
"I doubt it," Leahy replied in a calm voice. He produced the Beretta and leveled it at Nessif.
The Morruk gave the pistol a contemptuous look. "You will need more than that little club to save yourself," he snarled. "Take him!' he shouted to his men. The circle began to close.
Leahy raised the pistol over his head and fired two quick shots. In the still air the sound was deafening. The ring of bandits burst into a wild scramble of flailing arms and legs. Wooden staffs flew into the air as they collided with each other in a mad haste to flee. The horse bolted away, throwing Nessif over its haunches. The master of the desert hit the ground with a heavy thump, but the impact did not delay him from quickly regaining his feet and fleeing after his men.
Leahy watched with amusement as men and horse streaked away over the flat ground. To make sure they did not stop, he cracked three more rounds into the air. The effect was magical. They were already running at Olympic speed, but the additional shots somehow accelerated them. Their loose robes fluttered out behind them like capes as they fled in terror from the roaring pistol.
The twenty-first century man laughed and yelled in English after them, "What’s the matter? You guys act like you never saw a gun before!" Smiling, he put the Beretta back in his pocket, but kept watch until they vanished into the distance.
"I guess it was a hell of an experience at that," he mused to himself. "Probably thought I was some kind of demon or something." When he was satisfied that they would not return, he picked up the pack and resumed his journey.
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