Chapter 35
Nick groaned. He woke to darkness and to waves of pain washing up from his ankle. There had been a sound.... Something, perhaps a sack of grain or potatoes, had been dropped nearby. His mind was blank. He struggled, unable to move, then felt the bite of a rope on his wrists and remembered.... He was trussed up like a chicken... his arms tied behind his back... his legs bound tightly together. The hard earth beneath him was cold, the air around him chilled. He was too cold to shiver.
He tried to regain circulation in his numb hands, and groaned again at the return of sensation... and pain.
He'd completely lost track of time.... How long had it been since he'd been in the plane... had fallen into a chaotic tumble... frantically searching for the ripcord as the ground had rushed towards him?
Weeks must have passed since his capture. He couldn't have been on the ground for more than a few hours.... Disoriented, seeking shelter, hobbling round on a badly twisted ankle, he'd stumbled right into an ambush... like a prize idiot.
There had been long days, when he'd been dumped over the back of a horse, then into the bed of a truck... always hooded... always confused, hungry, thirsty, cold. The bastards, who spoke an incomprehensible gibberish, had taken his gear... his jumpsuit... his jacket... his boots... even his socks.... All that had been left to him was his underwear and the filthy, vermin-ridden clothes they had given him.
He tried once more to find a comfortable position, then cursed aloud at his failure.
"Indy?..." It was a hushed whisper. "That you?"
"Ginge?..." Nick turned his head in the direction of the voice. Gradually his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light and he made out a dark shape close-by. "Ginge... I don't believe it! Are you OK?" he murmured. "When did they nab you?"
"Ha!... Soon as I hit the fuckin' ground. There were bloody towel heads all over the friggin' place. Seems our insertion wasn't so quiet or covert," the other man whispered. "We were stitched up... good and proper." He rolled awkwardly towards the SEAL. "Shit... I thought I was the only one.... The others?" he hissed.
"Don't know," Nick replied. "We hit major turbulence.... The pilot lost it.... My pack dragged me out."
"How long's it been?" Ginge asked. "Ten days?... Hard to keep track.... They kept moving me... day or night... always tied... always with a bloody, black sack over my head.... They stripped me.... Gave me these rags that hardly cover my arse.... The bastards let me piss my pants most of the time.... No shoes.... My feet are a bloody mess.... Hardly any food or water.... Jesus!... I'm hungry. My stomach thinks my throat's cut!"
Nick managed a weak smile.... The redhead's sense of humour hadn't deserted him. "Same here.... I figure it's been two weeks... at least... maybe three. I've lost a lotta weight.... Got a cough that's gettin' worse."
"Indy.... I speak a little Pashtu... a little Arabic.... I think we're goods up for sale to the highest bidder... and I don't think there'll be any 'White Hats' at the auction."
"They must've brought us together for a reason," Nick agreed. "I guess wherever we were going... we're there. Show time!"
"Shhh!..." Ginge warned as a door rattled and flickering light suddenly illuminated the room. Three men entered, holding torches. They were laughing, talking together in what Nick assumed must be Pashtu. One approached, spoke rapidly, held his torch aloft to survey the bound men, their prizes.
"My'yah
... water?" Ginge asked in Arabic. "Please?" he added.The man chuckled to himself and handed his torch to his companion. "My'yah?" he repeated, then undid his trousers and relieved himself in the Englishman's face. Their captors laughed as Ginge choked and sputtered. Then one of the others turned to Nick, kicked the SEAL over onto his back, and did the same. After they had laughed themselves to tears, the three men turned to prepare their camp. A camp stove was lit and a pot and kettle produced. Soon, the smell of cooking filled the air.
A few minutes later more voices came.... Another three men entered and made themselves comfortable near the stove. They all settled down to eat, smoke, share their tea and naswar... and to wait.
< < + > >
The sound of angry voices roused Nick from a shallow sleep. It was lighter now. He looked around, appraising the situation. They were being held in a large room. The building was dilapidated mud brick. Part of the roof had collapsed. Charred timbers told a story of fire. Ginge lay nearby... also awake. The original group of men... their captors... were engaged in an intense conversation with newcomers. Were they arguing, Nick wondered... or were they bartering? Sometimes it seemed as if these cultures spoke with equal fervor whether the discussion was about the weather, the price of an apple, or the fate of the world. Were they being sold?
The dominant individual in the new group was a big, robust, heavily bearded man with a black patch over one eye. When he strode over to look down at the prisoners, Nick met the one eye. It chilled him to his soul. The SEAL recognised the fanaticism that burned behind the gaze. He knew that this was a man who would stop at nothing to achieve his goal.
Abruptly, the man turned back to face the room. Nick could no longer read his expression, but he had no problem reading the posture of the man's body. It spoke volumes. He looked around the room at each of the newcomers. All suddenly exchanged alert, furtive glances.... Each shifted his weight. Hands subtly flitted towards the knives and pistols tucked in their belts.
From the far corner, where the rafters had fallen, a man stepped from the shadows. His Kalashnikov spewed a long burst of gunfire that cut through the six men who had brought Nick and Ginge here. Another man, who had positioned himself to the other side of the captors, produced a weapon and fired short bursts with telling accuracy. Bullets tore through the bodies, splattering blood, brains, and guts against the walls. The victims staggered and fell, twitching, as blood rapidly drained onto the hard-packed earth. In a few seconds, it was over.
Once the deafening explosion of gunfire had ended, the big man, with pistol in hand, carefully picked his way through the carnage as if unwilling to soil his shoes or clothing. A sole survivor moaned, struggled to move a hand, to turn his head. He dragged himself mere millimeters toward the door. A pistol bullet tore through his head.
"Jesus," Ginge gasped. "I've seen some butchery in my time... but that!"
More gunfire echoed outside... for what seemed like hours. Horses squealed in fear... a dog yelped in pain... a child cried. Then there was utter silence. Nick watched, frustrated, helpless while all his instincts screamed for action.
There was more hurried conversation and two ropes were produced. Nooses were tied and slipped over Nick and Ginge's heads.
They're gonna hang us, Nick thought. As the rope tightened about his throat, he closed his eyes, not wanting his last sight to be this massacre. His mind raced; his thoughts were not of his own death, but of his friends. "This is it," he murmured. "I won't get home.... God... please, take care of Derek... Alex... the others.... I wish things had been different."
Suddenly a knife slashed through the ropes that bound his legs and he was hauled to his feet. Pain shot up from Nick's swollen ankle; he nearly fell, but the noose tightened and he forced himself upright.
"Move!" the leader shouted in English.
"Bloody 'ell," Ginge groaned as raw, bare feet were forced to carry him into the weak sunlight.
"Jesus!" Nick croaked at the sight of the slaughter outside.
Afraid of the bodies that lay in the yard, the tethered horses were skittish. Their eyes shone white. Their nostrils flared in fear at the smell of blood. More men quickly picked over the corpses for anything useful, then orders were shouted. The group split and Nick and Ginge's new captors mounted up.
The one-eyed man leaned over in his saddle to face Nick. "Keep up... dogs... or die trying," he quietly told them. To make his point he gave a hard yank on the rope around Nick's throat. His quiet voice bred more fear in Nick's heart than those of a dozen demons the SEAL had faced. The man then handed the rope over to another and took his place at the head of the column. They picked up a lazy trot and forced their prisoners to follow at a limping jog.
< < + > >
The Valley of the R'om...
Rahim stood beside Derek and watched as the precept patted the sturdy, grey pony and tickled its muzzle with affection. He had volunteered to go with the group on the next leg of trip, but Derek had refused. The Afghan had other responsibilities... his family... to care for... and winter would soon come.
Rahim knew the precept was right, but he would miss the strangeness, the quiet certainty of his new friend. He had insisted that Derek keep the horse... "He's grown used to you... and these valley people... their animals are too big... fat and soft... not sure-footed." He worried about the man as well. Kincaid had told him some of what had happened to Derek in the past couple of years, but he had told him nothing that would touch the honor or pride of the man. Still, Rahim knew that an awful secret must lie there. He had seen it in the hazel eyes. He had read it in what the Englishman had left unsaid... in the sly warnings.... "Don't let him kill himself.... He's been to hell and back... literally.... He's endured things no man should ever endure.... He crumbled... and he may crumble again... but this is a thing he must do... save a man who is like his son... to save himself... or die."
Rahim saw Derek rub his cold hands together, blow out a cloud of misty breath to warm them, then pull on his gloves and snuggle into the warm, sheepskin cloak that ibn Sikander had given him. The precept glanced uneasily at the sky, at the watery sun, riding high. He stamped his feet for warmth... and... it was obvious to anyone... in growing impatience.
Ibn Sikander joined the two men. "Time enough, Derek Rayne," he cautioned. "A poorly provisioned quest will fail."
The precept nodded. Rahim realised he was only half-listening. Where was his mind?... Was he worrying about the man he was here to save... about the visions Allah blessed... or cursed... him with?
One of ibn Sikander's men, Yusuf... Rahim remembered... approached and spoke rapidly in Pashtun to his leader. Rahim listened intently and wondered why he was being allowed into the conversation, when the man could easily have spoken R'om-vari.
So... the Rumi-Khan had no intention of hurrying.... He knew Derek would not be able to keep the pace. His debt could not be settled if the foreign mystic died on him.
Ibn Sikander's eyes flashed a warning to remain silent... but Rahim had no intention of crossing this man.... He would be a fatal enemy. Besides the Rumi-Khan was right. This land was unforgiving of weakness... Derek would not survive if he continued to push himself so hard.
Suddenly, ibn Sikander turned to Rahim and spoke again in Pashtun. "We are allies, pRun'ala of the Kâñ'a Dâra of K'om," he said, using Rahim's full K'om-vari tribal name. "I am honor bound to fulfill a debt." He then turned to the precept and read the anxiety and weariness that rested on those shoulders. He was not going to watch this man kill himself by overexertion. "We are ready," he told Derek in English, he then spoke quickly to Yusuf and received a curt nod. "Yusuf here will ride with you.... He has no English... but he is a good man. He is my second wife's sister's youngest son."
Ibn Sikander gave a shrill, vibrating whistle to the dozen seasoned fighters who would accompany them. It would be a hard time to be apart from their families. Ramadan would begin this night with the first sighting of the new moon. Altair stepped forward to receive his father's blessing. A light touch on the head signified that he was now khan, in his father's absence. Then all said their last good-byes and prepared to mount their horses. The children of the tribe danced around, their voices eager and excited as they said farewell to their fathers, uncles, brothers. The women stood together in a group, watching, loudly trilling as their men begin their journey.
As Derek climbed into the saddle, Rahim stepped forward, thoughtfully stroked the neck of the grey horse, then glanced up at the precept. He looked into the large, hazel eyes, which seemed so sad and distant. "Insha'allah... May Allah go with you, br'ok."
A little girl in a heavily embroidered coat and a cap, decorated with coins and beads, skipped forward. She smiled and reached up towards Derek, offering him a small, dried melon tucked into a bouquet of pungent herbs. Ibn Sikander swept her up in his arms and the gift was handed over.
"This is Petra, my youngest daughter by my youngest wife.... We call her Ki'kuba for the first words she spoke," the Rumi-Khan explained. "The herbs are used by our hakim... our doctors... for healing the body and soul... when they practice the ways of ancient Greek medicine... Yunnani it is called.... The melon is a stamboul... one smells it for its uplifting fragrance."
"Thank you... Ki'kuba," the precept took a deep whiff of the posy, then tucked
it safely into the folds of his cloak. The gesture was rewarded by a dazzling smile.
"Good-bye, Rahim," he said, turning to the tribesman, "Take care.... Thank you for
your help... your hospitality. I'll always be grateful... and I will deliver your message...
Insha'allah."
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