Chapter 37
Uti's Cave...
His consciousness stirred. A soft rhythm burrowed into the depths of his sleeping mind. It was even... repetitive... unthreatening.... "Ignore it," his brain instructed his body. "It's so warm... and peaceful... and safe.... Home... Angel Island... buried deep in the down of his own bed.... His hand searched for the warm body that should still be beside him.... "Maggie?" he mumbled. Still the rhythm intruded. His mind would not switch off.... What was it?... Derek's eyes flew open. In panic, he jerked his head up. Pain shot upward into his skull. "Scheisse!"
he swore. The noise had been his own snoring.He was interred beneath a mound of fleeces and coats.... No wonder he had been so warm and comfortable. He pushed himself up and cautiously turned his head to look around.... Where was everyone? Easing his stiff, aching limbs from the warm nest, he gently pulled on his boots. Each cell of his body seemed to exist in its own state of exhaustion. "Dammit, Rayne," he murmured. His neck was white hot agony. He searched his pack, which had been placed beside him, found his bottle of aspirin, and dry swallowed several. Then he opened the tiny jar of pungent balm that Kincaid had purchased for him in the bazaar at Chitral. He didn't know what it contained, but over the past days, it had proven itself to be well worth its price. Rubbing the salve on his neck, he wondered, not for the first time, if West's monstrosity had caused permanent injury. All the doctors would say was "Give it time." Time was something he lacked at the moment. His neck rebelled at the very thought of bearing the weight of his own head. Derek found his woolen scarf and wrapped it tightly around his neck... to serve as a soft brace. He pulled on his sheepskin coat, then his cap, then draped his pushtin around his shoulders. Perhaps, with so much on, no one would notice what a hobbling wreck he was. "Alstublieft, Gott."
Outside... it was broad daylight!... and the mountains were covered with a thin layer of snow. He rubbed his hands together and blew steaming breath into their midst.
The Rumi-Khan was seated at a blazing campfire with a few of his of men, while others tended the animals and collected dung that would dry for tonight's fire. He saw Derek as he stepped from the shelter. "So you wake at last." He could see that the precept's sheepish grin concealed a deep anger at himself... for having overslept... for having been sick and exhausted.
Derek nodded. "I slept too long.... Why didn't you wake me?"
"Yusuf did try," the warlord replied... though he doubted his man had tried very hard. "But now that you are awake... we can break camp. We ate before dawn.... It is Ramadan.... We will fast till the sun sets, but you are not of the faith. You should eat something... drink some hot tea.... Are you in pain?" he asked, seeing the stiffness with which the precept moved.
"No," Derek lied. "Just a bit sore... a few blisters. I'm fine.... I'll manage."
"It will be another long, hard journey," ibn Sikander warned.
"I know," the precept replied. He realized that his friend was right. Eating would mean more delay, but perhaps if he'd yielded to experience yesterday, he wouldn't have been so exhausted, slept so late, and been in such rotten shape today. "It won't offend your men... if I have breakfast?"
"You have need," the Rumi-Khan responded. "You have been unwell.... It is halal... lawful.... It would be wrong if you did not eat. Ramadan does not require that one risks health and life.... It is written in the Qu'ran: 'For him who is sick among you or on a journey...,' and you are both, my friend, 'the same number of other days....' meaning that a traveler or a person who is ill may make up the fasting days of Ramadan at another time.... Islam is a religion of compassion and understanding.... It is not the absolutism many would have it be."
The precept returned to the hut for his pack, then settled down beside the campfire. Rummaging in its depths, he decided oatmeal would be warm and filling. Besides, his stomach needed something to which it was accustomed. He dropped a couple of handfuls of oats into his small pan, then added hot water from the tea kettle that still sat on a stone beside the flames. As he stirred, he threw in some dried berries for good measure.
While waiting for the oats to cook, he stepped behind a boulder and attended to the demands of his body. Sniffing, he chided himself, "You're not too sweet smelling this morning, Rayne." He scratched his beard and was pleased at the growth he felt there. To not have a beard in this land could be fatal. Knowing that there would be no more tea for ibn Sikander's men until sunset, he scooped some snow into a bowl that lay beside the fire, doused it with hot water, and washed his face and hands.
With one more cup of hot water remaining in the tea kettle, Derek decided to use some of his precious coffee. If ever he needed a cup, it was now. As the coffee steeped, he turned to the thick gloop in the pan and began to eat. He smiled at his own bad cooking. It was dreadful... still... his spoon scraped the bottom of the pot. "My Gott... Happy birthday, Derek Emrys Rayne.... You're forty-eight years old," he toasted himself with his coffee. On his fingers, he counted the days since his departure from London. The sixteenth of November had been yesterday. He shook his head... he'd also missed the second anniversary of his awakening from the coma... and the anniversary... in that other world... of the sealing of the Portal. Odd... he thought... the second anniversary had been five days ago... maybe... and he'd not remembered it. These mountains made one lose track of time... of past... of future. Where had he been on the twelfth... in the mountains with Rahim?... Did it also mark the second anniversary of that other Derek's death? Had his "twin-self" died that day?
He could hear Nick's teasing voice. "Who'da thunk it?" "Indeed, forty-eight... who'da thunk it?" he repeated. He'd never thought to see forty, let alone forty-eight... here... in the heights of the Hindu Kush... in the midst of war. Better here, he thought, than a mindless lump wasting away in Wells Ward... or Mr. MIM, the depraved beast West had sought to create, buried in West's private hell. If Ingrid hadn't followed her "Sight", would he still be there, he wondered. He instantly regretted the thought, because... being here... in these mountains... meant that Nick might be lost. Any hell that God might choose for him would be better than that.
< < + > >
A short distance away, Yusuf, ever mindful of his job, busied himself tending to a horse's pack. Overhearing the mystic talking to himself, he wondered what he was saying... some prayer... or a spell, perhaps? As his mother's sister's husband passed, he touched the Rumi-Khan's arm and pulled him around to the other side of the animal.
"Forgive me," the boy whispered, "but I have been wanting to ask.... Did you see the ruhani's wrists last night... the scars he was so anxious to hide? What do they mean?"
The warlord nodded. "It is impolite to ask. It is not our business."
"But I slept beside him last night. He spoke in his sleep, but I could not understand," Yusuf explained, "but his voice was... was... I have no word for it."
"I know. I heard as well," said ibn Sikander. "I know only what his English friend told the man from K'om, who told me. He is only just recovered from a long illness that afflicted him both in body and mind.... The Englishman warned us to 'take care... our mutual friend is fragile'. This I can tell you from having lived a long life.... The scars are young... less than a year old... and there is only one thing that makes such scars... manacles worn so long that they wear the skin away."
"Then he was in prison?" Yusuf asked, casting a hard glance in the precept's direction.
"If he was, it was unjust... and it was a hellish place, where he suffered greatly," said the Rumi-Khan. "I see it in his eyes. I see it in the way he moves.... There is more there than exhaustion and sore feet and muscles. I heard it in his voice and words. He nearly lost his soul. He's not the man I once knew. That man took more delight in life... but he's still a warrior for the light. I know this in my heart.... Now... you understand why you must be particularly diligent in your promise to me? I trust my friend's health... soul... and life to you. I owe that man more than anyone knows... but I have a duty to my people as well. The debt and the duty may conflict. We will say no more and not mention this again." He then clapped the boy on his back and stepped away to join Derek at the fire.
"How quickly can we get there... to this Ma'azar place?" Derek asked, once more impatient. He had seen that everyone else was ready to move out and was quickly stowing everything away in his pack.
"Five... perhaps six hours... at best," said the warlord as he stamped out the fire. "We cannot go any faster than the terrain and weather allow.... If they turn against us, it will be tomorrow. On the descent, we cannot travel at night... at the very least we would lose animals and men to injury... at the worst to death." Ibn Sikander read the disappointment in the other man's eyes. "It will be as Allah wills, my friend.... You know that to be true.... These mountains... the Hindu Kush... are not called the Hindu Killers for no reason... but it is not just Hindus that they are capable of killing.
"Now... pack up your things.... Yusuf has your horse ready.... We will travel with as much haste as Allah and the mountains permit."
< < + > >
Ma'azar...
Darkness was fast falling, by the time the small troop halted at the crest of a ridge. Shielding their eyes from a biting wind, they looked across a sheltered valley to the village that clung to the opposite crest. It blended into its surroundings so well that it seemed to be a creation of the landscape which bore it.
"Ma'azar?..." Derek asked of Yusuf, who confirmed it with a sharp nod.
It looked every bit the bandit stronghold... high atop shear cliffs... camouflaged amongst the boulders... only two access routes that he could see. It reminded him of a Crusader outpost he had excavated in Lebanon... once upon a time, when Lebanon had briefly known peace.
He urged the gray pony up beside ibn Sikander's taller mount. "Why is it dark?... It seems deserted?... It's cold, but I smell no smoke."
"I don't know." The warlord read the puzzled expressions of his men. "Even that lazy bastard has cooking fires... and there should be sentries.... There should be animals in the pens.... Dogs barking at our approach."
"Could they have seen us coming and run away?" Ali innocently asked.
"Why?" ibn Sikander asked in reply. "Is our little group so formidable?... We are in their domain. They have goods to sell.... Why run from a potential customer?" The warlord grew silent, pondering the deep shadows, as they rapidly fell across the treacherous descent. "Perhaps... we wait for daylight," he considered. "We should be at prayer."
Alarmed, Derek turned in his saddle to face the Rumi-Khan. He felt nothing from that village... no touch of a mind... no brush of a soul. It was a psychic void... as lacking in life as it was in light. "There's no time," he protested anxiously. "I'll go alone." Dismounting, he began to cautiously lead the grey pony down the steep trail.
Ibn Sikander shook his head in annoyance and followed the precept down the rough track. When they reached the valley floor, he called for the youngest member of the group. "Ali, you will stay with the horses." He smiled at the chagrin in the youngster's eyes. "Be alert.... If things are not right and we need to get away quickly... we depend on you for our escape. Musa will stay with you." He clapped the older man on the back, winked, and laughed. "He might have a good voice for prayer, but he's too old and fat to be of much use in a fight, so guard him well," he told the boy. The warlord then ordered his men to have their weapons ready.
The boy nodded, only slightly mollified, but the Rumi-Khan was not a man to challenge.
Derek slung the voluminous pushtin across the pony's back and drew his handgun from the depths of his coat. He checked the clip, then felt to make sure that he knew the precise location of all the spares.
< < + > >
Darkness had fallen by the time the small group had made the difficult ascent to the first outbuildings. Still there was no sound... no cheery voices of people about to break their day's fast... no call to prayer on this second night of Ramadan... no dogs barking in alarm... no light of a lamp beside a door or at a window... no smell of smoke from a chimney.
Ibn Sikander hissed for all to get down behind a low, stone wall. "Masruq... Da'ud!" he whispered urgently. "Check the first few houses.... See what you can see, then come back."
* * *
For what seemed like hours, but in reality was a scant ten minutes, Derek squatted beside the warlord with growing impatience. He listened.... He stretched out his senses.... "There's no one here," he finally said. "This place 'feels' wrong."
The chieftain smiled. "It takes no 'Sight' to sense that, my friend."
Yusuf lightly touched ibn Sikander's shoulder. The older man gave a slight nod. Each was silently saying to the other, "You see...." At that moment, a pebble rolled down the rutted trail. Da'ud and his companion, running low to the ground, slid round the end of the wall.
"Nothing," they announced breathlessly. "We checked the first seven buildings... four houses, a stable, and two storehouses. No sound... no light."
"Where would Safavi keep prisoners?" Derek asked. "Where would he meet with prospective buyers... the Taliban... whomever?"
"That building," the Rumi-Khan answered without hesitation, pointing up the hill at a structure whose roof stood straight and black against the starry sky. "It's the largest.... It would serve as a mosque... and a place for the jirga, the council, to meet. His house will be close by. Prisoners would be in a storehouse or shed somewhere close... but easy to guard."
"The mosque should be full on this night," Yusuf whispered.
"Let's go.... Let's announce our arrival." Derek stood up, stepped from the shelter of the wall, and strode quickly up the path towards the building. "Hello!" he called. "Sala'am!"
Yusuf turned to his kinsman, both shook their heads in exasperation, and hurried after the tall man. "Torches!" ibn Sikander whispered over his shoulder to those who followed. "Weapons ready!"
Before he reached the door, Derek smelled an odor he recognized well. Was it real... or was he stepping into another vivid flashback of West's hell? No matter.... He pushed open the door and stepped into absolute blackness.
"Death," the warlord whispered as he followed the precept across the threshold. "Masruq...," he said, reaching for closest torch.
Yusuf, his torch now blazing, hurried to join them. To fracture the darkness, he held the flame high. Scurrying noises and moving pairs of bright dots told of rats... come to a feast.
"Dear Gott." Derek's shocked voice croaked as he stumbled back into ibn
Sikander.
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