Chapter 39
Ma'azar... the next morning
Derek woke early. In truth, he'd slept little. Neither his mind nor his body would allow him rest... and when pure exhaustion had at last opened the door to sleep, dreams had filled the soft darkness with a shadowy monster who had brought pain and death. There had been only blood, black, empty eyes, and a little girl's face, made angelic in her cold, endless sleep. The weight of sheepskins would not warm him.... Ki'kuba's posy did not soothe him.... No amount of salve could ease his body's aches.... Not even the strongest painkiller in his medical pack... the Darvon that Ian had given him in Chitral and had told him to hold in reserve... would ease the pain in his neck.
He heard the quiet rustling about him as the men ate a hurried breakfast. The meal had to be finished before the sun peeked over the horizon. Yusuf must have been watching him... the instant he moved from his woolen nest, the young man had draped his coat around his shoulders, then had thrust a cup of hot chai tea and a bowl of rice into his hands.
He ate quickly, adjusted and tightened the scarf around his neck, then, gritting his teeth against the raw pain, gingerly pulled on his boots. All the while, he listened to the prayers being said outside and, in his heart, he whispered his own prayer... for Nick... for these brave men... for all those now resting in the cold earth beside Ma'azar's mosque... and for his own strength.
"Alstublieft, Gott
... help me endure what I must endure... to do what I must do," he prayed. At last, knowing that he must move, he gripped a post and hauled himself to his feet. He waited a moment, for the pain that shot through his soles and up his legs to subside, then he hobbled to the door, where he paused to take a deep breath of cold, crisp air. The precept clamped his jaw and stepped firmly into the light of the rising sun.* * *
Walking to the nearby shed, where the grey pony had been tethered for the night, Derek was surprised to find it already saddled and prepared to resume their journey. How early had Yusuf risen, he wondered. He offered the furry, little beast a small piece of bread that he'd dipped in the sweet tea. He caressed its head and felt the soft, warm muzzle search his hand for more of the sweet treat. "You're a good boy, aren't you?" he murmured. "I'll get you back to Rahim one day. I promise." He turned at the sound of a footstep in the straw.
"We search for signs," said the Rumi-Khan as he handed Derek his pack. "My men will find them.... They are the finest mountain trackers. In the meantime, we will follow the trail. It is probably the route they took anyway... at least for the next few kilometers. After that... who can say?... There are several trails and many paths that fan out from the mouth of this valley."
When they led the pony, along with the warlord's horse, into the morning light, the camp had already been broken, the fire extinguished. A horseman trotted up to ibn Sikander and spoke rapidly in R'om-vari's strange mixture of sounds. If he listened carefully enough, Derek could always pick up the ghostly voice of Hellenistic Greek.
"They have found the trail," the warlord announced, clapping his friend on the back. "We shall have them, Derek Rayne.... Believe me... and they shall pay for this."
< < + > >
With agonizing slowness, the small group of men followed the trackers' lead as they began to gradually descend from the heights. The route had not been as expected. Rather than clinging to the ancient, well-worn routes, their quarry had chosen to cross the wild, rocky terrain that lay between easier paths. Often all trace had been lost and the tribesmen had been forced to ride far afield in an effort to find any trace of passage. At other times, they would dismount to search for seemingly microscopic clues on foot... even on hands and knees. At this moment, Hasmit crouched low to examine the hard, rocky ground, looking for loosened pebbles, scars left on stone by the passage of shod horses' hooves. He seemed to see something, touched a finger to it, then tasted it and spat it out. He shook his head in frustration, pushed himself to his feet, and moved slowly on.
Derek urged his pony alongside ibn Sikander at the head of the troop. "We're going so slowly.... Can't we move faster?" he said, already knowing the answer.
"This is not easy ground to read... rock... with little vegetation. There has been a snowfall... and melt.... Patience.... Let them do their work."
Twenty minutes later a triumphant shout from one of the men echoed against the rocks. It was Da'ud. He remounted his horse and called to the Rumi-Khan, who grinned. "He's found horse shit.... They halted there.... The horses cropped the undergrowth.... Now they head towards that ridge.... Their bearing is always south." Ibn Sikander rose in his stirrups, gave an ululating call to the other trackers, and pointed the way up the slope.
< < + > >
a Few Hours Later...
The trail was clearer now. They had crossed over the barren ridge and had begun a descent down a winding trail. There was no snow, but the imprint of hooves had frozen in the mud.
"They take no trouble to hide their tracks.... They no longer fear pursuit," ibn Sikander informed his friend. He leaned over his horse's neck to point to the side of the trail. "See... there... they have two men... prisoners... on foot... and we ride."
"But they're still two... maybe three days ahead," Derek said. The anxiety in his voice could be easily heard.
"Despite our searches, we make good time... equal or better than theirs.... Do not worry, we will gain on them here," the Rumi-Khan confidently replied.
Derek bent low in his saddle to scan the ground. He saw the marks that the warlord had indicated... the U-shapes of the horses... and at irregular intervals... human footprints... bare footprints. He nudged the pony slowly forward to a point where the trail crossed a large slab of solid rock. There the footprints became distinct... marked by rusty stains upon white stone. "Blood," said the precept. "They're running them without shoes."
Ibn Sikander nodded, but offered comfort. "They cannot be too badly hurt," he reassured, "otherwise, they would be on the horses. They may want them crippled... unable to cause them trouble... broken in spirit and ready to talk... but they do not want them dead.... If they did... we would have buried them in the pit back at Ma'azar."
"Not yet...," Derek agreed. Chewing anxiously on his lower lip, he tried to put thoughts of Nick... of his injuries... his pain... of a grueling fight for survival... from his mind, but other memories intruded. His hand shook as he reached down to stroke the pony's neck. "Focus, Rayne," he told himself. "There's no room for anything but finding Nick."
The Rumi-Khan watched his friend... saw the faint tremble and the scar upon the wrist... and guessed. He gently touched Derek's elbow. "If the Major's son is like his father... or like you, my friend... he'll survive.... He'll be OK."
< < + > >
A Day Later...
As dusk fell upon the second day after leaving the slaughter of Ma'azar, the group came to a halt at a signal from Da'ud. They all waited and watched as an area about two hundred yards ahead was painstakingly examined. At last, all three trackers returned to report their findings to ibn Sikander, who, in turn, faced the precept.
"Our quarry stayed up there... in a cave just round the bend... one night... maybe two.... Hasmit thinks two nights ago.... Da'ud thinks three. There's a road just down the slope from the cave. Trucks came from the west.... They met with them... and others with more horses came from the east. The trucks turned back the way they came..... All the horses went east... deeper into the mountains.... The trucks were heavily loaded when they arrived, but light when they left. The horses were lighter when they arrived... their hoof prints deeper when they left. There are now no signs of men on foot with the horses. They all think the trucks brought supplies... ammunition... stores for the winter... for mountain camps. Those were loaded on the horses. The Major's son... and the other... were then loaded in the empty trucks and taken towards Kabul."
The sun was setting behind the ridge and the light was poor as the group walked up the trail to the site of the former camp, but, even to Derek's unskilled eye, the ground was heavily marked. Tire tracks, hoof prints, boot prints, the ruins of a campfire were all obvious. Ibn Sikander spoke to his men, who dismounted and went about their evening business.
"We're stopping here for the night?" Derek asked.
"Yes...." The warlord nodded. "The light fades quickly.... This is a good place to rest.... Tomorrow... early... we follow the trucks.... Over that road, they cannot travel at speed.... It is winding... difficult... very bad.... We know where the road goes and can take shortcuts.... We can gain ground... fast. The weather holds. This is good Derek Rayne. Allah, the Beneficent, smiles on our endeavor."
The precept remained silent. He handed his pony's reins to Yusuf, who patiently waited nearby, and walked towards the entrance of the cave. The warlord followed.
Inside, Derek paused to look at the cold remains of the cooking fire, then continued on towards the rear. There, in a small alcove, he saw a rusty smear upon the stone wall and stooped to find a rag, brown and stiff with mud and blood.
"This is where they were held," said the Rumi-Khan. "It was a good place for them... back here would have been warmer. If they stayed three days, as Da'ud thinks, it would have given them rest... a chance to recover."
Derek knelt down to scoop up a handful of sand and let it trickle through his fingers. He closed his eyes... searching for guidance from within. He felt a flutter of fear... an echo of pain... nothing more.
"Does Allah speak to you?... Does he show you the way?" the warlord asked.
"No," Derek replied. "Ohhh...," he groaned as he pushed himself to his feet.
Ibn Sikander grasped his friend's arm to steady him. "Are you all right?" he asked. "Did you 'see'?... Did you feel their pain?"
"No... dammit," said the precept. "Just my own.... A barely healed injury to my neck."
"Come," ibn Sikander said firmly. "Besides a good voice, Musa is good with his hands and knows the ancient Greek ways of yunnani.... He is our hakim... our doctor. He will use his herbal salves to rub the pain away."
"No...," Derek replied equally firmly, determined that Musa... doctor or not... would not see the ugly scar around his neck... nor the marks that still remained upon his body. "I can take care of myself."
"You come near to insulting me, my friend," the warlord warned.
"No," Derek repeated, more harshly. "I mean no offense, but this is something that touches upon my honor. As a man of honor, you should accept that... and leave me to bear what I must bear."
"Very well," the Rumi-Khan agreed. "However, it is up to you to keep pace. There will be no more slow searching... no more rests while the trackers seek sign. At dawn tomorrow, we ride hard... over hard territory. If you fall behind.... Yusuf will stay with you, but we will go on."
Derek nodded in acceptance.
"Good... food, warmth, and rest will ease your pains," said the Afghan.
"Come, settle yourself... Yusuf will bring your things. Food and tea will be ready
shortly."
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