THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) Page 16

  The Prince came next, also in newly acquired garb, and faithful Homer brought up the rear, leading two packmules heavily laden with goatskins filled with water and other food-stuffs and supplies.

  It was hot. Dreadfully hot. The sun passed its zenith and slowly began to slide along the arch of the sky. Burlu first led them north, skirting at times the well-trodden caravan road, then quite abruptly veered his party in the direction of the dipping sun. They came to a deep wadi that widened as it twisted through mounds of rock and scrub.

  By dusk they had traveled quite a distance. A remarkable distance, in fact, the haj observed, taking into consideration his companions’ unfamiliarity with the desert and its ways.

  At length the band came to a halt at a grubby rise of red clay and rock. The haj turned and smiled at the dusty faces of his companions. He raised his arm and pointed to a tiny clump of dark trees clustered almost at the edge of the horizon.

  “Alasi oasis,” he said spryly. “We can reach it in another hour and spend the night. There is fresh water and fruit. From there we can plan our strategy. So make the most of the oasis while you can.”

  Mariana looked at him puzzled. Certainly the oasis was a welcome sight indeed, and the thought of being able to wash out the dust and grime was most enticing. It was the other reference that disturbed her.

  “What sort of strategy?” she asked uneasily.

  Haj Burlu drew out his long, curved dagger and glumly ran his thumb along the edge of the blade. “By tomorrow night we’ll reach the Land of the Baboons,” he said. “We’ll have to travel fast and carefully, with our weapons at our sides. With Fortune beside us, we’ll not be seen—”

  “And if we are?” said Ramagar.

  The haj narrowed his eyes cruelly. “We fight for our lives.”

  Against the starry velvet night they urged their mules forward, wearily straining themselves to the limit. The mules, though, needed little prodding; they, too, had spied the leafy palms, scented the grass and the water on the wind, and were as eager as any to take their well-deserved rest.

  The haj was the first to arrive. While the others drank and rested he took his bow and a single arrow and set out to forage for dinner. His hunt was quickly over. Grinning like a schoolboy, he came back carrying the largest hare any of them had ever seen. Rabbit stew would be a hardy meal to conclude the first day’s journey.

  The evening was spent pleasantly; after supper everyone sat beside the tiny fire and spoke easily, relating cheerful and good-humored memories of happier times in their lives. The banter did not last long, though; not after the hard, grueling day they had been through. One by one they rolled themselves in their blankets, not bothered by the night chill, and quickly fell asleep.

  Mariana smiled at the sight of them and, too pensive to sleep yet herself, restlessly went to sit beside the bank of the deep pool. The night was silent, save for the haj’s heavy snoring, and she rested back on her elbows and gazed peacefully up at the multitude of stars lighting the desert sky. With a soft song on her lips, she casually found herself tossing pebbles into the water and listening as they plopped and sank to the gravelly floor. Then she glanced about at the cool, shadowed green of the oasis and sighed. It was good to be free, she mused. Good to feel the soil beneath her feet and the wind as it rushed through her hair.

  Time drifted past; the shadows danced from the trees, from the boughs above her head. She was drifting off into a restful half-sleep when a sudden short, muffled noise interrupted her quietude. Eyes widening in apprehension, Mariana sat up straight, listening and watching while her hand slid down to the sheath of the dagger strapped onto her thigh.

  Quiet resumed. She strained her eyes in every direction, noting the sandy mounds and dunes sweeping away from the oasis on all sides. Here and there she could see the tall stalks of desert plants and wildflowers, still and motionless within the shadows. Above her head the palm leaves rustled gently with the faintest hint of a night breeze.

  I must be getting jumpy, she told herself. We’re still leagues away from monkeyland. She tightened her blanket around her shoulders and continued her vigil. It must have been a small animal she had heard. A hare, perhaps. Or a lizard. Nothing to be concerned with.

  The silence deepened; even the haj had stopped snoring. Mariana shifted into a more comfortable position, but for safety’s sake kept her hand close to her weapon. Then she saw it: a fast-moving hump of a shadow darting away from the oasis and behind a wide rising dune.

  This time she took no chances; leaping to her feet, she hurried to the sleeping haj and awakened him. Burlu poked his craggy face from under his blanket and stared at her blankly.

  “There’s something—or someone—afoot,” whispered the girl.

  Like lightning the burly haj bolted to his feet, his own weapon shimmering dully in the starlight. “This way,” said Mariana, pointing to where she had been sitting.

  Burlu took long, loping strides as noiseless as a mountain cat. His sleepy red eyes scanned the sands and the fauna from distance to distance. Then, cautioning the girl to remain where she was, he moved from the grass and slowly wound his way down onto the open sand. For a long moment he stood perfectly still, listening and holding his breath. He saw that the mules had been awakened by the noise. Tethered near the trees, they were all restlessly bobbing their shaggy manes and digging hooves into the dirt.

  Burlu began to move, sliding ahead toward the dunes in a low crouching position. Then he stopped, kneeled, began to sift his fingers through the sand. As Mariana watched, he regained his posture and without a sound loped back to the oasis and the girl.

  “Did you see anything?” she whispered.

  The towering haj scratched at his white-flecked red beard and looked down at her with obvious bewilderment. “I saw tracks, yes,” he sighed.

  Mariana shuddered. “Are the baboons watching us?”

  “It was not a baboon track, child. It was a man’s.”

  “A man? But that’s impossible!” she cried. “What would a man be doing out here, so close to the dreaded monkey kingdom?”

  “I am as mystified as you, dear girl. Very few men come this way—unless they have the strongest of reasons.”

  Mariana bit at her lips, stared down at the silent dunes. “Perhaps,” she said, biting her nails, “it was a bandit. There are plenty of rogues in your hills, you told us as much yourself. The cutthroat may have seen our fire and thought to rob us while we slept.”

  The haj rocked his body slightly and nodded. “Anything is possible, child. But even brigands know better than to prowl too close to monkeyland.” He screwed his sleepy eyes and spat between his legs. “No, I fear there is something more here than we understand. I think we are being followed …”

  Mariana’s eyes flashed with uncertainty. “But why would anyone want to follow us?” she protested. “It doesn’t make any sense. No one even knows where we are.”

  Burlu drew a deep breath and flexed his cramped muscles. “That may well be,” he replied. “But those tracks are a fact. Someone is close, hiding among the rocks, perhaps even watching us now.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  The haj glanced at Ramagar, the Prince, and Homer. All three were still lost in a deep restful sleep. “I think for now we do nothing,” he said at last. “For now this peculiar matter is better left unmentioned. There is no need to create undue worry, at least not with the baboons to contend with. Besides, perhaps our visitor will turn back. Only a fool would enter the Land of the Baboons on his own. But even if he did, he would be the least of our problems.”

  Mariana nodded with understanding.

  “Go back to sleep, child,” said the haj, “Leave this problem to me.” He went for his blanket and pulled it over his shoulders. “I’ll stand watch tonight. And don’t worry, if our friend reappears, bandit or no, I’ll be ready.”

  By early morning the sun was as fierce and unrelenting as any of them had ever known. The travelers had risen long before the crack
of dawn, eaten a quick breakfast of dried biscuits and dates, and lost no time in resuming their journey. With the tensions of the day yet ahead, both Mariana and Burlu all but forgot the strange incident of the night before. They now found themselves well away from the dunes and Alasi oasis, on the verge of entering a broad canyon of crumbled rock surrounded on either side by grim craggy peaks of glittering stone. It was filled with ridges and oddly shaped formations of granite that caught the sunlight and reflected it with mirror-like intensity. Where up till now the ground had been soft and sandy, now it was coarse and hard. A few weeds and plants poked themselves into view along the ruts in the rock walls; other than that, the land was as barren and foreboding as any in all the Eastern Kingdoms.

  The band halted at the canyon’s entrance and Ramagar rode up beside the haj, calming his nervous mule. He lifted his head, threw off his hood, and glanced warily up from side to side. The farther down the canyon he looked, the higher the cliffs seemed to rise, endlessly until they blended with the deep blue of the cloudless sky.

  “We are at the border of the baboon kingdom,” the haj told them all grimly. “From this place to where the hills become green is all their domain. And men are most unwelcome. Look.” He pointed to a dusty pile of bones set in the middle of the wide path some fifty meters from where they stood.

  Ramagar tugged at the reins and guided his mule in the direction indicated. The others followed slowly. Dismounting, the thief kicked at the bones, scattering dust that quickly settled and blended into the color of the stony landscape.

  “Was it an animal?” asked the Prince, peering down.

  Ramagar shook his head. “It was a man.”

  “And the skeleton was set here as a warning,” added Burlu. “The baboons have put it here on the very border of their kingdom purposely. They are telling all would-be travelers to turn back now—while they still can. They want no humans treading on their soil.”

  Homer glanced about uneasily and shivered. “Maybe we should heed their warning,” he said, trying to be practical.

  Noonday shadows were climbing up the faces of the cliffs, and from somewhere unseen beyond the heights a solitary hyena gave its piercing gruesome laugh; a laugh that left them all holding their breath. And the mules stood trembling and terrified, swinging their ears and rolling their eyes.

  “We had best decide right away,” cautioned the haj. “The longer we stay debating, the better the chance for some baboon patrol to come along and spot us.” He glanced about at his companions. “Are any of you of a mind to turn back as well?”

  Ramagar got back up on his mule and clenched his teeth. “We’ve come this far, good haj, we’ll not run away now. Lead on. Guide us through this miserable place.”

  And off they rode, deeper into hostile territory, determined to muster all their courage and be gone from the baboon kingdom as fast as possible.

  It was well into the afternoon; Burlu led them across the canyon and then followed an ancient hunting trail that took them through a long and ever-deepening defile that twisted its way west and through the very heart of the kingdom. On and on they rode, aching and fatigued, winding among rough skirts and rougher scrub, up high tricky slopes, and then back down again where the going was every bit as treacherous. More than once the mules bolted at the sight of vicious side-winding snakes that coiled over deadened boughs and lashed venomous tongues as they passed. Thornbush and sharp rock brushed and stung against hooves and fetlocks. The wind began to blow, gently at first so that the riders welcomed the breeze, but then more brutally until at last it whipped around their heads in a furious frenzy.

  The haj grimaced and covered his face, his companions hastily doing the same. Sand swirled, it became almost impossible to see. At the end of a deep gorge they found a cave. Really little more than a windblown recess in the exposed surface of the mountain, it would at least provide adequate protection until dawn, when they could resume the journey again.

  Speaking little among themselves, everyone set to work: Homer watering and tending the complaining mules, Ramagar and the Prince picking their way over the ledges for firewood, Mariana busily spreading the blankets and setting up camp, while the haj prepared to practice his culinary skills.

  Evening had come and the windstorm eased when the thief, his arms well stocked with dry sticks and branches, suddenly froze in his tracks. Far above the ledge at the very precipice of the overhanging cliffs he caught sight of the marching scouting party. Sand was still swirling when Ramagar deftly dropped his bundle and dodged into a narrow cranny between two huge boulders. His heart was pounding; he slowly raised his head and peered toward the top of the cliffs.

  The baboons were moving single file, occasionally grunting commands among themselves. There were about six of them, Ramagar saw, although it was hard to get an accurate count because of the whirling dust.

  The leader of the baboons began to climb down the slope, hand over hand, grasping expertly onto minute steps embedded into the rock. One by one his companions followed. Ramagar drew back and took out his knife. The crags were growing dark as the sun faded and the thief of thieves swore softly under his breath. The patrol, either by coincidence or design, was heading perilously close to the undefended cave.

  Several meters ahead was a slight elevation leading to a low mound of broken rock. Wanting to get a better view of the enemy, Ramagar crawled from his place and slithered silently up to the natural rampart. He saw, boldly outlined in the light of the moon, the features of the Prince. The young man whirled, dagger in hand, at the movement from behind. Then, upon realizing that it was only Ramagar and not a baboon soldier, he heaved a sigh of relief and slipped back to his concealed position.

  Ramagar wriggled his way to the Prince’s side. “So you’ve seen them, too,” he whispered.

  The Prince nodded. “Before you did, I’m sure. I was climbing to the top to reach an old stump when I heard their grim chatter carried on the wind. Smelled them, too. By the Seven Hells, these monkeys stink.”

  Ramagar frowned. “I wager they’d say the same about us …”

  From their lower position on the hill the two men watched the hairy menace jump from ledge to ledge and finally land upright on the flat crest opposite. They were ugly creatures, these fighting baboons. Their heads were large, grotesquely swollen in size compared to their bodies. They had long, sharp teeth that glittered in the waning light. Their muzzles protruded hideously, mouths twisted like rabid dogs. Long arms dangled to their knees. Each had a cap of thick gray hair on its head and over its shoulders. In all other places their fur was either orange or rust brown, nearly blending with the color of the rocks and dunes.

  For some time the baboons held their places while they carried on what seemed to be a heated discussion. At times one of the monkeys seemed to be insistent that they follow the path toward the cave. The baboon gestured in that direction with his arms, jumped up and down, stamped his feet. His leader, though, clearly had opinions of his own. Grunting and carrying on savagely, he bullied his adversary into submission, and the patrol docilely followed his lead as he moved away in the direction of distant slopes. Soon they were out of sight.

  The Prince stood and mopped his brow. “That was close,” he said nervously. “For a while I was positive they’d seen us.”

  “Me, too,” Ramagar agreed. “But we’d better not press our luck. These monkeys may be back with more friends.”

  Sliding, stumbling, sometimes even limping in pain when thorns or thistles dug at their legs, they made their hurried way back to camp. When the haj heard the tale he sighed and shook his head. “One of their patrols must have found mule tracks in the canyon,” he told them all. “Which means they know for certain that a band of men is somewhere about. If I know anything about baboons, they will spare no effort in catching us and hauling us before their king.”

  Ramagar beat a fist into his palm. “Then we’re trapped,” he seethed. “Like flies caught in a web—only this time it’s an army of monkeys
doing the spinning.”

  “Maybe not,” counseled the haj. “Baboons aren’t particularly adept at fighting at night. From now on we’ll travel only while the sun is down. We’ll use daylight for sleep, making certain to have someone constantly standing watch.”

  “It’s sure we can’t stay here, now,” added Mariana thoughtfully. “Sooner or later those apes will double back this way. My vote is to get moving right away.”

  There was no argument; the ragtag army lost no time in packing up, loading the grumbling mules, and clearing out as quickly as possible. The going at night would be considerably slower, they knew, perhaps causing them to spend an extra day in the baboons’ kingdom. But it also had its advantages. They could more easily elude any approaching patrols, make full use of the stars to guide them as mariners do, and they would be out of the blazing sun.

  The desert at night was amazingly beautiful. Placid and still, the sands sparkled in moonlight, and the surrounding hills took on a glow and radiance they concealed during the day. But night was also a more deadly time. It was then that the lizards dug out from beneath their rocks and crooks, then that sleeping snakes and spiders slithered and crawled from dark holes to prowl for supper under the soft glow of starlight.

  It was less than an hour until dawn when Burlu deemed them a safe enough distance away from the cave to slow down. Mariana gritted her teeth and tried not to think about the sting of her leather saddle burning against her thighs. As the mare winded down to an easy pace she lifted herself in the stirrups and gazed at the open stretch of sand beyond. Off to the side stood another grim range of hills, easily as high and as treacherous as those she had seen in the canyon.

  She shifted her weight, at last settling back in the saddle, and looked back over her shoulder. Somewhere behind, she was positive, the danger was lurking, growing ever closer no matter how fast or hard they rode. Then she shook off her goose bumps and looked again ahead, this time at the reassuring figures of Ramagar and the haj. Both men sat impassive and unspeaking, their right hands fondling the hilts of their weapons.