Mission To Mahjundar (25 page)

 
True to Saium’s prediction, the rain continued all the next day, but the skies were clear at dawn on the day after. Reenergized and optimistic about the success of his mission, Mike led the group away from the cave. After a few hours on the trail, a more gentle rain fell. They had to stop briefly to pull out rain gear before continuing into the foothills. His formerly ebullient mood fading, Mike’s uneasiness grew. The thickly forested terrain seemed ripe for an ambush. He’d been briefed on the fierce, superstitious mountain tribes, who were sworn enemies of the lowlanders. Saium’s earlier discussion about the people who lived on this side of the river rang true in accordance with the briefing they’d had. It was rumored an even more hostile tribe ruled in the heart of the Djeelaba but Sectors intelligence lacked any details on them.

Late in the afternoon, Johnny brought his horse even with Mike’s. “We’re being followed.” He kept his voice low.

“Yeah, I’ve seen the signs. Small party of men, hunters maybe, flanking us for the past half hour.” Mike glanced at Saium, confidently riding in the lead. Drawing his blaster, clicking the safety off, Mike raised his voice to ask, “How far to the next network of caves?”

Saium eyed the forest beside the trail and glanced at the mountains ahead. “Only a short distance.”

“Which is what he said the last time you asked, too.” Johnny spat. “I think our guide’s forgotten a few things about the area since he was here as a boy. Want me to break off, go do some hunting of my own, find out what we’re up against?”

“This terrain would be a bitch to fight in, too many trees to get a clear line of sight, us stuck on the trail, no cover.” Mike glanced at Shalira behind him, hunched against the rain, clinging to the saddle on her horse. “I think you’d better go scouting. If they attack before we get to the cave, or somewhere else we can make a stand, I’ll need you in reserve.”

Johnny reined his horse in as Shalira’s passed and a few moments later he vanished into the surrounding terrain, off to reconnoiter whoever was stalking them.

The attack, when it came, was silent and deadly. Multiple darts impacted Mike’s body in a deadly rain. Unable to penetrate the tough Sectors material, the projectiles striking his utility uniform bounced off, but one lodged deep in his hand like a giant stinging insect, and another hit his neck. He yanked them out. A burning pain spread from the two spots immediately, and his hand went numb, the leading rein for Shalira’s horse sliding from his fingers. His head swam as pain barreled through his veins. He tried to shout a warning to her but his tongue was thick and his jaw locked. Assaulted by double vision and weakness, he dropped his blaster. Dimly, he heard shouts and then he was toppling from his rearing horse, falling helplessly into the dense vegetation lining the trail.

Inwardly raging with anger, he landed face down, helpless to break his fall or turn himself over. Expecting to be trampled by the horses, or killed by the enemy troops, he fought against the pain and paralysis, to no avail. His mind was full of frantic worries over Shalira and what might be happening to her with him out of the way
.
Frustration burning like acid in his gut, he tried to at least move his head and check on her. Excited shouting and laughter from their jubilant attackers sounded from all directions.

Johnny, I hope you’re seeing this and steering clear of the ambush until you can take action.
As his consciousness flickered, he clung to the memory that his cousin was out there somewhere and would surely intervene at the first opportunity.
Lords of Space, let him rescue Shalira, get her to safety, no matter what happens to Saium and me.

Defenseless, he couldn’t avoid the violent kick in the ribs that rolled him halfway over in the clinging, wet vegetation. Another blow threw him onto his back, allowing him a hazy view of his enemy. Five or six heavily muscled warriors surrounded him in a loose circle, laughing, moving like a pack of feral dogs. One who seemed to be the leader poked at him with the finely chiseled stone tip of a spear, before raising the butt of the weapon. Mike saw the blow coming but was helpless to protect himself, the world blacking out as pain exploded in his temple.

Shalira felt the reins suddenly go slack in Mike’s hands and her horse slowed, ambling to the left to nibble at something. “Michael?” Reaching one hand to where he ought to be, she found nothing.

In the next moment, a sharp pain arced through her arm and she recoiled, nearly slipping from the saddle, feeling as if she’d been bitten by an insect. A second sting as something lodged in her thigh. She yanked the projectile from her clinging skirts, which had blunted most of the impact. It felt like a heavy oblong wooden bead, feathered, with a sharp metal tip.

Throwing the dart to the ground, fear growing, she rose in her stirrups, listening intently, craning in all directions as she softly called his name. “Michael, what’s happening? Saium?”

As the mare continued to move lazily from one browsing spot to the next, she heard strange men shouting in some unfamiliar dialect, voices rough with anger or excitement, but no sound from her own companions.

Panic swept over her like a cascade of ice water. Clenching her fists, she pressed them to her mouth in horror as memories of the terrible incident in childhood flooded through her mind. Unable for a moment to distinguish between the awful memories and the present, she slipped from the saddle, intent on hiding herself. Keeping hold on the stirrup as she landed, to prevent the horse from wandering off as much as to steady herself, she shook her head, trying to dispel the flashback.
I’m not a child any more, my brother’s been dead for fifteen years, Vreely’s dead, this isn’t happening
.

 
A warm, burning sensation spread through her body from the two places where she’d been “stung”. Dizzy, she clung to the reassuring bulk of her mare, fingers clenched on the edges of the saddle blanket. The horse swung its head for a moment to sniff at her before making a huffing sound and resuming its grazing.

I need to see, I need my eyes
. She prayed desperately, but vision refused to come.
I should get back on the horse, attempt to flee
. But without someone to guide her, she wouldn’t get far.

The sounds of assault were dying down, and a moment later Shalira sensed four or five people surrounding her. She heard their soft footsteps on the grassy woodland floor as they approached, smelled their sweat and some kind of paint. The newcomers stopped a few feet away from her.

Shaking with terror, fighting the memories of her childhood, Shalira called for Michael again, to no avail.

“Your men can’t help you, pretty one,” said a guttural voice directly in front of her.

Shalira recognized the dialect, a common trade talk used in the marketplaces all over Mahjundar. “Who are you?”

“You’ll know us soon enough,” said the man, an unpleasant glee underlying his words. At the same moment, two others grabbed her arms. Weakened from whatever drug had been on the tip of the darts, she struggled against their hold, trying to twist and kick her way free. “I demand you release me!”

Someone grabbed at the Windhunter collar, jerking the chain in an attempt to yank the jewelry from her neck.

“Don’t touch her, you greedy fools!” yelled another warrior, much older from the timbre of the voice. “Can’t you see she’s blind? And wears the symbol of the Lady as well as the necklace you’re trying to steal? You’d better heed her demands, and release her.”

Apparently the newcomer had authority to back up his commands. The two men imprisoning her released their grip, and she staggered against her horse, then slowly fell, knees giving way from terror and the drugs.

A gnarled, callused hand smoothed her hair from her face, patted her cheek as she lay crumpled on the crushed grass. “I’m Bolomuzen, pretty one, high priest of this territory. What message have you brought us from the gods? Don’t be afraid to speak.”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, too lethargic to push his hand away. Her tongue was thick, causing her difficulty in swallowing.

He leaned closer, his reeking breath making her nauseated. “Then you must be here to
take
a message to the gods, a message of great importance.”

“Maybe,” said the person who’d grabbed her first. “Or perhaps you’re not high enough ranking for her to speak words of the gods to you. Perhaps she can only share the message with the high priests at the sacred city of Chamacoyopa.”

Wobbling somewhat, Shalira managed to sit up, one hand planted firmly on the wet ground. “Please, what have you done with my friends?”

The self-identified priest laughed. “They’re safe enough for now.” Callused hand under her elbow, he forced her to rise, the other man closing in to assist.

“Michael!” Frightened, she tried to resist, but heard her beloved’s voice faintly from ahead on the trail.
At least he’s alive
. She swayed.

“You must have been stung by a dart or two, although no one was supposed to be aiming in your direction,” Bolomuzen said, tightening his grip. “We’ll carry you to the village. Not to worry, the effects wear off soon enough.” He fingered her amulet for a moment before gently letting the locket fall onto her chest, clinking on the Windhunter collar. “It’s been many years since there were manifestations of the Lady’s influence on our side of the Suaga River. You are most welcome, a good omen.”

“We can’t keep her,” the first man said in a hard voice that invited no disagreement. “We don’t dare keep her. It was one thing to hold on to the other captives until the spring ceremonies and make a gift of them, but the high priests will never forgive concealing a servant of the Lady for so long. I know your ambitions to rise in the priesthood, Bolomuzen, and I understand the desire, but it cannot be. We can’t set up with our own oracle. Doing so means the risk of retaliation from Chamacoyopa, and then it would be our hearts on the altar. The best we can do is garner rewards for bringing the oracle to them.”

Bolomuzen grumbled in his own language but offered no further argument in the strange debate.

The man in charge picked Shalira up as he finished speaking to his compatriot. “Can you sit on the horse if we boost you to the saddle?”

“Yes, I think so.” Wild plans ran through her mind.

Her captor’s next words dashed all her hopes. “One of my men will lead the beast, so have no thought of escape. The gods delivered you to us, and I’ve no intention of losing my prize.”

But when the men tried to boost her into the saddle, Shalira was too dizzy, so eventually one of her captors climbed onto the patient mare and held her in front of him as the group moved out. She had no idea how long the ride lasted, drifting in and out of consciousness as the procession marched through the foothills.
 

The air held the damp coolness of night by the time she finally regained complete clearheadedness.

“We’ll be at the village soon,” said the man behind her, evidently realizing from her demeanor that she was conscious.

 
Breathing deeply of the fresh scent of night-blooming flowers and pine trees, she sat straighter and attempted to bring order to her hair and clothing, hoping to feel more in command of herself, look less like a prisoner. “Please, what’s going to happen to us?”

“To you, Oracle, nothing.” Her captor’s voice was soft, reassuring. “Our chief has decreed you a welcome, honored guest. The warriors who accompanied you into our land will be held as prisoners taken in battle, destined for gifting to the Chamacoyopa. Don’t worry, I’m sure your warriors will die with great honor.”

Not a consoling idea, but at least Michael’s still alive. And Saium and Johnny.
“I don’t understand. Who or what is Chamacoyopa?”

“Do you test me, Oracle?” The rider’s voice squeaked with fear. “All men know Chamacoyopa, city of the Nathlemeru priests, rulers of the Djeelaba Mountains, the most beloved children of the gods because they are the fiercest warriors.”

“Oh.” Shalira had heard legends of the tribe her ancestors had battled time and again in their efforts to conquer the Djeelaba and acquire the rich gold mines of the area, before finally giving up after one final, disastrous attempt that claimed the life of the emperor himself, as he led the invading army. This must be the same tribe, or their descendants. She shivered, not just from the night air, but from fear.
Michael rescued me from Vreely and even from Bandarlok, but can he accomplish the impossible this time?

The horse’s gait changed, and she heard shouts, excited greetings, noises of a crowd approaching. Soon she knew the horse was surrounded by people.

Smelling the smoke from cooking fires, redolent with the aroma of roasting meat, she realized they’d reached the village. The priest, Bolomuzen, came to hand her down from the horse. Keeping his grip uncomfortably tight on her fingers, he raised his voice. “I present the Oracle of the Lady, come to us from across the river.”
 

There was a great oohing and aahing from the crowd, giving Shalira a good idea what a large settlement she’d been brought to. The knowledge was daunting. Mike, Johnny and Saium were fearsome warriors, but how could three men prevail against an entire village? While her mind was racing, Bolomuzen made her rotate in a slow circle with him. She felt hands brushing against her clothing and patting her sleeves and hair.

Are these people worshipping me?
Appalled, she decided it was more likely they were showing respect to the goddess Pavmiraia, as embodied by her.
Curious such a fierce tribe would venerate my gentle woodland deity, but they do dwell in her forests. Can I use this to our advantage somehow?
“I wish to speak to my warriors,” she said, summoning the imperious tone a princess should use.