Outcast_Keepers of the Stone_Book One

by Andrew Anzur Clement

  Stas smiled for a second as he was reminded of his experiences in Africa. He and Nell had done much more than survive, he reflected. In addition to other feats, they had returned at the head of a militia composed of Kali’s tribe – the Wa-hima – and their former enemy; Stas had helped mediate peace. They would have made it all the way to the sea if the medicine men, whose arts he and Nell had exposed for a sham, had not made off with their water supplies.

  After bearing witness to the awesome power he had seen in India – and the mystical forces he could not explain – Stas again felt a longing for those times in Africa, when it seemed as if their possibilities were limitless and that the world made sense. Another memory came to his mind: seated atop King – the elephant they had domesticated – he had ruminated how he one day planned to use the militia he had raised to help retake his father’s homeland.

  Even at the time, Stas had known, on some level, that such plans were little more than wishful thinking. But, it hadn’t mattered. They had been through – overcome – so much more than had seemed possible for two young people who had found themselves unwittingly abducted one afternoon in the Egyptian desert.

  It had given them a form of audacious hope: a certainty that they would be able to carry something into the future of the world that he and Nell had taken and remade in their own image. A world that, at the time, had seemed to exist independently of the harsh reality he now tried desperately not to acknowledge.

  And yet, here he was. Far away from anything he had ever known, on the foreign continent that he had been told all his life he was from. Stas felt even more an alien here than he had in Madras; he wondered if he would ever find a place where he would find the sense of identification and purpose that he’d had on those adventures. He contemplated his future. It did not fill him with a great sense of excitement.

  “That was me,” Stas responded after a moment’s silence. Instead of sounding proud of his accomplishments, the words came across almost as apologetic, haunted; Stas found it hard to believe that he was still the same person as the one in Jurgen’s rumor. “But I’m not British. Nell, she is.” There was a faraway enthusiasm in Stas’s last couple of sentences, almost as if there were some part of him that needed convincing. “Or at least her parents are.”

  “That’s...amazing.” The Swiss German conveyed only mild surprise. “I can understand that you must have gone through horrible things after your experiences in those places in the English colonies. But you’re in Switzerland now. We are an orderly society. The Helvetic Confederation has been neutral in every conflict since the mid-seventeenth century.” The pride that he held in his country clearly grew as he spoke. “Even when the rest of Europe is going though uprising and imperial revolts from some unruly peasants they’ve conquered, we’ve either kept the peace, or used what minor disagreements we’ve had as reminders of the importance of democratic cooperation.

  “Be happy, you’re finally in a civilized country.”

  “Yes, I think I’m figuring that out.” It wasn’t that Stas begrudged Jurgen his national pride. The young Tarkowski also felt a positive allegiance toward the national heritage he claimed. But, he didn’t appreciate the Swiss German’s insinuations – innocent though they seemed – that those of that heritage weren’t worthy of a country or even civilized recognition. Further, Stas didn’t understand how Jurgen could imply that the places Stas had lived and the people he had known there were somehow horrible or savage; he’d enjoyed his adventures in the colonies.

  “Well, I just arrived here a couple of hours ago. I think I should go introduce myself to the headmaster,” Jurgen continued after Stas remained quiet for a moment. “I’d like to hear about your ordeals in Africa, or what happened to you in India, later. That is, if you feel like talking about it.”

  Stas nodded. The Swiss German left the room.

  The Slav moved to stare out of the window in front of the writing desk next to his bed. Facing the Sarine River from the top of the hill on which Fribourg was situated, the view from the dormitory offered a decent view of the river ravine and countryside beyond. Stas suspected that during the summer it would be quite a view. As it was, in late January, it seemed to him as an amalgam of monochromatic browns and grays.

  Stas shut his eyes momentarily, considering the conversation he had just finished with his new roommate. At St. Thomas’s, resentment against him, his heritage, and his experiences had been outright; his difference had made him as much a target of convenience as of actual disdain. The new arrival, most recently of the British Raj, didn’t think that Jurgen consciously looked down on him. Yet, the kind of naive condescension in his statements implied the position he thought someone like Stas held in the world order.

  In India, his acceptance as an outsider had been challenged openly. From the attitudes of those he had met so far at St. Nicholas, it seemed his place was already a foregone conclusion. Honestly, he did not know which was worse. Stas turned away from the window.

  He wished that he could talk about this to someone; he missed Nell. He knew she would understand and wondered how she was acclimating to England. At least they still had each other. Maybe this is for the best, he mused. Maybe our fathers were right. Being in two of the most stable countries on Earth, they could at least be assured that little would threaten them.

  Stas figured that Nell should have just arrived in England. Deciding to write her, he turned back to the desk. On it there was a single piece of paper that Stas was sure had not been there before. An uneasy feeling rose in Stas’s chest as he walked to the desk and picked it up, turning it over as he did so.

  On it, there was embossed a symbol Stas knew well – the emblem of a serpent eating its own tail – along with a short warning:

  Beware the Noon Witch.

  - Zitar

  Sixteen

  Green shrubs dotted the foothills that rose to the east of the shabby central California town. As she looked towards them, a realization came into the head of the one who observed the topography:

  I really don’t like this part of the world.

  Situated on the outskirts of Bakersfield, Bozhena waited in her dark form at the entrance of an abandoned barn; its roof had half collapsed. The two Urumi, which the Chosen had decided to send with her as she tracked the trail of those who guarded the Fragment, were due to arrive shortly.

  Despite their protests, the descendant of Polish magnates had convinced them – though they were closer to the Chosen’s ear and thus technically in charge – to head in separate directions once confirming that their quarry were no longer in San Francisco. One she had sent north in the direction of Eureka, the other, directly east.

  Bozhena herself had headed south, which she had thought was the most logical direction for them to have headed.

  Her suppositions proved correct. Using her invisible form to hide in grimy public houses throughout the valley, she had tracked them through the accounts of various provincial farmhands. The Urumi overheard multiple stories of a mysterious duo, consisting of two young women. They were apparently living out in the elements. Yet, by all accounts, each was possessed of incredible speed; one seemed to appear from nowhere whenever the other – an Indian – was confronted for trespassing.

  Last she had heard, they had turned east as if intending to ford the foothills near the dusty town Bozhena now waited near.

  She felt a slight rush of air and turned to see two dark figures standing in the barn behind her.

  “What did you find?” the blond-haired Urumi asked, though she already knew the answer.

  “Nothing,” the first of them confirmed.

  “Nor I. But the Chosen did not send us here for you to evaluate our competence.”

  “I am aware of that,” Bozhena acknowledged. Her dark figure made her voice sound as deep and ominous as theirs.

  “Then what have you to show in redressment of your failure to serve the Dark Prince?”

  “Only that I know the direction they have gone.”
/>
  “Which direction would that be?” the first of the two questioned her.

  “Over those foothills to the east. Beyond, I have heard, is a desert canyon: the easiest passage into the plains beyond the mountains.”

  There was movement by the two dark shadows that confronted Bozhena. It was clear that they had come to some sort of agreement.

  “Go and inform the Chosen of our progress. The Fragment cannot be far. We will track it from here,” the second of the two shadows demanded.

  Bozhena knew the motives of the one who had spoken to her. It only increased her sense of embitterment toward the organization she had been sentenced to serve. They both held much higher stations than she, and intended for that to remain the case.

  “I shall do so,” she replied, bending her dark figure in what was clearly a bow of subservience.

  “Excellent. You will be informed when we have the Fragment,” the first figure intoned.

  Then, one after the other, they were gone.

  Bozhena stood alone in the abandoned stable for a moment, calming her seething emotions. After, she moved her cloak around her, willing herself to the first place a mortal had dared hide the Fragment; where the grotto of the Urumi now lay.

  ***

  The Chosen stood in front of the altar as if he had known to expect her. Feeling the rush of air behind him, he turned from it to regard Bozhena as she manifested her unhidden form.

  Still recovering from the beating she had received, half-healed cuts and bruises marred one side of her face. Although her black robes hid the damage, much of the rest of her body still ached – especially her ribcage. Her nose, which her mother had once told her had been one of her best features, was now crooked to the right, having been broken at some point the blond-haired girl could no longer remember.

  Without preamble, the Chosen spoke.

  “What news have you for me?” Ziya al-Din asked.

  “My Chosen, we have found the trail of those who keep the Fragment from the Dark Prince’s intended use.” When Bozhena opened her mouth, it was clear that her lips had been cut in multiple places.

  “Good. Why are you not, then, on the trail with the two I have sent to ensure success?”

  “It was they who sent myself to inform you,” Bozhena replied softly.

  Anger flared in Ziya’s eyes for a fraction of a second; he raised his right hand to stroke the stubble of his beard. The bearer of the Korczak crest wondered what he would do next.

  “Very well,” he said at length. “Let matters important to the Dark Prince rest in their hands. It may well be advisable for you to attend to one of our mortal assets. It is time that we set our plans for him in motion.”

  Bozhena only nodded.

  “You are to tell him to do as the Prince has commanded through my own being.”

  “What must I bid him, Chosen?”

  Looking her straight in the eye, the Chosen informed her. She felt a growing sense of unease as the reality of what he was asking dawned on her. It was something, as far as she knew, that the Urumi had not done in Europe since they had been largely chased from the land west of the Urals by the Society practically four hundred years prior.

  After finishing his explanation, the Chosen turned and, moving into a recess behind the altar, emerged carrying something in both of his arms. He hefted it over to Bozhena, who felt its weight as she noted its disturbing familiarity. Then, she looked up.

  “Tell him he will need this to do as we command,” the Chosen instructed Bozhena, speaking as if no further clarification was needed.

  Bozhena looked down at what Ziya al-Din had handed her and swallowed. After, she regarded him coldly.

  “Yes, My Chosen. I will command Sir Pluckett to do as you have told.”

  Seventeen

  The sun was beginning to set over the hills to the west. Having been on horseback since before dawn that morning, Malka was growing tired. But, she had no intention of giving up her search. She blamed herself for her captive’s escape. Liza, who rode next to her, was right; it was her fault.

  That morning, immediately after looking toward the tent’s disturbingly vacant outside corner, the Thag had run to where she’d anchored her prisoner the night before. Liza followed behind. They bent down, inspecting the area around the tent’s support, which gave shape to the tan-colored canvas.

  Where the pole’s metal met the ground, both of them saw that the earth immediately under the frame had been disturbed. The beam to which Henry had been tied now rested just above a slight depression in the ground, still held in place by the two of the four rope anchors on the opposite end.

  “Aghhh!” Liza yelled in a wordless expression of exasperation as she stood up and walked away.

  Malka ran into the tent. Making sure the object she carried was still inside of her satchel, she slung it over her shoulder. Exiting, the diamond’s keeper moved towards the black-haired young woman who stood fuming, facing away from the tent’s entrance. The last remaining Thag tried to make her voice sound as calm as she possibly could.

  “This is not a problem. I was taught how to track people in the camp. You followed me in India. I know that you can as well. If we split up, we can find his trail twice….”

  “We are not splitting up.” Liza suddenly turned to face her.

  “Why not? You keep saying how much of a threat he is. If we go in two separate directions, we have more of a chance of finding him before he encounters another.”

  “No,” the felinoid snapped.

  Of course, the blue-eyed Thag could understand why Liza was angered by her captive’s escape. Malka was none too pleased herself. But, she had not known Liza to act irrationally when under pressure; her reaction left Malka confused.

  “Because?” she asked.

  “Because I’m supposed to be protecting you! And Malka, damnit, you have not been making it easy. First you let yourself get trapped in a blind alley with the Urumi sent to pursue you. You ambush three men holding rifles with nothing but a fancy knife, a glorified towel, and a doorknob. You take Henry prisoner – for no good reason that I can think of – and then you can’t even hold on to him for one day!”

  “I tied him to a metal pole,” Malka interrupted. And then more softly, “It looked to be the most sturdy thing we had available.”

  “Sturdy,” Liza spat out the word. “Well, I’m sure it is. After all it is made of iron. But here’s a helpful hint: the next time you try tying someone up against their will, you might want to check and make sure the thing you bind them to is actually attached to something else first!” She practically screamed the last five words at her charge. “All he had to do was worry the rope under the pole and then run off.

  “And now that he has, you want to split up? Let me give you something else to think about for a minute, Malka. There are three Urumi out there right now.” As she spoke, Liza flung her hand outward toward the horizon, where the sun was beginning to rise. “I am not their target. They are coming after you. You, and the object you hold. Your actions have made it easier for them to track you when what we needed to do was keep a low profile. Do you really want to be alone if they come after you – all three of them – while you’re looking for this person?”

  Malka absorbed what Liza told her, somewhat taken aback. She accepted – even expected – the felinoid’s abrasive attitude regarding most of what was going on around her by this point. However, now was the first time that the Thag had seen her genuinely angry. She supposed that they could still split up if she offered to give the diamond to Liza. Then, remembering what had happened when Stas had attempted to hold it back in Pondicherry, she realized that Liza might not be able to take control of it. Nor did she enjoy the idea of letting it out of her sight.

  The Thag shook her head.

  Wordlessly, Liza stormed past her and began packing up the camping supplies. Malka moved to help her. She realized that Liza had been right. Tying Henry to a pole that itself was not embedded into the ground had been a mist
ake. One she would not have made if she had not been distracted by memories of her lethal actions and worries regarding her future.

  As they both worked to dismantle the tent, Malka offered: “Liza, I regret my mistake. I should have bound his legs and kept him inside the tent. I must have lapsed.”

  “You’re sorry? That’s it?” Liza threw up her hands. “And a lapse. That’s what you call it? What about all of the other things I just mentioned? Were those just lapses too? You’ve made one tactical blunder after another since we arrived on this continent and you think this is just a momentary lapse? You’re distracted, Malka, just reacting to what goes on around you instead of trying to come up with a plan of action,” Liza snorted. “It’s hard to believe that you’re supposed to be one of your people’s greatest warriors or something.”

  The Thag looked away.

  The two continued to load the last of the supplies onto the horses, before mounting them. Malka easily noticed her former captive’s tracks, which headed in a westerly direction, back the way they had come.

  The disciple of Shakti pointed; both moved towards the trail and began to follow, settling into a bitter silence as they did so.

  As she rode, Malka remembered the benediction that she since had come to think of as a sentence.

  ***

  The sound of the bell went out over the village. Itself pilfered during one of the Thag’s crusades, Malka knew that Husain most often used it to convoke raiding parties in front of the camp’s main temple for the traditional ceremony before heading out. But, as far as she knew, there was no raid scheduled to depart that morning. That meant he was calling the Thags together for a different reason.

  Almost two years had passed since Malka and her Master had discussed the theology of their Sect on the outskirts of the camp. Since then, in addition to her lessons with Husain, she had also begun teaching, along with Mira, basic skills to some of the camp’s children. Today, they had been planning to have them practice a scenario used most commonly, Malka was told, to infiltrate smaller groups of travelers who found themselves wandering too close to the Thags’ camp. The ruse involved having one person pretend to be in need of rescue from two others who were to behave as if planning to mete out brutal punishment for some local offense. It was a ploy she herself must have practiced dozens of times growing up, before moving on to more advanced fighting techniques.