ERAK'S RANSOM

by John Flanagan

  Horace nodded. 'You told us the night before we left Al Shabah. You told us when the negotiations were complete. Not before then. Up until then, you know we believed Erak was being held in Al Shabah. So, in the eight hours we had, how did we organise for this other group of Skandians to dash out into the desert, find the Tualaghi, And bribe them to intercept a caravan we had only just heard of?'

  'Well ... you could have ... ' Selethen hesitated and Horace pressed his advantage.

  'And you know that none of us left the guesthouse on that final night. So how did we do it? I mean, Halt's good at these things, but that's beyond even his abilities.'

  Halt thought it was time he stepped back in. Horace had made his point and it was a telling one. Now was the time it drive it home, before he blundered.

  'He's right, Selethen, and deep down, you know it,' Halt said. The Wakir's attention was back on him now and Halt knew it was time to settle this, once and for all. He knew it was time to force Selethen to either commit to them or to take a position against them. Very deliberately, he said, 'Tell me, Selethen, leaving aside the fact that we couldn't have organised this in the time we had, do you honestly believe that we are capable of that sort of duplicity?'

  Selethen went to speak, then hesitated. He looked at the small group of foreigners. The warrior Horace and the raider Svengal were fighting men. There was no guile or deceit in either of them. They would be dangerous enemies to face on a battlefield, he knew. But they would fight honestly and bravely.

  Then there was the Princess. During the negotiations, she had shown her courage and forthrightness as well. In fact, he thought ruefully, if there had been any false dealing at all, it had come from him. First in having his servant impersonate him and secondly in the fact that Horace had just pointed out — in his not telling them that Erak had already left Al Shabah.

  That left the one they called Halt. Unmistakably, he was the leader of the group, in spite of the girl's rank. Undoubtedly, he was a thinker and a planner. Yet Selethen sensed a core of decency and honesty in the man. Instinctively, he found himself drawn to the short, grey-haired Ranger.

  It was obvious that the others respected him and trusted him. And, perhaps most important, liked him. Horace and Svengal might be straightforward and uncomplicated but they were not fools. Horace had just proved that.

  Selethen bit his lip thoughtfully, considering Halt's question. Then he replied.

  'No. I don't think that.'

  Halt was tempted to let go a huge sigh of relief. But he knew that would be a mistake. Instead, he simply nodded once, as if he had held no doubt as to what Selethen's answer would be.

  'Then let's get on with it,' he said briskly. 'What do we plan to do about all this?'

  'I'll send a party out after them once we reach Mararoc,' Selethen asked. 'For all the good it will do.'

  Bitter experience had taught him how the Tualaghi operated. They would attack a caravan, then simply melt away into the desert. The Arridi were essentially town dwellers, without the skills in tracking and desert craft to follow the raiders. The Tualaghi knew these wastelands like the back of their hands and they knew how to disappear into them. Oh, Selethen would send a party in pursuit. But it would be a gesture only. After two or three days they would lose track of the Tualaghi war party and return, exhausted, dusty and frustrated. It had always been the way, he thought. If he had some of the Bedullin with him, they would have a chance. The Bedullin were hunters and trackers and they knew the desert every bit as well as the Tualaghi, their sworn enemies. That was how he had defeated the Tualaghi some years previously — by forming a temporary alliance with the Bedullin. But they were a, proud, independent people and they wouldn't stay tied to the Arridi apron strings once the Tualaghi had been brought to battle and defeated.

  'Why not go after them now?' Halt said.

  Selethen smiled at the man's naivety. 'Because they will fade away into the desert. That's what they do.'

  'Then we'll track them down. That's what we do,' said another voice.

  It was Gilan. He had returned from surveying the scene of the one-sided battle in time to hear Selethen's last words. Halt turned to him. 'Find anything?'

  Gilan pursed his lips, then pointed to each location as he mentioned it.

  'They were hidden behind those rocks to the east,' he said. 'Maybe eighty or ninety of them. Most of them on horses but some on camels. They had a diversion party to the north — perhaps ten riders. They swooped in, feinted an attack, then turned and ran. When the escort broke ranks and went after them, the main party hit them from behind.'

  Selethen looked at the young Ranger with new respect. 'You can tell all that just by looking at the ground?'

  Gilan grinned at him. 'As I said. It's what we do,' he replied. 'So what do you say? Do we go after them or slink back to Al Shabah?'

  His tone was intentionally provocative. He sensed that the Wakir was looking for a reason to go in pursuit of the Tualaghi — to teach them once and for all who ruled this country. And he was right. Selethen's mind was racing. This could be just the chance he had been looking for.

  'We'll be outnumbered,' he said thoughtfully.

  'But we'll have the element of surprise on our side,' Halt countered. 'You normally wouldn't go after them, would you?'

  Selethen considered. Eighty Tualaghi, the young Ranger had said. And he had fifty well-trained, well-armed veterans at his command. As well as the Araluans. Horace and Svengal would give a good account of themselves, he knew. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he thought that he'd enjoy seeing Svengal carve his way through a Tualaghi war party with that battleaxe he carried. And the two Rangers both carried massive longbows slung over their shoulders. He was willing to bet they were not just there for decoration. He had the distinct feeling that those two cloaked men could do a lot of damage. There was one problem. He couldn't afford to weaken his forces any more. He'd need every man he could find.

  'What about the girl?' he said. If she were to go back to Al Shabah, he'd have to spare men to escort her. That would weaken his force even further.

  'She'll come with you,' Evanlyn said in a carrying voice.

  Selethen looked at Halt, his eyebrows raised in a question. Halt smiled grimly. He'd seen Evanlyn's courage in battle before. And he knew she was able to take care of herself with the sabre she wore at her belt. On the voyage from Araluen, she'd practised with Horace and Gilan, both masters of the sword. She'd held her own. She wasn't in their league, of course, but she was capable. Evanlyn wouldn't be a burden, he knew. She might well prove to be an advantage.

  'She'll come with us,' he said.

  * * *

  Chapter 27

  * * *

  The bitter cold of the desert night woke him. He was face down, shivering violently as the heat leached from his body. It wasn't fair, he thought. The blinding heat of the day and the near freezing temperatures of the night were combining to rob the last vestiges of strength from him. Shivering took energy and he had none to spare.

  Will tried to raise his head, and failed. Then, with a massive effort, he rolled over onto his back, to find himself staring up at the brilliant stars, blazing down from the clear night sky. Beautiful, he thought. But strangers to him. He wanted to crane around and look to the north, where he would see the familiar constellations of his homeland, lying low on the northern horizon. But he didn't have the strength. He'd just have to lie here and die, watched over by strange stars who didn't know him, didn't care for him.

  It was very sad, really.

  There was a strange clarity to his thinking now, as if all the effort of the day, all the self-delusion, was gone and he could view his situation dispassionately. He knew he was going to die. If not tonight, then certainly tomorrow. He would never stand another day of that furnace-like heat. He would just dry up and blow away, carried on the desert wind.

  It was very sad. He'd like to cry about it but there was no moisture to spare for tears. With his newfound cla
rity of thought, he felt a nagging sense of annoyance. He wanted to know what he had done wrong. He didn't want to die wondering. He'd done everything correctly — or so he thought. Yet somewhere he had made a mistake — a fatal mistake. It was sad that he had to die. It was annoying that he didn't know how it had come to this.

  He wondered briefly if the map Selethen had given him had been false. He remembered that thought occurring to him during the preceding day. But he dismissed it almost immediately. Selethen was an honourable man, he thought. No, the map was accurate. The mistake had been his and now he would never know what it had been. Halt would be disappointed, he thought — and perhaps that was the worst aspect of this situation. For five years, he had tried his best for the grizzled, unsmiling Ranger who had become like a father to him. All he ever sought was Halt's approval, no matter what anyone else in the world might think. A nod of appreciation or one of Halt's rare smiles was the greatest accolade he could imagine. Now, at this final hurdle, he felt he had let his mentor down and he didn't know how or why it had happened. He didn't want to die knowing that Halt would be disappointed in him. He could bear the dying, he thought, but not the disappointment.

  A large shape moved near him, blotting out a section of the sky. For a moment, his heart raced in fear, then he realised it was Arrow. He hadn't hobbled the horse for the night, he realised. He'd wander off and get lost or be taken by predators. He tried to rise once more but the effort defeated him. It was all he could do to raise his head a centimetre or two from the hard, stony ground underneath it. Then he dropped back, defeated.

  He wondered what had happened to Tug. He hoped that somewhere, his horse was all right. Maybe someone had found him and was caring for him now. Not that they'll ever manage to ride him, he thought, and chuckled soundlessly at the mental picture of Tug bucking off every rider who tried to mount him.

  Arrow began to move away from him, the soft shuffling sound of his padded hooves puzzling Will for a moment, before he remembered tying pieces of blanket round the horse's hooves. One of them must have come loose because Arrow walked with a strange gait — three muffled thumps and then a clop as the unprotected hoof made contact with the hard ground.

  He turned his head to follow the dark shape moving away from him.

  'Come back, Arrow,' he said. At least, he thought he said it. The only sound that came from his mouth was a dry, choking rasp. The horse ignored it. He continued to move away, searching for forage that might contain even a little moisture. Again, Will tried to call Arrow back but again, no articulate sound would come. Finally, he gave up. The foreign stars watched him and he watched them.

  'I don't like these stars,' he said to no one in particular. They seemed to be fading, their cold brilliance dimming. That was unusual, he thought. Usually the stars kept burning till the sun came up. He didn't realise that the stars were burning as brightly as ever. It was he who was fading. After a while, he lay still, barely breathing.

  The lion passed within metres of him. Arrow, weakened and dehydrated, was intent on freeing himself from the blanket strips tangled round one forefoot. He never sensed the giant predator until the last second. There was time for one shrill scream of fear, cut off almost instantly by the massive jaws.

  Later on, Will would think that he might have heard it but he could never be sure. In fact, it had registered with his subconscious but he was too far gone to stir.

  Arrow died quickly and, in doing so, he saved Will's life.

  ***

  He could feel the snorting breath of a horse close by his face, feel the softness of its muzzle as it nuzzled against him, and the roughness of the big tongue licking him, the lips nibbling softly at his hand.

  For one wonderful moment, Will thought it was Tug. Then his spirits sank as he remembered that Tug was gone, lost somewhere in this wasteland. Arrow must have come back, he thought. His eyes wouldn't open. But he didn't want them to. He could see the glare of the sun even through his closed eyelids, burning down on him once more, and he didn't want to face that. Far easier to lie here with his eyes glued shut. Arrow moved again so that his shadow fell across Will's face, shading him, and he murmured his gratitude.

  He tried to force his eyelids open but they were gummed shut in his swollen, sunburnt face. He was vaguely surprised to realise that he wasn't dead but he knew it was only a matter of time. Maybe, he thought, he was dead. If so, this certainly didn't feel like any idea of heaven he'd ever been told about and the alternative wasn't pleasant to contemplate. Once again, Arrow nudged his muzzle against him, as if trying to wake him. Tug used to do that, Will recalled. Maybe all horses did it. He didn't want to wake up, didn't want to open his eyes. The effort would be too great.

  Funny, he thought, a few hours ago, he didn't have the energy to roll over. Now a simple act like raising his eyelids was beyond him. It would be easier to just lie here sleeping and fade away from it all.

  He heard the crunch of footsteps on the sand and rock, close by him. That was strange, he didn't remember anyone else being here. Then a hand slipped under his head and raised it, resting it on what felt like a knee, so that he was sitting half upright. He sighed. He simply wanted to be left alone.

  Then he felt something wonderful. Something unbelievable. A cool trickle of water spilled over his dry, cracked lips. He opened his mouth eagerly, seeking more of the wonderful water. Another trickle found its way inside and he tried to rise, tried to reach for the water skin and hold it to his mouth. A hand restrained him.

  'Steady,' said a voice. 'Just a little at a time.'

  And as he said it, more water trickled into Will's parched mouth and then down his throat. It caught in the back of his throat and he coughed, spitting it out, trying frantically to retain it, knowing that he mustn't lose it. 'Take it easy,' the voice said. 'There's plenty here. Just take it slowly at first.'

  Obediently, Will lay back and allowed the stranger to trickle water into his mouth. He was grateful to whoever it was, but obviously the man didn't realise that Will was nearly dead from thirst. Otherwise he would have let the water flood into his eager mouth, he thought, overflowing and spilling down his chin while he gulped it in by the gallon. But he said nothing. He didn't want to offend his benefactor in case he stopped.

  He heard an anxious whinny close by and, once again, he was sure it was Tug before he remembered. Tug was gone.

  'He's all right,' the voice said. He assumed he was talking to the horse. Nice of Arrow to be worried about him, he thought. They hadn't known each other all that long. He felt a wet cloth wiping gently round his eyes, working on the gummed-up eyelids. Some of the water trickled down his cheeks and he caught it with his tongue, flicking it into his mouth. Be a shame to waste it.

  'Try to open them,' said the voice and he obeyed, using all his strength to get his eyes open.

  He could see a slit of light and a dark shape leaning over him. He blinked. The action took an enormous effort but when he re-opened his eyes it was a little easier and his vision was a little clearer. It was a dark face. Bearded, he saw. Framed by a yellow and white kheffiyeh. The nose was big and hooked and at some time in its owner's life it had been badly broken so that it was crooked across the face at an angle. For a moment, the nose held his focus. Then he blinked again and the eyes above the nose caught his attention.

  They were dark, almost black. Hooded by heavy eyebrows, deep-set in the face. A strong face, he realised. But not handsome. The big crooked nose saw to that.

  'Tha's a big nose,' he croaked and instantly realised he shouldn't have said something so impolite. I must be light-headed, he thought. But the face smiled. The teeth seemed inordinately white against the dark beard and skin.

  'The only one I have,' he said. 'More water?'

  'Please,' said Will and that wonderful water was back in his mouth again.

  And then, wonder of wonders, another face pushed its way into his field of vision, nudging the bearded man aside, nearly causing him to spill the water. For a moment, Will'
s face was unshaded and the glaring sun caused him to wince away and blink. Then shadow fell across him again and he opened his eyes.

  'Tug?' he said, not daring to believe it. And this time, as the horse whinnied in recognition, there was no doubt about it. It was Tug, standing over him, nuzzling him, nibbling him with his big soft lips and trying to be as close to him as was possible.

  He butted against Will's shoulder in the old familiar way. The big eyes looked deep into Will's half-closed ones.

  See what trouble you get into when I'm not around? they said.

  The bearded man looked from the horse to the blistered, burnt face of the foreigner.

  'I take it you two know each other,' he said.

  ***

  He was half conscious but he was aware of someone spreading a soothing, cooling balm onto the burnt skin of his face and arms. And there was more water, all he could drink — so long as he drank it slowly. He had learned by now. If he tried to drink too quickly, the water was taken away. Drink slowly and it kept flowing. As several people tended to him, he was aware of Tug, always there, always close by. Will drifted in and out of consciousness and each time he awoke, he had a momentary fear that he had been dreaming and that Tug was still missing. Then he would see that familiar, worried face and breathe more easily.

  Vaguely, he registered the fact that he had been placed on a litter that was tilted at about thirty degrees from the horizontal. Perhaps, it was strapped behind a horse, he thought. Then, as he began to, move and he felt the strange slow rhythm of the animal dragging him behind it, he revised his estimate. It must be a camel, he thought. The unusual, long-legged swaying gait transmitted itself through the wood poles and webbing base of the litter to his body.

  Someone thoughtfully placed a shade cloth to protect his face and eyes from the glare and he dozed as they proceeded across the desert. He had no idea which direction they were taking. He didn't care. He was alive and Tug was a few metres away, walking slowly beside him, alert to any sign that he might be in danger again.