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

by Graham Diamond

  The wildman screwed his eyes, fluidly taking note of the haj’s curious garb. He had never seen a man of the East, it was plain, nor a girl with skin bronzed by the sun. It dawned on Mariana as he gaped at her that he had probably never seen the sun either.

  “We … we are not enemies,” she said, gathering her courage and speaking in her broken understanding of Northern tongues.

  The wildman stepped back a pace, mistrust written all over his rugged features.

  “We are friends,” the haj quickly added, and he put up his hands palms first to show his intent was peaceful.

  At that, the wildman raised his spear, prodding the tip at the haj’s belly. He shouted something to his companions, and two more wildmen came bolting down the hill with rope in their hands.

  “They mean to take us prisoner!” gasped Burlu, beside himself with fear. He now realized how stupid it had been for him to have wandered off from the others like this. What would happen to them now? What would Ramagar do when he realized Mariana was missing?

  The haj shuddered involuntarily. A fine mess of matters he had made of things, all right. But maybe if he could catch his guards off balance … make a quick run toward the others …

  The tip of the spear pressed in tighter, and the wildman indicated for them both to hold out their hands. Submissively they did, wincing as the bonds were strapped about their wrists.

  As the points of other spears dug into their backs, the first wildman gestured his hand in a direction far behind the berry bushes and toward a rocky cluster of mounds at the edge of the valley.

  “I think he wants us to walk that way,” said Mariana.

  Burlu groaned, lamenting their fate. Prisoners. Caught like rank amateurs by a handful of barbarians. And as he began to shuffle along, he wondered if perhaps they would have fared better coming face to face with the Druids. Compared to these wildmen, even they had seemed civilized.

  Shoved and badgered, not a word or a glance allowed between them, Mariana and the haj were mercilessly forced along a path of treacherous shale, until at last they came to a spot where the valley narrowed before them to a twisting defile barely wide enough for the two of them to pass side by side. Mariana saw other wildmen about keeping stoic watch from the bluffs and ridges above.

  Their captor gestured and they followed him along a smooth rock wall through the defile. A thin trickle of fresh water flowed down one side of the rock, indicating either a pool or a catch basin somewhere below. There was no vegetation to be seen in these parts, save for the long green shoots they had encountered earlier, which here grew far taller than before, with stems stout and firm, unbending in the mountain wind. An odd sight, thought Mariana, as if these plants were declaring their defiance of the bleak world around them by their very growth.

  The wildman in the lead suddenly and gruffly signaled for them to halt. Ahead by some meters the defile opened into a spacious basin, dark, hard soil surrounded on all sides by jutting peaks of rock. Ragged men carrying spears and other simple weapons stood silently at scattered points along the heights, obviously serving as lookouts both at the valley and the plain beyond. What startled Mariana, though, was not these barbaric soldiers, but the sight of children. Set against the inner walls of the hills stood small groups of wide-eyed youngsters, stopped abruptly in their games by the sight of the intruders, and now staring in wonder as their mothers hastily began tugging them away.

  “Don’t be frightened,” said the girl, calling to them. But before she could finish she was pulled away by one of the guards and pushed onto another path, this one winding at a slight incline away from the basin.

  Deadened stumps and fierce boulders cast dark shadows over her; she winced when she saw where they were being led. Well concealed by huge rocks was a small opening in the wall of the hill, an entrance leading downward inside the mound itself. Without having to ask, Mariana could see that this place was to be their prison—-perhaps even their permanent home if the wildmen decided not to kill them.

  As she was pushed inside she stifled a cry of panic. This place, this whole basin, was so forlorn and secluded that no one was likely to find it. Ramagar could search endlessly, scouring the valley, but never locate it—and even if he did, a wildman’s spear was the only contact he was likely to make.

  And it was down, down into the shaft they were led, sightless and stumbling. Mariana could only make a comparison with the dreaded sewers of Kalimar, equally as black and as foul. Only from here, she knew, there could be no escape.

  A rabbit warren of tunnels crisscrossed beneath the hill, some leading upward, others down, still others off to the side. For a time their captors seemed to debate among themselves where their prisoners should be placed. Then it was decided and they were taken to a small secret chamber, where their captors pushed them inside and forced them to seat themselves upon the hard ground.

  Mariana clutched tightly at the haj’s sleeve while the wildmen exchanged a few words. Suddenly there was a dim light; a young woman, little more than a child, lithely stepped inside carrying a tiny oil lamp. Eyes downcast, flowing yellow hair falling below her spine, she placed the light on a recess, quickly withdrawing before Mariana could try and speak to her.

  “Food will be brought,” mumbled the leading wildman, and with that, he and his companions withdrew, leaving the captives completely alone.

  The haj bounded to his feet, inspecting the entrance, running his hands along the walls in search of some hidden exit. There was none; only a constant mild downward draft rushing from above, assuring them of fresh air. Save for that, the closeness of the grotto was like being in a grave.

  “Think they mean to do us in?” asked Mariana.

  The haj growled. Then cold and hungry they huddled together to await their uncertain fate.

  Hours passed. Mariana put her head in Burlu’s lap, crying softly while her grandfather ran his fingers through her hair. Still cursing himself for this predicament, he wracked his brain to devise some scheme for escape. But with wildmen posted at the entrance and no way to gain access to the downward corridors it seemed an impossible task. All they could do was wait, and hope for some reprieve from their desperate situation.

  How many hours had elapsed since they had been brought to their cell Mariana couldn’t tell, as she suddenly found herself being gently roused from sleep by the same young woman who had brought the lamp. Behind the woman stood a brute of a wildman, a grimace on his face and a sharpened spear in his hand, waiting impatiently for the prisoners to be brought to their feet.

  The girl jabbered something in the language of the North, and Mariana understood that she and the haj were to be taken from the cave. Thankfully she nodded her understanding and raised herself slowly, still feeling the aches and cramps from a most uncomfortable night.

  The haj was already up; he lent a helping hand, and forced a thin smile of reassurance. Then the brute grunted and pointed to the chiseled rock doorway, now wide open.

  “Where do you suppose they’re taking us?” Mariana whispered as she smoothed the skirt of her soiled tunic.

  The haj frowned in response; wherever it was, it would be a relief to get out of this place.

  With the brute taking the lead and the silent servant girl in the rear they made their way back into the winding corridor and up the incline to the entrance. In the distant opening Mariana could see the swirling patterns of black clouds looming low over the valley, and she began to feel the bite of the bitter wind howling from the range of peaks down into the lowland basin. It was a grim reminder of the harrowing world outside.

  She could hear noises coming from the village. Someone—a wildman by his tone—was addressing a crowd, occasionally pausing while his listeners murmured among themselves. This whole episode was making Mariana uneasy; she slowed purposely in her gait, wondering if the crowd had not been gathered to witness her execution.

  The brute glanced back over his shoulder, grunting a few angry words and rattling his weapon to display his annoyan
ce at his reluctant charges. In no mood to show defiance, the haj pulled the girl sharply, and quickstepping they found themselves steps from the cave’s mouth.

  Mariana drew up all the remaining courage she could muster and took Burlu’s hand. Together they marched out into the stillness and dim light of Speca’s day.

  The entire village must have been out for the occasion, Mariana mused, sweeping her gaze across the large crowd in the craggy basin, a hundred pairs of staring eyes—men, women, and children—all curious and eager to gaze at the peculiarly garbed strangers. Mariana threw back her hair and lifted her shoulders, feeling that whatever was in store, she was determined to face it without showing her fear.

  It took a moment or two for her to realize that, though some in the crowd were still watching her, many were showing far more interest in another group of men coming through the narrow defile. She held her breath, looked to the equally surprised haj, then turned her gaze back to this new cause of excitement.

  Into the basin came a severe bunch of wildmen, all carrying spears, all wearing grim smiles of satisfaction on their faces. Behind them, tied together by a single rope that looped around the ankles, came Ramagar and the others—all with heads downcast and hands tightly bound behind their backs.

  “They’ve been captured!” cried the girl.

  The old haj sadly nodded and looked away, his small hopes of rescue utterly dashed. It was a forlorn sight: the bold Argyle, his fists balled, cursing loudly as he maneuvered to break free; the Prince sullen and heavyhearted behind him; Homer walking in a daze; and little Oro sniveling while wildman spears jabbed at his ribs to make him keep up.

  It was more than Mariana could stand; “Ramagar!” she shouted, bolting from her own guard and pushing her way through the gathering to reach her lover.

  Ramager lifted his head in amazement; then he too tried to break free, but his own guards acted more quickly than hers had. They pushed the thief from sight and grabbed the pleading girl as she fell onto the gravelly soil.

  In a rage, the lord of Aran burst his bonds with a single thrust, snapping the rope like string. He rushed forward, knocking two wildmen off balance, grabbed the first spear he saw, and aimed it at the leader of the wildmen, the straggly yellow-haired man who had been addressing the crowd.

  The leader did not raise a finger in his own protection; he didn’t have to. On every ridge, from behind every boulder along the awesome heights, more warrior wildmen showed themselves, all armed with deadly weapons, all poised to throw the instant Argyle let loose. And every spear was aimed at the heart of the dancing girl.

  “Throw down your weapon, my powerful friend,” commanded the wildman chieftain.

  For a moment Argyle wavered, debating his choices, but there was really no choice to be made. The moment he threw the spear Mariana would die. The chieftain was offering him a cunning choice—two lives, his own and hers, or death for them both.

  Reluctantly, Argyle threw down his spear. One of the fallen wildmen scampered to his feet and scooped the weapon up, looking to his chief for direction.

  The stocky chief studied Argyle’s face carefully, his eyes taking a long, slow measure of his adversary. Then he set his gaze on the others one by one, focusing finally on the Prince with the instinctive knowledge that this one, the quiet one, was the leader of the alien band.

  “What shall we do with them, lord?” one of the guards asked.

  The chieftain pursed his lips; from folded arms he put a finger to his mouth and ran it gently along the sides of his brush moustache.

  “Bring them all to the Hall,” he said at last. Then he turned his back and disappeared into a small stone house with a thatched roof that stood beside the near mountain wall.

  Another wildman snapped his fingers and his men shoved the band forward across the basin. The crowd huddled back as they passed, the women and children shuddering as mighty Argyle strode by.

  Mariana and the haj were the last to enter; the dancing girl threw herself into the arms of the shaken Ramagar and clung to him fiercely. A deep cut showed along the side of his temple, another near his shoulder. It was plain to see that a powerful fight had been given by all her companions—a fight that left each of them bruised and far more disheveled than when she had seen them last.

  The “Hall,” as the chieftain had called it, proved to be little more than a large room in a stone edifice with nothing but packed earth for a floor. There was no light inside, save for a single torch set in the wall near the front, and a tiny window close to the beamed ceiling that allowed only a sliver of the dim Specian daylight to filter through. There were no chairs, no cushions, no tables—only a semicircle of smoothed rock to serve as seats—a configuration that left Argyle and the Prince exchanging puzzled glances. Somehow, as primitive as it was, it all seemed vaguely familiar.

  Wildmen at the entrance quickly stepped to the side as their leader came into the Hall. Unarmed, escorted by two young women, one who was the same girl Mariana already knew, the chieftain crossed the floor and sat himself atop the tallest stone.

  “We demand to be released!” barked the haj, feeling his oats now that it was certain they would not be put to an immediate death.

  The wildman slanted a curious brow and stared at the brazen swineherd. “Oh?” he said softly. “And who are you to make such demands?”

  “Haj Burlu of Kalimar,” he replied, slapping dirt from his robe and bowing politely if not graciously.

  “Kalimar?” repeated the chieftain.

  “A faraway land of the East,” the Prince told him.

  The chieftain nodded. “Ah, yes. The East…”

  Ramagar glanced at Argyle. This wildman, this chieftain of wildmen, was acting as though he had heard of Kalimar. A most curious development, considering that as a Specian, and a barbarian to boot, there was no possible way he could have known of it.

  “Are you all of … Kalimar?” questioned the chieftain further.

  “All but two,” replied the Prince.

  “You and,” he glanced to Argyle, “the big fellow?”

  The lord of Aran fumed, incensed at the attitude of the seated man. He put his fists to his hips, and said, “By what right have we been taken prisoner by you? We meant you no harm—”

  The chieftain frowned and cut him off with a flippant gesture. “On these shores, all are our enemies. Tell me, how came you here?”

  “See here,” said the haj. “We need not answer all these questions. We are your prisoners, and you may kill us if you will.” He waved an imperious finger in the chieftain’s face, adding, “But know this: my companions and I have come here to free Speca of its misery. Slay us and you only harm yourselves.”

  The chieftain mulled over his words and then leaned back with folded arms. “You are a peculiar lot, invading our lands like this, then making demands.”

  The chieftain leaned forward again. Argyle restlessly shifted his weight and continued to glare. “Well?” he said. “What are you going to do with us?”

  It was a wry and knowing smile that crossed the chieftain’s rugged face. He turned to the lord of Aran and shook his head. “You’re still as impatient as ever, Argyle. Even after all this time …”

  Argyle’s mouth dropped so low it looked as though his jaw would fall off. “You … you know my name?”

  The chieftain grinned; then he stood and confronted Argyle face to face. “Yes, I know your name—as surely as you know mine.”

  The lord of Aran narrowed his eyes and scrutinized the barbarian leader, shaking his head.

  The chieftain sighed. “Have I changed that much?” he asked rhetorically. Then he sagged his shoulders and lifted his gaze heavenward. “Nearly twenty years now in this forsaken land,” he mumbled. “Twenty years! I suppose it would alter any man…”

  “Who … who are you?” questioned Argyle, suddenly dimly aware of a vague familiarity in the chieftain’s features.

  “Have you forgotten the hunts we once shared, Argyle? Or the warmth of t
he fires as we camped beneath summer stars? Or even how we once were rivals for Griselda’s hand…?”

  “Thorhall!” whispered Argyle. “Thorhall!”

  And the wildman laughed. “Yes, it is I—doomed to spend my life under the skies of Eternal Darkness.”

  “But you were slain! I myself saw your ship sink in the dreaded waters, a flaming torch beneath the fire arrows of the Dragon Ships! You and my brother both!”

  Thorhall answered sadly. “It is a long story. A very long story—and not a happy one.” The memory of that long ago battle was still strong and powerful, and the aging leader of the wildmen returned to his seat, his long face marked with his dejection.

  “Then you’re not one of these … barbarians?” said Mariana.

  Thorhall smiled. “No,” he answered, turning his head toward her, his long, stringy hair falling freely over his shoulders. “Merely one who found himself a place to hide from the devils.”

  “But how did you manage to elude the Druids?” asked Argyle.

  “And who are these people you now lead?” added the girl.

  Thorhall put out his palms in a patient gesture. “So many questions,” he said. “Sit down, all of you. Everything will be explained to your satisfaction, I promise.”

  They took seats upon the smoothed stones of the Hall, which all now realized was fashioned after the meeting place of Aran’s Sklar. Thorhall looked to the two young girls at his side. “My daughters will bring us some food,” he said. “You all must be very hungry.”

  “Famished,” Mariana admitted, “especially after that long night in your prison.”

  “Forgive me. But you see, I had to be certain that you were not an enemy …”

  “No need for apologies,” said the haj, feeling his belly growl with hunger. “You did what you had to do, and now let’s let bygones be bygones.”

  “Agreed,” chimed in Ramagar, scratching at the raw wound he had received in the morning’s battle. “Needless to say, I hope those wildmen I knocked unconscious won’t hold a grudge …”