by Davyne DeSye
Ready to investigate the situation outside of his protecting blanket, Erik took several calming breaths, and relaxed again to listen. As yet, he had heard no one speak, but he felt sure from the sound of the hooves that several mounted men rode to either side of the cart – he estimated no fewer than two to each side of him. He could not determine if additional riders rode ahead or behind the cart.
Gathering the ends of the short lassos in one hand, Erik pulled the blanket down over his face. One mounted, turbaned Persian rode to the side of the cart. The man’s dark face was barely visible in the glow of a lantern hanging just behind and to the side of the driver of the cart. Erik tilted his head back and lifted his eyes toward the driver. Two men; one driving, one sharing the bench, head slumped forward as though asleep.
Erik sprang up, and slinging the blanket around his body like a great winged cape, he flung it over the head of the sleeping man, and threw him from the side of the cart. The startled man’s waking shout stopped abruptly as he hit the ground. At the same moment, a cry of alarm sounded from one of the riders. Losing no time, Erik shouldered the driver off the other side of the seat to the ground, jerking the reins from the man’s clutching fingers as he fell. Standing in the cart behind the riding bench like a mad charioteer, Erik yelled at the two horses, and flicked the reins, urging them to speed.
Hearing a rider approach to his side, a stream of obscenities flowing from the man’s lips, Erik separated a lasso from the rest, and with a glance to his side, caught the man about the neck and yanked him from his horse. Before Erik could catch both hands to the reins again, a hand clamped on his shoulder from his other side. Erik grabbed the man’s wrist, and using the momentum provided by the man’s momentary lack of balance, Erik stepped back and to the side and pulled the man from his saddle and across the driver’s seat before pushing him forward and off the cart. Erik was nearly thrown from the cart when it careened and bumped as one wheel rode over the fallen man. He dropped the lassos and nearly dropped the reins as he fell to his knees and crashed against the side of the cart, a hoarse yell escaping him with the sudden explosion of pain in his injured shoulder. Panting through clenched teeth, he righted himself and drew unsteadily to his feet again, blinking away the red-blackness that threatened to close over his vision.
Another yell alerted him to an additional rider approaching from his right side, and Erik spared a quick glance in that direction, hoping to determine how many riders still pursued. He could only see the one. He turned to the front and snapped the horses on, knowing as he did that the rider had the greater speed, and would be on him in a moment. He bent, groping the space around his feet, hoping to retrieve the lassos that had fallen from his grip. He gasped in relief as his fingers closed around one end of rope, and he rose to his feet again, turning his head to gauge the proximity of the closing rider.
Erik yelled in surprise as he was felled by the weight of another rider, apparently leaping from an unseen horse at his left. Bright starbursts exploded in his sight as he grappled with the man, fingers now lost to both reins and lasso, both hands and all his remaining strength struggling to keep the man’s hands from his throat. Erik managed to push to his knees and then his feet as he struggled against his attacker, both he and the enraged Persian stumbling from one side of the cart to the other in the uncertain footing of the runaway cart. Even in the midst of the struggle, Erik noticed with despair that there remained two riders. The closer of the two would be near enough to join the fray in less than a minute. He would not be able to resist both men – the man he now wrestled and the near rider – and certainly not the three. Erik’s despair rose as the cart slowed, giving the riders the more definite advantage. He must rid himself of the one he now fought.
In the hopes of throwing the man overboard, Erik twisted in his grip, and using an extended leg, kicked the man’s feet from under him. As the Persian fell, Erik threw him toward the edge of the cart. With his own waning strength and his upset balance, the Persian did not go over the edge. Instead, the man’s head smashed into the wall of the cart, leaving the man dazed. Thankful for even a brief respite in the wrestling fight, Erik turned his attention to the two remaining riders.
The near rider was preparing to leap from his horse to the cart. In no fewer than half a dozen paces of the racing horse, he would be near enough to do so. The farther rider was not so near, but seemed suddenly the greater danger, as he raised a pistol and took aim. Erik threw himself to the floor. The other man in the cart rose, a long curved knife in hand, and supporting himself on the sides of the far end, prepared to lunge once more at Erik.
A shot rang through the air. The man before him gasped, an expression of disbelief contorting his features before he fell. Erik bellowed as the Persian’s knife sank into his thigh. The heavy body of the dead man pinioned Erik’s legs to the cart bottom.
They’ve missed their shot! Even through the pain of the knife wound, Erik felt a burst of ecstatic gratitude for the far Persian’s poor marksmanship.
With a shout, Erik pulled the knife from his thigh and struggled to loose himself from the weight of the fallen Persian. The gash on his shin tore open as he pulled his legs free. He remained crouched, still unwilling to expose himself to the faltering aim of the galloping Persian. Grabbing one of the lassos at the side of the dead man, he secured it about his upper thigh to stop the main flow of blood. Finding the third lasso, he raised his head until his eyes cleared the edge of the cart, looking for the near rider.
To his surprise, the near rider was no longer alongside. Instead, the near Persian had turned toward the far rider and was raising his own pistol.
Are they fighting each other?
Before Erik could begin to make sense of the two charging riders, shots rang from both pistols, and both men fell from their horses – the near man falling cleanly to the ground, while the farther was dragged a short distance, his foot tangled in his stirrup.
Seeing no more riders, Erik leaped toward the head of the cart, but the reins were out of reach. He yelled for the horses to stop, to no avail. Taking the dead Persian’s curved knife and pistol, and bracing himself against the pain to come, he leapt from the cart, rolling several times before coming to a stop. Still confused by the two dueling Persians, he limped toward the fallen men and their now quiescent horses.
He came first to the Persian who had abandoned his leap into the cart. The man was dead, shot through the heart. Erik patted the rump of the nearby horse as it whinnied and stamped. Erik crept toward the second fallen man. As he neared the man, he heard a groan. Erik stopped and raised the pistol. The man before him groaned again and raised his head. The grayed head was bare of the usual turban, and Erik assumed that the rider had been unhatted as he fell. It was not until he approached that Erik took in the man’s clothing – not Persian garb, but the clothing of a well-dressed man of Sweden – and finally, the man’s familiar face.
“Pontus!” Erik leapt to his butler’s side as the old man moaned, and again attempted to raise his head. “Good gracious, man!”
Erik searched his servant’s body, finding the bleeding wound just under the man’s heart. He pressed one hand to the bloody hole as he pulled the butler into his lap, cradling his head.
“Master Erik,” Pontus said weakly, and coughed, spewing flecks of liquid into Erik’s face. A thick fluid trickled from the side of his mouth, appearing black in the light of the moon. “You are safe,” Pontus gasped.
“Safe, yes,” Erik answered, raising his head to look about the dark terrain, confirming that no other persons were approaching, “but you…”
“I followed…,” Pontus continued, and his whispered words faded to nothing before he coughed again, the sound trailing into a moan. Erik’s mind raced for what he might do to help the loyal servant, although from the warm blood still flowing under his hand, no manner of help could prolong the man’s life much longer.
“Nothing I could say can express…” Erik began, but on feeling Pontus’ shudder
ing body in his arms and listening to his labored breath, he knew that the old man would not live through the gracious words Erik wished to lavish upon him.
“Thank you, Pontus,” Erik said at last. “You have saved me.”
Erik’s eyes burned and blurred as a slow smile stretched Pontus’ blood blackened lips. The smile turned to a rictus of pain, as the old man’s eyes squeezed shut and his body shuddered through another cough.
“I promise you this,” Erik said. “Your wife, your children, your grandchildren, will want for nothing for as long as I live.” Erik took the old man’s hand and squeezed it as he uttered his oath. It was the least he could promise the servant who, in his loyalty, had traded his own life for Erik’s. Erik hoped, and not out of simple self-interest, that he would live a life long enough to make the promise worthy of Pontus’ sacrifice – not that anything would.
“I can tell you…” Erik stopped, sentence uncompleted, as Pontus opened his eyes, and convulsed with a last shuttering breath. Erik lowered his head.
He held the old man for a short while, and then lowered him to the ground.
The faithful, brave butler deserved a proper burial, but Erik had no tools to perform the task, and no time in which to perform it. Limping, he pulled Pontus to the side of the dirt road, and laid him in the low ground cover under a tree. He straightened the old man’s clothing as best he could, crossed his hands over his chest, and closed his eyelids to the dark foliage above him.
“Rest in peace, friend,” Erik murmured.
His own pains from bruises and gashes began clamoring for his attention again as he moved back toward the horses. His own horse – the horse Pontus had ridden to his rescue – nuzzled him as he approached. He turned and rode back in the direction from which they had come, not wanting to ride forward to meet the waiting enemy, and reckless enough in his anger and pain to hope to meet trailing Persians behind him.
And now to find Christine.
CHAPTER 12
CHRISTINE’S TRAVELS
Christine was unsure if she still dreamed, or if the vertiginous feeling that gripped her body was real. She did not open her eyes. Her body swayed to and fro in rhythm to a regular sound that she could not identify. Her stomach twisted within her, but she could not be sure whether the twisting was an indication of hunger or a desire to be ill. Somehow it was both. She tried to lift her hands to her stomach to press there in brief investigation, but she could not lift her hands. In fact, she could not feel any part of her body other than the pit that was her stomach and the feeling that she swayed, floating.
A dream then. I have had this dream before, this dream of helplessness. I wish I could wake from it.
After some time wherein she did nothing more than count the beats of her heart, or count the pulsations of the other swaying rhythm which seemed syncopated with her heart, she became aware enough of her body that she knew she was reclining on some lumpy, uncomfortable surface. She could feel the lumps under her back, another pressing against her legs, something supporting her arms. She tried again to lift her hands to her roiling stomach. Her heavy hands moved and then rested on a soft surface which must be her abdomen, for she felt a weight resting above the pit within her.
I want to wake.
She heard a strange mumbling in her ears as she tried to make her thought take the form of words, tried to say the words aloud.
“She is waking.” She heard the words near her, a man’s voice, the words spoken in Persian, and reaching her ears as though through cotton.
She felt hands under her body, under her heavy limbs, lifting her into a sitting position. Her head was too heavy for her neck to hold, and it flopped forward until her chin rested on her chest. She tried again to open her eyes, but could not. For some time, she sat, feeling nothing more than hands securing her in her upright position. She returned to counting her heartbeats.
After another passage of dreamtime, she tried to speak again.
I want to wake.
She tried to force her tongue and lips to make the sounds that would echo her thought. “I wan do way…” she heard, in a voice that sounded like hers might if her mouth were stuffed with sausages. At the thought of sausages in her mouth, the pit that was her stomach deepened. She wanted to weep, and she heard a sad keening noise which frightened her because it sounded as if it was issuing from within her own body.
A hand lifted her chin from her chest, and something pried at her closed eyelid. She tried to focus her open eye and could not. She tried to keep her head raised as the hand released her chin, but she could not.
More time passed, and again she tried to open her eyes. This time she succeeded. She was looking at the front of a skirt she recognized as her own, although the bodice above her waist did not look familiar. She tried to raise her head again to take in her surroundings, and found this time that she could, although not without loosing another wave of dizziness that caused her to close her eyes again. She swallowed and fought the vertigo hoping that it would not cause her to be ill. The dizziness subsided and she opened her eyes again. Her vision was clearer this time, and the dizziness did not return.
She sat in a coach, three Persians looking at her, the men packed across the bench seat she faced.
Now, why would I dream of Persians?
She could feel the bodies of two others pressing against her on either side. She turned her head to look to her right, and then clamped her teeth together as another, milder wave of dizziness returned with the movement of her head. Her breath came heavy through her nostrils. She could not see the face of the man beside her. His head was turned to look out the curtained window of the carriage, through the small space made as he held the curtain aside in one hand. The sunlight through the window stabbed her eyes. She turned to face forward again.
This time she recognized the tall man facing her. She recalled him from… from somewhere. His inscrutable gaze held hers as she tried to remember.
Suddenly, she recalled where she had seen him before. The tunnels in the house… the foolish room…
I am not dreaming! Erik! Erik!
She wanted to shriek his name, but did not. She recognized the moan this time as her own.
The tall Persian leaned toward her, and holding her chin in his hand, looked into her eyes. Apparently satisfied with what he saw there, he reached behind him and pounded on the carriage wall. The rocking of the carriage slowed, and then stopped.
She knew what would happen now. This had happened before. Food. Her mouth filled with saliva and she swallowed to keep it from cascading on to her dress.
The door of the carriage opened. The Persian standing outside the door dipped a cold stew into a bowl and handed it in – lamb, Christine thought, as she caught sight of the first bowl. Her mouth began to water as the smell of strong spices infiltrated the carriage interior. Six bowls of stew were passed in, one for each of them. Christine lifted her hands as a bowl was passed to her. With deliberate motions – for she feared spilling the stew held in her uncertain hands – she ladled the pungent mix of meat and vegetables into her mouth.
As she ate, her strength returned, and the vagueness of her senses began to fade. She shook her head in an effort to dispel the last of her confusion.
I am awake. I have been captured by Mazenderani.
She leaned over the nearly empty bowl in her lap to see if she could catch sight of her shoes. The toes of both shoes peeked from the hem of her skirt, and she sighed as she leaned back in her seat again.
Erik! I hope you understood my message!
She sighed again and dropped her eyes to her lap.
Catching sight of the remainder of her stew, she thought, I must keep up my strength. Her stomach did not require her logical deduction of necessity to accept the last of the stew, and too soon her bowl was empty. Her eyes moved to each of the bowls in the hands of the men surrounding her as her greedy stomach hoped for more.
She handed the bowl out as the man outside the carriage came to collect
them, uncertain whether to break her silence to request more. She accepted the flask that was passed in to her, and drank of the warm, delicious water. She turned her eyes to the tall man across from her, feeling somehow that even in this terrible circumstance he might be the most receptive to her request for more food. She opened her mouth to make the request, but before she could speak the words, the man removed another small flask from within his sleeve. He removed the lid and held it out to her. She did not know what the flask might contain, but she was quite ready to accept whatever additional food or drink might be offered. As she lifted the flask to drink from it, a delicious rose-scented aroma came to her, and she sucked in a deep breath of it.
Her entire body went slack, and the flask was removed from her failing fingers. Her vision blackened at the edges, and her body slumped sideways to rest against the man to her side. The last thing she heard before she was swallowed by a frightening blackness was the raucous laughter of the men within the carriage.
CHAPTER 13
ERIK AND PETTER
It was night again when Erik abandoned his horse near the docks. After a night and a day spent in flight and in scraps of stolen sleep, Erik felt as if the horse had ridden him. He crept toward the docks hoping to find Mattis still moored, but ready to forgive the man if he was not. The heavy pant of breath that escaped him when he caught sight of his friend’s boat was cut short as a stabbing pain shot through his chest. He brought a hand up to press against what he was sure were broken ribs.
After a long moment during which Erik watched for movement on or near the darkened boat, he crept toward it. He boarded, ignoring his various pains, and hunkered down out of sight of anyone who might venture dockside at this late hour. Avoiding the planks above the sailor’s sleeping quarters, he limped a circuitous route to Mattis’ private cabin. He eased the door open, and smiled at the large man’s stentorian snores. Slipping into the room, he closed the door behind him, and turned to wake his friend. He was not surprised that the man still slept – the rumble he was producing would camouflage any sound Erik had made in entering the small cabin.
