Sinbad and The Eye of the Tiger (9 page)

“A strange . . . haunted place,” Farah said in a whisper.

Sinbad nodded. “No sign of life . . . I hope there
is
a wise man of Casgar.”

Farah clutched at his arm, her dark eyes glittering. “He
does
exist!” She bit at her lip. “He
must!”

Sinbad nodded and patted her hand.
“If
Melanthius exists . . . we shall find him.”

Farah’s eyes dropped to the crimson-shrouded cage tied amidship. “He is the only hope left to us.” The cloth stirred and the baboon’s hairy arm came out to stroke Farah’s hand in a curiously pathetic gesture. Captain Sinbad glanced at the comfortingly wide and muscular back of Hassan, and at the sword and dagger he carried. All his sailors were heavily armed, and behind them, ready to come to their aid, were more of Sinbad’s crew.

They rode through the breakers and grounded the boat on the sandy beach. Sinbad and his six men all looked around as they disembarked. The sea captain lifted Farah from the boat and carried her through the surf to deposit her upon the dry beach. Then Sinbad kept a watch on the mist-capped cliffs as his men brought the baboon’s cage onto the beach, then unloaded the fancy boxes of treasure.

Hassan and his companions grunted under the weight of the boxes of gold and jewels, and more than once they exchanged glances that said much about what they would rather be doing with the chests.

Princess Farah, too, searched the misty cliffs looming over them with her dark eyes. “No sign of life,” she said to Sinbad. She shivered, even wrapped in a cloak.

Sinbad nodded. “No sign of Melanthius,” he said. “But he’ll know we landed.”

“How?” asked Farah.

Sinbad turned to her, missing a vague figure revealed by the parting of the mists, a figure moving among the rocks above. The sailor shrugged. “He has his ways.” He smiled. “After all, he is supposed to be the wisest man in all the Levant.”

Farah sighed again, went over to the cage, and patted the baboon’s paw tenderly.

“All right, men,” Sinbad called out. “Let’s go. Ali, see that the boat is secure.”

Ali and another sailor pulled the boat up onto the beach where it would be safe from the tides, put the oars within, then shouldered their share of the treasure.

With only a few men Sinbad had left everything behind in the large ship but the baboon in his cage, weapons, and the treasure-payment itself. He brought no food, nor any clothing but what they wore. “We can live off the land,” he had told the Mate as they lowered the landing boat.

Now, taking the lead, Sinbad turned the party toward the towering gray cliffs of Casgar and started trudging over the soft sand toward the slate-gray shadow that was the narrow pass. His men took an apprehensive look at the slit in the rock cliff, hefted their burdens, loosened their swords in their scabbards, and started up.

Unseen by them, hidden among the rocks, were the dark-clad figures of men clad in skins. Well concealed and motionless, they passed for shadows. Only their dark eyes moved, following Sinbad’s party as it climbed over the tumble of rock, up through the cleft.

There was a metallic snap, then a loud scraping, and Zenobia’s boat lurched alarmingly. The witch-woman came quickly from her cabin, frowning at the gray mist that obscured everything around them.

She saw Rafi peering over the edge of the rail and joined him. “By the flames of Farlan!” she cursed. Two of the metal oars were broken and another bent badly. A low rock, barely emerging from the dark waters, had several scrapes across it. “It will take hours to repair!” Zenobia said with a low growl. She pointed downward with a long-nailed finger. “Quickly!”

Rafi blinked, then resignedly climbed over the rail and began the disentanglement of the ruined oar.

Zenobia stared ahead into the impenetrable gray wall of mist and uttered another arcane curse.

S
inbad was in the lead, going up the pass, with Maroof, Farah, Hassan, and Aboo-seer behind him. Farther behind them four sailors struggled with the scarlet-covered cage and the first chests of treasure that were to be their opening gesture to Melanthius.

Sinbad paused for breath, looking ahead as his sailors caught up with him. The path so far, used by generations of sailors, had been well enough defined, if narrow and winding. But ahead, the tumble of fallen rocks made the trail a maze, with each turning a possible ambush. The high walls and the mist above closed them into an endless, winding tunnel, rising and rising, neverending and possibly treacherous. Sinbad knew that often robbers and thieves waited in the approaches to shrines and holy places to rob pilgrims, even to sell them into slavery or hold them for ransom.

Farah caught up to him and also paused for breath. “It’s so quiet,” she said, unconsciously whispering. Even the sound of the surf behind them was muffled and almost unheard. The mist seemed to muffle even the echoes that should have resounded among the narrow passage. They could hear the puff and gasp of the sailors with their burdens, the scrape of a swordtip on a rock, the brittle clink of jewels or coins shifting in their cases. But there were no birds, no chittering of small animals, no wind sighing in the trees.

“How can we be sure where to find Melanthius?” Farah asked.

Sinbad pointed ahead. “This is a path . . . there are tracks, signs . . .”

Sinbad glanced back down the trail, where he saw the treasure-laden sailors pass Hassan, who had sat down upon a rock to tie up some loose boot thongs.

“Come on,” Sinbad said, and moved out ahead of the party.

Hassan looked around as his fingers made the automatic motions of tying the boot straps. He stopped and peered at the top of the cliffs, narrowing his eyes against the sun. Was that a movement he saw?

He stood and shielded his eyes against the bright sun, much brighter here, since they had climbed up out of the perpetual coastline mists. His well-trained eyes searched the rocks and crevices that rippled the edge of the high pass walls, but he saw nothing else. The burly sailor shrugged and moved on quickly to catch up with the others.

But he did not forget he had seen movement, or at least thought he had seen something. A watcher or sentry, perhaps?

Hassan was not the only one whose eyes were searching the cliffs and rocks. Even the sweating sailors carrying the treasure chests shot dark looks at the high rock walls around them.

“I don’t like this place,” Farah said.

“Nor do I,” muttered Maroof. “I’ve almost drawn my sword a score of times.” His eyes left the cliff tops only to measure the path ahead and he didn’t like the time spent watching where he put his feet.

“A good trap for archers,” Sinbad said in a low voice.

Farah shivered, but Sinbad grinned at her. Wordlessly, he gestured her onward, then took the lead again himself. There were more rocks, more twists of the path, then Sinbad stopped with a sudden gasp.

“A temple!” he said, and Farah hastened to join him. Sinbad pointed ahead. “Carved out of the solid rock!” Farah, too, stared in astonishment. Ahead of them, cut into the side of the rocky mountain of stone, was a Greek temple, columned and graceful, with a wide triangular roof front decorated with carved figures.

Sinbad whispered loudly back to his men. “Hurry!” He waved them up and they temporarily lost their fatigue and came ahead quickly. They crowded up behind Sinbad and the princess of Charak and gaped.

“It’s abandoned,” Farah said. “At least there’s no sign of anyone . . .”

“Look, Sinbad!” Hassan said. He pointed to the left, then right. “More!”

Sinbad ran ahead a few steps and found himself at the head of the winding path through the rocky cleft. The ground leveled out here, but the high walls were still around them, forming a kind of arena. It was apparent the temple they had seen was merely the highest on the cliffs of a great series of huge and beautiful temples, all carved into the gray rock. His dark eyes swept around, peering into the shadows as best he could. He saw nothing. He turned back and waved the rest of his treasure-bearing party in.

“Could be there is treasure in it,” Aboo-seer said, looking at the temple with brightened eyes.

Maroof, farther back, shouted to them, “Could be the Castle of Melanthius!” His words echoed against the rocks.

The mists seemed to be thinner here, and sunlight poured into the broad clearing which formed the heart of what appeared to be an abandoned civilization of high order. Sinbad marveled at the size of the temples, all carved from the living rock, ingeniously using cracks, crevices, bulges, and the very texture of the rock itself.

“They’re
huge!”
Hassan said in wonder.

Sinbad nodded. “Aye, as grand as anything the Egyptians cut into the cliffs at Dier el Bahri, where Gueen Hatshepsut lies, or the great statues of Ramses at Abu Simbel, overlooking the Nile.”

“You’ve traveled,” marveled Hassan, setting down his burden of the treasure.

“It
is
carved out of the mountain!” Farah exclaimed in wonderment.

Sinbad took a deep breath and his shouts brought back thunderous repeats in the echoes. “Melanthius!”

Hassan drew his sword and started forward. “I will see if anyone is in there.” He started trotting toward the building.

The men had felt dwarfed by the sheer vastness of the architecture, and awed by its obviously great age. In fact, the size was so great, yet in such proportion, that they were startled when they saw Hassan mount the steps. Suddenly, knowing his size, the carved mountain seemed even larger. Hassan paused at the edge of the ancient doorway, then, taking a good grip on his scimitar, he disappeared into the shadows.

“Melanthius!” he cried and the echoes were dusty with time. He stepped to the side of the entrance to let his eyes adjust to the dimly lit chamber. He had known many a warrior who had given up his life or parts of his scarred body because they were too impetuous, too confident of their fighting ability, to pay attention to any of the more subtle advantages one must give oneself.

The chamber seemed empty. There was only dust, undisturbed for years, perhaps centuries, stirred only by the wind. Hassan turned and left, squinting against the brightness his enlarged pupils now saw. He rejoined the others and reported. “It is as empty as a tomb.”

“Perhaps,” Sinbad said, “it
is
a . . .”

There were several shouts and Sinbad’s sword slithered from his scabbard as he turned. Some of the shouts were from his men and some, almost animal-like gruntings, were from brutish-looking people at the tops of the cliffs. Rocks were plummeting toward them, striking the hard ground and bouncing or shattering. Dust confused everything as the sailors sought to avoid the hail of stones and boulders.

Sinbad leaped over the pile of treasure and swept Farah into his arms. “Follow me!” he shouted. “Run!”

His men needed no urging. A rock tumbled a sailor, but he rolled to his feet and grabbed the baboon’s cage. Another scooped up a treasure chest just as a boulder as large as his torso crushed the ebony-inlaid box of treasure next to him. There seemed to be more than a dozen of the primitive-looking people hurling rocks from every vantage point overhead and shouting incomprehensible imprecations.

The sailor carrying the cage was struck again. Sinbad set Farah on her feet and she began running as the sea captain grabbed the cage with his sword hand and lifted the bloodied sailor with the other.

It was a moment before Sinbad realized they were not running back toward the pass to the beach. Aboo-seer was in the lead now, and Sinbad silently agreed with his choice of direction, for the pass was an even more dangerous place to be caught. Rocks still hit close and Hassan took a glanced blow to the hip, staggering drunkenly before he recovered his balance.

They outdistanced the larger boulders but were still under fire from fist-sized stones. Ali went down in a tumble, hurt more in the fall among the rocks than by the head blow from a stone. They ran hard, panting, and Sinbad was pleased to see how fleet-footed Farah was, her sari’s skirts gathered up and her slippered feet racing over the stony path.

“All right,” panted Sinbad. Gasping, the sailors came to a shambling halt. Sinbad looked back. They had run out of the great amphitheater of stone, directly away from the beach, and were higher on the mountain now, out of throwing range of the roughly clad people who had assaulted them.

Panting, they examined their wounds. One of the treasure-bearers had a broken wrist and Hassan used strips of cloth to bind him up, using several sticks of wood he found along the trail. Ali’s head wound was more bloody than dangerous, but he adapted his turban into a bandage. Sinbad was unharmed and, except for a few scratches, so was the princess of Charak.

Aboo-seer went back along the trail, then returned to report that the savages they had seen were not in pursuit. “What do we do now, Captain?” he asked Sinbad.

The tall adventurer pointed along the trail. “Let us go that way. If Melanthius was not back there, perhaps he is ahead.”

Aboo-seer looked back with a grim expression. “If he was back there, he was a long-gone feast.”

Sinbad silenced him with a gesture, his eyes indicating Farah, who was helping one of the sailors sponge some blood off his elbow. Aboo-seer nodded, and started out first.

Sinbad got them all moving and distributed the treasure chests that remained among the uninjured. They climbed toward the nearby crest of the hill, each wondering whether they might be heading toward a new trap. But at the crest they paused in surprise.

Below lay an extraordinary valley, ringed by a dramatic range of rocky mountains. In the valley, cut from the living rock, was a vast city.

“It is truly incredible!” Sinbad gasped.

They all reacted variously to. the awesome sight of the stately buildings that formed the rock-cut city below. “A magnificent city,” Sinbad said. “A
city
of rock-carved buildings!”

“But completely deserted,” Farah said softly.

Maroof glowered at the Grecian-style structures, then glanced back along their trail. “Deserted . . . except for those savages.” He looked at his captain, who was searching the valley with bright, interested eyes. “It is said they eat
people,”
he muttered to Hassan who was at his side.