The Soterion Mission (9 page)

Timur’s musings were interrupted by shouting from the hill to his left. Though he needed to go and see what was going on personally, rapidity was tricky. To keep the sun off his pearly white skin when in the open, he was accompanied by four men holding a canopy of scarlet cloth above his head. Now, as he hurried up the slope in the direction of the noise, the bearers struggled to keep up with him.

“Quicker, snails!” he screeched as the men lurched this way and that across the rough ground. “And keep the shade over me, vermin, unless you want to cook your Malik!”

The ungainly procession had not gone far before Timur saw someone running down towards them. “Stop!” he cried. “Wait!”

As the figure drew closer, Timur recognised it as Giv.

“Malik!” the youth panted as he reached the canopy. “Giv seen! Giv seen!”

Timur rolled his eyes and heaved an exaggerated sigh. Really, he must teach this mudbrain to speak. “Well, Giv, what have you seen?”

7: Old Friends, New Dangers

Taja woke first. She lay still for a few seconds until the dreary chanting reminded her where she was. At the same time, she became aware that someone or something was moving to her left. When she opened her eyes to see what it was, a grubby hand closed over her mouth.

“Shh! Don’t say nothing, lady!”

She obeyed the command more out of surprise than fear. No one had ever spoken to her like this before – the term “lady” was almost unheard of in Della Tallis – and the hand that now withdrew respectfully from her face was small, much smaller than an adult’s.

Cyrus, exhausted by the turmoil of the previous day, remained sound asleep. The stranger bent down and gently shook his shoulder. “Wake up, mister! Wake up!” Cyrus opened his eyes. What was going on? He blinked, glanced across at Taja, then peered up at the figure bending over him.

Although clouds filtered the full brilliance of the moon, there was sufficient light for Cyrus to make out a small, lean figure with a ball of black curly hair. He recognised him at once. It was the boy with the impish expression who, at Ozlam’s command, had taken away their weapons to be burned.

The boy raised a finger to his lips and, with his other hand, beckoned Cyrus and Taja closer. “Want to get out?” he whispered.

Cyrus nodded, instinctively trusting the lad’s eager tone. Taja was more cautious, “Who are you?” she hissed. “Is this some trick, because if it is – ”

The boy shook his head vigorously. “We got no time,” he said, his face suddenly furrowed with anxiety. “If we gets out, I’ll explain. Promise. But we got to move quick.” He made as if to stand.

Taja stopped him. “We? Are you coming with us?”

“Of course! You can’t get out without me – and I can’t get nowhere outside without you. See? You in or not?”

Taja looked across at Cyrus. “Well?”

“Please!” the boy urged in a tone that had changed suddenly from confident to pleading.

“Alright,” said Cyrus. “Come on, Taja. Anything’s better than staying here, isn’t it?” He turned to the boy. “And what about our friend?”

“Which one?”

“Navid, the man who was with us when we came in. The one with the long shaggy hair.”

“Oh, him! You think he wants to come too?” Cyrus nodded. “OK. I’ll see what I can do. Follow me. We’s mice, OK?”

Cyrus looked at Taja and smiled. The situation, although perilous, was also most bizarre.

As they passed through the door and advanced cautiously along the side of the building, Cyrus struggled to make sense of what was happening. Why was there no one around? Where were the guards? How could this eccentric boy get them through that deadly fence? For one accustomed to taking charge, he felt unsettlingly powerless, carried along by a current of strange events over which he had no control.

At the edge of the hut in which they had been held, the boy paused. Indicating to them to stay where they were, he sprinted across a dusty courtyard to what looked like a veranda. Taja and Cyrus watched as he inched along in front of it for a few paces before disappearing. In the gloom, Taja felt for Cyrus’ hand and gave it a squeeze. He responded half-heartedly, wishing she would keep her hands to herself. The situation was complicated enough as it was.

Moments later, the boy came padding back across the courtyard. He shook his head. “Can’t get to your friend,” he whispered. “Guarded.”

Cyrus’ spirits sank once more. They had been lifted slightly by the thought of meeting up with Navid, though he might not be able to persuade him to join them – but now even that was impossible. He sighed and followed the others to the end of the building, across what seemed to be a street, and into the shadows of a windowless barn. The sound of the chanting was getting louder. The mystery deepened when the boy whispered “Gova” and signalled to them to look round the wall they were leaning against.

Taja went first, then Cyrus. There, some fifty paces away, was what looked like an enormous piece of shiny glass. In front of it, sitting cross-legged on the ground, was one of the Magi. From his mouth came the endless, mournful wail of the chant.

Cyrus stared for a few seconds then turned back to the boy. To his surprise, the lad’s face was split by a wide grin. He raised two fingers to his head and tapped it. “Mad!” he mouthed. “Mad Magi!”

They continued until the shape of Gova Hall loomed out of the darkness ahead. The boy led them stealthily along the nearest side as far as the broad entrance. Here he stood and listened for a moment before pulling open the right-hand door. Then he slipped inside, beckoning them to follow.

The interior smelt of dried flowers. At the far end, raised on a wooden stand carved with symbols of the sun, a single candle burned. Its yellow light shimmered eerily across the crude images on the walls. The boy went down on his knees and, just below where Roxanne had seen the enamel notice with faded writing on it, began scrabbling around on the floor. Taja and Cyrus stared in astonishment as, very slowly and carefully, he raised a hinged concrete panel to reveal a dark hole beneath it.

The boy pointed to the opening. “Go on!”

Taja, who was nearer to the hole than Cyrus, hesitated. “Is it some sort of cell, a prison?”

The boy shook his head. “Prison? Don’t be daft, lady! It’s a tunnel!”

Taja shrugged and lowered herself into the opening. Cyrus indicated to the boy to go next. He was sure the lad was honest, but all the same…Didn’t the Children of Gova get rid of people by burying them alive? They may even have disposed of Roxanne in this very pit.

The boy shook his head. “You’re the important one, mister. I’ll shut the door after me.”

“No. Sorry, boy. To be on the safe side, you go in front of me.” When Cyrus folded his arms to show he meant what he said, the boy took a step towards the hole.

Before either of them realised what was happening, a tall figure sprang out from behind Cyrus and grabbed the boy by the shoulder. It was Ozlam!

“Stop, my child!” he ordered in a furious whisper. “This is a terrible heresy you commit! Oh my dear child, you have betrayed me and the secrets of the Great Gova!”

The boy struggled to free himself. “Get off me, Ozlam! I ain’t your child! And I hate you and I hate your stupid Gova!”

The exchange lit up the darkened landscape of Cyrus’ mind like a flash of summer lightning. Two things became clear immediately. Whoever he was, the boy was on their side; and Ozlam knew about the tunnel but wanted to keep it a secret. Why else would he whisper instead of calling for help?

The boy’s pitiful remarks stirred Cyrus into action. He launched himself at Ozlam, wrenching his hands off the child and pushing him heavily backwards. The High Father recovered his balance and felt for something inside the folds of his robe.

“No weapons, eh?” mocked Cyrus as the bully drew out a glimmering blade.

The man’s mouth arched into an unholy sneer. “Only for killing heretical and ungrateful vermin!”

Battle experience had taught Cyrus how to sum up an opponent in an instant. This one, he realised, was neither brave nor a fighter. Muttering over his shoulder, “Get in the tunnel, boy!” he advanced across the hall. After all he had been through, he finally had a chance to express his pent up fury in action.

Ozlam was slashing at the air in a futile effort at intimidation when Cyrus’ foot slammed into his hand. The knife spun in a broad arc and clattered to the floor. The kick was instantly followed by a deft combination of punches. The first hammered into Ozlam’s jaw, jerking his head backwards. The second thudded into his stomach, emptying the air from his lungs and folding him up like a penknife.

The final blow, delivered with the side of the hand, cracked into the back of Ozlam’s neck. Without a sound, he sank senseless to the floor. Moments later, Cyrus and the boy had climbed through the hatchway, closed the trapdoor after them and were fumbling their way along the cobweb-tangled walls of the tunnel. They had gone no more than a couple of hundred paces before the boy stopped, took an object from a ledge and handed it to Cyrus. Feeling with his fingers in the blackness, he recognized the familiar outline immediately. His spear! The lad had not only rescued them – he had managed to save their weapons, too. He really was a most extraordinary character!

With Taja leading the way, they edged along the musty-smelling passage for a considerable distance. Every now and again Cyrus paused to listen for the sound of pursuit. Nothing. Cyrus wondered how Ozlam was explaining his injuries, and the disappearance of his prisoners and one of his precious boys. Even he would find it difficult to lie his way out of that one.

The tunnel’s exit was ingenious. Over the last one hundred paces the passage sloped steeply upwards until it came to a halt at the foot of an iron-runged ladder. This rose inside a tall, vertical shaft closed at the top by a heavy trapdoor. Pushing his way through and closing it behind him, Cyrus found himself on a platform high up in a tree made of fibreglass and concrete. The model was so well built that despite a century’s weathering, it remained almost indistinguishable from the natural trees around it.

Holding onto a rope handrail that led to the broad bough of an adjacent oak, Cyrus, Taja and the boy climbed into its branches and slithered down the trunk to the ground. Their young guide then confirmed what Cyrus and Taja already suspected: they were well beyond the murderous perimeter of the Gova settlement. When they had thanked him repeatedly for saving them, they searched out a sheltered hollow, checked it for snakes and lay down to rest.

Before going to sleep, the Tallins insisted that their new friend explain what was going on. The boy’s story, told simply and without self-glorification, sparkled with intelligence, kindness and remarkable courage. It also brought a smile to Cyrus’ face and allowed him to close his eyes with a glimmer of hope in his bruised heart.

Timur, too, had been the recipient of startling news from the mouth of a youngster. Its bearer was the favoured message-carrier whom the Malik had singled out as a possible heir apparent.

“Zeds!” gasped the young man, struggling for breath after running halfway down the hill in search of his master. “Giv seen Zeds!”

Timur’s brow furrowed like dirty snow. Zeds? Of course the fool could see Zeds! “What Zeds?” he asked, restraining himself from striking the youth for his stupidity.

“Enemy Zeds, Malik! Not Grozny!”

The creases on Timur’s brow deepened. Interference from another Zed tribe was the last thing he needed. It was difficult enough keeping his numbheaded warriors in some sort of line when there were no distractions. If they had to contend with other Zeds as well, it would be beyond even his ferocious powers of control. He needed detail.

“Where are these Zeds, Giv? Point!”

“Er, leff!” cried Giv proudly, sticking out the correct arm like a salute in the direction of the shallow valley below.

At least they’re not behind us, thought Timur. “Good, Giv. You have the makings of a mind. Now, see if you can use it again. This might not be easy, but how many are there?”

The youth’s grin was replaced by a pained expression that betrayed his difficulty in grasping the question. Like all common Zeds, he was unable to count.

Timur tried again. “How many bad Zeds?” He held up three long white fingers. “This many?”

Giv shook his head. “No, Malik. More bad Zeds.” He held up both his hands with all the fingers outstretched. “Hundred!”

“Make up your mind, ratvomit!” screeched Timur, whose patience was fraying rapidly as the potential danger of the situation became apparent. “Ten fingers are not a hundred!” He held up his own hands, the digits extended like asparagus sticks. “This is ten. Got it, leadhead? Ten.”

“Giv see ten bad Zeds over leff,” the lad explained carefully, pointing again towards the river.

Timur nodded. “Learning fast, Giv. Well, let’s see what can be done about them.”

When Timur reached the top of the hill from which Giv had come, he found his men in a state of high excitement. Delighted by the prospect of action, they were jumping about, punching each other and brandishing their weapons in the air. Their leader realised at once that he wouldn’t be able to deny their animal craving for action. He peered down the slope. Yes, Giv was almost right. Some fifteen hundred paces away was a small group of men – he could see nine – who appeared to be hurrying away from him. Their peculiar assortment of weapons and lack of clothing marked them as Zeds.

“Want go kill!” grunted a tall man with a dark hole where his left eye had been. “Zeds want go kill!”

“Listen to me!” yelled Timur. “Listen!” The men gradually fell silent. “You men here, only you may go and kill those Zeds! Just you! Repeat!”

“Just you!” echoed the mob. Misunderstanding the command, three or four warriors started to move.

“Stop!” screamed Timur. “Batbrains! Wait for the orders of your Malik. Giv, you tell the men on the left, and Jamshid, you tell the men on the right” – to make sure he was understood, he indicated both directions as he spoke – “that they must stay in the line. Understand? Stay in the line! Repeat!”

“Stay in the line,” they chorused eagerly.

“Brilliant! Now go!”

As Giv and Captain Jamshid ran off, Timur turned once again to the men clustered around him. “Now, you brainless bloodshedders, go and get those Zeds! Ready…charge!”

With a medley of savage war cries, the band of some forty Zed warriors rushed madly down the hill. It was at this point that Timur’s strategy collapsed. The Zeds at the bottom of the hill, fleeing from what was clearly a much larger force, broke into a run and veered away to the right. This brought them within sight of another group of Timur’s men. Before Jamshid arrived with orders to stay put, this force of about forty abandoned their positions and joined the furious charge of their confederates.

Seeing what was about to descend on them, the targeted Zeds hesitated for a few seconds then doubled back to Timur’s left. The same pattern of indiscipline was repeated on this flank. Without waiting for orders, the frenzied warriors screamed with delight at the sight of potential victims and hurtled down the slope after them. By now well over one hundred men – nearly all the Grozny Zeds’ military force – were careering out of control in pursuit of a rapidly retreating enemy.