Mission To Mahjundar (26 page)

“Not possible,” said the chief from right next to her.

Startled, unaware of his arrival, she gasped but persevered. “What harm can it do for me to exchange words with them?”

“Not tonight. Being the defeated today, not the victors, they have no rights. Tonight they must rest in the hut of atonement, prepare themselves to face the trials and rituals of the Nathlemeru. Tomorrow you’ll travel together to the ceremonial city. Talk to your men then, counsel them how best to die for your honor and the glory of the gods. Tonight, you belong to me and my village.”

Thinking fast, not liking the sound of what the chief was telling her, Shalira said, “I warn you, the goddess will be angry if I’m not treated with respect.”
 

Bolomuzen leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Have no fear, the womenfolk and girl children will take care of you and hear your prophecies. You and I’ll meet at dawn and perform the greeting of the sun together. I’ll guide you through the ritual.”

Before she could ask any questions, the elderly priest had released his grip on her and moved away, lost in the crowd. The chief stepped into his spot, catching her hand. People pressed closer on all sides and despite herself, Shalira shrank against the stocky warrior, her heart beating faster. No matter how many times someone reassured her she’d come to no harm in this situation, distrust and panic threatened to overwhelm her.

“Don’t crowd the oracle,” said the chief to his people. “Take her to the hall of unmarried women and rejoice in her presence until dawn.” To Shalira, he said, “My daughters have the honor of conveying you to the hall, but I know you’re an unwilling guest. My best men will be stationed outside the building, so don’t try to escape.”

Shalira heard the sound of tiny bells and clinking beads as a group of women surrounded her. Sensuous perfume overlaid the smell of unwashed bodies, and she was drawn away from the chief, stumbling over the unfamiliar ground. She dug in her heels, pulling against the laughing girls who clung to her arms and waist. “I need one person to lead me by the hand, only one, please.”

Someone gave an order, and the next moment Shalira was free, although she could tell she was completely encircled by villagers. Taking a deep breath, she made herself smile, turning her head from side to side. “Thank you. Now, who is to be the oracle’s guide tonight?”

“As the chief’s eldest unwed daughter, I take the honor,” said a pleasant voice. “May I have your hand, Oracle?”

Shalira extended her hand and felt relieved at the touch of smooth, cool fingers a moment later.

“You seem overwhelmed,” said her new guide as they strolled together, as close as sisters or best friends, still surrounded by the gaggle of other women, but at least now Shalira was able to keep from tripping over people trying to touch her or her locket. “Is it so hard, then, to come to this world from the home of the gods?”

Suppressing an urge to laugh hysterically, Shalira swallowed hard. “I—I wasn’t aware I was coming here, exactly,” she said, opting for a neutral reply.

Her hostess appeared to find the answer understandable. “The servants must bow to the whims of the gods, but they owe you no courtesy in return.”

“I see you do understand. And I’m worried about my warriors,” Shalira said, daring to hope this woman had at least some small sympathy.

But her guide’s answer was matter-of-fact, almost callous. “Their fate is sealed now, having been taken in combat. I’m sure they’ll die honorably for you.”

What kind of poisonous society have we fallen into?
As they continued to walk, Shalira racked her memory for any shreds of information about the Djeelaba Mountains and the tribes who lived here. Understandably, it wasn’t a subject much discussed or taught where she grew up, since the peaks had been the site of her ancestors’ most humiliating defeat.

“I watched both men carried in the nets to the hut of atonement,” said a younger woman’s voice close by. She giggled. “One is handsome, Oracle. Is he your lover? The other is old.”

Only two? Did they kill Johnny? I know I heard Michael’s voice after we were taken.
Shalira was afraid to ask any further questions, in case Johnny had somehow gotten away. No need to reveal the presence of a third, deadly warrior if the villagers weren’t aware of his existence. She felt a tiny flicker of hope. The sergeant would never abandon Michael, and Michael wouldn’t leave her behind or leave Saium a prisoner.

“We’re going up a set of stairs now,” her escort said, taking a firmer grip on Shalira’s elbow.

Allowing herself to be drawn into the building, Shalira was taken to a chair quite some distance from the door. She settled into the cushions, determined to be pleasant and try to learn as much as she could. “What now?”

“First we eat. My father the chief has provided special foods from the ceremonial stores for tonight. Then you can have a bath and we’ll provide you with new clothing.” The woman fingered the fabric of Shalira’s borrowed Sectors utility pants. “These garments are hardly fitting for an emissary of the gods.”

“Perhaps they were testing our charity,” said someone close by.

“Very kind of you,” Shalira said, accepting a cup of some hot beverage being pressed into her hands. She took a sip, enjoying the crisp taste, surprised to find tiny bits of some spice floating in the water. Swallowing, she asked, “What is this? I’m not familiar with this tea.”

“It’s made from the leaves of the sizquan flower. The dried petals are crumbled into the hot liquid. You like it?”

“Tasty, refreshing.” Shalira nodded and took a big swallow. She did feel fresh energy flowing through her veins, whether from the spice or because the drug from the darts was wearing off, she couldn’t tell.

“We use the sap as one ingredient to make the sleep darts for our hunters and warriors,” her hostess said. “But the leaves and flowers give a person strength, and rest without sleep. You can chew the fresh leaves or let them sit in your cheek.”

Someone took the mug from Shalira and she was handed a bowl of fragrant leaves with the admonition, “Try some.”

Taking a tiny pinch of the velvety petals, she tucked them into her cheek. The taste was pleasant and she realized she felt more relaxed.
This stuff could be dangerous, better go easy.

“The food is coming from the cook hall now,” said the chief’s daughter from somewhere close to Shalira’s chair. “After we eat, after the bath and the new clothes, you’ll spend the evening giving each of us our prophecy.”

“Your prophecy? Like telling your fortune?” Shalira was puzzled.
Goddess, tell me what to say to each of these women. From the sound, there must be twenty or thirty of them packed in here with me.

The chief’s daughter laughed. “Yes, we’re not going to waste this opportunity. Once you’ve been established in Chamacoyopa, the priests will charge many goats for a moment of your time, for one quick prophecy. And maybe refuse to grant access to you at all, if they themselves have need of your communication with the gods. You belong to us tonight.”

So much for the thin pretense of my being an honored guest.
Shalira groped for more of the energy-giving leaves and settled into the chair for what promised to be a long night. At least there was the promise of being with Michael in the morning.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Waking to the sound of Shalira screaming his name, Mike struggled to sit, finding he still had no control over his limbs. Two of his captors tied his wrists and ankles tightly with heavy, red-dyed vine while another man harangued him in an unknown dialect. As the warriors pulled him roughly upright like a rag doll, Mike saw the princess was unharmed, her borrowed Sectors utilities intact. Her horse stood placidly beside her, snatching mouthfuls of leaves from a flowering bush. Two men held her gingerly, as if afraid of bruising her.
 

He hoped the pins-and-needles sensation in his arms and legs meant whatever poison the enemy had used was temporary and wearing off. He’d had no chance to communicate with Shalira as the guards punched him in the stomach before throwing him onto the soggy ground, rolling him into a heavy vine net. Straining to move his head, he saw Saium, bound hand and foot as he was, loaded into a net. As he watched, the enemy warriors inserted thick poles through special loops on both sides of the mesh holding Saium. A team of burly men carried their burden into the surrounding forest.
 

A pair of dirty, sandaled feet stopped in front of Mike's face, splashing muddy water into his eyes. There was a scarlet-and-blue tattoo of a coiled snake on the man's ankle. Blinking hard, Mike squinted, trying to see his captor more clearly. This new player asked something in a demanding, angry tone, using a language Mike didn’t know.
 

“I only speak the lowland dialect,” he said. “Sorry.”
 

Buffeted by another swift kick to the ribs, Mike was sure more than one was broken, or badly cracked, considering how much it hurt to breathe deeply.
 

Switching to the dialect Mike did understand, the tattooed newcomer’s voice was contemptuous. “You and your companions will pay for venturing into our territory, foolish lowlanders.” The man gestured to the nearest warriors. “Take him!”
 

The net was jerked off the ground, and Mike caught his breath at a stab of pain from his lower rib cage. As he was hauled away into the jungle, he silently cursed his own overconfidence.
I relied too much on Saium’s knowledge and assessment of the danger. I hope Johnny laid low, avoided capture. We might have a chance, then.

For more than two hours Mike was carried in the net, unable to see or hear his companions. The warriors gave no sign of tiring, ascending higher into the mountains. He had a raging headache and a pulled neck muscle from the awkward position they had trussed him up in. Lighting torches, his captors continued hiking after sunset, apparently determined to reach their destination, which appeared to be a sizable village perched on a series of terraces on the side of the mountain.

What he could see of the village as he was carried through it was on the primitive side, despite the plateau engineering feat. In the flickering torchlight he observed the huts had stone foundations but the walls and roofs appeared to be woven from plaits of brush. There were bonfires and women and children watched the procession go by. Some small children ran alongside, laughing and calling out to each other, throwing pebbles and sticks at the captives in the nets. Taken into a large hut at the top of a rise, hard against a sheer cliff face, Mike was unceremoniously dumped on the floor, trapped inside the heavy net. He heard the door slam shut behind him, cutting off what little torchlight there’d been.
 

Rolling onto his back with immense effort and considerable pain from his ribs, he peered into the blackness. “Saium?”
 

“Here, my lord, on the other side,” came the older man’s low-voiced answer. “For all the good it'll do.”
 

Mike swallowed hard, licked his dry lips, tried to stretch against the ropes chafing his wrists and ankles. “Shalira?”
 

“They led her horse off to another part of the village as soon as we came through their first perimeter,” Saium said. “They appeared to be treating her gently.”
 

“Damn it all,” Mike swore in Basic as he tried futilely to adjust his position.
 

“Outworlders? From the Sectors?” demanded a new voice in Basic from somewhere in the dark on the other side of the hut.
 

“Who's there?” Mike said sharply, peering into the gloom. As he activated the night vision implant to cope with total darkness, he made out a figure slumped to the floor.
 

“Captain Ted Everett, Sectors Special Forces. Who are you?” The man's voice was sharp and suspicious.
 

“Major James Michael Varone, Special Forces, sent to search for your party and your cargo. My companion is a local. What happened? How did you end up here if you survived the crash?”

“Ship was badly shot up by the Mawreg. We came out of hyperspace close to this system and the pilot was hoping to make it to the spaceport, but the engines flamed and we could only glide, into the damn mountains. Most of my team and the ship’s crew died in the crash. A few of us got out.”

“How did you get taken prisoner?”

The unseen Everett laughed, but with no humor. “Probably the same way I’m betting you did, ambushed, shot up with those damn poison darts. There were three of us who’d survived. One of my men had a broken arm and a fractured pelvis. After a lot of discussion, two of them tossed him off a cliff and walked away. Then they dragged Sullivan and me over here to their village in nets, like the rest of you poor fish.”
 

“Can you speak Mahjundan?” Mike asked.

“Some,” the other operator told him. “I wasn't anticipating landing here, as you know. No hypnobriefing for the local dialects. I’ve picked up a bit of the village’s lingo from the women assigned to feed me. Wish I’d had gastro inoculations, considering the stuff they think a prisoner should eat.” He spat. “Swill. I'd come over there and try to untie you, Major, but I'm chained to the wall myself.”
 

“So where's the other survivor? Sullivan?” Mike had a sinking feeling he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“After we'd been here about a month, they came in one night, stripped him buck naked, painted some kind of ceremonial target on his chest and dragged him out. I never saw him again. The screams lasted for hours.”