Close Up the Sky (27 page)

"Nessif?"
Hanik dared to speak. He knew the danger of interfering, but in this case
foresight superseded caution. If his chief did not regain control of his
temper, he would beat the animal to death. Nessif jerked his head around and
glared at the tribesman, his face livid.

"The sun
climbs, my lord," Hanik said respectfully. He could feel his knees
trembling. "If the gods reward our search we may need this despicable
beast to help carry whatever we find."

Nessif eyed his
subordinate through a red haze. Hanik reminded him of a rat in a man's
clothing. He was always around in times of crisis, offering sage advice, or
trying to ingratiate himself with the tribal elders. Nessif suspected that he
had aspirations of someday replacing him as chief, but was clever enough not to
let it show openly. Someday he would have to deal with Hanik, but at this
particular moment there was no denying the logic of his reasoning. He fought
down his anger and threw the staff to the ground at Hanik's feet. For the
moment he would put this little rat's interference in abeyance and continue
with their mission. Confident that a day of reckoning would come, he filed the
incident away in his small brain. For the time being he put his pride aside and
led the horse the rest of the way down the slope on foot. An hour later they
were standing at the rock where Leahy had signaled with the flashlight.

Nessif had
remounted the horse after leaving the mountain and now sat watching his
brigands search the ground for signs. They scurried around for several minutes,
checking for disturbances in the soil. When they were satisfied with the area
around the rock, they followed the spoor to a place where someone had
apparently rested during the night. After a moment, two of the men detached
themselves from the group and walked to the mouth of the crevasse from which
Leahy had previously emerged. They knelt and examined the ground. One of them
brushed his fingers across the dirt and nodded to his companion.

Nessif nudged the
horse and guided it to where they were squatted. He appeared to be waiting
patiently for them to read the signs, but the veneer of calmness soon wore off.
Succumbing to his tumultuous nature he shouted, “Will you keep me waiting until
the sun bakes my brains?"

Jakar, a
red-haired little man with a diagonal scar across his forehead and cheek,
stepped quickly to the side of Nessif's mount. He pointed to the east. "The
tracks lead into the desert, my chief," he said. "But whoever or
whatever left them came from beneath the earth."

Nessif was well
aware that they were near the edge of the burial ground the Egyptians called
the Valley of the Kings. He had robbed too many graves to be superstitious
about spirits, but Jakar's words sent a small chill down his spine. "From
beneath the earth?" His voice carried a note of uncertainty.

"From
there." Jakar pointed to the crevasse.

Nessif looked,
letting his eyes wander along the ragged line of the fissure. It split the
desert floor for more than a mile.

"Should we
backtrack and investigate, my lord?" Jakar asked.

Nessif hesitated. There
was a legend about a demon that had laid waste to the Egyptians many years ago.
The legend told of how the sky fell upon the great Egyptian army, and of the
smoke that blackened the air for many days. It was only through the cunning of
the great pharaoh that the demon was defeated and cast into the darkness
beneath the earth. Perhaps the mighty sandstorm that had preceded the flashing
of the light was an omen foretelling the demon's return. Nessif knew that most
legends had some factual basis, but he was unsure about which parts of this
particular one
were fact
and which were myth. The
Egyptians had a habit of expanding an event into something different from what
it really was, but one thing was certain: Something had defeated them in a
disastrous battle near the eastern sea. Knowing what he did about the power of
the Egyptian army, he reasoned that it would have taken some supernatural force
to accomplish that feat.

Hanik’s whining
voice brought Nessif out of his meditation. "Shall we investigate,
fearless one?" He stood beside the horse, smiling up at his chief.

Nessif swallowed
hard. He took note of Hanik's sarcastic tone and felt the flush of anger on the
back of his neck. He was tempted to order them into the crevasse, but he would
have to go with them if he did. Instead of responding to Hanik's veiled
challenge to his courage he remained silent, appearing to be considering his
options. At last he scratched thoughtfully at his beard and said, "Nothing
is to be gained from seeing where someone has
been
, Hanik. Rather, we will overtake this wielder of the strange
light and see what manner of creature it is that emerges from beneath the
ground.” He paused momentarily for effect, smug in thinking of such a crafty
answer,
then
commanded, “Forward!"

The Morruks started off at a steady trot toward the east, following
Leahy’s trail. Nessif gave the horse a hard kick in the ribs, but was careful
to hold back on the reigns until his men were well ahead of him.

As far as Leahy
could see in any direction there was nothing but desert. It was not a desert of
rolling dunes, but was more like the surface of the moon. Jutting rock shared
the landscape with flat stretches of stony soil and sand. To the south he could
see a few hills whose tops looked like they were dotted with dark vegetation,
but everywhere else there was only desolation. He had been walking steadily for
over two hours and the flat mountain was now well behind him. He turned to look
at it, but the distance was too great for the smoke to be visible. The
possibility that someone from the mountaintop had seen his signal had already
occurred to him, but so far there was nothing to suggest that such speculation
was valid. The only sign of life he had encountered in the vast emptiness was a
scorpion. Nor had there been any sign of the other members of his team. While
walking, he reconstructed the events of the last eighteen hours. Taylor and the
others had undoubtedly weathered the storm on the surface, and then conducted a
search for him. Failing to locate him, they would have deduced that he had
fallen into the crevasse and been buried alive. A deep feeling of loneliness
came over him at the thought that Taylor might think he was dead. He knew the
agony he would experience if their positions were reversed. The pain she must
be feeling hurt him deeply.

He also thought
about the strange footprints in the sand at the bottom of the crevasse. He
rejected the possibility that they had been made by any of his people. They
were much too large and too far apart for that. The distance between the
impressions was over two feet farther than he could step with his longest
stride. Whoever, or whatever, had left them would have to be more than seven
feet tall. He knew he was fortunate to have been securely hidden inside the
cave when the unknown walker had passed in the night. Shading his eyes, he
looked up at the deep blue expanse of sky, unbroken by clouds. The contrail he
had seen just before the time warp occurred would not exist there for another
three thousand years. Here, now, birds still held dominion over the air.

The L-suit was
keeping his body comfortable, but the sun was beginning to broil the land. Feeling
the heat on his head, he shucked off the pack and dug out an Arab headdress. It
looked exactly like the ones worn by many of the Middle Eastern people of
his own
day. Having a good initial design, it had changed
little over the millennia. He put it on and adjusted the cloth across the back
of his neck. The scant shade it provided made him feel more comfortable.

It was still early
morning, but the heat rising from the desert made the air seem to flow like
water across the thin line of the horizon. He put the pack back on and glanced
behind him again. He stiffened. For the barest instant the sun had glinted off
something metallic in the far distance. He stood frozen for a full minute,
straining his eyes, but the glint did not recur. He scanned the ground in that
direction and saw that his passage was clearly discernible in the soft earth. If
he
was
being followed, it would not be difficult to
track him. He turned a full circle looking for cover, but there was nothing. The
largest boulder in the contiguous area would barely conceal a rabbit. He could
not risk a fight, so the only remaining course of action was flight. He hooked
his thumbs through the pack straps and moved out at a brisk pace.

From his army days he remembered that military marching speed was about
three miles per hour. If he could maintain that pace he might be able to stay
ahead of any pursuit until he reached the river, or until nightfall, whichever
came
first.
He leaned forward against the weight of
the pack and fell into a steady cadence. There was no way he could know that
Nessif and his band of cutthroats were seasoned by many years of experience in
the technique of pursuing and pulling down fleeing prey. In the desert the
Morruks were unequaled in the hunt, and at that very moment they were rapidly
gaining on him.

He managed to stay
ahead of the pursuers for almost two hours. During that time the gentle rising
and falling of the terrain had changed to a more plain-like configuration. Because
of that, he was able to spot them at a great distance. At first they appeared
only as flickering black dots, barely moving, but he soon made out at least a half
dozen men on foot and one on horseback. Distortion from the hot air gave them a
wavering, ghostly appearance as they closed the distance. They were obviously
traveling at a speed he could not match, so he shucked off the pack and waited
for them. He drank some water and watched them draw closer. Within five minutes
they had reached him. They stopped about ten yards away and stood silently
surveying him.

It was his first
contact with ancient man, so excitement and apprehension stirred him with equal
force. There were eight of them including the one on the horse. The tallest one
of them was not over five-feet-six. Their clothing was ragged and dirty, and
they all had a gaunt, starved appearance. Even at this distance he could smell
their stink. All but one of them wore beards, and a nasty scar cut downwards
across the beardless one’s forehead and cheek. Leahy guessed the rider to be
their leader by virtue of the fact that he was the only one mounted. He was
also larger and appeared to be better fed than the rest. A big hooked nose and
flabby lips protruded through his black beard. Even at thirty feet, Leahy could
see beady eyes shining beneath his thick eyebrows. He did not need his many
years of police experience to know that these men were brigands. Except for the
rider, who carried a short sword on a cord around his waist, they were all
armed with long wooden staffs. Judging from the way they held them, he had no
doubt they were skilled in their use. No other weapons were visible, but
anything might be concealed beneath the knee-length robes they wore. He looked
at the rider's sword and nodded to himself. The polished blade had been the
source of the reflected sunlight he had seen earlier.

He was about to try
communicating with them when the horseman spoke sharply to his men. As though
they were preparing to attack a dangerous opponent, they moved to within ten
feet and formed a loose circle around him. He pressed his fingers against the
Beretta but did not take it from his pocket. Poised, he stood waiting for their
next move.

The rider edged
his mount a little closer and barked some unintelligible words at him. "Norant
djor kolmet!"

Leahy did not
recognize the language but there was no mistaking the belligerent tone. He
shook his head to show that he did not understand.

The men on foot
shifted nervously and looked at their leader. “Sorban!” he spat. “Efenok
rearret morleki djor setarm!” He jerked angrily on the reigns. The horse reared
slightly then settled down.

From the look of
the animal Leahy wondered how it had the strength to hold up under the man's
weight. It seemed to be in no better shape than the scabby men. While his
attention was on the rider the men around him took a tentative step inward,
tightening the circle. He tensed visibly and they stopped. He shot the ones
within his field of vision a steely look,
then
locked
eyes with the rider.

"I don't
understand you," he said in Egyptian. His voice revealed no sign of the
apprehension he felt.

The mounted man
looked surprised. "Egyptian," he replied. "You do not look
Egyptian." His accent in that language was worse than Leahy’s. "Who
are you, and what manner of dress is that?"

Leahy glanced down
at the L-suit. He wished he had put on the robe while waiting for these men to
reach him, but there was no helping it now. "Yosemite Sam," he
answered in the same curt tone that Nessif had used, "and this is a Santa
Claus suit." He pronounced the two names in English.

Nessif pursed his
lips and gave Leahy a sideways look, apparently considering the answer. He
scratched his beard and said, "A strange name." He leaned forward as
though to get a better look at the stranger. "Why are you in the desert
alone and unarmed, Yosemite Sam? Do you not know that such conduct can be
dangerous?" The veiled threat solicited smirks and a few chuckles from the
men.

"Who wants to
know?" Leahy responded.

Nessif stiffened
and puffed out his chest. “I am Nessif Eguic Famaed, master of all you see
before you. No one passes here without my permission! Those who violate my
domain must pay the penalty." He threw his head back in a haughty gesture.

Leahy glanced at
the wasteland around them, surveying the master's domain with a critical
expression. If this was the extent of his kingdom, he ruled over nothing but
rocks and scorpions. He looked up at Nessif, who sat waiting for a reply to his
challenge. In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Leahy had to smile. The
big hooked nose sticking out of Nessif’s beard looked like the dorsal fin of a
hairy shark. Knowing their intentions were to rob and probably kill him, he saw
no advantage in diplomacy. Moreover, his experience with such men had taught
him that to show fear or weakness was to invite attack. "I go where I
please without asking anyone's permission," he said in an arrogant tone.