Climate of Change (62 page)

The girl ran around the corner of the building and disappeared. The guards collided with each other in their eagerness to pursue her, and took moments to untangle and resume the chase. But as they did, a supply wagon came down the road, and the four guards almost collided with it.

There was a violent exchange of curses, by guards and the surly wagoner, as each sought the right of way in the narrow road. Then the guards squeezed past, resuming their pursuit though the girl was nowhere in sight, and the wagon rolled on into the compound and halted. “Help me unload, you loafers!” the driver called, or words to that effect.

But the four remaining guards refused. They were not day laborers, and they were on duty. The wagoner had to do it by himself, cursing steadily in a monotone.

Craft stifled a smile. If only they knew! Fia had disappeared not by fleeing down the road beyond the wagon, but by scrambling into the compartment in the bed of the wagon, under piled supplies. She was still there as the driver unloaded. She would remain there, silent, until the wagon trundled on out of the compound, empty.

Meanwhile the five men and one captive arrived at the other side of the compound. The guards stood, their eyes on Rebel, whose struggles had torn away her own shirt, though her hands remained bound before her.

“Take this spitfire,” Hero said, using more rehearsed words. “Teach her manners.” He shoved Rebel into the arms of the nearest guard.

The man gladly grabbed her and pulled her close. She came up against him, chest to chest. Then he groaned and collapsed. Blood welled from his chest where she had stabbed him with what turned out to be not a rope around her wrists, but a loose thong and knife.

The other three reacted quickly enough. But now Hero, Risk, and Dexter attacked them with swords. The Turks were caught by surprise, but they were trained soldiers, and in a moment were defending themselves with their own not entirely ceremonial swords. It seemed they lacked guns; maybe those were reserved for the front line.

Craft and Sinister ran for the crate. “Tula!” Craft called.

“Uncle!” she cried gladly, lifting her bound hands.

Craft used his knife to saw through the rope, while Sinister stood guard.

Meanwhile Hero quickly downed his man, but the other guards were driving Risk and Dexter back, being stouter and more experienced with the sword. Dexter cried out as he was wounded. Craft heard without seeing; he was focusing on the tough rope, making sure not to cut Tula's wrist along with it. Her hands came free, and she flung her arms around his neck, quickly kissing him in her relief at being rescued.

Craft heard a shot. Sinister screamed and fell. Now Craft had to look. There was a bullet hole in the boy's back, fired by a returning guard from the Fia chase. So there
were
some guns in service here, unfortunately. The wound had to be mortal.

Hero took on the guard who had wounded Dexter, and Dexter charged across the compound, his left arm dripping blood. He launched himself at the guard before the man could reload his archaic pistol, slashing viciously. He was the right-handed twin.

The guard dropped the pistol and drew his sword to defend himself, but Dexter, though inexperienced, had gone berserk. He slashed and slashed again, battering down the guard's defenses, and in moments wounded him on the arm, then on the neck, and finally in the chest. He went down, finished.

Hero and Risk had killed their men. “Get out of here!” Hero called. “The sound of the shot will bring every soldier in on the run.”

“My brother!” Dexter cried.

“He's dead,” Craft said. “We have to leave him.” He hated to do it, because Sinister was his son, but he knew they would never be able to get away while dragging the body. They had to leave him so as not to lose more of their number.

Rebel crossed over to take Tula, who clung gladly to her. They were mother and daughter. Craft took Dexter by the arm and led him away. The boy was now like a zombie, his passion expended. They fled the compound, and soon were in the forest. They had escaped, for the moment.

Now there was time to unwind as they reverted to their own clothing. Rebel bound Dexter's wound; it was a bad cut on the arm, but not lethal. “You fought like a hero,” she told him.

He refused to have it. “My brother!”

Tula tried to comfort him. “He was a hero. He died helping me and Allele escape.” She still seemed to be half in shock herself, not having known she would be rescued. The Turks had made sure she understood what they had in store for her.

He would not be consoled. “He's dead!”

“He's dead,” Craft agreed, stricken in his own way. “Make sure your mother does not lose you too.”

That made the boy take notice. He was silent.

Craft was hurting, but what made it worse was thinking how he would have to tell his wife, Crenelle, Sinister's mother. She had been against letting the boys come.

They made their way to the rendezvous where Haven waited. She opened her arms to Dexter, and he fell into them, sobbing. She was not his mother, but she was well familiar with the role. She held him, wordlessly. Risk, her true son, nodded, understanding perfectly.

In due course Fia appeared, having made her way alone. That aspect of their ruse had succeeded splendidly.

Tula embraced her, having learned her identity and role during the wait. They were of even age and height, not otherwise similar, but in that moment they resembled sisters. They were after all both Hai, both Family.

Then they turned and closed on Risk, hugging him from either side. One was his sister, the other his girlfriend.

Tuho appeared. He clasped his daughter to him, and they both shed tears. The Family had come through. He kissed Rebel. They had been married six years and still seemed to be in love. Then he spoke.

“We can't stay here,” Tuho said grimly. “The Turks are organizing to search the entire area, and they will torture anyone who they think has information. They have cut off the roads to Alania. There will be a cordon.”

“So we will have to fight our way out?” Hero asked.

“We can't. They have overwhelming force. But there is a retreat.”

“Ah,” Hero said.

“It is just now being set up by refugees from Theodosiopolis and the surroundings. Hai who will be deported or massacred anyway. It is a mountain called Musa Dagh.”

“Musa Dagh,” Rebel repeated. “There's nothing there!”

“Not in the past,” Tuho agreed. “But next month it will be a secret redoubt. They are ferrying supplies there now. We'll be safe there.”

They traveled that night, tired and battered, but determined. They had no horses; those had been commandeered when discovered. They went by foot, carrying as much as they could.

They were joined by other Hai, similarly burdened. Tuho knew the way, and guided them all in the darkness. There was stumbling and muted cursing, but all of them were on a similar mission, facing similar peril.

The way became steep. Only the tenuous path led them through; the rest was impossible steepness and barren rock.

Finally by dawn, bone weary, they achieved the summit. It was a veritable fortress, spread across the top of the mountain, with stones being placed to shore up any likely routes from below. A small contingent could hold off an army here, indefinitely.

There was a tent for them. They wedged into it and slept as the day progressed. Tula lay between her parents, her hands tightly clasping theirs. She was still recovering. Risk managed to get a place beside Fia, with his arm around her, she nothing loathe. Craft saw Haven note it
and fail to break it up. There was a death in the Family; she had evidently concluded that it was not worth sweating the small stuff. She lay beside Dexter, there if he required more comfort.

In the morning Hero and Craft were up, helping shore up the defenses, and Haven marshaled the girls and set about making a meal to feed all the troops. There were plenty of supplies, and they were still being ferried up.

There were also more people. What had been a group of several hundred soon became several thousand, and more kept piling in. All the Hai who were at risk of deportation or execution were coming here in a mass, with their families, and there were many of them. This was their sanctuary. There was a constant stream of supplies: all the food from the farms that were being taken over, including their animals, right here to be used.

And the Turks, it seemed, were ignoring them. No—it was that the Turks did not know of this retreat. They were scouring the area for the raiders who had freed Tula, and also doing battle with the Russians, and had no time for scouting isolated mountains. And no Hai breathed a word to them. No Hai who might betray them had been told; they knew whom they could trust. They simply faded out of their homes and jobs, to reappear here. It was a remarkable cooperative effort.

There was plenty of space on the mountain, but soon it was filled. An exact count was not feasible, but according to Tuho, their ranks had swelled to some fifty thousand people. The cooking enterprise had become massive, with hundreds of women and children working, and shifts throughout the day. Haven, having first organized it, and being the Family sister of Commander Tuho, became the mistress of it all, with Tula and Fia willing lieutenants who answered only to her. The men were quite satisfied to accept that.

But they were not satisfied to leave the Turks unchallenged. Now they organized as a military unit, and went down at night to harass the Turks and their German allies from the rear, so they couldn't focus fully on the Russians. Indeed, the Hai coordinated with the Russians, striking where most needed to facilitate the Russian invasion.

The Turks were clearly mystified. The Hai would attack, then
disappear before there could be retaliation. The Hai were excellent guerrilla warriors, striking and hiding, leaving few traces aside from the dead Turks.

But it couldn't last forever. The Turks finally discovered Musa Dagh, and quickly organized to attack it. But their first onslaught failed, as the Hai drove them back with heavy losses. They had prepared well for this, knowing it must come. Knowing they had no choice but to fight, because loss would mean death for them all.

Yet Tuho seemed unperturbed. “We have supplies and ammunition for a month,” he said.

“They won't give up in a month,” Hero reminded him. But Tuho simply smiled.

The Turks tried again, and again. Each time they were thrown back by withering fire from above. They could not scale the rocky faces of the mountain without becoming targets for Hai snipers. Finally they conceded that the mountain fortress was unassailable.

So they laid siege to it, preventing any more supplies from being delivered. No one could leave, either, it seemed, unless to surrender. None did surrender.

“Now we're in for it,” Haven muttered.

Tuho kissed her in a brotherly manner. “We truly hate to lose you and the girls, but it is time for you to go. I will follow later.”

“Go where?” Haven demanded, unmollified.

“Down the back way,” he said. “The one they don't know about.”

“The back way!” Fia exclaimed, thrilled. “Like the way around Ararat.”

“Like that,” Tuho agreed. “The Turks don't know that their siege is incomplete. We have run no supplies along that route, to keep it secret.”

But now Tula protested. “Father, you say you'll follow, but I know you. You'll fight them to the end, and die. Then I'll be fully orphaned.”

Rebel kept silent. The girl had lost her natural mother long before; it was understandable that she did not want to lose her natural father too.

Tuho considered, then nodded. “I refused to lose you,” he said. “Now you are refusing to lose me. I will come with you.”

Tula hugged him. It seemed to Craft that the man had yielded with very little persuasion, as though he had planned on this anyway. Maybe he had simply been verifying his daughter's feeling.

They organized for the retreat. A carefully selected volunteer rear guard of five hundred men would remain to defend the fortress, which was so well situated that they could do so until they ran out of supplies. All others would quietly escape, in a steady stream through the secret route.

They made their way down in the dark, cautiously and quietly. There were guides who took their hands where required, conveying through through the more treacherous sections. All was accomplished in complete silence, so as not to alert the Turks, who were not far off.

At last they were down, and safely away from the mountain. Tuho talked quietly with their last guide, thanked him, and separated.

“Now we are on our own,” he murmured. “The others are traveling to the Mediterranean, where British men-of-war ships are waiting to pick them up. But we shall go home to Alania.”

“Alania,” Craft agreed. They still had a considerable and dangerous trek, but with Rebel and Fia guiding them, they should make it through. Their mission was almost accomplished. If only Sinister hadn't died. But he stifled that thought. This was war, and losses occurred in war, painful as they were. For both sides.

“And we will remember,” Fia said.

Craft had to agree. They would remember.