Mission To Mahjundar (18 page)

“Arananta, has there been a misunderstanding?”

“No, my husband.” The chief wife was clearly smiling as she spoke. “The other wives and daughters may have been a bit hasty in their excitement.”

“And there’s been no misunderstanding, because?” He drew out his last word.

Still held by Bandarlok in a too tight embrace, Shalira heard the woman tread heavily across the floor to stand in front of her.

“Because a slave
has
no possessions,” Arananta said, taking her by the ear and yanking her forward.

Outraged, the princess instinctively slapped the woman’s hand away. “How dare you touch me?”

A blow from Bandarlok across the face sent her tumbling to the floor, ears ringing, white flashes running across the black screen of her lost vision. Wind knocked out of her, she lay where she’d fallen for a moment, incredulous. Rubbing her stinging cheek, she fought back angry tears.

 
“Undress,” he said, standing directly above her.
 

“What?” She was sure she must have misheard him.

Nudging her ribs with one booted foot, he repeated the command. “I said strip. I want to see what I’ve been paid to take into my bed. Hurry up, or I’ll have some of my men in here to play lady’s maid.”

Awkwardly, Shalira peeled off her dress and then her shift, standing in her underthings. Arananta snatched the outer garments from her hands, tossing them aside, presumably to the waiting harem. Next she grabbed at the necklace and the princess clawed at her hands. “My mother gave me this. You can’t have it!”

“Leave off. Let her keep the amulet of Pavmiraia,” Bandarlok shouted, unexpectedly. “Have some sense, woman, the goddess still walks the forestlands. We’ve no need to anger a goddess unnecessarily.”

Grumbling audibly, giving her rival a final push for good measure, Arananta stepped aside.

“Good enough for now. On your knees to me, girl,” Bandarlok said.

Straightening her spine, heedless of her near nudity, Shalira shook her head. “I’m a princess of Mahjundar. I kneel to no man, not even my husband.”

“You’d best learn to be more obedient, or your life is going to be even shorter and more unpleasant,” Arananta said, grabbing her elbow, tugging at her, trying to kick her legs out from under her. Another woman came to join in the struggle and eventually the princess was forced to kneel.

“My father sent you my dowry in good faith,” Shalira protested, shaking her hair out of her face, struggling against the hands holding her. “He expected you to treat me with dignity, not make me into a slave.”

Bandarlok put his face next to hers and she recoiled from the smell of his breath. The wife wrapped a hunk of her hair around her fist, holding Shalira still while the chieftain answered, “My spies tell me your father’s as good as dead. Once he’s gone, I’ll get the empress to pay me more gold to do her dirty deed for her. All Mahjundar knows she hates you. And my own vengeance will be complete.”

“What wrong have I ever done to you?” Shalira was dizzy, her stomach in knots. Her head ached where the wife was threatening to tear her hair out by the roots.
This man is insane, his wife is just as bad, and I’m completely at their mercy.

“Oh, not you personally, princess,” he said, cupping her chin with one hand. “Your clan, now that’s another story. I’ll spare you the details, but I’ve dedicated my entire life to wiping out the Clan Windhunter for what they did to my people, to my father, to me. I swore on
my
mother’s grave to have vengeance, spilling the Windhunters’ poisonous blood down to the last man, woman and child.” He laughed. “You and your worthless old guard will be the last members of your clan to die. When your father’s emissary came, offering you in marriage, I felt the gods themselves must have arranged the final act of vengeance for me.”

She heard someone walk into the tent.

“I’ve brought the items, sir.”

Stepping away from her, Bandarlok rubbed his hands together, the sliding sound startling Shalira. “Good, good, let me have them.”

He was opening the box in which they’d stored her mother’s Clan insignia. Shalira could smell the faint tang of the wood the box was made from, which grew only in the lowlands. She flinched as the box was tossed to the ground, cracking to splinters by the sound of it. Bandarlok walked back to her. The strands of the golden necklace clinked together near her face, but still it was a shock when the cold metal encircled her neck. She tried to get a hand free as the chief fastened the necklace, but the women held her in a firm grasp, their hands like manacles around her slender wrists.

Laughing, he pulled the flat gold chains tighter and tighter, until she was choking, fighting to breathe, metal digging into her neck. “This is how you’re going to die, when I decide the time has come.” He bent over and spoke directly into her ear as she worked to inhale against the pressure of the necklace. “First, I’ll let my personal guards have you for a few hours alone in their tent. When they’re done with you, I’ll strangle you in front of the entire camp, so all my people can see the final triumph of Clan Bartuk.”

She was losing consciousness. He must have given some sign, because suddenly she was released by the women, falling forward onto her hands, frantically sucking air into her lungs. A coarse length of fabric was thrown at her head.

“Here, wear this,” said the first wife. “It’s good enough for a Windhunter slave. Get dressed. Be quick about it. You may be blind, but I’ve suitable chores to be done if you want to eat.”

With as much dignity as she could muster, Shalira tried to still her shaking hands and figure out the unfamiliar garment, glad to have something to cover herself with. As she was led out of the room, she heard the women shrieking with laughter and arguing over her possessions again, while Bandarlok encouraged them to fight over the spoils he’d brought them.

 
The rest of the nightmare day passed in a blur of harsh words, slaps and pokes from the chief wife, and endless vegetables to wash and peel by touch alone. Shalira’s hands were cut and bleeding by the time a guard took her to a small, unfurnished, unheated prison hut. After he’d locked her in, she crept into the farthest corner and wrapped herself in the thin blanket she found there. Only then did she dare give in to the weeping she’d held off all day, unwilling to allow her enemies to see her grief and terror.

After sundown, Mike and Johnny walked across the camp toward the designated red tent. Mike could hear raucous music, mostly drums and pipes. As he’d anticipated, no objections were raised to their retaining knives on their belts. Waved into the tent by two guards, he surveyed the smoky, noisy scene. Highland warriors were packed into the space, some already eating, others playing games of chance, and the rest ogling the nearly naked dancing girls in the center of the tent. It seemed there were different rules of conduct for a woman who danced for a living in the clan, versus Shalira and the other wives.

As he walked past the giant bonfire on the west side of the tent, a large branch broke with a crash, sending up a shower of sparks. Mike glanced at the blaze, and did a double take. Charred and glowing, the carved Windhunter insignia was lying on a pile of kindling at the edge of the pyre. As he watched, a man tending the fire shoved the wooden staff toward the heart of the flames, and the winged bird blazed fiercely as the inner core of dried wood caught.
What the hell? We go to all the trouble to retrieve the thing so Bandarlok can burn it like kindling?

“What’s the matter?” Johnny asked, retracing his steps.

“Nothing, tell you later.” Mike shook his head, brushing ash from his shoulder. “Quite a bonfire they’ve got going. Perfect on a cold night.”

The dancing troupe was two short, since Bandarlok had a buxom redhead by his side and a curvaceous blonde in his lap. The chief beckoned to Mike across the tent, his voice carrying easily above the pipes and drums.
 

“Come, outworlders! Sit by me, in the place of honor!”
 

Mike worked his way through the edge of the crowd, taking care not to step into the open space where the dancers gyrated and spun. As he walked up to the chief, trailed by Johnny, Bandarlok gave each woman in his lap a wet kiss on the lips and shooed them away. Pouting, the dancers stepped clumsily into the undulating rhythm of the dance troupe and whirled away to elsewhere in the tent.
 

“Wine! Bring wine!” Bandarlok took two bulging wineskins from a server. The food and drink were coming from an adjoining room, on an endless series of platters. “Sit! Meet my other honored guests, chiefs of the eastern tribes.”
 

Performing introductions, their host was distracted from time to time by the gyrations of his favorite dancers.
 

Mike found it to be a long night. Bandarlok wasn't much for conversation, other than periodically urging the outworlders to eat and drink while they could, since they were surely fated to perish in the Djeelaba Mountains. He repeatedly offered them the company of his dancers, which Mike and Johnny graciously refused. The chieftains who’d come to make a treaty with Bandarlok didn’t speak any dialect covered by Mike’s hypnotraining. Eventually, Johnny accepted a stack of gaming tiles and dice, after which he and the chiefs had a fine time, making wagers and arguing unintelligibly about the results of each round of some incredibly complicated game of chance. A great deal of wine flowed. At one point, Johnny allowed himself to be drawn into the dancing by the well-endowed redhead whom Bandarlok had been nuzzling earlier. The sergeant's efforts to duplicate her swaying steps and alluring movements brought great gales of laughter from Bandarlok. Seeing his amusement, the clansmen felt free to laugh at the outworlder also.
 

 
Drinking deeply from the skin of potent black wine, Mike politely declined to try his luck at the gaming. Unbeknownst to his host, the headclear he’d taken prior to walking across to the feast neutralized the alcoholic content of the beverage as soon as it hit his bloodstream. Johnny was equally sober but they’d agreed it might defuse their host’s suspicions if at least one of them played the drunkard.

Judging they’d done their social duty as honored guests long enough, Mike finally rescued his cousin from making a fool of himself with the over-attentive dancers. “Chief, I think I'd better get my man and myself back to our own tent before we overdo it and can't ride tomorrow morning,” he said. “There’s one remaining thing I have to do.”

“And that is?” Bandarlok lifted his overflowing mug, sloshing wine on the cushions.

Shrugging apologetically, Mike said, “The emperor insisted I take formal leave of Princess Shalira, so I can report back to him before I leave the planet, and describe her state of happiness as your bride.”

The chief paused in his drinking, eyeing Mike speculatively before finishing the mug’s contents and wiping his lips on an already sopping sleeve. He picked up a roasted game bird, picking off the choicest bits to feed the giggling dancer in his lap. “There’s no need. You can report the girl was safely delivered.”

As if his request had no importance to him personally, Mike leaned closer, adopting a conspiratorial air. “And I will, rest assured. Damn nuisance when all I want is to hit the trail. But orders are orders. You know how it is. I need a moment in the morning. I know you’re busy. You don’t have to be there.”

Bandarlok frowned. “Very well, you may take your formal leave of my newest wife
and me
, three hours after dawn tomorrow.”

Mike nodded. “Fine. Suits me, see you then.”

Fondling the dancer, Bandarlok waved him away.
 

Stepping out into the clear, fresh night air was a tremendous relief to Mike. He’d say goodbye to Shalira, assure himself she was fine, and he and Johnny would ride out, go on with their own mission before returning to their home in the stars. And he’d forget her.

Right.

The optimism lasted only until he reached their tent. “Saium?” Mike walked into their quarters, halting abruptly. It was late and there was no sign of the guardsman. Mike was expecting the Windhunter to have completed his private reconnaissance of the camp.
 

“Odd,” Johnny said, crowding into the room behind his cousin. “His cot hasn’t been disturbed.”
 

“See if his horse is still here.” Mike knelt to unlock the container holding their blasters.
 

Back in less than a minute, Johnny was frowning. “The horse is gone.” He pointed at the stack of supplies. “But his stuff is mixed in with ours. Why would he leave without taking anything?”
 

Mike shook his head. “Something’s not right about this. Saium would never leave without telling us.”
 

Johnny squatted to peer at something, then came to his feet holding his left hand out to Mike. “Blood. He didn't go out of here under his own power.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

The next morning, Shalira stood with as much dignity as she could muster when the door to the hut creaked open. A night of shivering in the unheated cell had left her weak and headachy, with stiff knees, but she was determined not to let the tribe break her will.

“You look more like a slave than a princess now,” said the rough voice of the chief wife. “Come here, girl.”

Clutching the scratchy blanket like a cloak, free hand extended in front of her, Shalira walked to the location of Arananta’s voice.
I’ll save my defiance for a moment when it might do some good.