started. He was still sure that he was headed in the right direction, but an easy path over the mountains had eluded him. He had wandered through a maze of sky-scraping peaks and bottomless gorges to this spot. And it had been cold, very cold.
He thought of the bird that had shadowed him fordays after he left the valley of Abu Ishak. By its speckled breast and shrill cry he could tell that it was a hunter falcon. The sight of the bird had chilled the breath in his lungs, gripped his heart with dread. Surely such a bird must belong to the tribe of a desert sheikh. It must be Abu Ishak’s.
To look over your shoulder and see such a thing was unnerving, so he had traveled for days higher up into the mountains where no rider could ever come. He might not know where he was, but at least he felt safe.
Rashid wondered what had happened to Ibn Khaldun. He must have returned to the desert by now. Unless, of course, Abu Ishak’s men had caught up with him and killed him. Rashid hoped so. Let him die a thousand deaths for abandoning me here, he thought. The heat rose off the fire, and Rashid imagined that it was a mirage wavering over the desert sands. He could almost hear the chorus of jackals howling in the moonlight, feel the desert wind on his face, feel the hot breeze as it blew in from beyond the great dunes of the Uruq al Shaiba.
The night fell and cast a leaden blue color on the land. The trail was beginning to lose its shape and melt into the shadows. Only the tips of the high peaks were painted red by the sun. Soon they too were lost.
Onward the scout went, one step following the other, carefully, quietly, lest someone hear. The night was dark, the shadows eerie. The voices of the night began to sing.
Listen to the groaning from downwind, he said to himself. It is only the roar of wind through the rocks. Hear the rustle of footsteps above. It is only a startledhare. Listen to someone calling your name. It is only an owl hooting in the distance, its call wavering with the wind.
He must stay downwind. He must cover his tracks
.
Upward he climbed, higher and higher. His eyes had adjusted well to the nocturnal wanderings, but tonight his legs were weary and beginning to drag. It was no wonder. He surely had already traversed hundreds of miles of trail, slipped through the shadows of what seemed a thousand nights and more.
The moon rose above a ridge. Its light shone on a ruined structure built into the side of the cliff in the distance. Or was it just the moonlight and the shadows playing tricks on him? Arched doorways were etched in the cliff, as perfectly curved as the breech of his lost rifle. He froze in his tracks and squeezed his eyes to get a better look. The night was far from over, but he sorely needed a place to rest for a while. Perhaps he could find some refuge in the ruins.
As he came closer, he discovered that the ruins covered a much larger area than had appeared from below. A complex of adjoining buildings had been set on stilts. Some were standing, but most had long since collapsed. The place must have been a fortress built by those who clung to beliefs from before the time of Mohammed. It was tucked into the mountain itself, which was why so little of it was visible from the trail. Rashid knew that some of the mountain people still believed in the old gods. They worshiped nature, drank wine and made sacrifices to the sun. Could this be one of their abandoned cities?
He entered the most intact building he could find through a shadowy doorway framed with toweringracks of twisted wild goat horns. Their skulls were piled one upon the other to form macabre pillars on either side of the doorway. Horns and empty sockets whispered in the wind.
Once inside, he saw that the floor was covered with dung. It seemed only the mountain goats resided here now. Broken wooden furniture was strewn about on every side. He took a few steps and found a small, fairly well preserved room beyond the first and lay down to rest.
He thought of the bird that had shadowed him fordays after he left the valley of Abu Ishak. By its speckled breast and shrill cry he could tell that it was a hunter falcon. The sight of the bird had chilled the breath in his lungs, gripped his heart with dread. Surely such a bird must belong to the tribe of a desert sheikh. It must be Abu Ishak’s.
To look over your shoulder and see such a thing was unnerving, so he had traveled for days higher up into the mountains where no rider could ever come. He might not know where he was, but at least he felt safe.
Rashid wondered what had happened to Ibn Khaldun. He must have returned to the desert by now. Unless, of course, Abu Ishak’s men had caught up with him and killed him. Rashid hoped so. Let him die a thousand deaths for abandoning me here, he thought. The heat rose off the fire, and Rashid imagined that it was a mirage wavering over the desert sands. He could almost hear the chorus of jackals howling in the moonlight, feel the desert wind on his face, feel the hot breeze as it blew in from beyond the great dunes of the Uruq al Shaiba.
The night fell and cast a leaden blue color on the land. The trail was beginning to lose its shape and melt into the shadows. Only the tips of the high peaks were painted red by the sun. Soon they too were lost.
Onward the scout went, one step following the other, carefully, quietly, lest someone hear. The night was dark, the shadows eerie. The voices of the night began to sing.
Listen to the groaning from downwind, he said to himself. It is only the roar of wind through the rocks. Hear the rustle of footsteps above. It is only a startledhare. Listen to someone calling your name. It is only an owl hooting in the distance, its call wavering with the wind.
He must stay downwind. He must cover his tracks
.
Upward he climbed, higher and higher. His eyes had adjusted well to the nocturnal wanderings, but tonight his legs were weary and beginning to drag. It was no wonder. He surely had already traversed hundreds of miles of trail, slipped through the shadows of what seemed a thousand nights and more.
The moon rose above a ridge. Its light shone on a ruined structure built into the side of the cliff in the distance. Or was it just the moonlight and the shadows playing tricks on him? Arched doorways were etched in the cliff, as perfectly curved as the breech of his lost rifle. He froze in his tracks and squeezed his eyes to get a better look. The night was far from over, but he sorely needed a place to rest for a while. Perhaps he could find some refuge in the ruins.
As he came closer, he discovered that the ruins covered a much larger area than had appeared from below. A complex of adjoining buildings had been set on stilts. Some were standing, but most had long since collapsed. The place must have been a fortress built by those who clung to beliefs from before the time of Mohammed. It was tucked into the mountain itself, which was why so little of it was visible from the trail. Rashid knew that some of the mountain people still believed in the old gods. They worshiped nature, drank wine and made sacrifices to the sun. Could this be one of their abandoned cities?
He entered the most intact building he could find through a shadowy doorway framed with toweringracks of twisted wild goat horns. Their skulls were piled one upon the other to form macabre pillars on either side of the doorway. Horns and empty sockets whispered in the wind.
Once inside, he saw that the floor was covered with dung. It seemed only the mountain goats resided here now. Broken wooden furniture was strewn about on every side. He took a few steps and found a small, fairly well preserved room beyond the first and lay down to rest.
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