Текст книги "Cry Wolf"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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"Nor am I, Gino. What does it look like to you?"

"It looks like,– Geno's voice choked off. "I do not like to say, my

Count," he whispered. "I think I am going mad." At that moment the

Captain of tanks, whose efforts to catch up with the fleeing armoured

car and stampeding elephant were unavailing, opened fire with the 50

men.

Spandau upon them. More accurately, he opened fire in the general

direction of the rolling dust cloud which obscured his forward

vision,

and through which he caught only occasional glimpses of beast and

machine. To confound further the aim of his gunner, the range was

rapidly increasing, the manoeuvres with which the armoured car was

trying to throw off the close pursuit of the elephant were violent and

erratic, and the cavalry tank itself was plunging and leaping wildly

over the rough ground.

Fire!" shouted the Captain. "Keep firing," and his gunner sent half a

dozen high-explosive shells screeching low over the plain. The other

tanks heard the banging of their Captain's cannon and immediately and

enthusiastically followed his example.

One of the first shells struck the thatched front wall of the blind in

which the Count and Gino cowered in horrified fascination.

The flimsy wall of grass did not trigger the fuse of the shell so there

was no explosion, but nevertheless the high-velocity shell passed not

eighteen inches from the Count's left ear, with a crack of disrupted

air that stunned him, before exiting through the rear wall of the blind

and howling onwards to burst a mile out in the empty desert.

"If the Count no longer needs me-" Gino snapped a hasty salute and

before the Count had recovered his wits enough to forbid it, he had

dived through the shell hole in the rear wall of the blind and hit the

ground on the far side, already running.

Gino was not alone. From each of the blinds along the line leapt the

figures of the other hunters, the sound of their hysterical cries

almost drowned by the roar of engines, the trumpeting of an angry bull

elephant and the continuous thudding roar of cannon fire.

The Count tried to rise from his chair, but his legs betrayed him and

he managed only a series of convulsive leaps. His mouth gaped wide in

his deathly pale face, but no sound came out of it. The Count was

beyond speech, almost beyond movement just the strength for one more

desperate heave, and the chair toppled forward, throwing the Count face

down upon the sunken earth floor of the blind, where he covered his

head with both arms.

At that instant, the armoured car, still under full throttle, came in

through the front wall. The thatched blind exploded around it, but the

impetus of the car's charge was sufficient to carry it in a single leap

over the dugout. The spinning wheels hurled inches over the

Count's prostrate form, showering him with a stinging barrage of sand

and loose gravel. Then it was gone.

The Count struggled to sit up, and had almost succeeded when the huge

enraged form of the bull elephant pounded over the blind. One of its

great feet struck the Count a glancing blow on the shoulder and he

screamed like a hand-saw and once again flung himself flat on the floor

of the dugout while the elephant pounded onwards towards the far

horizon, still in pursuit of the flying car.

The earth shook beneath the approach of another heavy body, and the

Count flattened himself to the floor of the dugout deafened,

dazed and paralysed with terror, until the commander of tanks stood

over him and asked solicitously, "Was the game to your liking, my

Colonel?" Even after Gino returned and Helped the Count to his feet,

dusted him down and helped him into the back seat of the Rolls,

the threats and insults still poured from the Count's choked throat in

a high-pitched stream.

"You are a degenerate and a coward. You are guilty of dereliction of

duty, of gross irresponsibility. You allowed them to escape, sir and

you placed me in deadly peril-" They eased the Count down on the

cushions of the Rolls, but as the car pulled away he jumped up to hurl

a parting salvo at the Captain of tanks.

"You are an irresponsible degenerate, sir! – a coward and a

Bolshevik and I shall personally command your firing squad-" His voice

faded into the distance as the Rolls drew away up the ridge in the

direction of the camp, but the Count's good arm was still waving and

gesticulating as they crossed the skyline.

The elephant followed them far out across the desert, long after the

pursuing tank squadron had been left behind and abandoned the chase.

The old bull lost ground steadily over the last mile or so,

until at last he also gave up and stood swaying with exhaustion but

still shaking out his ears and throwing up his trunk in that

truculent,

almost human gesture of challenge and defiance.

Gareth saluted him with respect as they drew away and left him,

like a tall black monolith, out on the dry pale plains. Then he lit

two cheroots, crouching down into the turret out of the wind, and

passed one down to Jake in the driver's compartment.

"A good day's work, (old son. We pronged two of the godless ones,

and we have put the others in the right frame of mind."

"How's that again? "Jake puffed gratefully at the cheroot.

"Next time those tank men lay eyes on us, they'll not stop to count

consequences, but they'll be after us like a pack of long dogs after a

bitch."

"And that's a good thing? "Jake removed the cheroot from his mouth to

ask incredulously.

"That's a good thing' Gareth assured him.

"Well, you could have fooled me." He drove on for a few more minutes

in silence towards the mountains, then shook his head bemusedly.

Tranged? What the hell kind of word is that?"

"Just thought of it this minute," Gareth said. "Expressive, what?" -"

The Count lay face down upon his cot; he wore only a pair of silk

shorts, of a pale and delicate blue, embroidered with his family coat

of arms.

His body was smooth and pale and plump, with that sleek well-fed sheen

which takes a great deal of money, food and drink to nourish. On the

pale skin his body hair was dark and curly and crisp as newly picked

lettuce leaves. It grew in a light cloud across his shoulders,

and then descended his back to disappear at last like a wisp of smoke

into the cleft of his milky buttocks that showed coyly above the

waistband of his shorts.

Now the smoothness of his body was spoiled by the ugly red abrasions

and new purple bruises which flowered upon his ribs and blotched his

legs and arms.

He groaned with a mixture of agony and gratification as Gino knelt over

him, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and worked the liniment into

his shoulder. His dark sinewy fingers sank deeply into the sleek pale

flesh, and the stench of liniment stung the eyes and nostrils.

"Not so hard, Gino. Not so hard, I am badly hurt."

"I am sorry,

my Colonel," and he worked on in silence while the Count groaned and

grunted and wriggled on the bed under him.

"My Colonel, may I speak?"

"No," grunted the Colonel. "Your salary is already liberal.

No, Gino, already I pay you a prince's ransom."

"My Colonel, you do me wrong. I would not speak of such a mundane

subject at this time."

"I am delighted to hear it," groaned the Count. "Ah!

There! That spot! That's it!" Gino worked on the spot for a few

seconds. "If you study the lives of the great Italian Generals Julius

Caesar and-" Gino paused here while he searched his mind and more

recent history for another great Italian General; the silence stretched

out and Gino repeated, "Take Julius Caesar, as an example."

"Yes?"

"Even Julius Caesar did not himself swing the sword. The truly great

commander stands aside from the actual battle.

He directs, plans, commands the lesser mortals."

"That is true,

Gino."

"Any peasant can swing a sword or fire a gun, what are they but mere

cattle!"

"That is also true."

"Take Napoleon Bonaparte, or the

Englishman Wellington." Gino had abandoned his search for the name of

a victorious Italian warrior within the last thousand years or SO.

"Very well, Gino, take them?"

"When they fought, they themselves were remote from the actual

conflict. Even when they confronted each other at Waterloo, they stood

miles apart like two great chess masters,

directing, manoeuvring, commanding-"

"What are you trying to say,

Gino?"

"Forgive me, my coUnt, but have you not perhaps let your courage blind

you, have not your warlike instincts, your instinct to tear the jugular

from your enemy ... have you not perhaps lost sight of a commander's

true role the duty to stand back from the actual fighting and survey

the overall battle?" Gino waited with trepidation for the

Count's reaction. It had taken him all his courage to speak, but even

the Count's wrath could not outweigh the terror he felt at the prospect

of being plunged once more into danger. His place was at the Count's

side; if the Count continued to expose them both to all the terrors and

horrors of this barren and hostile land, then Gino knew that he could

no longer continue.

His nerves were trampled, raw, exposed, his nights troubled with dreams

from which he woke sweating and trembling.

He had a nerve below his left eye that had recently begun to twitch

without control. He was fast reaching the end of his nervous strength.

Soon something within him might snap.

"Please, my Count. For the good of all of us you must all curb your

impetuosity." He had touched a responsive chord in his master. He had

voiced precisely the Count's own feelings, feelings which had over the

last few weeks" desperate adventures, become deep-seated convictions.

He struggled up on one elbow, lifted his noble head with its anguished

brow and looked at the little sergeant.

"Gino," he said. "You are a philosopher."

"You do me too much honour, my Count."

"No! No! I mean it. You have a certain gutter wisdom, the

perceptions of the streets, a peasant philosopher." Gino would not

himself have put it quite that way, but he bowed his head in

acquiescence.

"I have been unfair to my brave boys," said the Count, and his whole

demeanour changed, becoming radiant and glowing with good will,

like that of a reprieved prisoner. "I have thought only of myself my

own glory, my own honour, recklessly I have plunged into danger,

without reckoning the cost. Ignoring the terrible risk that I might

leave my brave boys without a leader orphans without a father." Gino

nodded fervently. "Who could ever replace you in their hearts, or at

their head?"

"Gino." The Count clapped a fatherly hand to his shoulder.

"I must be less selfish in the future."

"My Count, you cannot know how much pleasure it gives me to hear it,"

cried Gino, and he trembled with relief as he thought of long,

leisurely days spent in peace and security behind the earthworks and

fortifications of Chaldi camp.

"Your duty is to command!"

"Plan! said the Count.

"Direct!" said Gino.

"I fear it is my destiny."

"Your God-given duty." Gino backed him up, and as the Count sank down

once more upon the cot, he fell with renewed vigour upon the injured

shoulder.

"Gino," said the Count at last. "When last did we speak of your

wages?"

"Not for many months, my Count."

"Let us discuss it now," said

Aldo Belli comfortably. "You are a jewel without price. Say, another

hundred lire a month."

"The sum of one hundred and fifty had crossed MY

mind, murmured Gino respectfully.

The Count's new military philosophy was received with unbounded

enthusiasm by his officers, when he explained it to them that evening

in the mess tent, over the liqueurs and cigars. The idea of leading

from the rear seemed not only to be practical and sensible, but

downright inspired. This enthusiasm lasted only until they learned

that the new philosophy applied not to the entire officer cadre of

the

Third Battalion, but to the Colonel only. The rest of them were to be

given every opportunity to make the supreme sacrifice for God, country

and Benito Mussolini. At this stage the new philosophy lost much

popular support.

In the end, only three persons stood to benefit from the rearrangement

the Count, Gino and Major Luigi Castelani.

The Major was so overjoyed to learn that he now had what amounted to

unfettered command of the battalion that for the first time in many

years he took a bottle of grappa to his tent that evening, and sat

shaking his head and chuckling fruitily into his glass.

The following morning's burning, blinding headache that only grappa can

produce, combined with his new freedom, made the Major's grip on the

battalion all the more ferocious. The new spirit spread like a fire in

dry grass. Men cleaned their rifles, burnished their buttons and

closed them to the neck, stubbed out their cigarettes and trembled a

little while Castelani rampaged through the camp at

Chaldi, dealing out duties, ferreting out the malingerers and

stiffening spines with the swishing cane in his right hand.

The honour guard that fell in that afternoon to welcome the first

aircraft to the newly constructed airfield were so beautifully turned

out with polished leather and glittering metal, and their drill was so

smartly performed, that even Count Aldo Belli noticed it, and commended

them warmly.

The aircraft was a three-engined Caproni bomber. It came lumbering in

from the northern skies, circled the long runway of raw earth, and then

touched down and raised a long rolling storm of dust with the wash of

its propellers.

The first personage to emerge from the doorway in the belly of the

silver fuselage was the political agent from Asmara, Signor Antolino,

looking more rumpled and seedy than ever in his creased, ill-fitting

tropical linen suit. He raised his straw panama. in reply to the

Count's flamboyant Fascist salute, and they embraced briefly, the man

stood low on the social and political scale before the Count turned to

the pilot.

"I wish to ride in your machine." The Count had lost interest in his

tanks, in fact he found himself actively hating them and their

Captain. In sober mood he had refrained from executing that officer,

or even packing him off back to Asmara. He had contented himself with

a full page of scathing comment in the man's service report, knowing

that this would destroy his career. A complete and satisfying

vengeance, but the Count was finished with tanks. Now he had an

aircraft. So much more exciting and romantic.

"We will fly over the enemy positions," said the Count, at a

respectable height." By which he meant out of rifle shot.

"Later," said the political agent, with such an air of authority that

the Count drew himself up in a dignified manner, and gave the man a

haughty stare before which he should have quailed.

"I carry personal and urgent orders from General Badogho's own lips,"

said the agent, completely unaffected by the stare.

The Count's stiffly dignified when altered immediately.

"A glass of wine, then," he said affably, and took the " man's arm

leading him to the waiting Rolls.

The General stands now before Ambo Aradam. He has the main

concentration of the enemy at bay upon the mountain, and under heavy

artillery and aerial bombardment. At the right moment he will fall

upon them and the outcome cannot be in doubt."

"Quite right," nodded the Count sagely; the prospect of fighting a

hundred miles away to the north filled him with the reflected warmth of

the glory of Italian arms.

"Within the next ten days, the broken armies of the Ethiopians will be

attempting to withdraw along the road to Dessie and to link up with

Baile Selassie at Lake Tona but the Sardi Gorge is like a dagger in

their ribs. You know your duty." The Count nodded again, but warily.

This was much closer to home.

"I have come now to make the final contact with the Ethiopian Ras who

will declare for us, the Emperor-designate of Ethiopia our secret ally.

It is necessary to coordinate our final plans, so that his defection

will cause the greatest possible confusion amongst the ranks of the

enemy, and his forces can be best deployed to support your assault up

the gorge to Sardi and the Dessie road."

"Ah!" the Count made a sound which signified neither agreement nor

dissent.

"My men, working in the mountains, have arranged a meeting with the

Emperor-designate. At this meeting we will make the promised payment

that secures the Ras's loyalty." The agent made a moue of distaste.

"These people!" and he sighed at the thought of a man who would sell

his country for gold. Then he dismissed the thought with a

J wave of his hand. "The meeting is fixed for tonight. I have brought

one of my men with me who will act as a guide.

The place arranged is approximately eighty kilometres from here and we

will move out at sundown which will give us ample time to reach the

rendezvous before the appointed hour of midnight."

"Very well, the Count agreed. "I will place transport at your

disposal." The agent held up a hand. "My dear Colonel, you will be

the leader of the delegation to meet the Ras."

"Impossible." The Count would not so swiftly abandon his new

philosophy. "I have my duties here to prepare for the offensive." Who

knew what new horrors might lurk out in the midnight wastes of the

Danakil?

"Your presence is essential to the success of the negotiations your

uniform will impress the-" My shoulder, I am suffering from an injury

which makes travel most inconvenient I shall send one of my officers.

A Captain of tanks, the uniform is truly splendid."

"No. "The agent shook his head.

"I have a Major a man of great presence."

"The General expressly instructed that you should lead the delegation.

If you doubt this,

your radio operator could establish immediate contact with Asmara."

The

Count sighed, opened his mouth, closed it again, and then regretfully

abandoned his vow to remain within the perimeter of Chaldi camp for the

duration of the campaign.

"Very well," he conceded. "We will leave at sundown." The Count was

not about to plunge recklessly into danger again. The convoy which

left Chaldi that evening in the fiery afterglow of the sunset was led

by two CV.3 cavalry tanks, then followed four truck-loads of

infantry,

and behind them the remaining two tanks made up a formidable rear

guard.

The Rolls was sandwiched neatly in the centre of this column. The

political agent sat on the seat beside the Count, with his feet firmly

on the heavy wooden case on the floorboards. The guide that the agent

had produced from the fuselage of the Caproni was a thin, very dark

Galla, with one opaque eyeball of blue jelly caused by tropical

ophthalmia which gave him a particularly villainous cast of features.

He was dressed in a once-white sham ma that was now almost black with

filth, and he smelled like a goat that had recently fought a polecat.

The Count took one whiff of him and clapped his perfumed handkerchief

to his nose.

"Tell the man he is to ride in the leading tank with the

Captain," and a malicious expression gleamed in his dark eyes as he

turned to the Captain of tanks. "In the tank, do you hear? On the

seat beside you in the turret." They drove without lights, jolting

slowly across the moon-silver plains under the dark wall of the

mountains.

There was a single horseman waiting for them at the rendezvous, a dark

shape in the darker shadows of a massive camel-thorn. The agent spoke

with him in Amharic and then turned back to the Count.

"The Ras suspects treachery. We are to leave the escort here and go on

alone with this man."

"No," cried the Count. "No! No! I refuse – I simply refuse." It

took almost ten minutes of coaxing, and the repeated mention of General

Badoglio's name, to change the Count's stance. Miserably, the Count

climbed back into the Rolls, and Gino looked sadly at him from the

front seat as the unescorted, terribly vulnerable car moved out into

the moonlight, following the dark wild horseman on his shaggy pony.

In a rocky valley that cut into the towering bulk of the mountains,

they had to abandon the Rolls and complete the journey on foot. Gino

and Giuseppe carrying the wooden case between them, the

Count with a drawn pistol in his hand, they staggered on up the

treacherous slope of rocks and scree.

In a hidden saucer of rock, around the rim of which were posted the

shadowy, hostile figures of sentries, was a large leather tent.

Around it were tethered scores of the wild, shaggy ponies and the

interior was lit by smoky paraffin lamps and crowded with rank upon

rank of squatting warriors. Their faces were so black in the dim light

that only the whites of their eyes and the gleam of their teeth showed

clearly.

The political agent strode ahead of the Count, down the open aisle, to

where a robed figure reclined on a pile of cushions under a pair of

lanterns. He was flanked by two women, still very young, but

full-blown heavy-breasted, and pale-skinned, dressed in brilliant

silks, both of them wearing crudely wrought silver jewellery dangling

from their ears and strung about their long graceful necks. Their eyes

were dark and bold, and at another time and in different circumstances

the Count's interest would have been intense.

But now his knees felt rubbery, and his heart thumped like a war drum.

The political agent had to lead him forward by the arm.

"The Emperor-designate," whispered the agent, and the Count looked down

on the bloated, effeminate dandy who lolled upon the cushions, his fat

fingers covered with rings and his eyelids painted like those of a

woman. "Ras Kullah, of the Gallas."

"Make the correct reply,"

instructed the Count, his voice hoarse with strain, and the Ras eyed

the Count with apprehension as the agent made a long flowery speech.

The Ras was impressed with the imposing figure in its sinister black

uniform. In the lamplight, the insignia glittered and the heavy

enamelled cross on its ribbon of watered silk blinked like a beacon.

The Ras's eyes dropped to the jewelled dagger and ivory-handled pistol

at the Count's belt, the weapons of a rich and noble warrior and he

looked up again into the Count's eyes. They also glittered with an

almost feverish fanatical light, the Count's regular features were

flushed angrily and a murderous scowl furrowed his brow. He breathed

like a fighting bull. The Ras mistook the signs of fatigue and extreme

fear for the warlike rage of a berserker. He was impressed and awed.

Then his attention was drawn irresistibly away from the Count, as

Gino and Giuseppe staggered into the tent, sweating in the lamplight,

and bowed over the heavy chest they carried between them. Ras Kullah

hoisted himself into a kneeling position, with his soft paunch bulging

forward under the sham ma and his eyes glittering like those of a

reptile.

With an abrupt command, he cut short the agent's speech, and beckoned

the two Italians to him. With relief they deposited the heavy chest

before the Ras, amid a hubbub of voices from the dark mass of watchers.

They pressed forward eagerly, the better to see the contents of the

chest, as the Ras prised open the clips with the jewelled dagger from

his belt, and lifted the lid with his fat pale hands.

The chest was closely packed with paper-wrapped rolls, like white

candles. The Ras lifted one and slit the paper cover with the point of

his dagger. There was a silent explosion of flat metal discs from the

package. They cascaded into the Ras's ample lap, glittering golden and

bright in the lantern light, and he cooed with pleasure, scooping a

handful of the coins. Even the Count, with his own vast personal

fortune, was impressed by the contents of the chest.

"By Peter and the Virgin," he muttered.

"English sovereigns," the agent affirmed. "But not a high price for a

land the size of France." The Ras giggled and tossed a handful of

coins to his nearest followers, and they fought and squabbled over the

coins on their hands and knees. Then the Ras looked up at the Count

and patted the cushions, grinning happily, motioning him to be

seated,

and the Count responded gratefully. The long walk up the valley and

his fevered emotions had weakened his legs. He sank down on the

cushions and listened to the long list of further demands that the Ras

had prepared.

"He wants modern rifles, and machine guns," translated the agent.

"What is our position?" asked the Count.

"Of course we cannot give them to him. In a month's time, or a year,

he may be an enemy not an ally. You cannot be certain with these

Gallas."

"Say the correct thing."

"He wants your assurance that the female agent provocateur and the two

white brigands in the Harari camp are delivered to him for justice as

soon as they are captured."

"There is no reason against this?"

"Indeed, it will save us trouble and embarrassment."

"What will he do with them they are responsible for the torture and

massacre of some of my brave lads?" The Count was recovering his

confidence, and the sense of outrage returned to him.

"I have eye-witness accounts of the terrible atrocities committed on

helpless prisoners of war.

The wanton shooting of bound prisoners justice must be done.

They must meet retribution." The agent grinned without mirth. "I

assure you, my dear Count, that in the hands of Ras Kullah they will

meet a fate far more terrible than you would imagine in your worst

nightmares," and he turned back to the Ras and said in Amharic, "You

have our word on it. They are yours to do with as you see fit." The

Ras smiled, like a fat golden cat, and the tip of his tongue ran across

his swollen purple lips, from one corner of his mouth to the other.

By this time, the Count had recovered his breath, and realized that

contrary to all his expectations the Ras was friendly and that he was

not in imminent danger of having his throat slit and his personal parts

forcibly removed, the Count regained much of his aplomb.

"Tell the Ras that I want from him, in exchange, a full account of the

enemy's strength the number of men, guns and armoured vehicles that are

guarding the approaches to the gorge. I want to know the enemy's order

of battle, the exact location of all his earthworks and strong points

and particularly I want to be informed of the positions occupied by the

Ras's own Gallas at the present time. I want also the names and ranks

of all foreigners serving with the enemy-" He went on ticking off the

points one at a time on his fingers, and the Ras listened with growing

awe. Here was a warrior, indeed.

We have to bait the trap, said Gareth Swales.

He and Jake Barton squatted side by side in the shade cast by the hull

of Priscilla the Pig.

Gareth had a short length of twig in his right hand, and he had been

using it to draw out his strategy for receiving the renewed thrust by

the Italians.

"It's no good sending horsemen. It worked once, it's not going to work

again." Jake said nothing, but frowned heavily at the complicated

designs that Gareth had traced on the sandy earth.

"We have conditioned the tank commander. The next look he gets at an

armoured car, and he's going to be after it like-"

"Like a long dog after a bitch, "said Jake.

"Exactly," Gareth nodded. "I was just going to say that myself"

"You already did, "Jake reminded him.

"We'll send out one car one is enough and hold another in reserve

here." Gareth touched the sand map. "If anything goes wrong with the

first car"

"Like a high-explosive shell between the buttocks?" Jake asked.

"Precisely. If that happens the second car pops in like this and keeps

them coming on."

"The way you tell it, it sounds great."

"Piece of cake, old son, nothing to it. Trust the celebrated Swales

genius."

"Who takes the first car? "Jake asked.

"Spin you for it," Gareth suggested, and a silver Maria Theresa

appeared as if by magic in his hand.

"Heads," said Jake.

"Oh, tough luck, old son. Heads it is." Jake's hand was quick as a

striking mamba. It snapped closed on Gareth's wrist and held his hand

in which the silver coin was cupped.

"I say," protested Gareth. "Surely you don't believe that I might and

then he shrugged resignedly.

"No offence," Jake assured him, turned Gareth's hand towards him and

examined the coin cupped in his palm.

"Lovely lady, Theresa," murmured Gareth. "Lovely high forehead,

very sensual mouth bet she was a real goer, what?" Jake released his

wrist, and stood up, dusting his breeches to cover his embarrassment.

"Come on, Greg. We'd better get ready," he called across to where the

young Harari was supervising the preparations taking place on the

higher ground above where the cars were parked.

"Good luck, old son," Gareth called after them. "Keep your head well

down." Jake Barton sat on the edge of Priscilla's turret with his long

legs dangling into the hatch, and he looked up at the mountains.

Only their lower slopes were visible, rising steeply into the vast

towering mass of cloud that rose sheer into the sky.

The cloud mass bulged, swelling forward and spilling with the slow

viscosity of treacle down the harsh ranges of rock. The mountains had

disappeared, swallowed by the cloud monster, and the soft mass heaved

like a belly digesting its prey.

For the first time since they had entered the Danakil, the sun was

obscured. The cold came off the clouds in gusts, touching Jake with

icy fingers of air, so that the gooseflesh pimpled his muscular

forearms and he shivered briefly.

Gregorius sat beside him on the turret, looking up also at the silver

and dark blue of the thunderheads.

"The big rains will begin now."

"Here?"

"No, not down here in the desert, but upon the mountains the rain will

fall with great fury." For a few moments longer, Jake stared up at the

pinnacles and glaring slopes of grandeur and menace, then he turned his

back upon them and swept the rolling tree-dotted plains to the

eastward. As yet, there was no) sign of the Italian advance that the

scouts had reported, and he turned again and focused his binoculars on

the lower slopes of the gorge at the point from which Gareth would

signal the enemy's movements to him. There was nothing to be seen but

broken rock and the tumbled slopes of scree and rubble.

He dropped his scrutiny lower to where the last small dunes of red sand

lapped like wavelets against the great rock reef of the mountains.