Текст книги "Cry Wolf"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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"It would be best if they fell into the hands of the Italians rather

than the Gallas."

"Yes,"she agreed quietly.

"There is one other thing, Miss Camberwell." The Prince hesitated,

and then went on firmly, "Under no circumstances are you to surrender

yourselves to the Italians. Even in the most extreme circumstances.

Anything-" he emphasized the word, "anything is preferable to that."

?

"I have learned from our agents that sentence of death has been passed

on you, Mr. Barton and Major Swales. You have been declared agents

provocateurs and terrorists. You are to be handed over to Ras

Kullah for execution of sentence. Anything would be better than

that."

"I understand," said Vicky softly, and she shuddered as she thought

of

Ras Kullah's thick pink lips, and the soft bloated hands.

"If everything else fails, I will send an-" his voice was cut off

abruptly, and now there was no hiss of static across the wires, only

the dead silence of lost contact.

For another minute Vicky tried to re-establish contact, but the handset

was mute and the silence complete. She replaced it on its cradle, and

closed her eyes tightly for a moment to steady herself. She had never

felt so lonely and tired and afraid in her entire life.

Vicky paused as she crossed the yard to the warehouse, and she looked

up at the sky. She had not realized how late it was. There were only

a few hours of daylight left but the cloud seemed to be breaking up.

The sombre grey roof was higher, just on the peaks, and there were

light patches where the sun tried to penetrate the cloud.

She prayed quietly that it would not happen. Twice during these last

desperate days, the cloud had lifted briefly, and each time the

Italian bombers had come roaring at low level up the gorge. On both

occasions, the terrible damage they had inflicted had forced Gareth to

abandon his trenches and pull back to the next prepared position, and a

flood of wounded and dying had engulfed them here at the hospital.

"Let it rain," she prayed. "Please God, let it rain and rain."

She bowed her head and hurried on into the shed, into the stench and

the low hubbub of groans and wails. She saw that Sara was still

assisting at the plain wooden table, inadequately screened by a

tattered curtain of canvas, and lit by a pair of Petromax lamps.

The German doctor was removing a shattered limb, cutting below the knee

while the young Harari warrior thrashed weakly under the weight of the

four orderlies who held him down.

Vicky waited until they carried the patient away and she called to

Sara. The two of them went out and stood breathing the sweet mountain

air with relief as they leant close together under the overhanging roof

of the veranda while Vicky repeated the conversation she had held

with

Lij Mikhael.

"Then we were cut off. The line just went dead."

"Yes," Sara nodded. "They have cut the wires. It is only a surprise

that Ras

Kullah did not do so before. The wires cross over the top of Ambo

Sacal. Perhaps it has taken this long for them to reach it."

"Will you go down the gorge, Sara, and give the message to Major

Swales? I would go down in Miss Wobbly, but there is almost no fuel in

the tank, and I

have promised Jake not to waste it. We will need every drop later–2

"It will be quicker on horseback anyway," Sara smiled, and I will be

able to see Gregorius."

"No, it won't take long," Vicky agreed.

"They are very close." Both of them paused to listen to the Italian

guns. The thumping detonations of the high explosive reverberated

against the mountains, close enough to make the ground tremble under

their feet.

"Don't you want me to give a message to Mr. Bartonr Sara demanded

archly. "Shall I tell him that your body crave, "No," Vicky cut her

short, her alarm obvious. "For goodness sake don't go giving him one

of your salacious inventions."

"What does "salacious" mean, Miss

Camberwell?" Sara's interest was aroused immediately.

"It means lecherous, lustful."

"Salacious," Sara repeated,

memorizing it. "It's a fine word," and with gusto she tried it out.

"My body craves you with a great salacious yearning."

"Sara, if you tell Jake that I said that, I will murder you with my

bare hands,"

Vicky warned her, laughing for the first time in many days, and her

laughter was cut off in mid flight by the single ringing scream of

terror, and the wild animal roar that followed it.

Suddenly the goods yard was filled with racing figures; they poured out

of the thick stand of cedar trees that flanked the railway line, and

they crossed the tracks in a few leaping bounds. There were hundreds

of them and they poured into the warehouse and fell like a pack of

wolves on the rows of helpless wounded.

"The Gallas," whispered Sara huskily, and for a moment they stood

paralysed with horror, staring into the gloomy cavern of the shed.

Vicky saw the old German doctor run to meet the Galla wave, with his

arms spread in a gesture of appeal, trying to prevent the slaughter. He

took the thrust of a broadsword full in the centre of his chest, and a

foot of the blade appeared magically from between his

shoulder-blades.

She saw a Galla, armed with a magazine-loaded rifle, run down a line of

wounded, pausing to fire a single shot at pointblank range into each

head.

She saw another with a long dagger in his hand, not bothering even to

slit the throat of the Harari wounded, before he jerked aside the

covering of coarse jute bags and his dagger swept in a single cutting

stroke across the exposed lower belly.

She saw the shed filled with frenzied figures, their sword-arms rising

and falling, their gunfire crashing into the supine bodies, and the

screams of their victims ringing against the high roof, blending with

the high excited laughter and the wild cries of the Galla.

Sara dragged Vicky away, pulling her back behind the sheltering wall of

the shed. It broke the spell of horror which had mesmerized

Vicky and she ran beside the girl on flying feet.

The car," she panted. "If we can reach the car." Miss Wobbly was

parked beyond the station buildings under the lean-to of the loco shed

where it was protected from the rain. Running side by side, Vicky

and

Sara turned the corner of the shed and ran almost into the arms of a

dozen Gallas coming at a run in the opposite direction.

Vicky had a glimpse of their dark faces, shining with rain and sweat,

of the open mouths and flashing wolf-like teeth, the mad staring eyes,

and she smelt them, the hot excited animal smell of their sweat.

Then she was twisting away, like a hare jinking out of the track of a

hound. A hand clutched at her shoulder, and she felt her blouse tear,

then she was free and running, but she could hear the pounding of their

feet close behind her, and the crazy loolooing of excitement as they

chased.

Sara ran with her, drawing slightly ahead as they reached the corner of

the station building. There was the flash and the crack of a

rifle-shot out on their left, and the bullet slammed into the wall

beside them. From the corner of her eye Vicky saw other running

Gallas,

racing in from the main road of the village, their long shammas

flapping about them as they ran to head them off.

Sara was drawing away from her. The girl ran with the grace and speed

of a gazelle, and Vicky could not keep pace with her. She rounded the

corner of the station building ten paces ahead of Vicky, and stopped

abruptly.

Under the lean-to shelter, the angular shape of Miss Wobbly was

wreathed in furious petals of crimson flame, and the black oily smoke

poured from her hatches. The Gallas had reached her first. She had

clearly been one of their first targets, and dozens of them pranced

around her as she burned and then scattered as the Vickers ammunition

in the bins began exploding.

Sara had halted for only a second, but it was long enough for

Vicky to reach her.

"The cedar forest," gasped Sara, a hand on Vicky's arm as they changed

direction.

The forest was two hundred yards away across the tracks, but it was

dense and dark, covering the broken ground along the river. They raced

out into the open, and immediately twenty other Gallas took up the

chase, their voices raised in the pack clamour.

The open yard seemed to stretch to eternity as Vicky ran on ahead of

the Gallas. The ground was slushy, so that she sank to the ankles with

each step, and the clinging red mud sucked one of the shoes off her

foot. So she ran on lopsidedly her feet sliding and her knees turning

weak under her.

Sara raced on lightly ahead, leaping the steel railway track, and her

feet flying lightly over the muddy ground.

The edge of the forest was fifty feet away.

Vicky felt a foot catch as she tried to jump the tracks and she went

down sprawling in the mud. She dragged herself to her knees. On the

edge of the forest Sara looked back, hesitating, her eyes huge and

glistening white in her smooth dark face.

"Run," screamed Vicky. "Run. Tell Jake," and the girl was gone into

the dark forest, with only a flicker of her passing like a forest

doe.

The butt of a rifle struck Vicky in the side, below the ribs, and she

went down with an explosive grunt of pain into the cold red mud.

Then there were hands tearing at her clothing, and she tried to

fight,

but she was blinded by the clinging wet tresses of her hair, and

crippled with the pain of the blow. They hoisted her to her feet, and

suddenly a new authoritative voice cracked like a whiplash, and the

hands released her.

She lifted her head, hunched up over her bruised belly and side.

Through eyes blurred with tears and mud, she recognized the scarred

face of the Galla Captain. He still wore the blue sham ma sodden now

with rain, and the scar twisted his grin, making it seem even more

cruel and vicious.

The front edge of the trench had been reinforced with sandbags and

screened with brush, and through the square observation aperture the

view down the gorge was uninterrupted.

Gareth propped one shoulder against the sandbags and peered down into

the gathering gloom. Jake Barton squatted on the firing step beside

him and studied the Englishman's face. Gareth Swales's usually

immaculate turnout was now red with dried mud, and stained with

sweat,

rainwater and filth.

A thick golden stubble of beard covered his jaw like the pelt of an

otter, and his mustache was ragged and untrimmed. There had been no

opportunity to change clothing or bathe in the last week. There were

new lines etched deeply into the corners of his mouth, his forehead,

and around his eyes, lines of pain and worry, but when he glanced up

and caught Jake's scrutiny, he grinned and lifted an eyebrow, and the

old devilish gleam was in his eyes. He was about to speak when from

below them another shell came howling up through the deep shades of the

gorge, and both of them ducked instinctively as it burst in close, but

neither of them remarked. There had been hundreds of bursts that close

in the last days.

"It's breaking for certain," Gareth observed instead, and they both

looked up at the strip of sky that showed between the mountains.

"Yes," Jake agreed. "But it's too late. It will be dark in twenty

minutes." It would be too late for the bombers, even if the cloud

lifted completely. From bitter experience they knew how long it took

for the aircraft to reach them from the airfield at Chaldi.

"It will clear again tomorrow Gareth answered.

"Tomorrow is another day," Jake said, but his mind dwelt on the big

black machines. The Italian artillery fired smoke markers on to their

trenches just as soon as they heard the drone of approaching engines in

the open cloudless sky. The Capronis came in very low,

their wing-tips seeming to scrape the rocky walls on each side of the

gorge. The beat of their engines rose to an unbearable, ear-shattering

roar, and they were so close that they could make out the features of

the helmeted heads of the airmen in the round glass cockpits.

Then, as they flashed overhead, the black objects detached from under

their fuselage. The 100, kilo bombs dropped straight, their flight

controlled by the fins, and when they struck, the explosion shocked the

mind and numbed the body. In comparison the burst of an artillery

shell was a squib.

The canisters of nitrogen mustard were not aerodynamically stable,

and they tumbled end over end and burst against the rocky slopes in a

splash of yellow, jellylike liquid that sprayed for hundreds of feet in

all directions.

Each time the bombers had come one after the other, endlessly hour

after hour, they left the defence so broken that the wave of infantry

that followed them could not be repelled. Each time they had been

driven out of their trenches, to toil back, upwards to the next line of

defence.

This was the last line, two miles behind them stood the granite portals

that headed the gorge, and beyond them, the town of Sardi and the open

way to the Dessie road.

"Why don't you try and get a little sleep, "Jake suggested, and

involuntarily glanced down at Gareth's arm. It was swathed in strips

of torn shirt, and suspended in a makeshift sling from around his

neck.

The discharge of lymph and pus and the coating of engine grease had

soaked through the crude bandage. It was an ugly sight covered, but

Jake remembered what it looked like without the bandage. The nitrogen

mustard had flayed it from shoulder to wrist, as though it had been

plunged into a pot of boiling water and Jake wondered how much good the

coating of greene was doing it. There was no other treatment,

however,

and at least it kept the air from the terrible injury.

"I'll wait until dark," Gareth murmured, and with his good hand lifted

the binoculars to his eyes. "I've got a funny feeling. It's too quiet

down there." They were silent again, the silence of extreme

exhaustion.

"It's too quiet, said Gareth again, and winced as he moved the arm.

"They haven't got time to sit around like this. They've got to keep

pushing pushing." And then, irrelevantly, "God, I'd give one testicle

for a cheroot. A Romeo y Juliette-" He broke off abruptly,

and then both of them straightened up.

"Do you hear what I think I hear?" asked Gareth.

"I think I do."

"it had to come, of course, said Gareth. "I'm only surprised it took

this long. But it's a long, hard ride from

Asmara to here. So that's what they were waiting for." The sound was

unmistakable in the brooding silence of the gorge, tunnelled up to them

by the rock walls. It was faint still, but there was no doubting the

clanking clatter, and the shrill squeak of turning steel tracks. Each

second it grew nearer, and now they could hear the soft growl of the

engines.

"That has got to be the most unholy sound in the world," said

Jake.

"Tanks," said Gareth. "Bloody tanks."

"They won't get here before dark," Jake guessed. And they won't risk a

night attack."

No Gareth agreed. "They'll come at dawn."

"Tanks and Capronis instead of ham and eggs?" Gareth shrugged wearily.

"That's about the size of it, old son." Colonel Count Aldo Belli was

not at all certain of the wisdom of his actions, and he thought that

Gino was justified in looking up at him with those reproachful

spaniel's eyes. They should have been still comfortably ensconced

behind the formidable de fences of Chaldi Wells.

However, a number of powerful influences had combined to drive him

forward once again.

Not the least powerful of these were the daily radio messages from

General Badogho's headquarters, urging him to intersect the Dessie

road, "before the fish slips through our net'. These messages were

daily more harsh and threatening in character, and were immediately

passed on with the Count's own embellishments to Major Luigi Castelani

who had command of the column struggling up the gorge.

Now at last Castelani had radioed back to the Count the welcome news

that he stood at the very head of the gorge, and the next push would

carry him into the town of Sardi itself. The Count had decided,

after long and deep meditation, that to ride into the enemy stronghold

at the moment of its capture would so enhance his reputation as to be

worth the small danger involved. Major Castelani had assured him that

the enemy was broken and whipped, had suffered enormous casualties and

was no longer a coherent fighting force. Those odds were acceptable to

the Count.

The final circumstance that persuaded him to leave the camp,

abandon the new military philosophy, and move cautiously up the Sardi

Gorge was the arrival of the armoured column from Asmara. These

machines were to replace those that the savage enemy had so

perfidiously trapped and burned. Despite all the Count's pleading and

blustering, it had taken a week for them to be diverted from Massawa,

brought up to Asmara by train, and then for them to complete the long

slow crossing of the Danakil.

Now, however, they had arrived and the Count had immediately

requisitioned one of the six tanks as his personal command vehicle.

Once he was within the thick armoured hull, he had experienced a new

flood of confidence and courage.

"Onwards to Sardi, to write in blood upon the glorious pages of

history!" were the words that occurred to him, and Gino's face had

creased up into that spaniel's expression.

Now in the lowering shades of evening, grinding up the rocky pathway

while walls of sheer rock rose on either hand, seeming to meet the

sullen purple strip of sky high above, the Count was having serious

doubts about the whole wild venture.

He peered out from the turret of his command tank, his eyes huge and

dark and melting with apprehension, a black polished steel helmet

pulled down firmly over his ears, and one hand gripping the ivory butt

of the Beretta so fiercely that his knuckles shone white as bone

china.

At his feet, Gino crouched miserably, keeping well down within the

steel hull.

At that moment a machine gun opened fire ahead of them, and the sound

echoed and re-echoed against the sheer walls of the gorge.

"Stop! Stop this instant! shouted the Count at his driver.

The gunfire sounded very close ahead. "We will make this battalion

headquarters. Right here," announced the Count, and Gino perked up a

little and nodded his total agreement.

"Send for Major Castelani and Major Vita. They are to report to me

here immediately." Jake awoke to the pressure of somebody's hand on

his shoulder, and the light of a storm lantern in his eyes.

The effort of sitting up required all his determination and he let the

damp blanket fall and screwed up his eyes against the light. The cold

had stiffened every muscle in his body, and his head felt light and

woolly with fatigue. He could not believe it was morning already.

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Jake," and then he saw Gregorius's dark intense face beyond

the lamp.

"Take that bloody thing out of my eyes." Beside him, Gareth Swales sat

up suddenly. Both of them had been sleeping fully dressed upon the

same ragged strip of canvas in the muddy bottom of the dugout.

"What's going on?" mumbled Gareth, also stupid with fatigue.

Gregorius swung the lantern aside and the light fell on the slim figure

beside him. Sara was shivering with cold and her light clothing was

&-soddden and muddy. Thorn and branches had scored bloody lines across

her legs and arms, and ripped the fabric of her breeches.

She dropped on her knees beside Jake, and he saw that her eyes were

haunted with terror and horror, her lips trembled uncontrollably,

and the slim hand she laid on Jake's arm was cold as a dead man's, but

it fluttered urgently.

"Miss Camberwell. They have taken her!" she blurted wildly, and her

voice choked up.

"You should stay on here," Jake muttered, as they hurried up the slope

to where Priscilla the Pig was parked half a mile back from the line of

trenches.

"There will be a dawn attack, they'll need you."

"I'm coming on the ride, Jake," Gareth answered quietly, but firmly.

"You can't expect me to sit here while Vicky-" he broke off. "Got to

keep a fatherly eye on you, old son," he went on in the old bantering

tone.

"The Ras and his lads will have to take their own chances for a

while."

As he spoke, they reached the hulking shape of the armoured car, parked

in the broken ground below the head of the gorge. Jake began to drag

the canvas cover off the vehicle, and Gareth drew Gregorius aside.

"One way or another, we should be back before dawn. If we aren't,

you know what to do. God knows, you've had enough practice these last

few days." Gregorius nodded silently.

"Hold as long as you can. Then back to the head of the gorge for the

last act. Right? It's only until noon tomorrow.

We can hold them that long, tanks or no bloody tanks, can't we?"

"Yes, Gareth, we can hold them."

"Just one other thing, Greg. I love your grandfather like a brother

but keep that old bastard under control, will you.

Even if you have to tie him down. "Gareth slapped the boy's shoulder,

changed the captured Italian rifle into his good hand and hurried back

to the car, just as Jake boosted Sara up the side of the hull and then

ran to the crank handle.

Priscilla the Pig ground up the last few hundred yards of steep ground

to the head of the gorge, and they passed gangs of Harari working by

torchlight. They had been at it in shifts since the previous evening

when Jake and Gareth had heard the Italian tanks coming up the gorge.

Although all his concern was with Vicky, yet Gareth noted almost

mechanically that the work gang had performed their task well. The

anti-tank walls were higher than a man's head and built from the

heaviest, most massive boulders that could be carried down from the

cliffs. There was only a gap narrow enough to allow the car to pass in

the centre of the walls.

"Tell them to close the gap now, Sara. We won't take the car into the

gorge again," Gareth instructed quietly as they went through and she

called out to a Harari officer who stood on top of the highest point of

the wall; he waved an acknowledgement, and turned away to supervise the

work.

Jake took the car through the natural granite gates, and beyond them

lay the saucer-shaped valley and the town of Sardi.

It was burning, and at the sight Jake halted the car and they stood on

the hull and looked across at the ruddy glow of the flames that lit the

underbelly of the clouds, and dimly defined the mountain masses that

enclosed the valley.

"is she still alive?" Jake voiced all their fears, but it was Sara who

answered.

"If Ras Kullah was there when they caught her, then she is dead."

Then silence again, both men staring Out into the night, with anger and

dread holding them captive.

"But if he was skulking up in the hills, as he usually does,

waiting for the attack to succeed before he shows himself," she spat

expressively over the side of the hull, "then his men would not dare

begin the execution, until he was there to watch and enjoy the work of

his milch cows. I have heard they can take the skin off a living body

working carefully with their little knives, every inch of skin from

head to toes, and the body still lives for many hours." And Jake

shuddered with horror.

fire "If you're ready, old boy. I think we could move on now!"

said Gareth, and with an effort Jake roused himself and dropped back

into the driver's hatch.

There seemed to be a suggestion of the false dawn lightening the narrow

strip of sky high above the mountains when Gregorius Maryam scrambled

back into the front line treches.

There was activity already amongst the shadowy figures that crowded the

narrow dugouts, and one of the Ras's bodyguard carrying a smoky

paraffin lantern greeted him with, "The Ras asks for you. "Gregorius

followed him down the trench, stepping carefully amongst the hundreds

of figures that slept uncaring on the muddy floor.

The Ras sat huddled in a grey blanket, in one of the larger dugouts off

the main trench. The open pit had been roofed in with the remnants of

one of the leather tents, and a small fire burned smokily in the

centre. The Ras was surrounded by a dozen of the officers of his

bodyguard, and he looked up as Gregorius knelt quietly before him.

"The white men have gone?" the Ras asked concluding with a a hacking

old man's cough that shook his whole frail body.

"They will return in the dawn, before the enemy attack." Gregorius

defended them quickly, and went on to explain the reasons and the

change of plans.

The Ras nodded, staring into the flickering fire, and when

Gregorius paused, he spoke again in that rasping, querulous tone.

"It is a sign and I would have it no other way. Too long I have

listened to the council of the Englishman, too long I have quenched the

fire in my belly, too long I have slunk like a dog from the enemy." He

coughed again, painfully.

"We have run far enough. The time has come to fight," and his officers

growled angrily in the gloom around him, and swayed closer to listen to

his words. "Go you to your men, rouse them, fill their bellies with

fire and their hands with steel. Tell them that the signal will be as

it was a hundred years ago, a thousand years ago.

Tell them to listen for my war drums," a suppressed roar of exultation

came from their throats, "the drums will beat up the dawn, and when

they cease, that will be the moment. "The Ras had struggled to his

feet,

and he stood naked above them; the blanket 2 fallen away, and his

skinny old chest heaved with the passion of his anger. "In that

moment, I, Ras Golam, will go down to drive the enemy back across the

desert and into the sea from which they came.

Every man who calls himself a warrior and an Harari will go down with

me-" and his voice was lost in the shrill loolooing of his officers,

and the Ras laughed, with the high ringing laugh close to madness.

One of his officers handed him a mug of the fiery tei and the Ras

poured it down his throat in a single draught, then hurled the mug upon

the fire.

Gregorius leapt to his feet and laid a restraining hand upon the skinny

old arm.

"Grandfather." The Ras swung to him, the bloodshot rheumy eyes burning

with a fierce new light.

"If you have woman's words to say to me, then swallow them and let them

choke the breath in your lungs, and turn to poison in your belly. "The

Ras glared at his grandson, and suddenly Gregorius understood.

He understood what the Ras was about to do. He was a man old and wise

enough to know that his world was passing, that the enemy was too

strong, that God had turned his back upon Ethiopia, that no matter how

brave the heart and how fierce the battle in the end there was defeat

and dishonour and slavery.

The Ras was choosing the other way the only other way.

The flash of understanding passed between the youth and the ancient,

and the Ras's eyes softened and he leaned towards Gregorius.

"But if the fire is in your belly also, if you will charge beside me

when the drums fall silent then kneel for my blessing." Suddenly

Gregorius felt all care and restraint fall away, and his heart soared

up like an eagle, borne aloft by the ancient atavistic joy of the

warrior.

He fell on one knee before the Ras.

"Give me your blessing, grandfather," he cried, and the Ras placed both

hands upon his bowed head and mumbled the biblical words.

A warm soft drop fell upon Gregorius's neck, and he looked up

startled.

The tears were running down the dark wrinkled cheeks, and dripping

unashamedly from the Ras's chin. Vicky Camberwell lay face down upon

the filthy earthen floor of one of the deserted tukuk on the outskirts

of the burning town. The floor swarmed with legions of lice, and they

crawled softly over her skin, and their bites set up a burning

irritation.

Her hands were bound behind her back with strips of rawhide rope,

and her ankles were bound the same way.

Outside, she could hear the rustle and crackle of the burning town,

with an occasional louder crash as a roof collapsed. There were also

the shouts and wild laughter of the Gallas, drunk on blood and te,

and the chilling sound of the few Harari captives who had been saved

from the initial massacre to provide entertainment during the long wait

before Ras Kullah arrived in the captured town.

Vicky did not know how long she had lain. Her hands and feet were

without feeling, for the rawhide ropes were tightly knotted. Her ribs

ached from the blow that had felled her, and the icy cold of the

mountain night had permeated her whole body so that the marrow in her

bones ached with it, and fits of shivering racked her as though she

were in fever. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably and her lips were

blue and tight, but she could not move. Any attempt to alter her

position or relieve her cramped limbs was immediately greeted with a

blow or a kick from the guards who stood over her.

At last her mind blacked out, not into sleep, for she could still dimly

hear the din from around the hut, but into a kind of coma in which

sense of time was lost, and the acute discomfort of the cold and her

bonds receded.

Hours must have passed in this stupor of exhaustion and cold, when she

was roused by another kick in her stomach and she gasped and sobbed

with the fresh pain of it.

She was aware immediately of a change in the volume of sound outside

the hut. There were many hundreds of voices raised in an excited roar,

like that of a crowd at a circus.

Her guards dragged her roughly to her feet, and one of them stooped to

cut the rawhide that bound her ankles, and then straightened to do the

same to those at her wrists. Vicky sobbed at the bright agony of blood

flowing back into her feet and hands.

Her legs collapsed under her and she would have fallen, but rough hands

held her and dragged her forward on her knees towards the low entrance

of the hut. Outside, there was a dense pack of bodies that filled the

narrow street.

Dark menacing figures that pressed forward eagerly as she appeared in

the entrance of the hut, and a blood-crazed roar went up from the

crowd.

Her guards dragged her forward along the street, and the crowd swarmed

forward, keeping pace with her, and the roar of their voices was like

the sound of a winter storm.

Hands clutched at her, and her guards beat them away laughingly,

and hustled her onwards with her paralysed legs flopping weakly under