The Promise of Pain Page 7

  “You’re sure you don’t want me to light the lamp before I go?” he asked.

  Ibrahim gave a smile. “Best not. One stray spark and we’ll both be blown to pieces before it does any good. I can manage—and if not, the men will kill me almost as fast as the powder.”

  Thomas stood for a moment, wanting to say or do something but failing to know what.

  Perhaps Ibrahim saw the uncertainty in him because he laughed. “Go, do what you must. And once again, my thanks.” He glanced at the clear sky, the sun bringing a warmth to the afternoon. “Better I die this way than being eaten alive hour by hour. Now go, Thomas Berrington. Go and do some good.”

  Chapter Ten

  The two men didn’t hear Thomas coming.

  He had taken a wide circle around the hillside and now crouched behind them, close enough to overhear their conversation. They were watching Jorge ride away down the hillside on their companion’s horse but made no effort to pursue him, which confirmed they were waiting for others to arrive.

  “There’ll be nobody left to kill if they don’t come soon,” said one.

  “We know which way they’re going. We can kill them later if he wants us to.”

  Thomas half expected the man he had questioned and released to be with these two but there was no sign of him. If he had any sense, he would make his way home to his family and take them far from these lands.

  Thomas stood and shook his arms to loosen the muscles. He carried no weapons, but had no need of them. The idea of defeat barely even occurred to him as he stepped out into clear view.

  “Perhaps you would like to kill me instead.”

  One of the men turned so fast he almost unseated himself. The other, a better soldier, reacted more slowly, turning his horse so he was side on to Thomas. His hand went to a scabbard strapped to the saddle and drew a sword from it. Thomas knew he would have to disable him first, so stepped closer.

  The man smiled. All he saw was an unarmed opponent, one too stupid to run.

  “You are no hostage, are you,” Thomas said, making the man frown. “I see it in your eyes. You enjoy this work. Which is all the better for my conscience.”

  The other soldier had finally prepared himself to fight, but Thomas ignored him. He stepped closer again, leaning to one side as the first man swung his sword. It came close, but Thomas’s mind had become a thing of utter calm, the world glittering in sharp relief. He grabbed the reins of the horse and jerked them hard. The horse pulled away and he jerked again, pulling its head around and it staggered, losing balance. The soldier tried another swing but he, too, was now unbalanced, and when Thomas gripped his wrist he tumbled from the saddle. His head met a rock and bounced. He lay still. Thomas was disappointed. The fight had been far too easy.

  He leaned down and took the sword from the man’s fingers, which curled over and over into the dry ground, then he pivoted as the second soldier finally launched his attack. Thomas’s sword slid through his tunic and emerged from his back. It wasn’t a killing blow, but it hadn’t been meant as such. Thomas had a use for both of them yet.

  Without haste he searched the saddle bags of the first horse until he found what he knew must be there. He uncoiled a length of hemp rope and looped it around the injured man’s waist, then drew his horse to where jumbled rocks allowed him to achieve what he wanted. He lifted the dead man onto his shoulder, lighter than he expected, which made what he needed to do easier.

  Thomas climbed awkwardly over the rocks until he had enough height, then dropped his burden so the man sat facing the other, who clutched at his side where blood flowed from his wound. Thomas wrapped the rope around them both, drawing their bodies tight until they resembled lovers. It was a deliberate display, a shaming of them, and he saw distaste show in the injured man’s face and ignored it. The man would be dead inside an hour, but not before he had delivered Thomas’s message.

  When he was done, Thomas mounted the dead man’s horse and led the other and its occupants down to the village square. He tied the reins of the horse holding the two men to a post and left them there. Ibrahim watched proceedings from his chair, a wide-brimmed hat shading his face from the sun. He said nothing, but a smile played on his lips.

  As Thomas rode away he heard the one he had struck through ask for help, for mercy. No doubt he would have seen the barrels, the dark lines of powder running from them to Ibrahim’s feet, and guessed their purpose.

  Thomas rode to the peak where the pair had been waiting and stared out into the far valley, looking for the men he knew would come. He didn’t have to wait long, which told him two things—the other men hadn’t been far away, and they had come fast in response to the resistance that had been shown.

  There was a score of them, which told him a third thing. They came with intent. With more than enough men to take care of half a dozen enemies if necessary. Thomas smiled at an image of himself, Jorge, Olaf and Usaden facing these twenty. He hadn’t thought of the mercenary Usaden in a long time, but missed him now. A member of the feared Gomeres, the man was a dervish in battle and would have relished this moment. A dervish also when he trained Thomas’s son, Will, but soft when they sat and talked about the world.

  Thomas didn’t need the help of others today. There would be no fighting, only death. He encouraged his horse to the peak of the ridge, better to display himself, riding backward and forward until he was sure the men had seen him, then turned and made his way to the village. He stopped beyond the outer ring of houses, laid out deliberately to offer some small show of resistance, made weak by the open roadway that led between two of them.

  Thomas was hungry and thirsty. He considered looking for food and water but decided against. Depending on how fast the men came he wanted them to see him here, so he stayed in the saddle, sword in hand, as if he intended to fight them all. He wished he had thought to ask Ibrahim if he had another hat he could use, for the sun was hot against his head. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long.

  They came over the ridge in double file, their horses picking their way among rocks. Even at a distance it was clear these were hardened men, used to fighting, used to winning. Thomas scanned their number but saw no obvious leader. He was disappointed. Somehow, he had expected a leader. He had wanted a leader. Someone to make an example of. Perhaps next time, when news travelled of what had happened in this village, soon not to be a village. Thomas was sure at least some of the houses would remain standing, but people wouldn’t want to return after what was about to take place here.

  When the men came within three hundred paces of him Thomas jerked the horse’s reins and rode unhurriedly between the houses.

  He pulled up in front of Ibrahim and dismounted, knelt beside him.

  “Last chance, old man.”

  Ibrahim grinned, showing more gum than teeth. “Last chance to do some good.” He laughed. “You know, I’m looking forward to this. One last throw of the dice. How many do you think I can kill?”

  “Two, at least.” Thomas nodded toward the men tied to the horse, pleased when Ibrahim laughed again. He wondered if the show of good humour was bravado, but didn’t think so. Given the choice, he would have wanted to do the same as Ibrahim. He stood, then leaned down and lifted the man’s hat, kissed his brow and replaced the hat carefully. “How many virgins will there be for you in heaven?” he asked.

  “Oh, I pray there will be least one more than I can cope with.”

  Thomas mounted the captured horse and rode away without looking back. He had reached the river when he heard the roar of an explosion, a cacophony of rocks and falling masonry. He rode on, urging the horse to the side where trees would hide them both. He dismounted and left the horse tugging at a patch of sweet grass, then made his way back to where he had a view of the track leading down from the village. It took some time, but eventually a group of men rode around the outside of the houses and picked their way down the hillside. They came slowly, looking for another ambush. There was a dozen of them now. More than Thoma
s had expected, and he was disappointed, though several showed injuries, faces bloodied from flying masonry. There were too many to confront so he drifted back through the trees and re-mounted the stolen horse. He rode to the west until he was sure he was far enough from those attempting to track him, then turned south and picked his way down rough hillsides. Jamila had told him where the town of Pampaneira lay and he was sure he could find it.

  As Thomas approached the town late afternoon was softening the air. The bulky shoulder of the Sholayr cast long shadows that highlighted the convolutions of the land. Pampaneira was the lowest of three towns which clung to the slopes of the mountain, and as he rode through the first two, children, women and old men turned to watch his passage. He noted the lack of any young men, a pattern that was becoming familiar, but when he reached Pampaneira the situation changed. He passed lean old men working narrow terraces that dropped like the steps of a staircase down the hillside, most barely wide enough for a man to stand on, each perfectly tended. As he rode into the steep cobbled streets younger men of fighting age leaned against walls to watch him pass, their faces expressionless.

  He found an inn set at a corner of the town square and dismounted. A youth came running to take his horse, and Thomas placed a small coin in his hand. He watched the youth lead the horse away. He was younger than Aban, but not by much. Something was different here, and he wanted to know what.

  Jamila had arranged accommodation for them in a relative’s house and Jorge dispatched to the town square to wait for Thomas and lead him along near-precipitous streets to it.

  “Where are the other villagers?” Thomas asked, as he sat on a bed that looked too narrow to accommodate them both.

  “Some left as we came south.” Jorge stood with his head angled to avoid hitting the low ceiling. “They have relatives in other towns, distant in some cases, who they hope will take them in. Others have family here, or in one of the other two towns higher on the slope. It is only the five of us in this house at the moment.”

  “And the men on the street? I take it you noticed them.” Thomas rubbed his feet. They ached from wearing boots all day, and there was a deep throb at the base of his spine from the riding.

  “I asked Jamila, but she said she would tell us when we were both here”

  Thomas rose and went to where a small bowl waited, a jug of cold water beside it.

  “Where is Aban going to sleep? Does he have relatives here too?”

  “He wanted to sleep in the room with his mother but she told him he’d have to come in here with us.”

  Thomas looked around. “Where, exactly?”

  “There were only the two rooms free, so yes, in here. Someone is meant to be bringing a cot, though where they will put it is a mystery.”

  “Perhaps they can lean it against the wall and Aban can sleep standing up.”

  “More than likely.” Now Thomas was standing, Jorge sat on the bed and stretched his long legs out, instantly at home, instantly relaxed. “What happened back there?”

  “You know what happened. Didn’t you hear it?”

  “We heard nothing. Ibrahim is a brave man.”

  “Was a brave man,” Thomas said.

  “How many?”

  “Eight or ten. Another dozen followed me, but I lost them.”

  “You didn’t try to fight?”

  “I must be gaining sense as I grow older. That, or I’m simply too old.”

  “Do you think Ibrahim will have considered his sacrifice worthwhile for the death of eight men?”

  Thomas suppressed a spark of irritation. “He knew he was dying and was happy at the end. Almost like he was going to a party.”

  “His own funeral, more like.”

  “I should have dragged him with me, put him through unspeakable pain so he could die here, away from the place he has lived his entire life?” Thomas stared at Jorge. “Should I have done that?”

  Jorge glanced away. “I’m not saying that. It’s just … it seems callous to make use of him as you did.”

  “It was his idea.”

  “You could have persuaded him otherwise.”

  “What is it you want of me? It was you came to find me, and all you’ve done since is criticize. You ought to go back to Gharnatah and leave me in peace.” Thomas turned and left the room, afraid he might hit Jorge if he stayed. On the stairs he met a man struggling with a cot and had to return the way he had come, but was determined to offer no assistance. Instead he stood aside as the man attempted to manoeuvre the cot, for all its narrowness, through the door.

  Before he could move past the man, another door opened, this one behind him, and Jamila said, “What are you doing standing here? Are you too shy to knock?”

  Thomas didn’t bother turning around. He started to push past the man, who continued to find it impossible to get the cot through the door. No doubt Jorge was trying to help, which would only contribute to the problem. Thomas reached the head of the stairs before Jamila caught up with him and grasped his wrist.

  “We need to talk.”

  “About what?” Thomas knew he could pull away if he wanted but offered only a token resistance.

  “You will have seen the men, I am sure. You are not stupid.”

  “Ask Jorge’s opinion on that.”

  Jamila frowned, shook her head. “Have you two had a falling out?” She smiled. “Perhaps we can re-arrange our accommodation. Dana is much taken with you.”

  “Dana is barely a woman, and already with child.”

  Jamila laughed. “I am only teasing. You are so easy to tease, Thomas Berrington, that I cannot resist. I know Dana is too young for you.” She released his wrist, but her fingers lingered against the back of his hand. Dana might be too young for him, but she was making it clear she was not. Then her expression changed, became serious. “Did Ibrahim suffer?”

  “He died instantly. As did eight other men.”

  Jamila offered a sharp nod. “Not enough, but it is good all the same. And so are you for helping him. We will remember him in our prayers tonight.” Jamila’s hand lifted and touched his chest, lay there. “There is something I need to show you. Only you and me. You can tell Jorge later if you want, but for now it must be only you.”

  Jamila removed her hand and eased past him to descend the stairs. Thomas watched her go, the stirrings of emotions he hadn’t felt in months coiling sinuous threads through his body and, even worse, his mind.

  Chapter Eleven

  In one corner of the town square stood a substantial mosque, its doors open to admit men for evening prayer. Thomas noticed that many of those he had observed as he entered the town were not making their way to worship Allah, but remained where they were, watching everyone else. As Jamila led them past one such group the men called out to her coarsely, and one of them came close enough to grab her arm and tug her hard towards him.

  Thomas moved fast and hit the man on the side of the head, and he staggered back with a cry. Thomas turned to the man’s companions, expecting retaliation, but instead they only laughed at their friend’s discomfort, calling him a fool and a poor fighter for not seeing the blow coming.

  “Are you all right?” Thomas took Jamila’s wrist, drew her sleeve up to reveal a red weal where the man had gripped her. It would bruise soon.

  “I am used to such treatment when I come here. Do not concern yourself, but my thanks. It is some time since a man has come to my rescue. It felt good.”

  Thomas realised he had made a mistake, but it was too late to take his actions back—and besides, he would never have allowed harm to come to her, whatever price he might have to pay.

  “What is it you want to show me?”

  “Some of it you have just seen,” said Jamila. “The men. Men of fighting age. This is the only town I know where they are allowed to remain in their homes.”

  “It wasn’t always so, was it?” Thomas said. “The man I questioned told me he came from Pampaneira and was taken by force. What changed to make the raids
stop here but nowhere else?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  As they moved into a roadway that led steeply downhill Thomas halted for a moment and looked back into the square. Perhaps two score of men stood in small groups or sat outside eating places. Alcohol was being consumed, as well as hashish smoked, its scent sweet in the air.

  “How many are here?”

  Jamila halted and turned to him, stood close. “About double what you see. Less than a hundred in total. They like to gather in the evenings and threaten people. Women mostly, as you saw.”

  “Are they local men?”

  Jamila shook her head. “The ones acting this way are soldiers. The local men are left alone. They work their fields and keep quiet. It’s been known for the soldiers to attack them for no reason other than a love of mischief and inflicting pain.”

  Thomas turned away and they started down the slope again. It was precipitous, his feet pinching into the toes of his boots as they descended.

  “Why did you being us here if Pampaneira is a base for the forces that take men from the towns and villages?”

  Jamila gave a small laugh. “No, their headquarters lie elsewhere, not here. This is where they bring the women and children of the men they take. This is where they are held as hostages to their menfolk’s good behaviour.”

  “Is that why the men are here, as gaolers? A hundred seems a lot in a town this size, but it’s not enough of a force to stop an invading army. Are they here to stop people leaving?”

  “The women and children are, I told you,” said Jamila.

  “Why here?”

  “There are a few small villages like mine north of Pampaneira, a few others even smaller. Isolated farmhouses. Isolated people. It would be impossible to place soldiers in every single one of them, which is why they bring the women and children here.”

  “But they left you in your village.”