“What is it?” asked Tessa, who looked up from her work. “Did we find something already?” She smiled at her little joke.
Varian sat down beside and put his arm around her. “No, nothing yet. I just wanted to be with you, that’s all.”
She put her head on his shoulder and he smelled the natural perfumes of her hair, felt her tensing against him, against her will. He knew some of the things about her life, which had wounded her so terribly, and he prayed that he would not fail her.
The vehicle bounced and rolled from side to side as it conquered the rugged hillsides. Varian held on to her, saying nothing, knowing that it was not necessary. At that moment, both of them knew, there was only one thing that was really important—that they were together.
Chapter Five
The Citadel did not lie within the Samarkesh Burn.
Stoor spent three methodical weeks crisscrossing the expansive, deadly sand. Thousands of square ems and nothing but the killing heat. The time spent had not been unbearable as one might expect, however. If anything, the group seemed to grow more comfortable with one another.
Varian thought that the utter hostility of the environment may have been an unsensed influence which forced the team to gravitate toward one another. Faced with the bleak, unrelenting cruelty of the Burn, everyone seemed to be seeking out the security that companionship and good cheer can bring.
The evenings were filled with storytelling sessions around an open fire which held the searing chill of the desert night at bay. Stoor was a wellspring of adventures, fables, and morality tales. If one could believe even half of his stories, one would have to believe in a far more interesting world than what actually existed.
“Adventure is where you find it” was one of Stoor’s favorite expressions.
Trite, to be sure. But also quite true if your name was Stoor of Hadaan.
While they were moving eastward, finally leaving the Samarkesh Burn, adventure found them. Sweeping down on horseback from a small range of dunes came a band of Behistarian Raiders. There were perhaps twenty in number and they advanced upon the personnel carrier with no more fear than had it been a sedan chair laden with an old woman. If one must give any credit at all to the Raiders, it must be said then that they are truly fearless.
Although some would call them simply stupid barbarians, we shall give them the benefit of the doubt.
Varian was at the controls at the time and he was motoring along at a crisp eighty kays, creating a welcome breeze within the cab. Tessa was in the passenger seat, dozing, while Stoor and Raim remained in the rear section, sleeping. When Varian saw the Raiders, he called out for Stoor and Raim, who entered the front cab immediately.
Tessa was given control of the vehicle, and the three men prepared their First Age weapons: Varian’s pistol, Stoor’s semi-automatic rifle, and Raim’s clip-loading scope rifle. Although Varian was dreadfully short on ammunition, the old man and his sidekick had spent a lifetime collecting rounds for their weapons and literally carried more ammunition than food on the journey. Stoor had said: “The food won’t do us any good if we don’t have the bullets to keep us alive to eat it.”
How true. . . .
The personnel carrier must have seemed like an easy target to the slope-browed thugs on horseback. It was long and shaped like a trapezoid, its wide treads chewing up the sand, kicking out rooster tails in its wake. There were no obvious armaments, no turrets or barrels, bristling from its sides. It must have looked like a piece of cake.
But it was not.
As soon as the horsemen drew within range of Raim’s scope rifle, he started picking them off. Despite the random pitching of the carrier and the motion of the horsemen, Raim proved to be an excellent marksman, bringing down five riders before they were within range of Stoor’s semi. By that time, however, they had correctly assessed the carrier’s firepower and had fanned out so that they would make more difficult targets. Varian was the last to be able to fire because of the limited accuracy of his sidearm at long distances. By the time he could shoot, you could almost count the nose hairs of the enemy, and there were still seven of them left.
There was a clatter on the roof of the vehicle as one of the riders boarded. Stoor indicated as much and Varian headed for the hatch which opened on top, unsheathing his shortsword in the same motion. The man on top was no match for a student of Furioso, the weapons master of the modern world. Within seconds the bandit’s head had been separated from its shoulders and rolled into the vehicle’s wake. On top, Varian noted the Raiders, too, possessed several weapons but they appeared to be primitive hammerlocks. Probably copies of museum pieces, and therefore unreliable and just as dangerous to the shootist as the intended victim.
The carrier had a blind side—the rear—and it was from that direction that the remaining six Raiders now rode in single file. Their obvious plan was to overtake the vehicle and board en masse hopefully overwhelming Varian. Stoor had by this time joined Varian on the roof and was ripping the air with his semi weapon. The problem with the gun was its small-caliber rounds which seemed to be having trouble penetrating the body armor of the bandits. He inflicted arm wounds on the two lead riders, but that was all. And considering that the Behistars were very tough,
