on a pin.
"Fine sentiments are all very well. But we Lowlives tend to think that actions speak louder than words! I want proof of your born-again righteousness. No weaseling, no horse trading, no quid pro quo power brokering between you traditionalists and me. Do you understand me, Earthshaker?"
"I understand, High King."
Aiken smiled. His coercion softened. "Then we'll get down to serious business. Where have you hidden the rest of those aircraft?"
CHAPTER FOUR
Gasping for breath, halting every fifty paces or so to rest his swollen ankle and thudding heart, Brother Anatoly Gorchakov O.F.M. made his way up the fogbound mountain.
What a pity that the bandits had taken his chaliko! Chalikos never lost their way, no matter how dark the night or exiguous the trail. With a mount he would have reached the lodge four or five hours ago. He'd be dry, warm, and fed, perhaps even beginning to lay the groundwork for the mission. But the chaliko, a handsome animal that had been the gift of Lomnovel of Sayzorask, had proved an irresistible temptation to the four footpads back on the Great South Road. Anatoly's reasoned plea that he needed the mount in order to carry on the Lord's work was greeted with merry laughter-and four vitredur lances prickling at his neck.
"Blessed are the poor," said the bandit chieftain with a sententious grin. "We're just helping to keep you holy, padre.
Now hit the dirt."
Anatoly sighed and slid out of the high saddle. Thirty years as a circuit rider in Pliocene Europe had made him sensitive to the more obscure manifestations of the divine will. If he had to travel the last 50 kilometres of his journey on foot, then fiat voluntas tua. On the other hand ...
"You'll never sell the beast, you know," he said. "White chalikos are a reserved breed. You even try to ride him into a town, the first grey-torc patrol you meet will tie your guts into a bowknot."
"Cutch!" exclaimed a younger bandit who was missing two front teeth.
Thinking he was being reviled with some ethnic obscenity, Brother Anatoly snapped, "Watch your mouth, pizdosos."
The leader of the gang was all affability. "No, no, padre!
Cutch.
Catechutannic acid, a dye you make from the bark of spine-bushes. A swab-down with that'll turn this nag from Exalted white to wild-chaliko brown slick as a whistle. By the time we get him down to the Amalizan auction, his claws'll be roughed up and the saddle marks blurred. And so he doesn't act too tame for the stock inspector, we'll put a little ginger up him at the last."
The gap-toothed ruffian giggled and explained this last stratagem in disgusting detail while the others rifled Anatoly's baggage. They decided to let him keep the woollen habit and sandals he was wearing, a pouch with hardtack and dry salami, his small spare waterskin, and finally-after the friar's sternest rebuke-the quartz-halogen lantern. This last was grudgingly conceded when Anatoly told them that he was bound for the Montagne Noire wilderness, where the high humidity made it impossible to keep a night fire going and some source of light was needed to ward off prowling man-eaters. In a final magnanimous gesture, the bandit chief cut Anatoly a sturdy hiking staff.
Thus minimally equipped, the friar continued on his way.
For the better part of three days he travelled through dense rain forest along a boisterous little river. The only hostile wildlife he encountered was a patriarchal sable antelope, which fortunately stood its ground on the opposite bank of the river. With increasing altitude, the jungle merged into conifer forest and then opened onto long vistas of moorland split by rocky ridges.
Anatoly saw herds of ibex with massive horns like scimitars, and sometimes he was followed by curious little chamois as he toiled up the steepening trail.
When Black Crag itself finally came into view, jutting stark among spruce-clad mountains, his heart lifted. There, if God willed, he would fulfil the promise made more than four
"Fine sentiments are all very well. But we Lowlives tend to think that actions speak louder than words! I want proof of your born-again righteousness. No weaseling, no horse trading, no quid pro quo power brokering between you traditionalists and me. Do you understand me, Earthshaker?"
"I understand, High King."
Aiken smiled. His coercion softened. "Then we'll get down to serious business. Where have you hidden the rest of those aircraft?"
CHAPTER FOUR
Gasping for breath, halting every fifty paces or so to rest his swollen ankle and thudding heart, Brother Anatoly Gorchakov O.F.M. made his way up the fogbound mountain.
What a pity that the bandits had taken his chaliko! Chalikos never lost their way, no matter how dark the night or exiguous the trail. With a mount he would have reached the lodge four or five hours ago. He'd be dry, warm, and fed, perhaps even beginning to lay the groundwork for the mission. But the chaliko, a handsome animal that had been the gift of Lomnovel of Sayzorask, had proved an irresistible temptation to the four footpads back on the Great South Road. Anatoly's reasoned plea that he needed the mount in order to carry on the Lord's work was greeted with merry laughter-and four vitredur lances prickling at his neck.
"Blessed are the poor," said the bandit chieftain with a sententious grin. "We're just helping to keep you holy, padre.
Now hit the dirt."
Anatoly sighed and slid out of the high saddle. Thirty years as a circuit rider in Pliocene Europe had made him sensitive to the more obscure manifestations of the divine will. If he had to travel the last 50 kilometres of his journey on foot, then fiat voluntas tua. On the other hand ...
"You'll never sell the beast, you know," he said. "White chalikos are a reserved breed. You even try to ride him into a town, the first grey-torc patrol you meet will tie your guts into a bowknot."
"Cutch!" exclaimed a younger bandit who was missing two front teeth.
Thinking he was being reviled with some ethnic obscenity, Brother Anatoly snapped, "Watch your mouth, pizdosos."
The leader of the gang was all affability. "No, no, padre!
Cutch.
Catechutannic acid, a dye you make from the bark of spine-bushes. A swab-down with that'll turn this nag from Exalted white to wild-chaliko brown slick as a whistle. By the time we get him down to the Amalizan auction, his claws'll be roughed up and the saddle marks blurred. And so he doesn't act too tame for the stock inspector, we'll put a little ginger up him at the last."
The gap-toothed ruffian giggled and explained this last stratagem in disgusting detail while the others rifled Anatoly's baggage. They decided to let him keep the woollen habit and sandals he was wearing, a pouch with hardtack and dry salami, his small spare waterskin, and finally-after the friar's sternest rebuke-the quartz-halogen lantern. This last was grudgingly conceded when Anatoly told them that he was bound for the Montagne Noire wilderness, where the high humidity made it impossible to keep a night fire going and some source of light was needed to ward off prowling man-eaters. In a final magnanimous gesture, the bandit chief cut Anatoly a sturdy hiking staff.
Thus minimally equipped, the friar continued on his way.
For the better part of three days he travelled through dense rain forest along a boisterous little river. The only hostile wildlife he encountered was a patriarchal sable antelope, which fortunately stood its ground on the opposite bank of the river. With increasing altitude, the jungle merged into conifer forest and then opened onto long vistas of moorland split by rocky ridges.
Anatoly saw herds of ibex with massive horns like scimitars, and sometimes he was followed by curious little chamois as he toiled up the steepening trail.
When Black Crag itself finally came into view, jutting stark among spruce-clad mountains, his heart lifted. There, if God willed, he would fulfil the promise made more than four
Similar Books
