The House of the Falcon/Chapter 26
CHAPTER XXVI
AN HOUR AFTER DARK
It was some time before Edith remembered the crumpled paper concealed in her dress. Then she surveyed her surroundings cautiously. She was in the chamber on the first tier of the tower. An Alaman sat apathetically on the wooden steps over the aperture that led below.
The footfalls of the sentry guarding Donovan below reached her ears. The Englishman himself was not visible. Nor was Edith permitted to look down from the opening in the floor. Anxiously she felt for the bit of paper, drawing near to one of the embrasures.
The guard, leaning against his rifle, kept only an indifferent watch upon her as she slipped the paper into a fold of her scarf where she could see it, and smoothed out the wrinkles tenderly. It took some time before this careful maneuver revealed the whole of the missive to the girl. She saw a small square of worn paper closely written in pencil. Eagerly, with hearing attuned for the approach of Monsey or Abbas, she read:
An hour after sunset, try to be at the eastern wall, nearest the cliff. Aravang will make the attempt at the cliff. He is a regular mountain sheep and none of the other Sayaks would dare it. I don't think A. would, for me. But he will for you.
He will bring my revolver. Take it, if he can't make the climb into the Kurgan wall, which is unlikely. Try to reach me with the weapon if you can. If not, use it as you may, and God wills.
Watch out for the sentries on the rampart. Monsey stations two there, I think, as he does not fear an attack from that side. Nothing will keep the Sayaks from a frontal attack, although I have talked my head off trying to make them see the sides to the north and south are more accessible.
If you can't get to me before the attack, don't try. I can look out for myself. Iskander will look for you, perhaps. God watch over you, you blessed woman.
If Aravang is not on time, he'll have fallen.
Darkness came less swiftly to the Kurgan than to the valley of Yakka Arik. Looking from the tower embrasure Edith could see the splendid curtains of sunset drawing about a glowing orb that fired the snow peaks with its life.
The aspect of the mountains, as shadows formed in the ravines and crept up the rock surfaces, reminded the girl of a vast painting—so utterly desolate and so tranquil were these gigantic pinnacles.
It dwarfed her. Since her coming to the valley of the Sayaks, Edith had never felt so insignificant Life itself was a small matter, here, she thought—and what was life if Donovan was lost to her? Donovan, whose love for her was to be read between the lines of his message?
Edith wanted to sit down and wait. She was listless and chilled. Close beside her the Alaman brooded over his rifle, passive as he had been all the day, except to eat once a meal of fermented milk and black bread. The bustle of subdued preparation, hastened in the last light of evening, came to her ears from the courtyard below. She was grateful that this activity had kept Monsey or Abbas from coming to stare at her during the afternoon.
It was with a start that Edith realized Aravang must have begun his climb. The shadowy vapor of the ravine would conceal him and he could still see after a fashion to find his way up the face of the cliff, clinging to the crevices and spurs of the almost sheer rock.
"If Aravang is not on time, he'll have fallen."
The sentence returned to her mind with the force of a blow. Aravang was on his way and she must be prepared to act. She did not know what to do. How was she to reach the rampart over the cliff? Could Aravang, if he survived the climb, gain the interior of the Kurgan? What could a stupid native and a helpless girl manage to do against two such men as Monsey and Abbas and their armed followers?
Edith tried to think. They could not return—if escape from the Kurgan were possible—down the face of the cliff in the dark. Even if it had been possible, she would not leave John Donovan.
Iskander, Donovan had said, might aid her. But Iskander would not gain the interior of the Kurgan, owing to the trap that had been set for the Sayaks. No, Edith could not plan, could not see any way out of the trap. Donovan himself had—so she thought—merely taken a last chance, heedless of himself,—had done his utmost to protect her until the end that would come with the fighting and the revolver.
"He did it for me," she thought.
Edith found that she was unable to realize the truth of the revolver, the Kurgan, and her enemies. The whole thing was fantastic, impossible. It was another evil dream, and she must surely waken. She, Edith Rand, could not be so severed from the reality of that other life of home and Louisville and servants.
Was it possible that two men could have talked as Monsey and Donovan had about her—accepting the inevitability of this other world? Could not her father come to help her, as he had always done?
With this, she understood finally that Arthur Rand could not reach her in time, Monsey's guards would see to it The American and the English cavalry were scouring the hills without knowing the location of Yakka Arik, not realizing that the Sayaks were in a way her friends, nor aware of the events that were shaping about the Kurgan that night.
Edith laughed uncertainly, with a twinge of self-pity.
"Daddy," she murmured, "if you could only know!"
The sentry lifted his head. This movement brought the reality of her situation sharply home to the girl. She heard the steps of the guard below once more. John Donovan had need of her!
At this thought Edith Rand entered into the conflict that was being waged in the old tower of this world that was so new to her. She smiled and her pulse quickened.
Donovan loved her! She would be his wife. What else in her existence was so momentous, so wonderful as this? He was not powerless. He—a trained soldier—had taken the one step that would make it possible for him to fight for her. It was not true that he had been outwitted by Monsey. And Donovan trusted her. He had staked everything on her courage. Well, she would not fail him.
Iskander had said that in this American girl was a weapon of tested steel. And he had judged truly.
Thoughtfully she bound the ends of the shawl about her shoulders, thus leaving her arms free. She faced the Alaman with new intentness. After all, she told herself, the native was a witless ruffian. Edith stepped to the ladder, speaking authoritatively to her guard and drawing upon her small stock of Turki.
"Sa'at," she declared. (It is the time to start.) 'Take me to"—she pondered swiftly—"Abbas Abad. Abbas, effendi."
The man fumbled uneasily with his weapon. He had not expected this, but the white woman seemed to be certain of her purpose. What was he to do? He rose.
She thrust him aside indignantly, with beating heart.
"Kul!" Edith cried. "I must go to Abbas—to Abbas."
The man hesitated. He was little better than a slave. Greatly he dreaded punishment and the anger of the higher beings, his superiors. And the name of Abbas hinted at both these things. It would be well to take her as she asked, lest the soles of his bare feet be beaten.
Watchfully he climbed down the ladder, motioning her to follow.
It was then that the kindred longing of two hearts came near to defeating the girl's new purpose. Seeing Donovan standing, tied fast by the wrists to the table, brought hither apparently for this purpose, Edith gave a low cry and ran to him.
Her arms went around his neck and his lips pressed hers swiftly. Breathing quickly, her cheeks aflame and her eyes soft, the girl looked up at him.
Donovan kissed her again, incredulous of the nearness of this beautiful woman and more than a little dazed. Her hands touched his rough cheek shyly. The sudden knowledge of Edith's love and the brief possession of her lips were a miracle that rendered him voiceless. Then a rifle stock thrust roughly against his chest.
"Edith!" he whispered. "You must not bother about me. Good luck!"
"Stupid!" she laughed.
Her Alaman escorted her vigilantly to the door. Lanterns were already lit in the courtyard. Overhead, the crimson of the sky outlined walls and tower. Within a few paces of her by one of the lights Abbas was distributing cartridges to a group of men.
"W'at you wan'?" he cried angrily. "Nakir el kadr! You go"
Edith walked nearer quietly.
"Monsey sent for me—Monsey."
Abbas glanced at her and shrugged his plump shoulders. He pointed to the entrance to the courtyard beyond which was the darkness of the plain.
"The Excellency, out there." Monsey was bringing the patrols closer to the walls. "A fool. By God, I am no fool. You stay near, yes, near."
He glanced at the darkening sky and turned irritably to his work. There were certain pine torches to be raised high over the walls. In the daylight these flares had been kept carefully lowered behind the ramparts.
Edith watched awhile as slouching Alamans and Tartars received an allotment of cartridges and departed. She drew back a little from the lantern. Abbas, after satisfying himself that she was accompanied by her attendant, did not spare his attention from his task. The girl, he knew, could not escape from the castle.
So Edith attained the first point in her objective, a tumbled pile of stone blocks against the raised walk that ran inside the parapet nearest the cliff. The Alaman stood before her, leaning on his rifle, well content that there had been no beating of his tender feet.
The eastern wall, together with that of the north and south, was more battered by the weather than that facing the plateau. The parapet was broken at intervals. Edith moved her position casually until she was abreast one of these breaks, and perched herself upon the stone walk that had served as a fire step before the days when guns and cartridges had been invented.
Here, she could look out through a gap in the masonry, and glimpsed the dark space that was the ravine. A distant murmur of running water reached her ears. She watched the two sentinels pacing the rampart and understood why Monsey had not posted a stronger guard. This side of the Kurgan was impregnable to attack.
A scant dozen feet of steep incline led to the brink of the cliff. Below was the five-hundred-foot drop to the river. Edith cast an anxious glance at the western horizon. Only a crimson and purple glow was visible. The sun had set some time ago. Across the dark bulk of the cliff facing her a few stars were visible. In the courtyard, the lanterns had gained full strength.
Dark figures passed between her and the lights. Heavy poles bearing a bundle at their ends were being raised into place. Once she saw Monsey, and instinctively shrank closer into her nest of rocks—although he could not now see her in the dark.
She noticed that the two sentries kept to the corners, at quite a distance. The Alaman, however, was very close, watching her. At times she heard the bull voice of Abbas, lowered to a rumble, and wondered if he were seeking her. Without her realizing it, the need of preparation engaged the two leaders, so that they had no time to seek her out, Monsey being unaware that she was not in the tower.
Even the numbers in the Kurgan were not free from the dread that the name of Yakka Arik inspired.
On the cliff edge she heard the sound of a bird fluttering its wings. And then a chirp. Again came the whirr of wings, like that of a falcon rising, and not until then did Edith realize that Aravang had come and was signaling her. She stiffened and glanced up at the bulk of the Alaman. He had not noticed anything out of the usual.
Whereupon Edith drew closer to the gap in the mass of stones. The sound of the bird—imitated from one of Aravang's falcons—had been some yards away. Nothing was visible in the murk under the wall.
"Kul!" she uttered clearly. The guard moved closer to listen. The noise on the cliff quieted at once, but Edith thought she heard a pebble slide from its place.
Unfortunately, the Alaman had heard or guessed at something moving. He elbowed the girl to one side, thrusting his head out into the opening, with his rifle at the "ready."
"Aravang!" called Edith softly, and as she recollected a native phrase: "Kaba-dar!"
The body of the crouching guard was pressed close to her, and she wrinkled her nose at the scent of filthy sheepskins. She thought quickly. Surely the form of the Alaman must be visible to some one without, framed as it was against the afterglow in the west.
So Edith tightened her lips, and pushed suddenly with all the strength of her young arms. Taken unawares, the native, overbalanced, fell forward through the gap. A grunt resounded. He did not fall far.
With strained ears, Edith heard a rifle rattle over the stones. The next instant the legs and scrambling feet of the guard disappeared as though drawn downward. A cough sounded, then the rustle of a heavy body following the rifle. Then silence.
The slight noises had resounded like miniature explosions. But apparently the two sentries still kept their posts. The bustle in the court and the stamping of hordes drowned the struggle outside the wall.
"My goodness!" Edith realized what had happened. "Oh, the poor man"
She shivered as the powerful figure of Aravang crawled up beside her, climbing over the débris of rocks without. She caught the pungent scent of sweat-soaked wool.
"Missy khanum!" Aravang thrust a cold metal object into her hand, fumbling for it in the dark. His own paw was damp.
Edith pushed the revolver back, wishing ardently that she could speak so that Aravang would understand. On thinking the matter over, she realized that it would be safe for her servant to enter the Kurgan. No one there knew Aravang, and as far as appearance went he was much like the motley men of Monsey's forces.
"Come," she whispered, laying hand on his shoulder. The man was breathing hard, his giant shoulders tensed, like a swimmer after a long battle with the waves. It had been no mean feat to climb the cliff of Yakka Arik.
"Dono-van Khan," he growled beseechingly, and again: "Dono-van Khan."
"Yes, Aravang," she whispered reassuringly, as she would to a child.