While the flames were still licking at the wood of Jifaar’s house, Ian was roughly pushed forward by a warrior who pointed up the hill. “Come on, mate,” urged Carl nervously. “Let’s do as he says.”
Curling his bound hands into fists, Ian walked grudgingly forward when the rope around his middle was pulled taught by Thatcher, going along behind his brother and the professor, and together they trudged up the hill after the Jichmach.
They marched for several hours, and as the sun rose and beat down on them, the ropes bit into Ian’s hands and the hilly terrain made his legs ache. Before midmorning, the professor sank to his knees, gasping for breath. “I can’t go on,” he moaned. “I just can’t.”
Najib angrily reined in his horse. “Levez-vous!” he demanded, and Ian watched helplessly as Perry bent next to the old man, desperately trying to coax the professor to his feet.
The professor stood shakily but sank once again, and Carl shouted angrily at Najib, “He can’t do it! He’s an old man! Can’t you see he can’t walk for hours like this?”
Najib moved his horse over to Carl and slowly extracted his sword, then raised it above Carl’s head as if to strike him down. Theo screamed and Ian grabbed the line he and Carl were tethered to and yanked on it hard, pulling his friend out of the way just as Najib swung his sword. Ian then jumped in front of Carl, his face contorted in rage. “Leave him be, you despicable brute!” he shouted at Najib.
Najib’s eyes widened with surprise as he looked down at Ian. In the background Ian heard Theo becoming hysterical, and he let his eyes dart over to her as she slapped the man who held her captive before she boldly launched herself off the horse and came running as fast as she could to Ian and Carl.
Ian’s temper sobered quickly as he watched her get down on her knees in front of Najib and beg for his mercy. For a moment Ian was convinced that both he and Carl were about to be hacked to pieces, but as his heart hammered, he saw something remarkable reflected in the warrior’s eyes.
After a moment, Najib scowled, spat into the dirt, then turned his head to regard the nervous-looking rider who had let Theo get away. He shouted something in Arabic and the warrior dismounted quickly and came over to them. He pulled a knife out of his belt and sliced the rope tethering the professor to the rest of them and the rope tying the old man’s hands, and then Najib’s man pointed to the riderless horse. The professor nodded and managed, after one more failed attempt, to get to his feet again and hobble over to the horse, where he waited for the warrior to push him roughly up into the saddle before he got up behind him.
Najib turned his attention back to Ian and—pointing his sword at both him and Carl—said something guttural. Then, with a wave of his hand, he shouted to his troop and they began to move again.
They marched on wearily, and the pain in Ian’s legs and feet soon became almost too uncomfortable to bear. He was the only one who hadn’t had a chance to put his shoes on when they’d run for the boat, so his bare feet were crisscrossed with cuts and scratches from the scrub they’d hiked across. His hands had grown numb, and the rope around his middle wouldn’t stop tearing at his skin. Looking down, he noticed spots of blood seeping through his shirt where the rope had rubbed his skin raw. Theo, untied from the rest of the group, had been walking close to him, and she began speaking to him. Ian realized quickly that she was trying her hardest to keep his mind off his discomfort.
“I wonder what happened to Jaaved,” she said.
“Maybe he’s gone for help?” Carl said wistfully.
“Yeah, for his grandfather, but not for the likes of us,” said Ian, his aching body making him grouse.
He heard Carl sigh. “You’re probably right. The Jstor won’t care about coming after us, especially once we’re off their land.”
“I wonder how long it will take us to make it out of Jstor territory,” said Theo.
“Who knows?” said Ian. “We could have already crossed the border and not known it.”
Theo looked ahead at Najib. “I don’t think so, Ian. Do you see how he keeps looking over his shoulder? I’ll bet we’re still in Jstor territory. It’s when he stops looking behind us that we’ll need to worry.”
“What do you think they’ll do with us?” asked Carl, but Ian closed his mind to the question. He knew that whatever the Jichmach decided to do with them, it wouldn’t be good.
Toward midday the exhausted group was allowed to rest and have a small sip of water. The professor’s face was flushed with heat and lined with worry. “They mean to sell us,” he announced.
As hot as Ian was, his veins turned icy cold with fear.
“Sell us?” gasped Perry. “What do you mean, exactly?”
“There are still parts of the world where slavery is a common practice,” said the professor. “And Morocco has a rather sordid reputation as being a center where one can acquire slave labor.”
“But we’re subjects of His Majesty the King of England!” Perry protested, then quickly lowered his voice. “We’re protected by that sovereignty in these lands!” he said, and Ian prayed he was right.
But when he looked at the professor, he was disappointed. The old man sighed heavily and said, “I’m afraid that’s of little consequence, Master Goodwyn. The Crown has very little proof of what happens to its subjects over here in Morocco. People disappear all the time and are never heard from again. There are no ransom notes, no letters to family. … It’s as if they’re simply swallowed whole by the desert. Without a trace of them, the British authorities have little recourse with the Moroccan government.”
“I don’t want to be a slave!” wailed Carl. “I want to go home!”
Theo moved over to Carl and wrapped her arm about his shoulders. “There, there, Carl,” she said. “We’ll find a way out of this.” But the look Ian saw the professor exchange with Perry told him there was little chance of that.
After only a short rest, Ian and the others were forced to their feet again, and once the professor was loaded back onto the horse, they were ordered to march. Theo took her place beside Ian and he caught her watching him worriedly as he grimaced with every step. She turned to look at his hands behind his back and she gasped. “Ian!” she said. “Your wrists are bleeding!”
Before Ian could respond, Theo hurried away, up the line to Najib. Ian stretched to look and could see her ahead, trotting along beside the warrior, speaking to him and pointing to her wrists. Najib ignored her for the longest time, but she kept it up until finally he growled at her, then swiveled in his saddle and barked an order at one of his men. When the procession came to a stop, the warrior hopped off his horse, pulled out a sharp knife, and sliced through their ropes one by one.
As the warrior worked, Ian saw Najib look darkly at the professor before saying something to him in French, then noticed Thatcher blanch. “What’d he say?” Ian asked, suddenly much more nervous than he was before.
But Thatcher didn’t answer, so Ian asked again. “Schoolmaster? Please tell us.”
Thatcher met Ian’s eyes and he leaned in close to whisper into his ear so that Theo couldn’t overhear. “He’s just told Professor Nutley that if any of us tries to escape, he’ll kill the children first, starting with the girl.”
Ian nearly sank to his knees. He was absolutely certain the fierce warrior meant what he said.
“Children,” the professor was saying in a forced, calm voice, “our host has requested that we not try to escape. Please obey his orders as a personal favor to me, all right?”
“We understand, Professor,” said Ian solemnly, pulling his aching arms in front of him. “We’ll be good.”
Once his group was free of their bonds, they made better headway, keeping up with the men on horseback, but Najib pushed them to the brink of exhaustion, and they walked at a brisk pace for the rest of the day and well after dusk. Theo’s legs began to give out as the sun started to set, and Ian tried to carry her piggyback for a time until he began to stumble. Finally, one of the warriors came
over and held out his hand to Theo, barking an order at Ian.
Ian gripped Theo more tightly and shook his head, but she whispered tiredly in his ear, “It’s all right, Ian. Let me ride on the horse.” Reluctantly, he gave her to the warrior and was just the smallest bit grateful that the man placed Theo rather gently in the saddle in front of him.
Finally, when the moon began to make its ascent, and it was too dangerous to push the horses over the rocky terrain, Najib held up his hand, halting the march. Ian slumped to the ground with relief and Carl collapsed right next to him. “I never want to move again!” Carl said, wheezing.
Thatcher and Perry came over and plopped down beside them, and they were soon joined by the professor and Theo. “Ian, your feet!” she gasped as she sat next to him.
Ian looked down; his feet were two large swollen lumps with toes that were raw and bleeding. “They went numb a while ago,” he said. “I haven’t felt them in hours.”
Thatcher scooted over to take a closer look. “They look bad, lad,” he said gravely.
“There’s not much for it, though, is there?” said Ian, knowing that the warriors behind them would have little sympathy.
Thatcher quickly unlaced his shoes and pulled off his socks. Handing them to Ian, he said, “Put these on. They might not be much, but it’s better than nothing.”
Perry also began yanking off his shoes. “Good idea, Thatcher,” he said, shedding his own socks. “Here you go, lad.”
And very soon thereafter, Ian had everyone’s socks save Theo’s, which were far too small to fit his feet. Ian’s heart filled with gratitude, especially when he noticed that Carl’s own feet were raw with blisters. “No thanks, mate,” Ian said to him as he tried to hand Ian his socks. “I expect I have enough here to get me through.”
“You sure?” Carl asked, and Ian felt his heart swell even more.
“I’m sure,” he said, and nudged Carl with his shoulder.
To take his mind off his miserably sore feet, he watched the Jichmach warriors set up camp. A portable village emerged like magic out of the bleak terrain. A dozen large white tents were opened up with relative ease, and in the center was the largest tent of all: Najib’s. The Jichmach leader did little of the manual labor; he just barked orders at his men and slapped a few who weren’t moving as quickly as he liked.
Soon several fires were lit, and Ian was relieved to see that one was even lit for them. The tribesmen cooked tea and ate smoked meat with some bread. The prisoners were given cups of water and some moldy cheese along with blankets—exactly like the ones they’d been given by Jifaar. Ian was struck by the resemblance and his heart sank. “I hope he’s all right,” he whispered.
“Who?” Theo asked.
“Jaaved’s grandfather,” he said as he wrapped himself in the blanket. “I really liked him.”
Theo looked at him seriously and reached up to touch the crystal at her neck, hidden under her blouse. The Jichmach had taken everything else from them—their backpacks, Carl’s sword, Ian’s compass and pocket torch, and the rest of the professor’s money—but somehow they’d avoided searching or taking anything from Theo and she still held on to her crystal and the blue bracelet Jifaar had given her. “I hope so too, Ian,” she said, but there was a sad look in her eyes.
Ian dropped the subject and lay back on the cold ground. Wordlessly, he and Theo huddled under their blankets and fell quickly asleep.
The fate of Jifaar was about to be determined by Magus the Black. The sorcerer had come upon the beaten old man just a few hours after the Jichmach had kidnapped the troop from Britain. “Tell me where they’ve been taken, Jifaar,” growled Magus, smoke curling from his nostrils.
Jifaar struggled for breath, clearly in intense pain. “The … Jichmach … have … taken … them south!” He wheezed. “Please … I beg you. …”
But Magus was not in the mood for mercy. He turned away and picked up a chess piece lying in the dirt. Holding it up to inspect it in the moonlight, he said, “These are your finest effort so far, craftsman.”
“Master Magus,” gasped Jifaar, clutching his chest, “please … it burns!”
But Magus ignored him. “When I learned that the children were on their way here, I had hoped to find everyone together, but I suppose I can kill two birds with one stone when I reach the Jichmach.”
“The … pain!” Jifaar moaned, rolling on the ground, writhing in agony.
Magus eyed him and sighed. The sorcerer seemed almost bored. “Well,” he said at last, “I suppose your good work should not go without some sort of acknowledgment.” He waved his hand at the Moroccan. Jifaar died before the echo of his scream had reached the third hill.
Magus then calmly bent and picked up the rest of the chess set, finding all the pieces in perfect condition, if a bit dirty. His beasts, Kerberos and his son, waited patiently by the burned-out wreckage of Jifaar’s hut, but as Magus was dusting off the final pawn, the older male gave a low growl, causing Magus to look up and listen.
In the distance he heard a great many hoofbeats, and he scowled in irritation. “Come!” he ordered the beasts, and they fell into step behind their master as he headed south, away from the ruined home. “There are too many armed men about in these lands. You will keep to the shadows and out of sight until I command otherwise,” he directed. But overall, the sorcerer was feeling rather satisfied. He had recovered the chess set, and he finally had the children cornered.
They had eluded him until now, and their presence in Morocco meant they had also eluded his incompetent sister. He would make sure to tell Demogorgon of Caphiera’s failures. Perhaps his sire would reconsider using her the next time he needed something done, Magus thought bitterly. He was still angry that he’d been forced to compromise with the ice queen. But as he walked, an evil thought occurred to him. And as his idea expanded, Magus began to feel very good.
Soon the children would be dealt with, and the threat to their plans would be eliminated. After that, there was no reason he couldn’t rise above his siblings to the top of his sire’s favor … no reason at all.
A CRY IN THE NIGHT
For Ian and his companions, the next day was worse than the one before. The tribe woke at the first whisper of dawn, and they hurried about taking down the tents and tending to their horses to be under way as quickly as possible. Ian noticed that Najib was still looking back the way they’d come, and sensed that perhaps Theo was right, that they were still on Jstor land. He said a silent prayer then, that Raajhi would be so angry at what they’d done to his father that he’d waste no time setting out to exact his revenge.
He had little time to reflect, however, as after being given another small bit of moldy cheese and a cup of water, they were forced to march again. On this day, Ian felt the sun more than he had before. He could tell from the tightness of the skin on his cheeks that his face was horribly sunburned.
When they stopped near midmorning, he was surprised to discover they were near a watering hole, and the tribesmen allowed their horses to drink long and deep while they filled up their canteens and waterskins.
The prisoners were the last to be permitted to drink, and they hurried to the water’s edge. Ian sank to his knees and drank and drank and drank. He’d never been so thirsty in his life. No one spoke until they had all drunk their fill, and finally, when Ian no longer felt the burning at the back of his throat, he gazed at their surroundings. Nearby he saw a fig tree and he managed to pick several handfuls of the fruits and pass them around to his companions before they were ordered to march again.
To pass the time, Ian focused on the details of their path, because although Najib’s threats chilled him to the core, Ian’s fighting spirit would not allow him to give up the hope of somehow making an attempt to escape.
By the angle of the sun and the cast of his shadow, Ian could tell that they’d been marching due south for the past two days. Much of that time had been spent walking along a worn dirt path that cut through thick scrub and scra
ggly-looking trees. The farther they trekked, the more the path began sloping upward, and in those moments when he looked up to check on Theo, Ian could clearly see why: they were slowly but surely inching their way closer to the Atlas Mountains.
Late in the afternoon, when the slope of the terrain leveled off slightly, their procession came to a stop. Ian lifted his tired head and looked around.
He was startled to discover that ahead of them was a huge valley, beautiful and green and dotted with large outcroppings. At the end of that valley was another slope, which led to the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. Najib pointed to those foothills and said, “Jichmach.”
“Oh, my, Thatcher,” Perry said to his brother. “We are still on Jstor land! Those foothills are the land of the Jichmach.”
“You don’t think he means to march us across this valley tonight, do you?” Thatcher asked.
As if in answer, Najib waved and the procession started again. Dusk came and went, and with it the warmth of the sun.
Not long after, the moon began to rise, offering fairly good lighting. Najib led them on a path that wound around boulders and outcroppings ever deeper into the valley. The Jichmach warrior did not stop, even though the horses were blowing in protest and pawing at the ground. It was clear that Najib wanted to get across the valley as quickly as possible.
They marched on, and much to Ian’s relief, Thatcher glanced back and saw poor Carl stumbling behind while Ian tried to support him. His schoolmaster called to one of the warriors, pointing to Carl and speaking in French. The warrior ignored him for a while, but Thatcher was persistent and eventually the man steered his horse over to Carl, lifted him roughly up, and placed him in the saddle. Ian watched his friend with concern, but Carl’s head bobbed twice and he was fast asleep in his seat.
For the next few hours, Ian and his schoolmasters simply focused on putting one foot in front of the other, and Ian knew he too was reaching his limit. Finally, near midnight, and just as Ian was sure he would not be able to go on, they crested the hill on the other side of the valley and Najib lifted his arm and the procession stopped.