“Do you think there’s something to this Biyara business after all?” Jebel asked nervously as the Um Biyara sang songs in praise of their great leader.
“No,” Tel Hesani grunted. “I think Qasr Bint is simply a good judge of the weather. I saw him outside his tent this morning, squinting at the sky, testing the wind. Many a would-be prophet has prospered by predicting the ways of the elements.”
Finally the Um Biyara came to the first of the villages where they hoped to make converts. It was a tiny settlement in the foothills of the al-Tawla. The massive Amud was close but hidden from view by lowlying clouds.
The villagers were a thin, scraggy, sullen-looking lot. Their stores had been raided by wolves the week before, and they’d lost much of their winter stock. They were afraid they wouldn’t survive until spring. They gruffly told the Um Biyara not to pitch their tents, to move on fast.
Qasr Bint merely smiled and extended his arms. “We come to lessen your woes, not to add to them,” he said. “Though we have little food, we ask for none of yours and will even share what we have with you—if you’ll listen to us.”
The villagers were impressed by Qasr Bint’s offer of food and hastily changed tack and invited him into their village to discuss matters metaphysical. When Qasr Bint returned, he was beaming. He told his followers to divide their food in three and send one-third to the starving villagers. A second third would be gifted to them later if they converted. The Um Biyara would have to live off what was left.
Nobody complained about the rationing. They were ecstatic to be on the verge of a successful conversion. For two days the Um Biyara mixed with the villagers, telling them of the wonders awaiting purged sinners when they died. The villagers weren’t keen on self-punishment—life was difficult enough—but Qasr Bint said they wouldn’t have to torment themselves as much as the missionaries did.
“We must be exceptionally pure,” he said, “but you do not need to be so hard on yourselves. The occasional whipping… thorns under your fingernails… an odd burn or two… That is all we ask of you.”
The villagers didn’t have much to look forward to. Practically all of them had been forced for varying reasons to leave their homes, to scrape a living in the lawless wilds. The promise of a better life when they died, in the company of the privileged rich, proved attractive. The clincher came when Qasr Bint told them of all the others who would be converting to the cause.
“There will soon be a network of Um Biyara homesteads in this region,” he vowed. “They will share with one another, send food and help where it’s required. You won’t be alone. You’ll have companions and friends to rely upon.”
In the belief that their lives were to improve markedly, the villagers converted. There was a shaving ceremony, where all were scraped bare, and much singing and feasting—the villagers were free with their food now, since they assumed there would be more pouring into their storehouses shortly.
Tel Hesani could see what would actually come to pass. The villagers had been won over with promises that couldn’t be kept. No new friends would come. In a few weeks they’d run out of food. Starving and weak from flogging themselves, it wasn’t likely that they’d make it through the winter blizzards. He felt sorry for the gullible unfortunates, but there was nothing he could do except offer up a prayer for their doomed spirits.
The next day, after a good night’s sleep, the Um Biyara broke camp and waved farewell to the new converts. Two of the missionaries stayed behind to ensure the villagers didn’t stray from the true path. If he was a betting man, Tel Hesani would have gambled heavily on both being ripped to pieces before the end of the winter, when the villagers realized they’d been sold a dream that was, in reality, a nightmare.
“I guess that wasn’t so bad,” Jebel said as they worked their way northwest. “I expected the Um Biyara to go at them much harder than that, with whips and hot irons. All they did was preach and make wild promises. The villagers didn’t have to convert. They’ve only themselves to blame if it goes wrong.”
“Yes,” Tel Hesani snorted. “But they were broken long before we came. They were desperate and didn’t take much persuading. I doubt things will go so smoothly when we run into a group less eager to convert.”
“You think there will be bloodshed?” Jebel asked.
“No.” Tel Hesani made a grim choking noise. “I think there will be horror.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A couple of days later they marched into another small village and again converted successfully, this time in a matter of hours—the villagers were close to starving and quick to clutch at a portion of the Um Biyara’s food.
The zealots were nearing the last of their supplies, but none of the Um Biyara seemed concerned. Jebel wondered what would happen when they ran out of food, trapped in the middle of nowhere, storms raging around them. Would they surrender to the elements and die, or kill themselves first?
When the time came for the question to be answered, he found out they had something far more shocking in mind.
It had been a hard day’s march, battling wind and snow. They had to push hard to progress, fighting their way forward with slow, stubborn determination.
Two of the weaker Um Biyara fell that morning and couldn’t rise. But unlike those who had dropped by the wayside before, neither was killed. Instead they were carried by the others. That evening, when they made camp, Qasr Bint came to talk with the pair. “Are you ready to abandon this world for the next?” he asked.
They told him they were.
“And are you prepared to sacrifice your carcasses?” he pressed.
“I am,” one of the two said.
The other hesitated, then nodded quickly when Qasr Bint glared at him. “Yes, father. Of course.”
Qasr Bint smiled and blessed the pair, then calmly slit their throats. As blood oozed out, the rest of the group moved in, knives in hand, and started to carve up the corpses.
“No!” Jebel moaned, unable to believe what they were about to do.
Tel Hesani’s face contorted. “Cannibals! We should have guessed.”
As each Um Biyara cut loose a chunk of flesh, he or she withdrew, sheathed their knife, then bit into the warm, bloody meat. Jebel had heard stories of cannibalism, the most inhuman of all practices, but he’d thought they were tall tales told to frighten children. Now he saw that such monsters really did exist.
When all of his people had eaten, Qasr Bint cut three chunks off the remains and held out two of them to Jebel and Tel Hesani. “These should not by right be shared with nonbelievers,” he said, “but we are a generous people.”
“Never,” Tel Hesani spat.
“Nor me!” cried Jebel.
“You’ll die if you don’t eat,” Qasr Bint murmured.
“We’re not afraid of death,” said Tel Hesani quietly.
Qasr Bint grinned wickedly. “You should be. We’ll eat you next if you fall.” He dropped the chunks at their feet and leered ghoulishly. “I’ll leave you to think it over.” He retreated with his own slice and devoured it with great satisfaction.
Jebel stared at the abominable offering, then kicked snow over it. He looked at Tel Hesani. “I don’t want to be eaten,” he whispered.
“Me neither,” Tel Hesani said, his face filled with fear. Then his expression hardened. “We must not falter. No matter how hungry or weak we are, we’ll force ourselves to keep going. We can’t be far from the next village. We’ll find food there, even if we have to steal it.” He gripped Jebel’s shoulders. “We can do this.”
Jebel nodded fiercely, then clutched Tel Hesani’s arms. “We won’t give in. We’ll go on together.”
The pair smiled desperately at each other. And for the first time ever, despite the fact that everyone he knew—even the gods themselves—would condemn him for it, Jebel didn’t think of Tel Hesani as a slave but as an equal.
A few days later, as Jebel and Tel Hesani struggled to match the pace of the well-fed Um Biyara, the group start
ed down a slope to the as-Sudat, and the snow began to thin underfoot. Bits of bushes and grass poked through here and there. Tel Hesani leapt upon the bushes and after a hasty search found some frozen berries. He and Jebel rolled them around in their palms as they marched, breathing on them until they were ready to be eaten. They were so hungry that when they bit into the hard, bitter fruit, it was like eating the food of the gods.
When they reached the bottom of the slope, they saw a path running between the foot of a sheer cliff and the bank of the river for a mile or more, before it climbed again. The river came almost to the top of the bank along which the path ran, and Jebel could see from old watermarks that it had flooded the path before—some of the marks were ten feet above his head.
“The gods are with us,” Qasr Bint boasted. “Another few weeks and this would have been impassable.”
“The demons are with them, more like,” Jebel snarled to Tel Hesani. “I hope the river bursts its banks, so I can watch them drown.”
Tel Hesani smiled weakly. “We would die too.”
“It would be worth it,” Jebel huffed.
They were a third of the way along the path when a voice called to them from high overhead. “You below! Hello!”
The Um Biyara stopped and stared at the sky, astonished. Even Qasr Bint’s face crumpled. Were the gods addressing them directly?
“Hello!” the voice came again. One of the keener-eyed Um Biyara yelped and pointed to a hole in the cliff. Jebel spotted a head sticking out of it. As he watched, more heads appeared out of different holes, until a host of people were calling and waving. Then a few swung out and shimmied down the cliff.
The Um Biyara bunched together as the strangers converged on them. Several of the zealots drew knives and swords, until Qasr Bint barked at them to put their weapons away.
Eight of the people came forward, hands extended. “Greetings!” one of them beamed. He was a small, wiry man, extremely pale, with short blond hair. He was dressed in brightly colored animal hides. “I am Khaz Ali, of the um Hamata.”
Qasr Bint stepped forward and nodded stiffly. “I am Qasr Bint, of the Um Biyara. I…” He looked up at the cliff and momentarily lost his stern composure. “Do you have a village up there?” he asked, sounding like a normal, curious human for once.
“Of a kind,” Khaz Ali laughed. “We live in the tunnels and caves. There’s flat land at the top, and more cliffs farther back. We keep livestock and grow fruit and vegetables up there. But mostly we stay in the caves.”
“Cave dwellers,” Qasr Bint purred, eyes lighting up, quickly reverting to form. “Being so poor, you must have no hope of finding a place in the afterlife, do you?”
Khaz Ali squinted. “What a strange thing to ask. Well, I wouldn’t say that, but we can discuss such matters later if they’re important to you. First, are you hungry? Do you need anything? We’ll help you any way we can. It’s not often that travelers pass here on foot.”
“Food would be gratefully received,” Qasr Bint said guardedly. “Shall we come up to fetch it?”
“No,” Khaz Ali said. “We’ll bring it to you. The climb is difficult for those unaccustomed to it. Make yourselves comfortable, and we’ll be back shortly.”
With that, the um Hamata scaled the cliff and returned with food for the Um Biyara, who were setting up camp. There was a great deal of excitement in the air—the zealots could feel another conversion in the making.
They tucked into a lavish vegetarian feast that night. The um Hamata didn’t lack bread, fruit, or vegetables. Only meat was in short supply. They happily shared their food with the Um Biyara, and the entire clan came down to welcome the newcomers. There were over fifty of them, twenty men, twenty women, and ten or so children.
“Most of our older children leave,” Khaz Ali explained. “We can only maintain a small community. When our children come of age, they go out into the world to sample the delights of Makhras. As more senior members of the clan die, they’re replaced by those who wish to rejoin the flock.”
Hamata was a long-established settlement. Khaz Ali’s people had been there for three hundred sixty-six years.
“But how do you survive?” Qasr Bint asked. “The snow and storms…”
“We’re sheltered from the worst of the weather,” Khaz Ali said. “The cliffs to the rear divert the more savage winds and snow flurries. The rock is warmer than that of most mountains, heated by…” He hesitated, then said, “internal forces. Snow never settles on the earth. We can farm the land above our homes for most of the year and graze our animals there.”
While the adults were talking, Jebel was approached by a small boy a few years younger than him. The boy had dirty blond hair and curious blue eyes. “I’m Samerat,” he introduced himself. “Khaz Ali’s my father.”
“I’m Jebel Rum.”
“Are you the only child traveling with the Um Biyara?” Samerat asked.
“Yes,” Jebel said shortly. The Um Biyara had said nothing of their mission and given no indication that they were disgusting cannibals. He longed to tell Samerat the truth but didn’t think that would be a wise move. None of the um Hamata carried weapons save for a few hunting knives, so he didn’t want to provoke an argument between them and the vicious, heavily armed Um Biyara.
Jebel told Samerat where he was from and the lands he had passed through on his way here. He didn’t mention Tubaygat or his quest. He had almost forgotten about that. The world had robbed Jebel of his dreams and aspirations, and he lived only for the moment, struggling on in the vain hope that he would one day win back his freedom and suffer a little less than he did now.
Samerat wanted to know about Jebel’s wounds and why all of the Um Biyara were injured. Jebel skirted the issue, saying it had been a difficult march. He then asked Samerat about the caves.
“I can show you,” said Samerat.
“Climb up there?” Jebel said dubiously, looking at the towering cliff.
“It’s not that difficult,” Samerat laughed. “Let me ask my father.”
Before Jebel could respond, Samerat raced to Khaz Ali and asked for permission to take his friend into their home. “Of course,” Khaz Ali smiled. “And any others who are curious too.”
Many Um Biyara wanted to see the caves. Qasr Bint picked three of them and told the rest to stay on the ground. As friendly as the um Hamata seemed, he wasn’t taking any risks. He didn’t want to divide his forces in case this was a trap and others were waiting in the caves to kill those who went up.
Jebel was the first to climb after Samerat. He went slowly, gripping the rocks tightly, digging his fingers and toes thoroughly into each crevice before moving on to the next. Samerat tracked back to guide him. Jebel began to get the hang of it after a while. He even started to enjoy himself until he reached the hole, slid in, turned to look down, and realized how high he’d climbed.
“By the teeth of the gods!” he gasped. If he’d slipped, he would have splattered on the ground like an overripe berry. “Don’t you people ever fall?”
“Not often,” Samerat said. “We grow up on these walls. For us, climbing this cliff is no different from your crossing a bridge. In fact I’ve never been on a bridge. I’d be very nervous if I had to walk across one.”
When the Um Biyara had joined them, Samerat led them down a long, narrow, low-ceilinged tunnel. There were no candles, so they had to crawl in the dark. Jebel heard the Um Biyara grumbling, but he had graduated from graverobbing school, so he felt perfectly at home.
At the end of the tunnel lay a small cave, lit by a couple of lanterns. It was decorated with wall paintings, statues, many rugs and furs.
“The caves are communal,” Samerat explained as they moved from one cave to another, following a network of tunnels. “Everything is shared.”
The caves were warm, dry, and surprisingly cozy. In one they found a few sheep and a goat—they’d been brought down from the pens because of ill health—and in another a baby, the youngest member of the um Hamata, g
urgling away to itself.
The Um Biyara asked to see where the weapons were stored. Samerat laughed and said they had no need of weapons. “We have spears for hunting, but predators can’t reach us up here, so we don’t need anything else.”
Samerat then took them to the top of the cliff, where there was a stretch of flat, arable land, surrounded on three sides by tall, imposing cliffs. In the distance, Jebel caught his first clear glimpse of Amud. It was immense, rising so far above him that he didn’t think he’d be able to see the top even on a cloudless day.
“It’s incredible,” he gasped, temporarily forgetting his pains and worries, able only to marvel at one of the world’s greatest spectacles.
“The home of the gods when they come to Makhras,” Samerat said. “This spot is where they camped while they were building their castle on Amud. That’s why it’s protected.”
“Have you ever seen the gods?” Jebel asked breathlessly.
“No,” Samerat said. “They don’t reveal themselves these days.”
The Um Biyara went exploring the grassland and were edging closer to the cliff at the rear, where large, strange shadows moved slowly across the rock face. When Samerat saw this, he snapped, “Stop!” As they glanced at him with surprise, he said firmly, “You must never go near that cliff.”
“Why?” one of them asked. “Do people live there?”
“No,” he said. “There are no caves.”
“Then why—”
“Please,” Samerat interrupted. “For your own safety, never approach it.”
The Um Biyara were intrigued, as was Jebel, but before they could quiz the boy, he led them back down the tunnels, through the caves, and helped them scale the lower cliff, so that they could link up with the rest of their group and join in the feast, which was still going strong.