Darkness Chosen: Into The Shadow Part 8

As she suspected, the platform jutted out a few inches beyond the tent, and just beyond in the cliff she saw the beginning of a path that wound into the mountains.

Yet . . . she looked down. The path was six feet from the platform, and the drop was twenty feet onto sharp rocksa"a fall guaranteed to break her bones.

Warlord couldnat jump that. Could he? He had to have some sort of temporary bridge. She knelt and groped under the platform, looking for something to span the distance.

Nothing.

She glanced inside the tent for a loose board that would hold her weight.

Nothing.

She didnat dare wait any longer.

Mingma would be back soon to try to convince Karen to dress in the harem clothes and play the coy maiden to Warlordas conquering warrior.

Bulls.h.i.t.

Karen wouldnat do it.

Again she measured the span with her gaze. She stood on the edgea"and almost jumped.

But like a sliver of gla.s.s, some sharp, bright thought cut her concentration.

The icon. She had to take the icon.

And her coat, of course. It was stupid to think of escaping into the Himalayas, even in the summer, without a coat.

Hurrying to the camouflage parka, she slipped her arms into the sleeves and belted it around her waist. Irresistibly she slid her hand into the pocket and pulled out the icon.

The Madonna stared solemnly at her.

"Iall save you," Karen vowed, and walked back to the hole in the tent. She slipped through and stood there, the breeze lifting her hair. She stared at the lip of the path six feet away.

Shead done a lot of climbing in her life. Shead jumped creva.s.ses with raging streams below. She knew the length of her legs, and she knew her limits.

From a standing start . . . this jump was impossible.

She wrapped her arms around her waist and swallowed the bile that built in her throat.

She would fall.

Shead dreamed this a million times.

She would be horribly hurt, crippled, her bones shattered, her internal organs bleeding uncontrollably.

Her breath hitched, and her eyes filled with tears.

She was being dramatic. She was a coward.

But she was afraid.

On the other hand, if she stayed here, shead be the plaything of a monster.

Jump.

So she jumped.

She stretched out like Superman, hands forward, trying in midair to propel herself onto the path.

She missed. She landed with a bone-crunching thump on her face and chest. Her legs dangled, wheeling madly. She slipped. Grabbed at the gra.s.s. Caught herself. The clump of gra.s.s broke. She slipped again. She was going down. . . .

Her foot found a rock lodged solidly beneath the overhang.

One hand caught the branch of a shrub.

She wanted to scramble up.

She forced herself to slow down, to balance herself, to concentrate. . . .

Gradually she inched her stomach onto the path. She flung her leg up onto the ledge. She rolled . . . and she was safe. Safe.

She took a long breath, the first one since shead jumped.

Safe? No way. Somehow, some way, Warlord would come after her.

Magnus crawled forward along the rock at the edge of the cliff, his gaze fixed on the regiment below. He settled next to the man to whom head sworn his allegiance.

Warlord rested on his belly, watching the movement of troops through the valley. He liked to keep an eye on them as they marched around, officiously and ineptly patroling the long, narrow river valleys and murderous peaks where the mercenaries held reign.

Magnus wasnat afraid of him. Not anymore. No reason to be. The scratch along his cheek had healed, st.i.tched by a skilled physician in Kathmandu. He seldom woke anymore from the nightmare of a big catas weight on his chest and its hot breath on his face. He almost never thought of that night when head first realized the old, scary legends his poor mother had whispered in his ear were true, and monsters roamed the earth. Because, in the end, he knew he was already d.a.m.ned by his sins, and head rather die by Warlordas handa"or pawa"than live like most men did, chained to a desk or a dock, and ground down by poverty.

Yet for all his loyalty to Warlord, he still kept a few careful inchesa distance from his master. In a low voice he said, "The armyas b.l.o.o.d.y casual about that payroll shipment."

"Why shouldnat they be?" Warlord smiled his expression of composed amus.e.m.e.nt. "Theyave transported two shipments through the mountains with no trouble at all. Itas obvious the government crackdown has worked, and the rogue mercenaries are under control."

"Of course." Magnus slapped his forehead in mocking dismay. "I should have known."

Warlord was coolly confident. "When I came here fifteen years ago, I was a seventeen-year-old driven from his home by fear and guilt, sure of his d.a.m.nation. Today weare going to liberate the entire payroll for the Khalistan government officials."

"Yeave come up in the world."

"Yes. But have you seen the soldier whoas using the binoculars? The one with the bolts in his ears?"

Magnus had. The guy was tall, burly, with a face that looked as if it had stopped a freight train. He wore earringsa"earrings that looked not so much like jewelry, but like machinery. "Aye. I wonder who heas looking for."

"Heas looking for us."

"So heas one of the new mercenaries?"

"Good a.s.sumption." In a long, slow breath, Warlord pulled the air into his lungs. "I donat like the smell of him. Heas . . . sour."

"Yeave got the nose for trouble." And now Magnus knew why. "Shall we take care of him?"

Warlord watched the big man. "No. That odor . . . itas barely a hint on the air. But it reminds me of something; I canat remember what . . . a danger to us." His black eyes grew unfocused. He seemed to be looking inward. "Somethingas coming . . . but itas not here yet . . ."

"Yer instincts are talking to ye, then?"

"Yes." The word was barely a whisper on Warlordas lips.

"Itas good to see ye have yer concentration back," Magnus said.

Slowly Warlord turned his head and stared.

"You do have your concentration back, donat you?" Magnus asked anxiously. "Now that you have the woman in your tent?"

Warlordas voice was level. "Have the profits dropped?"

"No."

"Have the trades been untended?"

"No."

"Then whatas your complaint?"

"Yeare still a wee bit distracted, and in our business thatas asking for trouble." Magnus knew that with one swipe of a claw Warlord could cut out his heart. But he had a duty to the men, and to Warlord himself, and the words needed to be spoken. "Now that ye know sheas safe, ye can put yer heart where it belongsa"in the making of the money."

"Your savings are safe in Switzerland. And donat worrya"my heart is just where it always was, cooking in h.e.l.l." Warlord drew another breath deep into his lungs. His head snapped up. Without any care at all he stood. "Follow the plan. Lead the men. Iave got to go."

"But . . . you . . . we . . ." Magnus could barely stammer his dismay.

Warlord leaned over, grabbed the front of Magnusas shirt, and lifted him to eye level. "Donat fail me."

In a single bound Warlord slid from man to panther.

Chapter Ten.

Hurry. Hurry.

He would know. He would find her.

Hurry ...

What was that?

Karen skidded to a halt. She turned.

The path stretched behind her, empty, rocky.

She looked around, yet saw nothing but the line of the Himalayas etched against the sky, jagged, pristine, indifferent. She listened, yet heard nothing but the ever-present wind, the thunder of a distant waterfall, the brief scream of a hawk overhead.

Shead been walking for a half hour, and shead been nervous every minute.

But she was being ridiculous, granting Warlord powers no mere man could possess. He was gone from the camp. Unless head arrived back the very minute Karen left, she had a good chance of escaping.

She might not like the mountains, but she knew how to run, and she knew how to hide.

So she needed to hurry.

The path was no more than a slice of soft stone among the granite, but as long as it took her in the opposite direction from the warlordas camp, she would follow.

She turned back with renewed intent, walking briskly between giant stones and through a high mountain meadow. The path dipped . . . she heard the soft sound of a footfall . . . she swung around again.

Nothing was there.

She scanned the meadow.

Nothing.

A movement caught her eye. But when she looked at the place she saw only the shadow of a high and distant cloud.

Nevertheless . . . she would have sworn that some thing moved through the gra.s.s after her.

Impossible. It must be the wind that rippled through the flowers.

Yet the hair stood up on the back of her neck.

She would have sworn someonea"or somethinga"was watching her.

She turned back to her journey, walked around a corner, and skidded to a stop.

"Oh, help," she whispered.

The path skittered along a cliff above and a two-hundred-foot chasm below, and narrowed to only six inches of crumbling rock. Below, the raging river chewed at the stones, licking away at the support, and this crossing made the terrifying jump from the warlordas tent look simple.

When it came to heights, she was a coward. She knew it. Her father had taunted her often enough. And usually she handled her fear . . . but not today. Not when she was escaping a madmanas clutches. Not when she was imagining a pursuit that wasnat there.

Taking a deep breath, she put her back against the cliff and inched forward, one foot after the other, eyes determinedly forward and staring across the chasm to the opposite cliff. She took deep, slow breaths, warding off hyperventilation. The cool breeze chilled the sheen of sweat on her face. She didnat want to faint. No, G.o.d, please, donat faint, because there was always a chance shead live through the fall and suffer for days and nights of never-ending agony . . . like her mother. . . .

Worse, fear made her hallucinate.

She thought someone stood in front of her on the path. Someone who breathed hot breath on her neck.