To the High Redoubt by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page B

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    â€œOur priests said that the Son of God did those things,” Arkady said, not to criticize her, but out of curiosity. “Do you think He did?”
    â€œIf he was an advanced Master, then perhaps he could. I’ve never known anyone who could, but there are always legends that say the Great Masters could do such wonders.”
    There were kites and other carrion birds hanging high in the air, dozing on the wind in ominous circles. “There might be trouble ahead,” Arkady warned as he watched the birds.
    â€œWhy do you say that?” She had her hand inside his jerkin, resting on his skin, and their conversation was easy. “What do you see?”
    â€œBirds,” he answered tersely. So many boded ill, he thought.
    â€œAh,” she responded with a wise nod. “I know of such birds, too. Outside of Samarkand, I saw them where a herd of goats had been slaughtered.”
    â€œIs that where we are going?” he wondered aloud. “To Samarkand?”
    â€œWe are going beyond Samarkand, into the mountains, near the city of Ajni. The Bundhi is beyond that.” She sighed, this time with real distress. “You have no idea what power he has, and how ruthless he is in its use. He follows the Left Hand Path, and is rewarded for his destruction.”
    â€œAnd you follow the Right Hand Path?” Arkady said, still watching the kites. “You believe that you must oppose him?”
    â€œHe blinded me and killed half of my family.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her breathing became deeper and more irregular.
    â€œAnd you want revenge.” He understood that need, that obligation.
    â€œI want to restore order, balance.” She paused. “And I want some recompense for the pain he caused my family and me.”
    â€œRevenge,” Arkady said quietly. “I would want it, too.”
    â€œThe Bundhi will do everything to stop our coming, once he knows that we are after him.” She sounded distant. “He has a high redoubt, both here and…in another place. Here it is near the top of Gora Čimtarga, south of Ajni.”
    Arkady chuckled to hide his doubts. “These are the realms of Prester John, aren’t they?”
    â€œPrester John?” Surata repeated. “Who is this?”
    â€œA king, or so I have heard. He is in the East and is the most powerful monarch in the world. That is what is said, at any rate.” He narrowed his eyes at the kites. “There are dead on the road, Surata.”
    She did not shudder, but her manner was remote. “There are always dead on the road, but most of the time we do not see them.”
    There was nothing that Arkady could think to say to this, and so he remained silent, watching the road ahead. “There’s a party of merchants coming. A dozen asses and half that number of camels. I don’t recognize their clothes, but they aren’t dressed the way you are.”
    â€œWhat colors do they wear?” Surata asked with some interest.
    â€œThey’re dusty,” Arkady told her, squinting toward the little caravan in the distance. “But I’d say that they wear red-gold color and a very dark blue. They have turbans. I don’t know if they are men of Islam or not.” He had come to mistrust all the followers of Mohamet, and his battles with the Turks had given him a suspicious respect for them.
    â€œLong knives in their belts?” Surata suggested. “Short beards, wide metal belts?”
    â€œI can’t see them that clearly yet. They’re nearer than the kites, however.” He took this as a good indication that whatever misfortune had brought the ominous birds, it had not been recent.
    â€œThey probably come from Kashgar. I know a few words of their language. Perhaps I can find out what the road ahead is like.” She pressed herself more tightly to Arkady’s back. “When I was made a slave, they sent me first to Tabriz and then