Part 8 (1/2)

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 s.h.i.+pment.”

”Why shouldnat they be?” Warlord smiled his expression of composed amus.e.m.e.nt. ”Theyave transported two s.h.i.+pments 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.”