Ник Картер - War from the Clouds

From my cover at the edge of the clearing, I singled out a monk who looked about my height. I watched him closely, studying his movements. It was impossible to see his face because of the dim light and the elaborate hood that projected out beyond his head. That wasn’t a concern. Once inside his hood and robe, my face would be equally difficult to see. To make certain, I dug my hands in the soft, black dirt of the jungle floor and smeared my face with it.

And then I moved forward just as the monk who was my height moved away from the ring of campfires to search for new firewood.

Patience is very much a part of my work, but I found that I had little of it as the monk kept stopping to peer at the ground and then in my direction. Could he see me hiding there at the edge of the clearing? No, impossible. I was behind a thick bush, watching him from the bottom edge. And the dawn light was still so dim that he couldn’t have seen me from twenty paces away if I had been standing in the open.

Slowly, the monk made his way in my direction. When he came within those twenty paces, I was ready to make my move. I slid Hugo into my hand, knowing that the monk’s death had to come quietly. He advanced within ten paces, still not enough, and I felt my muscles go taut, waiting, waiting.

The monk stopped, leaned over and plucked a piece of firewood from the dark ground. He had only four or five slender pieces in his arms, but I was afraid he’d go back with them and then find a new area to search. Before long, it would be too light for me to shift my position to intercept his line of search.

He was a slow one, that monk. He stood there examining that piece of firewood the way he might have gazed at a piece of the true cross. I was about ready to start cursing him under my breath, then I held back the curse. I was about to kill this man, this total stranger to me. The least I could do was hold back the curses, even if my heart wasn’t bubbling over with compassion. And yet, compassion was there. This man was guilty of nothing. He was a simple (and perhaps simple-minded) follower who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. For him, that is. For me, and for the honest people of Nicarxa, this man doing everything right. Slowly, but right.

He came within five paces, still too far away, searched the dark ground, glanced back at the fires and his roaming comrades, then stopped cold. I was sweating with tension and my muscles were beginning to knot from being held taut so long. I took a deep breath, relaxed all my muscles, felt relief ripple through my body, then poised again to leap on the unsuspecting monk.

He looked in my direction, then scanned the dark ground near the jungle wall. He took another step, and another.

I leaped out so quickly that even I was surprised. I hit him with my body and he went down like a structure of straw. Even as my left hand was searching for his mouth to keep him from crying out, my right hand was bringing Hugo around in a wide arc. Both hands did their work simultaneously.

There was no cry. Only a soft grunt signalled the death of the monk. The stiletto made a wide, gaping gash of his throat, and warm blood spilled over my own chest. I lay on the ground on top of the monk, my left hand still on his mouth to make certain no final death cry would escape. He was soft as wet clay, and I knew he was dead. It was then that the compassion bubbled over and I wished him back to life.

It took only a few minutes to drag the monk into the jungle and strip him of his robe and hood. I barely noticed his shaved head, but was struck by the rough, unbleached shorts he wore under his religious attire. Those must smart on hot days, I thought. He also wore crude leather sandals and had a crude wooden cross on a cheap chain around his neck. I left the shorts and the cross on his body, and slipped into his robe and sandals. I raised the cowl until it virtually obstructed my vision, but hid my face.

I gathered up the fallen sticks of firewood and began looking for more, taking my sweet old time about it. Fortunately, I had watched the monk long enough to know that he had a specific fire to tend. I looked over, saw that the fire was burning low, and started off to put the firewood on it. Just beyond the campfire was Intenday’s huge tent. I gave it a covert inspection as I stepped up and carefully put the firewood on the fire. There was a soft light in there, as though the holy man were awakening to start the day’s journey.

“More quickly, Nuyan,” a voice from my left called out softly. “We must build the fires for the breakfast. Move more quickly, if that is possible, you slow mule, you.”

I turned slowly, but not all the way, to see who was speaking. Another monk, short and squat, was piling a huge load of wood on the next fire. I could see part of his chubby face and he was smiling.

“That’s right, Nuyan,” the monk said, laughter in his voice, “keep going at your own pace and the Iman will have a cold breakfast. And you, my slow-paced friend, will find yourself scrubbing the kitchens at home for a month. Try to make haste, won’t you?”

I said nothing. Supposing the monk Nuyan was a mute? Supposing he had a lisp or a nasal twang or a different Spanish accent. Silence and slowness were my best friends now. I moved away from the fire and went seriously about the business of gathering firewood. It wouldn’t do me any good to draw attention to Nuyan by having the Iman eat a cold breakfast.

Things went well after that. I got the fire going furiously, though I was worried about that breakfast bit. Did Nuyan have to fix the religious leader’s breakfast? If so, I would have to get too close to the man and he’d certainly notice that I wasn’t the real Nuyan.

However, by the time I’d brought back my third load of firewood, the servants were already out preparing breakfast in great black pots. Along the road, other monks were readying the carts and oxen, getting them hitched for the short run to the base camp. Tents around the Iman’s big tent were being struck and folded.

“Come, Nuyan,” the chubby monk said from behind me. “We get to sleep while the Iman eats. Come, you slowpoke.”

I turned, slowly of course, and saw the chubby monk joining the other fire tending monks near the base of a huge palm tree. The monks were stretching out on the ground and curling up inside their robes. I circled around to avoid the chubby man who was so talkative to Nuyan, picked out a spot and pretended to sleep.

But sleep wasn’t a part of my program just then. I’d had precious little of it and wanted to drop off into dreamland, but I kept my eyes on the monks to see if I could spot weapons among them. I didn’t. I did see Intenday, though, when he came out to warm his hands before the fire.

He was a small, wiry, insignificant-looking man in a bright red robe and hood to match. He pushed back the hood and I saw a brown bald head and an enormous nose. But his eyes were so large and glistening that the corpse-like ugliness of the man was soon forgotten. There was no benevolence in that man and I wondered about the people of Apalca and why they would choose a holy man who obviously was so full of greed and evil; and completely devoid of compassion. At least in those great, penetrating, conniving eyes.

A half hour later, the camp was struck, the Iman had his breakfast tucked away in his stomach and the call went out to the oxen. The carts began to roll.

“Come on, slugabed Nuyan,” the chubby monk called across to me. “Rustle your bones. Time to go.”

I got up and followed the others. Leading the caravan were the oxcarts. Following them was the ornate wagon carrying Intenday and his lieutenants. Other monks strung out in a double line on the narrow road. The firewatching monks were last, straggling along single file. That was fine with me. I held back, waiting for the fat monk to fall in line, then brought up the rear.