Darren Shan - The Thin Executioner

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, gurgling away to itself.