Cry Wolf

cliffs. There was only a gap narrow enough to allow the car to pass in

the centre of the walls.

"Tell them to close the gap now, Sara. We won't take the car into the

gorge again," Gareth instructed quietly as they went through and she

called out to a Harari officer who stood on top of the highest point of

the wall; he waved an acknowledgement, and turned away to supervise the

work.

Jake took the car through the natural granite gates, and beyond them

lay the saucer-shaped valley and the town of Sardi.

It was burning, and at the sight Jake halted the car and they stood on

the hull and looked across at the ruddy glow of the flames that lit the

underbelly of the clouds, and dimly defined the mountain masses that

enclosed the valley.

"is she still alive?" Jake voiced all their fears, but it was Sara who

answered.

"If Ras Kullah was there when they caught her, then she is dead."

Then silence again, both men staring Out into the night, with anger and

dread holding them captive.

"But if he was skulking up in the hills, as he usually does,

waiting for the attack to succeed before he shows himself," she spat

expressively over the side of the hull, "then his men would not dare

begin the execution, until he was there to watch and enjoy the work of

his milch cows. I have heard they can take the skin off a living body

working carefully with their little knives, every inch of skin from

head to toes, and the body still lives for many hours." And Jake

shuddered with horror.

fire "If you're ready, old boy. I think we could move on now!"

said Gareth, and with an effort Jake roused himself and dropped back

into the driver's hatch.

There seemed to be a suggestion of the false dawn lightening the narrow

strip of sky high above the mountains when Gregorius Maryam scrambled

back into the front line treches.

There was activity already amongst the shadowy figures that crowded the

narrow dugouts, and one of the Ras's bodyguard carrying a smoky

paraffin lantern greeted him with, "The Ras asks for you. "Gregorius

followed him down the trench, stepping carefully amongst the hundreds

of figures that slept uncaring on the muddy floor.

The Ras sat huddled in a grey blanket, in one of the larger dugouts off

the main trench. The open pit had been roofed in with the remnants of

one of the leather tents, and a small fire burned smokily in the

centre. The Ras was surrounded by a dozen of the officers of his

bodyguard, and he looked up as Gregorius knelt quietly before him.

"The white men have gone?" the Ras asked concluding with a a hacking

old man's cough that shook his whole frail body.

"They will return in the dawn, before the enemy attack." Gregorius

defended them quickly, and went on to explain the reasons and the

change of plans.

The Ras nodded, staring into the flickering fire, and when

Gregorius paused, he spoke again in that rasping, querulous tone.

"It is a sign and I would have it no other way. Too long I have

listened to the council of the Englishman, too long I have quenched the

fire in my belly, too long I have slunk like a dog from the enemy." He

coughed again, painfully.

"We have run far enough. The time has come to fight," and his officers

growled angrily in the gloom around him, and swayed closer to listen to

his words. "Go you to your men, rouse them, fill their bellies with

fire and their hands with steel. Tell them that the signal will be as

it was a hundred years ago, a thousand years ago.

Tell them to listen for my war drums," a suppressed roar of exultation

came from their throats, "the drums will beat up the dawn, and when

they cease, that will be the moment. "The Ras had struggled to his

feet,

and he stood naked above them; the blanket 2 fallen away, and his

ski

moment, I, Ras Golam, will go down to drive the enemy back across the

desert and into the sea from which they came.

Every man who calls himself a warrior and an Harari will go down with

me-" and his voice was lost in the shrill loolooing of his officers,

and the Ras laughed, with the high ringing laugh close to madness.

One of his officers handed him a mug of the fiery tei and the Ras

poured it down his throat in a single draught, then hurled the mug upon

the fire.

Gregorius leapt to his feet and laid a restraining hand upon the ski

old arm.

"Grandfather." The Ras swung to him, the bloodshot rheumy eyes burning

with a fierce new light.

"If you have woman's words to say to me, then swallow them and let them

choke the breath in your lungs, and turn to poison in your belly. "The

Ras glared at his grandson, and suddenly Gregorius understood.

He understood what the Ras was about to do. He was a man old and wise

enough to know that his world was passing, that the enemy was too

strong, that God had turned his back upon Ethiopia, that no matter how

brave the heart and how fierce the battle in the end there was defeat

and dishonour and slavery.

The Ras was choosing the other way the only other way.

The flash of understanding passed between the youth and the ancient,

and the Ras's eyes softened and he leaned towards Gregorius.

"But if the fire is in your belly also, if you will charge beside me

when the drums fall silent then kneel for my blessing." Suddenly

Gregorius felt all care and restraint fall away, and his heart soared

up like an eagle, borne aloft by the ancient atavistic joy of the

warrior.

He fell on one knee before the Ras.

"Give me your blessing, grandfather," he cried, and the Ras placed both

hands upon his bowed head and mumbled the biblical words.

A warm soft drop fell upon Gregorius's neck, and he looked up

startled.

The tears were ru

unashamedly from the Ras's chin. Vicky Camberwell lay face down upon

the filthy earthen floor of one of the deserted tukuk on the outskirts

of the burning town. The floor swarmed with legions of lice, and they

crawled softly over her skin, and their bites set up a burning

irritation.

Her hands were bound behind her back with strips of rawhide rope,

and her ankles were bound the same way.

Outside, she could hear the rustle and crackle of the burning town,

with an occasional louder crash as a roof collapsed. There were also

the shouts and wild laughter of the Gallas, drunk on blood and te,

and the chilling sound of the few Harari captives who had been saved

from the initial massacre to provide entertainment during the long wait

before Ras Kullah arrived in the captured town.

Vicky did not know how long she had lain. Her hands and feet were

without feeling, for the rawhide ropes were tightly knotted. Her ribs

ached from the blow that had felled her, and the icy cold of the

mountain night had permeated her whole body so that the marrow in her

bones ached with it, and fits of shivering racked her as though she

were in fever. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably and her lips were

blue and tight, but she could not move. Any attempt to alter her

position or relieve her cramped limbs was immediately greeted with a

blow or a kick from the guards who stood over her.

At last her mind blacked out, not into sleep, for she could still dimly