Read Online Call of the Trumpet by Helen A. Rosburg’s - Free Book Online
Authors: Helen A. Rosburg’s
Ads: Link
dignity, in spite of the situation and the indecency of her costume. “As long as I have a horse, the caliph’s men mean nothing to me. Just leave the animal, and I will make my own way.”
This time Cecile was certain she heard him laugh.
“I am sorry,” he said, “but the horse is mine. You either take your chances on foot or come with me. Make up your mind. We are leaving.”
At his signal, the men on horseback moved forward as one, prepared for flight. Cecile knew she must decide, immediately. But which to choose? The caliph, or the man dressed as a Badawin warrior? Either way she would be falling into a trap. One had purchased her; the other had stolen her. What was the difference? She seemed to be right back where she had started.
Yet in the desert, on a horse, she would have a far better chance to escape than confined within the walls of a palace harem.
The small band of men was already on the move by the time Cecile made up her mind. She cried out, and the leader turned back to her, reining in his mount.
“Let her have the horse,” he ordered tersely. “And make sure she keeps up. Now, ride!”
They sprang away, and Cecile barely had her foot in the stirrup when her horse leapt after them. Grasping the saddle tightly, she swung herself upward, fortunately landing astride. Then she gathered the reins and leaned forward over the horse’s withers, at once in rhythm with the rolling, ground-eating stride of her racing mount.
The clothes Cecile wore were hardly suitable for riding. The brief jacket flapped and gaped, the trousers whipped frantically against her legs. Somewhere along in the confusion the golden leash had been lost, but the collar still bound her neck. It did not seem to matter. She was barely aware of her earthly body as she flew atop the ground, the desert mare’s streaming mane tangling in her fingers. She was caught in the stuff of dreams.
The other riders pounded around her, the leader just ahead. On they rode at full gallop, into the warm desert night. The city was far behind now, and strange shapes loomed about them, eerie, dark rock formations and scatterings of volcanic debris, faintly lit by a sliver of moon.
Time lost its meaning. Cecile was unaware how far they had ridden, but it had to be a great distance. She heard the chuffing of her mare, as well as the others around her, and her muscles ached from the effort of clinging.
Yet the desert horses were bred not only for speed but for stamina, and they continued until Cecile feared she might slip from the saddle out of sheer exhaustion. Just when she knew she could not bear another moment of riding, she saw their leader raise his hand.
With the cessation of speed came sharper awareness of her physical surroundings. The band slowed to a trot, then a comfortable jog, and Cecile saw they approached a range of low, jagged hills. The volcanic debris around them seemed to have multiplied, and they wound their way carefully through the strange, harsh shapes. She pulled her jacket close across her breast, but no one seemed to notice her, and she had the bizarre feeling she had, indeed, been caught in a dream. With the morning sun she would wake and find it had all been an incredible fantasy.
“The Jabal ad Duruz,” the leader said suddenly, pointing to the hills ahead. Cecile realized he had dropped back to ride beside her. Without a word of warning, he suddenly reached for her, but before she was able even to flinch, he had removed the golden collar from her neck and thrown it away into the night. He tossed her a cloak. He did not utter another word, and though she was unable to see his eyes beneath the hood of his robe, she felt his gaze bore into her. A moment later he rode swiftly away, returning to the head of the band, leaving her to wonder at his kindness.
They continued through the foothills, headed roughly south. The going was slow, and the moon climbed higher in the sky. At last they left the hills behind and descended
This time Cecile was certain she heard him laugh.
“I am sorry,” he said, “but the horse is mine. You either take your chances on foot or come with me. Make up your mind. We are leaving.”
At his signal, the men on horseback moved forward as one, prepared for flight. Cecile knew she must decide, immediately. But which to choose? The caliph, or the man dressed as a Badawin warrior? Either way she would be falling into a trap. One had purchased her; the other had stolen her. What was the difference? She seemed to be right back where she had started.
Yet in the desert, on a horse, she would have a far better chance to escape than confined within the walls of a palace harem.
The small band of men was already on the move by the time Cecile made up her mind. She cried out, and the leader turned back to her, reining in his mount.
“Let her have the horse,” he ordered tersely. “And make sure she keeps up. Now, ride!”
They sprang away, and Cecile barely had her foot in the stirrup when her horse leapt after them. Grasping the saddle tightly, she swung herself upward, fortunately landing astride. Then she gathered the reins and leaned forward over the horse’s withers, at once in rhythm with the rolling, ground-eating stride of her racing mount.
The clothes Cecile wore were hardly suitable for riding. The brief jacket flapped and gaped, the trousers whipped frantically against her legs. Somewhere along in the confusion the golden leash had been lost, but the collar still bound her neck. It did not seem to matter. She was barely aware of her earthly body as she flew atop the ground, the desert mare’s streaming mane tangling in her fingers. She was caught in the stuff of dreams.
The other riders pounded around her, the leader just ahead. On they rode at full gallop, into the warm desert night. The city was far behind now, and strange shapes loomed about them, eerie, dark rock formations and scatterings of volcanic debris, faintly lit by a sliver of moon.
Time lost its meaning. Cecile was unaware how far they had ridden, but it had to be a great distance. She heard the chuffing of her mare, as well as the others around her, and her muscles ached from the effort of clinging.
Yet the desert horses were bred not only for speed but for stamina, and they continued until Cecile feared she might slip from the saddle out of sheer exhaustion. Just when she knew she could not bear another moment of riding, she saw their leader raise his hand.
With the cessation of speed came sharper awareness of her physical surroundings. The band slowed to a trot, then a comfortable jog, and Cecile saw they approached a range of low, jagged hills. The volcanic debris around them seemed to have multiplied, and they wound their way carefully through the strange, harsh shapes. She pulled her jacket close across her breast, but no one seemed to notice her, and she had the bizarre feeling she had, indeed, been caught in a dream. With the morning sun she would wake and find it had all been an incredible fantasy.
“The Jabal ad Duruz,” the leader said suddenly, pointing to the hills ahead. Cecile realized he had dropped back to ride beside her. Without a word of warning, he suddenly reached for her, but before she was able even to flinch, he had removed the golden collar from her neck and thrown it away into the night. He tossed her a cloak. He did not utter another word, and though she was unable to see his eyes beneath the hood of his robe, she felt his gaze bore into her. A moment later he rode swiftly away, returning to the head of the band, leaving her to wonder at his kindness.
They continued through the foothills, headed roughly south. The going was slow, and the moon climbed higher in the sky. At last they left the hills behind and descended
Similar Books
