The Tower A Novel (Sanctus)

8





Gabriel had no idea how long he had been lying in the shade of the dry wadi when the sound of engines drifted down to him on the

wind.

Instinctively he rolled onto his front, adrenalin flooding through him despite his raging fever and the well-drilled operational

part of his brain taking over.

He couldn’t be spotted now, not with the blight burning inside him.

He grabbed the trailing reins of his horse to keep it close and listened out, trying to locate the sound. The hot wind moved it

around making it hard to pinpoint, which was a good sign. It meant it must still be some way off.

He used the reins to haul himself to his knees then moved the horse into the sliver of shade, stroking its flanks to calm it and

tethering it to a rock. He forced himself up the side of the bank, choking down on the sobs that still battled to burst from him,

the scratch of the dry earth blissful against his screaming skin. He reached the top and listened again.

The sound was closer now, coming from the west.

The itch crawled over him like fire ants and he rode the waves of it, clamping his arms to his sides to stop his hands from

clawing at the prickling skin. When the itch subsided a little he tipped his head on one side to keep his profile low and slowly

raised his eye above the line of the bank.

Two white, flat-bed pick-ups were kicking up dust as they bounced across the desert a couple of hundred metres to his left. Their

windows were smoked black and the 50-calibre guns mounted on their backs were manned by soldiers wearing red-and-white-checked

keffiyeh around their faces. They were Syrian Army – border patrol.

He slid back down the bank, shaking with the effort of just staying silent. All he wanted to do was lie down and rest and never

get up again. But he couldn’t. The patrol had changed everything.

He could backtrack, move away from the border to reduce the risk of being found by the patrols; but that didn’t mean he would be

hidden from the people they were seeking. He could try and find one of the alluvial caves that honeycombed the desert and crawl

deep underground into a tomb of his own making; that would deal with the buzzards at least. But it wouldn’t account for the human

traffic. Other people would seek the same shelter, hiding from the heat and the men with guns. And he could not risk being found.

He lay there for a long while, shaking from the fever, as the inevitability of what he must do grew in his mind. There was only

one place he could go, one place on earth where the blight would pose no threat.

He waited a long time, until he was sure the patrol had gone, then led the horse along the gulley, keeping low, looking for better

cover. The sun was at its full height now and burned mercilessly into his agonized skin. After a few hundred feet that felt like

miles he found a partial cave scooped out of the softer rock, big enough for him and his horse, and fell into the stifling shade,

clenching his whole body against the blazing itch. He waited out the worst of the day, preparing himself for the journey he must

make. Somehow, he had to evade capture and the company of others and find his way back to where the blight had first started and

where he knew it already prospered.

He had to get back to the Citadel. He had to go back to Ruin.