Duraid tried to call to her but no sound issued from his smoke-scorched throat. Royan turned away and started down the steps. He realized that she must be going to call help. Duraid made a supreme effort and a crow-like croak came out between his black and blistered lips.
Royan spun around and stared at him, and then she screamed. His head was not human. His hair was gone, frizzled away, and his skin hung in tatters from his cheeks and chin. Patches of raw meat showed through the black crusted mask. She backed away from him as though he were some hideous monster.
"Royan." He croaked and his voice was just recognizable. He lifted one hand towards her in appeal and she ran to the pond and seized the outstretched hand.
"In the name of the Virgin, what have they done to you?" She sobbed, but when she tried to pull him from the pond the skin of his hand came away in hers in a single piece, like some horrible surgical rubber glove, leaving the bleeding claw naked and raw.
Royan fell on her knees beside the coping and leaned over the pond to take him in her arms. She knew that she did not have the strength to lift him out without doing him further dreadful injury. All she could do was hold him and try to comfort him. She realized that he was dying; no man could survive such fearsome injury.
"They will come soon to help us," she whispered to him in Arabic. "Someone must see the flames. Be brave, my husband, help will come very soon."
He was twitching and convulsing in her arm, tortured by his mortal injuries and racked by the effort to speak.
"The scroll?" His voice was barely intelligible. Royan looked up at the holocaust that enveloped their home, and she shook her head.
"It's gone," she said. "Burned or stolen."
"Don't give it up." He mumbled, "All our work?"
"It's gone," she repeated. "No one will believe us without?"
" No." His voice was faint but fierce.'' For me, my last?'' "Don't say that." She pleaded, "You will be all right." "Promise." He demanded, "Promise me!" "We have no sponsor. I am alone. I cannot dp it alone." "Harper!" he said. Royan leaned closer so that her ear touched his fire-ravaged lips.
"I don't understand." She told him. "Harper." He repeated, "Strong?hard?clever man?" and she understood then. Harper was the fourth and last name on the list of sponsors that he had drawn up. Although he was the last on the list, somehow she had always known that Duraid's order of preference was inverted. Nicholas Quenton-Harper was his first choice. He had spoken so often of this man with respect and warmth, and sometimes even with awe.
"But what do I tell him? He does not know me. How will I convince him? The seventh Scroll is gone?"
"Trust him." He whispered, "Good man. Trust him?" There was a terrible appeal in his, "Promise me!"
Then she remembered the notebook in the Giza flat, and the Taita material on the hard drive of her P.C. Not everything was gone. "Yes," she agreed, "I promise you, My Husband, I promise you."
THE SEVENTH SCROLL
BY WILBUR SMITH?
A MAY HARDCOVER FROM ST. MARTIN'S PRESS!
WILBUR SMITH has written twenty-four novels, meticulously researched during his
numerous world-wide expeditions. His books are now published in twenty-seven countries and have sold more than 65 million copies.