The Shield of Darius Read Online Free PDF

He couldn’t be in the Middle East...not when minutes ago – or possibly hours – he had been stretched on the grass at Sherborne Castle. They – whoever they were – must have him in some ethnic section of one of England’s cities where customs and foods laced the air with the same memory-jarring odors.
    He tried to block out the smells and focus on the rest of his body. Though his head seemed about to burst, he couldn’t feel much of anything else, and strained to concentrate on fingers. If there were fingers, there must be arms and shoulders. Gradually he forced movement into his hands, wincing as sharp needles of pain flashed from the inside of both elbows up into his armpits. The pain was strangely reassuring.
    Now toes. Toes meant feet and legs. There was sensation there too. Not pain as much as cold. That wasn’t reassuring. His bleary mind vaulted to an article he had read about phantom pain, the continued jangling of nerve endings in a limb that has been severed. My God, he thought. They’ve cut off my legs! He forced his eyes downward to see if his toes were actually there. They stuck up naked and bluish against the far wall, looking as if they belonged to someone else. He willed movement into them and they twitched almost imperceptibly. The modest success relaxed him and he drew a long, deep breath to slow his racing heart.
    Fully opening his eyes, Ben studied what he could of the room without moving his head. The mildew spots spread across the whitewashed ceiling and onto the wall a foot to his left. New sensation in his body told him that he was lying on a decent mattress and from the height of the ceiling, he must be two or three feet above the floor. The wall beyond his toes stretched six feet to the right to a closed door, and beyond that…. He decided he must be alone and turned his head slightly to the right, seeing beyond the door a small inner room that reminded him of the bathroom of a cheap hotel. In fact, this looked very much like a hotel room. No overhead light. A paintless scar where a chain lock had once been on the door. He often passed through a section of Leeds on his way to the Tech building that looked and smelled like it had been lifted right out of Karachi. Pakistani women in native dress. Window signs in Arabic and Farsi. Shops piled with spices, vegetables, and hammered metal pots. And open markets hanging with strings of garlic and pink naked lambs and chickens. Whoever clubbed him had taken him to an ethnic district of one of these sprawling cities. London. Maybe Birmingham, Leeds, or Manchester. He wondered if he was tied to the bed.
    Forcing his head farther right, he glanced across the room. He wasn’t alone. A thin pale-skinned man with salt and pepper hair and a short white beard sat cross-legged on a bed opposite, dressed in loose fitting pajamas and leaning forward, peering at Ben with concerned suspicion. Between them was an empty table with two backless stools. No other furniture. At Ben’s movement, the man pushed back against the wall, turning his head quickly aside and staring blankly at the door to the room.
    Ben looked at him until the man slowly turned to study him again through furtive, sunken eyes.
    “Who are you?” the white bearded man demanded sharply. The voice was American, deep and raspy that made the words sound like they were coming from one of Ben’s voice simulator programs.
    “Where am I?” Ben asked thickly. The words burned in his throat and made his own voice foreign.
    “Who are you?” the man demanded again.
    “Benjamin Sager,” Ben said through chalky lips, his tongue searching his mouth for a trace of moisture.
    “Where you from?” the man demanded.
    “Baltimore,” Ben murmured.
    “Baltimore U.S.A.?”
    Ben nodded slightly. “Am I tied up?”
    “Nope,” the man said simply, then unfolded his legs and put his feet on the floor, leaning forward on the bed and appearing to relax a little. He watched Ben for a moment in silence