Carnifex

15/7/467 AC, Kashmir

Ashraf had imagined a long and dangerous trek to get from his guerilla company's area of operations to the school he was to attend. In fact, he'd lain awake for most of two nights, worrying about ambush, air attack, long marches and sleeping rough.

As it happened, Noorzad had simply given Ashraf's escort some money, and the two, plus some other ex-Haarlemers, had hopped a bus, gone to the Pashtian capital, Chabolo, and caught a flight to Kashmir's capital. From there, it was a simple taxi ride—oh, yes, with the usual forceful haggling—to the school. The school operated openly, making no pretense of hiding what it was.

After turning over his charges, Ashraf's escort had departed, leaving behind only some words of encouragement. Ashraf had been taken under the wing of his advisor, Majdy.

Majdy was, like Ashraf, Haarlem-born. They were about of an age. Indeed, most of the school's student body was in their early twenties. Moreover, most of the student body were "reverts;" Taurans or Columbians who had accepted Islam, and in particular the Salafi version of Islam, and then joined the jihad. If they shared any language it was typically English. Arabic, so that they could learn to read the Koran in its original sacred language, was a major part of the school's curriculum.

Until that time though, the students and their advisors—and there was an advisor for every student—would communicate in the common tongue or in their native language. Majdy, of course, also spoke Dutch.

"Did they feed you on the flight?" Majdy asked politely.

Ashraf grimaced. That was answer enough.

"Come then, Brother," Majdy said. "You must be hungry. There's no sense in going any further while your mind is on food."

With that, the advisor led off out of the dim reception area, through a green and white tiled garden courtyard, and toward a single story building from which came the enticing smell of food, well prepared.