The E. Hoffmann Price Spice Adventure MEGAPACK ™

by Price, E. Hoffmann

  The stallion snorted. He quivered, then leaped as Timur’s legs tightened. The heavy blade licked out, finding the gap between neck-guard and hauberk. As the stroke bit home, Timur traversed, so that the wall covered his left. He swayed in the saddle; a spike-headed “morning star” ripped his tunic, exposing the link mail beneath, and then his blade flickered, slashing the man’s forehead.

  Blood-blinded; that one was out of action.

  “Come down; we’re riding!” Timur shouted.

  Some were scrambling now to get to the front court, and their waiting horses; several tried to close in with swords. Blades clanged. Timur hewed down, slicing off plates of armor.

  Olajai snatched a tall Chinese vase from the landing and heaved it on the head of the rearmost. While his helmet saved him from a smashed skull, the impact dropped him in his tracks. She dashed down the stairs, and plucked the fellow’s helmet from his head.

  “Put it on!” she cried, crowding up on Timur’s left.

  “Grab a horse!” he answered, and booted the stallion after the handful who had raced for their mounts.

  And when his horse got firm footing on the hard-packed earth, Timur charged with effect.

  Olajai followed. She was not dressed for riding, but the ripping of her gown took care of that. And she picked a good mount.

  Two of the raiders galloped across the square. Two others fled afoot. Timur snatched the bow whose case hung from the saddle of Olajai’s horse. As he strung it, she passed him an arrow.

  The hindmost of the footmen pitched on his face.

  Timur grinned. “Good bow. Now keep behind me; there’ll be the devil to pay at the gate.”

  There was, but it did not last long.

  Guardsmen were turning out. The two surviving horsemen had attended to that. But the moon was bright, and Timur’s bowstring twanged, once, twice, thrice: the deadly Turki arrows, released at a dead run, cleared a path. Then a whirl of steel, and the fugitives went pelting down one of the lanes which threaded the orchard girdle of Samarkand.

  CHAPTER II

  The Beggar

  Once a bend in the lane furnished momentary cover, Timur pulled up. “Get Eltchi Bahadur and as many others as you can, and ride direct for Saghej Well. I’ll keep the Kipchaks off your heels, and I’ll meet you later.”

  Olajai had long since learned to think quickly, and to move while thinking; she waved, reined her horse down a cross lane, and galloped to notify the chief of Timur’s fifty picked fighting men who had followed him from his home in Kesh. And since they lived outside the city walls, Olajai’s task was safe enough.

  Her brother, Mir Hussein, was at Saghej Well with forty-odd retainers. They had outraced the Kipchaks to find refuge in the wastelands, and their heads apparently were not considered worth the cost in horseflesh.

  Timur dismounted. When he heard the approach of the pursuers, he pretended to be picking a stone from his horse’s hoof. In a moment they came into view, and in the full moon, they saw him. Olajai could not be far away. The horsemen reined in. It was over, they thought.

  The fugitive, having the advantage of the moon, fired from his own shadow. A man toppled. Timur swung into the saddle, and the Ferghana stallion took off in a falcon swoop.

  He twisted, shooting as he rode. And this was not his second-choice horse!

  They would stick. Speed was not the essence of this chase, since he had neither rations nor water nor a spare mount. As he gained a lead, he reined in a little, holding the distance just beyond arrow range. For all they knew, Olajai was ahead of him, just beyond sight.

  Timur now had time to ponder on the reasons behind the raid on his house. Bikijek’s resentment at a man who spent too much time blocking the sale of justice, blocking the extortion of doubled taxes, and the making of false returns: that was one fair guess. The other, plain court jealousy. Though the attempt to kidnap Olajai suggested a third answer—a blow at her exiled brother, or a stranglehold on Timur himself.

  And as he rode, his memory reached back to that night when he had drunk his guests off their feet; it all came back, that survey at sunrise, of his littered banquet room.

  He recalled the drums which had rolled and thundered across the broad maidan. They blotted out the muezzin’s call to prayer. From a high window he could see the horsetail standards at Bikijek’s door. The puppet king, Elias Koja, old Togluk Khan’s son, let Bikijek play with the tokens of royalty, instead of setting to work with a running noose.

  It would not, it could not last long, and when it ended, the Golden Horde of the Kipchak would restore order.

  Order: herds eaten by Kipchak soldiers, granaries emptied by Kipchak officers, towns and farmsteads burned, and all Timur’s broad acres in Kesh devastated with the rest. All because Bikijek, chief lord of the young king’s court, had drums beaten five times daily before his palace.

  Ten or a dozen local émirs, so busy battling each other that they had not stopped Elias Koja when his father sent him south to be Grand Khan of the Jagatai; that was the trouble. Rugged individualists, every man a king, and so now they had the Horde on their necks, and now their lands were the proving ground of an apprentice whose father had handed him the entire Jagatai heritage in which to learn the trade of kingship.

  Timur had laughed aloud, for wine and fermented mare’s milk had made him see the truth with a bitter clarity which his sober and busy days had never permitted. “First I fought Uncle Hadji, after Uncle Hadji and I drove Beyan Selduz out of town. Then they murdered Uncle Hadji, and I got an army to avenge him, and then the army divided into three parts and we had a war to settle the dividing of the booty. Every man a king. Allah! What we need is one king, and that one home grown. Too bad Mir Hussein’s grandfather isn’t alive.”

  He had smiled, in half drunken grimness and regret, thinking of the King Maker and the King Maker’s grandson, handsome, hard fighting Mir Hussein, fickle, crackbrained, unpredictable Hussein who had the loveliest sister in the world.

  “Allah curse Bikijek, Allah curse every man who does not curse Bikijek’s religion and his father and his grandfather!”

  He had spoken aloud. A grave voice had made him turn. There, in the arched doorway stood a ragged man with a snarled beard; the slanting rays kept his face from being any too clear.

  “Who asks Allah to curse the religion of another true believer?”

  Timur snorted. “I’m talking to myself. Only way to do, if you want to hear sense for a change.”

  Then his eyes became used to the glare: he saw the grimy khelat, the greasy skullcap, the girdle of frayed rope, the dirty hands which fingered a wooden bowl. Dirty hands, this beggar had, but fine and long, made for good penmanship. And he wore a writing case at his girdle, and a scroll carefully wrapped in a clean red silk scarf.

  “Well, darvish!” Timur found a gold piece. “Guest of Allah, and a lot more welcome than these Kipchak pigs!”

  Only then had his eyes a chance to focus sharply on the seamed face, shrewd, ironic, kindly; somewhat of a dish face, with broad, flat nose, Mongol features and melon head like Timur’s own.

  And Timur knelt on the littered tiles, catching the beggar’s hand, too swiftly for any evasion; he kissed it.

  “By the Splendor! I’d heard—I didn’t recognize—”

  The darvish freed his hand, made a gesture to decline the reverence. “Kaboul Shah Aglen, now the Guest of God and the least of the slaves.”

  Timur Bek had risen, to step back, entirely bewildered. Kaboul Shah Aglen, eighth in direct descent from Genghis Khan’s son, Jagatai, begging his bread, and for shoes, growing callouses on his feet!

  Kaboul smiled. “The darvish robe would fit you, Timur Bek. Last night’s friends are this day’s enemies. Become intoxicated by the splendor of Allah, and become His Guest, and the peace will be with you.”

 
Outside, just then, horses had begun to squeal and snort; saddle drums rolled, for Bikijek was riding to the mosque. As the lordly sounds died out, Kaboul Aglen went on, “When Togluk Khan comes south to cure the disease which his son ignores, your palace becomes a mirage, and you’ll be stealing sheep again. Get out, while you still can leave without killing too many horses.

  “Genghis Khan, the master of all mankind, once had to steal a horse to keep from wearing out his boots. In me, the circle closes on itself. I beg my bread, as in the end all the race of Genghis Khan must do.”

  Timur’s face darkened; Karashar Nevian, his ancestor, nine generations back, had been Genghis Khan’s uncle and advisor. Then he laughed, and it was like trumpets braying before the charge. “See here! You’re the heir to the Jagatai throne, you, not Togluk Khan nor Togluk Khan’s son. I’ll make you Grand Khan in Samarkand!”

  The beggar shrugged. “No time; too soon, you’ll be riding for your neck. You, not Bikijek.”

  Timur flipped the golden dinar into the bowl.

  The beggar whisked it out. “What is nothing now will be your fortune soon, and the peace upon you!”

  And here it was: hard riding pursuit behind him, while his wife raced to round up what fighting men she could find. So he laughed again, from thinking on the words of Kaboul Aglen, and the murderous bowstring a scribe could pluck.

  * * * *

  Forty-two horsemen, all with spare mounts, waited with Olajai when two days later, Timur’s horse stumbled toward the rendezvous, where tents were scattered about a spring which kept the grass green.

  Hashim, melon headed and scar-faced, came running to greet him; and he walked back, clinging to Timur’s stirrup leather. “We ride again, tura!” he said, using the Turki word for ‘my lord.’ “It is like the old days again.”

  Then Timur saw Tagi Bouga Barlas, his distant cousin, hard bitten and grinning; Sayfuddin, the greatest archer of them all, coddling a bow; and roaring Elthci Bahadur whose strength and skill had thus far hacked his way out of all the traps into which he charged. They crowded about, grimy and sweat gleaming; jeweled collars and gold inlaid helmets and embroidered belts grotesque against greasy khalats, and sheepskin jackets.

  “Hai, Timur Bahadur!”

  Quickly they broke camp and rode, for they had rested while Timur led the Kipchak riders a crazy chase in circles. And now, being among friends, Timur dozed in the saddle; and Olajai rode beside him.

  CHAPTER III

  Battle

  Five days brought Timur to the Jihun’s poplar lined banks; and swimming this river put the Jagatai realm behind them. At the Well of Saghej they found Mir Hussein, with Dilshad Aga, his wife, and some forty horsemen.

  The King Maker’s grandson was handsome as his sister was lovely; a small, pointed black beard, and high arched brows, and a high bridged, straight nose with nostrils whose flare made one think of a stallion scenting a fight. Until his army had been scattered, he had been King in Kandahar; now he had lost everything but hope.

  There was no meat, so they ate cooked millet and buttered tea. Mir Hussein said, “Bismillahi, it could be worse.”

  Timur grimaced. “We can’t eat sand very long. But with a couple good raids, I’ll have an army at my back. The men of Kesh were giving me hard looks, you’d think I’d sold them out, just because I took the thankless job of trying to stand between them and those Kipchak hounds! But this fast ride has set a lot of them thinking.”

  “Inshallah! But I can’t show up in Kandahar with a guard of forty men.”

  Timur chuckled sourly. “No, they’ve probably got a new king there. That’s the trouble, too many kings, instead of one good one. Now, your grandfather—”

  Mir Hussein sighed. “May God be well pleased with him! But do you think he could improve things? He used to pull kings out of his saddlebags, but this is different. Still, you’d do pretty well as Grand Khan of the Jagatai.”

  Dangerous ground. If Timur did raise an army to drive the present puppet out of Samarkand, he’d be quite a hero, but once he took the throne, jealousy would start feuds. Mir Hussein was good in battle, and good nowhere else. “You’re the grandson of Mir Kazagan,” Timur countered. “How’s Tekil?”

  “Hungry and looking for business. At least seven hundred Turkomans and the like.”

  “Our hundred will draw his following,” Timur argued. “And with that start, we’ll begin to make an impression.”

  So they rode through three marches of hell, across the black sands of Kivac. The scrawny oasis looked like a small paradise, for the lips of Timur’s men were cracked from thirst.

  The citadel loomed up, above the poplars. “I don’t like it,” Timur said. “No one working in the fields. No one tending the ditches.”

  Instead of pressing on to the city, they made camp at the fringe of green which marked the beginning of cultivation.

  Timur beckoned to Eltchi Bahadur and Tagai Bouga Barlas, “We’ll ride in and pay our respects to Tekil.”

  Hussein cut in, “No! Let me go. He knows I’ve spent a couple of months at the Well of Saghej, and he made no trouble. Let me talk to him.”

  Timur’s eyes narrowed. “Hmmm…don’t tell him I’m here. Just say you know where I am.”

  The deep-set Turki eyes sparkled. “So you’ve been thinking about that mess in Samarkand?”

  Where Hussein had been the ill favored one, it now seemed that Timur’s head was most in demand.

  That night, Timur posted double guards and slept with his boots on. While his fame as a captain would always get him followers, it would also make his head a prize in a land where every man was a king, and allegiances changed overnight.

  * * * *

  In the morning he heard trumpets and drums, and saw Mir Hussein’s standard, and the riders who came from the gates, the fields and through the groves.

  “Break camp, and be ready to mount up!” Timur commanded.

  Then he rode out with twenty men to meet Tekil.

  Ceremonious greetings: the burly governor fairly fell from his horse to be the first to dismount. A big, red-faced man, a hearty, smiling man. “Welcome, welcome, Timur Bek! Kivak is yours. You and your brother, I bid you welcome.”

  Tekil had an escort of perhaps two hundred horses. Timur wondered where the others were. He caught old Hashim’s narrowed eyes, and made a twist of head and chin. The old fellow gave a gesture of assent; and unobtrusively edged from the clump of horsemen, to head back to camp.

  More compliments. Hussein was smooth and smiling and affable. Tomorrow, he and Timur would with pleasure and heartiness attend the governor’s banquet. Today, Allah bear witness, things were in an uproar in camp. Horses, badly overtaxed, needed attention. And some of the party was still unaccounted for. Ay,Wallah! Some baggage animals, carrying all the gifts designed for His Excellency, were lagging a day’s march behind.

  Something was wrong, something was off color; Hussein’s fluent patter confirmed Timur’s earlier premonitions. He said, cutting in brusquely, “Allied-to-Greatness, we beg permission to turn from the light of your Presence!”

  Words and music did not match. He was in the saddle before Tekil fairly realized that another speaker had addressed him. Tagi Bouga Barlas mounted up; and so did Hussein.

  Tekil’s face changed. And then came the great bawling voice of Eltchi Bahadur, and the pounding of hooves. “To horse, O Bek! They’ve got us hemmed in!”

  “Swords out!”

  And Timur had scarcely shouted his command when an arrow smacked home with a solid thump. Eltchi was shooting, shooting hard, fast, straight. “Get out of my way,” he howled, “get out of my way!”

  Timur and Mir Hussein were blocking his line of fire. Then the visitors and the host’s men went into action, blades out; some lancers maneuvered for working space, while others threw t
heir lances down and snatched maces from their saddle bows.

  “To camp!” Timur shouted. “Archers fall out!”

  There was no drill by command, as such; it was rather instinctive teamwork, based on many a pitched battle and running fight. Eltchi Bahadur charged headlong at the Tekil’s guard. Hacking and hewing, he was swallowed up by milling horsemen and billowing dust.

  Meanwhile, as though called by signal, half Timur’s escort swooped to right and left, and the bows began to twang. Hard driven shafts laced the flanks of Tekil’s tight packed traitors; murderous, close range archery; cunningly driven shafts, some picking men, others nailing horses whose fall would block the movement of other riders.

  Stung by the ferocious archery, Tekil’s men opened out. Timur and Hussein pressed in, head on, to divide the enemy. And from the rear came the brawling, booming voice of Eltchi Bahadur. He looked as though an avalanche had passed over him, but he was hewing his way back to meet Timur.

  Timur’s archers fell back, shooting as they withdrew, and covering the retreat. Over the roar of battle, he heard the approach of his main detachment, and saw his chance.

  “This way, you bawling bull!” he shouted to Eltchi, and pointed toward a low hillock.

  In a moment, Timur’s standard was on the knoll. Dust ringed the oasis. The rest of Tekil’s men were closing in. It was now clear where the governor’s force had been. It was all too clear that the riders trailing Timur out of Samarkand had been baiting him, while a courier rode directly to Tekil Bikijek, he now concluded, had known all the while where Mir Hussein was, and had counted on Timur’s joining his brother-in-law: the two were to be settled beyond the border of the Jagatai territory.

  Ten to one: Timur took a fresh horse, and looked out and down at the closing circle of steel. He said to his wife, and to Dilshad Aga, “Keep your heads down. There won’t be many of us to block the arrows, not for long.”