El Borak and Other Desert Adventures

by Robert E. Howard

  “I stumbled on something big tonight, down in a water-front dive. I was looking for something else — uncovered this by accident. Then they got suspicious. I got away — came here because you were the only man I knew in San Francisco. But that devil was after me — caught me on the stair.”

  Blood oozed from the livid lips, and Stockton spat dryly. Brent looked on helplessly. He knew the man was a secret agent of the British government, who had made a business of tracing sinister secrets to their source. He was dying as he had lived, in the harness.

  “Something big!” whispered the Englishman. “Something that balances the fate of India! I can’t tell you all now — I’m going fast. But there’s one man in the world who must know. You must find him, Brent! His name is Gordon — Francis Xavier Gordon. He’s an American; the Afghans call him El Borak. I’d have gone to him — but you must go. Promise me!”

  Brent did not hesitate. His soothing hand on the dying man’s shoulder was even more convincing and reassuring than his quiet, level voice.

  “I promise, old man. But where am I to find him?”

  “Somewhere in Afghanistan. Go at once. Tell the police nothing. Spies are all around. If they know I knew you, and spoke with you before I died, they’ll kill you before you can reach Gordon. Tell the police I was simply a drunken stranger, wounded by an unknown party, and staggered into your hall to die. You never saw me before. I said nothing before I died.

  “Go to Kabul. The British officials will make your way easy that far. Simply say to each one: ‘Remember the kites of Khoral Nulla.’ That’s your password. If Gordon isn’t in Kabul, the ameer will give you an escort to hunt for him in the hills. You must find him! The peace of India depends on him, now!”

  “But what shall I tell him?” Brent was bewildered.

  “Say to him,” gasped the dying man, fighting fiercely for a few more moments of life, “say: ‘The Black Tigers have a new prince; they call him Abd el Khafid, but his real name is Vladimir Jakrovitch.’”

  “Is that all?” This affair was growing more and more bizarre.

  “Gordon will understand and act. The Black Tigers are your peril. They’re a secret society of Asiatic murderers. Therefore, be on your guard at every step of the way. But El Borak will understand. He’ll know where to look for Jakrovitch — in Rub el Harami — the Abode of Thieves —”

  A convulsive shudder, and the slim thread that had held the life in the tortured body snapped.

  Brent straightened and looked down at the dead man in wonder. He shook his head, marveling again at the inner unrest that sent men wandering in the waste places of the world, playing a game of life and death for a meager wage. Games that had gold for their stake Brent could understand — none better. His strong, sure fingers could read the cards almost as a man reads books; but he could not read the souls of men like Richard Stockton who stake their lives on the bare boards where Death is the dealer. What if the man won, how could he measure his winnings, where cash his chips? Brent asked no odds of life; he lost without a wince; but in winning, he was a usurer, demanding the last least crumb of the wager, and content with nothing less than the glittering, solid materialities of life. The grim and barren game Stockton had played held no promise for Stuart Brent, and to him the Englishman had always been a little mad.

  But whatever Brent’s faults or virtues, he had his code. He lived by it, and by it he meant to die. The foundation stone of that code was loyalty. Stockton had never saved Brent’s life, renounced a girl both loved, exonerated him from a false accusation, or anything so dramatic. They had simply been boyhood friends in a certain British university, years ago, and years had passed between their occasional meetings since then. Stockton had no claim on Brent, except for their old friendship. But that was a tie as solid as a log chain, and the Englishman had known it, when, in the desperation of knowing himself doomed, he had crawled to Brent’s door. And Brent had given his promise, and he intended making it good. It did not occur to him that there was any other alternative. Stuart Brent was the restless black sheep of an aristocratic old California family whose founder crossed the plains in an ox wagon in ’49 — and he had never welshed a bet nor let down a friend.

  He turned his head and stared through a window, almost hidden by its satin curtains. He was comfortable here. His luck had been phenomenal of late. Tomorrow evening there was a big poker game scheduled at his favorite club, with a fat Oklahoma oil king who was ripe for a cleaning. The races began at Tia Juana within a few days, and Brent had his eye on a slim sorrel gelding that ran like the flame of a prairie fire.

  Outside, the fog curled and drifted, beading the pane. Pictures formed for him there — prophetic pictures of an East different from the colorful civilized East he had touched in his roamings. Pictures not at all like the European-dominated cities he remembered, exotic colors of veranda-shaded clubs, soft-footed servants laden with cooling drinks, languorous and beautiful women, white garments and sun helmets. Shiveringly he sensed a wilder, older East; it had blown a scent of itself to him out of the fog, over a knife stained with human blood. An East not soft and warm and exotic-colored, but bleak and grim and savage, where peace was not and law was a mockery, and life hung on the tilt of a balanced blade. The East known by Stockton, and this mysterious American they called “El Borak.”

  Brent’s world was here, the world he had promised to abandon for a blind, quixotic mission; he knew nothing of that other leaner, fiercer world; but there was no hesitation in his manner as he turned toward the door.

  II

  THE ROAD TO RUB EL HARAMI

  A wind blew over the shoulders of the peaks where the snow lay drifted, a knife-edge wind that slashed through leather and wadded cloth in spite of the searing sun. Stuart Brent blinked his eyes against the glare of that intolerable sun, shivered at the bite of the wind. He had no coat, and his shirt was tattered. For the thousandth futile, involuntary time, he wrenched at the fetters on his wrists. They jangled, and the man riding in front of him cursed, turned and struck him heavily in the mouth. Brent reeled in his saddle, blood starting to his lips.

  The saddle chafed him, and the stirrups were too short for his long legs. He was riding along a knife-edge trail, in the middle of a straggling line of some thirty men — ragged men on gaunt, ribby horses. They rode hunched in their high-peaked saddles, turbaned heads thrust forward and nodding in unison to the clop-clop of their horses’ hoofs, long-barreled rifles swaying across the saddlebows. On one hand rose a towering cliff; on the other, a sheer precipice fell away into echoing depths. The skin was worn from Brent’s wrists by the rusty, clumsy iron manacles that secured them; he was bruised from kicks and blows, faint with hunger and giddy with the enormousness of the altitude. His nose bled at times without having been struck. Ahead of them loomed the backbone of the gigantic range that had risen like a rampart before them for so many days.

  Dizzily he reviewed the events of the weeks that stretched between the time he had carried Dick Stockton, dying, into his flat, and this unbelievable, yet painfully real moment. The intervening period of time might have been an unfathomable and unbridgeable gulf stretching between and dividing two worlds that had nothing in common save consciousness.

  He had come to India on the first ship he could catch. Official doors had opened to him at the whispered password: “Remember the kites of Khoral Nulla!” His path had been smoothed by impressive-looking documents with great red seals, by cryptic orders barked over telephones, or whispered into attentive ears. He had moved smoothly northward along hitherto unguessed channels. He had glimpsed, faintly, some of the shadowy, mountainous machinery grinding silently and ceaselessly behind the scenes — the unseen, half-suspected cogwheels of the empire that girdles the world.

  Mustached men with medals on their breasts had conferred with him as to his needs, and quiet men in civilian clothes had guided him on his way. But no one had asked him why he sought El Borak, or what message he bore. The password and the mention of Stockton
had sufficed. His friend had been more important in the imperial scheme of things than Brent had ever realized. The adventure had seemed more and more fantastic as he progressed — a page out of the “Arabian Nights,” as he blindly carried a dead man’s message, the significance of which he could not even guess, to a mysterious figure lost in the mists of the hills; while, at a whispered incantation, hidden doors swung wide and enigmatic figures bowed him on his way. But all this changed in the North.

  Gordon was not in Kabul. This Brent learned from the lips of no less than the ameer himself — wearing his European garments as if born to them, but with the sharp, restless eyes of a man who knows he is a pawn between powerful rivals, and whose nerves are worn thin by the constant struggle for survival. Brent sensed that Gordon was a staff on which the ameer leaned heavily. But neither king nor agents of empire could chain the American’s roving foot, or direct the hawk flights of the man the Afghans called “El Borak,” the “Swift.”

  And Gordon was gone — wandering alone into those naked hills whose bleak mysteries had long ago claimed him from his own kind. He might be gone a month, he might be gone a year. He might — and the ameer shifted uneasily at the possibility — never return. The crag-set villages were full of his blood enemies.

  Not even the long arm of empire reached beyond Kabul. The ameer ruled the tribes after a fashion — with a dominance that dared not presume too far. This was the Country of the Hills, where law was hinged on the strong arm wielding the long knife.

  Gordon had vanished into the Northwest. And Brent, though flinching at the grim nakedness of the Himalayas, did not hesitate or visualize an alternative. He asked for and received an escort of soldiers. With them he pushed on, trying to follow Gordon’s trail through the mountain villages.

  A week out of Kabul they lost all trace of him. To all effects Gordon had vanished into thin air. The wild, shaggy hillmen answered questions sullenly, or not at all, glaring at the nervous Kabuli soldiery from under black brows. The farther they got away from Kabul, the more open the hostility. Only once did a question evoke a spontaneous response, and that was a suggestion that Gordon had been murdered by hostile tribesmen. At that, sardonic laughter yelled up from the wild men — the fierce, mocking mirth of the hills. El Borak trapped by his enemies? Is the gray wolf devoured by the fat-tailed sheep? And another gust of dry, ironic laughter, as hard as the black crags that burned under a sun of liquid flame.

  Stubborn as his grandsire who had glimpsed a mirage of tree-fringed ocean shore across the scorching desolation of another desert, Brent groped on, at a blind venture, trying to pick up the cold scent, far past the point of safety, as the gray-faced soldiers warned him again and again. They warned him that they were far from Kabul, in a sparsely settled, rebellious, little-explored region, whose wild people were rebels to the ameer, and enemies to El Borak. They would have deserted Brent long before and fled back to Kabul, had they not feared the ameer’s wrath.

  Their forebodings were justified in the hurricane of rifle fire that swept their camp in a chill gray dawn. Most of them fell at the first volley that ripped from the rocks about them. The rest fought futilely, ridden over and cut down by the wild riders that materialized out of the gray. Brent knew the surprise had been the soldiers’ fault, but he did not have it in his heart to curse them, even now. They had been like children, sneaking in out of the cold as soon as his back was turned, sleeping on sentry duty, and lapsing into slovenly and unmilitary habits as soon as they were out of sight of Kabul. They had not wanted to come, in the first place; a foreboding of doom had haunted them; and now they were dead, and he was a captive, riding toward a fate he could not even guess.

  Four days had passed since that slaughter, but he still turned sick when he remembered it — the smell of powder and blood, the screams, the rending chop of steel. He shuddered at the memory of the man he had killed in that last rush, with his pistol muzzle almost in the bearded face that lunged at him beneath a lifted rifle butt. He had never killed a man before. He sickened as he remembered the cries of the wounded soldiers when the conquerors cut their throats. And over and over he wondered why he had been spared — why they had overpowered and fettered him, instead of killing him. His suffering had been so intense he often wished they had killed him outright.

  He was allowed to ride, and he was fed grudgingly when the others ate. But the food was niggardly. He who had never known hunger was never without it now, a gnawing misery. His coat had been taken from him, and the nights were a long agony in which he almost froze on the hard ground, in the icy winds. He wearied unto death of the day-long riding over incredible trails that wound up and up until he felt as if he could reach out a hand — if his hands were free — and touch the cold, pale sky. He was kicked and beaten until the first fiery resentment and humiliation had been dissolved in a dull hurt that was only aware of the physical pain, not of the injury to his self-respect.

  He did not know who his captors were. They did not deign to speak English to him, but he had picked up more than a smattering of Pashto on that long journey up the Khyber to Kabul, and from Kabul westward. Like many men who live by their wits, he had the knack of acquiring new languages. But all he learned from listening to their conversation was that their leader was called Muhammad ez Zahir, and their destiny was Rub el Harami.

  Rub el Harami! Brent had heard it first as a meaningless phrase gasped from Richard Stockton’s blue lips. He had heard more of it as he came northward from the hot plains of the Punjab — a city of mystery and evil, which no white man had ever visited except as a captive, and from which none had ever escaped. A plague spot, sprawled in the high, bare hills, almost fabulous, beyond the reach of the ameer — an outlaw city, whence the winds blew whispered tales too fantastic and hideous for credence, even in this Country of the Knife.

  At times Brent’s escort mocked him, their burning eyes and grimly smiling lips lending a sinister meaning to their taunt: “The Feringi goes to Rub el Harami!”

  For the pride of race he stiffened his spine and set his jaw; he plumbed unsuspected depths of endurance — legacy of a clean, athletic life, sharpened by the hard traveling of the past weeks.

  They crossed a rocky crest and dropped down an incline between ridges that tilted up for a thousand feet. Far above and beyond them they occasionally glimpsed a notch in the rampart that was the pass over which they must cross the backbone of the range up which they were toiling. It was as they labored up a long slope that the solitary horseman appeared.

  The sun was poised on the knife-edge crest of a ridge to the west, a blood-colored ball, turning a streak of the sky to flame. Against that crimson ball a horseman appeared suddenly, a centaur image, black against the blinding curtain. Below him every rider turned in his saddle, and rifle bolts clicked. It did not need the barked command of Muhammad ez Zahir to halt the troop. There was something wild and arresting about that untamed figure in the sunset that held every eye. The rider’s head was thrown back, the horse’s long mane streaming in the wind.

  Then the black silhouette detached itself from the crimson ball and moved down toward them, details springing into being as it emerged from the blinding background. It was a man on a rangy black stallion who came down the rocky, pathless slope with the smooth curving flight of an eagle, the sure hoofs spurning the ground. Brent, himself a horseman, felt his heart leap into his throat with admiration for the savage steed.

  But he almost forgot the horse when the rider pulled up before them. He was neither tall nor bulky, but a barbaric strength was evident in his compact shoulders, his deep chest, his corded wrists. There was strength, too, in the keen, dark face, and the eyes, the blackest Brent had ever seen, gleamed with an inward fire such as the American had seen burn in the eyes of wild things — an indomitable wildness and an unquenchable vitality. The thin, black mustache did not hide the hard set of the mouth.

  The stranger looked like a desert dandy beside the ragged men of the troop, but it was a dandyism defini
tely masculine, from the silken turban to the silver-heeled boots. His bright-hued robe was belted with a gold-buckled girdle that supported a Turkish saber and a long dagger. A rifle jutted its butt from a scabbard beneath his knee.

  Thirty-odd pairs of hostile eyes centered on him, after suspiciously sweeping the empty ridges behind him as he galloped up before the troop and reined his steed back on its haunches with a flourish that set the gold ornaments jingling on curb chains and reins. An empty hand was flung up in an exaggerated gesture of peace. The rider, well poised and confident, carried himself with a definite swagger.

  “What do you want?” growled Muhammad ez Zahir, his cocked rifle covering the stranger.

  “A small thing, as Allah is my witness!” declared the other, speaking Pashto with an accent Brent had never heard before. “I am Shirkuh, of Jebel Jawur. I ride to Rub el Harami. I wish to accompany you.”

  “Are you alone?” demanded Muhammad.

  “I set forth from Herat many days ago with a party of camel men who swore they would guide me to Rub el Harami. Last night they sought to slay and rob me. One of them died suddenly. The others ran away, leaving me without food or guides. I lost my way, and have been wandering in the mountains all last night and all this day. Just now, by the favor of Allah, I sighted your band.”

  “How do you know we are bound for Rub el Harami?” demanded Muhammad.

  “Are you not Muhammad ez Zahir, the prince of swordsmen?” countered Shirkuh.

  The Afghan’s beard bristled with satisfaction. He was not impervious to flattery. But he was still suspicious.