by Harold Lamb
The silence of the higher spaces closed around the four. Khlit, plodding after the Rajput, thought of the sacrifice Nur-Jahan had offered at Khoten to the gods of Himachal. Were there gods on Himachal? The icy fingers of cold plucked at his veins—the girl had his coat—and he shook his head savagely.
They had ventured into forbidden places, he thought. Here they were cast upon the Roof of the World. Their lives had passed out of their keeping.
From the darkness ahead came the sound of a soft melody. The wind carried it clearly to Khlit. It was Hamar, striking upon his vina.
XIV
There are three things that change not—the will of the gods, the mountains of Himachal, and the word of a Rajput.
Bengal proverb
The Lake of Lamdok Tso lies in the heart of the Himalayas, below the line of perpetual snow, and it is said by some that the sacred Indus, called by the disciples of Bon the Sing Chin Kamba—Lion's Mouth—rises therein.
It is written that the Indus, blessing the happy land of Kashmir and moistening the purple iris fields from the Dhal Lake to the Grove of Sweet Breezes, falls from the skies through the waters of Lamdok Tso.
In the time of the Mogul Jahangir, the Kandrum Pass, leading from Leh to Khoten, ran by the left bank of the lake. Midway along the shore the trail crossed a promontory of rocks. This height could be seen from both ends of Lamdok Tso.
And so it happened that when Nur-Jahan and her companions wandered down from the snowline on aching feet bound by strips of Chauna Singh's turban, into the Kandrum gorge, they saw ahead of them the pinpoint of a fire, as if hung above the shore of the lake.
Nur-Jahan sighted it first, with a low cry.
“Look yonder!” she whispered, for her lips were stiff with cold. “A fire—and aid. It is not far.”
Hamar halted at her cry, peering ahead through the darkness. Khlit swore joyfully, although weakly, for since the slaying of the hare they had walked steadily for a day and a half. Chauna Singh had not spoken since the dawn of the last day. He had carried Nur-Jahan when she could not walk and aided her when she ventured afoot, her slippers bound by the cloth from his turban.
In this fashion they had crossed the snow field, eating the last of the meat as they went and satisfying their thirst with snow.
Hamar had not eaten. How the minstrel retained his strength Khlit did not know—not understanding the control over their bodies possessed by the ascetics of India.
As they pressed forward toward the fire he pondered. Nur-Jahan had spoken the truth when she said that the messenger from Sher Afghan would wait. If he were another such as Chauna Singh he would remain in the pass until he had lost hope of meeting those to whom he was sent.
Yet what was the message he bore? Hamar had seen him, spoken to him, but had said naught to Nur-Jahan of the message. It was possible the other had wished to deliver it to no one but the woman.
Another thing. Here was a fire—some food—and a horse. But there also was the man who possessed them. How were five to live through the journey down the mountains to Kashmir? No other dwellers were in the heights. The chances of meeting with other travelers was slight. And four of the five were already greatly weakened.
Even the falcon was gone. When the meat gave out they had unhooded it again, but the bird had flown far from where they were.
Up the rising ground to the promontory they went, as quickly as might be. On their left hand the cold surface of the lake dropped further beneath them. On the right a precipice rose sheer. As they advanced the fire loomed larger—grew into a nest of flames, by which slept a man wrapped in a heavy cloak.
A rock, dislodged by Khlit's boots, fell into the lake and the man awoke. He sprang to his feet, staring into the darkness—a short, bearded warrior, clad in fine mail, who fingered the hilt of a jeweled sword.
Chauna Singh and Nur-Jahan stumbled into the light and the man by the fire gave a cry of recognition. As Khlit stepped forward to warm himself at the flames Hamar joined him. Chauna Singh and the girl had paused by the stranger. They spoke together in a tongue Khlit did not understand.
He saw that Hamar watched out of narrow eyes, swaying the while with the movement of one who has been in motion for so long that his limbs are not readily brought to rest. The minstrel's eyes were sunk in his head, but they were quick and alert.
Nur-Jahan had caught the arm of the messenger and was peering into his face intently. She had cast away her veil and the dark hair flooded about her pale cheeks.
Khlit saw the man glance from her to Chauna Singh. Then silence fell upon the group.
“Now we will hear the message,” whispered Hamar. “He would not tell me.”
Khlit had turned to the fire, when he heard a cry from Nur-Jahan. In it dismay and joy were strangely mingled. He saw the girl draw back as if she did not wish the others to behold her face. Chauna Singh thrust his scarred face close to the man by the fire, questioning him fiercely. Hamar laughed softly.
“The Lion-Slayer is dead, khan,” he whispered. “Sher Afghan has felt the hand of the Mogul—he who stood in the way of the love of the Mogul—he was sent for, resisted, and the men of Jahangir slew him in the fight that followed. That is the message. But give heed. There is a debt yet to be paid. The threads of fate must be knitted together.”
“What mean you, minstrel?” growled the Cossack.
“This!” Hamar laughed again. “I have known Sher Afghan. And Chauna Singh is his man, pledged to serve him to the death. When Nur-Jahan fled from the lord, he hated her—for his pride was stricken. And so he sent Chauna Singh. That much I know. Wherefore was the Rajput sent? Sher Afghan knew the love bond between the woman and Jahangir. He is not the man to see Nur-Jahan belong to another after his death.”
Khlit scanned the group by the fire, frowning. Chauna Singh and his comrade had ceased talking. The Rajput passed his hand across his eyes—once—and fumbled at his girdle. It was the gesture of a man feeling for a sword.
“See you that, khan?” muttered the minstrel. “Sher Afghan is dead. Chauna Singh has sworn an oath to his lord. Nay, I can guess what it was! Sher Afghan, as well as Jahangir, loved Nur-Jahan—and love knows no pity—”
Khlit had left his side. The Cossack strode to the girl, who had drawn nearer the precipice, looking out over the lake. But Chauna Singh was as quick as he.
The Rajput had placed his hand on the girl's shoulder, not roughly, but gently. Khlit caught his wrist and held it firmly. The eyes of Chauna Singh burned into his own, the blind eye dull and lifeless. Nur-Jahan turned and seeing the two men, was silent.
“Nay, Chauna Singh,” growled the Cossack. “Are you a man to do a thing such as this?”
The lips of the Rajput curled angrily.
“Back, khan,” he snarled. “Fool of the steppe! This is a matter which concerns you not.”
Nur-Jahan drew a quick breath. Hamar and the other stared, surprised into silence. Khlit's gaze did not flinch.
“The woman came to me in the desert,” he said calmly. “We have shared bread and salt. You and I, Chauna Singh, have fought the same foes. We be true men—you and I. You will not harm the woman.”
The Rajput wrenched himself free.
“I have sworn an oath, O one-without-understanding!” he hissed. “Is the word of a Rajput to his lord to be broken? Nay, since my birth it has not been so. When Sher Afghan's death should be known to me, I swore that Nur-Jahan should die. Thus does widow of the Raj join her lord. The lake will give her a grave. Back! I have sworn. Ho—” Khlit had drawn his sword— “Ramdoor Singh!”
Fiercely the Rajput cast himself empty-handed upon Khlit. As swiftly the Cossack struck. Chauna Singh's turban had been used to cover the feet of his mistress and his head was bare. The curved blade fell upon his temple, sending him reeling to the earth.
As he struck, Khlit had deftly turned his weapon, so the flat of the blade had met the other's brow.
The next instant, at a warning cry from Nur-Jahan, he had turned in ti
me to ward a powerful sweep of Ramdoor Singh's weapon. The stocky warrior leaped back from Khlit's counterthrust and the two circled warily, striving to get the light of the fire in the other's eyes.
Again the weapons clashed. Weariness smote through Khlit's lean frame. He saw the dark face of the other framed against the black expanse of darkness over the lake.
Then Ramdoor Singh cast up his arms. His sword flew from his grasp. His body sank backward and away—and Khlit was gazing into the dark where his foe had been.
A second passed—and he heard a splash over the precipice, far beneath. Hamar came to his side and peered over the edge of the cliff.
“Ramdoor Singh wore mail,” the minstrel said slowly. “His death will be swift. I saw him slip on a little stone at the edge. Truly, the ways of fate are past knowing.”
XV
Khlit had seated himself on a stone, for he was weary, nursing his sword. And as he did so he watched Nur-Jahan. The woman had Chauna Singh's bleeding head on her knee. With strips torn from her undergarments and moistened in melted snow she bathed the dark bruise where Khlit's blade had crushed the skin.
From the other side of the fire Hamar watched, his thin frame sunken together with fatigue, his eyes bright as with fever. Chauna Singh stirred, moaned, and lifted a hand that trembled to his head.
“Ramdoor Singh!” he muttered. “Ramdoor Singh—to me! Ha—am I blind?”
“Nay, Chauna Singh,” said the girl softly, “you are hurt.”
The lips of the Rajput moved and his good eye opened, only to close at once. With returning consciousness the warrior stifled his groans. But the Cossack saw that he was in pain.
“Ramdoor Singh is dead—in the waters of Lamdok Tso,” went on Nur-Jahan, “and you would be likewise but for the mercy of the khan. He stayed his hand when he might have slain. That is well, for I would speak with you, Chauna Singh. Look at me!”
The man opened his eye and peered about him dully. A wrinkle of pain crossed his swollen forehead.
“I cannot see—yet,” he said calmly.
Nur-Jahan searched his bearded face intently, as if striving to read therein what she wanted to know.
“Tell me, Chauna Singh, warrior of Jhelam, man of Sher Afghan, who is dead—is it your will still to slay me? When have I done you ill? Nay, I thought that you had love for Nur-Jahan, the betrothed of Jahangir the Mogul.”
“By the sack of Chitore, I swore it—that I would safeguard you for him that was Sher Afghan, protect you and keep your honor with my life—until the death of my lord. I made him this oath when he set me after you, knowing that his life was no longer safe. Then, when I had news of his death, I was to slay you. By the sin of the sack of Chitore, on the word of a Rajput, it was sworn.”
Silence followed upon this. Khlit, meditating, recalled the speech of Chauna Singh—since life was in Ind, a Rajput has kept faith.
And Nur-Jahan had suspected something of this, for she had not told Chauna Singh that a man of Sher Afghan awaited them. Chauna Singh had done his best to keep his oath. Nay—knowing the man, Khlit felt this to be true—he would still strive to carry out his word.
“What care I for Jahangir,” the Rajput muttered fiercely, “the Mogul—a Muslim without doubt—a stripling? Nay, Sher Afghan is dead.”
Nur-Jahan stroked his forehead idly with the cloth. Fatigue had drawn the flesh of her round face close upon the bones—yet had increased the beauty of the lovely mouth and dark eyes.
“The time came,” spoke Nur-Jahan softly, “and you attacked me, Chauna Singh. If I live, I shall be mistress of many thousand swords. Will you not forget and have the honor that I can give you?”
“I will not forget.”
“You cannot carry out your promise to—to Sher Afghan. Unwillingly I was forced to cross the threshold of the Lion-Slayer's home. Chauna Singh, my heart has been in the keeping of Jahangir—although I have seen him not for years. We were betrothed. Allah's mercy may bring me safe to the court of the Mogul. Think upon that, Chauna Singh—and say if you will not forget. You have not known the bond of love?”
“Aye, for my lord. He was a true man.”
“And you can be to me what you were to him.”
A mute shake of the head was her answer.
“We have shared peril together, Chauna Singh.”
The Rajput was silent, his dark face impassive.
“Harken, Chauna Singh—” the beautiful head lifted proudly— “it is Mir-un-nissa who asks, Nur-Jahan, Light of the Palace and Flower of the World. I ask it of you. Forget the oath.”
“It may not be.”
Across the fire Khlit saw Hamar watching keenly what passed. The face of the minstrel was inscrutable. A thought came to Khlit. Chauna Singh would be faithful to his word. And this must cost him his life.
Nur-Jahan could not carry the wounded man down the mountain slopes to safety. Chauna Singh was strong, and the wound was not severe. The girl's life would not be safe in his company.
Khlit had discovered Ramdoor Singh's horse picketed in a clump of willows not far from the fire—and some dried dates and rice in the saddlebags. Enough to get them alive into Kashmir. But they could not take Chauna Singh.
What then? Leave him by Lamdok Tso? That meant death, for the warrior was half starved, and hurt, and travelers in the Kandrum pass were few.
It was for Nur-Jahan to decide, thought Khlit. And he watched the girl. She shook back the dark hair from her eyes and stretched out her small hand.
“Give me the curved sword, khan.”
Khlit handed her the blade without a word. The girl fingered it quietly. Then laid it against the side of Chauna Singh's throat. The Rajput gave no sign he had heard, or felt.
“Look at me, Chauna Singh,” she said.
The man shook his head slightly.
“I cannot see. The hurt is above my eye.”
“You can feel. I hold the curved sword of the khan, Khlit. Speak, Chauna Singh! Since you will not forget the oath, you must choose. Shall it be death here, at my hand—or to be left when we go down the pass at dawn? As you choose, it shall be.” Chauna Singh raised himself unsteadily on one arm.
“I do not offer you life, Chauna Singh—for I know that you may not be bought. Choose!”
The Rajput laughed and lay back on the earth wearily.
“Shall I be food for the ravens, Nur-Jahan? Nay, let it be death by the sword. It is well. And then the waters of the lake.”
The girl brushed the sword against his throat. And Khlit saw her smile.
“Give heed,” she said softly. “Your life is mine. You have said it. And—I spare it. I have taken from Sher Afghan the life of his follower that was his. And I have given you fresh life. Remember—for it is a debt—and you are a man of the Raj.”
No muscle moved in the warrior's face. In the silence Khlit heard the murmur of water against the lake shore beneath them.
“It is a debt, Chauna Singh. Your life is mine, and I am safe henceforth from harm at your hand. Some day you will pay back the debt. That is the way of the Raj.” She turned to Khlit wearily. “You have found food, khan. We must eat and sleep. For we must be on our way at dawn.”
Khlit wondered but said nothing as he took back his sword. For the first time in many days he saw Hamar eat—but sparingly.
So it happened that when the pale dawn touched the peaks above them and the faint reflections took shape in the dark pool of Lamdok Tso, Nur-Jahan had Chauna Singh placed upon the horse and they set their faces toward Kashmir. Now Chauna Singh's scarred face was somber, for he saw nothing of the dawn. And Hamar, walking before them, did not make music upon his vina.
“Here is talk of a debt,” Khlit heard the minstrel mutter, “but who shall give the gods what is owing to them?”
XVI
It had rained for a day and a night and part of the next day. Hamar, who led the four, shivered beneath his thin garment. The horse under Nur-Jahan and Chauna Singh slipped and floundered down the mud of the trail.<
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Khlit, walking beside the minstrel, moved ahead mechanically, as he had done for many days. He could see little of their surroundings, for a wall of rain closed them in. He noticed that the crags and ravines of the mountains had given way to dark green woods, traversed by foaming freshets. The air was warmer. This was well, he thought, for Nur-Jahan could not have lived through the rain, had the cold of the mountain peaks been upon them.
He guessed—since the minstrel was silent and Nur-Jahan in the stupor of weariness—that they were among foothills. But as yet there was no sign of dwelling or human being.
Chauna Singh had not spoken since the night of Ramdoor Singh's death. But Khlit fancied that the Rajput's sight had healed in his good eye. Nur-Jahan seemed to have no fear of Chauna Singh since she had spared the warrior's life. She had laid a debt upon the man.
They were content to follow Hamar, who had said that there was a building near at hand.
Khlit was weary, and he knew that Nur-Jahan's slender strength was only upheld by the thought of her nearness to Jahangir and the Mogul court. Hamar's endurance amazed him— when he roused himself to think collectively. The man pressed ahead as if driven by a will more than human—stumbling and shivering as he went, but with eyes fastened on the rain mist in front of them.
In this manner out of the breast of Himachal came the four— to where a wall loomed out of the mist. A wall of stone, carved with characters unknown to Khlit.
Hamar greeted the stone inscription with a glad cry and hastened his steps, turning off to one side of the way, to follow the wall which stretched before them, endlessly graven with the car-ven letters.
Chauna Singh had not looked up.
“Here is the place we seek!” croaked the minstrel. “Lo, the prayers to a great god are upon the stone. Come, we must hasten! We have been long.”
And he shivered again, raising trembling hands to his head. The man's eyes were alight as if from fever. Khlit thought that it was a strange fever—not knowing the manner of strength which had sustained the fragile man for so long.