by Harold Lamb
“Bember Hakim is the man of the Mogul," shrilled Shaista Mirza. “He is the faithful servant of Jahangir. His words are as the pearls of truth, for he saw the death in this valley—"
“He will say that Rao Singh is in a stupor," cried Nureddin.
“Let him speak!" growled the khan.
The wizened figure in the white cloak fell on its knees before the Kirghiz. “Rao Singh spoke not the truth," he cried.
Shaista Mirza smiled while the witness crawled closer to the khan and embraced his boots.
“Aie," chanted the figure at the feet of Kargan Khan, “I have seen what I have seen. I saw the fair head of the Flower of the Hills sink in death under the sword of the miserable Jaffar. I have heard Shaista Mirza boast that he ordered the death.
“Aie! My spirit is parched with the thirst of vengeance. Jaffar is slain. But Shaista Mirza lives—"
The pale face of Shaista Mirza flushed and his eyes widened. “Traitor! False to your bread—"
Shaista Mirza struck at the prostrate form with his dagger, realizing that the man had betrayed him and understanding now why Rao Singh, who had been placed in his care, was free from opium. The Persian's dark brow was rife with hatred and fear as he thought how Bember Hakim must have fallen in with Khlit at the Baramula trail on his quest to Kargan Khan. Kargan Khan read this swiftly.
The next instant Shaista Mirza reined back sharply among his bodyguard, who had pressed forward. For Kargan Khan had bounded upon him and struck down a shield that was interposed. His second blow felled the holder of the shield to earth and he sprang after the Persian, slashing at the spears of the riders who sought to ward him off and bellowing his war-cry.
And after Kargan came Rao Singh, who had snatched up the weapon of the felled rider. And upon his heels came the mass of the Kirghiz, fearful for their chief.
In an instant the valley resounded with the clash of steel, the frenzied snorts of horses and the cry of the injured.
The Kirghiz had attacked with fury, led by Kargan, who had mounted. In the confined space was no room for maneuvering or for the use of arrows. The compact bands of horsemen made one struggling mass, where knee pressed knee and shield clashed against shield.
Khlit had set spurs to his horse and forced his way into the center of the ranks. He found Rao Singh and drew the Hindu away from the Persian files, protesting.
“Have you forgotten?" the Cossack cried sternly. “There are those who await your coming."
At that Rao Singh had turned and sped to the cleft in the slope where he disappeared behind the rocks.
One other man had parted from the battle. Nureddin, after a glance around, had wheeled his horse and slipped back through the array of the Persians. Once clear of the valley he set out swiftly down the Jhilam road.
Kargan Khan had flung himself into battle with the sole thought of finding and striking down the mirza. His men had attacked readily, savagely, but without plan or formation.
The Persian's forces had given back at first, then closed in with the armored horsemen in front. Shaista Mirza, safe behind the cordon of his men, directed the fight craftily.
In the narrow quarters the Kirghiz could not employ their favorite tactics of enveloping their foe, and were forced to fight hand to hand. They had little armor, and their horses were wearied. The fury of their first onset waned, and they split up into knots of horsemen, wheeling and plunging at superior numbers.
All this Khlit noticed, and frowned.
Then that for which he watched came to pass. Down the cleft in the ravine, down the rock-slope, even down the cliff itself, swarmed dark figures chattering with eagerness and bearing knives, rusted spears, clubs or stones. And at their head was Rao Singh.
They raced behind the Hindu brandishing their makeshift weapons, and fell upon the flanks and rear of the Persians.
Thus did Rao Singh put himself at the head of the forest men of Jhilam even as his father Sattar Singh had done before him, though under different circumstances.
The Kashmiris were unskilled warriors but they had the agility of their kind, and their anger against the Persians was a great anger. With their coming the Kirghiz pressed in, raising their war-cry anew. Khlit could see the broad figure of Kargan Khan at their head, his weapon flashing.
“Hey," he meditated, “it is a good fight. Yet it is the fight of Rao Singh and Kargan Khan."
He fingered his sword, swearing anxiously. Never before had he been a spectator of a battle. Then he sheathed his sword and sighed.
The fight—the first phase of it—was over. The Persians, their ranks broken, were streaming back toward the valley entrance. By their flanks, clutching and stabbing, went the Kashmiris, and in their rear the Kirghiz struck down the fleeing riders. Half of Shaista Mirza's men lay in the davan.
Khlit, galloping among the Kirghiz, caught up with Kargan Khan at the edge of the lake. Twilight had fallen, and the cries of the stricken mercenaries were growing fainter down the Jhilam road.
Kargan Khan with a band of his men had halted to stare at a red glow on the lake. In the dusk it flickered from the surface of the water.
“'Tis witchcraft!" muttered Kargan Khan.
“Nay," laughed Khlit, “ 'tis but the pleasure island of Shaista Mirza gone up in flames after the visit of the fisher-folk. The villagers have attacked the castle and overcome the scanty garrison."
“Praise be to the gods!"
Kargan Khan looked at Khlit curiously.
“Nay, did you plan this rising of the Kashmiris? It served us well."
“Rao Singh leads them," said Khlit, and was silent.
Then he laughed. “Nureddin—I saw the rascal flee—will be well greeted at the castle. And those of Shaista Mirza who reach there will fare little better."
While he trotted beside the Kirghiz after the fugitives Kargan Khan looked at Khlit long, wondering how much Khlit had foreknown of what came to pass at the Kizil Yar.
There were few of the Persians who escaped from Jhilam that night, and Shaista Mirza was not among them. And that night Rao Singh took the chair of his father in the council-hall of Jhilam.
Concerning Bember Hakim there is a strange tale. A forest man of Jhilam tells the tale. It was the day after the battle, at dawn, and he saw Khlit and Bember Hakim go into the forest along the Baramula trail.
Being curious, the man followed. He saw the two come to a heap of stones that seemed to mark a grave. There, so says the Kashmiri, Bember Hakim threw off his cloak, tunic, and sandals and washed some stains from his face with snow.
Then—such is the tale—Bember Hakim rewound his turban in a different fashion and took from the rocks a green cloak and other garments, which he put on, shouldering also a heavy leopard-skin pack.
Thus Bember Hakim the Arab physician became in the eyes of the Kashmiri Cheker Ghar, the conjurer and mimic—Cheker Ghar, who pressed Khlit's hand to his forehead and departed to the South, while Khlit rode alone to the North.
This tale of the Kashmiri was adjudged a lie by those who heard. For how could one man be like to two?
Doubtless, said those who heard, the Kashmiri had partaken of the good wine of Shiraz, for that night there had been great feasting in Jhilam, and much rejoicing among the men of Jhilam.
The Skull of Shirzad Mir
What is written in the book of Fate no man may read.
The grave of the rider of the desert will be dug in the blue hills of Badakshan; he will not know it until the dark angel of death is at hand.
The astrologer may sit on his strip of carpet in the cupola of the temple and seek the wisdom of the stars in the night. But he will not see the hand with the dagger that rises behind him.
Mogul proverb
The sun was high over the Shyr Pass when Gutchluk Khan reined his horse in my path. It was the year 1608 in the calendar of the Christian priests, and the year of the Ox by the reckoning of my people.
The Shyr Pass at this place is not wide, for one of the rivulets of the Amu Daria
flows beside the caravan track. On either hand the willows and rocks press close. Likewise, Gutchluk Khan was a broad man, with a figure like a full sack of wine, and there were two with him. They carried bows and round shields, small and bossed with silver, after the manner of their race—the Uzbeks.
It is a saying of my master, Baber Shirzad Mir, who heard it said by the dead Mogul Akbar—on whom be peace—that, when in difficulty, put spurs to your horse and ride forward. It is well said. This thought came to my mind when I saw the turbaned bulk of Gutchluk Khan, and I pressed toward him, touching the hilt of my sword lightly with my free hand.
Gutchluk Khan was not the same man with a sword as with his speech. He watched, not pleased to stay where he was at the edge of the river but not wishing to rein back.
“Ho, Abdul Dost!" he cried loudly. “Whither go you?"
Speech is ever a trick of those who wish you ill. And I loved not the stout Uzbek, whose sword was too often for sale and who, in the year of the Ox, was numbered among the men of Jani Beg. Wherefore I pressed forward until the gold cloth at the peak of my saddle rubbed against the shoulder straps of his steppe pony.
Now I was at that time two-score years and lean. I have heard it said in the bazaars that I ride better than most and use my scimitar as well as any but a very few of the Mogul's picked mans-abdars. Doubtless Gutchluk Khan knew this, and stout men are tender of injury.
He reined his horse to one side and his followers likewise. Yet when I had passed them so much as a horse's length, I halted.
A thought had come to me. I was bound for Khanjut, where was my lord, Shirzad Mir. He was prisoner to Jani Beg. Gutchluk Khan had seen me and would follow if he suspected my horse's head was turned to Khanjut. He would doubtless be glad of an excuse to set his pig's face back toward the camp of Jani Beg, where were captive women and the musicians and wine of the Beg.
“I go," I said, “to Anderab to seek a new horse."
“Nay, Abdul Dost, your horse is good." His swine's eyes puckered at me. “It is one of the breed of Kabul. And you, truly, are a one-mount soldier."
It was true the horse was excellent. It was a gift of Shirzad Mir—may his soul have peace! Gutchluk lied when he swore I was a rider of one mount. Ten years ago, when Shirzad Mir was chieftain of Badakshan, the king of kings, whose court was a heaven and who was a warrior to warm the heart, the Shadow of God, Akbar, the emperor, had given me the rank of mansabdar, with the privilege of a double remount.
But Gutchluk Khan did not know this. Nor did I care if he knew. My heart was sore with thought of Shirzad Mir in chains and doomed to death.
“He is bred—" I patted the neck of Wind-of-the-Hills—“to take the road from mongrels."
“And from Moguls," chuckled Gutchluk Khan, who lacked not wit after a fashion. “He has learned that trick from his master. Aye, you and the other men of Shirzad Mir—those that still live— have earned the hatred of the all-powerful Jahangir, Mogul of India, whose whisper is a shout of command, even in these northern hills. Wherefore Shirzad Mir will die before sunrise tonight."
It was true that Jani Beg had so ordered. A boy shepherd had told me the news, down the pass.
“He will be slain," smiled Gutchluk Khan, “by a bowstring drawn taut around the neck. When he is dead, his head will be cut off. It will be emptied and the skull set in gold."
The two followers laughed, for they were three and I was one. Nevertheless they kept their bows in hand. I was very angry, and they had heard tales of my swordplay.
“The skull," mocked the Uzbek, “will be dried and will be a drinking-cup to fill with wine of Shiraz for the favorite of Jani Beg. The women will toy with it."
Gutchluk Khan was well pleased that he had angered me.
“Ho," he cried, waving his plump hand at me, “there will be rare sport when Jani Beg gives the order to hunt you down, Abdul Dost! He will fly his horsemen at you like falcons, and they will add your head to the minaret of skulls by the gate of Khanjut. But the skull of Baber Shirzad Mir, the Tiger Lord, he will keep for his women's delight."
Three years ago Akbar the Great, Mogul of India, had passed to the mercy of God. He had been the friend of Shirzad Mir. Jahangir, Akbar's son, had little liking for us hillmen.
Besides, Jani Beg, the Uzbek, had spent much gold among the courtiers of Jahangir and had whispered that Shirzad Mir was a rebel who sought Badakshan for himself. Shirzad Mir was a proud man; he did not give up the kingdom when Jani Beg came—with Jahangir's consent—at the head of an army to demand it.
It was false that he had rebelled against the Mogul. But we were far from the court—and Jani Beg had spent much gold. We had done no evil. Only, we had not gone to the court, as the Uzbek did. It is written in our annals—the annals of Badakshan—that the screech of an owl in the wilderness is more pleasant than the song of the nightingale in the grove; the caves of the mountain-tops are finer than the cities of the valley.
When it was too late, we understood. But the word had gone forth that we had taken up arms against the Mogul, and those who were of faint heart deserted us.
As a last resort I had mounted and gone through the Uzbek lines, through the pass, to Kabul to seek the governor of the Mogul. But at Kabul I found Said Afzel, the son of Jani Beg, who had given the governor much silk, camels, brocades and slaves. I could do naught, being a man of slow speech, without a present in my hand.
It was then, when I rode back through the pass, I learned that Shirzad Mir had, to save the lives of his followers, surrendered Khanjut and appealed to the mercy of Jahangir.
But the voice of the Tiger Lord carried no further than the foothills of the Hindu Kush. That night he was to be slain.
Knowing these things, what answer had I to the gibes of Gutch-luk Khan? It was an evil day.
Even at the last, Jani Beg and the courtiers who were with him had not kept faith with Shirzad Mir. They had promised him life, and they were making ready his death bed.
Verily, it came to my mind, when I heard the talk of the sheep-boy, that he who holds power under a prince should not be absent from the court. But it was too late.
If the Mogul had known the truth, it might have been otherwise. Aye, for his father was Akbar, who was a soldier. And a soldier understands justice.
It is written by the men of wisdom that he who sits down to the feast of life must end by drinking the cup of death. Yet the cup that was at the lips of Shirzad Mir was bitter as dregs of sour wine. For who wants to be branded a traitor?
Of this thought I said naught to Gutchluk Khan. Seeing that he was waiting for me to speak, I was silent. He watched me from owl-like, blinking eyes. He had the broad, hooked nose of the Uzbek men, but his face was heavy with flesh and his beard scrawny. Instead of the sheepskin saddle-cover that his tribe usually owned, his saddle glittered with jewels, and his khalat was silk. He had been at the sack of Khanjut after the surrender.
“When Shirzad Mir is dead," he said, changing his tone, “you will be a free man. Why not enter the service of Jani Beg? He has an eye for a veteran swordsman. And he has watched you among the defenders of Khanjut. Where else will you go?"
The thought came to me that Gutchluk Khan would like to wheedle me and so to carry my head to Jani Beg. I smiled and he said no more.
It was a fair sight, if I had been so minded—the valley of Shyr. The rivulet muttered nearly under our feet, down the steep bank. Overhead, through the thin arms of the willows, was the blue, blue sky of the hill country. On either hand rose the mighty peaks of the Hindu Kush with their pine garments and snow heads. Hai—it was well to feel the keen air of the higher levels after the hot dampness of the Kabul fields!
And then I saw that Gutchluk and his followers were not looking at me. Along the path in front of them had come two men.
No man—but only God—knows what lies before him. Here were two men on foot, and I had never seen their like before. None but peasants, shepherds and slaves walk afoot in my country. Yet these two had no horses.<
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Even the followers of Gutchluk Khan wore cloth of silver and had gems of sorts, such as turquoise, on the hilts of their scimitars. These strangers wore plain weapons of dull steel in leather scabbards and their swords were not curved but straight. The taller of the two had a cloak of dull brown with a plain metal clasp at the throat. Also boots of loose leather, such as the Tatars wear.
But he was no Tatar. His green eyes were level and his face was fair as a Circassian. His yellow beard and mustache were pointed. A plain ruffle of white cloth showed at his throat, which was bare. Instead of a turban he wore a small green cap with a long feather.
By these things I knew that the two were Franks, or Ferangs, called by the black Portuguese priests of Agra Christian Europeans.
I stared, for I had not seen a Ferang before. Nor had Gutchluk Khan and his men. The taller of the two strangers lifted his hand for speech. And Gutchluk Khan rode toward him slowly, afire with curiosity.
It came about by chance. The arrogant bearing of Gutchluk Khan must have alarmed the shorter man, who had the rough garb of a servant, very dusty and tattered. This man stepped in front of the khan with upraised staff.
“Put down the staff!" cried the khan harshly.
He was quick to mistrust—especially those who were strangers.
The man either did not understand or would not obey. He planted his feet doggedly and waited. His eyes shone from a dusty face. Gutchluk Khan spoke a quick word to his followers and one of them fitted arrow to bow.
The shaft sped and I saw the feathers stick from the throat of the man with the staff, under the chin. He coughed and fell to his knees, spitting blood. Then he lay flat in the road, moving slowly.
The tall man gave an exclamation and stepped to the side of the servant. He bent over and touched the arrow; then he stood up, drawing his long sword.
In his face was distress for the man who had died. Yet it had been only a servant. The fellow had been a fool to threaten Gutch-luk Khan with his staff.
“These men are foreigners and infidels," said the Uzbek loudly. I thought to myself that the religion of Gutchluk Khan was the faith of whatever lord he followed—Mohammedan, Uzbek or