by Harold Lamb
In contrast to the light hunting-garb of the handsome, oliveskinned Turkoman, the khan rode fully armed in khud—steel headdress—and zirih beneath his tunic, with mace and sword at his girdle. Paluwan Khan was a dark-browed, stoop-shouldered man, and more than a little bow-legged.
Tala faced them defiantly, only drawing the cloak closer under her eyes.
“An Afghan, by the soul of Ali!” cried Paluwan Khan, scowling.
“And not ill-shaped,” added Alacha, fingering his mustache.
“No place this, for a brat of the ill-omened brood,” grunted the khan.
“After all,” murmured Alacha, his slant eyes straying idly back to his falcon, from the girl, “she is dirty, and rags distort even the finest limbs. Ho, little thief, what do you here? What seek you in the hunting-ground of the Mogul?”
Tala's eyes blazed.
“This land was my father's field,” she cried. “And you, O Alacha, are a greater thief than I, for your men have taken my cattle, leaving only this buffalo that is sick and like to die.”
“Then is your father a traitor, wench,” said Alacha in a colorless voice. Unlike the khan, he seemed to enjoy the hot words of the girl. “For he is with the black standard of rebellious Abdul Dost.”
Under his gaze, curiously thoughtful, as if the aspect of the woman called up a familiar thought, Tala turned her head aside.
“Am I not to be paid for the cattle?” she asked passively.
Paluwan Khan laughed in his beard and would have spurred on, but Alacha turned cold eyes from Tala to the foremost of his retinue, a gigantic Turk, Hossein by name.
“Hossein, offspring of sin,” he observed, twisting the end of his light mustache delicately, “your race is covetous of the women of other lands. Let me see, I have given you Georgian, Circassian, Khorassani and Kirghiz, but never—before this—an Afghan. Would yonder sharp-tongued baggage please you?”
“Aye, my lord,” bellowed the stout warrior. “There is no bounty like my lord's.”
He was clad in the barbaric splendor that was then the fashion in Constantinople. A blue kaftan, fur-tipped, enveloped his massive shoulders, over a white robe embroidered with cloth-of-gold, somewhat soiled. Hossein had wrestled in the courts of the Osmanli, and his garb mimicked the splendor of the sultans, just as the jewels on his black paws imitated the Greek fashion, and also the chain of turquoise about his bull neck.
“Aye, fountain of imperial mercy,” he salaamed, small eyes glittering. “If her tongue be too sharp for my taste, a knife will blunt it—”
Tala thrust out a contemptuous lower lip. “Is this the justice of Alacha?”
Neither of the nobles deigned to reply. Hossein advanced on Tala, seizing the nose-cord of the buffalo. Alacha looked on, much amused.
The Slayer was something of a philosopher, having passed his boyhood as disciple in a meddresse of Samarkand, and wandering from there to Bokhara and its mosques, to idolatrous Antioch and cosmopolitan Constantinople. Nominally a Mohammedan, he was familiar with the doctrines of Shiite and Sunnite, Zoroastrian and Hebrew, and the shamans, or conjurer-priests, of Mongolia.
Thus he had the intelligence and capacity for evil of the mosque-raised boy and the ready wits of a wanderer.
He could quote readily from the Persian poets, the astronomy of Uleg Beg, or the hero epic of the Ramayana. Supremely intelligent, he allowed others to do his fighting for him, and his quarreling. In great favor with the petulant Jahangir, he was skilled in anticipating the moods of his monarch.
Some said that the cruelty of the slender Turkoman was not natural to him, being assumed to satisfy Jahangir; others that by cruelty he hoped to make his name feared, being loath to hazard his person in battle to that end.
Now he glanced up, his smooth face revealing as much surprise as it was capable of showing. A broad, bent figure clad in heavy sheepskins had approached Hossein silently and laid a massive hand on the Turk's shoulder.
“By the gods!” murmured Alacha.
He stared at the companion of the newcomer, a veiled woman mounted on a white Arab.
“Stand aside,” said, or rather growled, the man of the sheepskins.
Hossein gaped and stepped back to shake off the hand that gripped him. Failing in this, he reached for a knife in his girdle.
“Unmannered dog!” he shouted. “Child of a dog—”
His heavy voice waxed shrill with anger. He had noticed the brown, curling hair and the blue eyes of the man who faced him— a Circassian.
Between Turk and Circassian there was a world-old feud. The stranger folded his arms, his eyes hard. Upon shoulder and swelling forearm the leather garments clung tightly, molded over iron-like muscles. He did not move to touch the short, bare sword thrust through his belt.
Alacha, who was a keen observer, noted that the sheepskins of the powerful stranger seemed ill in keeping with the splendid workmanship of the sword. And he fancied that the woman, although wearing the heavy wool of a commoner, bore herself too well on the blooded horse to be a person of the countryside. Her veil and the pearl chaplet bound over her dark hair were of Persian design.
Paluwan Khan, impatient at the second interruption, commanded Hossein to knock the stranger down, seize the girl and continue on with the hunt, in the name of Allah's mercy.
“Nay,” cried the woman on the horse, “he is my man—” nodding at the broad figure in sheepskins—“and he will take the Afghan woman for me.”
Alacha toyed with the silver chain of his hawk and frowned, puzzled by the imperious voice of the woman and the boldness of her servant.
“Hossein,” he purred, “are you minded to give place to a boor, a shepherd clown?”
His glance still dwelt on the veiled stranger, noting the stately figure and the wealth of dark hair. Why did such a one ride alone, except for a single slave? Who was she? What did she want of the Afghan child?
Paluwan Khan spurred to his side.
“In the name of Satan and all his brood, why barter words with a woman? They profit a man nothing, and they sting like serpents.”
Alacha waved him aside. Surely the newcomer was beautiful. Probably, since she was alone, she was masterless. If he could know for certain that she was not wife or mistress of some noble more powerful than himself—
“O khanum—” he bent his handsome head slightly—“have you a claim to this wretched girl, that you countermand the word of Alacha?”
“I desire her.” The woman seemed to be smiling behind her veil. “And I have been listening, my lord, behind yonder thicket to—the words of Alacha.”
“Ah.”
The Turkoman bit his carefully tended mustache reflectively. The woman had wit. Likewise—so he assured himself—there must be a purpose behind her speech. If he only knew—
“Khanum, it is never my wish to forgo the desire of beauty. You have a sturdy scoundrel to attend you—eh, he is not lacking in boldness. Then let him try his strength with the wrestler, Hossein. Let the Afghan maiden be the prize.”
He expected a protest, perhaps the disclosure of her name and rank. And by soft words he hoped to win her favor.
“So be it,” she said after a pause. “Geron is no weakling.”
At this the Circassian silently discarded coat and belt and stood forth in leather jerkin and woolen trousers. Hossein, after a glance at his master, did likewise, baring hairy shoulders and arms, massive and full-fleshed.
“Ho, Circassian dog,” he bellowed, “I will make kohl for your blue eyes out of the dust. Nay, I will redden your pale cheeks with blood.”
Geron glanced at him impassively. He stood not as tall as the Turk, but he was broader across the shoulders and chest. Moreover his arms were of gorilla-like length, and his legs—unlike Hossein's—were heavily thewed.
“Is your man skilled as a wrestler, khanum ?” growled Paluwan Khan, becoming interested. He had pressed forward, to form a ring about the two champions, with others of the hunting-party.
“If not, his b
ones will crack like twigs, and I shall take that bright sword of his, for it likes me well.”
“He is no wrestler,” observed the woman. “Ai—”
Hossein with professional shrewdness had suddenly gripped Geron about the shoulders, his plump arms twining for a head-lock. The Circassian, taken by surprise, twisted about and broke free with some trouble. He stood erect, breathing deeply, and then gasped wholeheartedly. The Turk, angered by the failure of his first hold, butted him full in the stomach.
“Is your man a wrestler?” asked the woman quickly. “I think he is a ram.”
She broke off as Geron was heavily thrown by a more successful trick of the Turk. The breath seemed to have been knocked from his stout body by this second impact, yet when Hossein would have fallen upon him with a cry of triumph, he wriggled aside and stood erect, glaring at his tormentor.
Squealing with self-inspired rage, Hossein rushed at him head down. Again they grappled, and the two powerful bodies swayed and staggered over the turf. Alacha barely glanced at them. He was sure of the outcome, and he was more interested in the woman who took delight in a man's sport.
The Turk, feinting craftily, jerked Geron's knees from under him and pounced upon his sweating shoulders, driving home the head-hold he sought—his forearm locked under the chin of his adversary, his weight full on Geron's neck.
“Now the twig will snap, crack—like that!” Paluwan Khan grinned, and snapped his fingers
The woman clapped her hands.
“Geron!” she cried. “Make an end.”
But the Circassian's broad face was purple, and he gasped. Be a man ever so strong, he cannot put forth his strength without wind in his lungs. Hossein was silent now, striving wickedly to break the neck of his foe. The wrestling match had become a deadly struggle.
Tala sat her buffalo, scrutinizing combatants and spectators with sharp interest. Such sport was in her mind the play of slaves. Men of her race fought with sharp sword-edges. Although she might well have done so, she made no effort to run off.
She had noted every detail of the appearance of the woman on the horse. But chiefly she watched the Slayer.
The two wrestlers had sunk to the ground, Geron underneath. The friends of Hossein had raised a triumphant shout. This seemed to act as the spur the great Circassian needed, for a brown arm shot out from the writhing mass and closed about the throat of the Turk.
The watchers saw Hossein thrust back and his grip broken as easily as a severed vine is pulled from a tree trunk. The muscles of Geron's arm swelled and cracked as he rose slowly to his knees, gulping deep breaths of air into a laboring chest.
Out of red eyes, under sweat-dripping brows, he stared at the struggling Hossein. The Turk, by a crafty twist, jerked free, blood spurting from his throat and mouth as be did so. Then Geron, still kneeling, caught him sidewise by the waist and rose with his burden to his feet.
Gripping the Turk fast on his shoulder, Geron stared about him and stepped to the edge of the pool. His hands shifted from waist to the neck of Hossein and his broad shoulders heaved.
Hossein, the skilled wrestler, flew through the air and fell, a good four paces away, into the pool near the watching Tala. The water was shallow, yet Hossein lay passive beneath it, stunned.
“Let him lie,” said Alacha softly. “I have no service for a weakling.”
But Geron paced forward a trifle unsteadily, stooped, and drew the unconscious body from the water. Without looking at it he walked to his sheepskin coat and belt, girded on his sword and seized the nose-cord of Tala's buffalo. Then he spoke to Paluwan Khan.
“This blade—” he smote the haft of his short weapon—“was fashioned for my hand, not for yours, my lord.”
The noble shrugged his shoulders and would have urged Ala-cha forward on the hunt, but the Slayer had been whispering to the woman.
“In the name of all the gods, who is your champion? He handled Hossein like a sack of grain.”
“My lord,” she laughed, “he is no miller but a maker of swords. He is Geron, the armorer of the Mogul.”
Alacha stared at the man who for half a generation had tempered and shaped the Damascus and Persian blades for Jahangir.
“The imperial favor would shine upon us coldly,” swore Paluwan Khan in his ear, “if your stupid wrestler had broken the neck of the great smith. Said I not a woman was a breeder of trouble—” “But such a woman,” whispered Alacha. “Half the spoils of Afghanistan for a sight of her face.”
To the stranger he added:
“The Afghan girl is yours; verily your wrestler is a worthy servant indeed. Yet for you a champion of nobler blood should be supplied. Will you lighten my eyes with gladness by allowing me to escort you to the camp? Perhaps if you have no tent, or await some one from the court—”
“I wait for no one, Alacha,” she responded. “But I will ride with you to your tent.”
Whereupon, preceded by Geron and Tala on her buffalo, the woman and Alacha turned back along the stream toward the camp of the Mogul's army.
Within the inner recess of Alacha's tent the woman of the pearls seated herself upon the cushions of the Slayer, yet when he would have knelt upon the rug in front of her, she checked him with an imperious gesture.
“It is not fitting you should sit,” she explained, adding softly, “You know not my rank. “
This indeed was causing Alacha no little worry. He frowned, for he fancied that his visitor was making game of him. If he could but know her name, and her purpose in seeking him—
Smilingly he offered his visitor dainty refreshment of sherbet, ice-cooled, and figs in syrup. These, however, the woman commanded to be taken to Tala in the entrance compartment of the tent, with more substantial fare for Geron.
Alacha's smooth brow flushed darkly at this affront to his hospitality. He fumbled with the jewels at his throat, trying to meet the glance of the dark-eyed beauty who was tranquilly scrutinizing the splendid coloring of a peacock—one of the Slayer's pets.
“Now, my lord.” she observed at length, “I wish you to tell me how the campaign goes—how you and the pillars of empire have fared against the Afghan.”
Politely, slightly ironically, he bowed. “To do that, my lady, I must first know your name.”
“Then—” the brown eyes flashed at him mockingly over the veil—“I must needs tell you. The whole of the Mogul's army has passed through the Shyr into Badakshan; you have burned to the ground a score of villages, and planted as many headmen upon stakes. Balkh you have seized, and levied tribute of half their wealth upon its merchants. Slaves you have taken—”
“From the thieving Pathans.”
“Who must become the servants of Jahangir. Was it wise? My lord Alacha, you have advanced the imperial army over half Badakshan, destroying the crops, fruits and vineyards that you have not stripped for yourself—”
“Khanum, we have driven the Afghans before us.”
“Verily? You have not engaged them in battle.”
“Nay, they fly before the imperial standard. True, they harass our foraging parties and our supply caravans. They be born brigands.”
“Who love their freedom.”
Alacha's full lip curled. Was the woman seeking to play upon him? She wore the headdress and veil of a married woman, yet she rose alone near the army. She had befriended an Afghan girl. Wherefore?
“Your words are a well of wisdom, khanum,” he parried. “Perchance also your wisdom has found a part for the hill maiden to play.”
His visitor nodded gravely.
“Aye, my lord. I shall send her to Abdul Dost with a message.”
The Turkoman laughed. If this were intrigue it was poorly concealed. He became more bold, for he fancied the woman sought to win his favor. That she should be a friend of the Afghans he doubted. The men of the hills had no wits in their empty skulls.
“It is written that the fairest of women unite the pearls of wisdom to the diamond of beauty,” he smiled, approaching her. “H
appy is the hour when such a companion comes to my tent—”
“Have you not bound the girdle of fidelity to your master, the Mogul, about the cloak of war?” she asked calmly. “Alacha, I have seen the manner in which you serve your lord. No eyes have you for aught save the women you may take, or the spoil you may pile beside your tent.”
The Turkoman shrugged his shoulders, staring curiously at the woman who treated him as a servant.
“Alacha,” she continued thoughtfully, “I also serve the Mogul, and he trusts me above his generals. Wherefore I say to offer Abdul Dost fair terms. Let the Afghan make peace in honor. Offer amends for the pillaging done by your men. Send the girl Tala with the message.”
“Amends—to the Afghan? When we have the imperial army mustered for battle? What would Jahangir say?”
He laughed tolerantly. It pleased him to match words with his fair visitor.
The brown eyes fell serious at once, and she spoke with masculine directness.
“Alacha, you and the other ameers think much of the glory that may be won in a battle. Yet are we all servants of India, and the Mogul of India.” Her voice quickened and she sat erect. “Where have your spies been? Have you no tidings of aid coming to Adbul Dost from the northern tribes?”
“Aye—some talk there has been among the mountain men of Mongol clans gathering beyond the hills. But naught have I heard from the priest who is my spy among the Mongols.”
“Talk! If you meet these same clans in battle the imperial army will feel the weight of a skilled sword. Grant them peace and you may win strong allies—Afghans and Mongols. Then will the empire of India wax greater thereby.”
Alacha smiled, adjusting the folds of his elaborate cloak.
“The clans will never win through the passes of the Roof of the World, my lady. Verily, this is a matter for the wisdom of men, not for a woman's tongue. Will you not rest—”
“Nay. Alacha, once I came through the passes of the northern hills from the desert and the city of the black priests—Khoten. For guide I had a warrior of the Mongol clans. Now he has gone back to his people.”