by Harold Lamb
“I will take the woman of the prince,” he growled, “to tell us what secrets she may. If she will not, torture will loose her tongue.”
Whereupon without glancing at the cold beauty of Nur-Jahan he swung her upon one of the horses brought thither by Tala. The girl and the minstrel mounted the other and led the way along the path, Berang bringing up impatiently in the rear.
When they had passed beyond the turn in the trail, the terrace before the cavern was very quiet for a space. An owl hooted in the scrub trees nearby, and suddenly there was a rush of wings, a dart of powerful talons, and the feathered assassin of the night descended upon the face of the dead man.
The talons struck and tore, yet the great bird sprang away, its pallid eyes gleaming. It had felt the rending of flesh under its claws, yet it flew away, knowing that the dead thing had been a man.
And straightaway there was a rustle on the lower path; the bushes parted, and Gutchluk peered about the glade. Seeing Alacha, the shaman ran forward, looking cautiously over his shoulder. He knelt, muttering:
“Exalted lord, harken to the message of thine humble servitor. I have run but now from the camp of thy foes. At dawn, the dawn after tomorrow, will Abdul Dost attack with all his force—My lord, harken—”
Gutchluk bent closer, thinking that Alacha slept, and so gained full sight of the cold face, streaked with dark talon marks, of the sightless eyes staring up at him.
With a gasp that ended in a muttering cry, the spy of Alacha scrambled to his feet, looked down wildly, and fled away along the trail, his dark robe clinging to outstretched arms.
Very much like a huge bat he seemed, winging its way upon the earth.
So the Slayer lay dead on the turf of the place where he had come, as to the eye of the mountain. Yet the plot that he had begun, the deceit he had formulated, the treachery he had fostered— all these lived.
Because of Alacha the mission of Nur-Jahan to make peace between the hereditary foes was fruitless. Abdul Dost had been tricked.
In the books of wisdom of the Muslims it is written that the dark ferrash strikes and a sultan dies, passing like as a drop of water from the surface of the desert. But the fruits of the tree of evil do not pass away.
Because of Alacha the prophecy of the blind Muhammad Asad was to come to pass, and the valley of Badakshan was to be filled with the bones of men.
All Berang's haste could not undo the harm that had been done. He found the Afghan camp astir with preparation. Sentries challenged sharply at every goat-path of the upper plain, bodies of horse moved slowly into position beside the river or occupied villages.
Foot soldiers—the mass of the Afghan force—furbished shields and scimitars and watched for dawn. Wounded men bandaged their hurts. Women and children, thronging in from the nearby hills, brought milk and mealcakes.
The Afghans had tasted battle. They were entering battle at the side of their families and remaining flocks, camped in a large village, almost under the Hindu Kush.
Abdul Dost was silent, hearing the tale of the deceit that had been practiced upon him—for Berang quickly identified himself as the true messenger sent by Khlit. His forehead flushed hotly.
“Draw back your men, Afghan,” advised Berang brusquely. “The wisdom of the Kha Khan must be obeyed. He may not reach here before a night and a day and another night and day.”
The mansabdar looked around at the circle of his leaders' faces, glowing in the firelight before his tent, and shook his head. Every face was exultant, for the news of Berang's coming had been passed through the ranks swiftly.
“The Mongols near the end of the passes,” the tidings had gone forth. “The Horde has come from the steppe.”
“I cannot hold back my men—now,” said Abdul Dost harshly to Berang.
“Did ye not believe the word of the Kha Khan that he would come?”
“I believed. Yet for the space of thrice ten days have my men seen the smoke of their houses, and their flocks slain, to fester in the fields, their children coursed down and their women taken to the lust of the Mogul's soldiery.”
Berang swore roundly under his shaggy mustache. Implicitly he trusted Khlit, and to have the Kha Khan's advice set aside on whatever grounds was blasting.
Abdul Dost thrust his lean, scarred face close to the Mongol.
“Eh, Tatar,” he growled. “I and my Afghans will hold the ranks of the Mogul in battle so long as may be. Get you hence, to Khlit.
Tell him what you have learned and say that by the ninety and nine holy names of Allah I thank him—I and my men, for his coming. Bid him make what speed he may to the battle—”
He broke off, resuming his seat by the fire. Abdul Dost was too experienced a warrior to share the unthinking exultation of his men, and he knew well the true strength of the imperial army.
He knew likewise that it was hopeless for him to try to postpone the conflict further. Not only would it dishearten his men and perhaps scatter them to abandon the last position they had taken, but an attempt to do so would be useless. The Afghans had made their last ablutions before battle.
So Berang spat upon the earth and sprang to horse. An Afghan caught at his bridle rein.
“Warrior of the Horde,” he cried, “in which quarter will the Kha Khan strike when he comes? What is his plan, of which you speak?”
“The tulughma—the Mongol swoop,” Berang made answer. “And no one save the Kha Khan knows in what quarter it will come.”
So he galloped away, muttering to keep his rendezvous with Khlit, and with him went Chan as guide, and Tala with Chan. The minstrel still kept Nur-Jahan at his side watchfully. Tala, yielding to the plea of the Persian, who shrank from having her face exposed to the gaze of the soldiery, had procured for her fellow Muslim a veil. Thus the presence of Nur-Jahan was unnoticed and unsuspected in the excitement.
She rode through the darkness, the bridle of her horse in Tala's hand, and slept as she rode.
XII
The Lord Thunder-Thrower Laughs
Shortly after morning prayers on the next day a mounted messenger from the Mogul bearing a jeweled sword to Paluwan Khan and another to Raja Man Singh—as presents on the eve of battle— passed swiftly through the village of Anderab, which served as the base of supplies for the army of the ameers.
Here mobs of porters, dak-runners, wrestlers and palanquin bearers gathered to gaze on the imperial messenger. Painted women, followers of the army, peered out from behind the screens of upper balconies; drivers of beasts looked up from the pens by the road indifferently.
Caravaneers, striding in the dust behind lines of long-haired camels, cursed him under their breath, bending their heads abjectly the while, or springing aside to escape his horse's hoofs. Hangers-on, conjurers, astrologers, blacksmiths—all came to the opening of their booths or huts to gaze.
“The battle is on,” they said. “Soon the Afghan army will be no more.”
The emissary made haste during the forenoon along the road to Talikan, the headquarters of the ameers. Soon he began to pass powder-trains, idle camels of the falcon-gun artillery, and guard posts. Camps of irregular horse, waiting until the crisis of the battle be past before venturing on the field, lined the road.
The streets of Talikan were filled with bands of captives, roped, laboring at carrying supplies and water-sacks, with troops of sick men clustered under awnings, with slaves and the idle horses of the Rajput cavalry which formed the third line of battle.
The messenger passed the Rajput warriors, galloping into their clans, streaking their faces with turmeric, drinking, singing and laughing.
Here the ground was tilled fields, trampled by thousands of hoofs, and a mass of mud by the riverbank. The tents had been struck and sent to the rear. Squadrons of horse, mailed and fully armed, waited in the fields.
An arrow's flight ahead of them stretched the long line of footmen, pikemen, and household troops: Uzbeks, Turks, and Punjabis facing north: also the Portuguese mercenaries, matchlock-men, i
n solid ranks.
They faced the foremost line—the cannon. Here the Lord Thunder-Thrower had stationed carts and piles of baggage in squares, between which were stakes driven into the ground and from the stakes to the carts long leather bands, with iron chains, at the height of a man's waist above ground.
At intervals along the chains were the feringha, the heavy brass artillery that was the joy of the Lord Thunder-Thrower. In the carts and grouped on the flanks were the lighter pieces.
One flank—the left—rested upon a mass of hillocks, rocky, broken ground, and the other—the right—upon the river.
So in two days had the ameers of Jahangir arrayed themselves for battle. They received the messenger at the foremost tent just behind the infantry, where the elephants were placed— huge beasts, armored on head and fore quarters, their howdahs bristling with archers. Paluwan Khan girded on the new sword with his old one, and smiled.
“Tarry, honored sir,” he bellowed at the messenger, “and you
will see the Afghan host go to-by way of the flashing scimitar.
Alacha, who has vanished like a dream of the night, was to tell us the time of the rebels' onset, but we are ready mustered, and await but the hour.”
Raja Man Singh pointed to the clouds of Afghan riders clustered not more than a gunshot away and urged an attack by his cavalry. The Lord Thunder-Thrower threw back his head and laughed long.
“Stay, my gentle scion of Marwar! Let these agile riders taste of my feringha balls and iron chains, cleverly hidden by sheaves of wheat, and of the rockets and blast of the falcon pieces—then may you cut them up as a sharp sword cuts a trussed sheep.”
This was roughly the plan of the ameers. Their numbers were somewhat more than those of the Afghans—about twelve thousand as opposed to nine thousand. More potent by far than numbers was the advantage in weapons, in cannon and in discipline.
Throughout that day the ameers feasted the envoy and listened to reports of skirmishes between the lines. Raja Man Singh fretted when the Afghans rode before the Mogul position, crying challenges. Paluwan Khan smiled.
“Would you loose the prisoned wolf from the pen, Raja? Alacha has tricked the ill-omened ones into a decision to attack and then ...” He broke off with a scowl. “In the name of Allah the All-wise, where is the Slayer? After some woman, it is likely—”
He shrugged his shoulders and arranged to assume command of the Turkoman's followers himself. This caused some necessary confusion and had its effect later.
During that day and night the length and breadth of the camp was searched for Alacha without result. At dawn Paluwan Khan and Raja Man Singh were in sole command of the Mogul's forces.
And at dawn the first ranks of Afghans threw themselves against the foe.
Almost Ra'dandaz Khan, the Lord Thunder-Thrower, master cannoneer, was taken by surprise. There was barely light enough to make out the dark groups of hillmen advancing over the fields.
Paluwan Khan's outposts were driven in swiftly, and at first silently—for the Afghans crept up on the sentries and slew them. Shouts resounded, kettledrums were beaten, and steel weapons dashed.
Running swiftly, the Afghans surrounded and cut down mounted pickets of the ameers and rushed upon the staked line of the Thunder-Thrower. Here and there a falcon gun bellowed and flashed in the half-light of early morning.
The Afghan van, picked from the tribes by Abdul Dost for this desperate venture, never reached the line of stakes. The leather ropes and steel chains were lowered at certain points and squadrons of irregular horse under the lieutenants of Paluwan Khan issued forth, checking the clamorous Afghans and cutting them up.
Whereupon the Lord Thunder-Thrower swore a pleased oath and hastened to his guns, flaming match in hand. The imperial standard was raised in front of the tents of the ameers, and Raja Man Singh ran from his pavilion in time to see the solid mass of
Afghan cavalry led by Abdul Dost follow forward upon the heels of the broken infantry screen.
The Mogul's irregulars, their task half-performed, scattered— some to the wings and some back through the breaks in the staked line, which were fast being closed. Scimitars flashing and cloaks flying, the Afghans charged, crying shrilly:
“Allah akbar! Ho—Allah-ho!”
The roaring of the feringha answered them as the Lord Thun-der-Thrower and his cannoneers touched matches to the bronze breeches of the heavy artillery. Fiery rockets charged with powder were flung high into the air by the Mogul's men, to fall among the horses of the attacking ranks. Pikemen dressed their weapons behind the chains.
Wide gaps were opened among the Afghans by the blast of the feringha, and the rockets set horses to plunging. Yet the Afghans cared not whether their lines be ordered; they swept onward, slaying the few irregulars who had tarried too long to plunder the fallen.
Horses screamed in pain as they were thrown against the pikes that stretched behind the chains; cloaked figures sprang from saddle and across the chains, weapon in hand. Here and there the impact of mounted riders snapped the cords of bulls' hide, and horsemen rode through shouting and smiting.
And as they did so there came the steady reports of the weapons of the Portuguese matchlock-men stationed behind the guns, their pieces resting upon wooden supports. Matchlock balls pierced through mail shirt and quilted corselet, sending riders here and there plunging to earth.
“Now will the Rajput clans mount for attack,” cried Raja Man Singh, fingering his drawn weapon.
Ra'dandaz Khan, striding through the confusion, gripped his arm. The Turk's broad face was smoke-blackened, but his smile was as wide as ever.
“My men will deal with these dogs,” he shouted. “Save your sword for a second brood. Abdul Dost has more in store.”
And as he had guessed the Afghans withdrew from the staked line slowly, their strength sadly broken by the cannon and the pikes. For a space quiet held the bank of the Oxus—a quiet broken by the moans of the wounded. At noon Abdul Dost knelt on his prayer carpet, his men doing likewise. It was the hour of midday prayer.
“God is great,” they chanted, lifting burning eyes to the dear sky. “There is no God but God—”
Straightaway they launched their main attack—first mounted archers that wheeled and sent arrow flights speeding among the men behind the staked line, then a solid mass of five thousand Afghans, mad with the lust of conflict.
“Alacha has contrived well,” muttered Paluwan Khan, picking up his shield and signing to Raja Man Singh.
The sweep of the Afghans carried them through and over the cannon, casting the feringha to earth after one bellow—for these giant pieces could be loaded and discharged but once during the attack. They slew the defenders of the bullock carts and surrounded the Lord Thunder-Thrower's men—that official having prudently retired behind the cavalry, his task performed.
And now the watchers on the housetops of Talikan saw the dark forms of the armored elephants move forward, sun glinting upon the arrows that sped from the howdahs. These beasts, veritable moving castles, advanced among the Afghans, who engaged them desperately, the warriors dismounting and attacking the bellies of the elephants with knives and hacking at the flailing trunks with their scimitars.
Paluwan Khan, sitting within a swaying howdah, gazed forth upon a struggling mass of men and horses, stretched from the river to the distant hillocks, and caused his standard to be lifted as a signal for Raja Man Singh to attack with the Rajputs.
A shout resounded above the tumult, and the fluttering garments of the Rajput clans appeared charging upon the flanks and center of the embattled ranks.
Whereupon there was a glad clamor of trumpet and cymbals from the onlookers at Talikan, and the camp followers began to run forward to seek the spoil for which they had been waiting.
Slowly, inexorably, the elephants plowed forward as the Afghan riders gave back. The fresh troops of Raja Man Singh cleared the flanks of foemen, and the Lord Thunder-Thrower turned to the imperial envoy who watched at his
side—a safe distance from the fighting.
“Speed with word to Jahangir, my lord,” cried Ra'dandaz Khan. “Say that by Allah's aid the servants of the World-Gripper are driving the evil ones of dark fortunes to death and captivity, and by nightfall a mound of skulls will be erected to the glory of the Monarch of the Earth. Speed!”
And the envoy, nothing loath, mounted, knowing that a truly regal gift would be his for the bringing of such tidings.
In this manner is the message inscribed in the annals of Jahangir. Yet of what followed in the battle of Badakshan naught is said. Perhaps this is because of those who saw the battle some said one thing, some another, and still others, being dead, had naught to say. Yet chiefly is it because the Mogul wrote down only those things which added to the glory of his reign, and, being outwardly a follower of the Prophet, would not give belief to the tale that powers other than human fought against his ameers that day.
For into the ranks of the Afghans spurred a huge figure, clad in rough sheepskins, smiting aside those of the imperial riders who opposed him with a sword as great as a man's thigh.
Seeking out Abdul Dost, sitting grim-eyed upon his horse in the center of his men, this stranger cried:
“Word to the Afghan leader from his ally. Give back! Seek safety. Draw back to the mountains, Afghan, and give place to the Mongol.”
Quickened hope caused Abdul Dost to turn and gaze back at the fields and woods in his rear, at the scattered villages through which bodies of horsemen fought, Rajput and Afghan alike, to the valleys that led down from the mountains to the North. Yet he saw no others than his own men, and the slain that sprinkled the fields.
“Come you from Khlit?” he asked harshly.
“Aye, the Kha Khan.”
“He has passed the mountain barrier? He comes to the battle?”
“Aye. He grants the Horde a space to breathe deep and eat. He has seen the course of the battle from the mountainside, and he bids you draw back if you have faith in him, for he cannot leave his men to come to you.”
The Tatar rider glanced around at the tumult.