Swords From the Desert

by Harold Lamb

  "Silence!" he cried softly. "This is Sidri Singh, Rawul of Kukri, brother of the lord of Bikanir, defender of Anavalli, whose right is the right of beating drums to the gateway of Bikanir."* Thus he cried out the titles of his master, with the utmost boldness, as if Sidri Singh were the equal of the pasha. "My lord is stricken with fever," he said again. "Bid thy men withdraw, lest they wake him." But the dark eyes of Mirakhon Pasha lingered upon the veiled face of Radha.

  "And thou, hanim?" he asked.

  She bent her head, without coming forward.

  "I pray thee, my lord of Iran, accept thy welcome from me, and ask not that Sidri Singh come to thee, for indeed he is ill."

  So she spoke in her clear young voice, as if she stood among a thousand retainers, while the man Subbul dressed his shield and held high his head. But Mirakhon Pasha had eyes for no one but Radha. Indeed, as he sat the saddle of the restive mare-a horse among a thousand-he made a fine figure, in soft, green leather riding boots, and flowing khalat, bound by a cloth-of-gold girdle. The sword hilt at his hip gleamed with the fires of many precious stones. The leopard at his back shifted uneasily upon its pad, thrusting its head against him and rattling its chain.

  It was clear to me then that Mirakhon Pasha, who had left Bandar Abbasi only an hour behind me, had come forth from his camp to hunt in the cool of the morning. He was attended by the captain of the sipahis, by young nobles and falconers.

  "Eh, hanim," he smiled. "Thy welcome pleases me, and, by the breath of Ali, I would not disturb the slumbers of yonder Rajput."

  To the nearest officer, he added:

  "What is thine opinion, Farash Agha? Is not this better quarry than the heron?"

  Farash Agha, the leader of the sipahis, reined forward and touched henna-stained fingers to the glittering gold embroidery of his turban.

  "Indeed, my pasha! I marvel that thou didst see the beauty of the quarry from such a distance."

  "Then dismount and offer her a stirrup."

  At once the young officer swung down and led his charger toward Radha. Subbul stepped between them with a muttered question. The men of the pasha's following were smiling and sitting idly in their saddles as if they had watched such happenings before.

  "Mirakhon Pasha," explained the sipahi, "begs the hanim to accept the hospitality of his tents and the protection of his power. Indeed, she hath pleased him rarely."

  "Aye," exclaimed another. "The journey begins well. A happy omen, this."

  "My lord," said Radha gravely, "I go to Bandar Abbasi."

  "But not now," responded the pasha. "Such a voice and such eyes would be wasted in Bandar Abbasi."

  "Come," Farash Agha urged the Rajput maiden. "My lord is impatient of delay. He hath summoned thee to his tents."

  Verily, when first Mirakhon Pasha had seen Radha he had been struck with her beauty. His eyes could judge a face behind the veil, and the slender form of the girl, only half hidden by the wind-whipped linen garments. He had claimed her, as swiftly as a hawk stoops from high in the air and clutches its quarry. Why not? This daughter of Sidri Singh had no following. And the milk-brother of the shah could go far. Mirakhon Pasha was no man to waste words or change his whim. If Radha had been the wife of an emir, with a hundred swords to serve her, he would have carried her off.

  "Let not the price to be paid trouble thee," smiled Farash Agha. "My lord is generous. Is Sidri Singh thy father or husband? The price will be greater in that case."

  Radha looked from him to the silent pasha, understanding now the meaning of their words. Though the blood did not rise into her forehead, shadows appeared under her eyes, and the hands, held so stiffly at her side, closed and unclosed. What she would have said then, or what Farash Agha would have done, I know not. Because Subbul's gaunt face darkened, and he drew his sword, rushing forward as if he would have struck the pasha.

  He did not take three strides before a horse, swerving under knee and rein, shouldered him aside and, before he could gain his balance, Farash Agha was upon him with the scimitar. In one stroke the sipahi slashed open the Rajput servant's light leather shield.

  Then Farash Agha parried a cut, and beat down the Rajput's guard, and passed his blade through the servant's body, under the ribs. He could use his weapon, the sipahi.

  "Shabash!" cried the pasha. "Well done. By the breath of Ali, we have roused the sleeping lion."

  Indeed, the clash of steel had brought Sidri Singh out of his slumber and out of his shelter. He came on hands and knees, because of his weakness, and only by grasping a boulder did he draw himself erect.

  "Radha!" he called. "What is this?"

  I think the fever had left him, and his brain was clear. But the strong sunlight dazed him and he turned his head slowly like a blind man, trying to understand. When he could see a little, he drew his sword and stepped forward, his beard jutting out, his eyes flaming.

  "Do not slay him!" The Rajput girl cried out suddenly, and grasped the sword arm of Farash Agha. "Do not slay!"

  But Sidri Singh still advanced, and I saw Mirakhon Pasha reach behind him. A servant thrust a javelin into his hand and he bent forward swiftly in the saddle; his right arm whipped down, and the javelin flashed in the air. Sidri Singh was not five paces distant, and the weapon struck beneath his brow, passing through his eye, the point coming out through his skull.

  The force of the blow knocked the old man to the ground, and when I went to his side he was dead. Two others reached him before me-Mira- khon Pasha, who kneed his mare forward to see the result of his cast, and Radha, who knelt beside the body of Sidri Singh. No sound came from the Raj put, but the girl moaned, swaying upon her knees.

  The other riders came up to praise the pasha's skill and swiftness. But he glanced at the sun and ordered the hunt to start again, saying that the first of the caravan would be up presently, and would spoil the sport.

  Radha, rising to her feet, spoke to him. Her limbs did not tremble and her voice rang out clearly.

  "Mirakhon Pasha, hast thou reckoned the price to be paid for this?"

  "In gold coin or in jewels or perfumes?" he asked.

  "The price will be beyond thy reckoning and it will be paid into the hand of a Rajput, though thy life be long and the day distant."

  "Nay," laughed the pasha. "Is the Dark Angel then a Rajput? Sidri Singh was an unbeliever and he will look for me in vain through all the seven hells."

  Then Radha covered her face with a fold of her mantle so that these men should not see her grieve. Farash Agha lifted her to the saddle of his charger and took himself the mount of a servant.

  As for the pasha, he watched a slave pull the javelin clear from the head of the dead man, and then he spoke to me.

  "0 Arab, is it thy fate to appear before me in the company of such dogs?"

  He was thinking of the other time in Bandar Abbasi, and seemed of two minds what to do with me. In that moment, indeed, my fate was in his hands. And so I answered him boldly.

  "My lord, say rather it was my fate thus to encounter thee. For I had bled Sidri Singh, and now thou hast undone my work."

  He looked down at me and smiled, brushing his red fingertips across his beard. But he did not give me leave to go.

  "A bold tongue hast thou, Arab. We follow the same road. Put thyself under my protection, and ride in my caravan. By the head of Hussein, I swear thou wilt not lack patients!"

  In this manner I joined the following of the Master of the Horse, for his request was indeed a command. Perhaps he really had need of a physician to attend his men, or perhaps he had a whim. He had slain Sidri Singh wantonly and had made Radha a captive, and it pleased him to make sport of me.

  For many days I did not see Radha. Mirakhon Pasha gave orders that she should travel in a pannier on the same white camel he had bought at the gate of Bandar Abbasi, and that two black slaves should attend her. And word went through the caravan that she was kourrouk-forbidden to eye or ear. No one went near the white camel, and, when a halt was made, the black slav
es put up a cloth barrier about her tent. So Mirakhon Pasha made it clear that she was his slave woman.

  The pasha himself did not go near her at first. It pleased him to act as if he had forgotten her, and besides, many things happened.

  The caravan came to the edge of the dry lands-a sunken plain without road or village. Here the south wind sweeps the plain daily with its fiery breath. The wells are deep, the water poor, and the wells lie a long march apart.

  Though it was the season of the first rains, the sky remained clear and the watercourses empty of all save rocks and thorns. This meant that we must go from one well to the next before halting. A few men on fast camels could have done this without hurrying, but the pasha's caravan was like a moving village.

  He had forty camels bearing the gifts to the court of Ind, and as many more to carry barley and chopped hay for the animals; he had his retinue, and its slaves, and the escort of sevenscore Red Hats, and the Baluchi camelmen. Besides, he had brought along nearly a hundred wild Kurds, lest the shah's cavalry turn upon him. Or perhaps the shah had sent the cavalry so that Mirakhon Pasha would not take the emperor's gifts for himself. I do not know.

  The Kurds had their own chieftain, but Mirakhon Pasha paid them, and gave them many opportunities to plunder. Though the Kurds have no love for the Red Hats, and always make camp by themselves in their black goatskin tents, there was no fighting in the caravan. The Kurds feared Mirakhon Pasha more than their own chieftain or the ghost of the Desht-i-Lut-the dry lands.

  Truly, he was a man without fear or remorse of any kind. He said we would set out near the hour of sunset and travel through the night, halting at dawn to rest and eat, and pushing on until we came to the next well. And when we set out from the last village, descending into the barren plain, he gave permission to his Kurds to circle back and plunder the village.

  W'allahi, with a red sunset behind us and wailing in our ears, we moved down into the dark plain. Before long, even the Kurds ceased quarreling about the horses they had driven off, and the Baluchis muttered and took hold of the charms they wore on their necks.

  A new moon shed light over the black wall of the hills beside us, enough light to make men and beasts appear as shadows. Here, in the gateway of the dry lands, there was silence. No wind sifted the sand, no brush crackled as the animals plodded by.

  This silence of the dry plain was something I knew well; but the Iranis missed the sounds of the night in fertile land, where water runs, and birds stir in forest growth, or the wheat whispers under wind breath. Because the Kurds were mountain folk they also felt ill at ease.

  "It is well known," said one who came to my side, "that this place is barren because a curse was laid upon it."

  "It is worse in the day," responded another who had heard. "Then the wind slays, and the doomed have only time to cry, 'I burn,' before they fall lifeless. I have seen."

  Nay, there was no end to the tales they told of ghosts that lingered in this accursed region. Finally all the talk ceased and the Baluchis halted their camels. The men crowded closer together, and all listened.

  It was only a little sound they had heard, from far off. No more than a high-pitched chant, so faint that we could not hear the words or the voices of the singers. We could see nothing at all.

  "It is the illahi," called out Mirakhon Pasha from the head of our column.

  Truly, it might have been the chanted prayers of pilgrims returning from Meshed or Imam Reza. The pasha raised his voice in a shout-

  "0 ye of the pilgrimage performed, grant us a blessing!"

  Though we all listened intently, the chant did not cease, nor did any man answer. I noticed that none of our riders galloped toward the sound to greet the other caravan.

  "God alone knows," muttered the Kurd who had first spoken, "whether they be living or dead."

  Mirakhon Pasha ordered the camels into motion and mocked at the fears of the Iranis, asking who had heard a dead man sing in the Desht-i-Lut?

  "I will bear witness to one thing," he laughed. "They who lag behind will not live to see the other side of the plain."

  He did not cease to make a jest of this fear of the caravan, and before dawn I saw how he dealt with another happening.

  It was in the hour of dusk before sunrise when we had halted. The Baluchis had started fires, fed by thornbushes and the sticks they had gathered on the way. Into the pots over these fires the Kurds had thrown slices of mutton-there had been sheep as well as horses in the plundered village-and the warriors were warming themselves at the flames.

  At this hour the men are sleepy and the beasts weary. The packs are not taken off, because the well is still distant an hour's ride, or two. The slaves stumbled about in the darkness, and the leaders of the caravan cursed first one and then another.

  We heard a shout from one of our sentries, then the roar of a firelock. A horseman galloped through the kneeling camels, shouting for Mirakhon Pasha.

  I heard a familiar sound-the drumming of hoofs, coming nearer.

  "To horse!" cried the pasha, already in the saddle of the dun mare. A servant passed him his round shield with the silver boss, and he rode over to the Red Hats, calling out orders. Beyond doubt, it was a raid.

  Farash Agha did not mount his horse. He summoned a score of his men and ran over to the line of kneeling camels, beyond the firelight. The Kurds acted after their manner, dashing away from the raiders into the shelter of darkness and then halting to see what would happen. Already arrows whipped by me.

  All at once there was a great shouting. The raiders cried out loudly, loosing many arrows and circling the camp swiftly, trying to drive off our horses. They were long-limbed men wearing high sheepskin hats-Turkomans who had come down from the hills near at hand, perhaps to attack the pilgrims we had heard, or drawn by our fires.

  They did not know the strength of the caravan until Mirakhon Pasha led his riders at a gallop through them, and turned to meet them with spear and sword. In the darkness the spear is better than the bow, and the sword better than all else. Soon I could hear the clash of steel blades.

  In this moment of disorder I thought of Radha, and went to seek the white camel. A dozen of the raiders swept into the camp near me and flung themselves from the saddles to begin plundering. They ran toward the laden camels, and Farash Agha ran to head them off with his twenty warriors.

  So the Turkomans-who are no great fighters afoot-were soon fleeing here and there, between the fires, among the yelling slaves and the grunting camels. I soon saw the white camel and the carpet shelter that screened Radha, and the two swordsmen who stood guard over her.

  The thought came to me that I could steal up behind the watchers and free the Rajput girl, and go with her into the darkness. After that we could certainly manage to find horses running loose.

  I crept toward the white camel, with one eye on the fires, lest I be ridden down. Mirakhon Pasha was back in the camp, his horse galloping on the flank of a warrior who was turning desperately this way and that to escape. But the pasha came up swiftly on his left side and struck savagely with his scimitar. The Turkoman flung himself from the saddle to the earth, but his right foot caught in the stirrup, and he was dragged by the galloping pony.

  Mirakhon Pasha did not leave him thus. He swerved and came up behind the pony, shifting his sword to his left hand. When he was abreast the raider he bent low and his curved steel blade whistled in the air. It struck heavily, and Mirakhon Pasha jerked it free, recovered, and reined aside, laughing.

  The Turkoman lay still, but the pony galloped off into the darkness with his right foot and half the leg still fast in the stirrup. Thus the pasha with one blow severed the limb of his foeman, while both horses were at speed.

  This done, he rose in his stirrups to look at the white camel. I lay upon the ground without moving. There was no way of approaching nearer to Radha because the sky was growing light overhead, and the Kurds, who had seen how matters went, were hastening up to take a hand in plundering the bodies of the s
lain. Only two or three Turkomans were afoot in the camp, snarling like wounded wolves, hemmed in by the disciplined Red Hats. Their comrades had fled and the Iranis were pursuing.

  So I crawled back to the fire, where the nobles were gathering around Mirakhon Pasha, praising him greatly. Riders came up with the heads they had cut from the dead raiders, and of these heads-eight or ten or a dozen-the pasha commanded a pyramid to be built.

  When he saw me, the pasha shouted for me to bind up the wounds of the Red Hats, of whom nearly a score had slashes and arrow gashes. He watched me for awhile, as if to see truly whether I knew my trade. Then, restless as the chained leopard, he wandered off to look at the prisoners. Only a few had been taken-three or four, and all wounded.

  "They will not ride again against a caravan of the shah," said the pasha.

  Evidently his men knew what was coming, for they left the steaming pots of mutton to crowd around him, and the Kurds hastened up, grinning. I heard the pounding of mallets driving stakes into the ground, and saw that the tribesmen were being bound to the stakes. I did not watch the torture, but when we rode away I looked back and saw vultures dropping from the sky and sitting in rings around the bodies of the Turkomans who were still moaning.

  So we went deeper into the dry lands, and the hills, the lair of the Turkomans, dropped behind us. And Mirakhon Pasha seemed to be in the best of humors. The raid had roused him to display his strength and, like the panther, he was no longer restless when he had struck down his quarry.

  "Ho," snarled the bearded Kurd who had first spoken to me. "The kites feed well in the tracks of this Master of the Horse."

  This tribesman himself looked much like a carrion bird, with his beak of a nose and his gaunt bare neck, and his little gleaming eyes set beneath thick brows. Verily, his plumage was black, for his one visible garment of black wool stretched down to his bare feet, thrust into up-curving slippers. He had girdled himself over the hips with many girdles of silk and worked leather. On his bare chest he wore a silver talsmin, taken from the body of some holy man.

  "Is the pasha thy master, Sharm Beg?"