Swords From the Desert

by Harold Lamb

  Farash Agha reined forward a little. "This is the caravan bearing the shah's gifts to Ind, under command of Mirakhon Pasha of Isfahan."

  "The lord ambassador shall be my guest!"

  The stranger instantly saluted Mirakhon Pasha, but with no bending of the head. He touched the hilt of his sword that he wore girdled high, and raised his right arm. I saw then that he was no more than a youth, perhaps the son of the master of the castle, perhaps the leader of the menat-arms.

  He sat at ease, in the plain, worn saddle of the big black. Yea, he carried himself well-a rare horseman, slight of limb and erect. His dark eyes gleamed with insolence or laughter or high spirits. Unlike the Iranis he wore only a single close-wrapped tunic of white brocade and a small turban with a loose end falling upon his right shoulder. This head-cloth was bound in a strange way, by a slender fillet of crimson and gold.

  "What place is this?" demanded Farash Agha, thrusting himself forward again.

  Said I not the stranger could sit a horse? Evidently he did not choose to be addressed only by the officer, for his knees tightened and the black charger tossed his head and neighed, then reared suddenly with pawing hoofs. Farash Agha drew back swiftly from those hoofs, and when the youth of the castle had brought down his horse nothing was between him and the pasha.

  "Karadak," he responded good-humoredly, "the tower is Awa Bahadur Khan's.

  "And thou?" demanded the Pasha.

  "Thy host."

  At these words something stirred in my memory. I looked over my shoulder at the salt plain, now tinted by the sunset; I looked up into the shadow of the cliff at the single tower and the lofty summits of the range behind it, and I recalled the words of the dead Sidri Singh. Here was the tower above the dry sea.

  Mirakhon Pasha had come out of the desert, following no road, to the tower of Awa Khan, the Rajput, the kinsman of Radha.

  "And thou art my guest," laughed the youth in the saddle of the black charger.

  There is a time for speech, and a time for silence and thought. That first evening in Karadak I kept close to the young lord of the castle, saying nothing at all. I never doubted that this was the place Sidri Singh and Radha had been seeking when the old warrior fell ill, and the girl turned aside to take refuge in Bandar Abbasi.

  These were surely Rajputs. The young lord showed us the armory of the castle with its gleaming tulwars ranged on the walls, its shields of buffalo hide, its horn bows in their leather cases, and the stocks of reed and wooden arrows, with many old axes.

  He himself carried a khanda, or curving blade, double-edged. He drew it at the pasha's request, and showed it, for the Master of the Horse had a keen eye for weapons. But in this hour Mirakhon Pasha thought only of satisfying his hunger.

  The caravan animals and most of the sipahis and all the Kurds he had left to make camp beside the village, at the stream that descended from the waterfall. Into the castle he had brought his officers and intimates and servants with a few Red Hats. Twenty and four in all, as I counted.

  Radha, likewise, he brought. She was led from the camel by the black slaves, who cast over her head a heavy shawl.

  Hearing that this was the woman of the pasha, the men of the castle went apart when she passed through the courtyard, and the young khan turned away his eyes courteously. Was she not forbidden to the eyes of strangers?

  Though I strained my ears as she entered the gate and ascended the stairs I heard neither spoken word nor outcry. Once in her chamber upon the upper floor, guards were placed at the door, and from that moment no man of the castle could approach the door.

  More rigid than the law of hospitality is the sanctity of the women of a guest. Save for the servants of Karadak, I did not think that any man would go up to the floor above us. Unless-

  How was Ito judge what would happen? Radha did not yet know where she was. The Rajputs had not so much as glanced at her. And as for the pasha, he did not know that Awa Khan was the kinsman of his captive.

  Indeed, he thought only of enjoyment after his long ride. He announced, through Farash Agha, that he would be pleased to have the evening meal within an hour. The Rajput lord gave command that this should be done, and the servants hastened to and from the kitchen house, preparing freshly slain fowls and stirring up the fires.

  In a little more than the appointed time, the pasha was seated beside the master of Karadak in the hall of the castle with the Rajputs and guests ranged about the cloth on all sides-I sitting among the minstrels and the Red Hats and warriors of the garrison, in a place apart.

  Truly, Awa Khan stinted not of his hospitality.

  And the pasha plunged his fingers without ceasing into bowls of rice seasoned with saffron, plucked up whole roast pigeons, sweetened grapes and jellies. Then it entered his head to call for wine, and the young Rajput bade the servants bring honey-mead from the cellar. Farash Agha and his officers soon drank this and shouted for more.

  "After the journey," grunted the pasha, "we should feast well. Come, we are not priests. What are these?"

  He pointed at two great kettle-drums finished in black wood and finely worked brass. They stood on a shelf midway down the hall-a strange place for nakaras, and indeed, these seemed too large to be carried on the saddle.

  "Elchi-gi," responded an elder Rajput, scarred from brow to lip, "My lord ambassador, those were the gift of the Raja of Bikanir to my master, who, with his descendants for all time, hath the right of beating his drums when he approaches the gates of Bikanir."

  The pasha, his broad shoulders gleaming green satin, the candlelight winking among the jewels of his turban crest, glanced at his youthful host, who sat silent.

  "Eh, thou hast honor, though thy years be few."

  "I?" The slender warrior started, and smiled. "Nay, not I."

  "He also, my lord," corrected the old Rajput called Byram by his companions. "He stood before Sidri Singh in the pass of Anavalli when the dead lay thick, and the clans of Bikanir advanced against the red banner of Chitore.

  "That sword-"

  "Peace, Byram Khan," cried the master of Karadak. "The talk was of the drums."

  If the pasha remembered the name of Sidri Singh, he gave no sign. "Aye, the nakara. Let my minstrels sound them."

  "They are the nakaras of Karadak," the old Rajput retainer uttered swift protest, "only to be beaten when Awa Khan musters his men, or approaches the throne."

  "Nay," laughed the pasha. "I would hear them."

  The Rajputs exchanged glances and the young lord did not speak for a long moment.

  "If it pleases thee," he said gravely, "my guest."

  How was the pasha to know that these warriors out of Ind counted such matters as dearer than food, or life itself? He did not know that their ancestors had earned honors of a strange kind-a privilege or name bestowed for fierce valor in a bloodied field. Nay, they weighed each word as if it held honor or disgrace. Tradition ruled them, who counted their forebears back to unknown gods, and gave the title of Raj only to the utmost bravery. I did not know, until a later year. The pasha was their guest, and if he had asked even their weapons, they would have yielded to his whim.

  So the musicians of Mirakhon Pasha made a tumult of reverberations out of the drums, and the mountebanks beside me sang, while the flutes whined and the pasha began to be amused. One of the Iranis rose and danced, and Farash Agha began to argue with Byram Khan concerning weapons.

  "For the mounted man," he maintained, "the lance is best. Vai-the arrow flies wide of its mark and leaves a horseman open to a blow."

  "Against the lance," said Byram Khan stoutly, "the sword will prevail, for the sword can ward as well as strike."

  "Parry a lance?" Farash Agha laughed loud. "That is idle talk."

  Byram Khan lifted his head and pulled at his gray mustache.

  "Spears serve well enough to strike down boars or scatter camp followers."

  Now Farash Agha and his sipahis all carried the tufted lances, while the men of Karadak had come forth to meet
us, armed with shield and sword and bow. And the pasha frowned, ill-pleased.

  "By the breath of Ali," he asked impatiently, "where is the man who will venture against a lance-with a sword alone?"

  "Here," growled the one called Byram Khan, nodding at his master. "Without a shield, he has guarded himself against a spear and a galloping horse-aye, until the rider tired. Well do I know, for I was the rider."

  "I speak not of blunted spears, nor the pastime of boys."

  "Nor do I"

  Eh, the elder Rajput spoke like an Arab of my folk-openly, fearlessly. Little was the lord of the Iranis accustomed to such words, he searching for guile or a veiled threat. For that is the way of the Irani speech, to cover guile with praise, and insult with courtesy. His broad chin thrust out and his dark eyes swept the faces that turned to him.

  Then did Fazl Ali, one of his courtiers, mistake the meaning of his glance, and rise, hand on sword hilt.

  "0 ye men of Karadak, could ye have seen the weapon play of that night a week ago, when our lord, favored of Allah and ever-victorious, rode forth into the ranks of his foemen, spreading about him a carpet of the slain, ye would know as we know that in all Iran and Ind no man can cope with him, with lance or sword or javelin."

  Thus he boasted and Byram's head lifted suddenly as he scented a challenge; but the young khan spoke before him.

  "The greater honor, then, to Karadak, in the arrival of such a guest as the lord ambassador."

  Fazl Ali seemed disappointed in this mild response. He fingered his close-clipped beard and looked insolently about the hall.

  "By the eyes of , are there no men in Karadak? I see only prating grandfathers and senseless boys."

  He meant to amuse the pasha by baiting the Rajputs, dealing with them as he was accustomed to do with the tribesmen and merchants of Iran. Yet it was true that we had seen in this castle many elders and youths-men like Byram Khan scarred and stiff-jointed, and past the prime of life. Yea, and youths armed with the light and almost straight blade that is half dagger, half sword.

  And here was a strange thing. They were no more than the eleven that had come down to greet us, with four or five cup-bearers and servants. The village below had been peopled with no more than a score of peasants, and many women.

  Yet the castle of Karadak could shelter easily the half of a hundred, and the stables in the courtyard were ample for a hundred steeds. At the time of our entrance I wondered if other men were holding themselves beyond sight. But there were no other warriors this side the dry lands. And Mirakhon Pasha, always watchful against unseen enemies, had brought with him into the castle two for every Rajput.

  Yea, and more. Two negro swordsmen guarded Radha in her chamber above us and a sipahi lancer loitered at the gate within hail of the camp, with its cavalry and Kurds.

  At first, when I had heard the name of Awa Khan and seen the tower, I had hope of deliverance for the girl Radha and myself. Now I saw no hope-nay, I thought of stealing away when the pasha had finished making sport of the people of the castle. After the moon had set I could lift my camel from the line under the noses of the sipahis.

  "True," laughed the young lord of Karadak. "Byram Khan is a grandfather many times, and I a fledgling."

  He chose to ignore the taunt of Fazl Ali, but Farash Agha, sensing the mood of the pasha, hastened to add his word.

  "Knowest not, little khan, that it is the custom to entertain Mirakhon Pasha with music. Where are thy minstrels?"

  "Indeed, 0 my guest," growled Byram Khan. "We have no court minstrels. Yet Muhammad Dost and Kasim Khan are skilled after their fashion."

  Two of the Rajput retainers came forward with strange instruments, slender horns of sandalwood and a thing of ebony and strings that sighed and whimpered under the touch of a bow. Eh, the note of the horns in the hands of Muhammad Dost bespoke sadness and grieving. This was no melody of feasting or the wooing of a maiden. It was the mourning of exiles, the sorrow of those oppressed by fate-yea, the slow cadence of riders at a footpace.

  Mirakhon Pasha threw himself back on his cushions, frowning. And I, also, remembered the song, the same that Radha the captive sang that night in the desert.

  Perhaps it was the favorite melody of the Rajputs. I do not know. But presently a stir went through the listeners, and the musicians faltered on a note. Above our heads as it seemed, we heard the elfin echo of a distant voice. A woman's clear voice chiming in with the instruments.

  Farash Agha had asked heedlessly for the musicians, and they had played of all things this song of the girl Radha. Had the sipahi held his peace, matters would have ended otherwise and that dawn of terror-but it was written thus.

  The horns and the wailing strings began the second part of the song-yea, the onset of battle. And a shiver went through the Rajputs as I have seen Arabs quiver when they look to their swords at the shaking of the standard.* Clearer now the voice of Radha, singing in her chamber above, came to our ears. And the lord of Karadak sprang to his feet, silencing the musicians with a gesture.

  Unseen, Radha carried on the song to its end, and the Rajput cried out suddenly.

  "What voice is that?"

  Reclining against his cushions, watching him with amused eyes, the pasha made answer.

  "By Allah, that is the Rajputni, my bride." And he smiled at his host, stroking his chin with henna-stained fingers. "This is the night when she will be my bride, indeed."

  The officers of the pasha whispered among themselves, taking pleasure in the amazement of the youth who had dared to act before them as the equal of their lord. They relished the jest, knowing that the khan of Karadak would not be suffered to question or approach the woman of the pasha. Was she not kourrouk -forbidden to the eye and the ear?

  I wondered if the khan would ask her name, and whether the pasha would lie or not in answer. But he asked a different thing.

  "Is she a hostage to the shah?"

  The pasha smiled.

  "Nay, she is mine given to my hands by her father."

  A single glance went from man to man of the retainers of Karadak. They sat without moving, and their khan said no more. He signed for the musicians to play something else and stepped back into the shadows behind the stands of candles. I saw that his face had become white as the brocade tunic that covered his slender body. Farash Agha laughed and reached for his cup.

  In the stir and noise that followed, I rose and slipped from my corner of the hall. For the moment the sipahis had forgotten me, and I meant to see whether I could go unseen from the courtyard before they thought of me again. Twice before this I had meant to leave their caravan, and other happenings had prevented. Now I vowed that I would escape from Mirakhon Pasha. As for Radha, God alone could aid her. If the other Rajputs fought for her, it would put them in their shrouds.

  So I thought. But who can choose the path he will follow? I passed through the dark chamber leading to the courtyard, through the open gate of the building.

  Clear moonlight filled the courtyard, beyond the shadow of the castle. I could see the sipahi, leaning on his spear by the outer gate, and-the pasha had ordered it left open-beyond it the flat roofs of the village, the dark water of the stream and the tents of the caravan.

  Then steel fingers gripped my shoulder, and a voice whispered-

  "0 hakim, dost thou hear-and understand?"

  The words were in the Irani tongue, but the speaker was the khan of Karadak.

  "I hear."

  "Thou art the prisoner of the pasha?"

  "Yea."

  Though I felt no touch of steel and saw nothing, I did not move or draw away, for the voice of the youth was like the whisper of a sword drawn from sheath.

  "Who is the Rajputni maiden?"

  "Radha, the daughter of Sidri Singh."

  I had expected an exclamation or a curse, but the man behind me kept silence as if puzzled.

  "Sidri Singh was at Kukri with all his followers-aye, he was in the field of war. How could his daughter be here without
him?"

  "They sought refuge in Karadak. Inshallah, they wandered to my camp across the dry lands."

  "The swan does not mate with the vulture. The sun might alter its course, or the stars die out, but Sidri Singh would never give child of his to yonder swine. That pasha lied, but thou, 0 hakim, will tell me the true story and swiftly."

  In that instant I began to respect the young Rajput. And I dared ask a question.

  "Hast thou other men nearby?"

  "Nay. I bade thee tell me of Radha."

  "Then think twice-aye, and thrice, before giving way to anger, my lord," I warned him. "Nay, hearken to an old man, who has seen much slaying, and the death of the weak. These Iranis are wolves, and they will gut the castle and slash the blood hissing from thy people if thou oppose them."

  "I will be judge of that. Speak."

  So, having thought for a moment, I told him in brief words of the death of Sidri Singh and the man Subbul, and the carrying off of Radha. After all, this youth was her cousin, and it had been ordained that Mirakhon Pasha should come to this place.

  My blood is old and thin. Yet in that moment it ran swift and warm, so that the scars of wounds in arm and breast and thigh-yea, I have known the tearing thrust of steel blade and the fiery smart of arrows-burned beneath the skin. I knew that swords would be bared in Karadak that night. How? How does the buffalo scent the water that lies in a gully beyond sight?

  I did not hear the young Rajput leave my side. He did not go far, because I heard him whispering to a servant. Then, in a moment, my ears caught the heavier tread of an older man. Byram Khan growled words I did not understand. He departed, and once more the khan gave an order to the servant, who moved out into the moonlight of the courtyard.

  "Art thou bound to serve the pasha?" So said the Rajput chieftain, standing close to me in the darkness.

  ay.

  "Good! Then go, old wanderer, from this gate and save thyself harm."

  Now a moment before, I had desired nothing more than this. But in this moment curiosity and something more held me to my place. Wal- lahi-when did the men of the Nejd slink away like jackals from peril?