Swords From the Desert

by Harold Lamb

  I dismounted and went to the form of the pasha, thinking that if life remained in him we might hold him as a hostage against attack. Gripping his shoulder I turned him over, with an effort, for he was heavy. His pallid face was smirched with dirt; his lips, drawn back from his teeth, seemed bloodless, and his body below the ribs had been cut through to the backbone. His eyes stared unwinking into the moonlit sky.

  Farash Agha I did not look at, knowing well his case; but Fazl Ali lay among the wounded and cursed me.

  "The sword prevailed," he grinned. "But ye will never see the dawn."

  From him I went to look at the wound of the Rajput chieftain. He sat upon a tiger skin, Radha kneeling and supporting his head. She held a turban cloth tight against his back under the shoulder blade where the lance point had bitten. They were talking low-voiced, for he could do little more than whisper. What they said, I know not, yet she seemed to be sorrowing and he heartening her.

  "My lord," I broke in upon them. "Bid thy men carry thee to a couch and I will probe the wound."

  "0 hakim," he responded. "Until the issue is at an end I will not leave the courtyard, and thou art too precious a swordsman to be taken from the wall. Get thee to Byram Khan."

  Nevertheless, he called me back and bade me do what I could for the other wounded while we waited, and this I made shift to do while the shadow of the castle crept across the courtyard as the moon sank behind the hills and a throng of warriors came up with torches from the camp.

  This might have been the ninth hour of the night. Well for us that the wall was in shadow! Byram Khan ordered his three followers and four servants to move about and rattle shield and arrow case. The pasha's men halted beyond arrow shot and argued among themselves. Kasim ad-Din, the pock-marked chieftain of the Kurds, and Sharm Beg did most of the talking.

  First they demanded the surrender of the castle, bidding us throw our arms over the wall.

  "Come ye and make proof of our weapons!" responded the old Rajput.

  When it was clear to them that the castle would not be yielded, there was more talk among them. Perhaps they suspected Radha of casting a spell upon their dead lord, for the wild Kurds are fearful of such things; or the few who escaped told them lies about our numbers, to justify themselves.

  "Is Mirakhon Pasha truly dead?" they asked.

  "As Farash Agha is," Byram Khan assured them.

  Then they withdrew a little and sat down to consult among themselves. When the torches went out, they began to drift back to their camp. This seemed a trick and we watched until the dawn spread in our faces, revealing the tents and the groups of warriors among them. The villagers, fearful of the battle in the morning, had fled during the night, driving off most of their animals. The Kurds and sipahis had other things to think about.

  Byram Khan said they would make the attack now when they could see what little was before them. But I began to meditate. The sun was spear high, and smoke rose from the fires of the camp. Nay, that day passed, without so much as an arrow shot against the wall. And I felt assured of what would happen.

  The men of the caravan never attacked the castle.

  Perhaps the sipahis would have done so, to avenge Farash Agha and gut the castle. But there was the treasure in the camel bales-the forty loads of gifts for the emperor of Ind, worth many times the looting of a small hill tower such as this. The sipahis did not attack because they were afraid to leave the Kurds in charge of this treasure and very likely afraid that if they were cut up by our weapons, the Kurds would fall upon them.

  With such unexpected riches under their hands, and with Mirakhon Pasha gone from them, the Kurds thought of nothing but those bales.

  Yea, in the end they all went away together, after supplying themselves with water and grain and meat. They went down to seek the road from which Mirakhon Pasha had led them. I have often wondered what befell thereafter in the desert, and what finally became of the treasure bales.

  Those bales never reached the emperor. Yet a little of the treasure did go to Ind. In the next year, by the river road of Lahore, I saw some of it. A wealthy tribesman rode past, his saddlecloth silk of Cathay sewn with pearls, his scimitar blazing with sapphires and silverwork. Behind him came five camels bearing women, hidden from sight by rich carpets. Thus I saw Sharm Beg again.

  On the third day I took my leave of the Rajputs, having seen that it was not ordained that the young lord should die. The spear had pierced upward under the shoulder blade and no arteries were severed. Indeed, he had upon his body the scars of five other wounds, each as bad as this. Though I had bidden him keep to his bed for the rest of that moon, I found him outstretched upon a mattress, clad in a fresh white tunic of brocade, his small turban wound with a string of pearls. And four men-servants of Karadak were bearing the mattress and the wounded youth toward the river garden where Radha sat.

  "Nay," he smiled at my protest. "Thou hast said it was ordained that I should live. Who would deny his eyes the sight of such beauty in a maiden?"

  Indeed, though veiled, Radha's face held the pride and gladness of one released from torment. She rose to greet the hero when his mattress was laid at her feet.

  "From my lips, my lord," she said in the Irani speech. "Thou must accept the gratitude of Kukri."

  "For a word from thee, I would have passed through the swords of Kukri," he responded.

  In another man this would have sounded like boasting, but this youth was full of unexpected happenings. Surely, for cousins, they made much of ceremony. But I did not yet know the ways of the Rajputs. Radha, wrapped in her white garments of mourning, sat quiet in the ferns by the bank of the stream-aye, like a lily rising from the ferns, so straight was she, so slender and fair to behold. The eyes of the young lord took fire.

  Thirty years ago, I would not have left Karadak thus-not without measuring my sword against his, and taking the maiden upon my saddle, if I lived. Thirty years!

  "Grant me," I asked of him, "thy leave to depart."

  "Not without a gift," cried Radha swiftly. "He will give thee, 0 shaikh, that which thou desirest in Karadak."

  "Nay," I denied. "I have beheld the beauty of Radha of Kukri, and what gift is to be measured against that sight?"

  "Well said! " cried the Rajput. "But thou hast lost a camel in this fighting, Daril." He turned and spoke to one of the servants who bowed and made off toward the castle. "Byram Khan will choose for thee a good horse, saddled and equipped." Suddenly he smiled merrily. "Thou art a strange physician, not to claim a reward. But I say thou art a better swordsman than physician, and wilt ever be!"

  Thus he gave me leave to go. At the stables I met Byram Khan, mounted, with one follower also in the saddle. Presently a groom let out my mount, and to-it was the dun mare of the dead pasha!

  "Awa Khan hath a generous hand!" I cried.

  Byram Khan gathered up his reins and rode forward, musing.

  "That is true," he growled, "as I the captain of his swordsmen know well. But this mare is the gift of the guest of Karadak."

  I thought of one person and then another.

  "The Rajput maiden, then?"

  "By her wish, aye, but she had naught to give."

  "Then it was surely Awa Khan."

  The old warrior shook his head, and let his charger trot through the village street, saying that he had orders to escort me forth upon a trail that led north to the caravan route to Ind.

  "Awa Khan is not here," he said, "being in the army of his lord the Raja of Bikanir with seventy men from Karadak. He left me here to keep the castle with nine men."

  Then I remembered that the young Rajput, the rider of the black charger-he who had overthrown Mirakhon Pasha-had never spoken his name. I had thought that he was the kinsman of Radha.

  "Who is the swordsman?" I asked.

  Byram Khan looked at me in surprise.

  "Ask in Chitore-aye, or Ind. He is Kurran, a stripling of the royal house of Chitore, son of the ruler of Rajasthan. He is too young to be sagacious, but
he can handle a sword."

  "Then he is no kinsman of Radha of Kukri?"

  The old retainer of Awa Khan passed his fingers through his beard and grunted. "Nay, Chitore and Bikanir have been at war for long years. They are still at war. Once, in the gorge of Anavalli, this youth Kurran and Sidri Singh fought hand to hand."

  I thought then of the feuds of my clans in the Nejd. It was clear to me now that Awa Khan and Sidri Singh had been opposed to Kurran's clan in this feud of the Rajputs.

  "Yet Kurran was the guest of Karadak," I said.

  "Aye, he was riding from the mountains of Iran, with two followers, to join his father's army. He turned aside to rest at Karadak. Was the hospitality of Awa Khan to be denied the noblest blood of Ind? Being Kurran, we served him, and when this pasha came, though a dog-born dog, it was the duty of Kurran to offer hospitality."

  W'allahi, they knew the duty of the salt, these Rajputs! Desert men, like the chieftains of my sahra. Within the tents, the feud is forgotten.

  "Though no kinsman of Radha, this stripling prince drew the sword for her," I mused aloud.

  "If he had not done so," Byram Khan said grimly, "the honor of Awa Khan would have been lost indeed. Being the guest of Karadak, Kurran took thought for the honor of Awa Khan." He meditated a moment, easing forward in the saddle. "And Awa Khan will be well satisfied when I tell him what was done, and how."

  Thus we parted, he turning back to Karadak, I trotting forward along the mountain trail. I wondered whether Kurran would ride forth on this road with a bride. Byram Khan had not bothered his head about this. In deed, it was hard to say what that young Kurran would not do. Thirty years-yea, and eight-I had carried such a maiden off in spite of the watching of her clan.

  But one thing was certain. When I looked down at the smooth mane and the twitching ears of the fine mare, I thought of Mirakhon Pasha. Surely he had dug his own grave, being blinded by pride and lust.

  It is written: Thy wealth will not save thee, if thy deeds destroy thee.

  And I have seen a man who had a great store of gold under his hand, yet he was slain by his own deeds. It was in the year one thousand and twenty and nine,* when I was journeying to the land of Ind-I, Daril, the Arab of the sahra, the desert land.

  I was then beyond the middle of life and I had sheathed the sword to follow the path of a physician, thirsting to see new lands. I had agreed to pay a camelman of Isfahan ten silver pieces to bring me safely to the frontier of Ind. He was called Sher Jan, and he was a rogue.

  Yea, a man of loud oaths and many weapons-three knives of different shapes and a rusty tulwar. At times he would draw this sword and flourish it, but I never saw him clean it. In his girdle besides the knives he carried a beard comb and opium and flint and a pouch filled with powder, though he had never owned a musket. Sher Jan, with his forked beard and his deep voice, had the mien of a lion and the heart of a hare. He called me his lord and his friend, and one evening he spoke very boldly, asking if I carried much money.

  This was the evening when we climbed out of the plain and entered the foothills where Iran ends and Ind begins. We followed a shallow valley that became narrower as we advanced, until the ridges of red rock loomed above us like walls. Yellow dust hung around the camels in clouds, until the air in this hour of sunset became a golden haze. The baked earth still gave off the heat of the sun, and the river of the gully was no more than brackish pools. By one of these Sher Jan halted, looking about on all sides and sniffing like a dog. Satisfied, he set his helper to work pulling tam arisk bushes and picking up dead roots, while he loosed the bales from the kneeling camels.

  "What place is this?" I asked.

  "The Kaizak-davan-the Valley of Thieves." He wiped his long nose with his sleeve and looked at me sidewise. "It is well named. If thou hast much money, 0 my lord, give it to my keeping for the night."

  "Nay," I assured him, "our bargain was that thou shouldst protect my possessions from theft and tribute on the road."

  "God knows," he muttered, "I deny it not. Yet consider, 0 favored one, if thy purse and gear be stolen from thee while I sleep, how am I responsible? While if I have them in charge, I must answer for them."

  "Answer for thyself!" I cried at him.

  Truly the camel driver had sworn to me by the triple oath that he was the master of a large caravan with many armed followers and that he made the journey from Iran* to Ind several times in the year and had bought immunity from the chieftains who might otherwise plunder caravans along the way. And it turned out that he had no more than eight camels, laden with red leather and honey and sweet oil, and no more than one sorry servant whose only weapon was a cudgel to beat off dogs.

  "Upon thy head be it," he said calmly, meaning that if anything happened to me it would be of my doing, not his.

  So I spoke no more, and went and sat, to meditate and enjoy the one good hour of these days when the sun was at the rim of the desert below us. In my belt I had no more than forty silver coins, of which I had agreed to pay Sher Jan ten. But I needed little.

  I was alone. My horse, a swift-paced dun mare; my sword, a plain Damascus blade with a horn hilt. All other belongings I had given away when I set forth upon my wandering. Yea, wanderers are we, we Arabs of the sahra, the desert land.

  It is better to be thus free than to be chained; better to ride with few possessions than with many, and far better to journey thus, toward a strange land than to abide in one place, bowed down by goods and debts and increasing cares. In my youth it would have been misery to be thus bare of gear and goods, and apart from the eyes of fair young women and the raids of the clans. Now, though I wore still the sword, I sought peace; men called me Shaikh and hakim-elder and physician.

  And yet I was not quite alone. The mare, coming close to my shoulder, stretched down her head, rattling the bit. In my argument with Sher Jan I had forgotten her. I rose, loosed the saddle and lifted it down. I rubbed the slender limbs with a handful of dry grass and freed her from bit and headband, slipping on halter and rope. Then I let her drink at the pool, and gave her a measure of barley and salt. As I was leaving her, she lifted her head and neighed.

  In our small caravan we had no other horses. Sher Jan and his follower rode between the camel packs. I looked at Sher Jan and found him heaping more tamarisk upon the pile, already smoking and blazing.

  "0 one of little wit!" I cried. "If this be truly a place of thieves, why light such a beacon to guide them?"

  "In this gully the fire will not be seen," he answered, throwing roots on the fire to show that he cared not for my reproach.

  "Nay, look at the smoke."

  Down by the pool, hemmed in by ridges of rock, the dusk had deepened, but the sky overhead still glowed, changing from shimmering blue to dull purple. From the heights before us the twisting smoke would be clearly seen against the last of the sunset. Sher Jan squinted up and wiped his eyes with his greasy sleeve.

  "True, 0 shaikh," he made response, "but we must eat."

  "On thy head be it then."

  I went and sat by the fire, while he put water and salt and rice and strips of mutton into the pot. The air had become cold of a sudden, and the wind was chill from the snow far above us. It was then the beginning of winter, and Sher Jan said the snow lay in the passes ahead of us, in these mountains that he cursed, calling them the mountains of the Pathans. Yet he said that the city we would reach the next day was a veritable paradise, a garden spot within the barrens.

  This city he swore to be the gateway of the empire of Ind-the end of his road, to which he had made covenant to guide me. And he called it Kandahar, rolling the word upon his tongue as if he loved well the sound of it.

  "Verily," he often said, "that is a place good for wine and for profit."

  But that evening, although he had set the stew boiling, we ate from a cold pot and at a late hour. Before the last light had left the sky the thieves came.

  First my mare neighed again, then I heard hoofs striking upon loose stones. Sher Jan
sprang to his feet, but when a dozen riders clattered down into the gully he made no move to draw weapon or to fly. He might have fled, because the horsemen all came along one path and at a hand pace, without attempting to rush us. I thought that one of them had been watching us for some time and that Sher Jan's fire would bring no good.

  When the horsemen moved into the firelight I saw they were warriors of a kind strange to me, mounted on scrawny hill ponies. They were armed with light lances, with hair tufts under the points. Over their mail and leather shirts they wore immense gray-wool and sheepskin coats, while their reins were heavy with silver; and their leader sat upon a saddlecloth of embroidered damask.

  To Sher Jan he spoke in a language I knew not, and my valiant camel driver with his helper made haste to open up his loads, the leader of the band riding from one bale to the next.

  No more than one load of the eight did he order taken-bales of red leather-and divided up into four packs, which his men strapped upon led ponies. Then he of the damask cloth walked his horse over to me and asked a question. When I shook my head, he called out a name.

  "Shamil!"

  A rider who had kept far from the fire advanced at the summons-a drowsy man, finely clad in a green and white striped khalat edged with soft brown fur. He swayed in the saddle, and his eyes, touched up with dark powder, did not open at all. His lips and thin beard were stained bright red, and he acted as if he had been chewing too much opium.

  "0 brother of the Arabs," he greeted me in a droning voice, "pay down the road tax to this man."

  "Who asks it?" I demanded.

  His eyelids flickered as if this surprised him.

  "I am Shamil, the treasurer of the Hazara band. Who art thou, and whence?"

  "Daril of Athir, of the Nejd Arabs," I answered truthfully, "a physician upon the road to the empire of Ind."

  "To serve whom?"

  "If God wills it, the emperor, the Mogul of Ind." For I had been told that he was the most powerful of rulers, the most fortunate of living men, and I had journeyed from afar to visit his court. "Art thou a servant of the Mogul?"