Authors: MARY JO PUTNEY
Murad glanced back over his shoulder, offended at his master’s lack of faith, then stared past Ross, his expression changing to one of genuine fear. “Allamans!” he shouted. “We must flee for our lives!”
Both Ross and Allahdad turned in their saddles and saw that half a dozen riders in characteristic Turkoman garb had rounded a bend about a quarter of a mile behind them. As soon as the Turkomans saw that they were observed, they shouted and spurred their horses forward, one of them firing a wild shot.
“Damnation!” Ross swore. “Ride!”
The three men took off at full speed, Ross offering a fervent prayer that the track they were on wouldn’t come to a dead end. If they had room, they should be able to outrun their pursuers, for he had chosen mounts that were large, fast, and well-fed. Turkoman horses were tough and had great stamina, but they were smaller, and at the end of the winter they should be feeling the effects of months of poor forage. And if speed didn’t work, Ross had his rifle, though he would prefer not to shoot anyone, for both practical and humanitarian reasons.
At first it seemed as if his strategy would save them, for the gap between the two groups of riders slowly began to widen. Then Ross’s mount put one foot into an unseen animal burrow. The horse lurched, then pitched violently to the ground with a shriek of equine agony, pulling the pack horse with it. With the lightning responses developed during thirty years of riding, Ross kicked free of the saddle, flinging himself sideways so that he wouldn’t be trapped under the falling horses.
For a fraction of a second, too many things were happening at once. As Ross automatically tucked his body so that he would hit the ground rolling, Murad shouted and reined back for an instant, his expression stricken as he briefly considered coming to his employer’s aid. Self-preservation won and Murad spurred his horse forward in renewed flight. Then Ross slammed into the rocky ground and all thought disappeared into bruised blackness.
He recovered consciousness a few moments later to find himself lying on his back, all of the breath knocked out of him and pain stabbing through his left side, which had taken the brunt of the fall. The vibration of thundering hooves shook the ground and he looked up to see an appalling worm’s-eye view of six horses stampeding down on him.
His hat had fallen off, and at the sight of his bright gold hair a voice shouted, “Ferengi!”
At the last possible instant before trampling Ross, the horses veered off, their dancing hooves throwing up a cloud of grit and dust as the riders formed a milling circle around him. The Turkomans’ foot-high black sheepskin hats gave them a military appearance, rather like a squad of royal hussars. They had Mongolian blood in their ancestry, and the dark slitted eyes that stared down at their captive showed emotions ranging from curiosity to greed to flat-out malevolence.
Ross forced his dazed mind to think and analyze, for they were all young men, and the young hold life more cheaply than the old. They might kill on impulse, without stopping for second thoughts. His rifle was still holstered on his horse, which lay twenty feet away, whimpering with pain, its right foreleg bent at an unnatural angle. The packhorse had scrambled to its feet and appeared to be unhurt. In a few moments the Turkomans would start plundering both horses, but for the moment Ross was the center of attention.
As he pushed himself upright, one of the Turkomans snarled, “Russian swine!” and lashed out with his riding whip.
Reflexively Ross raised his arm and managed to protect his face from the blow, though the force of it rocked him back and stung viciously through his heavy coat. As his assailant’s mount pranced away, Ross scrambled to his feet. Fortunately the Turkoman language was similar enough to Uzbeki that he could both understand and reply. “Not Russian. British,” he croaked through the dust in his throat.
The whip-wielding rider spat. “Pah! The British are as bad as the Russians.”
“Worse, Dil Assa,” another agreed. “Let us kill this ferengi spy now and send his ears to the British generals in Kabul.”
A third rider said, “Why kill him when we can sell him in Bokhara for a pretty price?”
Dil Assa snarled, “Money is soon spent, but to kill an unbeliever will assure us of paradise.”
“But there are many of us,” another objected. “Can we all go to paradise for killing only one infidel spy?”
Before a full-scale theological debate could develop, Ross interjected, “I am not a spy. I am traveling to Bokhara to learn news of my brother. I have a letter from the Sheik Islam, commending all of the faithful to aid me on an errand of mercy.”
“The Sheik Islam is nothing to us,” Dil Assa sneered. “We care only for the blessing of our khalifa.”
Having known that the Sheik Islam was a long shot, Ross was ready with a direct appeal to cupidity. “I am a lord among the ferengis. If you help me, you will be richly rewarded.”
“You are a British dog, and like a dog you shall die.” As Dil Assa unslung his old matchlock rifle and pointed it at Ross, his companions burst into a babble of comments that was too quick for Ross to follow. Several appeared to favor preserving his life for possible gain, while others were vying for the privilege of killing the infidel. Ignoring the opinions of his fellows, Dil Assa cocked the hammer of his rifle and aimed the weapon at Ross, his eyes black and deadly.
The hole in the end of the barrel loomed as large and lethal as the mouth of a cannon, and momentarily Ross was immobilized by the sight. After escaping random death in a dozen other lands, finally his luck had run out. There was no time for fear; instead, all he could think was that Jean Cameron’s blithe optimism had been misplaced once more.
Preferring to go down fighting rather than being shot like a pig in a pen, Ross made a futile dive toward Dil Assa. Once more the world exploded into the messy chaos of violence. The gun went off at deafeningly close range and simultaneously a whole volley of shots sounded, the ragged echoes booming back and forth between the stony hills. As the Turkoman horses began whinnying and rearing in a wild melee, Ross was struck in the shoulder. The impact spun him about, then knocked him down. As he fell, he was uncertain whether he had been shot or merely clipped by the flailing hoof of one of the horses.
One of the Turkomans called out a warning and pointed at a nearby hill, where a group of a dozen horsemen were thundering down toward the track, firing rifles as they came. Ross managed to get to his feet again and darted over to his injured horse to retrieve his rifle and ammunition. After that, he intended to get on the packhorse and move as fast and far as possible, before he became trapped in the middle of a skirmish between the two bands of locals.
Seeing the ferengi run, Dil Assa bellowed and reversed the discharged rifle so that he held the barrel in his hands. Then he rode straight at Ross, swinging the gun like a club. Once more Ross dodged, barely escaping a skull-cracking blow.
Then suddenly the Turkomans were in retreat, fleeing before the newcomers. As the horses galloped by Ross, one sideswiped him and knocked him to the ground again.
This time he did not quite black out, though his vision darkened around the edges. Dizzily he decided that he had not had quite such a bad day since the memorable occasion when he had met Mikahl in the Hindu Kush. He felt numb all over from the punishment he had taken, and was unable to decide whether he was mortally wounded or merely bruised and breathless.
From where he lay he had a clear view of what was happening, and he saw the group of newcomers split, half going off in pursuit of the Turkomans, the others riding directly toward Ross. By their clothing, they were Persians, and with luck they would be less bloodthirsty than the Turkomans.
Then, as the riders drew closer, Ross blinked in surprise, not believing the evidence of his eyes. What the bloody hell was a Tuareg warrior doing in Central Asia, three thousand miles from the Sahara?
Tall, fierce, and proud, the Tuareg were legendary nomads of the deep desert; they were also the only Muslim tribe whose men veiled their faces and women did not. Ross knew the Tuareg well, for he had lived among them for months when he was traveling in North Africa, and it was incredible to see a Targui, as an individual was called, so far from his native land.
As the horsemen galloped up, Ross wearily hauled himself to his feet. He was bruised all over, and bloody abrasions showed through rips in his clothing, but there appeared to be no major wounds or broken bones. He had gotten off rather lightly. At least, so far.
The riders pulled up a short distance from Ross and they all stared at the foreigner. Ross stared back, his scrutiny confirming that the rider in the center wore the flowing black robes and veil characteristic of the Tuareg. The long blue-black veil, called a tagelmoust, was wound closely around the man’s head and neck, leaving only a narrow slit over the eyes. The effect was ominous, to say the least.
Besides the Targui, the group contained three Persians and two Uzbeks. It was an unusual mixture of tribes; perhaps they came from one of the Persian frontier forts and served the shah. Ross didn’t sense the hostility he had felt from the Turkomans; on the other hand, they didn’t look especially friendly either, particularly not the Targui, who radiated intensity even through the enveloping folds of his veil.
Subtle signs of deference within the band implied that the Targui was the leader, so Ross said in Tamahak, the Tuareg language, “For saving a humble traveler from the Turkomans, you have the deepest gratitude of my heart.”
The Targui’s sudden stillness implied that he was startled to hear his own language, but with face covered and eyes shadowed, it was impossible to read his expression. After a moment he replied in fluent French, “Your Tamahak is good, monsieur, but I prefer to converse in French, if you know it.”
The veiled man spoke scarcely above a whisper, and it was impossible to tell from the light, husky sound if he was young or old. With cool deliberation he reloaded his rifle, a very modern British breechloader, then rested it casually across his saddlebow. Though the weapon was not pointing at Ross, there was a distinct sense that it could be aimed and fired quickly if necessary. “There were two other men with you. Where are they?”
Unable to think of any purpose that would be served by silence, Ross replied, “They continued on when my horse fell.”
The Targui made a quick gesture and two of his men turned and cantered off in the direction of Ross’s vanished servants. With noticeable dryness he said, “You should choose your men more carefully, monsieur. Their loyalty leaves much to be desired.”
“A horse carrying a double load could not have outrun the Turkomans. There is no wisdom in a meaningless sacrifice.”
“You are rational to a fault, monsieur.” Losing interest in the subject, the Targui dismounted and crossed to Ross’s injured horse, which was sprawled on its side, chest heaving and eyes glazed with pain. After a moment’s study of the beast’s fractured foreleg, he calmly raised his rifle, set it against the horse’s skull, and pulled the trigger. As the gun boomed, the horse jerked spasmodically, then lay still.
It took all of Ross’s control not to recoil. It was necessary to destroy the injured animal, and Ross would have done so himself if he had had the opportunity, but there was something profoundly chilling about the Targui’s dispassionate efficiency.
Swiftly the veiled man reloaded once more, then swung around to face Ross. He was about five-foot-nine, an average height for his people, which made him tall for an Arab, though several inches shorter than Ross. His slight built and lithe movements implied that he was young, but his air of menace was ageless and timeless. “You are bleeding. Are you injured?”
Ross realized that he had been rubbing his aching shoulder and immediately dropped his hand. “Nothing to signify.”
“You will come with us to Serevan.” It was not a request.
Dryly Ross said, “As your guest or your captive?”
The way the Targui ignored the comment was answer enough. In Persian he gave an order to the smallest of his companions, a boy in his teens.
The boy replied, “Aye, Guli Sarahi.” After dismounting, he offered the reins of his horse to the ferengi.
Ross nodded thanks, then glanced at the Targui. “Please allow me a moment to collect my saddle and bridle.”
After the veiled man gave an impatient nod, Ross stripped the harness from his dead horse. The saddle would probably be useful in the future; more to the point, a substantial amount of gold was concealed inside, which was why Ross preferred to lift it himself. He fastened the saddle to his pack animal, then mounted the loan horse while the boy climbed behind Guli Sarahi.
Briefly Ross wondered at his captor’s name, which did not seem Tuareg. Then he shrugged; there were so many better things to worry about. It appeared that he was not going to be killed out of hand, but he suspected that regaining his freedom would be expensive. Worse, arranging a ransom would take time, which was a far more precious commodity.
As they rode east toward the frontier, the Persians surrounded Ross, eliminating any possibility of escape. He considered starting a conversation with the nearest men, but decided against it, for there might be some advantage in concealing his knowledge of the Persian language. Besides, when in doubt, he had always found it best to keep his mouth shut.
The journey took about an hour, the track growing narrower and steeper until they were winding single file up a mountain. Near the top, the track swung around a tight turn, and suddenly a sprawling walled fortress loomed above them. Someone behind him announced, “Serevan.”
Ross drew his breath in, impressed, for this was no shabby village but an enormous compound reminiscent of a feudal castle. Sophisticated irrigation created lush fields and orchards in every bit of arable soil on the hillside and the valley below, and the laborers working in the spring-green fields looked strong and prosperous, unlike most of the villagers who lived in this hazardous, much-plundered border country.
Like most construction in Central Asia, the massive walls and buildings of the fortress were made of plaster-coated mud bricks, and they glowed pale gold in the afternoon sun. As the party rode through the gate into the compound, Ross noted that the buildings seemed quite old, but they had been repaired within the last few years. There were many abandoned ancient strongholds in this part of the world, and probably Serevan had been one until recently.