Authors: MARY JO PUTNEY
Juliet tightened her fingers around Ross’s. “I’m almost afraid to say it out loud, but it looks like we might have accomplished the impossible.” Suddenly she grinned. “And much as I hate to admit it, my mother’s intuition was correct.”
“What happens when we reach Serevan?” Ross asked softly.
Juliet’s brief sense of well-being ebbed away. “I don’t know,” she said, her words no more than a whisper.
“No more do I.” Ross released her hand and lifted the spyglass to scan the horizon. Then he stopped and frowned.
“Do you see something?” Juliet asked.
“A dust cloud that looks more like riders than a sandstorm.” He handed the spyglass to her. “What do you think?”
She took her time, trying to distinguish detail against the bleached sky. “It’s definitely a group of riders, perhaps ten or twelve men,” she said at length, “and they’re coming from the direction of Bokhara. Do you think we’re being followed?”
“It’s possible. If someone tracked us far enough to learn that we are going to Persia, but not on the main caravan route, this is the only other possibility.”
Juliet scrambled to her feet. “Perhaps we should leave.”
Still seated, Ross shook his head. “Not just yet—even Turkoman horses need rest in this heat, and while Ian is doing amazingly well, he’s not made of iron. I’ll stay here and watch the riders. When they’re closer, we can decide if they look threatening. Go get some rest—you’re not made of iron, either.”
“Could I lie down here beside you?” she asked rather shyly, knowing that being near Ross would strengthen her more than anything else could. “I promise I’ll try to sleep.”
For answer, he caught her hand and tugged her down until her head was in his lap. His hard thigh made quite a decent pillow, and to her surprise, she drifted into a doze.
The shadows had lengthened when Ross shook her shoulder. “It’s time to get moving again. The riders behind us are dressed like Bokharan soldiers, and I can’t think of any reason for them to be here except for pursuing us.”
“Damnation.” Juliet stared in dismay at the dust cloud, which was now close enough to see without the spyglass. “I didn’t really believe that anyone would be so persistent.”
“Shahid Mahmud would be.” Ross got wearily to his feet. “He took a very personal dislike to both of us and he’s the bulldog sort who never quits.”
They hastened down the hill to wake the others, and were on their way within five minutes. Through the night they pushed on steadily, but the next morning, when Ross stopped at a high point to check the trail behind them, they had made only a little headway on their pursuers.
Frowning, Ross put away his spyglass. The men behind must be aware of their presence, for both groups were moving as fast as possible under these conditions, and the interval between them was fairly constant. If Ross and his companions could keep up their present speed, they would be safe, but almost any kind of trouble would slow them, with disastrous consequences.
As Ross rejoined the others and gave the signal to continue, he offered a silent prayer of thanks that Ian was equal to the pace they were setting. Having survived the Black Well, Ian was not about to die now that he was free, and the forge of the desert had refined him down to raw willpower and tenacity. He would not allow his condition to become a source of problems.
But trouble did come later that day, when the next water hole turned out to be dry. It had been two days since the last well, and they had only a little water left in the waterskins. Carefully rationed, it would last the humans for perhaps two more days, but the horses would need water long before then.
Grim-faced, they set their course for the next water hole.
Mercilessly Shahid drove his troops through the tawny, shifting dunes. At the outer limits of vision was another party moving away at high speed, and he knew beyond the possibility of doubt that it was his prey.
Instinct had led Shahid this far, an almost uncanny ability to think like his quarry. It had worked with gazelles and lions, and now it was proving no less effective with the ferengi. At the Oxus, a ferryman gave a description confirming that Khilburn was traveling west with three men, including the Targui, but it was instinct that told Shahid they would take the seldom-used southern route, with its unreliable water supply.
When they reached the dead well, Shahid knew that he would win, for unlike the ferengi, he and his men had two packhorses carrying extra waterskins that were still full. Soon Khilburn and his friends would slow, and then they would be ripe for the plucking. A fierce light in his eyes, Shahid forced his grumbling troops to push on faster.
Another endless, exhausting day passed. Juliet found it eerie to know that the pursuit was growing ever closer. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw that their enemies were still beyond gunshot range, but that would not be true much longer. Allowing her weary horse to drop back by Ross’s, she said, “I think it’s time to find an ambush site and wait for them.”
Ross grimaced. “It may come to that soon. Our rifles are our one great advantage, especially since most Uzbeks aren’t the marksmen that Pathans and Afghans are. But there are still a dozen of them to only two guns for us.”
Juliet gave a worried glance at the sky. “If we’re going to make a stand, we should do it soon, before the sun sets.”
He studied their surroundings, which consisted of low, rolling sand hills. “I would cheerfully trade all of this sand for a nice rocky defile, with us holding the high ground.”
Juliet smiled faintly. “I would trade all of this sand for just about anything you could mention.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a shout from Murad, who had just rounded the next sandy hill. Alarmed by the note in his voice, Juliet and Ross spurred their horses forward until they caught up with the other two men.
Less than a quarter of a mile ahead was a party of black-hatted Turkomans. There were at least twenty young men and no women or children, so it was a raiding party—and the Turkomans had seen the newcomers and were cantering forward to investigate.
Juliet muttered an oath. “Talk about being caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.”
“Frankly, those are two choices I would prefer to these,” Ian said acerbically.
Juliet tried to decide what would be the best course, but her weary mind was blank. They might have been able to outshoot the men following them, but there were too many Turkomans to fight, and trying to outrun both hostile groups would be hopeless, given the debilitated state of their horses.
Ross exhaled with a soft, rueful sigh. “There’s only one solution. Throw ourselves on the Turkomans’ mercy and hope that the laws of hospitality protect us.” Then, to Juliet’s horror, her husband spurred his horse directly at the Turkoman war party, his right hand raised in a sign of peace.
“He’s right,” Ian said tersely. Putting his heels to his mount, he followed Ross.
Juliet and Murad exchanged an appalled glance. “They are mad to trust themselves to Turkoman marauders!” Murad exclaimed.
Juliet couldn’t have agreed more, but she didn’t have a better suggestion. “Are not madmen holy in Islam?” she said wryly as she adjusted her tagelmoust. “And is hospitality not sacred? Let us pray that these Turkomans believe both of those things.”
With a kind of light-headed bravado, she raced after Ross and Ian, who were now face-to-face with the Turkomans. Behind her hooves sounded as Murad did the same. They joined the group just as Ross said, “We beg your hospitality, for the last well was dead and our horses are sore pressed.”
“You ask hospitality?” The elaborately dressed young man who seemed to be the leader was incredulous; doubtless he was more accustomed to travelers fleeing in the opposite direction.
For a moment their fate wavered in the balance between social obligation and bandit greed. Then another Turkoman said excitedly, “It is Khilburn, the ferengi who defeated Dil Assa and won the
bozkashi
match!” He edged his mount forward for a better view. “With my own eyes, I saw him do it. Never would I have believed an infidel could play
bozkashi
so well.”
Two other men who had been at the
bozkashi
match chimed in. One was a cousin of Dil Assa’s, and he described how Dil Assa had given his opponent the wolf-edged cap after the match.
Suddenly the suspicious mass of Turkomans dissolved into a laughing, boisterous group. The youth who had made the first identification said curiously, “I heard that you were traveling to Bokhara to ask for your brother’s release, Khilburn. Did the amir grant your request?”
“No, he refused.” Ross paused with deliberate showmanship. “Hence, because Nasrullah gave us no choice, I and my friends Murad and Jalal”—he nodded at both in turn—“were forced to steal my brother from the Black Well.”
As the listeners gasped with amazement, Ross gestured at Ian. “And here my brother is, reclaimed from the amir’s dungeon.” With his bandaged eye, full red beard, and gaunt height, Ian was a figure to impress even Turkoman marauders.
When asked how the rescue had been accomplished, Ross briefly described his disguise, forged documents, and bluster, a story his audience found uproariously funny. When the laughter died down, Ross said, “Some of the amir’s soldiers are pursuing us and are scarcely more than a gunshot behind, with a dozen rifles to our two. This is another reason we beg your aid.”
The leader, who had introduced himself as Subhan, grinned. “It will be a pleasure to assist the legendary Khilburn.” Turning to his companions, he said, “We come from an oasis and are well-supplied with water. Will four of you exchange waterskins with our friends?”
Within two minutes the exchange had been made. Then Subhan said, “Our way lies opposite yours. When we meet your pursuers, we will chastise them for their effrontery at following you into the Kara Kum. The desert is
ours,
and none may pass safely but at our pleasure.” A chorus of agreement rose around him.
“A thousand thanks.” Ross inclined his head gravely. “Courage such as yours comes from the heart and is beyond price, but nonetheless I would like to offer a small token of our gratitude.” He had delved into his saddlebags when the water was being transferred, and now he tossed a heavy leather pouch to the Turkoman leader. “Though I cannot host a feast in person, I beg that you use this to celebrate and honor your generous courage.”
Subhan tucked the bag inside his chapan, to the sound of cheers. “We will sing songs and dance the night through in your honor,” he promised, “and someday I will tell my sons, when I have some, of the day that I met the legendary Khilburn.”
After a final exchange of courtesies, the groups separated, the ferengi party westbound and the Turkomans eastbound. Less than a quarter-hour later, when Juliet and the others had stopped to water their horses, the crack of rifle shots began rolling over the sandy wasteland. They all stopped to listen.
Murad grinned. “I never thought the day would come when I would be grateful for the fact that Turkomans are bloodthirsty barbarians.”
“As long as they’re on our side, they can be as bloodthirsty as they want.” Juliet finished watering her horse, then took a small mouthful herself, moistening her cracked lips and rolling the precious fluid around her mouth before swallowing. As she remounted, she thought that it was typical of Ross to have found a way to harness that bloodthirstiness on their behalf. He was a man in a million. What a pity that she wasn’t the woman in a million who deserved him.
As he bandaged his grazed wrist, Shahid cursed with vicious fluency. The damned Turkomans had almost ruined everything with their unexpected attack. After getting off to a noisy start, the skirmish had subsided to occasional shots and colorful shouted insults, continuing in desultory fashion until darkness fell. Shahid’s force had scattered and eight of his soldiers were gone beyond recall, lost not to death but cowardice, for they used the fighting as an excuse to retreat. By now the swine would be halfway back to Bokhara.
But Shahid had managed to rally three of his men, and they were the toughest, the most dangerous, and the most willing of his patrol. They would be enough to finish the job. The Uzbek calculated that it would take about two more days to regain the hours that had been lost to the Turkomans; they should overtake Khilburn about where the desert joined the hills.
Shahid remounted and ordered his three men to do the same. Then they set off into the night after the ferengi. The next two days were difficult, for they had to push themselves to the limit to gain on their prey, but four men raised less dust than a dozen, and Khilburn seemed to have no notion that he was still pursued.
The infidel was finally overtaken in the rugged hills that marked the edge of the plateau of Persia. The rough terrain favored the pursuers and, without being seen himself, Shahid was able to lead his men along the stony track until he had his enemy in view. As a clear sign that fortune was on his side, the trail ahead dipped into a broad ravine before rising once more. Khilburn and his men were on the far side of the ravine and below the Bokharans as they picked their way up the steep track. It was a perfect site for an ambush.
Shahid ordered his men to dismount and take cover. When all of their weapons were loaded, the rifles aimed, and more ammunition ready to hand, he gave the signal to shoot.
The target he chose for himself was the swine Khilburn.
In spite of the constant blazing heat, Juliet thought that the last two days of travel had seemed easier, for they knew that the worst was behind them. The next well they reached after meeting the Turkomans had been bountiful, and they had obtained enough water to last them all the way home.
When the rugged hills came into view, Juliet had recognized their position and led the group to the most direct route to Serevan. Now, as they climbed the side of a ravine, the brisk wind brought the scents and cooler air of the highlands, and the travelers were in blithe spirits. “We’re within five miles of the fortress,” Juliet announced with deep satisfaction. “There will be time for a leisurely visit to the hammam before dinner.”