by Chris Paton
“I don’t know you, Hari.”
“And yet you walk beside me.”
“You mentioned Egmont,” Jamie shrugged. “Nobody else knows that I am here.”
“Then let us hope it stays that way.” Hari wagged a finger at Jamie. “No more shooting.”
“Fine,” Jamie gestured at the pass. “Shall we continue.”
Hari made a tutting sound in tune with Jamie’s hobnailed footfalls and fell in beside the lieutenant.
“Stop tutting, and tell me about that thing you are following.”
“That thing is the reason my master was willing to have me look out for you. Hitting two birds with one stone,” Hari laughed. “Although a stone would have no effect on the emissary.” Hari stopped. Taking hold of Jamie’s elbow, he turned the lieutenant toward him. “Did you notice how it walks? Big strides?”
“Yes,” Jamie brushed snow from his forehead. “Why does he walk like that? High-footing it up the valley.”
“Remember, British,” Hari hopped to one side, “it is not a he but a thing, testing the ground with each step. Like so.” Pantomiming the movements of the emissary, Hari demonstrated how lifting the foot high prevented it from tripping along the path.
“But not all the paths are so even.”
“Exactly. This is trial and error. The man controlling the emissary must find the path of least resistance and guide the emissary along it.”
“And who controls it?”
“Smith says it is the Russians. I am not so sure.”
“Who then?”
Hari brushed snow from his robes. He waited until he had Jamie’s full attention. “The Germans.”
“You are sure of this?”
“Oh, yes, British,” Hari tugged at Jamie’s sleeve and they resumed walking. “There have been many strange boats coming up the Indus. Like yours, but bigger. Great crates and tarpaulins stretched over strange shapes on the decks,” Hari shrugged. “Who knows what they have beneath them?”
“You think these boats were German?”
“They were not British, and the Russians come down the Amu Dariyā, or the Oxus as you know it.”
“But you have seen these things before?”
“I found two others – similar but not so advanced – the first over a year ago, roughly the same height and shape. It was wading through a deep snow drift below the village of Ali Masjid. The winter was a hard one, maybe you remember?”
“I was at sea with the Admiral,” Jamie increased his pace, boots clacking, to keep up with the excitable Hari Singh.
“Ah, a pity. It was a glorious winter – too cold for fighting and exploring. I had the mountains to myself.”
“Were you not cold?” Jamie shivered. “I am cold right now.”
“Cold? I nearly died, British. Look at my nose.” Hari turned his head to one side and pointed at the tip. “Can you see it? It is missing at least half at the end.”
Jamie looked but struggled to see anything.
“Bah,” Hari rearranged his turban. “The things I do for your country.”
“You were telling me about the emissary?”
“Yes, of course. The one we have just seen is a newer model. It is much more the image of a man. It even had me fooled for a while, until I got closer. The one wading through the snow was a little bigger, with a great hump upon its back. Most unnatural. The villagers said it was a djinn. They wouldn’t go near it.” Hari stopped Jamie with a hand upon his chest. “The hump, you see, was the boiler, burning all combustibles along the way. The machine, for that is what it was, had great scoops of arms, shovelling things into the boiler to be burned, driving it forwards.”
“But what about rocks and stones and the like? Surely it can’t be fuelled on just anything?”
“Quite true, British. You are not so stupid as I first took you to be,” Hari smiled and resumed walking. Jamie followed him, ignoring the mystic’s renewed tutting at the clacking of his boots. “The scoop arms eventually dumped so much rubble into the furnace and extinguished the boiler. The machine stopped.”
“How far did it get?”
“Oh, no further than the base of the mountains.”
“And the other one?”
“I found that one in the home of a tribal leader outside Lalpura. A small tribe, of little consequence. It was just kneeling there, in the middle of the Shah’s tent. Quite peculiar, really.”
“And it did nothing?”
“Not quite nothing,” Hari chuckled. “Every three hours the thing would bellow out a greeting in a strange language – German, most likely. It frightened the goats into the hills and the Shah’s wives out of his tent and into those of their lovers’.”
“A message?”
“Yes, full of the promise of riches. A generous but misguided diplomacy.”
“But it didn’t work, I take it?”
“Quite so, British,” Hari clapped the lieutenant on the shoulder. “After three days, the Shah was on his last nerves and his very last wife. They tried moving it, but it was solid and too weighty for even the mightiest of the tribe’s warriors to move it. In the end they shot off its limbs and clubbed it to pieces with its own metal arms and legs.”
“It didn’t protect itself?”
“It was on a diplomatic mission, not a punitive one.”
“What about this one?”
“It has been directed toward Adina Pur, I think. The British control Cabool. I don’t know for sure, but I think the Germans mean to be successful this time, British.”
Jamie stopped. Shielding his eyes from the thickening snow flurries, he adjusted the rifle case hanging across his chest. “You mentioned a controller. Could that have something to do with the thing on its back?”
“The wire?”
“Yes, the wire. It looked like some kind of antenna.”
“You saw that?” Hari whistled. “Yes, I think the controller sends it directional signals.”
“They would have to be close,” Jamie turned to look up at the sides of the pass.
“That would explain how it has got so far. Further than the others.”
“And that means your Germans, the flesh and blood kind, are in Afghanistan.”
҉
A mile outside the village of Daka, Lev Bryullov paid for his outfit with a fistful of rubles to the local Pashtoo warlord, Farshad Daarmak. Bryullov fastened the leather satchel hanging together with the bandolier beneath his woollen Burberry coat. Closing his hand over Farshad’s fist, Bryullov trapped the rubles within the warlord’s fingers.
“For the horses. I need water and food.”
“Sure, sure.” Farshad placed two fingers between his lips and whistled. “Najma,” the warlord called out as a young woman wearing a wool shirt beneath a goatskin tunic over thick quilted pantaloons emerged from the round skin tent. “Get them water,” Farshad pointed at the horses.
“And food,” Bryullov squeezed Farshad’s fingers.
“Yes, yes. Food. She will bring it with the water.”
“I will need a jezail also. A lightning jezail if you have one?”
Farshad licked his lips. “Very expensive.” Tugging his fist free of Bryullov’s grasp, he slipped the rubles inside his sheepskin coat. “It will cost you one horse.”
“I need all three horses to get to Adina Pur,” Bryullov shook his head. “I will give you this,” Bryullov reached into his pocket and pulled out a large ruby ring. The red stone glittered in the warlord’s eyes. “If,” Bryullov closed his fist around the ring as the warlord reached for it, “you send a guide with me.”
“Of course,” Farshad whistled again. “My son, Khan will come with you all the way to Adina Pur.” Farshad beckoned a young man from where he sat around the fire. Khan stood up. Fishing a morsel of meat from the leather pouch hanging from his belt, he tossed it to the hawk perched on the branch of a dead tree by the fire. Khan walked over to his father. The curved scabbard around his waist pressed into his sheepskin jacket, the boy’s trous
ers flapped in the wind as he walked.
“Not him,” Bryullov waved Khan away. “He is just a boy. She can come with me.” Najma looked up at a shout from her father.
“Unacceptable. Have you no honour?” Farshad pushed Bryullov away. “A man does not give his daughter to an infidel.”
“The Tsar will not be pleased. Do you not remember Gushtia?”
“Gushtia?” Farshad spat. “Dogs and bones are all that remain of Gushtia.”
“It would be a pity,” Bryullov opened his fist and twirled the ring within his fingers, “if the Tsar was forced to take a closer look at Daka. Do you not think, Farshad?”
The warlord gripped his beard and stared at Bryullov. “The Russians think they own Asia. That they can do with it what they will.”
“Can they not?” Bryullov placed the ruby in the pocket on the lapel of Farshad’s jacket. He patted it smooth. “Najma and I will leave as soon as the horses have been watered and fed. Bryullov smiled at the warlord’s daughter as she emptied one bucket into another.
“You are a wicked man, Bryullov. If anything happens to my daughter, if you touch her, I will hear of it.”
“I don’t doubt it, Farshad.”
The warlord strode across the grass to his daughter. Taking her by the arm, he whispered into her ear. Najma glanced at Bryullov, pulled free of her father and attended to the horses. Strapping a bundle of feed beneath the belly and between the legs of each of the horses, Najma fed them a handful of hay. Harvested as late as possible, before the first snowfall, it was a precious commodity. Najma rubbed the horses above the nose as they chewed.
Bryullov watched her. Tightening the straps of his saddle bags, he stared as Najma slid her father’s lightning jezail beneath the straps of her saddle and said farewell to her mother and younger sister. Kahn glared at Bryullov, his father’s hand gripping his shoulder. Bryullov grinned as he mounted, the supple leather of his riding boots sliding easily into the stirrups.
“No time for that,” Bryullov shouted. “I want to camp at the head of the pass by nightfall.”
Najma hugged her sister one last time, plucking the little girl’s small fingers from her clothes. Leaping onto the horse she twisted in the saddle to glare at Bryullov.
“After you, princess,” Bryullov touched his fingers to his forehead as he passed Farshad. The warlord’s son gripped the hilt of the dagger at his waist. “Careful now, Daarmak,” Bryullov nodded at Khan. “You’ll want to rein that one in a bit.” Bryullov laughed as he urged his horse to catch up with Najma’s. Farshad removed his hand from his son’s shoulder.
“Father?” Khan turned to look up at the warlord.
“You will take your hawk and follow your sister. Use the hawk to send me messages of your progress. If the Russian lays but one finger on her, you will kill him,” Farshad placed his palm flat upon his son’s chest. “Do you understand, Khan?”
“Yes, father.” Khan took a step back, held out his arm and whistled. The hawk flapped its wings and lifted from its perch. Gliding across the scrub, it settled on Khan’s wrist, its talons pressing between the tiny white scars on the young hawker’s skin. “Shahin,” Khan fed the bird another morsel of goat meat. “We must hunt.” The hawk’s keen eyes reflected the rising moon as Khan carried her into the tent to collect his pack.
҉
Jamie followed the mystic up a narrow trail leading up the easterly side of the pass. From the vantage of their resting place, he watched the emissary over the iron sights of his rifle. Lowering it, he brushed snow from the firing pin. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he dug deep into the pockets of his greatcoat. Pulling out strips of dried goat, he offered a strip to Hari.
“Thank you, British.” Hari tugged at the strip of goat with his teeth. “Look,” he pointed at the emissary on the banks of the Cabool river below them, “it has stopped.”
“Like it is unsure of the way.” Jamie looked around the mountains; the grey snow clouds obscured the summits. “Perhaps the signal cannot breach the mountains?”
“Perhaps the controller is out of range? I do not know.”
“If it is stopped,” Jamie unslung his rifle and slid it into the case, “then maybe we can disable it.” Jamie picked up his pack, shrugging it onto his back as he searched for the path leading away from the pass and down to the river. “It’s too steep.” His hobnail boots silenced by the inch of fresh snow, Jamie scuffed the snow from a likely path.
“Wait, British,” Hari swallowed the last of the goat meat. Pulling his travelling robes closer around his body, he hurried after Jamie.
“If we can disable it, at least slow it down, we can get to Adina Pur before it.” Jamie turned to Hari. “That is your mission. Correct?”
“That is correct, British.”
“And if I help you, you can help me in return.”
“Of course,” Hari gripped the strap of his satchel. Holding the strap tight, he repositioned the satchel with his other hand. “And you will tell me what it is we are to do. Won’t you, British? Mr. Smith was a little obscure on that point.”
“When the time comes.” Jamie stepped up onto a flat boulder. The sound of gears whining drifted on the wind, whispering along the walls of the mountain pass. Crouching, Jamie pressed his fingers on the rock. He kneeled, leaning out over a ledge, searching for the emissary.
“Careful, British,” Hari placed his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “It is steep.”
“We have it, Hari. We have to get down. Let us attack.” Jamie slipped off his pack and tossed it onto the rocks beneath the ledge.
“What are you going to do?”
“What does it look like? The pass runs in that direction,” Jamie pointed to the northwest. “There is a path down there, a shortcut to the river,” Jamie stood. He slung the rifle case over his upper body and cinched the strap tight. “It can’t be more than ten feet down to the path. What do you think?”
“I am not so sure, British.”
“Suit yourself, Hari.” Jamie sat down on the ground and swung his legs over the edge. Rolling onto his stomach, Jamie looked up at Hari, winked, and then slipped off the ledge, his boots clattering against the rock as he disappeared from the mystic’s sight.
“British?” Hari rushed to the edge. Splaying his hands he sank to his knees and squinted into the shadows below. “Are you alive?”
“I am all right, Hari. Over here, to your left.”
“I see you, British.” Hari waved. “Shall I come down?”
“It’s up to you,” Jamie glanced around the rocks. “The thing isn’t going anywhere. Not just yet. You have time to find another way down. I can meet you at the bottom, by the river.”
Hari stood up. “I will be there in a moment, British.” Pausing, one foot poised to step backward, Hari stared into the distance.
“Hari?” Jamie stepped back from the rock wall and shielded his eyes from the snow. “You’re not moving, Hari?”
“Raiders, British. Riding hard.” Pointing in the direction of the emissary, Hari crouched on the rock. “They are coming from the east. It is strange. Why do they not see the emissary?”
“But they have seen us, eh?”
“Truly.”
“How many?” Jamie unslung the rifle case from his shoulder.
“Perhaps ten. They must have heard your shot, or have come to check on the rifleman.”
“You have to get down here, Hari.” Picking his way through the boulders, Jamie searched for a defensible position. Flat boulders and a well-worn path between steep rock walls gave Jamie a bad feeling about the outcome of a fight.
“It is better you come back up here, British. Better cover and high ground.”
“I can’t climb back up, I’ll have to run around and come back to you along the pass.”
“Then be quick. They are coming.”
Jamie pulled his rifle out of its case. He ran the short distance back to the rock wall. Holding the rifle by the end of the barrel, he slid it up to the mystic. “
Take hold of it. You can cover me.”
Hari leaned over the rock wall and reached for the rifle, his fingers a hand’s length from the wooden stock. “It’s too far.” A musket ball whacked into the wall six feet to the left of Hari. “Jump, British. Jump up and give me the rifle.”
Jamie stepped onto a boulder to his right and jumped. The stock of the Baker rifle scraped the wall just an inch below the mystic’s fingers.
“Again. I will get it this time.” Hari leaned further over the ledge. A volley of incoming fire thwacked into the rocks, the lead balls embedding in the walls of the pass. Jamie jumped again, slipping the rifle from his grasp. Hari reached for it, grasped the stock and slipped, his body tumbling sideways. Hanging from the ledge by his right hand, Hari held the rifle in his left.
“Hari?” Jamie ducked as a musket ball split the air above his head.
“I am all right, British,” Hari shouted. “I am thinking of joining the circus.”
“What?” Jamie reached for his backpack and dragged it across the rocks to his side. Unfastening the canvas lid, he pulled out a pistol. “Hari, I think you should drop down to me.” Jamie primed the pistol and loaded it.
“No,” Hari called out. “I think I can get up again.”
Splintering the boulders and rocks on the ledge above Hari, a volley of fire blew grit, dust and sand into the mystic’s face. Hari’s grip failed, his fingers bloodied and torn by the splinters of rock showering the trail. He fell.
Chapter 3
The Cabool River
Afghanistan
December, 1850
The snow teased Lev Bryullov’s view of the two horses trudging alongside the Cabool River in front of him. Bryullov chewed on a plug of tobacco, a habit he had picked up from a Yankee spy he had caught in Saint Petersburg the previous spring. The interrogation, he recalled, had been interesting but revealed nothing of the American’s interest in Central Asia. Bryullov had kept the man’s supply of tobacco. He could not recall what had become of the man. Slavery most likely, Bryullov mused.
Bryullov urged his horse forward with a sharp jab of his heel. “Najma,” he grabbed the reins of the warlord daughter’s horse as he drew close. “This is not the way to the pass. Look there, girl,” he pointed to the west. “There is the gap and the way into the mountains.”
