by Chris Paton
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“You see it, British?” His robes flapping in the wind, Hari bounded along the rough edges of the road leading to the gates of Adina Pur.
“Damn it, Hari,” Jamie thrust his left leg before him, the rifle case swinging around his chest as he half-hobbled, half-ran along the road after the mystic. The minute he decides to leave me I will allow myself a brief rest, thought Jamie. Just to prepare myself for the last stretch.
“That brimstone beast is ploughing through everyone and everything in its path,” Hari pointed. The azure blue morning sky tugged the sun higher and higher above the mountains ringing the city. Plumes of dust stormed from the feet of the metal emissary as it crashed through carts and scattered traders and their families out of its path. Hari pointed again. “Come on, British. We must stop it from reaching the gates.”
“You go, Hari,” Jamie bent forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. “I will follow you as fast as I can.”
Hari jogged up to where Jamie stood. He gripped the lieutenant’s lapels with fervent fists. Jamie straightened, his feet rising slightly forcing his weight onto his toes. “You will come quickly? No?”
“I will come as quickly as possible,” Jamie nodded. “Perhaps I can try to shoot it from the road.”
Hari shook his head. “Too far, British,” he relaxed his grip. Smoothing the palm of his left hand over Jamie’s shoulder, Hari pointed back up the mountainside. “Look there. An old lookout post. Wait there. See if you can find the beast’s controller.” Hari made a quick search of the mountain sides, his eyes scanning the rocks and scrub where a man might hide, but still be in sight of the road. “He must be around here somewhere. You wait at the lookout post, catch the controller.” Hari squeezed Jamie’s shoulder. “Don’t kill him.”
“I’ll try not to, Hari.” Jamie nodded at the path; the plumes of dust were visible in the near distance. “You must hurry.”
“Yes,” Hari started down the path. He stopped. “Be good, British.”
“And if I can’t be good,” Jamie grinned.
“Then be careful,” Hari waved. Gathering his robes, he took off along the road a trail of dust billowing in his wake.
“You be careful too, Hari,” Jamie took a deep breath. He swapped the walking stick for his rifle, pulling the weapon out of its case. “One step at a time,” Jamie cursed as he turned back toward the mountain and found the path to the lookout post a quarter of the way up the steep rocky slopes. Where the path split, Jamie took the narrower of the two running parallel to the road. He caught a glimpse of Hari’s maroon robes as the mystic gained on the emissary. Jamie stopped for a moment to watch Hari as he reached the first of the splintered wagons. The mystic’s stride lengthened and his pace quickened. Jamie felt a touch of envy.
He arrived at the remains of the lookout post, the grey, dust-covered floorboards of the post’s tiny living quarters flexed and withered beneath his feet. Jamie moved to the loophole cut into the thick mud wall that faced the path coming down the mountainside from the ridge above.
Watching the path for a moment, Jamie cupped a hand to his ear at the sound of stones tumbling down the mountainside and voices drifting up from a dip along the path. Dropping to the floor, Jamie winced as he bent his leg beneath him. Keeping low, Jamie crawled out of the living quarters and peered over the low wall surrounding the small courtyard of the lookout post. The head of a horse drifted into view followed by two more, a single rider sitting astride the horse in front.
Jamie let out a slow breath. He reached for the powder horn hanging from his belt beneath the tails of his coat. Hari has the rest, he remembered. Turning away from the wall, Jamie flinched at the press of cold steel upon his nose. He stared down the length of a flintlock pistol. Flicking his eyes upward, Jamie blinked at the bearded face staring back at him.
“I must admit,” Bryullov grinned through the dust hanging in his beard, “I thought you would be older.” Jamie released his grip on the Baker rifle as Bryullov tugged it out of the lieutenant’s reach. “Perhaps you can tell me how long you have been controlling that thing?” Bryullov flicked the barrel of his pistol in the direction of the emissary. “And what you intend to do with it?”
Chapter 7
The Cabool River
Afghanistan
December, 1850
Where the road was congested, blocking its path, the emissary tore a space through which to pass. The caravaneers and traders, their families and friends, leaped to the sides of the dusty road as the emissary ripped the canvas and splintered the wood of wagons, broke the bones and stomped upon the skins of the livestock. The children crawled into their parents’ arms or fled beyond recall, mothers, fathers, aunts and uncles racing after them. Hari stood in the wake of the emissary. Chest heaving, he caught his breath as the metal monster cut a bloody path before him.
“The gates,” Hari gasped. “I must get to the gates.” He took a ragged breath, coughed dust onto his robes, and ran after the emissary. Hari overtook the automaton, reaching the gates as a line of the Shah’s finest marksmen formed in front of the entrance to the city. Hari ignored the impressive mud walls towering above the ground, the smooth, round turrets and the minaret, towering above all but the surrounding mountains.
“Get out of the way. Iggri,” Khaled Nazari, the Shah’s military commander, waved off Hari’s approach. Hari slowed to a walk, approaching the commander with his arms spread wide, his palms open. “Are you senseless? Get out of the way.”
“It will not make any difference,” Hari nodded at the emissary steaming along the road just behind him. “Muskets will not stop him.”
“How do you know this?” Nazari drew his sword from the ornate curved scabbard hanging at his waist. “Are you in league with it, mystic?”
“No, your grace,” Hari bowed low.
“Get up, you fool.” Nazari gripped Hari by the arm and pulled him toward the line of marksmen, their jezails wavering in the sight of the emissary. “I am not the Shah.”
“A pity,” Hari stopped to point at the emissary, “for he is the only one who can stop that thing.”
“How do you know this, mystic? Are you sure you are not in league with that thing?”
“Truly, I assure you I am not. But I have seen one before. Have you not heard of the Shah of Lalpura?”
“Lalpura? What nonsense is this?” Nazari shook Hari. “Speak plainly.”
“That thing is on its way to see the Shah. Several have been sent before it, I know not how many, but one of them stopped at the court of the Shah of Lalpura.” Hari flinched at the first musket to fire. “It is sent with a message, for your Shah only. It will not stop before it sits in his court.”
Nazari watched as musket ball after musket ball bounced harmlessly from the emissary’s armoured body. “We must close the gates,” he signalled to the Afghani warrior commanding his marksmen.
“The gates will not stop it. Clear a path to the court. I promise you, it will stop. If you do not clear a path, more people will get hurt, perhaps even killed.”
“Tarek,” Nazari waved to the marksman standing closest to him. He nodded at Hari. “Watch this man.” He signalled to the rest of his men as the emissary approached the gates. “Follow it, clear a path to the Shah’s court. You,” he pointed at the youngest of the riflemen. “Run ahead and get the Shah into the minaret. Take his wives and children. All of them.” The young Afghani ran through the gates and along the street to the court. He nodded at Tarek. “Bring him with us.”
Hari marched alongside the emissary as the Shah’s men flanked it, clearing stalls and people from its path. The emissary clanked forward, dust smoking from its heels. Inhabitants of the low mud buildings lining the street cowered in the windows and doorways, children clutching the legs of their parents and siblings in the wake of the emissary. The emissary slowed as it neared the Shah’s court, its massive limbs clicking down through the gears. The men on each side fingered the triggers of their jezails, casting nervous gl
ances at Tarek. Hari stopped at the entrance to the court, the emissary stalked forward raising little more than a whisper of dust despite its bulk. Its joints creaked as it reached the centre of the courtyard. Surrounded by lush plants resting in the cool December air, the emissary sank to its knees. A slow whine from deep within its chest scratched its way up through the emissary’s tubes, passing gears, cogs and assorted ironmongery, until it was disgorged in a monotonous mechanical bellow into the sacred space of the Shah of Adina Pur. Nazari and his men lowered their weapons and covered their ears. Hari smirked.
“What are you laughing at, mystic?” Nazari shouted over the emissary’s message.
“That,” Hari pointed at rapturous statue spouting forth before them. “It has completed its mission.”
“What happens now?”
“It will continue until the Shah presents himself before it.”
“How will it know it is the Shah?”
Hari pointed at his eyes with two fingers. “It can see.”
Nazari turned to regard the emissary with closer scrutiny. “And what language is it speaking, mystic?”
“It is the German language,” Hari winced at the scraping repetition of guttural consonants. “It is not a pretty language.”
“What are Germans? What country do they come from, mystic? They are new to me.”
“They are new to all of us,” Hari sighed. “But I think we will soon know them all too well.” He pointed at the gates behind them. “Perhaps we should close the gates.”
“And trap it inside the city walls?” Nazari shook his head. “I do not think so.”
“It will never leave,” Hari pointed at the emissary. “Its job is done.”
“Then what do you fear? It seems harmless enough. You say it will do no more.”
“But it has a master and it is him I fear.”
A runner from the city wall approached Nazari, dust settling upon his bare feet as he skidded to a stop. “Subedar Major Nazari,” the messenger bowed. “A messenger from Peshawar has come. An army approaches,” he stared wide-eyed at the emissary.
“What?” Nazari gripped the messenger’s arm.
“Two of them,” the man shook and pointed at the emissary. “And many more,” he paused. “Many things and not so few men.”
Nazari released the messenger. “Back to your post,” he turned to Tarek as the runner raced back down the street toward the gates. “I must speak to the Shah,” he pointed at Hari. “He will come with me. Make your men ready on the walls. Find the mountain guns, the ones we stole from the British.” The commander glanced at the emissary before taking Hari by the arm. “Come with me, we are going to see the Shah.”
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Bryullov pushed the barrel of the flintlock pistol into Jamie’s cheek. He nodded at the open palm of his other hand. Jamie reached inside his greatcoat and removed the flintlock pistol tucked inside his belt. Bryullov gripped the barrel and slid the pistol inside his pocket.
“You are going to stand now,” he glanced at the blood seeping through the bandage around Jamie’s thigh. “If you can.”
“I can stand.” Jamie worked his way up the low wall, relaxing a little as Bryullov took a step backward and lowered his pistol. “You are Russian?”
“I am,” Bryullov touched his finger to his forehead in mock salute. “You are British? No?”
“You knew that,” Jamie stared at Bryullov.
“I did. I guessed. But what service? That I cannot make out. You seem,” Bryullov paused as if seeking a word, “somewhat out of place.”
“I am a lieutenant in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy,” Jamie rested against the wall. I might as well be cooperative, he thought. I am a long way from home.
“Her Majesty’s Navy,” Bryullov chuckled. “I would never have guessed.” Stroking the tip of his beard, Bryullov regarded Jamie. “What is a navy lieutenant doing in the mountains above Adina Pur, I wonder?”
“One of life’s great mysteries, I suppose,” Jamie smiled.
“Not for much longer,” Bryullov waved the barrel of the pistol in Jamie’s direction. “We can talk more in a moment. But first, I would very much like for you to empty your pockets. All of them.”
Jamie drummed his fingers on the surface of the mud wall behind him.
“You seem to have misunderstood me,” Bryullov took a step toward Jamie. He raised the pistol to Jamie’s forehead. “Empty your pockets. Now.”
Flexing his fingers, Jamie stared at Bryullov. Reaching inside his greatcoat he withdrew the leather case containing the Severinson telescope. Jamie placed it on top of the wall.
“No,” Bryullov waved the pistol, “that you can give straight to me.” The Russian smiled as he recognised the manufacturer’s inscription engraved into the leather case. “I lost mine,” he held the telescope like a trophy before slipping it into the pocket on the other side of his jacket.
Jamie patted the empty pockets on the front of his greatcoat. Opening the coat he ran his palm along each coattail. Reaching into his trouser pocket, Jamie paused at the approach of Bryullov’s companion.
“What is it?” Bryullov turned as Jamie began to blush. “Ah,” the Russian nodded, “Magnificent,” he turned to Jamie. “One of your words, was it not?”
“Magnificent was the name of my ship,” Jamie glanced at Najma as she tethered her horse to the wall of the hill fort and walked into the small mud compound. She stopped by the side of Bryullov and stared at Jamie.
“You have met?” Bryullov took Najma’s hand.
“I think so,” Jamie looked at Najma. “Perhaps I met her and her father when I arrived.
Najma gripped Bryullov’s hand. Casting a glance at the Russian’s face, she risked a smile before slipping free of Bryullov’s grasp and returning to the horses. Jamie watched her leave.
Bryullov shook his head. “The double-dealings in these hills never ceases to amaze me. Her father outfitted your expedition, no?”
“I hardly think you can call one man an expedition,” Jamie laughed. “No, we met is all. I stumbled into one of his camps along my route.”
“I see.” Bryullov extended his hand. “I am Captain Lev Bryullov of the Russian Army.”
“Lieutenant Jamie Hanover,” with a watchful eye upon the Russian’s pistol, Jamie shook Bryullov’s hand.
“I still do not understand what the Royal Navy is doing in the mountains of Afghanistan,” Bryullov released Jamie’s hand and took a step backward. He slid the pistol into the waistband of his trousers. “Let us sit and you can tell me about your interest in these wild lands.”
Sliding his back down the length of the short wall, Jamie stretched his left leg before him as he sat down. “I can’t tell you anything beyond my name and rank,” Jamie shrugged at Bryullov. “Surely you know the rules of the game?”
“Ah, this great game we play,” Bryullov crossed his legs in front of him and made himself comfortable leaning against the wall of the hill fort. “I do not think, lieutenant, you have been in these mountains so very long. I think you travelled up the Indus and started your journey in Peshawar. Am I correct?” Bryullov paused. “Of course I am,” he pointed at Jamie. “You are travelling light. You stopped to trade for supplies at the camp of Najma’s father. Your intention is to reach Adina Pur, or perhaps Cabool, but no further.” He tapped the stock of Jamie’s Baker rifle. “You have come prepared and yet,” Bryullov nodded at Jamie’s leg, “not everything has gone as planned. You met someone, an encounter with a wild tribe perhaps, or something a little more exotic.”
“You have it all figured out, Bryullov,” Jamie picked at the frayed ends of his bandage. “Why are you here?”
“Not so fast,” Bryullov wagged a finger, “I have yet to determine what you are doing here. Why your navy is so interested in the mountains where only the army dare to tread.”
“We’re branching out,” Jamie presented Bryullov with his best grin. Branching out and clutching at straws more like, he thought. Jamie looked up as Najma b
rought a wooden box to Bryullov. Setting the box on the ground, Najma sat on a flat rock to the right of the Russian. Jamie glanced at the box.
“Do you know what this is?” Bryullov drew the key out from beneath his shirt. He unlocked the box. Jamie stared at the spinning gears and cogs as Bryullov turned the box toward him.
“It’s you,” Jamie breathed. “You are controlling the emissary.”
“I am controlling an emissary of sorts, yes. But not that one,” Bryullov nodded in the direction of the city. “I have no idea who is pulling the strings of that particular monster. So little finesse, it is a brute and I have little doubt the man controlling it is the same.”
“Then who?”
“I rather thought you could tell me, Jamie.” With a brief check of the instruments beneath the protective cover, Bryullov closed the box and locked it.
“I can tell you our theory,” Jamie sighed as he realised his mistake.
“Our theory?” Bryullov glanced around the hill fort. “Has the Royal Navy sent a fleet?” Bryullov chuckled. “You are referring to the Indian, of course. Don’t look so surprised, Hari Singh is well-known among my peers and our contacts. He is a most appalling pundit, so very overt in his operations. It is little wonder that Smith has disowned him.” The Russian smoothed dust from the box and handed it to Najma. “You didn’t know, did you? Our good friend Singh has been playing you for a fool.”
“He has been straight with me, the entire time we have travelled together,” Jamie slipped his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat to hide his clenched fists. “He made no secret of his mission. I have no reason to suspect Hari’s loyalty.”
“You know best, of course,” Bryullov turned to Najma. “Please put the box back in the saddle bag.” Najma glanced at Jamie as she stood, picked up the box and walked to the horses. “Hari can be very convincing at times. He likely enlisted your help in the promise of helping you in return. Am I right?” Bryullov paused to study Jamie’s face. “Yes, I can see that I am. Well, Jamie, I hope for your sake that Hari does not disappoint you when it counts. But wait,” Bryullov stood and removed the pistol from his waistband. “This is exactly one of those moments. Is it not?” Waving the pistol at Jamie, Bryullov urged the lieutenant to his feet. “Where is your friend now that you are in the clutches of the enemy, eh? Ask yourself that lieutenant.”
