The Adventure Megapack

by Wildside Press

  One of the youths Jani Beg had impaled on a spear which was then fastened to the gate of Khanjut. The other Kirghiz had been shot in the stomach with a matchlock ball and thrown from the walls of the citadel.

  The girl Jani Beg had had flayed alive. Iskander Khan had been too feeble to ride with his sons. News of what happened had been brought him by a Khirghiz sheep-boy who saw. Truly, a heavy sorrow had been laid on the khan for what he had done for Shirzad Mir.

  My lord put his hand on the arm of Iskander Khan and spoke softly.

  “It is written that what evil-doers store up for themselves they shall taste. You shall have revenge for the death of your sons. By the beard of the prophet, I swear it.”

  He felt at the peak of his turban for the jewel he had been accustomed to wear there, intending to give it to Iskander Khan as a token. He smiled ruefully when his hand met naught but the cloth. The small turban of white cotton he wore was part of his grave clothes.

  “Truly, Iskander Khan,” he meditated aloud, “I am a beggared monarch. I have not even a token to give you for this service.”

  “I am content, Shirzad Mir.”

  I thought of the riches that the poet son of Jani Beg was carrying to Khanjut from the Mogul Jahangir, while Shirzad Mir had not so much as a spare horse, and I voiced this thought, being embittered by hunger and much soreness. At this the Ferang sprang to his feet so swiftly that I thought he had seen some Uzbeks approaching, so I did likewise. He clapped me on the back, rudely.

  “Ha, Abdul Dost!” he cried. “That is the word I have been waiting for. So the caravan of Said Afzel is now in the Shyr Pass? Here is our chance. We will attack Said Afzel!”

  “Ride against two score, when we are but three?” I laughed at the man. If he was mad, I must see to it that Shirzad Mir did not suffer from his folly. “I was in Kabul three days ago, and Said Afzel was just setting out. Besides his slaves and personal servants he has a bodyguard of some Pathans. They are well armed; the pass is narrow. Also they have many camels. You know not what you say!”

  “Peace, Abdul Dost!” called my lord, whose eyes had taken on a strange sparkle. “You have not wit to see farther than your horse’s ears. Let the Ferang speak!”

  “It is better to be mad than calm at this time when caution will gain us nothing, excellency,” said Sir Weyand respectfully. “Here is a noble chance. Said Afzel does not yet know you have escaped. He will not be watchful of danger. His caravan may be numerous but it is made up for the most part of women and eunuchs. Moreover, in the narrow ravine they must extend their line of march. We can choose our place of attack—”

  “And they will dig our graves there,” I said.

  Shirzad Mir frowned at me.

  “And we will have the advantage of surprise,” continued the Ferang. “Jani Beg will hardly think to send reinforcements to his son because he knows that Said Afzel is well attended. We will have time to gain the narrow point of the pass just before dark—the best time to strike.”

  “How can three horsemen ride against camels and an elephant in a ravine?” I asked, for I was not to be silenced.

  Shirzad Mir was foolhardy of his life and it was plain to me he liked well the words of Sir Weyand.

  “We will not ride against them, Abdul Dost. If you had thought, you would remember that we could stand on the ridge above the caravan trail, where our arrows will command Said Afzel’s men.”

  It was true I had not thought of that, in my concern for Shirzad Mir. It angered me—a mansabdar of the army—to be corrected by a foreign merchant, and I was silent for a space. Not so the Tiger Lord.

  “Hai—that was well said!” he cried. “Such a plan warms my heart. Now if we had the strong sons of Iskander Khan—” he broke off with a glance at the mourning Kirghiz. “What men and slaves are with the caravan?”

  “I heard at Kabul,” replied the Ferang, settling his tall body against the tent, “that Said Afzel was a courtier and a gallant—fond of music, toys, verses and the Indian dancing girls. He is bringing a throng of such with him, also several camel loads of treasure as gift from the Mogul. What do we care for eunuchs and Ethiopian slaves?”

  “Said Afzel has at least seven Pathans with him,” I reminded him. “They are good fighters.”

  “Are you an old nurse, Abdul Dost?” cried my master in great anger. “Speak again, and I will set you to tend swine!” He turned to the Ferang. “Said Afzel is truly called ‘the dreamer,’ Sir Weyand. He is the most elegant in dress and can recite verses as well as his boon companion Kasim Kirlas, the professional courtier. It is true that he travels with cumbrous baggage—unlike his father—and is usually stupefied with bhang and opium. I would risk much to set hand on his jewels.”

  “We would risk much,” nodded the Ferang bluntly, as was his custom; “especially as there is one of the big Indian elephants in the caravan.”

  “An elephant!” Shirzad Mir clapped his stout hands and laughed. “Hai—an elephant. That would be Most Alast from the stables of Jahangir. I heard it said at Khanjut when I was prisoner. Verily, the star of our good fortune is in the ascendant.”

  I thought the madness that had come upon Sir Weyand had bitten my lord, for he laughed again and fell to talking in low tones to the other. I strained my ears but could not hear. Being angry and perhaps a little jealous, I withdrew slightly to show them I did not care what they said.

  Once Shirzad Mir called to Iskander Khan.

  “Have you a great cauldron?” he asked.

  The Khirghiz pointed to the ashes of the fire, where a pot stood, large enough to boil a sheep whole.

  “Will you give it me?”

  Iskander Khan made a sign to show that all he had was Shirzad Mir’s for the asking. Once more the two talked together, and I saw them glance at me and laugh. Then Iskander Khan lifted up his white head.

  “You will need a good horse, Shirzad Mir,” he said slowly. “The one you have is a sorry pony. In a thicket yonder I have Abdul Dost’s horse, also an Arab stallion that has carried me for five years. I will fetch it for you so that you may mount as is fitting for a king.”

  The eyes of the Tiger Lord softened.

  “Thrice happy is the man who has a faithful friend,” he said and with his own hand helped the aged Kirghiz to rise.

  Before the two left the tent to go for the horses, he spoke quickly to Sir Weyand.

  The Ferang rose and stretched his big frame. I did not move, for they had not confided in me. He disappeared into the tent and presently came forth, lugging a basket filled with something heavy. I wanted to see what was in it, but I would not show him that I was curious.

  He was singing to himself after his strange fashion. He moved with his hands that which was in the basket and put it in the cauldron. I watched him.

  When he had nearly finished there came a dog that was hungry and whined. Seeing the dog, Sir Weyand threw him a piece of the stuff he was handling. The dog wagged his tail and carried off the stuff. I saw him eat it.

  This was very strange, so I rose up without seeming to be interested and walked toward Sir Weyand, until I could see into the pot.

  “B’illah!” I cried, for the stuff was rotting swine’s flesh, which it is defilement for a follower of the prophet to touch. It had been used by Iskander Khan to grease the tents. The Ferang, who knew this, laughed.

  “Tell me, Abdul Dost,” he smiled, rising from his labor when the pot was nearly full, “is that dog better than you, or are you better than that dog?”

  He was a caphar, one without faith. Those words might well have cost him his life.

  “If I have faith,” I answered him sternly, “I am better than that dog; if I have not faith, he is better than I.” I laid a hand on my sword. “If you wish a quarrel—”

  “Peace!” cried the voice of Shirzad Mir behind us. “It is time we mounted.”

  He was leading a fine gray stallion, and Iskander Khan had Wind-of-the-Hills. Likewise, the Kirghiz gave to us two good bows and quivers full of a
rrows—also he brought his own sword from the tent and girded it on Shirzad Mir. What man could do more than Iskander Khan did for us?

  “The blessing of God go with you, Shirzad Mir,” he said in parting. “I shall stay at this tent, and perhaps—”

  “I will come back,” said my lord swiftly. “I will not forget.”

  We watched the bent form of the old man go into the empty tent; then we set spurs to our mounts. The cauldron Sir Weyand had slung on a long pole, one end of which he carried and I the other. Shirzad Mir rode bridle to bridle with him—I following behind. Still they talked together eagerly, like boys with a new sport. Once Sir Weyand looked back at me and grinned.

  “If you are afraid to come, Abdul Dost,” he said, “you are free to drop the pole and go.”

  Before I could think of a fitting answer, he was speaking again with Shirzad Mir. Verily, I was angered. The pole leaped and jumped, and I was forced to watch lest the vile fat should fly out on me. There was no doubt in my mind that lack of food had unsettled my lord’s brain.

  Why else should we ride at a fast trot through the hot ravines of the hills to the Shyr Pass, where at any moment we might meet a wandering patrol on the watch for us? And why did we carry that accursed pig’s flesh?

  As for Sir Weyand, my brain was black with anger. I wanted to swing my scimitar against his long sword. Had it not been for the events of that evening, I should have done so.

  * * * *

  Our horses were steaming when we came out of a poplar thicket on a hill near the caravan track and saw a boy shepherd watching us from his flock. When he recognized Shirzad Mir, the lad put down his bow and dropped to his knees.

  “Hazaret salamet!” he cried joyfully, in the dialect of his tribe.

  He had thought Shirzad Mir was dead. My lord questioned him swiftly. The boy told him that the caravan of Said Afzel had not yet passed this point. Our good fortune still held, yet I was doubtful of what was to come. Shirzad Mir bent over the boy.

  “Speak, little soldier,” he laughed, “how would you like to shoot an arrow in the service of your lord?”

  The boy’s eyes brightened and he fingered his bow, being both pleased and shy with the attention paid him. He was a slight, dark-skinned Kirghiz—the same that had visited Iskander Khan’s aul—and the words delighted him. Shirzad Mir honored him by taking him up behind on his horse. My belly yearned for the mutton that we might have cooked and eaten, but my master would not linger.

  It was mid-afternoon, and the sun was very hot. We were in the pass now, and once we met a runner coming up the ravine. It was a man of Said Afzel, and when he saw us he bounded up into the rocks. But Shirzad Mir fired an arrow swiftly. My lord was an excellent shot. From the body we took the message.

  It said that Said Afzel would camp that night at a certain level spot in the pass, for the caravan track was too narrow, besides being on the bank of the turbulent stream Amu Daria, to travel at night. Probably Said Afzel liked better to sit on the cushions of a silk tent than to ride.

  “God is good to us,” exclaimed Shirzad Mir and pressed forward.

  Although I still said nothing, I had a great foreboding. No man has ever called me a coward, but our strength was sapped by hunger—we had no armor or firearms. We were acting on the mad whim of the Ferang, and for the first time in his life my master had put aside my advice for another’s—that of the merchant who made me carry the pot of swine-flesh.

  We passed the open place where Said Afzel had planned to camp. We knew now that the caravan could not be far away, and Shirzad Mir sent the boy ahead to spy. He ran swiftly, like a young mountain goat.

  We came to the very place where I had first met the Ferang, and I bent my ears back like a horse, listening for hoofs on the trail behind us, for here we were in a trap. On one side the cliff rose sheer for perhaps four spear lengths. On the left hand the slope, steep and strewn with rocks and thorns, dropped abruptly to the rushing stream which was deep enough to drown a man.

  Truly, I thought, the madness of Sir Weyand had brought us to an evil place. If a patrol of Uzbek horsemen should come behind us we would be caught between them and the caravan.

  Even a brave man feels a prickling of the flesh when he knows not what is before and behind him. The mad fantasy of the other two had veiled their minds from danger. Shirzad Mir, to make matters worse, set Sir Weyand and me to rolling some stones into the path from the slope. While we were doing this he dismounted and led our three horses by a roundabout path up to the top of the cliff.

  Not until we had the stone heap nearly the height of a man and were panting from the toil—my bruises had not yet healed—did he call for us to cease. Then Sir Weyand made me take the pole with him and carry it up the slope to the top of the cliff. If the foul fat had fallen back on me, I should have struck him, but it was my fate that it did not.

  Back into a cedar grove we carried the accursed thing. Here Shirzad Mir had kindled a fire from dried cedar branches.

  “The trees may hide the smoke,” he said. “Quick—our time is little!”

  As if possessed of a demon, Sir Weyand worked at the fire, placing the cauldron over the logs so that the fat began to heat. Meanwhile, Shirzad Mir stood at the edge of the cliff to watch for the coming of the boy.

  The sun had dropped behind the peaks at our backs. There was no wind. The scent of the cedars was sweet in my nostrils, but Sir Weyand made me labor over the evil-smelling pot. I had none of his wild hope. For, without doubt, Said Afzel, whom we sought, would ride the elephant, and I had once tried to attack one of the beasts in a battle.

  The ravine in which the stream muttered was clothed in shadows and it must have been the time of sunset prayers when the boy came running back up the path, looking for us.

  Shirzad Mir called to him, and the youth came nimbly up the cliff, clinging somehow to the sheer rock, until my lord reached him a hand. Then he bowed his head to Shirzad Mir’s feet.

  “The caravan comes, Lord of Badakshan!” he cried eloquently.

  “How many and in what order?” asked Shirzad Mir swiftly.

  “Some horsemen, riding slowly, are in front. Then a group of slaves with burdens on foot. Following them some armed riders. Then a black elephant with a glittering howdah.”

  “God is with us!” cried Shirzad Mir. He turned to me merrily. “Ho—Abdul Dost of the dark brow! What think you of an elephant in the ravine of Shyr?”

  We had seen none of the beasts in Badakshan before, but something of Shirzad Mir’s purpose flashed on me, and I felt the heart-leap of the hunter when he sees game approach his hiding place. Sir Weyand stirred the fat, which was now boiling and bubbling odorously.

  Above the place where we had piled the stones so they would look as if they had fallen down the slope, my lord sent the boy with his arrows. He, himself, took his bow and crawled forward to where he could see him down the pass.

  At a sign from Sir Weyand, I helped him lift the cauldron from the fire by its stick. We carried it to the edge of the ravine.

  “Go with your master,” said Sir Weyand to me under his breath, “and take your bow. I will manage the rest of my task alone.”

  Nothing loath, I obeyed. Crouching beside Shirzad Mir, I could see the caravan coming up the pass, in the quiet of the evening. The bearers and camelmen were pushing ahead with loud cries, for the camping-place was just around a turn.

  * * * *

  It was a brave sight. The Pathans, as the boy had said, were in the lead—l* * * *ean men, riding easily and fully armed. Next came the Ethiopians, with their heavy burdens. They, of course, were unarmed. I counted seven Pathans.

  Then appeared Most Alast, the elephant of the Mogul. He had two red stripes down his forehead, and silver bells at his neck. I could see the white heron’s plume of Said Afzel in the howdah behind the mahout. Slowly, slowly, they came forward.

  “It could not be better, Abdul Dost,” cried my master joyfully.

  I took heart from this. For, though his eyes
were shining, he was laughing to himself, which was a good sign. He was not mad. I had begun to see his plan.

  Last came the long-haired camels, bearing the women, the baskets which probably contained the treasure, and the eunuch guards of the harem. A few slaves in gorgeous tunics walked with the dirty camelmen.

  A lone Pathan brought up the rear. I felt Shirzad Mir’s hand on my arm.

  “Shoot your arrows among the camelmen, Abdul Dost,” he said. “I will take care of the leading riders—I and the boy. When I shout, raise our battle-cry and shout as if you were many men.”

  I nodded to show that I understood. I strung my bow and waited, lying on my belly. It was just as if Shirzad Mir and I were stalking antelope. Yet never had we stalked such game as this.

  The sun had left the pass, but there was still light when the Pathans passed under us and arrived at the heap of stones. After talking together, three of them dismounted and began to clear away the stones, dropping them down the slope into the stream to free the path for the elephant.

  We four were silent on the cliff, though I could hear Sir Weyand working at the fire. The swaying howdah of Most Alast came nearer—so near I could see the jewels set in the turban of Said Afzel, who was laughing with a fat man on the cushion by him—Kasim Kirlas, I thought. I could have almost reached down and touched their heads.

  Then Shirzad Mir bellowed his battle-cry.

  “Hai—Shirzad el kadr—hai!”

  He leaped to his feet and began to speed arrows down at the riders.

  “Hai—Shirzad el kadr!” I echoed, twanging a shaft among the camels.

  It must have reached its mark, for one of the beasts yelled with pain. I heard the shrill shout of the boy and the startled cries of the slaves below us.

  Then Sir Weyand came to my side.

  “St. George for England!” he cried. I asked him later what it was, and he told me.

  As he shouted, he pushed the cauldron over on its side. The boiling fat fell on the broad rump of Most Alast.

  An elephant has a thick hide, but he is sensitive and nervous as a woman—and the boiling grease was very hot. Most Alast lifted up his trunk and bellowed his pain. Then he charged forward. The howdah, with Said Afzel and Kasim Kirlas, slipped its girths as Most Alast shook himself—the fat had missed the howdah, to my sorrow—and the two went to earth.