by Harold Lamb
“So I came hither with a caravan from Khoten, bound for the camp. Even as I heard the thing has come to pass."
“Three common retainers from Jhilam," meditated Rao Singh.
“Nay; one was noble, for I caught the scent of musk as they passed."
“Nevertheless I must ride on."
The boy glanced up anxiously at the moon. “May the gods reward you for your tidings—"
“Aie, say not thus, my lord! For the space of four Winters since the death of Sattar Singh, who was master of Jhilam, I have lived but for one thing—to embrace the hand of the son of Sattar Singh, telling him the while that there are those at Jhilam who have not forgotten. It was our fate to suffer, and we have endured much, but we have not forgotten—"
“Peace!" whispered the boy.
Ahmad Rumi's keen ears had caught the sound—the swift clatter of horse's hoofs down the trail. But this time his memory was at fault. The gait was not that of Arab or Persian beast, nor yet that of a steppe pony.
Rao Singh had sprung to his feet, hand on sword. He saw a black horse sweep by bearing a tall form in sheepskin khalat and black hat. The rider glanced at him but did not pause.
“A hillman," he whispered to Ahmad Rumi, “perhaps a Kirghiz, yet I think not. Presently he will be at the ford."
“The trees are thick there, I have heard. It may be written that this one should be attacked and perish in your place—"
“Then must I mount and warn," cried the boy.
“You are too late, my lord."
The teller of legends raised his hand. From below came the sound of horses plunging in shallow water, a cry and the sharp clash of weapons.
“Siva! It is one against three."
Shaking off the protesting beggar, Rao Singh leaped to saddle and spurred down the track, drawing his sword as he went. Again the noise of steel striking steel, again a cry of pain, followed this time by the sound of a heavy body breaking through brush.
In the edge of the stream Rao Singh reined his mount and stared about him. A riderless horse, trembling with excitement, stood nearby, its reins tangled in a human body stretched on the grass.
Under the surface of the shallow water where a moonbeam pierced the curtain of trees he saw a second form that seemed to move as he watched. Then it was still. Silence held the ford, and he wondered at the swift change from tumult to quiet.
Not more than two minutes had passed since the first shout, and two men were dead and two had fled beyond sight and hearing. Into the silence, however, crept a tap-tap. It came nearer and Rao Singh's eyes widened as he gripped his weapon.
The tap-tap changed to a rustle, and as Rao Singh was about to voice a prayer to ward off the evil influence of a rakzhas—a malignant demon—he saw Ahmad Rumi's lean figure approach along the way he had come.
Reassured, the boy dismounted and guided the Muslim to the edge of the stream.
“Heard you the sword-blows, Ahmad Rumi?" he questioned uneasily. “All was over ere I reached the ford. 'Tis like to de-monwork, for here be two slain as by magic. By Kali and Durga, protectress of the two worlds, 'twas magic!"
“Nay," returned the beggar calmly, “there is no enchantment save the will of Allah and the handwriting of fate, lord. I heard steel strike upon steel. Is the rider who passed us by slain?"
Rao leaned over the body by the horse. It was that of a com-moner—a harsh face stared up at him above a blood-stained quilted tunic. Satisfied as to this, the boy inspected the form in the water. Caste prevented him from touching the dead. A strong smell of musk assailed him.
“The noble who rode with the three," Ahmad Rumi informed him promptly.
“Aye, he wears a gold chain, and the moonlight shows mother-of-pearl inlaid upon the scabbard at his girdle."
The blind man had run his delicate hand over the features of the bearded soldier. He drew in his breath sharply.
“Bairam, master of horse of Shaista Mirza, will breed no more foals," he muttered. “Just so was his beard ever trimmed and this is his Damascus steel cap. Little it availed him."
The two were silent a space, pondering what had passed at the ford. Plainly the rider of the black horse had been set upon by the three Persians ambushed at this spot. In all probability he had been mistaken in the deep shadows under the trees for Rao Singh. Yet he had fought off the three sharply, killing two, and had passed on his way.
“Truly a swordsman, he," sighed the boy. “Would I had seen him more closely and that he had joined his blade to mine, for I have need of such a one."
“You have many foes, lord," mused Ahmad Rumi, seating himself, for his aged limbs were not strong. “There be jackals aplenty who would pull down the lion cub of Jhilam. Aye, in the Mogul camp. After what has passed, is it safe to draw your reins thither?"
Rao Singh smiled, his white teeth flashing gaily from his dark face. His countenance was immature; the chin weak, the mouth delicate, the eyes somber. Like his slender figure, it bespoke nervous energy and willfulness rather than strength. There was pride in the lines of the thin nostrils, and the imprint of sorrow in the creased brow.
Rao Singh was eighteen years of age, yet he bore the cares of a man of thirty—not an uncommon thing in the Mogul era, when fortune or exile hung upon the fancy of an emperor and death was the reward of a slight offense.
“Nay," he laughed, “have not the gods favored me, Ahmad Rumi, this night? It is well, for I must accomplish a great thing before dawn—" He broke off to stare at the placid beggar suspiciously.
“Ho, Ahmad Rumi, how shall I trust you? You have come upon my path like a spy. You—a follower of the Prophet—claim allegiance to my father, who holds sacred the books of the Veda and the many-armed gods. That is not wonted."
The legend-teller leaned on his staff, his blind eyes seeking the boy with uncanny exactitude. Rao Singh fingered his sword nervously.
“Siva!" he muttered. “You have not the look of one who is blind."
Ahmad Rumi smiled patiently.
“Your temper, lord," he said slowly, “is like to that of noble Sattar Singh. He was ever swift to draw weapon, and heedless of danger. Wherefore his followers loved him and his name is still whispered among the forest men of Jhilam, who are of his faith."
He nodded slowly, pondering as the aged will on events that were past.
“I am not one of them, Rao Singh. That is true. But there was a day when I journeyed barefoot to Mecca, to the holiest of the holy. It was the sacred month of Ramadan.
“There came a Mogul noble with his followers—one who was hunting with falcons and had had poor sport. He mocked me and set his dogs upon me, who was in rags. With my staff I slew one of the dogs, wherefore the noble grew great in anger, and his servants pierced my eyes with the fire pencil."
Rao Singh leaned uneasily against his horse, glancing from the lean face of the beggar to the dead body in the shallow water, and up to where the round sphere of the moon showed through the trees.
“Came one who rode hastily and cried out in hot accusation against the noble," continued the teller of legends. “He cried that I had been wronged, and weapons clashed. I heard little, for the pain was great.
“Then the rider spake to me gently and had a skilled hakim make me a healing bandage. Eh—for that I blessed him and asked that I might be the servant at his doorpost."
There was a silence while Ahmad Rumi paused as if listening —a silence broken by the whimper of the stream and the rustle of the bushes in the night wind.
“I thought footsteps sounded," he observed. “Nay, what is written is written. It was written that I should be blind.
“Since that day I learned that the noble who hunted was Shaista Mirza of Rudbar, and the one who took up my quarrel was Sattar Singh; and men said that both had long been enemies at the court of Akbar, on whom be peace."
“Did you ask punishment for the wrong done?"
“Am I a paladin of Mogulistan or Hindustan to accuse those of high blood? Nay; Shaista Mirza i
s a Persian and the Mogul favors his race for their learning and their political power.
“But since then I have had a hut where the Jhilam road joins the Wular lake, and the fishers of the Wular have brought me food—until the evil day when Shaista Mirza became master of Jhilam. Since then there has been little food and my hunger has been great."
He stretched a trembling hand toward the boy.
“Come to the Wular lake, Rao Singh. I have heard evil spoken of you at Jhilam. Those who hold the fortress are powerful. The sword-arm of Shaista Mirza is long—enough to reach to the court of the Mogul. He and his astrologer, Nureddin, are very shrewd.
“In the Wular forest you will be safe, for there are those who will guard the path to your hut and watch while you sleep. The forest men and the fishers—who are Kashmiris—remember Sat-tar Singh. And they ask for Rao Singh, his son."
He salaamed before the youth.
“To those who asked I said that Rao Singh would come. The lion cub of Jhilam would come, and with their own eyes they would see he was like to his father. This thing I have sworn upon the kaaba and the holy names of Omar and Welid.
“I have told them the legends of Jhilam. Yet they have doubted. They have not seen the face of Rao Singh. Shaista Mirza they see and know his power. Aie, too well!"
“Has the Persian put hardships on the bent neck of the Jhilam people?"
“Aye, it was our fate that he should do so. The slaves he brought with him have been made overseers with whips in their hands. The eunuchs who guard his women have the power of life and death."
Words tumbled eagerly from the beggar's beard.
“The tithes of rice are doubled; men no longer work the soil, for the tithes are ruinous; instead they have turned wolf-like into robbers and as such are slain daily by the retainers of the Persian. The village oxen are taken without pay—"
“How could I alter this, Ahmad Rumi?" cried the boy. “Am I one to share the lot of peasants?"
“They ask but to see you. They would look upon the face of the son of Sattar Singh who was their lord."
And the boy laughed with bitterness.
“Truly a poor sight that, Ahmad Rumi—to see the blank eyes and woeful mouth of him who is a poverty-ridden hostage to Jahangir the Mogul."
The beggar touched the other's foot hopefully.
“Nay, lord. Is it not written that an omen may bring good? It would be an omen—for the forest men and the outcasts of Jhilam. They would know that you live, and their hearts would be lifted up as flowers at sight of the sun.
“This was the message I was to bring. And—our need is great."
He waited patiently while Rao bent his head in thought. Once he looked up hastily at the moon as if to mark the passage of time.
“Men starve in the forests of Jhilam, and the hills that are sacred to you and yours, Rao Singh, see nightly hunting of men like beasts along the lake. A pavilion of pleasure has been built by Shaista Mirza on the floating garden of the Wular and there Kashmiri women die slowly so their agony shall be longer and the pleasure of their lord the greater—"
In his earnestness Ahmad Rumi did not hear the slight crackle of brush that drew nearer the two.
“Verily, Rao Singh," he rose to his full height and extended an imploring hand," Jhilam cries for the son of Sattar Singh!"
The boy did not move, nor did his expression change. Meditating as he was, he did not hear the sounds in the thicket.
Rao Singh had the faults and the splendid virtues of his race. Proud, intolerant of personal wrong, and brave in battle to the point of folly, he was passionate, short-tempered and as yet indifferent to the misfortunes of those of baser birth.
His years of semi-captivity at the Mogul court had not made him a satellite of the throne, bred to flattery and intrigue, but they had branded suspicion into him, and boyish selfishness. And one other thing.
He was unwilling to take up the cause of his hereditary vassals as Ahmad Rumi had hoped; yet he saw in the suggestion of the blind man a possibility of obtaining new followers. The inbred restriction of caste kept him from association with outlaws and the poorer orders; yet his hopes were stirred of taking up arms against Shaista Mirza.
“Whither lies the place I should come—to the Wular?" he asked.
“At the end farthest from the palace and the pleasure island, lord," chanted Ahmad Rumi. “Up the course of a stream, an hour's fast ride, to where the pines give way to a cleared place. There is a place of many rocks called the Wular davan—where I have my hut."
Again the boy laughed softly.
“I have prayed to the many-armed gods, Ahmad Rumi. The time has come when I am no longer child but man. Tonight I ride to claim what is mine—"
“Allah is merciful—"
“Nay, it is a woman. There is one in the Mogul camp who has looked at me, and in her eyes burned the fire of love. I also feel love, and it is strange. I will take her from her guards, and I shall turn my horse from the court. If Jahangir's men would seek me they must come into the hills."
The teller of legends plucked at his beard, considering this. He shook his head doubtfully. Rao Singh had no friends in the court— such was the weight of Jahangir's displeasure—and women were ever the harbingers of strife.
Moreover the boy had not said that the woman was to be given him; he had declared that he would take her in spite of guards. Whoever stole the woman of another ran a great risk, for the Mogulis were even more jealous of their womenkind than the Hindus. “A slave, lord?" he questioned.
“Nay."
Rao Singh threw back his head proudly.
“A free-born maiden, fairer than the lotus."
“A concubine?" persisted the blind man.
“Not so. Kera of Kargan is hostage for her tribe. Her lot is like to mine."
“Aie!" Ahmad Rumi wrung his hands against his lean chest. “The maiden of Kargan Khan, hill chief of the Kirghiz, master of a thousand riders and lord of the northern hills beyond Jhilam. Aie! Verily Allah has thrown the dust of madness into the pool of your wisdom."
Rao Singh paid little attention. The rustle in the thicket had ceased save for a dull impact that might have been the stamp of a horse's foot.
“Kera of Kargan," he murmured. “Beautiful as the solitary moon at midnight. Fragrant as the jasmine—her lips like coral, teeth white as water-lilies.
“Her figure is slender as the young pine. And her eyes—dark as shadows in a forest pool at night."
“Hostage for the allegiance of Kargan Khan, who is ruthless as the storm-wind—"
“A pearl set in base silver. And Cheker Ghar, her buffoon, brought me word that she would mount my horse and go where
I willed."
“Kargan Khan esteems the maiden as the jewel in the hilt of his sword. Only when Jahangir pledged her safety did he render her to the Mogul."
“Tonight I will seek her among the tents, and she will come."
Ahmad Rumi tore at his beard as he grasped the meaning of this.
“Eh—then she must be in the imperial seraglio. She is among those in the red imperial tents. Rao Singh, snatch from the jaws of a lion the calf which it is devouring, touch the fang of an angered cobra, but do not raise your eyes to a woman of the Mogul's tents!"
“Nay, she put on her ornaments that she should be fair in my eyes. Twice I saw her face, for she is not like the veiled mistresses of the Muslims."
“Kargan Khan will hunt you, and when he has found you cut you in many pieces which he will throw to the fish of a mountain lake."
“I have sworn to the conjurer that I would come this night to the imperial tents."
Ahmad Rumi sighed, hearing the willful pride that rang in the youth's words.
“It was the way of Sattar Singh to be rash," he mused, “yet this is madness—and death for the sake of a woman. Surely there be slave girls that can be bought—"
“I have spoken," said Rao Singh shortly. “It is late—"
He had turned to his horse
when his figure tensed and his hand flew to his sword.
“Siva!" he cried softly.
Not ten paces away a man stood in the shadows, afoot, one hand holding the bridle of a horse, the other closed over the beast's muzzle. He was a tall man with high shoulders, wearing a long-sleeved sheepskin khalat, heavy horsehide boots and a black sheepskin hat.
“It is he of the black horse," the boy whispered to Ahmad Rumi, who had turned his head inquiringly.
The stranger had made no move. He stood with powerful legs wide apart, the set of the shoulders suggesting strength, although his figure was spare. The hat was perched on one side of his head. Rao Singh could make out that the stranger had long gray mustaches, and a beard.
Both men measured glances in silence. The boy was the first to speak.
“Whence came you?" he cried shrilly. “What seek you here?"
He had whipped out his sword and poised watchfully, one foot in stirrup.
“A jackal comes in silence," he repeated angrily, for he was startled.
“And jackals lie in wait," responded the other.
He spoke slowly in the deep voice of one well on in years, yet almost indifferently. He seemed careless of the threatening attitude of Rao Singh.
“What mean you? I wait for no one."
“This."
The man by the black horse spoke Mogholi somewhat brokenly. He moved forward and touched the dead Bairam with his foot.
Out in the moonlight his true height was revealed. He towered over the boy and the legend-teller. He glanced at the Hindu's mount appraisingly.
“A good horse, that," he grunted. “Yet the other three were ill-mounted and worse swordsmen."
Rao Singh hesitated. The swaggering, powerful figure was that of a warrior conscious of his power—resembling somewhat a Turkoman or Kirghiz. But the man's eyes did not slant, nor had he the furtive manner of a hill bandit.
His dress was rough, yet the curved sword in his leather girdle was richly chased and he had besides two costly Turkish pistols. His skin was lighter than that of an Afghan. Moreover his speech was strange.
“Dog of the devil," he observed meditatively, “this is a cursed spot. Here the three set upon me in the stream. When two were slain the third fled and won free in the thickets. I saw you and yonder beggar standing at the ford and returned to see whether you were kin to the three—"
