Warriors of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  “And now, Lion of Persia," he whispered shrilly, “I would tell you a thought that is in my mind."

  Shah Abbas yawned and felt for the gold box of hashish that hung from his girdle.

  “Truly," he responded, “I find you and your thoughts wearisome. I came not to the hills to sit on my haunches before Khan-jut."

  “A wise man chooses a goodly weapon of the best temper to deal a death blow. Perhaps you are the weapon to fit my hand."

  “Is this your wisdom?"

  Shah Abbas smiled enigmatically, as if at the reflection that he should be a tool of Jani Beg.

  “It is a fitting time to strike—for ourselves."

  “At yonder miserable hillmen?"

  “Nay, elsewhere. Perhaps—" Jani Beg's yellow eyes grew lus-trous—“perhaps at one who is at Kabul."

  The Persian, in spite of his habitual indifference, drew in his breath sharply.

  “Have care!"

  He glanced swiftly at the yurt entrance.

  “Have you grown mad by the moon to say this aloud! The Mogul is in Kabul."

  “Aye, Jahangir is visiting the gardens of Kabul."

  For a long second the two measured glances. Then the Persian rose.

  “Verily madness has come upon you," he sighed. “But this tent is no place for speech."

  He led the way without. The red tent of Jani Beg stood on a hillock which overlooked the plain before Khanjut, the camp of the Uzbek and Persian besiegers, and the trenches built up the slope of the citadel.

  It was a fair scene for a soldier's eyes, and Shah Abbas was a veteran of many wars. Banners fluttered in the breeze beside the tents of his Persians. High piles of stores were ringed about by tethered camels.

  On the Uzbek side of the encampment there was less display; the men were quartered in haphazard fashion, but their shaggy horses were well cared for and their foragers dotted the distant fertile plain.

  Captured Afghans were laboring in the trenches and saps that were slowly eating their way up the slope of Khanjut. A high mound of earth had been built; from its summit brass cannon belonging to the Persians pointed their carved and ornamented muzzles toward the walls.

  At intervals, these cannon spoke and a swirl of smoke drifted over the camp. The wall opposite the earth mound was crumbling.

  Occasionally the sunlight glinted on arrows that sped upward from the Uzbek trench, from behind the shelter of giant trees laid with their tops toward the walls. Behind this trench loomed the bare timbers of a battering machine, as they called it—a survival of the Middle Ages that served to cast rocks against the walls.

  Boulders thrown down from the Khanjut ramparts had disabled the battering machine. But the Persian cannon were safe from harm.

  In the course of time, as water eats through a dike, they would breach the stone wall that surmounted the rocky mass of Khan-jut. Barrels of powder assembled at the head of saps at other points would be fired and Persian and Uzbek would surge to the attack.

  The scene of bee-like activity, revealed by the clear sunlight, pleased Shah Abbas—even as the sight of the green hills and the snow peaks in the distance appealed to his poetic sense, stirred by the hashish, which had begun to have effect. He smiled at the gangs of sweating prisoners that were herded past the hillock— women as well as men—gleaned from the peasantry of the plain by his horsemen.

  A goodly scene, he reflected, but one of little moment. The crushing of a rebel hill chief was scarcely game worth the hunting. It was pleasanter and less troublesome to fly falcons at the game-birds of the Koh-i-Baba or to linger in the rose-gardens of Isphahan . . .

  This brought him sharply back to Jani Beg's remark. The two stood apart on the hillock and the Uzbek was smiling at him intently.

  “Persia is at peace with Jahangir—for a space," he purred, stroking the gems on his fingers. “It has been said by those who are loose of tongue that the Mogul lacks the generalship and fire of Akbar, his father."

  “They spoke truth. Jahangir is hot-headed and impulsive. His head falls easy victim to wine-fumes—or flattery."

  “There are rare wines at Kabul."

  Smilingly Shah Abbas repeated a verse to the effect that a man who feasts well must prepare to drink the cup of death. Jani Beg was still watching him narrowly. The Persian was a past master at saying what he did not think.

  “There is better sport than looking at the bottom of the wine cup, Shah Abbas."

  “Aye, God has given us slender women—"

  “A nobler sport, even for Jahangir, the shadow of God on earth, is—warfare. I have sent him two lakhs of rupees with the humble request that he deign to visit this camp and see the fall of Khanjut."

  Shah Abbas was silent for the space of a breath.

  “It will be a pleasant sight. The hillmen have a proverb that Khanjut will never be taken by storm. It will please the eyes of the Mogul," Shah Abbas responded indifferently. “How came it that Shirzad Mir, chieftain of these Afghan hillmen, rebelled against Jahangir?"

  “Shirzad Mir was my enemy," said Jani Beg. “I picked a quarrel with him and dispatched shrewd men with presents to the Mogul offering my fealty. Shirzad Mir, having been regent of the Mogul Akbar in the hills, was late with his offer of service to Jahangir. It was not hard to convince those at the Delhi court that Shirzad Mir was a rebel—especially as I had already gained the ascendency over him in the field."

  Jani Beg lowered his voice.

  “Your wisdom has read aright that I have other things in view than the crushing of Shirzad Mir and the barbarous Englishman with him. I seek power. You also thirst for conquest. The sword of Persia is sharp, so keen that it might cut even the pearl tiara from the turban of a Mogul."

  Apparently Shah Abbas was tranquil, but the pulse in his throat throbbed strongly. Jani Beg did not miss this.

  “What is the Mogul but the Muslim master of many peoples? A figurehead over armies of a dozen faiths?" he whispered. “Wherein lies the control of India, save in the person of the Mogul?"

  “That person is well guarded. And the witless Rajputs serve him because his mother was of their race. Who could stand against the horsemen of Marwar?"

  “No one—in the plains of Hindustan. Here in the hills—" Jani Beg glanced at the towering slopes at their backs—“it is another matter. Likewise the main army of the Rajputs is but returning to Delhi, after subduing a revolt in the Dekkan. Jahangir has with him many followers, but not an army."

  “Think you he will turn his horse toward Khanjut?"

  “Aye—he loves to be amused. He will come to see the hunting-down of Shirzad Mir, whom he believes to be a traitor. Harken, Shah Abbas, may not other snares be set? Greater game hunted? Who would trap a wolf when a stag may be pulled down?"

  This time there was no mistaking Jani Beg's meaning. A flush dyed the yellow cheeks of the Persian.

  “What snare can be set for a stag?"

  The Uzbek laughed and pointed to the camp. He was more certain of his companion now, knowing the hereditary enmity between Persian and Mogul. But it would not do to commit himself fully as yet.

  “When a stag walks into the hunters' toils, who is to blame?" he whispered. “Jahangir is not overcautious. We have twelve thousand retainers.

  “If the Mogul should fall ill we might be forced to guard his sacred person. Aye, even to advance upon the rich city of Kabul, and then Lahore. We would gain allies among the Mohammedans north of the Indus. I—" a fleeting smile crossed his hard mouth— “have become a follower of the Prophet. Why not? If the Mogul should fall ill—"

  A warning glance from Shah Abbas silenced him.

  “Peace! This is the speech of madness."

  He leaned closer to the Uzbek.

  “Nay, sometimes it is folly to be sane. We will talk again. Yonder is the Rajput of Jahangir, his beloved watchdog."

  Approaching the knoll was the slim figure of Raja Man Singh in a close-fitting white silk tunic. He rode a splendid Arabian, and the sun struck upon jewels in
his saddle peak, on his sword hilt and turban.

  He dismounted gracefully and came toward the two—a tall, long-striding warrior with delicate, boyish features and a frame that appeared too fragile to be that of one of the most noted swordsmen of Hindustan. He greeted the two carelessly.

  “Ho, Jani Beg, the sun is at the hour you appointed for our conference. What have you to say?"

  He spoke proudly. This pride—characteristic of the Rajput princes, who held themselves superior to nobles of other races, who boasted that they were descended from the sun-born kings of Ayodhya, from the mighty Ram himself—grated on his two allies. Raja Man Singh cared little what they thought, being of the blood of the Ranas of Chitore and Oudh, and the chosen companion of Jahangir.

  Jani Beg peered up at him inscrutably.

  “How like you the service of the Mogul?" he asked slowly. “Is it to your taste to wait upon the word of another man? I have marked your courage and ability, Raja. You are one who should lead and not follow."

  “Siva! Am I not a leader? Have we of the Rajputs not a hundred thousand swords at our command? Did we not subdue the Dekkan for Jahangir?"

  “For Jahangir, not yourself."

  “Even so. He is of our blood, by his mother, and our faith— those who know him well know this. Jahangir is more Hindu than Muslim. Our fathers gave their fealty to Akbar; we are true to their word."

  He stared disdainfully at the two. Shah Abbas made a warning sign to the Uzbek. It would not do to say too much to the Rajput. Nevertheless, he could not refrain from a barbed shaft of witticism.

  “We have marked a stag nearby," he purred. “A noble animal, by my faith! Jani Beg says the hunters have set the toils."

  He smiled contentedly at the baneful glare of the Uzbek.

  “A stag!"

  The Rajput's sleepy, opium-darkened eyes opened in interest.

  “And a noble head! By the sword of Ram, let us ride him down. Snares are for the low-born. Come!"

  “To ride him down would be—dangerous."

  The Rajput's lip curled scornfully.

  “Nay," put in Jani Beg hastily, “Shah Abbas jests. I asked you hither, Raja, to learn your opinion of the siege. Think you it progresses favorably? Will our plans meet with the approval of your master?"

  He emphasized the last word slightly, but the Rajput took no heed.

  “Aye, well enough," he grumbled. “Yet this digging and bombarding is the work of peasants. Give the word to storm the walls. The hillmen are few."

  “Yet Shirzad Mir is their leader."

  “Ho!"

  Raja Man Singh laughed. “You have crossed swords with him before, Shah Abbas, at the siege of Kandahar. It has made you cautious. Siva Koh—"

  “Not so," put in Jani Beg smoothly, noting the quick flush that overspread the Persian's olive throat. “We delay the assault for another reason. This is the news I promised you. Jahangir himself and his court may come hither from Kabul. When he arrives we will launch the storm and raise the standard of the Mogul for his pleasure—"

  “By the gods!"

  The Rajput's white teeth flashed in a delighted smile.

  “That is news as sweet as the snow-cooled wine of Kashmir."

  “Under the eye of Jahangir, you and the Rajputs of the court will doubtless desire to lead the assault."

  “What else? Since the birth of Ram the warriors of the raj have taken the front of the battle. Truly we have but few of our race with the Mogul at present; yet we will show your northern dullards how to wield sword."

  “Since you ask it, we will grant the favor," assented Jani Beg.

  Shah Abbas smiled, stroking his beard gently. His respect for the Uzbek was growing. If the Rajputs led the assault many would be slain, and while they were engaged at the wall—

  “The hillmen grow weaker daily from hunger," he added tranquilly.

  “Not so," corrected Raja Man Singh. “Look yonder. It struck my gaze as I rode hither."

  He pointed toward an open space on the walls. The cold Autumn air which caused the heat-accustomed Rajput to shiver revealed the distant scene in clear detail.

  On the roof of a Khanjut building several men sat at meat. The watchers on the knoll could see attendants bringing bowls and vessels of food and wine.

  “I went near the spot, for I was curious," he explained. “They shot arrows at me; nevertheless, I saw they were partaking of rich food. Is this a sign of starvation? Rather, it is a feast of plenty."

  “That must be Shirzad Mir and his accursed companions," ventured Jani Beg. “Aye, it is a sign."

  “Of abundance. They feast openly to let us know they lack not."

  Shah Abbas frowned meditatively.

  “I have reason to suspect the cunning of Shirzad Mir," he murmured. “It is more like that this scene is planned to deceive us."

  Jani Beg grunted disdainfully.

  “What else? Opium has eaten up your wit, Raja. Shirzad Mir feasts to conceal from us that they have little food. The garrison is near starvation."

  “But I saw meat and fruit," insisted the Rajput, who did not love to be contradicted.

  “Send an envoy into Khanjut to parley on some pretext or other and spy out the truth of this," grumbled Jani Beg. “I can spare no time for such child play. I have said our enemies lack food. It is the truth."

  II

  On a sunny spot overlooking the wall of Khanjut a carpet had been spread and a white cloth upon this. At either end of the cloth two men were seated. Before each was an array of bowls containing curried rice, spiced mutton, sugared fruits, jellies and beakers of good Shiraz wine.

  “Drink, my excellent Ferang," quoth the stout man in the flowing khalat.

  “Aye, drink, Shirzad Mir," cried the powerful Englishman in the leather surcoat and green cap. “This feast must serve our bellies for two days."

  “May God grant it serves our foes with the thought we have food a-plenty."

  “Amen."

  Sir Ralph Weyand lifted his glass, shaking back the tawny curls that ringed his sun-burnt forehead. His gray eyes were alight with grim humor. The hand that held the beaker was veined and corded—an indication of the muscular strength concealed in his stocky frame.

  “To my sovereign, the king of England," he added soberly in his own tongue.

  “May the mercy of Allah give us aid," responded Shirzad Mir, not understanding.

  “And speed the runner with my message."

  “If it is the will of Allah."

  Sir Ralph eyed his portly companion with affectionate interest.

  “Truly, our lot is wretched, Shirzad Mir. A rebel baron, you— trapped by pride, Jani Beg's gold, allegiance to your fathers, devil knows what. It matters not."

  “All things are written in the book of fate by the hand of the angels."

  “Perhaps. They wrote my poor destiny in ill fashion. Spurned from Jahangir's court by the evil-tongued Portuguese, half-poisoned and starved in these friendless hills—"

  “Nay, I am your friend."

  “Granted," said the Englishman warmly. “I ask for none better. 'Tis well! We are yet alive, and here is—wine."

  “The sweeper-away of care."

  Shirzad Mir lay back comfortably on his pillows and sipped at his cup.

  “May we confound our enemies," he added.

  “Perchance we may, if the Afghan with my billet escaped through the underground watercourse to the hills."

  Sir Ralph drained his beaker at one throw and sighed. He glanced appraisingly over the siege-works below them, and noted the flight of an arrow overhead. Standing by the battlement a few yards away were several Afghans, who watched them eat enviously. The men were gaunt with hunger.

  The Englishman signed to one of the attendants.

  “I have finished," he said gruffly. “Take these bowls to the sentries yonder."

  While the hungry soldiers ate and Shirzad Mir, who with all his good qualities lacked solicitude for his men, stared quizzically, a slave salaamed
and announced the coming of the mansabdar, Abdul Dost.

  Adbul Dost was commander of the garrison, a long-striding Muslim with one cheek mutilated by a scimitar stroke. He raised his hand with dignity at sighting the two.

  “Peace be unto you, Shirzad Mir," he greeted his master.

  “And unto you be peace."

  “The Rajput general, Raja Man Singh, has sent an envoy to the road that winds up to the gate. I spoke with him when he made a sign of peace. He would parley terms with you."

  Shirzad Mir adjusted himself comfortably and sipped at his wine. His broad brow puckered in thought.

  “Our trick has born fruit," laughed Sir Ralph. “Yonder chieftains think we have food in plenty."

  Shirzad Mir glanced up at the mansabdar.

  “What think you, Abdul Dost?"

  “Does a tiger play with a trapped goat?"

  “When it suits his whim," meditated the mir. “Say you the man came from the Rajput?"

  “Aye."

  “Then this is something evil. For Jani Beg would parley with hell itself, but the Rajput prefers to let his sword do the talking. Nay—!" he clapped his hands delightedly—“I have it. Our foes seek to learn whether we truly have food in the granary!"

  “Then we should not admit the envoy," suggested Sir Ralph; but Shirzad Mir grew thoughtful.

  “Not so. Verily it is written that a wise man profits by his enemy's mistake. Come, we will prepare a spectacle for the Rajput's man. Ho, Abdul Dost!"

  He scrambled to his feet nimbly, for all his bulk. His broad face gleamed with childlike pleasure at a new thought.

  Shirzad Mir, once regent of Akbar, lord of Badakshan and the Koh-i-Baba, was little more than an overgrown child. Impulsive and unsuspicious, he lacked the craft of his enemies—which was why he fought ever against odds. Petulant as a woman, indifferent to good or ill fortune, he had a generosity and sheer courage that kept friends steadfast until the end.

  “Muster half the garrison, Adbul Dost. Count off gangs of a dozen, and send them into the cellar granary. Fetch forth every sack of grain and stack them along the alleys leading from the gate to the center of the garden. Haste!"

  The mansabdar hesitated.

  “Pour the grain on the ground along the way the envoy is led."