Adventure Tales, Volume 4 Read online

  “Genghis Khan, the master of all mankind, once had to steal a horse to keep from wearing out his boots. In me, the circle closes on itself. I beg my bread, as in the end all the race of Genghis Khan must do.”

  Timur’s face darkened; Karashar Nevian, his ancestor, nine genera­tions back had been Genghis Khan’s uncle and advisor. Then he laughed, and it was like trumpets braying be­fore the charge. “See here! You’re the heir to the Jagatai throne, you, not Togluk Khan nor Togluk Khan’s son. I’ll make you Grand Khan in Samar­kand!”

  The beggar shrugged. “No time; too soon, you’ll be riding for your neck. You, not Bikijek.”

  Timur flipped the golden dinar into the bowl.

  The beggar whisked it out. “What is nothing now will be your fortune soon, and the peace upon you!”

  And here it was: hard riding pur­suit behind him, while his wife raced to round up what fighting men she could find. So he laughed again, from thinking on the words of Kaboul Aglen, and the murderous bowstring a scribe could pluck.

  *****

  Forty-two horsemen, all with spare mounts, waited with Olajai when two days later, Timur’s horse stumbled toward the rendez­vous, where tents were scattered about a spring which kept the grass green,

  Hashim, melon headed and scar-faced, came run­ning to greet him; and he walked back, clinging to Timur’s stirrup leather. “We ride again, tura!” he said, using the Turki word for “my lord.” “It is like the old days again.”

  Then Timur saw Tagi Bouga Barlas, his distant cousin, hard bitten and grinning; Sayfuddin, the great­est archer of them all, coddling a bow; and roaring Elthci Bahadur whose strength and skill had thus far hacked his way out of all the traps into which he charged. They crowded about, grimy and sweat gleaming; jeweled collars and gold inlaid hel­mets and embroidered belts grotesque against greasy kha­lats, and sheepskin jackets.

  “Hai, Timur Bahadur!”

  Quickly they broke camp and rode, for they had rested while Timur led the Kipchak riders a crazy chase in circles. And now, being among friends, Ti­mur dozed in the saddle; and Olajai rode beside him.

  CHAPTER III: BATTLE

  Five days brought Timur to the Jihun’s poplar lined banks; and swimming this river put the Jagatai realm behind them. At the Well of Saghej they found Mir Hus­sein, with Dilshad Aga, his wife, and some forty horsemen.

  The King Maker’s grandson was handsome as his sister was lovely; a small, pointed black beard, and high arched brows, and a high bridged, straight nose with nostrils whose flare made one think of a stallion scenting a fight. Until his army had been scattered, he had been King in Kandahar; now he had lost every­thing but hope.

  There was no meat, so they ate cooked millet and buttered tea. Mir Hussein said, “Bismillahi, it could be worse.”

  Timur grimaced. “We can’t eat sand very long. But with a couple good raids, I’ll have an army at my back. The men of Kesh were giving me hard looks, you’d think I’d sold them out, just because I took the thankless job of trying to stand be­tween them and those Kipchak hounds! But this fast ride has set a lot of them thinking.”

  “Inshallah! But I can’t show up in Kandahar with a guard of forty men.”

  Timur chuckled sourly. “No, they’ve probably got a new king there. That’s the trouble, too many kings, instead of one good one. Now, your grandfather—”

  Mir Hussein sighed. “May God be well pleased with him! But do you think he could improve things? He used to pull kings out of his saddlebags, but this is different. Still, you’d do pretty well as Grand Khan of the Jagatai.”

  Dangerous ground. If Timur did raise an army to drive the present puppet out of Samarkand, he’d be quite a hero, but once he took the throne, jealousy would start feud. Mir Hussein was good in battle, and good nowhere else. “You’re the grandson of Mir Kazagan,” Timur countered. “How’s Tekil?”

  “Hungry and looking for business. At least seven hundred Turkomans and the like.”

  “Our hundred will draw his following,” Timur argued. “And with that start, we’ll begin to make an impression.”

  So they rode through the march of hell, across the black sands of Kivac. The scrawny oasis looked like a small paradise, for the lips Timur’s men were cracked from thirst.

  The citadel loomed up, above the poplars. “I don’t like it,” Timur said. “No one working in the fields. No one tending the ditches.”

  Instead of pressing on to the city, they made camp at the fringe of green which marked the beginning of cul­tivation.

  Timur beckoned to Eltchi Bahadur and Tagai Bouga Barlas. “We’ll ride in and pay our respects to Tekil.”

  Hussein cut in, “No! Let me go. He knows I’ve spent a couple of months at the Well of Saghej, and he made no trouble. Let me talk to him.”

  Timur’s eyes narrowed. “Hmmm…don’t tell him I’m here. Just say you know where I am.”

  The deep-set Turki eyes sparkled. “So you’ve been thinking about that mess in Samarkand?”

  Where Hussein had been the ill favored one, it now seemed that Timur’s head was most in demand.

  That night, Timur posted double guards and slept with his boots on. While his fame as a captain would always get him followers, it would also make his head a prize in a land where every man was a king, and al­legiances changed overnight.

  In the morning he heard trumpets and drums, and saw Mir Hussein’s standard, and the riders who came from the gates, the fields and through the groves.

  “Break camp, and be ready to mount up!” Timur commanded.

  Then he rode out with twenty men to meet Tekil.

  Ceremonious greetings: the burly governor fairly fell from his horse to be the first to dismount. A big, red-faced man, a hearty, smiling man. “Welcome, welcome, Timur Bek! Kivak is yours. You and your broth­er, I bid you welcome.”

  Tekil had an escort of perhaps two hundred horses. Timur wondered where the others were. He caught old Hashim’s narrowed eyes, and made a twist of head and chin. The old fel­low gave a gesture of assent; and un­obtrusively edged from the clump of horsemen, to head back to camp.

  More compliments. Hussein was smooth and smiling and affable. To­morrow, he and Timur would with pleasure and heartiness attend the governor’s banquet. Today, Allah bear witness, things were in an uproar in camp. Horses, badly overtaxed, need­ed attention. And some of the party was still unaccounted for. Ay,Wal­lah! Some baggage animals, carrying all the gifts designed for His Excel­lency, were lagging a day’s march be­hind.

  Something was wrong, something was off color; Hussein’s fluent patter confirmed Timur’s earlier premo­nitions. He said, cutting in brusquely, “Allied-to-Greatness, we beg permis­sion to turn from the light of your Presence!”

  Words and music did not matter. He was in the saddle before Tekil fairly realized that another speak­er had addressed him. Tagi Bouga Barlas mounted up; and so did Hussein.

  Tekil’s face changed. And then came the great bawling voice of Eltchi Bahadur, and the pounding of hooves. “To horse, O Bek! The bastard’s got us hemmed in!”

  “Swords out!”

  And Timur had scarcely shouted his command when an arrow smacked home with a solid thump. Eltchi was shooting, shooting hard, fast, straight. “Get out of my way,” he howled, “get out of my way!”

  Timur and Mir Hussein were blocking his line of fire. Then the visitors and the host’s men went into action, blades out; some lancers maneuvered for working space, while others threw their lances down and snatched maces from their saddle bows.

  “To camp!” Timur shouted. “Archers fall out!”

  There was no drill by command, as such; it was rather instinctive teamwork, based on many a pitched battle and running fight. Eltchi Bahadur charged headlong at the Tekil’s guard. Hacking and hewing, he was swallowed up by milling horsemen and billowing dust.

  Meanwhile, as though called by signal, half Timur’s escort swooped to right and left, and the bows began to twang. Hard driven shafts laced th
e flanks of Tekil’s tight packed traitors; murderous, close range archery; cunningly driven shafts, some picking men, others nailing horses whose fall would block the movement of other riders.

  Stung by the ferocious archery, Tekil’s men opened out. Timur and Hussein pressed in, head on, to divide the enemy. And from the rear came the brawling, booming voice of Eltchi Bahadur. He looked as though an avalanche had passed over him, but he was hewing his way back to meet Timur.

  Timur’s archers fell back, shooting as they withdrew and covering the retreat. Over the roar of battle, he heard the approach of his main de­tachment, and saw his chance. “This way, you bawling bull!” he shouted to Eltchi, and pointed toward a low hillock.

  In a moment, Timur’s standard was on the knoll.

  Dust ringed the oasis. The rest of Tekil’s men were closing in. It was now clear where the governor’s force had been. It was all too clear that the riders trailing Timur out of Samar­kand had been baiting him, while a courier rode directly to Tekil. Bikijek, he now concluded, had known all the while where Mir Hussein was, and had counted on Timur’s joining his brother-in-law: the two were to be settled beyond the border of the Jagatai territory.

  Ten to one: Timur took a fresh horse, and looked out and down at the closing circle of steel. He said to his wife, and to Dilshad Aga, “Keep your heads down. There won’t be many of us to block the ar­rows, not for long.”

  CHAPTER IV: OLAJAI

  The one sided battle was reaching its end as the sun slowly dragged down toward the horizon. Olajai, ignoring arrows, went about during lulls, carrying a goat­skin jar of brackish water.

  “Easier each round,” Timur said, and licked the dust from his lips.

  She laughed. “They’re well whittled down, too!”

  Of Tekil’s men, scarcely fifty were able to fight: the others were dead, or they had left the field because of wounds. As for Timur, only seven were about his standard.

  Charge after charge had been swept back, for in the beginning, Tekil’s men had blocked each other, only a few at a time being able to present themselves to the enemy; and closing in on Eltchi Bahadur was a swift way to the mercy of Allah.

  Those who first charged up the little knoll had struggled in sandy soil, facing a hail of arrows: and the next wave had been blocked by wind­rows of fallen horses and men. Final­ly, exhaustion took the heart from all but the strongest. Skill failed, and so did the will.

  “Only seven to one now, my dear! Give Bahadur a drink!”

  He turned to his sister-in-law: “I’ll get you horse tails, tie them to the standard.”

  There were plenty of once splendid mounts who had no further use for their tails. Timur hacked, and Dils­had Aga set to work.

  Timur waited. The ring of winded, wounded enemies waited. The air had the dead stillness of a well-fired oven, except when hot wind drove scorch­ing sand. Tagi Bouga Barlas and Sayfuddin were now on foot. Eltchi Baha­dur grinned, though wearily; blood and sweat and dust made his homely face a devil’s mask.

  “Hai, Bahadur! The sons of pigs would turn tail if someone knocked that Tekil out of action.”

  Timur snorted. “I’ve spent all day trying to get at him. I’ve been cutting meat till my arm’s ready to fall off, he always gets someone between me and him.”

  Hussein came up; debonair, head cocked like the head of a falcon, eyes aglitter. “Why take down our stan­dard, brother?”

  “It’s coming up in a second.” Then Dilshad Aga called, and Timur went to take the staff. Hussein saw the three horse tails. “The stan­dard of Genghis Khan! By Allah, why not? This is our day. God does what he will do, and here we are.”

  Timur planted the staff, and said to Hashim, “Sound off!”

  The one unbroken saddle drum rolled and grumbled in the hot si­lence; a hot wind made the three horse tails ripple, then fan out. Timur challenged the enemy: “Sons of Bad Mothers! Here is the standard of Genghis Khan, the Master of all Man­kind. He rides again!”

  Hussein mounted up, wordlessly, and with the smooth swiftness of a panther. Sword out, he raced down the slope. Then came Eltchi Baha­dur’s great voice; the drum stopped rumbling. Olajai cried out—many men had died, but this was her broth­er, and a clump of swordsmen had swallowed him up.

  The others were at his heels. Tekil’s standard, clipped in half, was trampled in the dust. Eltchi Bahadur smashed home with all his weight and steel. And as he raced, Timur plucked his bow. One shot. Just one. A single shaft, threading through the shift­ing fighters, caught Tekil be­tween the teeth. The impact knocked him from his horse.

  Then an arrow caught Timur’s mount. The beast crumpled, flinging the rider asprawl. Timur rolled, re­covered, and from the bloody sand he snatched a half-pike. Eltchi Bahadur had hewn a path to Tekil. Timur bore down on the pike, driving through ar­mor, driving it through the man, and deep into the earth.

  Whoever could run or ride fled to the fortress. Seven wounded victors left the field, to find whatever safety they could, before Tekil’s men recov­ered from the shock, and began to think of vengeance.

  They retraced their course. At the desert’s fringe, three of the survivors said, “Lord Timur, Allah does what he will do, and with your permission, we go to our homes in Khorassan, while you raise an army.”

  This also had happened before, so Timur answered, “Go with my blessing.”

  Then on the night when they were not far from the Jihun, Timur said to Hussein, “There are not enough for any defense, only enough to be con­spicuous. Better we separate. You go to Hirmen, and spend the winter with the Mikouzeri tribesmen. I’ll go back home to Kesh, incognito, and I’ll meet you in Hirmen, later.”

  So they parted. And when Timur was alone with Olajai, he said, “Shireen, you married a prince in Kesh, and now look! Not one rider behind me.”

  “I’m not worrying. Though I was scared silly, until you had that crazy notion of hoisting three horse tails!”

  He eyed her sharply. “You quit wor­rying then? Mmmm…it did some­thing to your brother, the crackbrain, he was off before I knew what was happening.”

  She nodded. “That shocked me, too. Then, suddenly, I knew that Tekil’s men would break. For a crazy instant, it was as if Genghis Khan had come back through all these nine genera­tions, and out of his grave.”

  “The sun, my dear. It was bad.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t see anything, I didn’t hear anything, I just felt something. As though you had really had the right, that moment, to put up the horse tail standard. And they felt it.”

  “You’re giving Eltchi Bahadur and Hussein not much credit!”

  “I notice you took the tails off be­fore we left. I’m not worried. It’s working out. What that darvish said. Only he didn’t say all. Maybe he didn’t know, maybe he couldn’t see so far ahead. But I do.”

  “What’s that?” His voice was sharp.

  “My grandfather made kings. He unmade them. Always, he put on the throne of Samarkand someone of the direct line of Genghis Khan. And there was peace, the very name made peace. You know, he could have taken the throne himself.”

  “He could. And Kazagan Khan would have filled any throne.”

  “But he didn’t, he wouldn’t. Timur—don’t you see what I mean? You have a right to the name, you’ve proved the right, back there.”

  They marched, from brackish well to drywell where there was water only by digging. Then the worst of the two horses collapsed. Timur dismount­ed and said “Take mine.”

  She gaped. He said gruffly, “Mount up!”

  “Why —darling—whatever—you’re crazy.”

  Her incredulity was natural. A man tramping on foot would be too worn out to fight. It was plain sense that he should ride while Olajai walked.

  “But—”

  “Mount up!” he commanded and she obeyed.

  He tramped along holding the stir­rup leather.

  And that afternoon toward sunset as they halted to rest he looked at his boots. Th
e soles were gone.

  “See! The darvish is right! Timur of the race of Genghis Khan is bare­footed. This thing had to be. And now that I cannot go any lower I must go higher and the Power is with God!”

  She was no longer worried by his seeming madness in walking while a woman rode. “You lied to me, you knew what happened on that knoll, as well as I did!”

  They were coming near to a well, or to where one should be. The sun’s level rays bent into their backs so that their shadows reached long and dark ahead of them.

  Then he saw the horsemen riding into the glare. “How many?” he asked Olajai, very calmly.

  “Ten—twelve—fifteen—too many, Timur, and you’ve been walking.”

  “Who are they—what are they?”

  “Turkomans,” she answered. “I was afraid of that.” The Governor of Kivac’s force had been large­ly Turkoman.

  Olajai said, lightly, “We can’t use horse tails again. We haven’t enough horses.”

  She started to slide out of the sad­dle, so that he could mount up. He said, “Not yet. The glare keeps them from seeing that there are two of us.”

  When they reached the well, and its thin cover of scrawny trees, he made the horse turn, so that it screened the next move. Olajai slid from the sad­dle. He took his lariat and secured it to a root which reached from the wall of the well.

  “It’s dry. The water is in the other hole. Get down and stay down. You’re near enough now to get to the river afoot.”

  Then he mounted up, drew his sword, and rode at them, shouting his challenge. He had no more ar­rows. The riders had fanned out to envelop the oasis, so as to block the escape of any other travelers who might be there. Every sign pointed to being cut down and robbed of his arms, his horse gear, the jewels of his belt and scabbard; so he shouted, “Timur, the Man of Kesh, Timur, the son of Tragai!”

  A man cried an answer. The arch­ers lowered their bows. That one man rode forward and dismounted.

  “Timur Bek! Welcome, and the blessing of Allah, and the Peace of Allah upon you! We heard that you had gone this way, and we came to meet you.”