Adventure Tales, Volume 4 Page 7

  So Olajai came from the pit. Timur gave her brace­lets to Hadji Mehemmed, the Turkoman raider with whom he had ridden once, some years previous. And Hadji Mehemmed gave them horses, and an escort of ten men. Olajai said, that night, “This proves it—the horse tails are still with you.”

  CHAPTER V: “SPREAD THE GOOD WORD”

  At Bokar-Zendin, Timur left Olajai with friends, for being north of the Jihun again, he risked recognition, ambush, betrayal, which he would not have Olajai share. “More than that,” he said, “if you went, I’d be recognized just that much sooner.”

  “Women’s chatter? Well, men have­n’t done too well by you!”

  Timur chuckled amiably at that painfully just quip. “Shireen, wher­ever we were guests, and we couldn’t always refuse hospitality without making ourselves even more conspicu­ous, there’d be women looking at you. They’d guess, and much sooner than any men would, looking at us.”

  “Mmmm…yes, of course.”

  Now that the blame had been passed to superior feminine percep­tion, Olajai felt better about it all. So the Lord of Kesh sneaked thief-like across the lands of his ancestors, not even daring to enter his own estate, for this choice territory was packed with Kip­chaks.

  A lone archer limped through the market place. Timur, being afoot, had the best possible disguise, yet the risk was deadly enough, since men of Bikijek’s clique came in from Samarkand every day.

  One by one, he cornered retainers who had rid­den with his late father, Emir Tragai. These had to look twice before they could believe that this hag­gard footman was Timur Bek. Each one said. “Lord Ti­mur, we thought that you had quit us. We were glad when we heard that you’d left Samar­kand with a troop on your heels. Then we knew that you were with us in heart, and in the end, you would come back and wipe them out.”

  “What with?”

  “We join whatever army you raise.”

  Close-mouthed, weather-beaten men listened to him and then spread the word. When he left Kesh, Temouka Kutchin rode after him with twenty horse­men ready for the field.

  They took the trail for Badakshan. The story of his desperate fight against Tekil of Kivac had spread, and one chieftain after another joined him. There was Bahram Jalair, and a dis­tant cousin, Saddik Bar­las; Kazanchi Hassan with a hundred horse came seeking him. Mir Sayfuddin, whom he had not seen since the disaster in the desert, had meanwhile raised sev­enty picked men. Another kinsman, Koja Barlas, had a like party. Then came Shir Bahrain, and Ulum Kuli with two hundred horse, Mamut Keli with as many footmen.

  Timur’s disaster and his barefooted march across the desert recruited more men more easily than any suc­cess had ever done.

  Even the Kipchak Horde helped him: for with Bikijek’s nobles now leading raiding parties over all the Jagatai territory, captain after cap­tain fled to join Timur.

  When he met Mir Hussein and they reviewed their combined forces, Timur said, “Now that the enemy has taught them that too much freedom is no freedom at all, they’ve stopped be­ing kings.”

  Spies came, saying that the Kip­chak raids were becoming more se­vere. Worse yet, Togluc Khan had sent some 20,000 of the Golden Horde to the north, to reinforce his son, Elias Koja.

  “We’re not ready. What we have is good, by Allah, but not enough. Time is against us,” Hussein said.

  “Time is the toy of Allah,” Timur retorted. “He does with it what pleases Him.”

  “It pleased Him to have most of us wiped out facing odds of ten to one,” Hussein pointed out, realistically.

  And these men would follow Ti­mur only as long as they willed, and no longer. Even Genghis Khan, more nearly an absolute lord than any man who had ever ruled men, had ruled only by the will of his captains: Asiatic democracy, masquerading as a despotism.

  So Timur’s frown deepened, and even more when he heard that Kesh was heavily garrisoned. Worst of all, spies said that Olajai, finally leaving Bokar-Zen­dan to him and her brother, had been recog­nized and trapped; she was a captive in Kesh, a hostage for his good behavior,

  Timur asked the messenger, “Who else has heard this?”

  “No one, tura, save yourself and Mir Hussein.”

  “I’ll take your head,” Timur sol­emnly swore, “I’ll skin you and stuff your hide with straw if a word of it leaks out in camp. Is that clear?”

  “Aywah, tura.”

  He gave the man a handful of gold­en dinars, and dismissed him.

  Then, to Hussein: “I’ve got to get her out of there.”

  “I take refuge with Allah! My own sister, but you can risk a good little army against a walled city, just for a woman? Timur, that’s not sense. Your men’ll think you’re crazy, wasting them on a woman.”

  Timur smiled. “That’s something I’m not telling them.”

  “Allah! But what?”

  “Listen.”

  The drums sounded assembly, and the trumpets brayed. Timur spoke from the saddle: “O Men! Friends of my father and my uncle, a saint came to me in a dream last night. Allah has promised us our city. Even though we had green boughs instead of lances, our faith would make us win.

  “The Presence of Genghis Khan came into the desert, and our enemies ran.

  “And if we take Kesh, every captain from Badak­shan to Kandahar will join us to share in our next glory. When they join, who will stop us?”

  He sold them as they stood there. And not even on the march, the hard forced march on Kesh, did a man of them wonder what Timur would do for siege engines.

  “They’re drunk,” Hussein said. “Drunk and not from wine. How did you do it?”

  “I don’t know. It came to me.”

  “Well, if we do capture Kesh,” Hus­sein countered, “they’ll besiege us, and have you ever seen a Mongol or Turk who was any good, locked up behind walls?”

  Timur laughed triumphantly. “Hai! Out of your own mouth, brother! The very truth that’s going to make Kesh open up in no time. Go and spread the word! Keep them with a dream in their eyes!”

  They rode so fast that there was no news of their coming.

  Bivouac: and at dawn, far off, rose the gray walls of Kesh, high above the orchards.

  “Now get busy,” Timur said to his captains. “Cut off green boughs. Di­vide into four columns.” He saw their faces change at this insane sugges­tion, but he gave them no chance to object. “Let each column mark the time, and do it in this wise—”

  They listened, they grinned, their slanted eyes widened, and then they howled and drew their swords to hew limbs from the forest.

  Timur with a picked handful emerged from the woods, and raced down into the plain, and toward the fields. He had all the musicians: and all were sounding off brazen trumpets and saddle drums and ear-slashing cymbals. Musicians on horse, musi­cians on camel back, and a picked troop of lancers: they moved at the pace of a polo game, Kipchak guards came from Kesh to welcome what they believed to be fellow invaders.

  “Swords out!”

  Though not caught entirely off guard, they might as well have been. They were cut down, and their horses galloped wildly home with empty sad­dles: and Timur resumed his bold race.

  By now the gates of Kesh were closed. When Timur reined in, his archers shadowed him with a curtain of arrows. He demanded, “Surrender at once, and we’ll let you march out alive.”

  A man in heavy Khorassan mail risked his head. Timur’s archers ceased firing. The garrison command­er came up to the parapet. The man was puzzled: a hundred horse seemed hardly the right force to take a walled town.

  “You’re crazy!” he raged. “Or drunk. Who are you?”

  “Timur Bek, and what are you do­ing in my town?”

  The bold challenge took the com­mander aback. “I am Daulat Ali, and I hold this in the name of Elias Koja, Khan of Samarkand, Son of Togluk Khan.”

  “You can become wealthy and fa­mous by taking my head,” Timur re­minded him “Bikijek wants it badly.”

  Daulat Ali was no drill ground s
ol­dier; Bikijek didn’t send that kind out to hold a town. Yet he was worried. There must be a sizable army on the way, and there had been no warning.

  Timur went on. “March your garri­son out. One hour’s delay, and I’ll have the head of every fifth man, taken by count, with no regard to rank.”

  “You can’t take a town with that handful!” Daulat Ali retorted.

  “Only Allah knows what is in my hand! Trifle a bit longer, and not one of you leaves alive. Quick, man! You’re up on the wall. Look around. Do you want a siege, or do you think you’d like to try a sortie?”

  On the four horizons, great columns of dust rose. Each was drawing to­ward Kesh. Citizens were now on the walls, some of Timur’s own people. They began to yell, “Allah! Armies from Khorassan! Ar­mies from Ka­bul!”

  Rioting broke out within the town. Timur grinned when he heard the shouting. “I won’t have to take your heads, they’ll tend to that before I can save you fellows!”

  Heaving water jugs and roofing tiles from housetops may annoy sol­diers, but such civilian resistance rarely gets far. That was what wor­ried Daulat Ali. Timur must have promised his people four armies, or they’d never be crazy enough to stone Kipchak hard cases.

  Timur could now see the dust col­umns from the ground level. “If you move fast enough you’ll have a chance to warn the apprentice king.”

  Turning the garrison loose, instead of taking them prisoner or cutting them down would give Elias Koja and Bikijek a nasty shock. Only a strong army could afford such a gesture of contempt. And Daulat Ali, already shaken, signaled to his trumpeters; they sounded recall.

  The disarmed garrison filed out, and rapidly enough not to see that they had surrendered to dust clouds raised by horsemen dragging green branches.

  And when Timur found Olajai, he said, “Home again, shireen, but only Allah knows how long we’ll stay.”

  CHAPTER VI: KING-MAKER

  By the time his spies had caught up with him, Timur realized that though he would quickly have to abandon Kesh he had at least succeeded in more than a personal en­terprise: his daring capture of the city was bringing hundreds of one-time doubt­ers to his standard.

  And then Timur learned that Elias Koja’s army, strongly reinforced by his father’s troops, had moved out of Samarkand. They were going toward the Jihun, to make a clean sweep of the Jagatai lands and possibly to in­vade Khorassan.

  So Timur and his newly won re­cruits got out of Kesh before Elias Koja’s general, Bikijek, could learn that green branches had swept his garrison out of town.

  Timur won the bridge with a few hours to spare. Then from the Khoras­san side, he saw touman after touman of Kipchak troops, each 10,000 strong. The apprentice king’s father was out for conquest. “Bro­ther.” Mir Hussein said, “our army will scatter like dust, once we start running. They’ll forget that trick at Kesh.”

  “Then we won’t run.”

  “We can’t face 60,000 Kipchaks, not when Biki­jek leads them.”

  Olajai came from behind the red carpet which, hanging from its long fringes, separated her quarters from the reception room of the pavilion. “Remem­ber the horse tails, Timur!” she cut in.

  Hussein turned on his sister. “You little fool, how long will Allah’s pa­tience last! Bluffing Bikijek is not quite the same as scaring a blockhead out of Kesh!”

  Timur scowled. “I’ve got an army. One retreat, and they’ll go back to their sheep.”

  “Yes, and just one bout with the Golden Horde, and they’ll be minced mutton. You can’t keep on recruiting on the strength of glorious defeats like the one at Kivak!”

  “The horse tails,” Olojai repeated. “The Presence!”

  Timur rose. “We can hold the bridge for a day.”

  So he went to dispose his six thou­sand against ten times as many.

  From sunrise to sunset, troop after troop of Kip­chaks charged the bridgehead, taking their toll, but going down before the stubborn defense. Timur and Eltchi Bahadur plied mace and sword; and the sight and sound of them steadied the little army. Yet when the sun sank, they were tired and battered: wearied from the very cutting down of successive waves.

  That night, spies swam the Jihun. In speech and dress and face, they matched the enemy; and they could mix freely, grumbling about the stiff resistance, and muttering about Ti­mur’s reserves, spread out, well be­hind the Jihun. And they muttered about the fall of Kesh.…

  Meanwhile, Timur was moving, He left only five hundred to hold the bridge: which picked men could do, for another day. The others divided, half going upstream, half down­stream, well beyond hearing of the enemy, to risk the dangerous fords.

  Bikijek could have made a similar attempt, but with his overwhelming force, it seemed far more sensible to hammer for another day, and drive through the troops who held the bridge.

  Finally, there was the rumor of Timur’s reserves; Bikijek was too good a general to risk being cut up in such fashion. Once he learned—

  But Bikijek had no chance to learn.

  Timur’s losses by drowning were smaller than they could have been, had he and his captains not known every foot of the treacherous fords. Time and again, he went back, each time with a fresh horse, to lead the next de­tachment over. And on the final trip, he listened to a spy just returned: “Togluk Khan is dead! His son was about to go home when there was news of us.”

  Timur turned to Hussein, who com­manded the final party.

  “Allah is with us! There is a fear in Elias Koja. When he should go to Kipchak to receive the allegiance of his father’s lords, and take the old man’s throne, he stays here. The raid on Kesh has shaken him!”

  Timur led his hazaras into the hills well behind the Kipchak camp. He spread them far apart. “Make fires,” he commanded. “Many fires. As of many bivouacked toumans.”

  That night, he looked down on the fires of Biki­jek’s six toumans. And that night, Bikijek looked back­ward and upward at fires which sug­gested a force at least equal to his own: and a force which had slipped up between him, and Samarkand, and the long trail to Kipchak.

  At dawn, with all his men carefully under cover in the woods at the foot of the slope, Timur watched Bikijek’s scouts patrolling the river. The Kip­chaks were worried; they had not re­sumed the attack on the bridgehead. Fires behind them at night, and now, they found hoof prints at the dangerous fords. As they saw it, Timur, with far more army than anyone had cred­ited him with having, had held the bridge in order to make a night cross­ing to cut off their retreat, and so drive them into the river,

  Bikijek’s troops were soon in mo­tion. First, they were going to with­draw; second, they were going to make the best disposition after what they considered a thorough outmaneuvering.

  Then came Timur’s charge: not from the distant line of the past night’s campfires, but from the for­est at the foot of the hills. Either too early, or too late, it could not have suc­ceeded, despite the advantage of sur­prise; but Timur’s lightning slash was timed to the second. He caught the Kipchaks when they were neither set for defense, nor fully committed to withdrawal.

  Some tried to rush the bridge. Oth­er hazaras fled along the bank. Those who tried to reform and fight it out were blocked by disorganized units. And Ti­mur’s troops picked the heart of the opposition: Bi­ki­jek’s touman, and the force led by Tokatmur.

  Elias Koja’s standard went down before the rush. Tokatmur, second in command to Bikijek, fell under the fury of swords which followed the final flight of arrows. And it was like the moves of a chess game long rea­soned out in advance: one-two-three, and checkmate.

  The apprentice king escaped, and so did Bikijek, one leaving behind him a throne, the other losing an army. And when the trumpets sounded re­call from cutting down the fugitives, Timur formed his troops and raced on to Samarkand.

  As he rode back through the city from which he and Olajai had so nar­rowly escaped, the citizens who crowd­ed the streets and packed the house­tops, began to shout,
“Sahib Karan! Lord of the Age!”

  He had conquered a city by dust, and he had triumphed over an army by fire: and Olajai said, “When the Jagatai princes meet they’ll make you Grand Khan of Samarkand.”

  She was right. Hussein had said as much; and the Barlas clan, Timur’s uncle’s kinsmen, were behind him. But as he rode toward the palace vacated forever by Elias Koja, Timur made plans of his own.

  That night, serving men dragged monstrous trays into the banquet hall: camels roasted entire, and sheep; and there was horseflesh, and leather trays heaped with rice and millet. Oth­ers set out jars of wine, and jars of fermented mare’s milk, and flagons that only a Mongol could drain.

  Eltchi Bahadur was there, roaring as on the battlefield; Hussein, sleek and smooth and handsome as a pan­ther; and the Barlas clan, flat-faced, grim and slant-eyed; Turki and Mon­gol in silken tunic and silken khalat. Though Togluk Khan the tyrant had died a natural death, horsemen still raced northward to deny his son any chance of an equally quiet end.

  It was complete; complete, except for two things: Timur Bek was not present, and the grand khan’s dais at the head of the great hall was empty. Lords and captains, beks and emirs, ranged in rank on either side, with that one high place vacant: election day in Samarkand.

  Some laughed. Some muttered. Ali sniffed the savor of roasted meat, and wine ready for the drink­ing. But Timur, Sahib-Karan, the Lord of the times, was late.

  Then the drums rolled and the long trumpets brayed. Guards marched in, escorting a horse tail standard. In the courtyard soldiers shouted, “Hai, Ba­hadur! Sahib Karan, Timur, Grand Khan of Sa­markand, Khan of the Jagatai!”

  The uproar of the rank and file told the emirs and the beks how they had better vote; and they knew that whole­sale desertions would follow an un­popular choice. Most of the Jagatai princes agreed with their men; but some scowled. For Timur to make a point of delaying his entry until all the others had arrived was laying it on too heavily; and for him to have the horse tail standard carried before him was taking too much for granted.