RAMSUD VALLEY, AFGHANISTAN MARCH 1878
All four men had been riding all day, so their horses were tired, with drooping heads and dirt-streaked bodies. The riders were tense, checking their surroundings, and occasionally touching the long swords they wore at their waists.
Around them, snow streaked the mountain sides, austere peaks nodding to the blue abyss of the sky, voiceless witnesses to the horsemen who rode through an alien land. From time to time, a man appeared on the slopes, careful to keep beneath the skyline as he watched the riders. Once, a youngster levelled his jezail, the long musket of the tribesmen, until an elder pushed down the barrel and shook his head.
“No,” the elder said, speaking in his native tongue. “They are known.”
Although he was desperate to try out his mark
