Prologue
918 Words
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 marksmanship on these strangers in his land, the youngster obeyed.
The four horsemen rode on, aware of their danger, as the elder signalled to a warrior across the valley. In turn, the warrior lifted his hand to a third man, further up, and the signals accompanied the strangers as they penetrated deeper into the mountains.
As the sun dipped and the four horsemen halted to camp, a troop of riders ghosted from the hills and surrounded them. The leader stepped toward the four men as his followers levelled rifles. He wore a twisted red turban around his head, while his long, faded, red tunic swung open to reveal the Khyber knife at his waist.
“Have you come to see Bacha Khan?” the man in the red turban asked without preamble.
The tallest of the four men nodded. “Bacha Khan instructed me to bring an escort of three men.”
“You were wise,” the man in the red turban said. “We told the tribes not to molest a group of four. Any more or less and they would have killed you.”
The tall man touched his forehead. “I"m glad you did not.”
“Come with us,” the man in the red turban said as his riders formed around the strangers.
The four horsemen doused their fire and rode on, now with the tribesmen acting as a close escort. When the sun sunk behind the mountains, the tribesmen neither faltered nor took heed of their weary hostages but continued to ride. Only when the moon rose, glossing the sky in the gap between two peaks did the red-turbaned man speak to the strangers.
“Another hour and a half-hour,” he said.
The tall stranger patted his pale grey horse. “My horse is tired.”
“He can rest when we arrive,” the red-turbaned man said.
The tall man nodded. He was naturally laconic, but when he did speak, people tended to listen, for his voice carried the stamp of authority and his bearing the assurance of command. Behind him, a heavily bearded man sighed, touched the revolver at his belt and patted the neck of his white horse.
Perhaps for the benefit of the strangers, the tribesmen slowed a little, following a high pass where the wind plucked at them, and the moon seemed so close they could nearly reach up and touch it.
The riders halted at the highest point of the pass, the kotal in the native language, and the tall man raised his binoculars and peered ahead. He saw the fort rising from a knoll in the centre of the narrow valley, moonlight highlighting its soaring towers and bathing the harsh walls in gentle light.
kotal“Is your headman there?” the tall man asked.
“Yes,” the man in the red turban said.
They negotiated the path down into the valley with the tribesmen never straying more than a few yards from the visitors and the call of a jackal lonely in the night. Once in the valley, it was a comfortable ride to the fort, while the tall man approving the sangars and artillery emplacements on either side.
As they approached the fort, torches flared along the battlements, and the gate opened before them. The four horsemen clattered inside, with the tall man and two others placing their hands on the hilt of their swords.
Only two of the tribesmen rode inside the fort. One was the man with the red turban and the other an elderly, white-bearded man with a pulwar – a single handed, curved sword native to the country - at his belt and a long jezail strapped to his back. Both dismounted the moment they reached the central courtyard, where a group of men waited to greet the four horsemen.
“Welcome, my Russian brothers.” The man who stepped forward was wiry rather than muscular, with kohl lining his green eyes. The torchlight reflected from the bejewelled hilt of his pulwar as he addressed the tallest of the horsemen.
“It is not me you should greet,” the tall man said. He indicated the quiet, heavily bearded man who remained on his white horse. “May I introduce General Mikhail Dmitriyevich Skobelev?”
The green-eyed man smiled. “The famous White General,” he said. “Or should I call you Goz Ganly, b****y Eyes?”
Goz Ganly“You can call me anything you like,” Skobelev said, “as long as I can get off this damned horse.”
The green-eyed man"s smile did not falter. “The hospitality of the fort is open to you, General.”
- Writer
