In a few months it would be his birthday. He would be ninety-three. He looked thirty-seven. His body was in peak physical condition, and his youthful face was marred only by the knife scar that ran from below his left eye to just above the corner of his mouth. In his costume as Sayyid Akbar, he looked like a dashing bandit chieftain, but he felt old. Emotionally drained. They had done that to him. Drained him. Leeched from him everything he knew. And now he could not exist without them.
As the sun rose above the peaks, thinning the mist, he looked down into the velvet-shrouded gorge, toward a narrow section of the pass hemmed in by two protruding rock formations. Like the Pillars of Hercules, he thought. The pillars that guard the gates. Three shapes stepped out of the undulating mist, walking out of one world into another. They looked up at him. He raised his arm to signal them.
The three figures rapidly ascended toward him from the bottom of the gorge, rising up until they were level with him and continuing on over his head to land behind him. He turned around as they shut off their jet-paks.
"Give us your report," said one of them.
— Everything proceeds according to plan," said Drakov. "The British are heavily engaged in the Malakand and at Chakdarra. Sadullah is working the tribesmen up into a frenzy about the coming Night of the Long Knives. He’ll lose the battle at the Malakand fort, and undoubtedly the British will beat him at Chakdarra, but that makes little difference. The British Raj is convinced the uprising is confined to that area and that all the tribes have flocked to join Sadullah, so they haven’t realised that I’ve rallied the remaining tribes to my side here. The garrisons in the Khyber Pass have been deserted, and even Colonel Warburton’s Khyber Rifles have gone over to me, convinced I am the Light of Islam. Warburton has been transferred back to Lahore. He’s retiring and going back to England. Without him to lead the Khyber Rifles, it was a simple matter to get them to join the jehad. That’s something it will take the British years to understand, that it isn’t the Empire the natives give their allegiance to, but individuals. As Oscar Wilde said, it is personalities and not principles that move the age. Meanwhile, I have finally succeeded in recruiting the last remaining independent warlord in the region. A local chieftain named Sharif Khan. The pass is now completely under my control. I have well over 10,000 men in my lashkar, more than enough to overrun Landi Kotal and destroy all the remaining forts in our path. Your way is clear."
"We’ll have to move quickly, — one of the three said. "There’sno telling how long this confluence will remain stable. There’s no margin for error, Drakov."
"There will be none, at least not on my part," said Drakov. "Just see to it that you live up to your part of our agreement. "
"You have no need for concern," said another of the three. "Considering what is at stake, it’s a miniscule price to pay. And it gives all of us what we want. What we require. Your life is at stake as well as ours. The most important thing is that the British are kept ignorant of your strength in this area. They must not send more troops until we can mobilize."
"Theywon’t," said Drakov. "Since the action at the Malakand Pass began, I’ve been intercepting all of their communications. The telegraph wires are all down and the only dispatches which get through are the ones I wish to get through. They still think they’re dealing with a small uprising. By the time they realize that every tribesman in the Hindu Kush is up in arms, it will be far too late."
"Good. It’s imperative that you control the pass. The sooner we can move, the better. We’ll see you again when we’re ready to cross over."
They switched on their jet-paks and descended into the gorge, arcing down toward the two pillars. Drakov watched them until they were swallowed by the mist. If any wandering tribesmen had been watching, Drakov thought, the legend of Sayyid Akbar had just grown greater. They would speak of how the Holy One communed with spirits, and they would anxiously await the moment when the host of heaven arrived. And they will arrive soon, thought Drakov. But not from heaven.
Chapter 7
They were travelling in the opposite direction from Chakdarra, where most of the enemy forces were concentrated, but they were still in hostile territory. To avoid drawing unwanted attention to themselves, they wore the white robes of the Ghazis over their clothing and wound turbans around their heads. Even from a short distance there was nothing to distinguish them from a roving band of tribesmen riding captured British horses. To help complete the disguise, they carried jezail rifles in addition to their own Martini-Henrys and armed themselves with charras, which like the clothing and the rifles, they had taken from tribesmen killed at the scene of the battle. Mulvaney carefully inspected Andre’s appearance before they set out, and grunted his approval.
"It’ll do," he said. "No one will take you for a woman in that getup. Now all we need is to smear a bit o’ dirt upon our faces to darken up our skin, and the lot of us’ll be able to pass as Pathans. "
"Unless anyone gets close enough to see that red hair stickin’ out from beneath your puggaree," said Learoyd.
They adjusted Mulvaney’s turban and set off down the road to Peshawar. They travelled quickly and made it through the first day of their journey without incident. They stopped to pitch camp in the shelter of a rock formation which would hide them and their campfire. Ortheris boiled some water for tea, and they watched the shadows lengthen as the sun slowly — sank behind the peaks.
"What’ll you do now, miss"" said Learoyd.
"I don’t quite know," said Andre.
Learoyd nodded, watching as Mulvaney and Ortheris saw to the horses with the help of Gunga Din. Finn was scouting around, looking to see if their position was vulnerable. They could afford to take no chances. They would stand watch in shifts, with the exception of Andre and Din, Mulvaney having insisted that it was work for soldiers. Neither Finn nor Andre were in a position to disagree.
"It was too bad about the Father," said Learoyd. "Were you close""
Andre nodded. "We’d known each other for a long time. He taught me almost all I know. It’s hard to believe he’s dead. I feel as if I’ve lost a relative. It’s the second time that’s happened to me. The first time, it was my brother. I never thought I could feel pain like that again."
"I know what you mean, miss," said Learoyd, staring out into the growing darkness, the flames making dancing shadows on his face. "I lost someone once, my-self."
"A brother"" Andre said.
"My son," Learoyd said softly.
"I didn’t know you had a wife," said Andre.
"I don’t, not anymore," Learoyd said. "It was a long time ago, when we first arrived in India. Bombay, it was. There was an outbreak of typhoid. My young son came down with it. I remember sittin’ up with him all night, prayin’ for the fever to break. It didn’t, and he died. My wife never forgave me. She blamed me for havin’ brought them to this godforsaken place, and placed the burden of responsibility for our son’s death squarely on my shoulders. He was just five years old. She went into hysterics and raved at me. After that she became very quiet and never said two words to me. She went back to London. I never saw nor heard from her again. Some time later a piece of paper arrived, in-formin’ me that I wasn’t married anymore, and that was an end of it."