Twisting out his sword and in the process severing the officer’s head, Salim paused only to grab the man’s scimitar to replace his throwing dagger. Then, a weapon in each hand, he ran towards where, in the growing grey light of dawn, he saw one of his Rajput bodyguards trying to hold off two attackers. Flinging himself forward, his Persian sword stretched out like a lance before him, he stabbed the first of the men in the fleshy part of his buttocks. Turning, the wounded man slashed wildly with his knife at Salim, ripping the sleeve of his tunic and grazing his right forearm. Salim swung the scimitar in his left hand. Although it was a clumsy stroke with the wrong hand with an unfamiliar weapon, the scimitar’s balance was good and its blade sharp. It bit deep into the man’s side and he collapsed, to be finished off by the Rajput who had in the meantime disposed of his other opponent.
By now, many of the attackers were turning to flee, and as he scrambled to the top of one of the mud banks Salim saw that some of them were heading for the horse lines about a hundred yards away, where the first arrivals were already desperately trying to cut through ropes to steal mounts to hasten their flight.
‘Follow me! We must drive our enemies away from the horses to prevent as many of them escaping as we can,’ shouted Salim as he slipped and skidded down the steep mud bank and ran, legs pumping, through the puddles towards the long lines of horses.
Seeing him approach, a short, stocky, purple-turbaned man who had already cut the tether of a black and white horse and was struggling to sever the rope hobbling its front legs, pulled his double bow from his shoulder, fitted an arrow to the string and fired. The arrow missed Salim by inches. As the man fumbled with nervous fingers to fit another, Salim was almost upon him, but before he could grab him to grapple him to the ground he threw aside his bow and ducked beneath the horse’s belly. Salim thrust at him with his sword as he went but missed.
Spooked by the noise and commotion around it, the horse skittered in fright. Suddenly the hobble on its front legs, already half cut through, snapped. Immediately the animal reared up on its hind legs, front legs lashing out wildly. One flailing hoof caught the purple-turbaned man in the pit of his stomach and he fell doubled up, only to receive another hoofblow to the back of his head which knocked off his turban, fractured his skull and left him unconscious and bleeding heavily. A quick glance showed Salim that his opponent’s life was ebbing and he posed no further threat. Taking care to avoid the flailing hooves, he succeeded in grabbing the black and white horse’s halter. Holding on to its threshing head with one hand and stroking its neck with the other, he spoke softly to the animal which quickly calmed. After what could have been no more than a minute or two Salim was able to scramble on to its back.
Guiding the animal as best as he could with his hands, knees and feet, he urged it after a group of his enemies riding bareback like himself towards a range of low hills two or three miles away. He was quickly joined by a dozen of his bodyguards. At first they seemed to be making no headway in closing the gap between them and their hard-galloping opponents, but then one of the leading riders’ horses slipped slightly as it jumped a small stream. Since the rider had no saddle or reins it was enough to propel him over the horse’s head on to the ground, where he rolled over and over. Instead of galloping on, at a shouted command from another of the foremost riders — who appeared to be the leader of the little force of no more than eight or nine men — they wheeled their mounts as best they could to attempt to rescue their fallen comrade before confronting Salim and their other pursuers.
The leader drew his sword and kicked his mount — a chestnut — towards Salim. As the two riders closed, each swung his sword at the other. Both missed and they strove to bring their mounts round in a wide circle to face each other again. Both succeeded in making the turn, and this time as they passed Salim flung himself from his horse’s back and managed to pull his opponent from his mount. The two men hit the earth with a thump and the impact sent their swords flying from their hands. Salim tasted blood as he bit his tongue.
However, they quickly staggered to their feet and closed, wrestling each other. As they swayed to and fro, struggling for advantage, Salim’s unknown enemy tried to pull a small dagger from his belt. Salim head-butted him hard. The man’s nose broke with a satisfying crunch and he went reeling backwards. While he was still dazed, Salim grabbed the hand in which the man was still gripping the knife and with a quick twist of his wrist sent it spinning from his grasp. Then he punched him twice in his already bleeding face, splitting his lip and knocking out a tooth before kicking him with his booted foot in the groin with all the force he could muster. As his opponent doubled up, Salim brought both fists down on the back of his neck, knocking him to the ground once more. Glancing round quickly, Salim retrieved his Persian sword and held it to his anguished opponent’s throat. As he did so, he saw that most of the retreating enemy riders were down or had surrendered. As far as he could make out through the bloody mess of his face, his enemy was a young man. ‘Who are you?’ Salim asked, stepping back a pace or two and half lowering his sword. ‘And why did you attack my camp?’
‘I am Hassan, the eldest son of the Raja of Galdid,’ he answered, spitting out pieces of broken tooth as he did so. ‘I attacked your camp because I knew that it must contain some important Moghul dignitary and I wanted to take him hostage.’
‘Why?’
‘To trade for my father who is imprisoned in the fortress of Murzad.’
‘For what crime?’
‘For loyalty to Sikaudar Shah, the rightful claimant to the throne of Hindustan. After Sikaudar Shah’s death at Moghul hands, my father still refused to accept alien Moghul rule. .’ Hassan paused to wipe his bloody mouth and nose with the back of his hand before continuing, ‘He took to the hills, living the life of a nomadic raider. For decades he survived, if he didn’t prosper. But six weeks ago he was lured into a trap by the local Moghul commander and captured.’
‘Couldn’t you see your father’s resistance was futile?’
‘I knew it and I said so, but he is my father. I owe him my existence and my loyalty — however wrong-headed he is — just as I owed it to him to attempt to secure his release as best I could.’
‘His story is true, Highness,’ said Zahed Butt, who had just ridden up. ‘I have many relations in this region and the family is well known.’
‘Highness?’ queried Hassan through a froth of blood. ‘Who are you?’
‘You really don’t know, do you? I am Salim, son of the Emperor Akbar.’
Hearing these words Hassan reacted instantly, twisting and scrabbling towards where his knife still lay on the ground about ten feet away. Before he had covered half the distance, Salim thrust his sharp Persian sword deep into his side, sliding between his ribs. Blood spurted on to the wet ground and moments later Hassan, the loyal son, was dead. Salim was left to continue his journey into the exile inflicted by his own father for his disrespect.
Snow was falling. Though it was only the first week of October, winter seemed to have come early to the lonely rocky passes southeast of Kabul. Soon the snow would block any return to Hindustan, Salim thought, even in the unlikely event that his father should relent. The previous evening a young Afghani wounded at the skirmish on the Indus had suffered frostbite in his left foot after his leg had been immobilised in a splint to allow a fracture to heal. The man — a native of Kabul — had been a fool to insist on continuing towards his homeland rather than remaining in Peshawar to recuperate. However, he had persuaded the hakims to use an old Afghan remedy and pack warm animal dung round the frostbitten member. Much to Salim’s and the hakims’ surprise it seemed to be working. The foot had seemed less white and blotched a few hours later.