The Towers of Samarcand

CHAPTER SIX

ANATOLIA, SPRING 1398

At first Luke thought it was Gomil’s party returning. The long line of riders was strung out along the escarpment, silhouetted against the red ball of the setting sun.

But there was something wrong about them. They were moving too fast and sitting low in their saddles. And they were carrying their bows as if they meant to use them. These were not men returning to their homes, this was a raiding party.

Luke was alone on the hillside, a mile down the valley. He was wearing a sheepskin deel drawn together by a belt which held no weapon. He’d been allowed to keep his sword but not remove it from the ger. Around him grazed a herd of angora goats, their bodies thin and scarred from shearing, and they fed noisily on the rich new grass. It was warm and the evening air was hazed by the flight of night insects fanning out to carouse amongst the scents left over from the day.

Luke had been preparing to drive his herd home when he’d seen the riders. Once he knew that they weren’t from the camp, he collected his stick and the bundle of curds left over from lunch and ran fast down the hillside. If he could get to the stream at its bottom and use the cover of its bank, he might just reach the defile where the two valleys met before the riders got to it. Then he’d have to get a horse.

Bending double and sliding part of the way, he made it to the stream and jumped in. It was shallow and fast-moving and the pebbles beneath his feet gave no grip. The cold left him breathless and numbed to the knee. He half ran, half crawled as fast as he could and soon the junction of the two valleys came into view and the banks of the stream began to rise to form the defile.

But he’d been seen.

In his hurry, he’d slipped on a stone and landed headlong in the water. When he looked up, pushing hair from his eyes, he saw a rider a hundred paces to his front, watching him. At least he assumed that he was watching him. It was difficult to be sure for the man wore a long mask of painted wood that obscured all of his face and much of his chest. The masked man raised his bow, an arrow on its string, and pointed it directly at Luke.

Very slowly, Luke got up, his arms raised in the universal sign of submission. The rider didn’t move. Luke looked hard at him. The mask was very large and the eye-slits narrow. Firing accurately would be a challenge at that range. He could either flee or advance. He didn’t have much time and he wanted the horse. He began to advance.

The rider did nothing. Luke was making his task easier; the range was narrowing with every step. Luke held his head high. He was watching the horse and the horse was watching him. It was young and skittish and nervous of the currents flowing about its feet. The sudden glance of sunlight breaking on stone wasn’t part of its life on the steppe. Still Luke watched it.

I, too, am afraid. I will come to you and we will master our fear together.

Their eyes were locked. The space between them was fifty paces, then forty.

But there’s something I want you to do.

It was twenty paces now and still the man aimed the bow at Luke. At this range, he couldn’t miss.

Now!

The horse reared. For a moment it looked as if the rider would keep to his saddle. Then it reared again and the man came down. The bow fell and its arrow glanced against a rock. Luke sprang forward as the horse scrambled to the bank, water exploding around its hooves. The rider thrashed about, trying to draw his sword, but the current was too strong and the water too cold. Then Luke was upon him and the mask had been pulled away and the man’s head was between two powerful hands that were pushing it under.

The fight was short and vicious. The man was strong and wanted to live and he gripped Luke’s forearms with a force that seemed beyond human. Twice his face came up, eyes bulging with defiance as he choked and bit at Luke’s hands, but each time Luke forced him back beneath the water. The heaving chest rose a last time and told of lungs full of water and the man’s hands fell away. Then he was still and the bubbles rose from purple lips and Luke knew that he was dead. Exhausted, he rolled away into the water.

The horse.

He looked up at the bank and the horse was there, calmly cropping the grass. Luke whistled softly. The animal raised its head, grass hanging slack from its mouth and recognition in its eye. A fly settled on its nose and was shaken away but the horse remained still. Luke rose, picked up the bow and walked unsteadily to the bank, opening and closing his fists to restore the circulation. He felt suddenly exhilarated by the prospect of climbing on to the back of this horse. Then he was beside it and his hands were deep within the thick hair of its mane and his mouth was next to its ear and the bond that was without explanation was being made. He put his foot in the stirrup and pulled himself up into the saddle.

We will master our fear together.

It was half a mile to the camp and he knew the raiders were ahead of him. He dug his heels into the horse’s sides and it leapt forward, relieved to be free of the water. They found a path that ran beside the riverbank and Luke urged the horse into a canter. By now it was nearly night and the rim of the escarpment was outlined by the sun that had just gone down behind it. He reached the junction of the two valleys and turned north for the camp. Up ahead there was fire in the sky.

Luke kicked harder, breaking into a gallop even as the sides of the valley grew steeper. There were trees in front of them with a halo of light above them. Then he was in the trees and the smell of burning was among them and the sound of fighting only just beyond. He emerged from the wood and before him was chaos. Ahead were the ribbed skeletons of tents aflame and silhouettes between. Arrows flew and people were running and falling. He saw swords arc and heard the screams of men as they fell. There was an explosion of flame as a tent collapsed.

‘Lug!’

It was a girl. He strained to see who but was blinded by the glare. Then he saw Arkal, hand in hand with Tsaurig, running towards him as fast as she could. The pair reached him and Arkal bent double to regain her breath. She was holding her leg, obviously in pain. Dismounting, Luke wondered fleetingly why he’d never asked her about it.

‘Lug …’ She was panting hard and the words came in spasms. ‘Lug, you must not go on. They …’ She looked behind and then up at him and there was desperation in her eyes. ‘They’re looking for someone … someone not from our tribe.’

She straightened. ‘They were looking for you, Lug.’

Tsaurig began to cry. Big tears ran down his cheeks and pooled in the folds of his deel. He grabbed his sister’s hand again.

‘Where are your parents?’ Luke asked softly.

The girl didn’t answer.

‘Arkal, are your parents alive?’ he asked, taking her free hand.

Arkal shrugged. She pushed hair from her eyes. There was blood on her forehead. ‘Lug, why do they want you?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But I will find out. Where have they gone?’

‘They have taken our horses and gone back to where they came from.’

Luke looked beyond her to the remains of the camp. The flames were dying now. There were no horses. He let go of her hand. ‘Arkal, take Tsaurig into the wood and stay there until it’s safe to go back. If the camp has lost its horses then I must go after them myself.’

Arkal began to protest, then slowly nodded her head. ‘Be careful, Lug.’ She turned and began to walk towards the trees, Tsaurig behind her. She stopped. Looking back, she asked: ‘You’ll come back, won’t you?’

Luke smiled. ‘Of course.’

Then he mounted and pulled the horse’s head towards the slope. He kicked and rode up the valley’s side, pausing once to see Arkal reach the wood. At the top, he reined in and looked out at the vast connected shadow of land and sky. The stars blinked and shimmered and fell like snow over the steppe. Luke patted the neck of his pony and leant down.

Which way did they go?

There was wind here, a soft, soothing thing that came from far, far away and had begun in the east. Luke lifted his head and breathed deeply. The smell of horse was faint but unmistakable.

They have gone east.

He looked again at the stars and turned his pony into the wind and pressed his heels to its sides. The land was flat and the grass new and the going easy. He rode with his head low on the animal’s neck and he talked all the while as it covered the ground in its short, uneven strides.

*

It was halfway through the night when the raiders stopped to rest. The Germiyan horses were spread out across the plain and being herded together. Luke could see them quite clearly in the light of the moon that had risen above the mountains to the west. He dismounted and slapped his horse away and lay down on the dark side of a low hill to watch. The riders were erecting a makeshift pen around the horses, their bows slung across their shoulders. They were many miles from the camp by now, too far for anyone to reach them without horses, and they spoke in loud, excited voices.

Some of them had made a fire and food was being taken from saddlebags to cook. Luke heard song and saw the silhouette of an airag sack being passed around. He looked over to the pen where there were men posted at each corner. One of them shouted to his friends and the airag was brought over. Laughter rose into the night, the smell of spiced mutton rising with it, and drink was passed between men who laughed louder as it did its work.

Luke was cold and hungry. The ride had been fast and hard and his horse had stumbled in marmot holes towards the end. The animal was sick. He’d looked into those white-rimmed eyes and seen fever. He glanced behind him.

Stay with me, friend. We have work to do.

Much later, when the fire had died down and men were sleeping around its embers, he moved. Three of the men guarding the horses were asleep, the other mumbling to himself. He could see that all of the horses had been penned together.

That’s good.

Cursing the moon, Luke began to crawl towards the horses, the tall grass covering him. The sleeping guards were snoring and the one that wasn’t was sitting with his back against a post. Then his head nodded and fell forward. Luke could see a dagger glinting at his waist. The moon was still undimmed by cloud and if the man woke, Luke would die. Rising to a crouch, he waited to hear some noise within the pen before making his rush. A horse whinnied and another answered and he ran. He was as fast and silent as his Varangian father had taught him to be. Before the guard could awake, Luke had ripped the dagger from his belt and slit his throat from side to side. There was no sound beyond the slither of metal breaking skin.

Now he was moving quietly along the rope, talking and soothing as he went and looking for the signs in each horse that marked it out as leader. Luke crept up on the second guard from the side, clamped his hand over his mouth and drove the knife between his ribs. Blood splashed over his hand and the man jerked in tiny, gurgling spasms before he died. Luke wiped his hand on the ground and rolled into the pen. The horses stood around him and he looked at each in turn.

Which of you is leader?

He moved further in, the horses parting before him, puzzled, curious. Luke looked from head to head, calling softly, cajoling, seeking out the one that would persuade the others. Then he saw him. A black gelding with white socks and a lozenge on his nose. There was space around him, which meant that he was held in respect by the others. The horse looked at Luke and Luke looked back.

I know you.

He knew that he’d seen the animal before. Luke had spent as much time as he could getting to know the Germiyan horses. He’d fed them, watered them, talked to them; he’d done everything but ride them. And he’d marked this one out as special. Now, in the soft light, he looked into two big eyes with moons in them, eyes that were watching him without fear.

We know each other.

He put out his arm and touched its nose, moving the flat of his palm down to cover the nostrils. He would have the smell of horse on that hand. He moved it down to the grooved rubber of its lips, cupping its chin and lifting the head so that their noses touched. The white lozenge shone as it met the moonlight and Luke looked straight down its silver path into those big, unblinking eyes.

There is something I want you to do.

A minute later, Luke had mounted a different horse. With no saddle, he was able to lie almost flat along its back as he moved slowly through the herd, gently pushing animals out of their way. He reached the perimeter, slid to the ground and pulled up two posts, laying them flat on the ground. Then he led the horse down the side of the pen until he got to the corner and a good view of the sleeping raiders. They were lying close to the dying fire. There didn’t seem to be any guards although a single horse stood in silhouette, tethered slightly apart.

Luke bent down and picked up the sack of airag. He pulled the stopper from its mouth and smelt its contents. Then he put it to his lips and drank. Fire burnt his throat and he buried his face in the pony’s mane to stop himself from coughing. He mounted the horse, the airag in his hand. The landscape around the fire moved; one of the raiders was sitting up. He’d heard something. Luke saw him turn to wake others.

Now.

Luke started over the open ground and the man rose and reached for his bow. He was shouting and other heads came up. Then Luke was on top of them. He swung the airag sack twice above his head before hurling it into the fire. There was an explosion and burning debris flew into the air. A scream of pain came as a man’s clothes caught light.

Luke was already backing his horse away when he felt the wind of an arrow above him. He ducked and turned the horse’s head for flight. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone grab for the tethered horse. He kicked hard and struck the pony’s flank with his fist.

He looked up at the stars and found a plough. Above it would be the North Star. The pony was moving quickly now and Luke was skirting the pen, a hundred pairs of eyes watching his progress. When he reached the place where the rope had been lowered, he saw the horses already beginning to leave the enclosure, the gelding at their head. He whistled sharply, and turned to the west. The horse neighed and broke into a trot and then a canter. Luke’s heart lifted.

It’s working.

He looked behind him. The horses were spreading out across the steppe and the thunder of their two thousand hooves was like a storm rolling through the grasses. But there was a rider following him.

At first he thought it was a rogue horse that had broken free from the herd. Then he saw that there was a shape above the horse, a shape bent low for speed, a shape that included the curve of a bow. Luke looked down at his pony. It was no Eskalon. He cursed that he’d brought no bow. But then he hadn’t yet learnt how to shoot from the saddle. He’d have to outride his pursuer.

The gelding. I need the gelding.

He steered his pony towards the gelding, which was now almost level with him. He looked at its gallop, its rhythm and the space between its hooves. He made the judgement.

One, two, three …

He’d begun the leap when his pony went down. Shot through the leg, it could do nothing but fall. It sank to the grass, twisting as it did so and bringing Luke with it. He was pinned. In seconds the herd would be on top of him. He closed his eyes and prayed.

The horses came on, jumping the obstacle one after another. Then one shied and was hit by those behind. Yet still they came on and Luke held his breath, waiting for the hooves that would trample him, feeling their thunder shake every part of his being.

Then the thunder passed and he lay beneath the rough underbelly of the horse and listened to the beat of his heart. He felt something hard digging into his side and managed to move an arm. It was the arrow.

He pulled it free and there was no sound from the horse beyond the horrid slurp of release. It was quite dead. And it was heavy. Digging his elbows into the ground, he managed to shift himself to the side of the carcass. Then, with another heave, he was free. He looked up.

There was his pursuer, pale as a ghost in the moonlight. The man was small and slight and almost entirely hidden by the monstrous mask he wore. His horse wanted to follow the herd and was straining against the rein, turning circles on the flattened grass. But the rider was out of arrows. He threw the bow to one side and drew his knife. Then he charged.

Luke waited to the last moment before throwing himself to one side. As he did so, he thrust the point of the arrow up like a dagger into the upper arm of the man. The man? The cry of pain was not that of a man; it was a boy’s. And the arm glimpsed in the moonlight was hairless. The horse reared and the boy came down. Luke recovered his balance to see the horse moving away to catch the herd. He lunged for the reins and with one finger, caught them and looped them round his wrist. Then he threw himself into the saddle and kicked.

There was no time to look back. He had to catch the horses.

*

At the Germiyan camp, daylight brought the misery of seeing.

The light arrived slowly, creeping out from behind the stars like a jewel-thief, and the people of the camp sat around wrapped in blankets and stared silently at the ground. The only sound came from dogs that moved like servants from person to person, heads tilted in query. The gers stood charred and stripped to the bone, the ground around them black and strewn with things dragged out before the torches hit. Felt was everywhere, burnt and curled and stinking.

The camp had lost only two men but all of its horses. Those standing there now, nose to nose, belonged to Gomil’s hunting party, which had just returned. They were waiting for the order to remount and follow the raiders.

Gomil was standing next to his father, who had blood on his face and a bandage around his thigh. They were talking together in low voices and Arkal was standing a little apart, listening to every word and squeezing Tsaurig’s hand every time he drew breath to cry. She had found her parents alive but beyond speech. Now she wanted to know about Luke.

‘The girl says that Luke went after them,’ said the older man. ‘One against twenty. He will die and we will be blamed.’

Gomil looked gaunt and tired. His deel was filthy. ‘It is because of him that they came,’ he said. ‘You said it yourself: they were looking for someone not of the tribe.’

Etabul shook his head. ‘They followed you to the camp,’ he said. ‘They wanted the horses.’

Gomil grunted. ‘We should not have stopped for the night. They must have overtaken us then.’

Etabul looked up. ‘Why were you so late in returning?’

‘The girl would not let us go. I had agreed the marriage with her father but she kept arguing. I couldn’t leave.’ He looked beaten. He waved Arkal and Tsaurig away. ‘Father,’ he said quietly, looking over his shoulder at the waiting men, ‘we can get new horses but we must get rid of the foreigner. He has brought us trouble.’

His father turned on him. ‘New horses?’ he asked. ‘Tell me how we can get horses when we have no horses ourselves.’ He stared at his son and then glanced at the men around them. His voice fell to a whisper. ‘Without horses we are nothing.’

Gomil frowned. He knew it was true. A tribe with only twenty horses between them was finished. They would be forced to join a neighbouring camp, subservient to others’ whims. Suddenly he felt very angry. ‘It’s Lug’s fault,’ he said.

Etabul grunted and looked up at the sky. The first rays of the sun had crested the ridge and scattered across the sky, turning cold grey into blue. Small birds left the trees behind them in clouds of tiny wingbeats. Today would be spent in planning for a desolate future. He felt drained. ‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘at least you won’t have to marry the Karamanid girl. They won’t make a match with a horseless tribe, whatever Yakub wants.’

Gomil had considered this and had been surprised that relief was not among the emotions he’d felt. He’d been told by the father to look at the girl’s legs. Strong legs would mean a strong, child-bearing wife. But he’d looked instead at her face.

‘Was she ugly?’ asked his father.

‘No,’ replied Gomil. ‘She wasn’t ugly.’

A falcon screeched and they looked up to see it soar into the rising birds and emerge with a shape between its claws. Gomil was about to whistle for its return when he heard a shout from one of the waiting hunting party. The man was pointing south along the valley. Father and son turned to look.

There were horses coming towards them. Far beyond the woods, there were horses, hundreds of them, and they had no riders. They were spread out along the valley bottom, some in the river, water splashing around their hooves. At their head was a rider, upright and waving.

‘Lug,’ Etabul said softly.

Now people from the camp were running, running towards the horses. Children had broken free of their parents and were skipping and jumping and clapping their hands. Even the sheep and goats had raised their heads and were calling out the news.

Etabul turned to the waiting party. ‘Give me a horse,’ he said.