Silk and Secrets(8)

"Perhaps two hours, Khilburn," the young Persian said uneasily. "If this is the true road. The winter has been hard and the hills do not look the same."

Correctly interpreting the remark to mean that they were lost again, Ross almost groaned aloud. So much for Murad's assurances in Teheran that he knew every rock and shrub in eastern Persia. If Ross himself hadn't kept a sharp eye on his map and his compass, they would have been in Baghdad by now. Dryly he suggested, "Perhaps we should retrace our path until the hills begin to look familiar."

Murad glanced back over his shoulder, offended at his master's lack of faith, then stared past Ross, his expression changing to one of genuine fear. "Allamans!" he shouted. "We must flee for our lives!"

Ross and Allahdad turned in their saddles and saw that half a dozen riders in characteristic Turkoman garb had rounded a bend about a quarter of a mile behind them. As soon as the Turkomans saw that they were observed, they shouted and spurred their horses forward, one of them firing a wild shot.

"Damnation!" Ross swore. "Ride!"

The three men took off at full speed, Ross offering a fervent prayer that the track they were on wouldn't come to a dead end. If they had room, they should be able to outrun their pursuers, for he had chosen mounts that were large, fast, and well-fed. Turkoman horses were tough and had great stamina, but they were smaller, and at the end of the winter they would be feeling the effects of months of poor forage.

And if speed didn't work, Ross had his rifle, though he would prefer not to shoot anyone, for both practical and humanitarian reasons.

At first it seemed as if his strategy would save them, for the gap between the two groups of riders slowly began to widen. Then Ross's mount put one foot into an unseen animal burrow. The horse lurched and pitched violently to the ground with a shriek of equine agony, pulling the pack horse with it. With the lightning responses developed during a lifetime of riding, Ross kicked free of the saddle, flinging himself sideways so that he wouldn't be trapped under the falling horses.

As Ross tucked his body so that he would hit the ground rolling, Murad shouted and reined back for an instant, his expression stricken as he briefly considered coming to his employer's aid. Self-preservation won and Murad spurred his horse forward in renewed flight. Then Ross slammed into the rocky ground and all thought disappeared into bruised blackness.

He recovered consciousness a few moments later to find himself lying on his back, all of the breath knocked out of him and pain stabbing through his left side, which had taken the brunt of the fall. The vibration of thundering hooves shook the ground. He looked up and saw an appalling worm's-eye view of six horses stampeding down on him.

His hat had fallen off, and at the sight of his bright gold hair a voice shouted, "Ferengi!"

At the last possible instant before trampling Ross, the horses veered off, their dancing hooves throwing up a cloud of grit and dust as the riders formed a milling circle around him. The Turkomans' foot-high black sheepskin hats gave them a military appearance, rather like a squad of royal hussars. They had Mongolian blood in their ancestry, and the dark slitted eyes that stared down at their captive showed emotions ranging from curiosity to greed to flat-out malevolence.

Ross forced his dazed mind to think and analyze, for they were all young men, and the young hold life more cheaply than the old. They might kill on impulse, without stopping for second thoughts. His rifle was still holstered on his horse, which lay twenty feet away, whimpering with pain, its right foreleg bent at an unnatural angle. The packhorse had scrambled to its feet and appeared to be unhurt. In a few moments the Turkomans would start plundering both horses, but for the moment Ross was the center of attention.

As he pushed himself upright, one of the Turkomans snarled, "Russian swine!" and lashed out with his riding whip.

Reflexively Ross raised his arm and managed to protect his face from the blow, though the force of it rocked him back and stung viciously through his heavy coat. As his assailant's mount pranced away, Ross scrambled to his feet. Fortunately the Turkoman language was similar enough to Uzbeki that he could both understand and reply. "Not Russian. British," he croaked through the dust in his throat.

The whip-wielding rider spat. "Pah! The British are as bad as the Russians."

"Worse, Dil Assa," another agreed. "Let us kill this ferengi spy now and send his ears to the British generals in Kabul."

A third rider said, "Why kill him when we can sell him in Bokhara for a pretty price?"

Dil Assa snarled, "Money is soon spent, but to kill an unbeliever will assure us of paradise."