The Damascened Blade(53)

As she watched, the emphasis seemed to change. A dim figure had emerged and walked into the fragile lamplight that illuminated the gate. Straining her eyes, Lily was able to identify the heavy shoulders and the heavy walk of Rathmore. (‘Call me Dermot,’ he had said with heavy invitation.) ‘Well, hi there, Dermot!’ said Lily to herself. ‘And what are you up to?’ And with that thought the peaceful scene dissolved.

Two men, Afghanis, Lily thought, sprang from the shadows and without hesitation pounced on the strolling Rathmore, threw a cloth over his head, twisted his hands behind him and propelled him out through the gate. The sentries, the moonlight reflecting from their bayonets, held the gate open and then slipped through it themselves.

‘Holy shit!’ said Lily who did not often swear and for a paralysed moment she thought, ‘What do I do now?’ She opened her mouth to scream and alert the wall sentries and then, remembering the behaviour of the two below, closed it again. For a further moment she hesitated. Nobody seemed to have noticed what was happening! Quite obviously the sentries were in on this, whatever it was!

‘Joe! I must get Joe!’

She ran down the steps intending to make her way silently back to the guest wing but on reaching the ground was struck by a thought inspiring in its simplicity and immediacy. The alarm bell! Hadn’t James shown them all a rope dangling somewhere around here? A rope attached to an old bell up there in the turret – a bell that would wake the whole fort and in much less time than it would take to get hold of Joe. She hunted about and encountered a hairy rope snaking its way down from on high. What had James said? ‘Summon all hands on deck.’

But as she reached for the bellrope a slim, wiry and irresistible hand closed over her mouth and the voice of Iskander came in her ear: ‘A good idea but, forgive me, Miss Coblenz, I’m planning to leave with His Lordship by the back door and I don’t want you ringing the bell. Let the fort sleep.’

With an arm round her shoulders and under her arm, with a swift concentration of muscle he swung her out through the postern and on to a horse standing by. Lily tried to open her mouth to scream but the hand tightened about it. She changed her mind and sank her teeth into flesh, provoking, to her satisfaction, a muted cry.

‘Good, Miss Coblenz – but not good enough!’ said the voice. ‘Now listen! Since you have chosen inconveniently to involve yourself in my affairs you must stay involved for a while longer. You will accompany us into the hills. You may do this in one of two ways. You may ride freely, untied, ungagged and silently, co-operating fully with us. No harm will come to you – I do not take women hostage. I place no such value on Rathmore who is decidedly a hostage. His welfare depends on your decision to agree to the first way. If you choose the second way and make a fuss Rathmore will suffer.’ His voice, which had been calm and reasonable, took on a cold edge. ‘And I will arrange for you to witness his suffering. Perhaps even his death – the man does not impress me with his physical fortitude. I would imagine that the mere sight of a skinning knife would bring on a fatal apoplexy.’

Lily’s eyes grew huge as she peered helplessly over Iskander’s large, muffling hand.

‘Nod your head if you accept the first way,’ he muttered.

Lily nodded.

‘Good. I will have two men escort you and you will ride last in the file.’

He released her and handed her the reins. A moment’s adjustment to the stirrups and a hissed word of command to his men and Lily was walking quietly forward towards the mouth of the Khyber Pass. Sandwiched in single file between her two warrior horsemen she trotted and cantered and then galloped, keeping pace with them. The moon had risen and Lily was glad to have the track illuminated. She wondered how on earth poor old Rathmore was managing with a bag on his head and his feet tied beneath him. The silly old fool certainly deserved something but not this, she thought. A cold gust of wind blew down from the mountains and she shivered. Sitting on the wall of the fort which still radiated warmth from the heat of the day she had been comfortable enough in her shirt but she knew they were headed for the mountains, most of which were still snow-covered, and however energetic the ride she would soon begin to feel the cold. She took stock of her circumstances. She was wearing her divided skirt and leather boots so riding was no problem. The horse was no problem either. A delight in fact. Lily almost grinned to feel the muscles surge at her commands, the sure-footed ease with which the big dark grey horse picked its way over the scree slope they were now embarking on. She looked about her, remembering the maps she had seen. The fort was well behind them now, in the east, and to the west the sinister Khyber stretched and wound on. Out of earshot of the fort they had followed the metalled surface of the caravan route up into the pass for a mile or two but then they had crossed the track and made off to the left down a defile which had not been visible to anyone riding up from the east. A horseman stood waiting for them on the track ahead. As they drew level, he threw a wrap of some kind to Lily and moved off ahead of them without a word.