The sounds were getting louder. Though it was hard to judge in the echoing gorge, he guessed that the first Afghan would come around the bend very soon. He was ready, his rifle loaded, more cartridges close to hand, a wet rag on which to rest the barrel of his gun to reduce overheating. Thank God he had a breechloader, which could be fired much more quickly than the primitive muzzleloaders carried by most Afghans.
Though this was not the first time he had fought for survival among desolate mountains, before he had always had friends by his side. Camaraderie was the great compensation of military life, for facing death together forged a bond like no other. But this time he would fight, and likely die, alone.
So be it.
The first man rounded the bend. Ian unhurriedly raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger. The ball sped off, deadly and true, with a flat report that shattered the air. The Afghan screamed and staggered sideways until he pitched into the gorge. As he fell, his voice resonated horribly from the stone walls until it ended with sickening suddenness.
As Ian swiftly reloaded, another man bounded around the corner, body crouched and jezzail ready as he scanned the mountain. Ian fired again. Another shot, another casualty. This one, luckily, fell on the path rather than off the cliff.
He shot half a dozen men before they stopped coming. Six bullets, six casualties. It was superb marksmanship, but Ian took little pleasure in it. Efficiency in killing his fellow man was grim necessity rather than a source of pride.
There was a long pause. His gaze on the track opposite, Ian sipped some water, for slaughter was dry work. Eventually a voice called out in Pashto, "Who is there? We are not your enemies. If you want tribute for allowing us passage, we will pay it. Then you can join us in our jihad against the British for we can use a warrior like you."
Ian shouted back, "But we are enemies. I serve the Sirkar, and I tell you now, you shall not pass."
Silence. Then a group of men rushed around the corner and scattered, looking for cover from which to return fire.
But there was no cover. Methodically he picked them off, one by one. Three managed wild shots before they fell, but they didn't have time to spot his position, and the bullets didn't even come close.
It wasn't war, it was more like the slaughter of tame game birds that English gentlemen called hunting. But it was effective. Very, very effective.
There was another pause. Then a voice shouted, "In the name of Allah, will you allow us to collect our wounded?"
"In His name, I grant you permission," he called back.
The first man came around the curve cautiously, his empty hands in the air. When it became clear that their unseen assailant was honoring the truce, more appeared. Hastily they collected the fallen, then disappeared back around the bend.
A buzz of voices followed. The Afghans were conferring, trying to decide what to do next. Ian felt sorry for the poor bastards. So much courage and fighting skill, yet they were brought to a halt because they could only come at him one at a time. But even though all the advantages were on his side, he didn't hear sounds of retreat.
He settled down to wait for the next assault.
* * *
Laura was lost. If she weren't so tired and saddle-weary, she might have believed she was wandering in the landscape of a nightmare, cold and stark and endless.
But this was real, as was Gulzar Khan, slumped over the pommel of Ian's horse. The night before, when they had made camp, he had had enough strength to dismount on his own, and he had eaten the humble supper she made with enthusiasm. But when morning dawned, he was feverish and barely able to get into the saddle again.
Unfortunately, while he could stay on his horse, he was too delirious to give her directions. She had tried to retrace their path back to the village of Nushki, where they had found the guide, but everything looked different when going in the opposite direction. Now they were well and truly lost. At the moment she was following what seemed to be a goat track, hoping it might lead to a settlement.
Abruptly the situation changed. Three Pathans materialized from behind the rocks and surrounded her, eyes narrowed and jezzails pointed at her heart. One of them barked at her in Pashto. Very carefully Laura stopped her horse and raised her arms, asking, "Do any of you speak Urdu or Persian?"
No response. As the men drew closer, she tried several different dialects without striking any chords. But there was at least one word that they should recognize. She said "Anglezi. "
That intrigued them, though they were obviously puzzled since she didn't look much like an Englishman. Slowly she raised her hand to her turban, repeating, "Anglezi." She yanked the turban off and her hair spilled over her shoulders.
The Pathans stared. Whatever their feelings about the English, she didn't think they would shoot a woman out of hand. She pointed at Gulzar Khan, who was slouched over the neck of his horse, oblivious to what was happening. "Afridi."