Part 48 (1/2)

The dark figure in the lead seized Hawksworth's right arm from behind and began to grapple for his sword. As he struggled to draw it away, the b.u.t.t end of a pike came down hard on his forearm. A shot of pain pierced through to his mind, clearing away the last haze of the brandy.

”You b.a.s.t.a.r.d.” Hawksworth realized he was shouting in English. ”Get ready to die.”

He twisted forward and with his free hand stretched for the pistol in his boot. Slowly his grip closed about the cool horn of the handle, and with a single motion he drew it upward, still grasping the sword.

As he raised himself erect he caught the outline of a dark object swinging above him in the air. Then the lightning flashed again, glinting off the three large silver k.n.o.bs. They were being swung by the man who held his sword arm.

My G.o.d, it's a _gurz_, the three-headed club some of the Rajputs carry on their saddle. It's a killer.

He heard it arc above him, singing through the dark. Unlike the Rajputs, he had no leather helmet, no padded armor. There was no time to avoid the blow, but he had the pistol now, and he shoved it into the man's gut and squeezed.

There was a sudden blinding flash of light. It started at his hand, but then it seemed to explode inside his skull. The world had grown white, like the marble walls of Mukarrab Khan's music room, and for a moment he thought he heard again the echo of drumbeats. The cycle swelled sensuously, then suddenly reached its culmination, when all pent-up emotion dissolved. In the silence that followed, there was only the face of Mukarrab Khan, surrounded by his eunuchs, his smile slowly fading into black.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The light of a single flame tip burned through the haze of his vision, and then he heard words around him, in a terse language as ancient as time. He tried to move, and an aching soreness shot through his shoulders and into his groin. His head seemed afire.

I must be dead. Why is there still pain?

He forced his swollen eyelids wider, and a room slowly began to take form. It was a cell, with heavy bamboo slats over the windows and an ancient wooden latch on the door. The floor was earth and the walls gray mud with occasional inscriptions in red. Next to him was a silhouette, the outline of a man squatting before an oil lamp and slowly repeating a sharp, toneless verse. He puzzled at the words as he studied the figure.

It's the language of the priest at the wedding. It must be Sanskrit.

But who . . . ?

He pulled himself upward on an elbow and turned toward the figure, which seemed to flicker in the undulating shadows. Then he recognized the profile of Vasant Rao. The verses stopped abruptly and the Rajput turned to examine him.

”So you're not dead? That could be a mistake you'll regret.” Vasant Rao's face sagged and his once-haughty moustache was an unkempt tangle.

He stared at Hawksworth a moment more, then turned back to the lamp.

The Sanskrit verses resumed.

”Where the h.e.l.l are we?”

Vasant Rao paused, and then slowly revolved toward Hawksworth.

”In the fortress village of Bhandu, ten _kos_ northwest of the

town of Chopda. It's the mountain stronghold of the Chandella dynasty of Rajputs.”

”And who the h.e.l.l are they?”

”They claim direct descent from the ancient solar race of Rajputs described in the Puranas. Who knows, but that's what they believe. What we all do know is they've defended these hills for all of time.”

”Did they take the caravan?”

A bolt of humiliation and pain swept through Vasant Rao's eyes for a moment and then his reserve returned. ”Yes, it was taken.”

”So your mighty 'solar race' is really a breed of G.o.d- cursed common bandits.”