When they reached the well, and its thin cover of scrawny trees, he made the horse turn, so that it screened the next move. Olajai slid from the saddle. He took his lariat and secured it to a root which reached from the wall of the well.
“It’s dry. The water is in the other hole. Get down and stay down. You’re near enough now to get to the river afoot.”
Then he mounted up, drew his sword, and rode at them, shouting his challenge. He had no more arrows. The riders had fanned out to envelop the oasis, so as to block the escape of any other travelers who might be there. Every sign pointed to being cut down and robbed of his arms, his horse gear, the jewels of his belt and scabbard; so he shouted, “Timur, the Man of Kesh, Timur, the son of Tragai!”
A man cried an answer. The archers lowered their bows. That one man rode forward and dismounted.
“Timur Bek! Welcome, and the blessing of Allah, and the Peace of Allah upon you! We heard that you had gone this way, and we came to meet you.”
So Olajai came from the pit. Timur gave her bracelets to Hadji Mehemmed, the Turkoman raider with whom he had ridden once, some years previous. And Hadji Mehemmed gave them horses, and an escort of ten men. Olajai said, that night, “This proves it—the horse tails are still with you.”
CHAPTER V
“SPREAD THE GOOD WORD”
At Bokar-Zendin, Timur left Olajai with friends, for being north of the Jihun again, he risked recognition, ambush, betrayal, which he would not have Olajai share. “More than that,” he said, “if you went, I’d be recognized just that much sooner.”
“Women’s chatter? Well, men haven’t done too well by you!”
Timur chuckled amiably at that painfully just quip. “Shireen, wherever we were guests, and we couldn’t always refuse hospitality without making ourselves even more conspicuous, there’d be women looking at you. They’d guess, and much sooner than any men would, looking at us.”
“Mmmm … yes, of course.”
Now that the blame had been passed to superior feminine perception, Olajai felt better about it all. So the Lord of Kesh sneaked thief-like across the lands of his ancestors, not even daring to enter his own estate, for this choice territory was packed with Kipchaks.
A lone archer limped through the market place. Timur, being afoot, had the best possible disguise, yet the risk was deadly enough, since men of Bikijek’s clique came in from Samarkand every day.
One by one, he cornered retainers who had ridden with his late father, Emir Tragai. These had to look twice before they could believe that this haggard footman was Timur Bek. Each one said. “Lord Timur, we thought that you had quit us. We were glad when we heard that you’d left Samarkand with a troop on your heels. Then we knew that you were with us in heart, and in the end, you would come back and wipe them out.”
“What with?”
“We join whatever army you raise.”
Close-mouthed, weather-beaten men listened to him and then spread the word. When he left Kesh, Temouka Kutchin rode after him with twenty horsemen ready for the field.
They took the trail for Badakshan. The story of his desperate fight against Tekil of Kivac had spread, and one chieftain after another joined him. There was Bahram Jalair, and a distant cousin, Saddik Barlas; Kazanchi Hassan with a hundred horse came seeking him. Mir Sayfuddin, whom he had not seen since the disaster in the desert, had meanwhile raised seventy picked men. Another kinsman, Koja Barlas, had a like party. Then came Shir Bahrain, and Ulum Kuli with two hundred horse, Mamut Keli with as many footmen.
Timur’s disaster and his barefooted march across the desert recruited more men more easily than any success had ever done.
Even the Kipchak Horde helped him: for with Bikijek’s nobles now leading raiding parties over all the Jagatai territory, captain after captain fled to join Timur.
When he met Mir Hussein and they reviewed their combined forces, Timur said, “Now that the enemy has taught them that too much freedom is no freedom at all, they’ve stopped being kings.”
Spies came, saying that the Kipchak raids were becoming more severe. Worse yet, Togluc Khan had sent some 20,000 of the Golden Horde to the north, to reinforce his son, Elias Koja.
“We’re not ready. What we have is good, by Allah, but not enough. Time is against us,” Hussein said.
“Time is the toy of Allah,” Timur retorted. “He does with it what pleases Him.”
“It pleased Him to have most of us wiped out facing odds of ten to one,” Hussein pointed out, realistically.
And these men would follow Timur only as long as they willed, and no longer. Even Genghis Khan, more nearly an absolute lord than any man who had ever ruled men, had ruled only by the will of his captains: Asiatic democracy, masquerading as a despotism.
So Timur’s frown deepened, and even more when he heard that Kesh was heavily garrisoned. Worst of all, spies said that Olajai, finally leaving Bokar-Zendan to him and her brother, had been recognized and trapped; she was a captive in Kesh, a hostage for his good behavior.
Timur asked the messenger, “Who else has heard this?”
“No one, tura, save yourself and Mir Hussein.”
“I’ll take your head,” Timur solemnly swore, “I’ll skin you and stuff your hide with straw if a word of it leaks out in camp. Is that clear?”
“Aywah, tura.”
He gave the man a handful of golden dinars, and dismissed him.
Then, to Hussein: “I’ve got to get her out of there.”
“I take refuge with Allah! My own sister, but you can risk a good little army against a walled city, just for a woman? Timur, that’s not sense. Your men’ll think you’re crazy, wasting them on a woman.”
Timur smiled. “That’s something I’m not telling them.”
“Allah! But what?”
“Listen.”
The drums sounded assembly, and the trumpets brayed. Timur spoke from the saddle: “O Men! Friends of my father and my uncle, a saint came to me in a dream last night. Allah has promised us our city. Even though we had green boughs instead of lances, our faith would make us win.
“The Presence of Genghis Khan came into the desert, and our enemies ran.
“And if we take Kesh, every captain from Badakshan to Kandahar will join us to share in our next glory. When they join, who will stop us?”
He sold them as they stood there. And not even on the march, the hard forced march on Kesh, did a man of them wonder what Timur would do for siege engines.
“They’re drunk,” Hussein said. “Drunk and not from wine. How did you do it?”
“I don’t know. It came to me.”
“Well, if we do capture Kesh,” Hussein countered, “they’ll besiege us, and have you ever seen a Mongol or Turk who was any good, locked up behind walls?”
Timur laughed triumphantly. “Hai! Out of your own mouth, brother! The very truth that’s going to make Kesh open up in no time. Go and spread the word! Keep them with a dream in their eyes!”
They rode so fast that there was no news of their coming.
Bivouac: and at dawn, far off, rose the gray walls of Kesh, high above the orchards.
“Now get busy,” Timur said to his captains. “Cut off green boughs. Divide into four columns.” He saw their faces change at this insane suggestion, but he gave them no chance to object. “Let each column mark the time, and do it in this wise—”
They listened, they grinned, their slanted