Metal Emissary (10 page)

“This is the woman who cleaned and bound my leg,” Jamie whispered. “She is quite extraordinary, Hari. I am...”

“Yes, British,” Hari finished his bow with a sweeping gesture of his right hand. He straightened and addressed the woman in the language of the Pashtoo.

“What did you say, Hari?” Jamie leaned into the mystic’s side.

“I greeted her, thanked her for her attention to our needs, and...” Hari winked at Jamie.

“And
what?
”

“I asked her if she would grace us with her name.”

“Aisha,” the woman continued to build the fire, breaking the larger sticks into shorter pieces, and arranging them in a log cabin construction around the tipi.

“Aisha?” Jamie gripped Hari’s arm. “She
is
the wife of the rifleman. The one at the beginning of the pass.”

“Truly?”

“She must be,” Jamie pulled up his sleeve and untied the lace from his forearm. He held it out to Aisha. “Help me, Hari. Tell her it is from her man.”

“Are you sure, British?”

Jamie watched as Aisha reached forward and took the lace between her fingers. “I am sure.”

Aisha held the ragged strip of bloody lace to her cheek. Tears streamed down her face as she reached for Jamie’s hand and squeezed it.

“Tell her,” Jamie swallowed. “Tell her he died bravely, Hari.”

Jamie listened as Hari spoke to Aisha. She nodded and wrapped the lace around her wrist, tying it with a thin knot. Aisha bent to light the fire with a taper she lit from the oil lantern. She rose gently, smoothed her pantaloons and jacket, wiped her eyes and left the tent.

“I can’t imagine her pain, Hari,” Jamie took a deep breath. “Thank you, Hari. Thank you for helping me.”

“It is nothing, British,” Hari clapped his hand upon Jamie’s shoulder.

“I am not so good around women, Hari,” Jamie shrugged. “My sister is the only woman I can talk to without making a complete fool of myself.”

“You have a sister, British? Truly?”

“Yes,” Jamie smiled, “Her name is Luise.”

“Luise Hanover,” Hari clapped Jamie on the shoulder. “I will hear more about the lovely Luise. Come,” Hari closed his satchel and slung it around his chest. Picking up Jamie’s pack he hefted it onto his shoulder. “Get dressed. We must leave.”

Jamie hobbled over to where his knee-length wool greatcoat lay on the ground. Grimacing as he stooped to pick it up, Jamie straightened, pressing the barrel of the rifle into his chest as he pushed his arms into the coat.

Hari scanned the tent, walked over to the corner and removed a leg from the wooden tripod where it stood next to the empty soup pot. “Put your rifle away and take this, British,” he pressed the tripod leg into Jamie’s hand. “We can carve a handle later, but it will do for now.”

Jamie slid the Baker rifle into its case, slung the case over his shoulder and around his chest. Slipping his hand into the deep inside pocket, Jamie was relieved to find the telescope was still there. He turned to Hari. “I am ready.”

Hari pointed at Jamie’s tangled blonde hair. “You’ll need a hat, British. It has stopped snowing but there is a chill wind blowing down from the mountains.”

Jamie tugged a wool cap from the outside pocket on the left hand side of his coat, fingerless gloves from the pocket opposite. Following Hari from the tent, he paused to take in the activity bustling around the camels and tents of the camp. He searched for signs of Aisha, finding none he followed Hari as the mystic scouted the trail for sign of the emissary.

҉

At the highest point of the trail Bryullov halted, holding his horse still by the halter. He bent his knee and grimaced. Below him, sprawling at the foot of the mountains, the city of Adina Pur bustled with activity. Clouds of dust from the caravans entering and exiting the city gates rolled along the open ground outside the city walls. Bryullov smiled at the sight. It had been many years since he last set foot inside the city. He turned at the sound of Najma’s approach.

“What do you think?” Bryullov pointed at the tall building in the eastern part of the city. “The minaret. It was demolished by the British, about a decade ago. The Shah rebuilt it, vowing to drench the steps in British blood should they ever return. If we had one of those fancy British telescopes we could see the skulls of the British set beneath the arches,” Bryullov smiled at Najma. “A gruesome touch, but effective.”

Najma said nothing.

Bryullov turned to face the Afghan princess. “What is wrong, Najma?”

“I have learned it is best not to speak of
them
when around you,” Najma took a step backward.

“
Them?
” Bryullov frowned. “You mean the British?”

Najma nodded. She cast a glance back to her horse. Her father’s jezail hung from the saddle.

“Gods, child,” Bryullov laughed. “The British be damned. I will not harm you.”

“You were going to, back then,” Najma shifted her feet in the snow.

“It was important,” Bryullov shrugged. “I am sorry, but I needed to know.”

“And now?”

“Now,” Bryullov swept his arm in front of him, “Adina Pur.”

Najma smiled. “I have always wanted to go to...”

“Najma?” Bryullov brushed her elbow with his fingers. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Najma pushed past the Russian. Shading her eyes with the flat of her hand she peered into the distance, searching the road leading to the city gates. “Look there,” she pointed. “It is a man, I think. But I have never seen one so big.”

“Where,” Bryullov removed a small monocular from inside his jacket.

“On the road, moving behind the caravan farthest from the city.”

Bryullov’s heart skipped a beat. He held the monocular to his eye and focused what little magnification the optic had on the figure of a large man striding toward the city. “Ah, there you are. Now who do you belong to, I wonder?”

“What is it?”

Bryullov stared at the metal figure striding toward the city. “The British? No, they do not possess the ingenuity,” he cupped the monocular in his hand. “Who then if not us?”

“What is that man?”

“What?” Bryullov turned to look at Najma. The worried look in her eyes struck a chord in the Russian’s heart. “It is nothing. Just a man. That is all.”

“He is so tall. So tall I can see him from all the way up here.” Najma pressed the fingers of one hand to her mouth. “It is a djinni.”

“No, Najma,” Bryullov reached out to grasp Najma as she ran to the camel. Drawing the jezail out from under the flaps of her saddle, she scrabbled to a point higher than the path. “Najma,” Bryullov winced as he placed his foot on the uneven ground, twisting his knee. “Wait.”

“I must stop it before it reaches the city,” Najma charged the jezail with several cranks of the priming handle. It buzzed in her grasp. Feeding a copper-infused lead ball into the barrel, she rammed the ball into place with the rod.

“Najma,” Bryullov scrambled up beside her. “You cannot hit it from here,” he placed his hand on the barrel as she sighted. “No one can. We are too high, too far away.”

“But I can scare it away from the city. Warn the people down below.”

“It would do no good, Najma,” the barrel hummed in Bryullov’s grasp as Najma tried to tug it free. “I know this man, this thing.”

“Djinni? How can you know a djinni?” Najma’s bottom lip quivered as she stared at Bryullov.

“Thing, not
djinni,
Najma. I know of these
things,
” Bryullov released the rifle and sat down on the rocks beside Najma. “It is made of metal, as strong as this,” he tapped the barrel of the jezail.

“Metal?” Najma lowered the rifle. “Hah,” she pointed toward the road. “How can a metal thing walk like a man? It cannot be so.”

“It is so, Najma. It has legs and joints like you and I.”

“Does it have a brain, too? How does it find its way? Tell me that.”

“I can do more than tell you. I can show you.”

Najma watched Bryullov pick his way back down to the path. Reaching the horses, he beckoned for her to join him. Najma turned back to the road to watch the metal man as it pounded along the packed surface, getting closer and closer to the city. Discharging the power with a long press of the safety button, Najma gripped the jezail in the crook of her arm and joined Bryullov on the path.

҉

“You see it, British?” His robes flapping in the wind, Hari bounded along the rough edges of the road leading to the gates of Adina Pur.

“Damn it, Hari,” Jamie thrust his left leg before him, the rifle case swinging around his chest as he half-hobbled, half-ran along the road after the mystic.
The minute he decides to leave me I will allow myself a brief rest,
thought Jamie.
Just to prepare myself for the last stretch.

“That brimstone beast is ploughing through everyone and everything in its path,” Hari pointed. The azure blue morning sky tugged the sun higher and higher above the mountains ringing the city. Plumes of dust stormed from the feet of the metal emissary as it crashed through carts and scattered traders and their families out of its path. Hari pointed again. “Come on, British. We must stop it from reaching the gates.”

“You go, Hari,” Jamie bent forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. “I will follow you as fast as I can.”

Hari jogged up to where Jamie stood. He gripped the lieutenant’s lapels with fervent fists. Jamie straightened, his feet rising slightly forcing his weight onto his toes. “You will come quickly? No?”

“I will come as quickly as possible,” Jamie nodded. “Perhaps I can try to shoot it from the road.”

Hari shook his head. “Too far, British,” he relaxed his grip. Smoothing the palm of his left hand over Jamie’s shoulder, Hari pointed back up the mountainside. “Look there. An old lookout post. Wait there. See if you can find the beast’s controller.” Hari made a quick search of the mountain sides, his eyes scanning the rocks and scrub where a man might hide, but still be in sight of the road. “He must be around here somewhere. You wait at the lookout post, catch the controller.” Hari squeezed Jamie’s shoulder. “Don’t kill him.”

“I’ll try not to, Hari.” Jamie nodded at the path; the plumes of dust were visible in the near distance. “You must hurry.”

“Yes,” Hari started down the path. He stopped. “Be good, British.”

“And if I can’t be good,” Jamie grinned.

“Then be careful,” Hari waved. Gathering his robes, he took off along the road a trail of dust billowing in his wake.

“You be careful too, Hari,” Jamie took a deep breath. He swapped the walking stick for his rifle, pulling the weapon out of its case. “One step at a time,” Jamie cursed as he turned back toward the mountain and found the path to the lookout post a quarter of the way up the steep rocky slopes. Where the path split, Jamie took the narrower of the two running parallel to the road. He caught a glimpse of Hari’s maroon robes as the mystic gained on the emissary. Jamie stopped for a moment to watch Hari as he reached the first of the splintered wagons. The mystic’s stride lengthened and his pace quickened. Jamie felt a touch of envy.

He arrived at the remains of the lookout post, the grey, dust-covered floorboards of the post’s tiny living quarters flexed and withered beneath his feet. Jamie moved to the loophole cut into the thick mud wall that faced the path coming down the mountainside from the ridge above.

Watching the path for a moment, Jamie cupped a hand to his ear at the sound of stones tumbling down the mountainside and voices drifting up from a dip along the path. Dropping to the floor, Jamie winced as he bent his leg beneath him. Keeping low, Jamie crawled out of the living quarters and peered over the low wall surrounding the small courtyard of the lookout post. The head of a horse drifted into view followed by two more, a single rider sitting astride the horse in front.

Jamie let out a slow breath. He reached for the powder horn hanging from his belt beneath the tails of his coat.
Hari has the rest,
he remembered. Turning away from the wall, Jamie flinched at the press of cold steel upon his nose. He stared down the length of a flintlock pistol. Flicking his eyes upward, Jamie blinked at the bearded face staring back at him.

“I must admit,” Bryullov grinned through the dust hanging in his beard, “I thought you would be older.” Jamie released his grip on the Baker rifle as Bryullov tugged it out of the lieutenant’s reach. “Perhaps you can tell me how long you have been controlling that thing?” Bryullov flicked the barrel of his pistol in the direction of the emissary. “And what you intend to do with it?”

Chapter 7

The Cabool River

Afghanistan

December, 1850

Where the road was congested, blocking its path, the emissary tore a space through which to pass. The caravaneers and traders, their families and friends, leaped to the sides of the dusty road as the emissary ripped the canvas and splintered the wood of wagons, broke the bones and stomped upon the skins of the livestock. The children crawled into their parents’ arms or fled beyond recall, mothers, fathers, aunts and uncles racing after them. Hari stood in the wake of the emissary. Chest heaving, he caught his breath as the metal monster cut a bloody path before him.