The caravan, stretched out over the better part of two kos, had yet to react to their sudden appearance. That would not last. But every moment that passed without a reaction from the caravan counted in their favor, allowing Salim’s force to get that much closer. He bent over the braided mane of his horse and urged the sturdy gelding to greater speed.
It appeared the commander of the escort knew his business, when, scarcely a few breaths after the attackers hove into view, he began shouting at his remaining riders to join him in an effort to delay the riders descending upon them. Of course, commanding a response and getting it were two different things. Most of the caravan guards, shocked into panic by the sudden appearance of riders hell-bent on mayhem, failed to answer the command of their leader.
Those who did were too little, too late. The horse archers among Salim’s sowar loosed. Arrows fell amongst those men who kept their wits and were organizing to meet Salim’s charge. Horses screamed and blood flowed, the wounded men and mounts adding to the confusion among the foe.
Salim found himself shouting wordless excitement over the pounding of horses’ hooves. Not long now. He raised his sword just as another flight of arrows sank home. More screaming. More blood. One horseman, felled by an arrow, panicked his horse, which fled at a gallop. Other horses, seeing the example set, thought better of standing around waiting to get bit by the deadly rain falling from the sky. Ignoring the shouts, spurs, and whips of their riders, many of the remaining horses bolted.
Howling, Salim and his men rode among those who managed to retain mastery over their mounts, carving them from saddles and this life.
Dragging his sword across the face of one man, Salim shifted his seat and leaned over in the saddle to avoid the desperate stab of a spear from some enterprising footman. Looking about, he realized his headlong charge had carried him past the last bit of organized defense and among the caravan proper.
A touch of the reins and his horse wheeled right. Seeing no threats, Salim stood in the stirrups to check the progress of the rest of the skirmish.
Sunil’s men had emerged from the canyon on the far side of the valley and were hastening to cut off any retreat for those fleeing the caravan’s fate.
Mohammed and the horse archers were riding parallel to the caravan, loosing arrows at anyone still bearing arms. Dead guards spotted the ground in their wake, each sprouting arrow shafts like obscene flowers.
Salim again flicked the reins, turning back to face where he’d penetrated the defender’s lines. The other men who had followed them into the melee had routed the remaining opposition and were starting to celebrate with shouts and ululating war cries.
“Take it!” Salim shouted, waving his blood-edged sword at the carts, wagons, and pack animals of the caravan. “Take it all!”
The bellowing of livestock and frightened cries of their drovers did nothing to stop the looting, though Salim did manage to restrain most of his men from needless killing.
Three things helped maintain discipline in this regard: firstly, it helped that none of his men felt any particular anger towards these people, who had been, after all, easily overcome. Secondly, who would carry all their loot if the drovers were put to the sword? Thirdly, Salim and their horses could hardly eat all of the food and fodder captured in the raid and no man Salim chose to ride with would wantonly destroy food and fodder when so many of them had grown up knowing the belly-gnawing pain of hunger and the ever-present specter of famine.
He was meeting with his subordinates to count the losses and gains when one of the scouts he had set to watching their back trail rode in on a foam-flecked horse.
The rider, a painfully slim youth in a sweat-soaked robe, brought his blown horse to a staggering halt directly in front of Salim.
“Amir, a war band!” the youngster gasped. “They came out of the hills. We killed a few of their fastest riders but there are at least several hundred, perhaps more. I could not stay to watch.”
“How long until their main force arrives?” Salim asked, thinking to order his men into their earlier ambush positions.
“An hour before dusk, I think,” the scout answered, sliding from his horse and pouring water into his hand.
Not enough time to clean up the signs of their attack and reset the ambush, then.
Unaware of his commander’s thoughts, the boy continued speaking: “My brother and uncle should give us warning. They sent me on ahead, as I am the lightest.”
Salim and Iqtadar shared a look. There would be no more warnings. The scout’s kinsmen had sacrificed themselves to ensure word reached the main force.
“Any idea who they are?” Salim asked, not ready to reveal to the young man his suspicions.
“I think my uncle…” The boy swallowed tears, some inkling of what his kin had sacrificed for him dawning in his brown eyes. “I think Uncle said something…some curse about Bhonsle dogs.”
The big Gujarati, Sunil, spat. “Maratha are bad enough, but the Bhonsle clan are a plague on trade in these hills.”
“But which emperor do they fight for?” Salim asked.
The Gujarati laughed. “Last I heard, Shahaji was taking Aurangzeb’s coin, but the Maratha are ever faithless and fickle. Indeed, I imagine some of the coin you spent on informers made certain that word of our presence found its way to their ears.”
Thinking the Gujarati’s assessment of the character of the Maratha was quite similar to most of settled India’s opinion of Afghans, Salim considered the lay of the land between himself and the Maratha force. On any other ground he would be confident of victory between his sowar and any smaller force, but here, on ground they knew intimately and he did not, he could not be sure of the exact size of the force he would face in
