The Damascened Blade

He sat transfixed.

‘Lord Rathmore! Dermot!’

‘You little traitor! You little baggage! You’ve betrayed me to these, these bloody murdering wogs! This is all your doing! What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

Lily had enjoyed such high expectations of her visit to the frontier. It had seemed to her an area populated by free and dangerous men perhaps, dangerous situations certainly. It was here she would experience – and she tried to avoid the cliché – life in the raw. A long way from the conventions of American society, a long way from the restrictions of Simla, a long way from the straitjacket of the British Raj, its acceptances and expectations. It all seemed – as James himself might have expressed it – ‘jolly good fun’. But there was no doubt about it, her enjoyment had faded in the face of the menacing reality of life on the frontier and after di

In the centre of her vision was the rear postern gate with its watchful sentries. That old nuisance Rathmore! She identified him as the reason she could not sleep. What had he tried to tell her after di

As she watched, the emphasis seemed to change. A dim figure had emerged and walked into the fragile lamplight that illuminated the gate. Straining her eyes, Lily was able to identify the heavy shoulders and the heavy walk of Rathmore. (‘Call me Dermot,’ he had said with heavy invitation.) ‘Well, hi there, Dermot!’ said Lily to herself. ‘And what are you up to?’ And with that thought the peaceful scene dissolved.

Two men, Afghanis, Lily thought, sprang from the shadows and without hesitation pounced on the strolling Rathmore, threw a cloth over his head, twisted his hands behind him and propelled him out through the gate. The sentries, the moonlight reflecting from their bayonets, held the gate open and then slipped through it themselves.

‘Holy shit!’ said Lily who did not often swear and for a paralysed moment she thought, ‘What do I do now?’ She opened her mouth to scream and alert the wall sentries and then, remembering the behaviour of the two below, closed it again. For a further moment she hesitated. Nobody seemed to have noticed what was happening! Quite obviously the sentries were in on this, whatever it was!

‘Joe! I must get Joe!’

She ran down the steps intending to make her way silently back to the guest wing but on reaching the ground was struck by a thought inspiring in its simplicity and immediacy. The alarm bell! Hadn’t James shown them all a rope dangling somewhere around here? A rope attached to an old bell up there in the turret – a bell that would wake the whole fort and in much less time than it would take to get hold of Joe. She hunted about and encountered a hairy rope snaking its way down from on high. What had James said? ‘Summon all hands on deck.’

But as she reached for the bellrope a slim, wiry and irresistible hand closed over her mouth and the voice of Iskander came in her ear: ‘A good idea but, forgive me, Miss Coblenz, I’m pla

With an arm round her shoulders and under her arm, with a swift concentration of muscle he swung her out through the postern and on to a horse standing by. Lily tried to open her mouth to scream but the hand tightened about it. She changed her mind and sank her teeth into flesh, provoking, to her satisfaction, a muted cry.

‘Good, Miss Coblenz – but not good enough!’ said the voice. ‘Now listen! Since you have chosen inconveniently to involve yourself in my affairs you must stay involved for a while longer. You will accompany us into the hills. You may do this in one of two ways. You may ride freely, untied, ungagged and silently, co-operating fully with us. No harm will come to you – I do not take women hostage. I place no such value on Rathmore who is decidedly a hostage. His welfare depends on your decision to agree to the first way. If you choose the second way and make a fuss Rathmore will suffer.’ His voice, which had been calm and reasonable, took on a cold edge. ‘And I will arrange for you to witness his suffering. Perhaps even his death – the man does not impress me with his physical fortitude. I would imagine that the mere sight of a ski

Lily’s eyes grew huge as she peered helplessly over Iskander’s large, muffling hand.

‘Nod your head if you accept the first way,’ he muttered.

Lily nodded.

‘Good. I will have two men escort you and you will ride last in the file.’

He released her and handed her the reins. A moment’s adjustment to the stirrups and a hissed word of command to his men and Lily was walking quietly forward towards the mouth of the Khyber Pass. Sandwiched in single file between her two warrior horsemen she trotted and cantered and then galloped, keeping pace with them. The moon had risen and Lily was glad to have the track illuminated. She wondered how on earth poor old Rathmore was managing with a bag on his head and his feet tied beneath him. The silly old fool certainly deserved something but not this, she thought. A cold gust of wind blew down from the mountains and she shivered. Sitting on the wall of the fort which still radiated warmth from the heat of the day she had been comfortable enough in her shirt but she knew they were headed for the mountains, most of which were still snow-covered, and however energetic the ride she would soon begin to feel the cold. She took stock of her circumstances. She was wearing her divided skirt and leather boots so riding was no problem. The horse was no problem either. A delight in fact. Lily almost gri

A waistcoat. Judging by its retained warmth, a recently worn waistcoat. Wrinkling her nose at the smell of the hairy afghan poshteen, Lily gratefully slipped it on, holding the reins in her teeth as she manoeuvred.

Enveloped in the warmth of the garment and comforted by the thoughtfulness of the man who had handed it to her and whom she assumed to be Iskander, Lily began to relax and almost to enjoy her experience. But she wasn’t going to be just an unwanted part of the baggage train – no sir! She looked up at the night sky and tried to find the Pole Star. She wished she had listened more carefully to her father when he had explained about navigating by the stars. Having no son, Carl Coblenz had taken his daughter with him and his hands when he patrolled the wide acres of his ranch and it was with senses trained and quickened in the wilderness of Dakota that Lily set about keeping a mental map of her journey into the foothills of the Hindu Kush.