“No.”
“That was a mistake. My people say: ‘When thy enemies attack-’”
“'-bathe in their blood,'” Burton finished.
“Ha! Thy knowledge is impressive. Hast thou lived among Allah's children?”
“I am Hajji.”
“What? A pilgrim? A believer? I did not know. Now I shall honour thee doubly after I have spilled thy guts.”
Darwaas suddenly lunged forward and swung his sword at Burton's head. The king's agent deflected it with ease and slashed back at his opponent, slicing through the front of Darwaas's robe. The Baloch jumped back and exclaimed, “Thou art practised with the sword, then?”
“Aye,” said Burton, circling slowly. “And these are designed for fighting from horseback, not for face-to-face combat. Nevertheless, there are tactics that a man can employ with them when on foot. For example-” He paced forward, ducked, and, balancing on one heel, whipped around in a full circle, using his momentum to sweep his scimitar upward at a twenty-degree angle. Darwaas barely had time to react, only just managing to place his weapon between himself and Burton's blade, and when the two scimitars clanged together, his own was forced back hard against him, sending him staggering.
Burton immediately pressed his advantage, striking at his opponent's right side-a blow that was, again, turned aside with difficulty.
Darwaas teetered off balance, stumbled, and gasped, “By Allah! Thou art considerably more than I expected!”
“A man should not be precipitous in his choice of enemy,” Burton advised. “And I am puzzled that thou hath chosen me. Wert thou paid to do so?”
“Aye, 'tis the case.”
“When I told thee of the man of brass, thou didst exclaim, ‘A whole man in a whole mechanism this time!’ Perhaps, then, thou hast seen a man partially of metal? Mayhap it was his head that was half of brass, and this man was your paymaster?”
John Speke.
“I do not deny it. Enough talk. Let us fight.”
Burton transferred his scimitar to his left hand. “Keep thy body loose, Jemadar, and control thy blade with the wrist, not with the entire arm. Now, strike at me.”
“Art thou so confident?”
“Strike!”
The Jemadar gave a grimace. The duel wasn't going at all the way he'd have liked. He spat onto the sand and crouched a little, his sword arm held out. The two men moved around one another, their dark eyes locked.
With such speed that the movement was almost a blur, Darwaas launched himself at Burton and sliced sideways. His blade hit his adversary just below chest level, but Burton was braced against it, with his own weapon shielding him closely, held point downward, tight against his body from shoulder to mid-thigh. He immediately swept it out, up, and around, hooking it beneath the bandit's scimitar. He stepped in with knees bent and pushed upward. Darwaas's sword was instantly levered right out of his hand.
The gathered Baloch men cried out in amazement as their leader's weapon went spinning away, landing at the edge of the arena.
Darwaas stood stunned.
“The sword should be held against the body in defence,” Burton stated, “else, as thou saw, in being knocked backward, it can do as much damage as the attacking blade. Also, this means that, for the defender, the muscles of the shoulders, arms, and wrists are relaxed-are not employed in resisting the offensive-and are thus free to fully power the counterattack.”
Darwaas's face blackened. “Dost thou mean to humiliate me, dog?”
Burton shook his head. “I did not seek to fight thee, Jemadar. I desire only to-”
“Richard!” Swinburne shrieked.
Something impacted against the back of Burton's head. The world reeled around him and vanished.
A conflagration raged in his skull, needled his eyelids, clawed at his skin. He tried to move and found that he couldn't. Thirst consumed him.
He forced his eyes open and squinted up at the pitiless sun. Turning his head, he saw that he was on his back, with limbs spread out, his wrists and ankles bound with cord to wooden stakes driven deeply into the ground.
Dunes rose to either side.
He opened his mouth to shout for help but only a rattle emerged.
Grains of sand, riding a hot, slow breeze, blew against the side of his face.
He experienced a strange sense of deja vu.
Is this a dream?
Jemadar Darwaas entered his field of vision.
“Art thou comfortable?” he asked. “Thy head aches, I fancy? My moollah-lieutenant-struck thee with a knob stick.” The bandit chuckled. “By Allah, he knows how I hate to be bested! Thou art a fine swordsman, Abdullah! Mayhap the tales told of thy race are true, for it is said that the British are undefeated in battle. Praise be to Allah that the lands of my people have no resources that thy people covet!” Darwaas held his arms out wide as if to embrace the entire desert. He grinned wickedly. “Let us see,” he said, “how that land now judges thee, Britisher.”
He turned away and climbed to the top of a dune, looked back once, spat, then descended the other side of the mound and passed out of sight.
Burton felt his flesh cracking.
It was mid-afternoon and the heat wouldn't abate for at least another three hours. If he survived it, he'd then have to endure the severe chill of night.
He moved his tongue in his mouth. It felt like a stone.
There was a spell of nothingness.
He sucked in a burning breath and realised that he'd been unconscious.
Think. Think, and hang on to the thoughts. John Speke and Count Zeppelin obviously stopped here and warned the bandits to look out for a crashed rotorship and to kill any survivors. How far ahead are they? Already at Aden, perhaps?
Think, and keep thinking!
Awareness slipped to one side and skidded into oblivion.
Awake.
Where?
He tried to form words, to call for help, but the slightest movement of his mouth increased the pain a thousandfold. The agony flared; an unbearable brilliance.
He sank into the centre of an inferno.
Flames.
Flames in a stone bowl hanging by chains from a ceiling so high that it is lost in shadows. Columns. A monolithic temple. It is on a hill in the centre of Kantapuranam, the capital city of Kumari Kandam, the land of the reptilian Naga.
A man steps forward.
He is Brahmin Kaundinya, and he is wedded to the monarch's daughter, their union a symbolic pact to mark the end of conflict between the lizard race and humans. He has lived a year among them, and is now standing before K'k'thyima, the high priest.
Thin blue smoke from burning incense curls around the human's legs. Onlookers watch attentively. There are at least a thousand of them gathered in the temple, and many millions more in attendance mentally but not physically.
The man bows his respect to the priest.
“Not to me, soft skin,” K'k'thyima hisses. “To the Joined.” With a three-fingered clawed hand, he gestures to his right.
Kaundinya turns to a huge black diamond, which rests on a plinth of gold.
One of the three Eyes of Naga.
Kaundinya bows again.
K'k'thyima says: “Thy wife may step to thy side.”
The man turns around to look at his mate. “Come, and speak for me, that all may know my character,” he says, following the ritual.
She moves to him. Like all of her race, she is about half his height; her skin segmented into a mosaic of leathery black, yellow, and green; her limbs short and thick; her head confusing to the human, for sometimes it seems to be one of seven heads, other times one of five, and occasionally the sole one. She is wearing extravagant jewellery and a chain-mail tunic.
“Husband,” she says, “I am willing to speak.”
The high priest, who also appears to have multiple heads, orders a human prisoner to be brought forward. As the man is escorted to the plinth, Kaundinya is addressed.