The Moghul

had become an eerie procession of waving lights and shadows against the dark water. The last carts were in the river now, and Vasant Rao was riding rapidly toward him, carrying a torch.
    Looks like I was wrong again, Hawksworth thought, and he turned to rein his horse as it stumbled against a submerged rock.
    The torches along the shore were gone.
    He stared in disbelief for a moment, and then he saw them sputtering in the water's edge. Lightning flashed in the east, revealing the silhouettes of the Rajputs' mounts, stumbling along the shore, their saddles empty. He whirled to check the caravan behind him, and at that moment an arrow ricocheted off the pole of the cart and ripped cleanly through the side of his jerkin. He suddenly realized the torch lashed to the side of the cart illuminated him brilliantly, and he drew his sword and swung at its base, slicing it in half. As it fell, sputtering, he saw a second arrow catch Nayka squarely in the throat and he watched the driver spin and slump wordlessly into the water.
    Godforsaken luckless Hindu. Now you can be reborn a Brahmin. Only sooner than you thought.
    A shout of alarm erupted from behind, and he looked to see the remaining Rajputs charging in formation, bows already drawn. The water churned around him as they dashed by, advancing on the shore. The Rajputs' horn bows hissed in rapid succession as they sent volleys of bamboo arrows into the darkness. But the returning rain of arrows was dense and deadly. He saw the Rajput nearest him suddenly pivot backward in the saddle, an arrow lodged in his groin, below his leather chest guard. Hawksworth watched incredulously as the man clung to his saddle horn for a long last moment, pulling himself erect and releasing a final arrow before tumbling into the water.
    Again lightning flared across the sky, and in the sudden illumination Hawksworth could see shapes along the shore, an army of mounted horsemen, well over a hundred. They were drawn in tight formation, calmly firing into the approaching Rajputs. The lightning flashed once more, a broad sheet of fire across the sky, and at that moment Hawksworth saw Vasant Rao gain the shore, where he was instantly surrounded by a menacing wall of shields and pikes.
    Then more of the Rajputs gained the shore, and he could hear their chant of "Ram Ram," their famous battle cry. The horsemen were moving on the caravan now, and when the lightning blazed again Hawksworth realized he had been surrounded.
    The dark figure in the lead seized Hawksworth's right arm from behind and began to grapple for his sword. As he struggled to draw it away, the butt end of a pike came down hard on his forearm. A shot of pain pierced through to his mind, clearing away the last haze of the brandy.
    "You bastard." Hawksworth realized he was shouting in English. "Get ready to die."
    He twisted forward and with his free hand stretched for the pistol in his boot. Slowly his grip closed about the cool horn of the handle, and with a single motion he drew it upward, still grasping the sword.
    As he raised himself erect he caught the outline of a dark object swinging above him in the air. Then the lightning flashed again, glinting off the three large silver knobs. They were being swung by the man who held his sword arm.
    My God, it's a gurz , the three-headed club some of the Rajputs carry on their saddle. It's a killer.
    He heard it arc above him, singing through the dark. Unlike the Rajputs, he had no leather helmet, no padded armor. There was no time to avoid the blow, but he had the pistol now, and he shoved it into the man's gut and squeezed.
    There was a sudden blinding flash of light. It started at his hand, but then it seemed to explode inside his skull. The world had grown white, like the marble walls of Mukarrab Khan's music room, and for a moment he thought he heard again the echo of drumbeats. The cycle swelled sensuously, then suddenly reached its culmination, when all pent-up emotion dissolved. In the silence that followed, there was only the face of Mukarrab Khan, surrounded by his eunuchs, his smile slowly fading into black.

    CHAPTER FOURTEEN

    The light of a single flame tip burned through the haze of his vision, and then he heard words around him, in a terse language as ancient as time. He tried to move, and an aching soreness shot through his shoulders and into his groin. His head seemed afire.
    I must be dead. Why is there still pain?
    He forced his swollen eyelids wider, and a room slowly