StarDestroyer.Net BBS

It's time for a new adventure with Allan Whitcomb, this adventure follows the earlier one namely Allan Whitcomb's Adventures in Azhistan. If you liked the first one you are bound to like this one too, the action will be starting up from Chapter III onwards with Chapters I & II being used to set the scene for the adventure.

Chapter I Wherein the Communist She Pilot is interrogated in Bleak Castle, and a Shocking Revelation is made.

Chapter II Wherein a Cunning Plan is made by the Bureau of State Security, and Lieutenant Whitcomb invites the Westley's to a Picnic where a Marriage is Proposed.

Chapter III The PRS Explorer makes a covert landing on Azhistan, the acquaintance with Dost Khan is renewed, Whitcomb makes a mysterious night ride to Ghazni, and the men set forth for war.

Chapter IV The Pendletonians and their Native Allies are split into three units, each of which set forth for their particular destination; here follows the journey to the Communist Skyship and the battle that occurs in the valley where it is hidden.

Chapter V The Commandoes and Dost Khan reach the mines where a group of Mage Hunter scouts have been hiding for days to study the place; a valiant attack with Great Losses is undertaken, but the Communists spring a nasty surprise!

Chapter VI Allan Whitcomb smuggles himself and his party into Suleymaniyah; within the city they begin to plot for the overthrow of the Insidious Communists; the Sufi Sheykh is initiated into the plan & a Call for Jihad is made!; Suleymaniyah burning!

Chapter VII The End of the Communists in the City; Exploring the Geode Mines; Whitcomb in the Communist Ship; The Prisoners are inspected; the Pendletonians oepn up a world gate.

Chapter VIII The Natives are Restless!; Councils of War are made; the army of Dost Khan is mobilized and moves forth; It will be the Battle of Ayvaz!

Chapter IX The Battle of Ayvaz! A Great Charge beaten back with the Wondrous Maxim Gun; Magnificent Magics and a Great Communist Skyship!; Heroic stands and much derring do!

Chapter X The Battle of Konduz!; A Treacherous Attack is Perpetrated by the Evil Communists!; See the Tartaran Mechanical Men fight against the Pendletonian Commandoes!; A Daring and Dangerous journey through the Azhistani Deserts, and the Wind of the 120 Days!.

Chapter XI Chrisman is questions about the events at a Council of War; In the aftermath of the battle people make stock of events; a pair of Witches are captured!; Whitcomb has an encounter with a rabble rousing Mullah; A Second Council of War, and further tactics are decided; Dost Khans armies set forth again!

With this the current adventures of Allan Whitcomb are over, but further adventures may follow in a third story!

Pendleton City
Pendleton
Erde
May 1005 NE

Headquarters of the Bureau of State Security

The Headquarters of the Bureau of State Security had many names; some called it Bleak Castle or just the Castle, others more ominously called it Morse Place, though in the tradition of Pendletonian wit the bandits, thieves and other sundry undesirables had another name for it: The Happy Place. Its history was interesting, once upon a time it had been a fort in the outskirts of the city, designed to stop raiders from swooping down from overland, but over the years the city had expanded till it began to surround it.

The two names of the place were also a historical relic it had indeed once been named "Bleak Castle"; whether this was due to the name of he who founded it, or a reflection on the surroundings where it had once been, that is the moss grown hills and bogs that had once marked that section of Pendleton; that no one knew for certain.

The other name however was known for certain Morse Place was once a jail where prisoners of sundry sorts, including those condemned to death, were kept. In front of the prison however was a placed of execution where hangings, decapitations, and even the odd death without mercy were carried out; and of course rampant pick pocketing from the crowds as they gathered round to see the deterring execution of a pick pocket.

Initially these were two separate places, though sharing the same foothill, but over the years both of them grew till their tall walls nearly touched; then during the government of a reformist it was said that these old prisons were too cumbersome and too easy to escape from, thus new prison buildings were erected while Morse Place was abandoned. Some wanted to tear it down and replace it with housing or office buildings, but the grounds of Morse Place had such a horrible reputation that workmen who came to repair it often demanded twice or thrice their ordinary wage, and even so it was hard to retain them.

The Castle too had little purpose it was old and first built before the Kings of Pendleton, there was an unpleasant draft and a unhealthy dampness that brought coughs to the soldiers and rust to the cannon. True it had been expanded many times over the centuries, but many of the old foundations were still found in the centre of the fort; in short many reasonable men wondered what conceivable purpose this place could serve.

Now then the Bureau of State Security needed a new Headquarters, being bolder than most or perhaps having a pact with the ghosts and goblins, they did not mind the frightful reputation of the place they were offered; indeed many of their agents seemed to positively, and almost obscenely, revel in the terrible reputation that their new headquarters had.

The tall stone walls were expanded to surround both the compounds when it was done the outer walls were a terrible sight, tall and built from polished stone fitted so nicely that you could not push a paper in the space between them, and they were topped by broken glass and cruel rotating spiked bars running the length of the walls, indeed those who had claimed such old prisons could not be rendered escape proof were now sorely disappointed.

The prison was also altered somewhat making it escape proof for it was still to be used as a dungeon, but in truth these changes were more internal than external; secure new doors were erected, interrogation rooms installed, and a cunning system of mirrors were installed so that the guards could always see whatever the prisoners were doing. This of course came at the cost of capacity, for only a fraction of the prisoners that could be held by the old prison could fit into the new dungeon, but this was of course acceptable since only the most dangerous anarchists and traitors would be imprisoned here.

The castle was also expanded somewhat, and modernised too; a central heating system was installed using a system of cunningly devised brass pipes, indeed a similar system of cunningly devised brass pipes was used to create the pneumatic communications system that crisscrossed the Castle, and later telephone wires, copper wires clad in lead and surrounded by thick levels of coloured cotton, would be stretched along the barren walls of the Castle. In truth though few major changes were needed here for it had already been an administrative centre, thus most of the expansions consisted of converting space previously reserved for guns and ammunition into barracks, offices, and warehouses.

Those were the changes that were known to all, but still there were queer and disturbing rumours about the place; supposedly there was an enormous warren of tunnels beneath Bleak Castle, tunnels either created by the Bureau or else, some whispered, ancient tunnels that they had found when they began to dig; tunnels older than Pendleton itself, and certain deep rooms which they had long since given up for any practical use for it was said that somehow giant rats always made their way into those rooms and assailed whomever or whatever could be found there.

Men of reason scoffed at such tales and dismissed them as the foolish fancies of the lower classes, many of whom had, after a particularly wicked crime, found themselves for a while in the deep dungeons of Morse Place and no doubt received a right proper scare. Yet even among the educated men, ostensibly scoffing at these stories, there were some that crossed themselves piously and protested rather too strenuously when they denied all these rumours; but of course who could tell what was truth or fiction for no one who did not belong to the Bureau would ever enter these tunnels if they indeed existed.

Truth be told a handful of tunnels were more or less commonly accepted to exist, and in one of these tunnels a group of burly prison guards were escorting a struggling prisoner. The tunnel was much as you'd expect brownish stone roughly cut lined the walls, the ceiling was a rounded arch and from the ceiling tiny drops of dirty water would drip down one by one creating small puddles on the floor. Only the flickering incandescent lights lining the ceiling of the tunnel, each housed inside an old fashioned brass lamp, showed that any work had been done here the last century.

The prisoner was someone that an agent had brought in from far away Azhistan, her name was Svetlana Ivanovna Petrova a former pilot of the Krasnayan military, but for the moment she was known as Prisoner 364. Blonde and fair, still quite beautiful despite her stay in the dungeons, she was still quite healthy though and bore no signs of ill treatment as indeed she had suffered none. Her garb did not flatter her consisting as it did of a simple grey ankle length skirt with a blouse in the same drab stiff material, and both covered with the broad arrow marks of the jailhouse. Under her breath she was cursing them in her own guttural language, if anyone had known it the words were "bastards, bastards".

The guards paid her no heed, they had seen similar behaviour oh so many times before, stern square jawed men with short cropped hair and forage caps on their heads; their uniform a dark navy colour, made from thick woollen materials that did wonders to keep the warmth in the dungeons, and adorned with a single row of bright white metal buttons as well as one button on each of their four front pockets. Their leader, a pugnacious fellow with his nose slightly askew, a sergeant by the three chevrons on his sleeve, would occasionally nudge her slightly with his billy club if she was moving too slowly or when he wanted her to move down a certain corridor.

Finally they reached the end of their route, a large iron door with enormous bolts holding it together, it looked like a door created to keep some huge beast at bay; though a sailor might muse that it seemed to be based on waterproof doors on ships. At any rate the sergeant approached it and pushed his hand firmly against a brightly polished brass button on the side of the door, from this button and the box it was mounted on a wire extended upwards before disappearing into the roof. Moments later there were several loud clanging sounds, like large metal parts slamming into each other, and the door began to slide open slowly but quietly.

"... he's late," one voice chimed in as the door opened, it was that of an apparently upper class man, and other voiced could be heard in the background.

Now then as the door opened fully they could look into a very strange place, it was a comfortably furnished room much like a drawing room in style for it had a certain masculine touch to it, it seemed so odd that such a room should be accessible by such peculiar means or indeed that it would be down here; what marked the room however was a large and rather peculiar table or heavily reclined chair placed in the centre like some object d'art, it was massively upholstered with greyish leather, but it was also equipped with a multitude of padded restraints so apparently whomever was lain down on top of it was expected to want to get out in rather a hurry.

Otherwise the room was unexceptional, except that there were no books or paintings just plain oaken walls, indeed the only major piece of furniture, other than a series of tables and reclining leather chairs, was a drinks cabinet standing in one corner; the cabinet was currently open revealing a large assortment of alcoholic beverages. There was also a small array of finger foods arranged on top of one of the table, and occasionally one of the men in the room would walk over to help himself for there seemed to be no servants there.

Of the four men in the room only one might be familiar and that was Lieutenant Allan Whitcomb, currently in his dress uniform which was a dark navy blue colour with a double row of silver buttons and a bright silver aiguillette. Though he did not wear his peaked cap his shoulder tabs also included the silver lance and lightning bolt design of the Mage Hunters, naturally all of the metal as well as his boots were properly polished and reflected the light nicely. As an apropos the reason for an all silver decoration on BOSS uniforms was of course to avoid confusion with the Navy which used dark navy, brass and gold insignia.

He was far from the only uniformed gentleman in the room, one of the others also wore a uniform though reflecting a rather loftier rank than Whitcomb; here you had a full Colonel with dark reddish-brown hair with streaks of grey showing at the temples, the keen eyes of a trained officer and huntsman.

The two others were more non-descript roughly Whitcombs own age, at least as the flesh ages, but dressed in three piece suits complete with pocket watches and elegant embroidered vests with a floral pattern and a reclining woman respectively. They were in the main rather silent but occasionally chimed in to some particular comment from Whitcomb or Colonel Brown.

Seeing the Sergeant and his men escort the prisoner into the room Colonel Brown pointed at the padded table "Sergeant if you would please restrain the prisoner," he said calmly before returning back to his conversation with Whitcomb "I say Lieutenant we'll just have to be patient eh?"

Both Whitcomb and the Sergeant replied the same "Yes Sir," but slightly disjointed almost creating the effect of an echo chamber.

The Sergeant at once carried out his charge ordering his men forward as they made light wet footmarks on the floor, seeing the table however Svetlana began to struggle even harder requiring two men to control her. She had of course heard tales of what the Capitalists did to prisoners, and the sight of the padded table conjured up images of horrific tortures and outrages against her person.

"Bastards! You utter bastards!" she shouted defiantly, with special venom at Whitcomb "Capitalist pigs! you'll get nothing from me." She called out proudly and defiantly, hoping against hope she would live to see it. She was however unable to stop four burly men, one at each of her legs and arms, from roughly manhandling her onto the table and strapping her down.

Initially the gentlemen ignored her insults but as they grew even louder, by the same time as her belly strap was tightened, Colonel Brown sighed and walked over looking at her with an almost fatherly air as he admonished her "Now then wench, do be quiet such language is most unsuitable for the fairer sex."

Defiantly she cried "Do as you wish with me! The revolution will prevail here, and everywhere, it's only a matter of time!" Then turning to the sergeant who had just finished strapping her belly down she added "You're a traitor to your class! Running dog lackey!"

The sergeant simply rolled his eyes and shook his head a bit, while the soldiers under his command tried to hide their slight bemusement by the whole thing.

Colonel Brown simply nodded to the Sergeant, almost immediately he moved up to her head, as if she could sense what came next she clenched her jaw shut and looked defiantly at them. The Sergeant however had dealt with many prisoners who used that trick and adeptly enough he used his billy club to force her jaws open before pushing a large leather pear gag into her mouth and then closing the strap behind her head. He then completed the task by applying the padded restraint that went over her forehead as well, preventing her every motion. This served to quiet her outrageous remarks to a low murmur combined with a thin stream of drool escaping her mouth on either side.

"Thank you Sergeant that will be all," Colonel Brown stated "You may leave now until you are recalled," he added courteously as he nodded to the Sergeant.

"Yes Sir," the Sergeant said and snapped off a salute, which was promptly returned, before turning to his men "Squad left face and march out," he called to them as he led them out of the room. Then the moment they passed through that door there was a low creaking sound as the hydraulic mechanism began to slowly shut the door, finally it slid shut and there was a loud CLANG as the lock bolts flew into place.

Walking over to Svetlana and looking quite sad Whitcomb commented "It is such a pity that the Communist system would twist the feminine nature into such a parody," he sighed sadly before placing his forefinger on her forehead and slowly tracing it down her forehead and down her nose.

Svetlana snarled and buckled, her face contorted with what appeared to be anger.

"Such violent rage makes fair things appear foul," Whitcomb mused still sound melancholy as he reached her upper lip and traced his finger around her lips "Face contorted in rage and drool down the sides of her mouth, she could have made an excellent governess or upper maid if not for her communist upbringing, and perhaps a good mother too bringing credit to herself and her owner, it's such a sad sight eh Sir?"

"Indeed Mr Whitcomb, indeed, a pity," Colonel Brown replied, and seeing her eyes he gently and almost fatherly nudged her knee "Have no fear, unlike your home world we do not torture women we have more civilized means." He gently patted her forehead too "Now please be good and we might have some pleasant treat for you when this is all over."

Before they could really do or say much else where was a sound from the other side of the room, passing through a set of drapes that obscured part of the room came four men; two of them wore traditional tweed suits, one wore a peculiar looking but rather elegant grey uniform, while the fourth was Sir Hubert still wearing his rather distinctive white Southern Islands style suit.

"What ho chaps," Sir Hubert cried as he entered "I pray we haven't missed anything?"

"Not in the least Sir Hubert," Colonel Brown replied "Ah I see you've brought our anticipated guest and our interrogator," he added with some relief as he recognised at least two of these figures.

"Well to skimp on formalities, if everyone agrees," Sir Hubert said, and seeing that everyone nodded or said "Hear, hear," or words to that effect he motioned towards the men already in the room "Gentlemen this is Colonel Brown, Lieutenant Whitcomb, Mr Lakeland and Mr Puget; and now you Gentlemen," everyone chuckled at this informality "This is Hauptman, that is Captain, von Strohm of the Thersonian Embassy, and of course Mr Niles, Mage Chief Interrogator and Mr Hill Assistant Interrogator."

Captain von Strohm was a tall and cool looking fellow, he was smoking a cigarette from an amber mouthpiece tiny wafts of smoke rising up, his eyes were grey and quite intense. He wore a light grey tunic with turned-back cuffs, which reached to mid-forearm. A single row of gilt buttons reached down the tunic, and there was one over each of his pockets. Over his right breast there was an ornate Thersonian military insignia from embroidered gold thread. For some reason, though he was an infantry officer, he wore riding breeches and riding boots, both quite elegant, and a broad red stripe ran down the side of the breeches. He was armed only with a single handgun secured in a holster stashed in a "Sam Browne" style shoulder strap.

Mr Niles and Mr Hill were quite similar in stature as well as dress, for both of them wore traditional three piece tweed suits of a cut denoting the landed gentry. The difference between them was chiefly in hair, for Mr Niles had short cropped sandy blond hair and was clean shaven; whereas Mr Hill was dark haired and had a set of enormous mutton chops and a large moustache to boot. Mr Niles also wore a set of small round string glasses, through which he studied the scene before him.

"Well then Gentlemen shall we get started?" Niles asked casually as he approached the padded table studying the subject at hand, he frowned a bit and pulled her skirt down where it had slid up exposing several inches of shapely calf.

"That would be capital Mr Niles," Colonel Brown confirmed.

Niles continued the study of the prisoner, finally he pointed to the gag "I say Colonel is that strictly necessary?"

"I fear so Mr Niles," Colonel Brown replied, seeming a bit saddened "I fear that she would only give us a torrent of abuse if it were to be removed."

"I see, well you see Sir I prefer it if I can have some personal report with my subjects," Niles smiled down at the bound communist "I assure you this will not hurt one little bit, but some of it may feel a little odd but don't worry it won't hurt or make you feel sick."

By the look of her expression it seemed that Svetlana did not entirely believe him, but she was in no position to protest.

Meanwhile Mr Hill placed a leather doctors case on a nearby table and opened it revealing some peculiar contents, namely a set of coloured glass jars, a large paintbrush, a half dozen long goose feather pens and of course some thick high quality writing paper. Quickly he began to arrange these on a nearby table, then he picked one of the goose feather pens and a black glass jar opening the jar to reveal it was filled with a particularly thick and odd looking ink which he dipped the pen in.

"Good, thank you Mr Hill," Niles said as he approached the display that Hill had prepared, his hands moved across the glass jars and small clinking noises rose when they bumped into each other. Finally he had found the right jar and removed the cork top, at once a sweet but very peculiar odour rose up, the contents were black with spots of brown in it. He picked up the paintbrush, it was a sable skin brush perfect for delicate work.

As Niles walked over to Svetlana he spoke to her in a soothing tone of voice "Now then please relax, this mixture," he held up the brush that had been dipped in it "smells a bit funny and may itch a little, but relax it won't hurt and it's all quite harmless." He gave her what he hoped to be a gentle smile

Von Rohm nodded sternly to this, turning to the Colonel he asked casually "I take it this is your standard method of interrogation Colonel?"

"No Captain, that would be most time consuming, in general such methods are used only when the subject is particularly delicate or the information is very important, as is the case today," Colonel Brown explained.

"Quite I see," von Rohm commented "I must say it's somewhat better than what these villains deserve, these communists," he almost spat out the last word.

Svetlana was now beginning to squirm as she felt Niles draw a very peculiar symbol on her forehead, in the haze of her mind she began to realise what was happening and it made her squirm madly. She had of course heard stories of magic, of evil sorcerers, of wolf spirits that ate you alive if you strayed off the path, and all kinds of evil things that came through magic; or at least those were the stories her grandmother hand told her. In school she had been taught first that it was nonsense, and then later on that it was something practised only by the most decadent capitalists and right-deviationists.

"Relax now dear, this won't hurt a bit," Niles said gently squeezing her hand, but suddenly his eyes widened and he struggled for a moment "DAMNATION!" he called as he yanked his hand back, there were deep nail marks in it and a trickle of blood escaped from one of them "I say young woman this was hardly necessary," he said as he tried to calm down again.

"Hah, that is what comes from coddling communists!" von Strohm announced, then he took a deep breath from his cigarette before he added "They pretend to be docile, but then the moment they get a chance, phow" with that last word he let out a small cloud of smoke.

Whitcomb nodded, all while wondering if he should light up one of his cheroots, but since he already had a tumbler in his hand he decided against it "Yes Sir," he announced "I can tell you that they can be quite the wildcats, and as you know cats have claws!"

The gentlemen chuckled at this joke, except for Niles who daubed his injured hand with a handkerchief "I say Mr Hill please set up the goose feather pen and the papers," he called to Hill.

"Yes Sir," Hill replied and quickly arranged the papers so that they were in a staggered pattern of four, and near the topmost paper he placed the goose feather pen.

After a few moments to recover his composure Niles muttered "Yes well, usually it is younger patients to scratch and bite but ah well," he began to move his hand over Svetlana's head while muttering strange chanting words.

Xuddenly the glyph on Svetlana's head seemed to come alive with a greenish eerie light, but Niles continued to chant as tendrils of light began to extend towards the goose feather pen. Yet he had to struggle at times, flashes of green light crossed his eyes, and at times the tendrils extended as if they were moving through syrup. Then the moment the tendrils reached the pen he turned to the assembled people "Now ask your questions!" His voice was different somehow it was as if it was filled with power."

"Quite," Colonel Brown began as he pulled out a sheet of paper that he had prepared earlier "Let us begin with her full name, rank, serial number, her unit and its position, and things of that nature."

The tendrils seemed to infuse the pen with light, it lifted itself up and then began to move across the page writing down the answers to the questions.

"Svetlana Ivanovna Petrova, junior lieutenant, 0105-0980-1050-3391, 14th Transport Brigade, Azhistan Ghazni district, sector 5044." it wrote across the paper in lovely perfectly legible script.

"Magnificent," von Strohm whispered "What possibilities!"

They asked several questions after that, at times the pen moved slowly and cumbersomely, and they required several nudges and rephrasings to gain the information they wanted. Niles gently stroked her hair and whispered "Please relax, just give in," sweat was running down her brow but it did nothing to erase the magic markings on her forehead. However true to his word her only real discomfort was self inflicted as she struggled not to think about the things they asked her, but of course it was hard because whenever she tried there was this tendency of that very thing to leap right to her mind.

They continued the questioning until all the original questions had been asked, there was indeed nothing else they could ask her, and her responses had been most exquisite. Hill had been forced to replace the papers several times as the pen filled page after page with writing, and even the odd drawing. Finally though they had gained as much as they could and they ceased, Niles looked at them questioningly "Shall I dispel? We have maybe fifteen minutes to go?"

A couple of tears ran down Svetlana's cheek, and Niles tried to comfort her "Relax dear, there was nothing you could have done, there's no reason to feel bad just lie back and relax," he even helped wipe away some of the sweat that was threatening to come into her eyes.

Colonel Brown seemed rather ill at ease, and so did some of the other civilian gentlemen in the room, so much so that Captain von Strohm finally burst out "What is this? Sympathy for the devil?" in response to the deafening silence he added "May I ask a question Colonel?"

"Feel free Captain, we have expended all of ours," Colonel Brown answered.

Von Strohms eyes narrowed a bit as he turned towards Svetlana "Tell me now Fraulein Leutnant who are the, ah, anti-social elements, in truth, who is it that you take away when you conquer a place, what profession to they follow, what is the criteria to finding them."

The pen hesitated for a moment then it quickly began to write again, and for some reason this time everyone gathered around to see what was written.

"Counter-revolutionary elements the old aristocracy oppressors the... oppressors who are found by employing others like the tailor who has people work in his store and the copyist and the farmer that owns too many cattle that he must have stolen for no one can own more than another without having stolen and priests and mullahs and everyone that encourages and teach old fashioned ways and ..."

"In short anyone who employs someone else is an oppressor? Regardless of terms?" von Strohm asked.

"Yes! Oppression is exploiting labour, exploiting labour is depriving them of the means of production, only the single artisan is free labour all others is slave labour oppression!"

"What will be done to them once they revolution is in place?"

"The militant element will be shot killed stabbed hanged, then the their property will be taken and given to the people in the form of the state, then they are sent away to camps to learn how evil they are and how religion is wrong and they are made to work hard and beaten shot punished for their evil deeds, the children must be taken from them for they are evil and sometimes must be sent to camps."

"I see, I see, and do you think this is right and proper? All of the violence, the persecution, yes?" von Strohm asked in a mockingly gentle voice.

"Yes! For the Motherland! It's for the Greater Good!"

"I think gentlemen that you should reserve your sympathies for someone who deserve it," von Strohm said, his voice cool as he slowly stumped out his cigarette in an ashtray "Like a thief, or a murderer, who might at least realise that their crime is a sin against God, Man and Reason."

"Such a pity, such a pity," Colonel Brown announced "'tis a pity she's a Communist, but now gentlemen I dare say that we know what we are fighting, a system that turns women into fighting machines, a system that recognises no sacred bond!"

Von Strohm nodded in agreement "Yes Sir, of that there can be no doubt."

"Please dispel her Mr Niles," Colonel Brown announced, before absentmindedly adding "Unless there was something else Captain von Strohm?"

"No, I think we've heard quite enough Colonel," von Strohm answered coolly, it hurt to be reminded of the suffering his nation had gone through but he would not let anyone be deceived by communist wiles!

Nevertheless for gentlemanly men like the Pendletonians it was a sad matter, for raised to honour and respect women the figure before them, drooling with her face and mind contorted by hatred, showed them just how much the Communist Atheist darkness could cloud the minds of men and women alike.

At this Niles dispelled the magic, and the pen fell over on the page it was on, a drop of ink spreading in a nasty blotch across the white page. At once Hill began to wrap up the various tools back into the black doctors case from which he had removed them.

Meanwhile the written documents were carefully gathered up by Mr Lakeland who carefully arranged them and placed them into a thin leather folder "I shall have them typed up promptly Sir," he told Colonel Brown.

"Excellent Mr Lakeland," Colonel Brown replied "Now then that this is over may I suggest that we all retire for sherry in the drawing room?"

"Capital idea," Sir Hubert interjected, then turning to von Strohm he added "We'll be sure to send you a courier with a transcript of the interrogation, if you're still interested Captain?"

"Of course Sir Hubert, my government will appreciate that greatly," von Strohm replied.

They then began to file out of the room chatting amiably about a variety of issues not related to the interrogation after all it'd be awfully bad show to be loose lipped when walking through a corridor; loose lips sinks ships and all that rot.

Meanwhile Svetlana was left alone staring into the roof, but fortunately not for long for there was another loud CLANG as the big metal door slowly opened again. Moments later she could hear the sound of hard boots against the floor, and then the sergeants face came above her "Well hello there Prisoner 364, time to go back to your cell now."

Oh God, the Slaver returns.

*nukes Pendleton*




Have a very nice day.
-fgalkin

fgalkin wrote:Oh God, the Slaver returns.
*nukes Pendleton*

I'd feel sorry for the poor woman if it weren't for the fact that she'd probably want to throw me in a gulag.

Junghalli wrote:

fgalkin wrote:Oh God, the Slaver returns.
*nukes Pendleton*

I'd feel sorry for the poor woman if it weren't for the fact that she'd probably want to throw me in a gulag.

Oh no she wouldn't probably want to do it: She most assuredly would want to send you there! You Counter-Revolutionary Bourgeouisie Element you!

Norseman wrote:Oh no she wouldn't probably want to do it: She most assuredly would want to send you there! You Counter-Revolutionary Bourgeouisie Element you!

Good thing she's the one in the shackles then. Of course, I can't say the Pendles strike me as particularly great either, but at least they wouldn't throw me in prison as a counter-revolutionary.

Pendleton City
Pendleton
Erde
May 1005 NE

Whitcomb's House

"He's been gone an awful long time Di," Charles mused as he looked up at the big pendulum clock that adorned the room, he sighed and began to pace up and down the newly refurbished parlour.

Diana followed him with her eyes even as she worked on her embroidery, right now she was making a house tablet with an inscription from the scriptures, she used silk thread and was working on the decorative edge but now Charles had gotten her worried too and nothing seemed to go right.

"I am sure he'll be back soon," she assured her sibling "And it's not like he travelled to the great chasm of unspeakable doom," she chided him a bit even as she tried to hide her smile.

Nevertheless Charles seemed terribly frustrated, "I say he was going to be back by now, we would talk for a while on that idea I had," he informed her.

"I see, you mean that book of yours?"

"Well that too, and we were going to talk about other things too, but now he's not here."

"Come now! I should be the one to make a fuss that he's late."

"Huh? Why is that?"

"Oh, uhm, no reason."

Charles hesitated, then he looked carefully at his sister "I say Di... uhm... ah," he seemed to have an inordinate amount of trouble forming basic sentences as the subject was one that bothered him a bit.

"Quite, quite," Diana said a light blush forming on her cheek before she said "Well I... I do think he is being quite charming and friendly that is all, and of course..."

Neither one of them could really say anything else as the two siblings both, each for their own reason, found that the conversation had suddenly become unbearably embarrassing and not the kind of thing you talk to your brother or sister about.

Bleak Castle
Colonel Browns Office

"I say chaps this is absolutely beastly business," Colonel Brown announced, his bushy eyebrow raised "These damned communists destabilising our surroundings!"

"Quite Sir," "Awfully bad show Sir," and other assorted mutterings could be heard from the assembled officers and other gentlemen in the room.

It was a small smoke filled room in Bleak Castle, space of course was at a premium in the Castle, and this meant that men would often literally rub elbows during these meetings. In tone and demeanour the room was very much like a gentlemans drawing room, thus explaining the copious amounts of tobacco smoke, and adorned accordingly with the proviso that there was of course a large desk there.

Everyone had read the interrogation notes, and of course the elaborate report presented by the redoubtable Lieutenant Whitcomb, whom everyone was assuming to be a rising star. Of course having read this and knowing what to do with it were entirely different things.

"Surely we'll have to throw a spanner in their works," Sir Hubert ventured "and isn't that why we have a Bureau of State Security? Is it not to disrupt enemy operations Sir?"

"Quite so Sir Hubert," Colonel Brown agreed "I have in my days been accused of being belligerent Sir, but I should say that rather than sit back and wait I should strike a blow and see what comes out of it."

"I say bravo Sir!" Sir Hubert exclaimed "and if that is how you see it then I shall venture to give my most enthusiastic support to any course of action you agree upon."

"Hmmmhmmmm," Colonel Brown said as he casually stuffed his pipe, and then gently puffed on it as he touched a lit Lucifer to the rich Ships Tobacco, slowly the fire spread through the tobacco. Taking a deep breath of smoke he sent a perfect smoke ring up into the ceiling "Very well Sir Hubert, I recommend that we crush these blighters, now then Lieutenant Whitcomb you are the man on the spot what do you feel?"

"Sir I am honoured," Whitcomb began "As for how I feel Sir I should say that with its tens of millions of people Azhistan lacks any central government, thereby making it easy for local barons to set up their own government; in short there is no local government we can support, our only hope would be Dost Khan who apparently leads the local forces opposed to Suleyman Khan. Furthermore to have any hope of preventing renewed communism infiltration, or for that matter simply having them increase support for other patsies, we would have to begin bolstering our own factions."

"The good news gentlemen is that apparently the Communists have a great fear of magic, and the magics of the natives is weak and generally paltry, indeed most Mohammedan magic is frail compared to ours. Given this I definitely believe that a small team of Mage Hunters and Commandoes, in conjunction with native allies, could wreak quite a lot of havoc on the enemy if they had magical support."

"What's more Gentlemen we have one weapon other weapon that the enemy cannot touch, and that is the Mohammedan faith, for you see the Communists are of course godless and of a mind to press this belief, or lack thereof, on anyone unfortunate enough to be under their yoke. Unlike Christianity the Mohammedan heresy is a very martial faith, it has an emphasis on holy war which they call Jihad, and on the exalted and sensuous destiny awaiting those who die in battle for the faith. In short I do believe that the city is a powder keg about to blow, and that if liberated the slaves in the mines would, as all men of the area are, be able to fight quite strenuously. Indeed if a fuse could be lit the explosion could only be prevented by that damnable skyship of theirs."

"Wreak havoc eh Lieutenant?" Colonel Brown mused "Say what, I dare say that we can do more than that, but lets now see what we would need to carry this out."

Here then the discussion began to resolve around the technicalities of military action, for those unversed in how a military organisation does things, and whose experience with them comes from novels and the parades the nature of these discussions would be surprising; rather than a few great minds pontificating there was an open and informal exchange about the means required to complete this mission.

By the end of this session a plan had been drawn out, or rather a statement of intent for the actual plan would be debated and rehashed time and time again over the next few weeks. Nevertheless the plan they had reached was a bold and daring one, which they would do their utmost to carry out. The specifics details involved destroying the Communist corvette, raiding the mines and liberating the prisoners, and finally upon Lieutenant Whitcombs advice trying to stir up a rebellion in the city itself.

It was then that Sir Hubert said those fatal words "I say but it's an awful shame to blow it up," it was a comment said in passing while munching slightly on one of the dinner mints that for some reason were being passed around.

"What else do you suppose that we do with it? Stick it under our arm and nip off with it?" some wit burst out in reply, but there was silence rather than laughter.

"By Jove! Now there would be a trophy!" Colonel Brown burst out "and it would solve all the problems with supporting the natives on the ground, why with this ship and some of our 3.75 inchers they ought to be able to give the Commies a damn good trashing if the rascals ever returned!"

"Any man that could fix that would receive a knighthood that is most certain," Sir Hubert mused "but is it even possible?"

"Curse it!" Colonel Brown suddenly burst out "Curse that damnable ship!" he yelled.

"I say ..." Sir Hubert began, then realisation dawned "Good heavens yes! Lieutenant Whitcomb! Didn't you say they had no magic?"

"Only hedgemagic of the mean sort, and then reserved for the women," Whitcomb announced "Though from rumour and demeanour I should venture that some of these women should not be trifled with, but none could match our own mages in power. Some of the Rumish Sufi saints have arrived in Azhistan, but even their power is feeble compared to that of a Magister, indeed they are rarely more than a match for an Adeptus."

"If they have never encountered strong magics on Azhistan it stands to reason they have not done much to defend against them, and therein lies our opportunity," Colonel Brown announced "we shall immobilize and capture the ship!"

This really set a cat among the pigeons so to speak, and the discussion picked up once more as there was a heavy debate on what should be done and how; indeed many subjects were brought up that one might not immediately think relevant to the subject at hand, including one brought up by Whitcomb.

Whitcomb's House
Later that evening

Whitcomb had, fortunately, arrived just in time for supper, though he was a little embarrassed about his late arrival and thus the usual pleasantries and apologies were exchanged; after all like any Pendletonian gentleman he would never countenance discourtesy to his guests. Thus though he was quite tired and exhausted, but naturally he still acted the gracious host during the supper.

The simple, but elegant, dining room of the Whitcomb house could perhaps take a dozen guests at a time, sufficient for a junior officer of landed gentry. Now however there were but three people present, with the serene butler acting as their waiter during the different courses.

Charles fidgeted a bit as they sat around the table, he was still worried about spilling soup on the table or picking up the wrong fork, and as is the custom in young men, for his sister also worried but decorously refrained from showing it, Charles fidgeted nervously in discomfort as he contemplated his worries. His sisters warning looks hardly helped the situation, but Whitcomb was so deep in his own thoughts that he only absentmindedly noticed his guests nervousness.

After supper however the conversation could begin in earnest, at first it was trivial debates of various social functions, public entertainment events, and Whitcomb offering advice on what functions they should attend and who he would like to introduce them to.

Eventually however Whitcomb reached the real crux of the matter "I have some bad news I fear Mr Westley and Ms Westley, and I am somewhat bothered by this as it will leave me with little time to get you settled," Whitcomb began looking at his two young guests "Yet duty calls, and though I must ask you to keep quiet about this there is a good chance I will be called away for some time in the service of the Republic, can't say more than that I fear."

"Good heavens!" Diana said as she fanned herself, she swallowed a bit "You're going to war aren't you?" she whispered and then her womanly intuition took over "It's Azhistan isn't it? Back among the pagans, if nothing else then to recover your man."

Though he desperately wanted to confirm her worries, if nothing else than to keep her from floating in limbo of doubt and concern, Whitcomb's oath of duty prevented him from saying anything other than "I'm sorry Ms Westley but I can't tell you."

Diana sat quiet with her own fears, and Charles too found it hard to think of anything else to say, all that he could think of sounded so trivial, or else nagging and it bothered him that he couldn't think of the kind of noble or manly thing that he was supposed to think of.

With this then the meal came to a rather awkward conclusion, and after bidding each other good night they retreated to their bedchambers, where Diana would spend the night fitfully trying to sleep despite her mind conjuring up horrible scenarios.

Whitcomb's House
The next day

It was a bright and pleasant day, the sun shone in through the windows of the Whitcomb house and in the distance the creaking of wagons making their way down the streets, and the calls of the street hawkers offering their goods to the early workers rushing to their daily toil.

"Buns, get yer buns here, a farthing a piece and the finest white flour!" called one, and another would hawk his vegetables, and the newspaper boys in their five shilling caps and a big bundle beneath their arms would yell out "DAILY TIMES," or "TELEGRAPH".

After attending the morning toilette the residents and guests of the house would descend downstairs to have their breakfast. Unlike the truly great houses the Whitcomb residence did not have a separate breakfast room, previously he had occasionally used the drawing room to breakfast, but now the parlour was eminently suited for that purpose and of course for the five o'clock tea.

"Now then what do you think about a picnic?" Whitcomb suddenly suggested, as if out of nowhere, but it was in fact something he had thought of for some time.

"Sounds smashing!" Charles was quick to interject.

Diana also gave her assent "Yes I think that would be lovely," then after a little polite giggle she added "I don't think there's anything else on my social calendar, indeed I seem to be quite free!"

"Then how about today!" Whitcomb announced "We can have the kitchen prepare a nice basket and Mallet fire up the steamer, I know just the place too."

"Why not!" and "What a wonderful idea!" were the replies from the two siblings, and so Whitcomb could breathe easy that this part of the exercise had been resolved.

They all finished their breakfast before once more going back to their own affairs, in truth though this was Whitcomb tending to his official duties while the two siblings spent the morning in each others company in the parlour. Charles was reading some of the newspapers, while his sister tried to interest him in some of the novels and social gossip she was starting to pick up.

Whitcomb's House
About 9 AM

The Chauffeur Mallet was firing up the boiler, as he was won't to do he had opened the hood and was manually lighting up the pilot light, and then slowly increasing the flow of kerosene. While he worked he sang a merry work song, occasionally supplementing the song by tapping the metal with a spanner, he actually rather liked his work.

"Morning Mallet," one of the Maids said making him start, "Ever so sorry, didn't mean to sneak up on you," she apologised at once, a young but not too attractive girl holding a couple of very large wicker hampers "I was just bringing the hamper," she added.

"That's good Rose," Mallet answered as he moved to the back and opened up the cargo compartments quickly grabbing the hampers and stowing them "So get in the back then and I'll take you to the picnic spot."

"Thank you kindly," Rose said as she jumped in the back, first making sure that she had placed a cloth on the seats so she wouldn't muss them up.

About half an hour later they began their drive out of the city, at the rapid pace of roughly 20 miles an hour, for after all they had to drop off the servants first to prepare the picnic grounds.

The Journey
About 11 AM

The trip to the picnic grounds were a pleasant one, for the steamer was well maintained and the roads were not too busy at this time of day. Soon they had left behind the hustle and bustle of the cobblestones streets of Pendleton City proper and were now driving across the gravel covered roads of rural Pendleton.

The Pendleton Archipelago is beautiful in the summer, it is so unbelievably green and fertile, wherever your eye looks you see low stone fences maintained caringly over generations, sweet green meadows where sheep or brown cows graze and stare curiously at passers by. If you are lucky you can still see the older kinds of houses, the white wooden houses with turf roofs, or the low stone houses with wooden slats and a single small chimney from which a thin stream of smoke invariably rise.

It was through this idyllic landscape that they drove, and with so much to see and admire it felt like travelling through some fairy land, but after a long drive they crossed a small moss grown stone bridge and found themselves on a lovely green field with a small hill in the centre, and on that hill there was a small copse of trees providing shade and a picturesque setting.

"This is so lovely," Diana said as she looked around the site "But who owns it?"

Whitcomb hemmed a bit and seemed almost embarrassed "Why I do, it's ah... it's part of this farmstead nearby, but the field is a wonderful picnic ground too, one of my Uncles used to take me here to go fishing and..." he smiled wistfully as he remembered those innocent boyhood days "He always said that I would have it."

"That's a lovely story," Diana agreed, "Do we sit up by the trees?"

"Indeed, if you'd follow me I'll show you to the path." Whitcomb announced as he began to lead them up the small hill.

The Picnic
About 12 AM

On top, in between a trio of trees, there was spread upon the ground several blankets and a large red and white chequered cloth upon which the dishes of the picnic had been spread. After all a proper picnic had the servants spread the dishes out and then decorously vanish, not appearing again before the meal was over.

The three of them sat down by the picnic cloth and began to eat, enjoying the lovely scenery and the intense smell of the flowers in the field. The meal was quite good, several parts of it was still pleasantly warm thanks to the special earthenware pots, and other parts were pleasant cool for the same reason.

"What is that lovely scent?" Diana asked casually as she reached out and picked up one of the flowers, it was quite peculiar white and blue with a strong fragrant smell.

Whitcomb reached out and held it, their hands touched for a moment, his rough fingers brushing against her smooth soft hands, and their eyes met for a moment making both their hearts leap faster. Then he took the flower and held it up "It's a loves crown flower," he said with a smile.

"What a strange name, why is it called that?" Diana asked puzzled as she picked another and smelled it.

"It used to be tradition for young maidens in love to make flower crowns and grant them to the most handsome men of the village," Whitcomb explained "They would walk around in large flocks on the holidays, singing and wearing their finest dresses, and then they would sometimes kiss and crown the handsome young men, preferably the one they loved the most." He seemed a bit embarrassed and then added "Of course they were innocent days, and there was nothing improper about it, the custom is still honoured in many outlaying villages."

"It sounds like such a lovely custom," Diana said as she picked more of the white and blue flowers swiftly weaving them together into a crown, then she casually held it up and looked quite coy "Oh dear, whomever should I place this on?" she complained as she put it down and began to slowly work on some additional flowers.

"I say Sir, you should receive it for you are our host," Charles said graciously as he gave Whitcomb a polite bow.

"No, no, no Sir," Whitcomb returned cheerfully "Surely youth and beauty should be awarded first, it should go to you."

"Surely Zeus should be crowned before Apollo?" Charles replied, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Whitcomb laughed a bit at that "Zeus? I should hope I am not that venerable!" he said jokingly even as a thought crossed his mind You however are more Ganymede than Apollo "Surely a kinsman comes first".

"Ah but hospitality! The host must surely be honoured, so you first," Charles said with a big smile in his lips.

"Oh shush you," Diana said as she giggled a bit, finishing her second crown "I shall have to crown both the men in my life," she said as she stretched out and crowned first Whitcomb and then Charles "There," she said trying not to blush again for the little slip of the tongue.

"There is something though, that ah," Whitcomb once more felt embarrassed as he pushed himself to get to the important point, the reason he brought the two of them to this romantic spot. "Ms Westley, Mr Westley," he began, he was feeling quite uncomfortable right now but there was nothing to be done about that now.

For some reason, perhaps it was the famed female Intuition, but Diana felt that something a little frightening and a little wonderful was about to occur, thus she sat herself up a bit and brushed back her hair with her hand so that she'd look presentable.

"Before I must leave there is one matter of such importance it must be addressed," Whitcomb said both being solemn and trying very hard to drag it out so he wouldn't have to say this "Ms Diana Westley will you consent to marry me."

Diana was taken aback, though they had grown so close over the days and weeks that followed their rescue from the mountains of Azhistan she was still somewhat surprised, though pleasantly so, that he felt ready to ask her such a question.

Charles was both excited and surprised but also rather embarrassed, the way all brothers are when they see their sister in a romantic situation, or when a slightly awkward social situation arises and they know they are expected to say something.

Finally though Diana recover "I am of course oh so flattered, and even..." she hesitated but there was a smile on her lips and a blush on her cheeks "yet I cannot answer you now! I know you are going out into battle and you may not return, and I am too young to mourn my fiancée, but when you return I shall answer you."

"I should not have asked yet, but... I will pray that you will wait for my return," Whitcomb said, there was a strange feeling in his chest, somehow he knew that she would say yes, but still it was most awkward.

"I shall pray for your return Mr Whitcomb," Diana said kindly, and then impulsively gave him one of the Loves Crown flower "to remind you of your home," she said her cheeks a light rose as she felt rather excited in an odd way.

The rest of the picnic was rather uneventful because these events really dominated everything, so no one, except Diana of course, remembered the light conversations and polite exchanges which they had afterwards. After an hour or so they departed, leaving the picnic baskets, porcelain and cutlery behind for the hidden servants to clean up after them.

Pendleton City
Pendleton
Erde
June 1005 NE

Whitcomb's House

"It's so strange," Diana mused as she looked out the window "That he's gone I mean," she felt quite alone now, and her fears gnawed at her constantly. It was of course nothing for it, other than to pace up and down the nicely decorated room with its lace curtains, ottomans, couches and pianoforte, all bought especially to make her feel good, and try to think about the social occasions which Whitcombs introductions allowed her to enter.

"I know sister dearest," Charles assured her, as he too felt the absence of the man he view as something of a hero "He'll be back though and..." he felt awkward talking about his feeling "Just have a stiff upper lip you know!"

"Oh you're such a ..." she was going to say boy but instead she said "MAN!" then she bustled away like all sisters do when their brothers are being obnoxious.

There was nothing for them to do now except to try to ingratiate themselves with the Society in Pendleton, into which Whitcomb had rendered a few strategic but excellent introductions, and enter this world of gaiety and etiquette both to establish themselves in Society but also to get their minds of their anxieties.

PRS Explorer
June 1005 NE

Through the inky dark of the Deep Sky the PRS Explorer passed through the spacelanes like a shadow, potent magics cloaking so it looked like a patch of mist flying across the deep sky. Within the ship it was of course an entirely different matter, here the stern faced crew of the ship watched silently as the army squadies set up their own separate barracks.

These were brave men of course, but even so thoughts would inevitably go back to their kith and kin at homes, and their beloved Republic. To some degree such thoughts are desirable and even admirably, but in a military unit may turn into a debilitating disease which it is the duty of the sergeants to combat by various means; thus training was also a method of keeping the mind focussed on the matter at hand.

The small cargo compartment of the ship had been converted into a makeshift training area where the troops were training. Given the special nature of this mission the training could be a tad unorthodox, for instance the Eunuch that Whitcomb bought in Azhistan were with them to help: Sometimes he'd pretend to be an official, or a stall merchant, and ask questions from or haggle with the spies that accompanied the mission.

Others, like the Commandoes and the Mage Hunters, kept fit by doing callisthenics of various sorts, and of course studying hastily sketched together maps while discussing their plan softly among themselves. It was dangerous and quite unnerving to go in almost blind, even with a couple of weeks of transit to plan and prepare, but it wasn't the first time they'd done so and they were as ready as any group could be.

Azhistan
June 1005 NE

Foothills near Dost Khan's Village

The foot hills were covered in shrubs and rubble, the vast plains of Azhistan stretched before them, and behind them the equally vast mountainous regions of that benighted planet. From times immemorial herders and their beasts would travel these lands looking for water and pasture, these herdsmen in their native costumes, they knew the land, and with their stout sticks, long vicious blades and their trusted Jezail by their side they feared only Allah and the Djinns that travelled the lands in the form of dust clouds and dust devils.

One of these herdsmen, a member of Dost Khans extended clan, was out watching over his herd of cattle, his cheeks bulged with a local leaf that he was chewing and occasionally he'd spit while leaning slightly forward in his saddle. He had a fur cap to keep his head warm in the cold night, and a cheap sheep skin coat that he'd wear if it got cold, in short he was as comfortable as he could be on those empty plains.

That is when he heard a distant thunder, his horse stirred uneasily and he patted its flank, in the distance he could see the clouds alter slightly and dust was being whipped up. Absentmindedly he pulled up the cloth before his face, so that he wouldn't swallow dust and sand if there was a storm. Yet the storm subsided too quickly, and something descended, he was not quite sure what and it looked like a shooting star yet it descended too slowly, he made the sign against the evil eye and called "There is no Majesty and there is no Might, save in Allah, the Glorious, the Great!" Whereupon all evil forces would, according to the Mohammedan faith, recede.

Meanwhile the descending shape came closer, it was hard to see its outline with the naked eye, but if he had thought in those terms the herdsman may have noticed a resemblance to clipper ships. Of course Azhistan was not known for its rivers and seas, and even those lakes it did have were usually frequented only by rowing boats or dhows. So when this sleek long ship, with the peculiar engines on the sides and rears, descended it was a sight entirely alien, even differing from the airships or freighters of the Rum. Then as it reached the bottom of its descent green flames shot forth from its belly slowing it fully and metal legs extended from its side so it could land.

The Herdsman now rode rapidly around his herd, gathering it with speed, and began to drive it towards the village, all the while making a loud call out for his kinsmen that they should be alerted to these strange and wondrous events.

Meanwhile by the strange metal ship that our readers might recognise as the PRS Explorer, there were a series of clanging sounds before a heavy metal door swung open with a grind and a simple ladder was lowered to the ground. Two men descended quickly, both of them dressed in the blue uniform of the Pendletonian Deep Sky Fleet, with the distinctive straw hats on their heads and visible beneath their blouse the striped undershirt.

Reaching the ground one of them wiped his brow with his sleeve and uttered "Blimey but it sure is hot," then he looked around at the desolate waste he found himself in and muttered under his breath.

"Stow it, mate, we've got a job to do," the other man replied, more senior to his colleague but both of them in their late teens or early twenties.

Moments later a young midshipman by the name of John Bellamy came rushing down the ladder to join them, and the two of them saluted him while he looked about "Right men, lets get started," he said in a clear voice as he moved towards the first landing strut. Theirs was an important task, namely to ensure that the ships landing struts were all resting on a stable spot, and that none of them were damaged, the heat surrounding the ship was of course even more oppressive than that of the surrounding Azhistani landscape, every now and again it got so bad that the ratings had to pour water over themselves from the large canteens they carried for that purpose.

Inside the PRS explorer

"Gentlemen I remind you that it is a matter of ship law that no one may leave before the struts are inspected," Commander Claybrook informed them once more, his lean frame contrasted strangely against the hale and hearty shapes of the Mage Hunters and the Commandoes.

"Sir," came the only response from the assembled officers, but they were of course dying to get out of the metal box that had become their prison, and get good solid earth under their feet. Naturally Claybrook was all too familiar with these desires, and they annoyed him no end, especially that he had to repeat himself when ordinarily the Executive Officers first order would be enough.

Already a series of portholes had been opened allowing fresh air to enter, though this fresh air was often rather warm making all aboard perspire copiously, their shirts and hair clinging to them as if they had come up from a dip in the sea. Still as the old salts leaned against the warm walls of the ship and peered out the brass portholes they would sigh and say words to the effect of "Awl dat sand an' noe wimmin or grog shops, aye dis is a foul place."

Yet before too long came the shout "Alls clear on the ground, struts steady and secure," and there was much rejoicing among the groundlings, but the Deep Sky men now had the trouble of lowering the cargo ramp from the rear cargo room and preparing the ship to disembark their long term guests. Soon the belly of the ship opened up and a long metal ramp was slowly extended. This was a difficult operation the men struggled with winches and chains, worried that at any moment a steam winch might break, or a chain be caught, and then the whole ramp would be skewed or else crash into the ground pre-maturely; no doubt earning the responsible party a couple of stripes on his back or costing him a couple from his sleeve.

Once it was secure the next part was not hard, and sailors and soldiers both worked to unload the large wooden boxes that were the cargo of the ship. Meanwhile other parties, inspired by Whitcombs descriptions, was draping the ship with large nets into which they pushed cloth, tar paper, and other things so that soon the ship was starting to look like naught more than another rock sticking out of the plans.

Later

Dost Khan was a brave and handsome man, and he looked every bit the Savage Prince as he sat mounted upon his white horse. Behind him rode some twenty of his closest men, all dressed much as he was with the exception of his long white coat made from a fur so expensive that only a chieftain or the richest merchants could afford it. They were at any rate valiant warriors each with an expensive tulwar and one of the famed Azhistani Jezails securely tucked into a holster mounted on the horse.

"O Lord the fallen star landed over there, by the..." the Herdsman pointed at what appeared to be a new hill having sprung up from the plains, "that mound was not there earlier O Lord," he added as he squinted "and there are men around it."

"Indeed O Herdsman, you have done well to tell me of this, and by Allah you shall have," Dost Khan hesitated and did some calculations "Three heads of cattle for this! From my personal herd, and if I should break this vow may all my slaves be emancipated!"

"Allah be praised O Lord, and may word of your generosity be carried before Allah as gemstones on a silver platter," the Herdsman said as he made a quick motion to the heart, mouth and forehead to give thanks for his good fortune.

Dost Kahn lifted his hand and cried "Onwards" and the horsemen spread out into a crescent as they rode onwards towards the ship, under the guidance of Dost Kahn they advanced under the cover of a nearby mound. Already Dost Khan suspected what he was moving towards, but if it should be a communist rouse he should have a chance to escape or fight, Inshallah, but others of his party were more impetuous eager to ride to the fore to see this strange vessel for them selves.

As they advanced they were seen by watchful eyes, keen men clutching bolt-action rifles, camouflaged with blankets and bits of shrub. They carefully studied the approaching party, noticing that its armaments consisted mainly of the infamous Communist AK rifle, but from Whitcombs descriptions they recognised the dark haired man in a long white fur coat and so they refrained from opening fire.

About two hundred feet away from the ship it was as if a veil was removed from their eyes, and they could see graceful lines of the PRS Explorer broken only by the jutting turrets and casemates. The ship seemed dreamlike, as if the eye and the mind could not quite credit it being there, and one of his companions made a sign against the evil eye and whispered "They have summoned Djinns to cloud our eyes!"

"The Communists know no Djinns," Dost Khan said, then he laughed "So if these are Djinn they are faithful Djinn, come let us ride," he called as he nudged his horse and they all rode forward into the Pendletonian encampment.

Within moments they heard a friendly voice "Greetings O Lord!" it was Whitcomb who came to greet them "Peace be upon you!" he cried.

"O Noble Officer," called Dost Khan as he dismounted "Onto thee be peace, and the blessings of almighty Allah!"

They embraced and kissed each others cheeks in the Azhistani fashion, which was not so different from how the Aquitainians or the Platans might greet one another all three being hot blooded people. Then they separated and Dost Khan smiled widely, revealing his strong white teeth "By Allah it is true, you have come with your allies!"

"I have, and we should like a conference with you, and for our arrival to be a secret for now," Whitcomb confided in him.

"Then you shall have both!" Dost Khan announced "As for your secrecy you may relax, for we have many secrets and none of them have been betrayed to the ungodly."

Dost Khans Village

Within the large pavilion tent that he visited the last time Whitcomb was explaining the plan to Dost Khan, the Azhistanis and the Pendletonians were sitting close together upon the silken cushions; before them lay the roaring fireplace surrounded by large rocks that bound the fire and in the cold Azhistani night the fire was most welcome.

They were entertained by nubile dancing girl in skimpy costumes performed athletic and exciting dances of a sort that were both exotic and graceful, but also most displeasing to modesty; but there was also a quartet of musicians with drums, strange flutes, and exotic stringed instruments resembling a mixture of a guitar and a fiddle.

As the party spoke the sound of the fire crackling, and the jingling of the bangles and chains of coins that adorned the twisting and gyrating slave girls joined with the sound of the musicians with their drums and strange string instruments, and created a most exotic atmosphere in the murky Oriental night.

"Gods blood this was a wonderful place," Lieutenant Chrisman later mused to one of his fellow officers, "Why dancing girls so scantily clad that you almost wonder why they bother."

Then as the last time a fine lamb had been slaughtered and filled with various dried dates and other fruits before being roasted on a spit before their eyes, large silver plates of fine fowl and select cuttings of other beasts were brought forward; meanwhile the date wine and the grape wine both flowed freely, for though the host was a Mohammedan on such occasions he could recite "There is some profit and some sin in this, but by Allah we are Mujaheddin and so we are forgiven all sins and shall be allowed into paradise where there are rivers of wine!"

Thus it was quite a cheerful feast where foods and wines and fruits were ingested, but afterwards the slaves, including the dancing girls, were promptly dismissed and it was time for the men to speak. Now the fire was doused somewhat, and mild sorbets and strong sweet coffee were served to clear the head. Dost Khan rested on his elbow along with the others, his Mohammedan finery and flowered robes strangely complimenting the elegant dress uniforms of the Pendletonians with their epaulettes, aiguillettes, silver or gold brocade belts, and bright silver or brass buttons.

"So it is war you want then?" Dost Khan asked as he emptied another glass of scolding hot coffee, the Pendletonians matched him of course despite their mouths burning for it would not do to seem weak or sensitive before such a Chieftain.

"War against the Communists, but yes," Whitcomb said, for the duration of this mission he had the brevet rank of Captain and he was the chosen spokesman for Pendletons cause. Like all the others he had dressed in his greatest fineries to put up an impressive figure, and his wide chest was further emphasised by the elaborate metal braids that decorated a Captains uniform.

"What then is your plan?" Dost Khan asked casually, his eastern subtlety conflicting with his innate curiousity.

"Our plan O Lord is to come to you in friendship and ask your aide in this mission, and surely it would be a good thing for you should be the master of Suleyman Khans city, and forever remove the shade of the communist airship from your land," Whitcomb said with finality.

Dost Khan smiled, he seemed quite friendly "Certainly such friendship is good to have O Captain, but usually comes at a price."

"There is an old saying O Lord on my world, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, and since the Communists, like some great serpent, try to constrict us and crush us, we think it only fitting that we cut apart the serpent," Whitcomb replied, then he sipped another cup of coffee "That and whatever we claim by force of arms, in short the loot of the mines and of the communist camp will be counted our share."

One more Dost Khan stroked his long black beard, a languid expression on his face "You wish to strike soon then," he said knowing full well that the time for bartering was over, sometimes even in the east it was a matter of striking a deal in the heat of the moment and then riding forth with brandished swords and so it was now.

"As soon as we can," Whitcomb agreed.

"Then pray that you gentlemen share with me your plan, and I shall commit my men to it, gathering them from across my lands to fight with you," Dost Khan announced.

"Well then O Lord I plead that you lend us your ear, for here is our plan," Whitcomb said as everyone leaned forward to listen, and from some voluminous leather satchel a map was produced, being little more than a hasty aerial sketch where Whitcombs notes had been added. Now they leaned over it using a length of ivory as a pointer, and long into the night they debated their scheme till finally a bargain was struck.

The Mountains and the Valleys of Azhistans

Days Pass

From the valleys and hills of Azhistan small bands of warriors began to trickle down into their assigned camps, they came from the villages so high up in the barren mountains that you would not think that anyone could live in such a place there came rough bearded men, youths so young that they smeared their face with the juices of berries to make their downy cheeks look more manly, and there came old grandfathers with white beards but still these aging lions were deadly and their eagle sharp eyes could judge a distance and crack a mans head open at four hundred paces with their ancient Jezails.

There were two camps established for this purpose, both of them were hidden in deep steep valleys where the men had strung up dark camel hair cloths from one side to the other hiding their presence almost entirely so that you would practically need to be on top of it to see it. Within these encampments the men would sit around and smoke their pipe and eat gossip about the events to come, often laying back quietly on a soft rug and smoking relaxed as they waited for the battle.

Those Pendletonians that saw this remarked that there was none of the worried unease that marked western soldiers about to enter battle, but for all who perish at the hands of the ungodly the Mohammedan soldier knows that the gates to paradise are thrown open to him and therein awaits 72 houri's, and he has the power to permit seventy of his relatives to enter as well without anything being said about it. In addition some would say that the Eastern nerves are not as tightly wound as western nerves, and so the eastern mind is not so frightened by death or pain as the western mind.

"Inshallah! We shall slay the infidel," they announced to anyone who would listen, picturesque old men in their traditional outfits had set up water cooled sharpening stones from which rose night and day the whine of a blade being placed to the stone.

Unlike a western camp there were few if any female camp followers, since the Mohammedan is fiercely protective of his women, but a few kinless women were there as cooks, seamstresses and, along with handsome young boys, offering other services to the fighters.

Ghazni

Whitcomb had used the opportunity to travel to Ghazni, it was only a few days leave but with the help of some discrete magic that journey that would normally take days could be done in a single night. During the night he dressed himself in native garb and mounted his horse, the hooves of the horse made slight noises in the gravel surrounding Dost Khans personal camp, there was a cool dry taint to the air that make misty tendrils rise from the horses nostrils. Above him the sky was dark, so terribly dark and clear where the stars stood out like beacons in the heavens, and in the distance he could hear the mournful tones of native music.

"By he who made all! O Domine!" the mage began, he was dressed in his army robes a garment that he draped above his uniform before casting, his salt and pepper beard closed "Ride, let an angel carry each hoof, by the binding of the air, fly," he began to long recital of magic and lifted his hands up. A luminescent band seemed to flow from him and embrace the legs of the horse, then he whispered "it is done."

With his cloak fluttering madly behind him Whitcomb rode through the barren Azhistani landscape as if in a dream, the valleys seemed to fly by and he rode across mighty rivers and forests at speeds he could not understand, and before the night was over he found himself riding into the river valley in which Ghazni was situated. He rode past many sleepy shrines and graves to ancient Mohammedan saints, and with a sigh he dismounted before one of them wherein he could see a light, curious he entered it.

Within the walls were covered in images, many of whom depicted a horse with wings upon it, and a regal man always depicted as wearing a veil, it was a low shrine resembling a Mosque in many ways it even had a mihrab in it. Yet this was the grave of an ancient Mohammedan saint, so ancient that few remembered precisely what he had done, upon the walls some ornate writing in a long forgotten script celebrated him.

The light came from a small fire around which sat a serene man warming his hands, he had long white beard, white robes and a white turban, the mark of one of the Sufi orders, and by his side lay his long staff. Reverently placed up high was an ornately decorated book, which Whitcomb surmised to be the Koran.

The worthy looked up at Whitcomb with the eyes of a mystic or hasheesh eater "You come from far away," he said "Come in, the traveller should eat and be warm, and the gates of the city is closed."

Whitcomb sat down next to the white haired sage and studied him intently, when you worked with magic such encounters were to be expected, especially in a place already as magical as Azhistan. "What is this place?" he asked curiously as he looked at the strange writing."

"Many centuries ago during the age when the mighty djinns and shaytans sought to make the world submit there was a man, a mighty and powerful man, and he was Ibrahim Effendi. With the aid of Almight Allah he slew a powerful demon, but the demons claws had wounded him, and he lay down and died, and the earth opened up to form a tomb, this tomb," the white Sufi told Whitcomb "Sleep now, and you will find your friend."

"How did you know?" Whitcomb asked, but he felt tired, unnaturally tired, and he stretched upon the floor, which now seemed covered with straw.

"Almighty Allah aids those who fight the ancient evils," the white Sufi continued, but Whitcomb could not reply because he drifted away into his slumber.

The next morning

The next day he woke up confused, the sun fell upon his eyes and he suddenly started up as he noticed a hand approaching him, he was about to utter some Mohammedan greeting when he recognised who stood before him "Jeeves!" he cried "It is you!"

"Yes Sir, indeed it is, but how..." Jeeves seemed almost perplex, a strange state for such a unfazable gentlemans gentleman.

At first Whitcomb couldn't understand his confusion, but then he realised he was outside, and that the ground beneath him was cold, indeed what pitiful straws of grass were there were all covered in rimefrost, as he rose the ground crunched beneath his feet. Yet he rose quite warm, and his horse was also warm and safe eating some fresh straws that someone had provided, and both of them had a scent as of burning sandalwood.

"I dreamed so strange last night," Whitcomb remarked as he turned to face the entrance of the shrine, but he frowned as he saw that the door was bricked shut and apparently this was not done yesterday.

"They say Sir that the grave of Ibrahim Effendi sometimes open up for worthy Mujaheddin," Jeeves said as he studied the bricks "I came here because... I met a man who said I should visit the grave of my namesake and pray for intervention."

"By Jove! Somehow there is magic at work here," Whitcomb said as he brushed of his clothes "and that is a matter I shan't tamper with."

"No Sir," Jeeves replied as he watched his master and former owner "If you will forgive me Sir but how long is your stay?"

"Very brief Jeeves, just wanted to pop by to gather any information that you have," Whitcomb said.

Jeeves nodded to this, then he reached into his robe and pulled out a stack of folded documents "Sir I carry them with me always, within my robe, for the Mohammedan greatly respects modesty, they are just simple jottings for I daren't put anything more substantial on paper."

"I see Jeeves, I suppose it is all one could hope for, but pray tell how did the mercantile deals go?" Whitcomb asked as he girded himself once more for the return.

"It went most excellent Sir," Jeeves replied "In the notes you shall find an agreement to ship five thousand stone of cargo twice a year from us to them and vice-versa, the merchants here are eager for trinkets, and have many fine things to offer."

"Our Republic will benefit Jeeves," Whitcomb said, then he looked back upon his horse "I think I should ride back now, 'ere the spell that brought me here expires entire."

"As you will Sir," Jeeves said and bowed once more in the eastern fashion, just in case they were being watched.

"I shall send for you Jeeves, but you should know that there may be trouble... serious trouble, I shan't say more than that," Whitcomb said, knowing full well Jeeves would understand.

"I see Sir, I shall be ready to escape with some Rumish merchant," he announced before bowing for the third time "and may God be with you Sir."

"God is always with us Jeeves," Whitcomb said as he mounted his horse and turned to ride, gently tucking the papers he had received into the saddlebag, and pondering the strange events that had occurred.

Soon he once more began to ride, but these events struck him as a good omen and something he'd be sure to inform his commander of when he finally returned. Once more the hoof beats resounded across the plains of Azhistan, and it was as if a new wind caught his horse, something stronger than the magics he had experienced earlier and he positively seemed to fly with his horse always a foot or more above the arid plains of this wild land.

Before mid day he had somehow managed to reach the encampment once more, and he felt most relieved that he was back again among the tents and the rough company of the natives. Moments after he had dismounted he was greeted by Mage Captain Miller who seemed a tad surprised at his speedy return.

"Did you find some Sufi Magi in Ghazni?" Miller asked with puzzlement in his voice.

"No I rode home on what remained of your spell."

"Surely you are mistaken, with the first rays of sunlight my spell would be broken, it was scarcely a permanent one."

"If that is so then perhaps there is a story I should tell you," and with this Whitcomb guided Miller towards the tent of Captain Thornborough, the true Mission Commander.

Within the rather Spartan tent they found the commander, indeed there was no furniture within aside from the cot he slept on, the chair he sat in, more chairs for his guests, and the table he wrote on; that is aside from a rather lovely native carpet that seemed very out of place in such a sparse environment. The table of course was covered in maps, most of whom had tiny corrections and notes made on them, and in addition there were sheets of writing paper with dense notes.

Captain Augustus Thornborough was a wiry muscular man, there was something downright ascetic about his frame, his light brown hair and beard was long for the benefit of the natives, but combined with the eerie intensity of his greenish blue eyes people who saw him were reminded of some suffering saint. Even the Azhistanis had taken note of him, and they wondered if he were a madman or a Sufi Ascetic, or most likely both.

He looked up at them as they entered, apparently a tad annoyed at being disturbed, but courtesy demanded that he hear the business of two of his highest officers. When he had finally heard the story as it were, and received the notes that Jeeves had gathered, he leaned back in his chair and slowly began to read all the while talking to his guests.

"This then smells of old magics, and I'm of a mind that they're best left alone, but he who choose our fate has set our course," Captain Thornborough looked strangely saddened "I dare say this may cheer our native allies, but keep mum for now Whitcomb if you would, till there's no chance of word getting out."

Setting Forth By Night

The plan was an ambitious one, suitable for bold and vigorous peoples, combining the carefully planning and technical mind of the Pendletonians with the cunning and vigour of the rough natives that made their living in the mountains. Yet despite their eagerness and the desire to strike before the enemy found out about their presence there were two grand obstacles: First that they required time to gather the native hosts, and that this had to be done slowly and in two separate areas to avoid detection; and Second that their spies had to be smuggled into the the City of Suleyman Khan where they would use certain peculiarities in the Mohammedan fate to their advantage.

Yet during the night as the native gathered around to receive the enchantment there was merely the low murmurs of eagerness, and as the mages wove their intricate pattern cloaking the natives in magical energies that made them look even more like shades there was no fear or looks of surprise, only a certainty that all was the will of Allah.

Now then the two great hosts began to move across animal tracks, and ancient herdsmans paths in the mountains, looking like nothing more than a splash of water being thrown against arid rock; first it runs quickly in one stream, but then rapidly it spreads out like a fan before it vanishes into the soil. They would rejoin outside their destination, in time for the strike.

Meanwhile in Suleyman Khans city a different strike was prepared, one just as perilous in its way, which if successful would demonstrate that often a handful of men can do what an army could not; but that is a story that will come later...

The Commies have better tech but magic is anethema to them.
Sounds almost like Necrons.

Azhistan
June 1005 NE

Mountains near the Valley of the Ship

The men of Pendleton and their native allies forged on through the rocky wilderness of the Azhistani highlands. For someone who has never been in the mountains, and sees only pictures of stout men in quaint garb, or some Helvetian party in short leather trousers, feathered caps and pickaxes it might seem that such a journey is a thing of romance; a chance to stop and gaze upon endless vistas spread out before you, and to muse upon the untouched nature and the history of landscape spread before you like some giant map.

Nothing could be further from the truth, at first young healthy mean will leap ahead, scoffing at the slow progress of their elders, running up what seems to be sheer cliffs fuelled by sheer youthful exuberance. Soon though any untrained young man will begin to feel that his feet grows heavier, that his calves begin to sting like knives jabbing into them, that the strap of his rucksack or bandolier is digging into his shoulder, or else shifting slightly so that it can cut into his neck. Every now and again he needs to sit down, nausea rising within him, and any thoughts of looking at the view when he walks are gone instead replaced by his desire to keep an eye on where he will step next.

The trained soldier on the other hand feels this strain as much as any, for walking up the steep cliffs of Azhistan, grabbing onto rocks that rub your palms raw, and struggling upwards watching the man ahead for your cues as to where you should go. Thus the pathfinder, the man in the lead, must be the most fit and capable of them all, he needs to be able to spot the right route long in advance rather than just watch his own feet or the back of his mate in front. Moreover the soldier does not give in to his pains and aches, he may grumble to his mates about unreasonable officers and foolish marches but he grimly struggles on nonetheless.

Mind you if for some reason a man not as fit as the rest of the company, but still vital to the mission, say the Master War Mage, should have to accompany them then he'd be one of the few to get the privilege of riding for most of the way, certainly upon a mule but nevertheless a ride. The surefooted creature could find its way up even the most impenetrable hillsides with its cargo of foods, ammunition, thick bundles of firewood, or out of shape officers. However part of the way had to be done entirely on foot, and during this route, even though he carried no gear, the War Mage was often literally carried upon the backs of some stout ranker. Regardless even mounted upon a mule or carried by a ranker, two creatures with only superficial resemblance, the journey was apparently not a pleasant experience.

Finally though after a long march the experienced officer or sergeant orders a rest, and unlike the amateur who throws himself to the ground for a few minutes of restless breathing, opening his buttons to keep the nausea down; the soldier sits down and removes his pack, but his beloved pipe or cigarette was denied him causing much grief and complaint as the natives were under no such restraint, the cards and the harmonica comes out if silence is not demanded, or else maybe a much worn paperback book that has made its rounds throughout the company. In short he takes the time to truly relax, to eat, to chat with his chums, and only then when his men have rested will the able commander order them to resume their march.

The beauty of the mountains could only truly be appreciated by someone who was fit enough, and strong willed enough, to look up and take notice of his surroundings, not just the aesthetic aspects but also likely paths through them as well as good defensive positions. It may seem strange to mention such hardships, but it is only done to emphasise one thing: These were men and the mark of a true man is his ability to overcome the treacherous wailing of his body and to press on, and by so doing elevating himself so that his aching bones can no longer distract him from his surrounds, nor even the enjoyment of his surroundings.

Gone were the fineries of the last few days replaced with simple Khaki uniforms for all ranks, with only the smallest rank insignia telling you who's who, and of course the slight difference between the silver buttons of the fifteen mage hunters and the golden buttons of the thirty commandoes. Meanwhile their six hundred native levies were still dressed in their old native costumes, the dust covering the fur and wool outfits added to the natural camouflage of the brownish dark colours, and they seemed to have some special talent in blending in with the mountain.

Now they were moving towards the agreed upon meeting spot, divided into small groups to avoid detection, for though some presume that it must be easy to hide there when they see the enormous snow capped peaks of Azhistan this is not so; the vast mountains do indeed provide hiding places by virtue of their sheer size, but the bleak barren reaches of the mountains bare of vegetation provide no shelter and no hiding place, and thus you are protected only by the fact that it is hard for the human eye to make out small details in the vastness of the landscape.

At one of these temporary camps a group of Mage Hunters and Commandoes were mixing with their native allies, soft talk was going on and being some distance from the enemy dry smoke free wood was used to make a fire. Here they sat, east and west together around the fire, sipping hot coffee from tin cups and gnawing on dried meat. There were many a pipe to be seen among the natives, and the strangely apple scented tobacco smoke of the natives spread across the campsite.

Once more low grumbles of complaint rose from the men "Bloody 'ell 'ow come dey get ta smoke an' we don't?"

"Quiet now, takes the wind right out of you it does," the burly colour sergeant announced, he was a large man with a pair of enormous ginger sideburns, and a firm voice that brooked no disagreement.

Captain (brev) Chrisman peered through his binoculars in the direction of the enemy encampment, but he could see no evidence of people or of movement aside from an apparently well travelled road in the lowlands. Finally he gave up upon his task and instead returned to his native allies and got into a conversation with one of them Abdullah Ibn-Abdullah al-Ghazni Effendi, an officer of some importance in the local army.

Abdullah was representative of the natives, he had a long wild beard still black and a swarthy complexion, both of which made his teeth seem unnaturally bright and white, for that day he had cleaned them with a mixture of powder and a twig whose ends he had chewed; he had also applied Kohl to his eyes, and smelled from the lavender bags he had stuffed into each pocket.

"Tis' so I will look handsome for the houris of paradise!" Abdullah had explained "Inshallah I shall be victorious and return with loot, but if Allah wills that I shall die I shall go to Paradise in state!" Therefore he, and many other natives, had wrapped up that part which notes the male gender in several thick swathes of white cotton.

His overcoat was dirty and brownish grey you could, when it was open, see a wide gilded belt beneath, and a large curved dagger with a pommel of cold and a sheath with elegant filigree work. He also had a large pouch filled with coins of various metals and denominations, but this was carefully concealed on the inside of his belt.

"Ah O Lord, this is so that if I should die then, Inshallah, whomsoever killed me would not think ill of me! Or better yet, whomsoever gathers the bodies after we win shall see that I am not a beggar," Abdullah had explained happily, indeed delighted to show off his personal wealth.

"Allah preserve thee Abdullah Effendi," Chrisman had replied, thoughtfully moving his pipe about his mouth, it was an elaborate Meerschaum pipe carved into a peculiar shape, he was not much of a smoker and indeed it was unlit but the large pipe had an imposing appearance that increased his standing among the natives "We shall be victorious."

"Inshallah!" Abdullah Effendi replied "Inshallah O Captain!" with the fatalism that marked the eastern breed; and yet he were not a sad man, but rather cheerful even as he carried his dagger, a long scimitar, his jezail and a brace of pistols across the mountainous reach. For to him there were but two outcomes, either he should be victorious and wealthy, or else he should be dead and in paradise, and so with this attitude the Mujaheddin advanced.

Final Approach to the Valley of the Ship

They now reached the mountains surrounding the valley, and like Whitcomb before them they saw why the Communists had picked this particular valley to hide in. The mountain sides were like the walls of a fortress sheer and jutting straight upwards, here and there a thin tree stuck out, and by some miracle the mountain goats could jump from perilous perch to perilous perch. At the bottom of these mountains lay enormous piles of rubble, most covered in lichens and moss, the result of some ancient cataclysm perhaps caused by ice and snow, and perhaps caused by other less wholesome things.

Much as Whitcomb had they studied the wall carefully, for finding the best routes up was imperative, but unlike Whitcomb they had brought a copious amount of good hemp ropes, pitons, and other climbing instruments. Brevet Captain Chrisman peered up the side of the cliffs along with his men, carefully testing the lower footholds, and before too long he had detected the path which Whitcomb must have used. It was treacherous and winding, often requiring great leaps, and increasing the respect that both native and Pendletonians felt for this spectacular man.

The plan was quite simple, the best plans usually are, the party would scale the wall to the valley ridge. Once up there they would neutralize the Communist guards, hopefully without raising an alarm. At this point the native allies would be brought up as well using ropes dropped by their allies on top.

However the climb itself was quite dangerous, at least for the point men who had to advance quickly and without much time for safety since speed was now of the essence. The lead men were a couple of corporals from the Commandoes, a sergeant from the Mage Hunters, and finally Captain Chrisman himself; he lived that maxim that the best order an officer can give is this "Follow me".

One by one they stepped up to the hillside, keen eyes studying the mountain, spotting cracks and crevices where less trained men would swear that there was sheer mountainside and nothing else. Chrisman caressed the side of the mountain, feeling the dusty rock against his hand, the rugged surface of it; tucked into their belts were open pouches, improvised from ammunition pouches but now filled with a light white powder, they grabbed a handful and rubbed their hands with it as they began to climb. This white powder is well known among mountain climbers, and you may find it if you ask around, it dries the hands and grants good grip if you are brave, or mad, enough to climb freehand.

Climbing up was quite hard especially carrying a heavy rope, in a few places they put in pitons mostly to help the followers, this too was difficult work since you had to use a hammer wrapped in leather and other tricks to prevent the sound from carrying. Every now and again their boots would slide slightly on some sand on the ledge, sending a small spray downwards, or their hand would fumble as it reached a handhold, and the heart would beat faster and faster. There is an art to making your body obey after great peril, and you need to be a master of this art if you are to climb by yourself.

Upwards and onwards Chrisman struggled, every now and again he'd stop to rest, feeling his body squeezed against the rough and uneven surface of the rock, and when he peered casually to the side he could spot a couple of mountain goats looking curiously at disbelievingly at the strange creatures invading their domain.

He tried shooing them, holding on with one hand and waving with the other, but the goats made a slightly disdainful sound, as if to say "I'm sure you're a splendid and dangerous fellow when you're on the ground, but you're not on the ground anymore are you old boy?"

Slowly the four men ascended up the cliff occasionally they stopped and peered up to see if there were any communist faces peering down at them, and just as important to figure out the next stage of their climb would go. Boots would feel out likely good spots, and as your heart trembled they would place weight on it and move forth.

Finally they reached the top, Chrisman was the first to get there, the top of the cliff was however quite perilous, first he reached up and tried to get the ledge only to find that his hand slipped slightly rubbing his fingers raw as the sand gave in; then he tried a reaching for a rock, only to feel it slide a couple of inches. Finally tough he gathered up his strength and gritting his teeth rushed up the last four feet or so half throwing himself on top of valley ridge.

Valley Ridge

One by one the remaining three men crawled over the edge, they hunched down behind a few large boulders and peered cautiously around them, in the distance they could spot the communist patrol maybe a squad strong. They lowered themselves back behind the rock and began to communicate among themselves, Chrisman judged the distance to the guards and shook his head, instead pointing down.

Moments later a group of hemp ropes, carefully secured to the very largest boulders, were thrown down onto the ground, and moments later the remaining Mage Hunters and Commandoes made a rapid ascent to the top. Here they immediately scurried into position behind the rocks, pressing themselves against them and remaining very silent. Their weapons were wrapped in cloth and leather to ensure that they would not make a noise if they bumped into something like say a rock.

Half the party now occupied themselves with securing and throwing down yet more ropes which their native allies immediately began to climb. All the while Chrisman held his breath as he watched the Communist patrol praying that they would not detect anything before his men were in position to strike.

The other half of the party silently drew their large leaf shaped knives, the blades were covered in weapons black a thick mixture that prevented the least glean of metal from giving away their position. They held their breath as they peered cautiously around the side of the rocks they hid behind, in front of them the Communist guards wandered unaware of the khaki clad commandoes and Mage Hunters waiting for a chance to leap at them.

The Communist uniforms were peculiar, they wore strange looking cloth covered breastplates, and the rifles they held were not the AKs but rather a different design altogether. They didn't move like expert soldiers though, and from what the Pendletonians could see of their faces they were young men, maybe eighteen or nineteen certainly no more. Conscripts for a Pendletonian, from a nation with an all volunteer army, there was something distasteful with the word, in that a nation that could not raise volunteers to defend itself deserved to fail.

Suddenly, like some pack of great cats that came upon a flock of sheep, the men of Pendleton leapt forward, their blackened daggers held high; within the space of a second they had closed the distance to the Communist soldiers. Each one of them had picked a target, and now moving as one they grabbed the Communists slashing open their throats with a single swift and very hard stroke.

Now it happened one of the men, a Corporal from the foothills of Helvetia and as keen as any with the knife, leapt forward from his concealed position. He crossed the distance swiftly just as his chosen mark began to turn his head, puzzled by the strange sounds, and he saw his death approach. Unlike books it is a hard matter to cut a mans throat, and more so if he is alert and struggling, the Communist struggled fiercely and got out one or two guttural cries before the black dagger sliced through his throat, and his mouth opened his eyes wide but only blood escaped his mouth.

Alas the men of Pendleton had, without knowing, made a fatal error, for they had missed the significance of the strange bakelite like objects hanging on each Communist soldiers ear like a broken off arm of an eyeglass. Unfortunately these ear pieces were tiny wireless sets, miniaturized beyond belief from the Pendletonian point of view, keyed to activate upon the sound of a voice near them, and the two or three words that the Communist got out was enough to raise the alarm.

Down in the valley by the cluster of tents surrounding the ship men began to poke around, officers ran around yelling, but no one was quite certain what was happening.

Then one of the more keen eared of the Pendletonians heard a sound from the air pieces, he knelt down swiftly and swept up the ear piece holding it to his own ear, from it streamed a steady flow of increasingly agitated Russian. Shaking his head the soldier lifted it up to Chrisman who, upon hearing it, immediately gave the order "Jinx that tub if you please Mr Hendley, and the rest of you throw some ropes down into that valley!"

At once Mage Captain Hendley, an officious fellow who had been grievously exhausted by the trek to this valley, began his incantations, his hands moved in wide circles as he cried out "Curse this ship! Curse it where it sits, curse it where it lies, curse it when it floats, curse it when it flies, you shall not move, you shall not stir, you shall not lift!" and as he spoke green lightning seemed to form between his fingers and a length of glittering green reached down to the ship and began to envelop it.

The Commandoes immediately began to throw more ropes down into the valley, something which, along with the magic, finally got the Communists full and undivided attention. AT once small spouts of dust began to rise here and there as the communists opened fire on the Pendletonians, and more ominously there were hissing sounds as beam weapons struck rocks and sand shattering rock and fusing sand.

Fortunately the SMLE rifles were deadly at this range especially in the hands of good marksmen, so the Pendletonians replied with their own barrage of suppressing fire cutting down several communists and forcing the rest to keep their heads down.

Meanwhile the first score or so of the Azhistani allies were scrambling up the hillside, and beneath them the steep side up to the valley was crowded with ascending tribesmen scurrying to be the very first to reach the top. The moment that they reached the top they rushed over to the other side and began to rappel downwards, but alas a few of them were struck by the powerful beams of their opponents; the effect was most horrendous for their clothes burst into fire and they would fall down into the valley with horrendous screams that only ended as they struck the hard valley floor. This however did not stop the Mohammedan Mujaheddin who began their chant of "ALLAHU AKBAR! ALLAHU AKBAR!" even as they continued their descent.

Down in the valley the lead elements of the Communist force had reached the ship, and a pair of large men in rather bulky looking armour were kneeling down next to the landing struts of the ship; from a distance it was hard to judge their true size, but their girth became obvious when a couple of conscripts rushed past them. They held large peculiar weapons roughly the size of a light machine gun, but rather different in design, an enormous muzzle that looked like a railway tunnel.

The lead element of the attack force, several natives with a few Commandoes among them, had reached the bottom of the valley, many of them simply let themselves drop the last five feet in sheer wild desire to join the fray. Here and there one of them would be struck by the conscripts guns and explode in flame and fire, often running towards the enemy for ten, twenty feet while the flames licked hire and began to trigger the bullets in their bandoliers pop, pop, pop, pop they went like some deranged string of firecrackers, occasionally dropping one of the natives by sheer accident.

Meanwhile Communist after Communist was bowled down by increasingly precise rifle fire, in fact the precision and speed of fire was so immense that they confused it for machine-gun fire; a cry went out "They have a machine gun," and then as the rapid fire continued from several locations many of them desperately sought cover and only fired by lifting their rifles up above their cover and squeezing the trigger; with most of their officers dead there were no one left to enforce proper discipline.

"How about some fireballs eh Mr Hendley?" Captain Chrisman asked with some concern as he watched the deadly toll that the Communist rayguns had upon the advancing Mujaheddin.

"Bit busy here old chap," Mage Captain Hendley replied as he continued his elaborate hand movements "Not really up for chucking the ol' fiery doom I fear."

Unfortunately the fiery doom was not something that the communists had run out of big blasts of fusion fire leapt out from the large barrelled weapons that the armoured men by the landing struts wielded. The flickering white lances of fusion fire touched a cluster of some twenty natives making them go up in flame, it was a horrid moment when their bones could be seen through their flesh and clothes before everything was charred and their remains exploded outwards.

Desperate natives and the supporting Pendletonians both up on the ridge and down in the valley returned fire, several Commandoes had been cut down by precise enemy fire, but they pushed on giving much needed fire support to their allies on the ground.

By now there were hundreds of native fighters in their desert garb, wielding (i]tulwars[/i] and jezails, either ululating wildly or else crying "ALLAHU AKBAR! ALLAHU AKBAR!" while charging towards the roughly one hundred and fifty or so Communist soldiers that were either returning fire or desperate rushing towards the ship. However despite the deadly communist weaponry the Mujaheddin warriors of Azhistan kept pouring down the mountain side, and more and more ropes were thrown down from the cliff, and each rope was another path down for the attackers.

By now the swarm of Azhistani warriors covered the ground like a cloud of locust, and despite the Communist fire they swept ever onwards under the protective fire of the Pendletonians. By now the Communists had fear in their eyes, and both sides fired savagely at each other, a low drone of fire in the air, but there didn't appear to be much success in it for no one appeared to be hurt.

Suddenly a handful of Azhistanis drew their tulwars their cruel looking curved swords and they let out a loud roar, and within moments everyone had drawn their swords and a roar like thunder, or of some giant lion filled the air. Now they charge in with sharp steel, even the Pendletonians paused for just a second to attach their own twelve inch bayonets before charging forward towards the ship.

Of the two armoured men by the landing struts they died in two ways, the first was stabbed by a bayonet that somehow pierced one of the weaker parts of his armour; at once the Commando holding it fired his rifle, and reloaded firing again, the bullets tore through the armour before the Commando placed his foot against the Communist and gave a mighty shove. There was a snap and the bayonet broke roughly ten inches in, but the low spray of blood from the wound, and the way that the pulsing spray grew lower and lower told him that the dreadful work was done.

The other however was taken in a more physical manner, he was bowled down by the throng of men; one of the Commandoes, unaware of any weak spots as he had not seen how the first armoured communist was taken, pulled out a grenade and after lightning the fuse pushed the grenade firmly beneath the Communist armoured warrior. Moments later there was a low explosion and the Communist moved no more.

Then the lines clashed, there's a horror to close combat that is hard to explain, but the Azhistanis were a savage and wild breed, and the Communists though corrupted by their wicked philosophy nevertheless came from a race not known for yielding lightly; here the dusky Azhistani tribesman and the swarthy stocky Slav clashed together, one wild with the fires of warm climes, the other thickset and enduring with all the patience and brute endurance of that half-European and half-Asian breed.

However in the pressure of close combat the Communist advantage in ranged weapons was neutralized, and though some of them tried to use their bayonets they were overwhelmed by the sword wielding Azhistanis. The cry "ALLAHU AKBAR!" went up as the deadly swarm of Azhistani tribesmen smashed their way through the thin lines of the Communists and almost immediately, even before all the enemy had fallen, began to loot, as well as subjecting the Communist women to diverse outrages that should not be elaborated on further.

Now the ship was also stormed, up through the main ramp stormed the Azhistanis, with a dozen or so Pendletonians following closely behind. They swarmed across the ship fighting the Communists all the way, powerful bullets shattered control panels and strange glass screens, electric sparks flew from the exposed wires, but the attackers moved onwards smashing all resistance in their path till finally the ship was theirs.

Moments later the surviving Communists surrendered, and at once they were stripped of their armaments and property, the Pendletonians were fortunately able to ensure that they would not be killed; in that respect at least the Communists were fortunate. However even the Pendletonians could not stop the repeated outrages against the women of the Communist camp, aside from grabbing a score or so and pulling them into their own camp.

This of course was a horrid moment, but the price of war, and as Captain Chrisman said "This is the price of women in combat, by God how could the Communists put them in such a position?"

In the camp tents were also looted, rifles pulled out, clothes, uniforms, strange boxes from which apparently recorded music would come, cigarettes, and dozens of other peculiar items that neither the Pendletonians nor the Azhistanis could identify. This then would be part of the work that they should have to do, namely to interrogate the Communists and make them talk.

For now however he could send one message out to his friends and allies "The Skyship is taken! The Skyship is taken!" the Communists would receive no relief from the air.

Azhistan
June 1005 NE

Mountains near the Geode Mines

Azhistan was hot even high up, and these were not gentle glacial mountains, but rather created by eons of erosion; and so instead of Helvetia's rounded hills and valleys with the odd sharp peaks in between, the rocks and hills large and small were jagged and sharp like daggers.

Here the sun shone mercilessly, and a translucent haze rose up, the very air appearing like a flawed glass, and sometimes conjuring fata morganas where distant scenes would appear tantalizingly close; but as you rushed towards them they simply receded further away.

The sun turned pale complexions red, and darkened the olive complexion of the Grand Plains contingency, by now most of them had adopted some native head gear which granted surprising protection from the blazing sun. At night however the bitter cold made men huddle in their blankets, and seek warmth in the arms of their fellow soldiers.

Fortunately, the men did have one small luxury; a copious amount of dry socks, or rather dried socks. It may seem odd to complain about wet socks and wet boots when you are out in the hot dry wilderness in a place like Azhistan, yet for every hour of exertion, a soldier lost a great deal of liquid through perspiration, and most of this would gather in his socks and boots.

It should be made clear that there is scarcely anything more terrible for a soldier than getting his feet wet. Wet socks soften the soles of the feet, leading to blisters and inviting disease. Even the soldier's callous is no proof against a wet sock rubbing against a wet boot.

However, the sun blazing overhead meant that, once removed from your feet, virtually any item of clothing, including the army sock, would dry up within an hour if not less. Of course the order to march meant that they had to be hung from a rucksack or belt, and this led to some rather peculiar sights on the route to the geode mines.

In lands around the geode mines there were still a few scattered tribes of natives, taking whatever grazing land they could, or else bartering with the guards and advisers at the camp; in fairness to them though some of the natives would throw food and other things over the fence at night as charity, or zakat, to the prisoners, but this alas was rare.

The three Mage Hunters had observed all these goings on during the time they had watched the Geode mines. They hid beneath the grey carpets of Azhistan, with two small sticks in each corner creating a slight crack; through this opening they watched the mine, and with the carpet above them they could lift up a set of binoculars without the risk of a chance reflection giving away their position. They took turns to lay there till the sun came down, and only then would the scout return to rest, and another would take his place the next day.

To stay hidden they would light no fires night or day, but during the day they didn't need a fire to heat things for the sun did it for them: they'd just burry whatever they wanted to heat under a thin layer of sand, and before too long the sun would bring it to near boil. Yet however hot it was in the day, during the night you'd need furs and blankets just to keep the warmth.

They were being joined by their allies, with the Commandoes leading the way, their approach was carefully plotted to take advantage of all the nearby hills; not just for concealment, but also to provide hard cover in case the Communists should grow wise of their approach

The Commandoes' khaki uniforms were covered in brownish dust, and their faces were dark from dust and sweat; they looked almost like natives as they advanced, though their SMLE rifles with their Helvetian scopes and protective burlap wrapping gave the game away.

Near the hill they spotted a young goatherd surrounded by a dozen or so scraggly goats. He looked dirty and a bit emaciated, but when he saw the strangers he courageously placed himself between his goats and the strangers; then as he saw that they didn't seem hostile he looked puzzled, one of the Pendletonians smiled at him and gently shushed him, the boy nodded eagerly before scurrying away with his herd.

Moments later one of the scouts joined them, and they crouched down for a whispered conversation between Captain Thornborough, commanding the main assault party, and Colour-Sergeant Wilcox, commanding the scouting party.

"Sir!" the Sergeant said but without saluting, this apparent breach of etiquette may seem peculiar but Commandoes do not generally salute in the field due to the threat of sniper

"Colour-Sergeant," Captain Thornborough replied, then he peered upwards towards the top of the ridge "Is it safe?" He asked.

"Yes Sir, quite safe," the Colour-Sergeant replied.

Together they moved slowly and deliberately up the hill side till they reached a secure spot, Captain Thornborough pulled out a pair of binoculars from a leather holster, and studied the mine it was much as Whitcomb had described. Finally he lowered the binoculars, and the pair crawled back behind the hill just as the remainder of the commandoes and Mujahedin arrived.

"Well now men, this is what we came for," Captain Thornborough said quietly to his men, "No time for speeches now, so Mr Ingersoll," he turned to the War Mage "If you could fire your spell at the main barrack I would be most obliged."

"Yes Sir," Mage Captain Ingersoll replied.

"The rest of you will act as fire support for our native aides, translators tell the Mujaheddin to take up positions on the reverse slope, and to be ready to charge the moment that spell strikes," Captain Thornborough said as he motioned to indicate the desired positions.

Dost Khan and his bodyguard now reached the position, the Azhistani chieftain looked quite formidable, the expensive scale armour which he wore, and the large gem studded turban emphasised his sight and strength. Oddly enough the strange juxtaposition kohl tinted eyes, an enormous beard, personal jewellery, and a brace of revolvers, along with a glittering tulwar only made him more awesome.

"O Captain, my men like to be positioned where they can see the enemy," Dost Khan said as he marched up to the Captains side.

"O Great Dost Khan," Captain Thornborough said, a smile played on his thin lips "Many years ago another Pendletonian Commander had a conversation where those precise words were spoken by his Aquitainian ally; the Pendletonian had ordered his men deployed on the rear slopes, and then the Aquitanian said as you did my men like to be positioned where they can see the enemy."

"Destiny works in strange ways O Captain, and none are free of her," Dost Khan said, and then he added "What was the reply?"

"My men like to win," Captain Thornborough said deadpan.

Dost Khan let out a laugh, showing his bright white teeth between his black beard "Don't worry O Captain, my men want to be martyrs in battle, not slain by artillery before battle."

After this they positioned themselves, the first rows of Mujaheddin half crouched near the crest of the hill so they could rise and charge the moment that the spell impacted. The reverse slope was in fact covered by them, row after row of turbaned warriors, some of them were bowing repeatedly as if caught in a wind, and their lips moved silently as they recited the traditional Mohammedan prayer before battle.

Mage Captain Ingersoll positioned himself behind a large rock, he could see the camp from there; it seemed likely that if not for his magical camouflage they could have seen him too.

His lips began to move as he pulled out a thick vellum scroll upon which the spell was inscribed, the scroll felt like static electricity, the amount of energy concealed within was enormous. One by one he broke the three seals that bound it "I invoke thee fire," he whispered as he broke the first seal "I bind thee fire," he whispered as he broke the second seal, "I command thee fire," he whispered as he broke the third and last seal. Then he unfolded the scroll, the lettering on it was in the standard Latin alphabet, but the letters seemed to move on their own, and the language was strange, archaic, difficult, the attempt to describe the indescribable.

Suddenly he rose, his eyes shone like the sun, and his hands crackled with energy, he uttered a single word as he held up his hands palms first in the direction of the enemy barracks. The word was strange, so potent, you didn't hear it you felt it in your bones, and then the fire came; it was as if a fallen star shot forth from his palms.

The spell whistled through the air and struck the barracks with an earth shattering boom, the large corrugated iron building was shattered and nothing remained but a smoke filled crater; the nearby buildings were also hurt with doors ripped from frames and flung like playing cards, windows shattered and deadly shards scattering through the buildings, and walls ripped open like cardboard; burning debris flew up high into the air, nearby electricity poles shattered like they were toothpicks; and the sound itself was enough to render many deaf.

Before the precise results of the explosion were clear Dost Khan and Captain Thornborough let out a shout of "ATTACK!" whether anyone heard it or not is uncertain since their shouts were overwhelmed by the earth shattering roar that rose from 900 throats "ALLAHU AKBAR!" Then they charged, in an instant the slope leading to the mine was covered with bodies charging straight at the gates.

At the same time the Mage Hunters and Commandoes began to fire on the sentries guarding the camp, taking particular care to hit the men manning the machine-gun nests. It was grim but rather simple work, each time that an Azhistani collaborator or his Communist advisers stuck their head up the rifles barked and he was struck down.

One of the machine-gun nests did open up fire, it was a collaborators that had been hidden behind the sandbags and stayed there for a while, but now he popped up and began to shoot, TAKKA TAKKA TAKKA. Sweat rolled down his face as he gazed upon the advancing horde, the machine-gun hammering against the palms of his fists, and a gut clenching sense of fear filled him. As the bullets hit home small sprays of blood rose from the chests and stomachs of the men hit, the sands turned red.

At once the advancing Mujaheddin went to ground, some of them fired their Jezails at the enemy first, but most had to struggle to reload a muzzleloader while prone and under fire, not an easy task. Spouts of dust were whipped up, and occasionally small fountains of blood rose as the bullets tore into the back of some prone Mujaheddin.

On top of the ridge however the development was immediately spotted by Colour-Sergeant Wilcox, he shouldered his SMLE, and aimed at the machinegunner. He positioned the cross-hairs of the scope over the machinegun position, but he did not aim right at the gunner; instead he watched the threads that he had hung up in front of the scope they told him what the wind was like to help him compensate.

Only then did he exhale and at the end of the exhaling he squeezed the trigger, it felt like a tiny rod of glass broke against his finger; the rifle kicked against his shoulder, a fraction of a heartbeat later the bullet struck home and the machine-gunner fell dead.

The very second that the machinegun grew silent the first row of Mujahedin fighters rose up again, and as it did not start up again they shouted "ALLAHU AKBAR!" Within moments the whole horde charged forward once more, bright tulwars glittering in the air.

Then they reached the gates of the mines, there was a terrible commotion as some of them struggled to climb the very gates, and others scrambled over the walls, while some struggled to open the gates; slowly and ponderously the gates slid open, while a few bearded and turbaned figures clenching knives between their teeth were clinging onto the gate even as it slid open and the roaring horde of Mujahedin poured into the camp.

Within the camp one of the Communists stood with his rifle held in his left hand, motioning with his right "ONWARDS COMRADES!" he yelled at the top of his voice "STRIKE THEM DOWN!" He yelled in both Azhistani and Russian, and as he did there appeared dozens of green uniformed Communist guards with bayonets mounted, and scores and scores of native guards with beards and light turbans, though otherwise dressed in a mishmash of Communist Uniforms and native garb.

Then with an earth shattering "URAAAAAAAAAAH!" the Communists and their native collaborators charged, rifles blazing, bayonets gleaming, and vicious curved blades swung. The two groups clashed, not with the thunderous sound of two densely packed rifle blocks, but rather with a low stretched claaaaaaaaaaang of skirmisher clashing. It was close combat so the communist advantage in range and firepower was all but nullified, now it was time for bayonet, scimitars and club, and in this fighting the Mujahedin had the advantage.

Yet within moments small groups of Communists and their native levies broke free of the general melee; quickly they formed clusters and opened fire, but the nature of the camp meant the Mujahedin had ample cover; and though their venerable Jezails might seem laughably primitive compared to an automatic rifle of the Communists, a Jezails' bullet can break a railway crosstie, so a crate that might provide excellent cover from a .30 Communist rifle will be smashed wide open by a .70 Jezail bullet.

Thus for a moment a tense stand off began to develop, with the Communists hiding behind crates or whatever other cover they could find, all while blazing away at the Mujahedin; they had great success whenever the Mujahedin advanced the Communists would fire sending them on to their promised Paradie.

Moments later however the Jezails would boom again, smashing their way through any wooden cover, and with luck there would be shouts and screams as a Communist or collaborator had an arm or a leg torn off, or on occasion cut by wooden splinters. Then the Mujahedin would surge forth again and often drive the Communists back once more.

Inside a warehouse

The Commissar was upset "Fools, fools and traitors," she hissed coldly, a cigarette resting nonchalant in the corner of her mouth, then she spun around and threw the cigarette to the ground before rubbing it out with her heel. She was not a big woman and to increase her presence she wore boots with thick soles, a big bulky trench coat that was often unbearably hot, and of course the tall peaked cap with the black leather brim and a big gleaming enamel red star in the centre. It was her eyes that frightened however, they were a light cold blue, and excellent reflections of this cold blonde Slavic beauty.

"Yes Comrade Commissar!" Sergeant Stavrokin replied, he was a big bullnecked recruit, a peasant really and not too bright, but he had a firm belief in the Party, and the knowledge not to argue with a Commissar.

The warehouse was filled with crates, some opened with a wide variety of mechanic parts sticking out from between the piles of peculiar white packing material; on the ground lay a large sheet of tarpaulin covered in oily marks and a variety of tools. What this was all for was obvious from the other thing in the room an armoured car of sorts with eight big wheels on each side and a menacing turret on top, painted on each side was a big Red Star and a short Cyrillic text.

"Start up the BTR!" she said as she marched over to the armoured car, grabbing hold of a railing on the side and starting to climb up to the turret "Time for an object lesson."

"Yes Comrade Commissar!" the Sergeant said as he snapped off a salute, then he struggled for a while with the tricky rear door of the BTR, nothing worked just right on Krasnaya, but through sheer bull strength he prevailed and threw himself in.

Outside in the Camp

"ALLAHU AKBAR! They flee the cowards!" cried an Azhistan chieftain, he let out a loud ululating cry as he lifted up a captured AK, man his eyes now gleamed with religious fervour as he called "ONWARDS! No time to loot! Charge!" and led his men onwards towards the inner camp where the prisoners were held.

At that precise moment there was a loud crash, one of the wooden walls of a nearby warehouse exploded outwards and from the scattered debris the armoured car shot forth; the turret machineguns let out a steady blaze of fire which tore into Mujahedin and the fleeing Communists alike. The Azhistanis had faced machineguns before, but this 14.5mm machinegun was like a creature from hell who tore men apart filling the air with a pinkish mist

A couple of Communist guards tried to escape only to hear a thunderous voice from the loudspeakers "RETREAT IS TREASON!" followed by the dreadful thumpa-thump-thump of the machinegun, and the screams of the wounded. As an object lesson it was most effective, the remaining Communist guards desperately sought to take cover and at least pretend to fight.

The Armoured Car parked itself outside the gates to the inner camp blocking them, inside the Commissar was personally manning the heavy machineguns; already her palms were sore from the action of the guns, and sweat ran down her face making her short blond hair stick to her brow, but she moved the turret back and forth looking for more targets.

It may seem odd that a mere 14.5mm machinegun could maintain such a rate of fire, or do such damage, but if you could look inside the turret you would see a most peculiar sight: Rather than the usual recoil operated machinegun this one had no visible breach or slide, but heavy wires ran into it, and a large box took the place of the ammunition belt. The weapon was not a chemical machinegun, but rather a railgun using the powers of magnetism and electricity to accelerate the bullet; though they were ungodly communists they had a most unfair edge in Science.

"Sergeant! Where did you learn to drive?" she asked now that they had some respite.

"I learn to drive tractor at co-operative at home Comrade Commissar!" Sergeant Stavrokin replied obediently.

"Tractor? Co-operative?" She repeated disbelievingly So the army still recruits from the shallow end of the gene pool

"Yes Comrade Commissar!" He replied, knowing that it was best to agree with officers, and not pay too much attention to what they were saying.

On the hillridge

Captain Thornborough lowered his binoculars, his jaw was clenched, the armoured car had created an obstacle that his snipers couldn't remove, and now a line of 20 or so Communists soldiers were advancing slowly behind it pushing back the Mujaheddin while inflicting grievous losses on them.

"Can you smite it Mr Hendley?" the Captain asked as he crouched behind a rock while looking to the Mage Captain.

"No Sir," Mage Captain Hendley said, he was sitting down his back against a rock, beads of sweat rolled down his brow, and he both looked and sounded exhausted "I could try but it could go very badly Sir."

"No Mr Hendley," Captain Thornborough said, very badly and magic were words one liked to hear together, instead he turned to the Colour-Sergeant "Colour-Sergeant!"

"Sir!"

"Take a party down there and outflank them if you please," Captain Thornborough said as he motioned at the inner camp "Free the prisoners and see about wrecking that infernal machine."

"Yes Sir!" the Colour-Sergeant replied, then he scrambled up and began shouting orders "You lot there, over here now, come along now it's time to show Johnny Foreigner how it's done."

The Camp

The fighting continued in the camp itself slowly the Mujahedin were pushed back, despite many a valiant sally, however bravely they charged the combined firepower of the armoured car and the platoon of Communists was too much; whenever they found some cover and forced the soldiers to retreat the armoured car would fire, heavy slugs tearing through crates and barrels and any other cover.

Piles of bodies were building up, no Western army could ever have endured a minute of what they received, but these followers of Mohammed were unflinching and in the grasp of religious enthusiasm as they shouted "ALLAHU AKBAR!" Before throwing themselves at the enemy time and time again, but they did serve one purpose, namely distraction, for hundreds of them could maintain a constant fusillade on the Communists, and the mixture of burning wood from crates and warehouses caught on fire, and the arid drifting smoke from the Jezails covered it all good.

Meanwhile the small party of lead by Colour-Sergeant Wilcox had reached the outskirts of the camp, they then quickly moved through it while trying to keep as low a profile as possible. The twin dangers of being mistaken for communists by their own side, and the barrage of fire from the Communists made the advance a harrowing journey.

Finally they reached the side wall, the top of the fence was covered with vicious looking barbed wire, and a couple of nervous Communist conscripts were running up and down on the inside to make sure no one was coming over.

Wilcox sighed, this one would be difficult, however there were a couple of places that looked promising, places where the grass was taller, or where bits of scrap had been left rather too close to the fence. With a few whispered orders two groups of two moved out, Wilcox leading one, they crawled to an appropriate spot all while trying to dodge probing eyes and then they pulled out their large knifes to dig.

It didn't take long before they had an opening big enough to crawl under, then they waited for what seemed an eternity, all the while listening to the battle raging outside; knowing full well that any delay might mean death. Finally the Communist guards passed by, without words the Commandoes crept rapidly under the fence and ran over to the conscripts, one of them heard something and half turned before a large knife cut into his throat and half decapitated him; the other never knew what hit him.

Within seconds the rest had crawled under the fence and rushed into the prison camp itself, they had reached the prison compound before a big bearded guard with a strange multi-coloured headpiece popped up and began to scream, and then aimed his rifle at them; that was the last thing that he did, but he had raised the alarm.

"You lot free the prisoners," Wilcox yelled "Rest of you spread out and hold the bastards!"

There were several brief but intense fire fights, and occasionally it got came down to bayonets and rifle butts. The guards and the Communists were not cowards, they were in truth brave men and able fighters, if not for one thing they should surely have won.

"ALLAHU AKBAR!" the first prisoners shouted as they rushed from their filthy cells, many of them were emaciated but when given a chance for freedom and revenge they grabbed shovels, pick axes and captured rifles, and charged the enemy. Suddenly the guards were not only losing but were struggling desperately just to stay alive.

Wilcox ran to the side of the fence, together with some of the men in the squad he cut several large openings in it "Go fetch Dost Khan! Bow and kiss his heathen arse if you must but get him to come here!" Wilcox yelled at one of the men who at once nodded and left at once.

"Dynamite Colour-Sergeant!" a corporal cried as he arrived by Wilcox side.

"Got detonators too?" Wilcox asked as he peered over at the BTR blocking the main gate, blowing that thing up would be good.

"Yes Colour-Sergeant, plenty" the corporal held up a box filled with them.

"Pack it up nice and tight," Wilcox ordered.

Moments later Dost Khan came through one of the holes, following him was his bodyguard "ALLAHU AKBAR! Hear my friends, kinsmen, hear me Mussulmen! Kill the Infidel! DEATH TO THE INFIDEL!" he waved around his tulwar as he ran into the camp, ignoring Wilcox, but that was fine with Wilcox as Dost Khan seemed to figure out what needed to be done on his own.

The Mujahedin were already on a rampage, some of them used their tools to smash chains and collars, others used them to smash the skulls and bones.

The Communists were finally pulling back, apparently having decided that discretion is the better part of valour, and so they were loading up in their lorries while fighting a rearguard action. Seeing this the snipers on the ridge, as well as the communists in the camp itself, began to open fire on them on the maxim "always harass a fleeing enemy". The fleeing Communist convoy was by now leaving behind a trail of fallen soldiers writhing in the dust, but nevertheless enough survived that four lorries could roll out.

This was when Colour-Sergeant Wilcox struck, holding the improvised lump of explosives he slowly moved closer to the armoured car. He waited for the right moment and then he leapt forward grabbing hold of the hand hold on the side of it and pulling himself up. He had the armoured car between himself and the Communists, and he was much too close for the turret machineguns to hit. Confidently but with great haste he prepared to place the explosives.

Inside the BTR

The Commissar heard the bump on the side, she frowned "What was that?" she asked, but a gut instinct told her it wasn't good. Acting out of instinct and training she flung open the hatch to the turret and stuck her head out while at the same time pulling her beam pistol.

The Mines

What she saw confused her at first, some strange filthy ragamuffin with enormous sideburns and a bizarre uniform neither communist nor native, but then her mind snapped to it one of the attackers, whoever they are and a fraction of a second later he has a satchel charge!

The Colour-Sergeants head and shoulders were stripped of their flesh with that shot, he fell still clutching the explosive charge, his charred skull hitting the ground and then shattering. AS they left the convoy drove past his corpse and it trembled slightly from the vibrations as if struggling to get up and finish his last task.

As the Communist Convoy vanished in the distance, voices rose up, angry voices "They killed the Sargn't," this was followed by men rushing over to see the body, "Sod the bastards!" one of them called. Who bayoneted the first body no one really remembered afterwards, but after the Sergeants death they were in no mood for prisoners.

Hillside

Captain Thornborough saw the grizzly scene through his binoculars, his lips moved in a silent prayer "Lord have mercy on their souls," for that was the pious thing to say, but truth be told he understood his men even if he could not entirely approve of their action; for when soldiers have a trusted leader suddenly slain, and there is no one around to keep things calm and orderly, well the darker side of man is often clear.

He got up and walked quickly down the hillside, he had little hope of prisoners now, but he hadn't really expected any. When he reached the camp he saw that Dost Khan had rounded up all the collaborators, and that they were surrounded by an angry looking crowd.

"O Lord," Captain Thornborough called to Dost Khan.

The native chieftain seemed unaware of him at first, his white fur coat and his hands were covered in blood, and his face was dark from gunpowder, for he had not shirked the battle, but suddenly he called "O Captain! You are most welcome!"

"O Great Dost Khan, forgive me but are those for sale or for the gallows?" Thornborough asked as he motioned towards the prisoners.

"They are for the chop O Captain, traitors and apostates, YALLAH!" Dost Khan cried as a group of miners, all of them volunteers, grabbed the first of the men and dragged them begging and pleading to the execution grounds. The condemned were soundly beaten first, and then the sword was brought down on their necks, their blood stained the brownish dirt of the grounds, and this grizzly spectacle was repeated over and over again.

Thornborough watched silently, the executions seemed to him a great waste, a sign of eastern cruelty, yet in truth they were most certainly necessary; for what else could be done with them? Instead of pondering such matters he gathered up his men and spoke with them on the battle, trying to gain some sense of what had happened.

When the executions were over Dost Khan waved a bright and gemstudded tulwar in the air; the men all gathered around him listening intently to his words, Thornborough didn't understand what was said, but the crowd shook their weapons and roared "ALLAHU AKBAR!" over and over.

Coming from Dost Khan was a man leading a pleasant brown horse, after wiping the sweat from his brow Thornborough accepted it and mounted, before riding to Dost Khan "Onwards O Lord?"

"Yes O Captain! To the city now! Inshallah!" Dost Khan said as he smiled, the big man seemed to be filled with energy as he lifted his sword up high "ALLAHU AKBAR!"

"ALLAHU AKBAR! came the cry from ten thousand throats, and then the vast horde marched on, half naked men with mining tools, half dressed men with stolen rifles, some with bits and pieces stolen from the dead, and others still in native garb, but in their eyes a fiery glow "ALLAHU AKBAR! and inshallah the city would fall.

Azhistan
June 1005 NE

The City of Suleyman Khan

The brick walls of the city loomed in the distance, along the wall there were old fashioned square towers every sixty feet all of them handsomely equipped with loopholes, along the top of the wall there were old fashioned battlements in the native style. Nevertheless part of the battlements had crumbled, and there were parts of the wall where the plaster coverings had slipped away revealing brown stones beneath.

Despite this though the defences looked reasonably well maintained, and when he scanned the towers Whitcomb could see that at least a couple of them had strange oblong objects covered by crates or cloth machineguns or I miss my guess he thought. The city would be costly to take by storm, indeed like most fortified places it seemed it would fall by siege or by treachery.

As he rode up the gravel path he worked with the brown horse, doing his best to seem like nothing more than a well to do merchant, his robes were made from lambs wool, but they were frayed in the edges; his turban had once been a very bright blue, a pleasant colour, but now this too had faded, and the gemstone in the turban was to the trained eye clearly a semi-precious gem polished to great perfection; even his horse had once been very fine, but was a year or two past its prime.

In short he was dressed and equipped as a merchant pretending to be beyond his station by wearing the casts off of greater men, and that made him fit in very well with this town.

Behind him was something obviously suspicious, namely two ox carts filled with barrels, each barrel was unmarked but carefully restrained so as to keep it from tipping over, and walking by the side of each were a pair of guards showing that whatever it was had some value. Naturally every guards eye was focussed on the merchant and on his cargo, while no one paid any attention to a handful of regular travellers, and a poor old man riding a donkey.

The guards looked much like they had the last time, big baggy pantaloons and a variety of jackets, with only sashes and turbans to mark their ranks, true uniforms were being introduced bit by bit but for now they looked like a band of brigands; a not entirely inaccurate assessment. More ominous however was the presence of one of their advisers, his disguise was only so so for you could make out his uniform blouse beneath his sheepskin jacket, and there were few blue eyed Azhistanis.

They approached nonchalantly, not too worried since the trick was too obvious, but nevertheless the barrels might hold a man, or weapons, or any number of things, and therefore it required examination. This of course was a simply sleight of hand, commonplace even, and while the Communist adviser was quite thorough; indeed like a terrier he sniffed all around the place, opening a couple of barrels and finding them filled with sweet date wine, looking beneath the wagons in case something had been hidden on the underside, and even sticking a long staff into the wine to see if it went all the way to the bottom.

By now Whitcomb, acting rather in character, began to bemoan the delay, and as he saw the Captain of the guard approach he dismounted, bowed deeply and offered "O Captain, if you are suspicious of my humble goods pray tell take a barrel and inspect it to your hearts content!"

The Captain rubbed his cheek a bit, then he nodded "Yes O Merchant, you are wise."

The Communist Adviser did not like such open corruption, and he muttered under his breath how such bourgeoisie elements like merchants and corrupt guards would be swept away by the revolution; indeed as he sat around with the other guards getting quite drunk on the date wine he would repeat his worries about corruption, they should surely have demanded two barrels instead!

However returning to Allan Whitcomb he was travelling through the city on horseback giving it a casual look, most of the people would simply ignore him, but on occasion he would be accosted by people hollering "Khaseems the finest lodging house in town!" or "Abdul Aly's with the best wine and the sweetest flowers" where flowers were said with a wink and a smile. Some of these offers were bothersome with the tout leaping forth to plead or jeer, but if ignoring them failed then a threatening look and a swing of the stick would drive them away.

That is until one of them cried out "Come to Abdul Mehmets Rashoods' inn, with big warehouses and guards!" and he bowed repeatedly, he was a handsome young lad maybe in his late teens, brown hair falling down over his brow, and his dress and behaviour suggesting that he was in the employ of a house of some wealth.

"Lead the way," cried Whitcomb, much to the disappointment of the other touts, but there was nothing for it as the youth bowed deeply "Yes O Lord," he said humbly before joyfully moving ahead of the small caravan leading it through the mazelike structure of the city.

Abdul Mehmets Rashoods' Inn

The merchants inn needs a more thorough description for it was and is a peculiar institution in all Mohammedan lands, the Mohammedan fate has in it's favour a sacred rule about hospitality, for even Mohammed himself said "Indeed whoever believes that Allah is All-Generous, Who provides for His creation and rewards those who are hospitable towards their guests, should look after his guest."

Thus though you cannot walk up to any house and demand hospitality it is true that any remote acquaintance and, Allah forbid, distant relatives may come to knock on your door and request hospitality; here however the custom is that you have the right to three days of hospitality, and three days of unmolested travel, in short they respect that ancient dictum that "guests and fish start to smell after three days."

However a merchant often comes into a city without having kit or kin, and therefore the inn is a favourite destination, especially if you have a valuable cargo that is also frowned upon by the pious. The inn was built in the peculiar Mohammedan style wherein on the outside it appeared to be a simple large two story building, with its walls covered in white plaster, and the edges around the roofs painted in intricate geometric patterns. Along the second story there were several windows, most of them small and covered with pierced wooden screens that allowed light in, but hid the people within from view, privacy is after all of the utmost importance in a Mohammedan nation.

There was but a single door leading into the inn, with a portico supporting a gallery above, this door was uncommonly stout door made from some native hardwood that Whitcomb did not recognise, the door opened outwards even though the massive brass hinges. The door and its accoutrements suggested great age, but upon the door Whitcomb could spot ancient burn marks, and deep dents as if some great weight had been thrown against it. Peering up as he passed through it he could see the odd murder hole, and the windows were just so for stopping anyone who'd wish to batter down the door.

Such precautions may seem peculiar to men who are used to the conveniences of modern inns, or even the more primitive coach inns that are still found on the roads of the Great Plains. However in Azhistan, as indeed on Rum, the risk of riots and worse was always there, and merchants were reckoned to be rich and thus favoured targets of rioters and looters.

As for Whitcomb he found this an oddly pleasant fact, and a smile crossed his lips making his thick moustache and beard curl slightly, but he concealed this as the innkeeper and some of his slaves came out to greet them.

The innkeeper was a cheerful fat fellow who bowed deeply as Whitcomb dismounted, his dress was the same sort of dilapidated splendour as Whitcombs. After they had exchanged that greeting which is only lawful between the faithful the Innkeeper assured Whitcomb that this were the safest inn in the city, and that he was Whitcombs most unworthy slave, his servant, and so forth and so on.

That is until the matter of the payment came up, Whitcomb dearly wished he could cut short this but it would look out of place, and as he knew there were competitors he pushed a little on the price, but his impatience and thirst worked against him. The price was a fair one, a little too generous for the innkeeper and Whitcomb showed this by being a little fastidious in counting out the moneys.

"Are you a man or a wolf?" he asked the innkeeper "I hope all the men of Suleymaniyah are not such barterers."

"You honour me O Lord, but it is I who, of all the innkeepers in Kondoz, is the most ruined and poverty stricken, and so if not for these moneys I should be forced to beg on the streets, and my family would starve!" the innkeeper assured him in a very melodramatic fashion, for he had not yet received his funds.

As Whitcomb turned over the money they were offered bread and salt, the bread was of the simple kind shaped like a big ring that you break up and tear pieces out off, while the salt was mixed in with rich thick butter. As it went it was quite pleasant, and they could kneel down and take their water from the fountain that was in the middle of the square. Whitcomb dipped his hands in the fountain and washed his face, without any objections from the innkeeper who happily counted his money.

The inner square of the inn was quite pleasant, the courtyard was covered in cobblestones, and in the centre of the square there was a fountain from which a slow stream of water trickled gently; the stone of the fountain was in many places covered with moss, and in one corner a few lichens had started to grow, but the water was fresh and delightfully cool. Around them rose the inn, the lower level had several open air stables, not even half full, with fresh hay piled up in bales. To the north there were several big wide doors, the innkeeper opened up one of them revealing an empty cavernous room "Here O Lord a fine warehouse for your goods," for it was the custom that all inns provided warehouses.

The second story was where the rooms were, the room they were given was of course completely barren, naught more than the pierced wooden screens could be seen, but this too was the custom. The travellers would bring their own furniture, something which may come as a shock till you realise that the furniture consisted in the main of thick carpets and pillows.

Soon the party had spread out the carpets and the pillows, the carpets were thick but worn, the once bright colours fading, and the pillows were in the main filled with hay, though a couple were stuffed thick with down. They reclined themselves on the ground and began to converse about their plan, they spoke in low tones just in case, even though one of their numbers was looking out for eavesdroppers, for after all "The walls have ears" especially in an area infested by Communists.

"Sir the old bloke, begging your pardon, the inn keep," Corporal Beyer said "he called this place Kondoz."

"Old name," Whitcomb mused "Suleymaniyah isn't that popular a name..."

"No Sir," Cpl Beyer replied again.

"Not very popular these blighters, eh Captain?" One of the intelligencers asked, he too lay reclined.

"No Mr LeBeau," Whitcomb replied at once "I should certainly hope not."

There were low chuckles around the room, and the conversation moved to safer subjects for a while as they reclined upon their couches playing the part of Oriental gentlemen while the rest of the party was alas occupied tending to the cargo and the horses. However once the rest of the party had finished the necessary chores they too would return to the large room which the merchant shared, outwardly bowing deep as if to a superior, but when the door closed the conversation shifted to cautious English as they began to lay their plans.

Poor Section of Town

There was a stranger walking through the poor section that was odd, especially now that the sun was going down and the streets were emptying. There were many dark alleys and narrow streets, and hostile eyes peered at him from a dozen hiding places, here and there young thugs might test the sharpness of their blade and wonder if they might cut his purse, or the man who carried it, and their larger cousins might heft a club and ponder if a spot of violence would be worth his while.

Yet the stranger walked across the dirt roads, avoiding what droppings remained on the street, and apparently not in the least concerned about the bad neighbourhood he was in. Yet he was not accosted, perhaps it was that he was a young man and seemed quite fit, or that there was a certain hardness to his glance, tell tale bulges in his belt, or the dagger only half hidden; but whatever it was the brigands decided to look for easier prey.

He stopped outside a restaurant and walked inside, it was a decent place in that it was run by a pious man who served no wine and permitted no gambling, and therefore it was always rather empty despite the fact that the food was good. Inside the cramped restaurant with its three tables inside, and two outside, there was but a single customer. His clothes were of a superior fabric and cut and he had a green turban to mark that he was a Hajji, one of the very few who had either made all ten pilgrimages to the various spots on Azhistan, or else that he had made the journey to far away Rum itself. Otherwise his features were refined his beard was dark and black, his eyes dark and piercing, and despite his somewhat skinny frame he carried himself with silent dignity.

Seeing the stranger the customer looked up, there was an awkward moment before they exchanged their Salaams, then they studied each other intently. The stranger bowed and introduced himself first "I am abd-Raheem, may the blessings of almighty Allah be upon you."

"Inshallah," the customers said "I am Khaleel."

Abd-Raheem sat down "The days are evil," he said.

"The days are always evil," Khaleel replied, he did not shift, was this man a traitor or a spy?

"The days are very evil now," Abd-Raheem repeated, then he whispered to Khaleel "and the innkeeper?"

"Is a cousin of mine, of my tribe, and a blood relative," Khaleel said firmly, there were no doubts now they would not be betrayed, at least not by his cousin.

"Then I will tell you the truth, that the days are evil when godless dogs are fed from the public purse, when godly men are driven from the city, and wherever you look..." Abd-Raheem stopped for Khaleels look was one of agreement, but also of intense suspicion "There are also dogs that bark to warn their masters."

"Yes, so there are," Khaleel agreed, ordinarily he'd pull away now but he was intrigued, and hungry, for he was too proud to rely over much on the generosity of his relatives.

"You were once the Muezzin of the nearby mosque," Abd-Raheem commented.

"So I was, in better days, but the Imam took ill," Khaleel said simply, suspicious yes but still.

Abd-Raheem moved his hand a bit "Is your voice still good?"

"My voice is fine," Khaleel admitted, "Inshallah it shall remain so, but yes I can still be heard from one end of the quarter to another if I should be as much as on top of a roof top, by Allah," he moved his hand "but what evil days."

"The days are evil when the faithful cannot trust one another for the wiles of the godless," Abd-Raheem mused, he tapped his fingers against the table in an odd fashion "If you saw a great sign would you speak the truth and speak it loudly?"

"If I saw a great sign then I should do more than speak," there he had said it, but Abd-Raheem didn't seem interested in betraying him.

"Then look for a great sign, and I will be there," Abd-Rahim said as he discretely slid something across the table.

Khaleed looked at what had been offered, it was a small leather purse, for a moment he wondered if this was some plot of his cousins to make him accept Zakat if it were it rankled him for he did not see himself as poor; after all if he was poor could he afford clean fresh clothes, or a horse? No he was not poor, and though his stomach gnarled with hunger he made sure his clothes were of good quality, for others can see your clothes but not your empty belly.

"Merely look for a great sign and speak the truth? Inshallah may I never fail to speak the truth if there should be a great sign!" Khaleed declared, he gingerly and discretely took the purse feeling its comfortable weight copper, silver perhaps, or maybe gold he felt a dry sense in his mouth if it is gold then it is not my cousing.

"Then we are agreed O Muezzin," Abd-Raheem said as he rose "May Almighty Allah make your path easy and give you as many blessings as a camel has fleas!"

"My gratitude will be like sweet waters in the desert O Servant of the Merciful One!" Khaleed replied with the same ornate gratitude, the dryness in his mouth however remained as he watched the stranger leave. Then as the peculiar fellow left Khaleed opened the purse, there were five coins within, three were silver dirhams but there were two lovely big Bezants of glittering gold and stamped with the Sultans own seal thank you Allah, truly you are the Provider the Beneficent One.

He was however perplexed, but if he had known that many other men of good standing had received similar visits he would have been even more surprised, but also more excited, something was brewing and it was not good for the infidel dogs.

The Grand Mosque

There was nothing strange in watching a man walk up to the Mosque around prayer time, even though within the walls of the viziers palace the Krasnayan advisers scowled and muttered "The primitive superstitious fools, the sooner we end this tolerance the better" yet for now they did nothing, fearing a backlash that they might find hard to control.

Still Whitcomb was generous as he walked up to the Mosque, a merchant flanked by an elderly man with a red turban, perhaps a relative or his book keeper, and followed by his armed slave who carried a large staff for swatting away particularly annoying figures. They were in short a common sight, but each time some beggar cried "A dirham O Lord, for a starving beggar" or else "The blessings of Almighty Allah on those who give" he would take out a coin or two and give it much to the delight of the beggars.

He had acted like this for two days straight now, and already he was noted for his piety and charity, with the beggars bowing to him deeply and pleading in a most meek tone; which they had already discovered to be most effective in acquiring donations.

No one saw anything odd about the trio arriving somewhat early on this day, and as they walked into the mosque they found that it was quite deserted and empty. They left their sandals in the small niches on the inside wall, then Whitcomb checked the number of sandals and made sure they would have some privacy.

Once inside Whitcomb got a strange feeling of Déjà vu, the mosque was almost empty, outside of the prayer times this might be understandable but the decrepitude of the interior mirrored that of the outside. The Minbar, the pulpit of the mosque, was still ornately decorated with semi-precious gems, and the Mihrab the sacred niche indicating the ritual direction of Mecca, that too was still untouched. Like the last time however the place was filthy and smelled stale, nothing had been done to it since last time he was here.

There was but one man inside the mosque's prayer hall, namely Sheykh Harun al-Ahraam that Whitcomb had seen and heard during the last visit. Harun was an elderly man with a long white beard and a white turban, and a long white robe too, he had made up a small fire over which he had a pot of some well smelling soup that he was letting simmer while slowly stirring it.

As Whitcomb walked up to Sheykh Harun al-Ahraam there was once more the strange sense of déjà vu, he bowed to the Sheykh and they said their Salaams, but there was a strange twinkle in the Sheykhs eye. "Asaalaamu Aleikum O Sheykh of the Mosque!"

"Aleikum Salaam O Travelling Merchant, and surely the blessings of Allah are upon thee," the Sheykh said, this time his eyes keenly studied Whitcomb "Forgive me but," his voice was a whisper "Your speech and hearing has improved?"

So the old fellow recognises me Whitcomb thought but out loud he commented "Yes, a miracle that I purchased O Sheykh."

"You speech is impious O Merchant, unfit for one that claims healing," the Sheykh replied, but his Sufi ways made him appear serene, this conversation was turning interesting for him.

"I beg your pardon O Sheykh but a miracle can at times be purchased."

"So you say, but with what coin?"

"By piety, by gold, and by steel O Sheykh."

"Piety can bring about miracles from Allah, for the sake of he who loves Allah, but how can gold bring a miracle?"

"By paying for Jihad, for he who pays for Jihad has as much share in the rewards as he who fights in it O Sheykh."

"Good answer, but how will steel pay for a miracle?"

"That is easy O Sheykh, by drawing your sword and fighting fervently in the path of Allah to drive the infidels out of the lands of the Believers."

"It is easy to say, but most hard to do, how should this miracle be wrought?"

"By a man going forth to speak of the power of Allah, and calling to the people of the City saying 'Behold for almighty Allah has sent you a sign that you should draw your sword, and take your staff, and choose your keenest dagger, and go forth fighting in the path of Allah'. This is how the miracle is wrought O Sheykh."

The Sheykh remained silent, the languid look on his face changed into one resembling approaching ecstasy "Praise Allah, when shall the miracle occur?" he said in the voice of a mystic anticipating the rewards of Paradise.

"Today, Inshallah, if you would be arouse the crowd," Whitcomb announced firmly, he fought the urge to cross himself as that would be fatal in this city "I shall ascend the minaret with my companions to witness the miracle from aloft O Sheykh."

"It shall be done as you say O Mujaheed, for now I perceive that it was the path of Allah that rendered you without hearing and then restored it, and surely you shall be greatly rewarded in paradise!" the Sheykh slowly rose up, his white robes falling into place, he picked up his kettle and began to scoop up soup into four bowls "Almighty Allah bless this venture, let us eat before the battle."

The Minaret

This high up the billowing winds made Whitcombs robe flutter in the wind, loose scarves flapped around like banners at times, but given the heat the warms winds felt soothing against the skin. Beneath him the city of Kondoz stretched out, but he could see the entirety of the city as he paced about the minaret, dirty streets often packed with people, and thick but partially crumbling walls; compared to Ghazni this city was nothing, but it held tens of thousands of souls, and the walls were more than a match for the light brass cannon of the natives.

From where he stood he could watch the river valley and the fields in the distance, and if he concentrated he could perceive, or so he imagined, the rising dust clouds of an approaching army you're imagining things he had to admit to himself.

Beneath them the sound of the crowd grew louder, within the mosque loud grumbles extended, and then the crowd spilled out of the mosque, the venerable Sheykh dressed all in white was held high on some sort of platform carried by willing hands. The words of the Sheykh were unintelligible to Whitcomb, but they had an electrifying effect on the crowd which seemed to run wild.

Surrounding him was a sea of men some in long robes and turbans, other wearing baggy trousers and light vests, some again in stranger garb, and in the distance some women in more modest clothes always covering their hear. They looked like a massive carpet fluttering in the wind, with brown and grey predominating, every time the Sheykh said something it was as if another flutter travelled through it, and streams of people rushed to join the crowd to see what all the hubbub was about; but there was one thing that lacked, and that was the wild savage spirit, the killing spirit.

Here and there handfuls of people left the crowd, and Whitcomb followed them with his eyes, a couple of them rushed straight to the palace, or rather they walked till they were out of eyesight from the crowd, and then they began to run the moment that they turned the corner.

It was maybe ten minutes or so later that a small group of some two hundred soldiers marched out of the palace, from where sat Whitcomb couldn't get a clear look at them except to see that they were carrying rifles, thick bandoliers, and a strange spiked helmet around which a colourful turban had been wrapped. The officer was wearing a colourful ornate vest over a blue shirt of sorts, and his trousers were also a baggy red, he was waving his sword and commanding his men to run faster. His men were checking their rifles and attaching bayonets, apparently not too worried about a large crowd of civilians.

They crossed the last corner and rushed towards the crowd, apparently not too eager to open fire, and Whitcomb could guess the words that were being spoken "See the UNGODLY come to arrest the pious man, and see the sign of almighty Allah at his displeasure at such depravity!"

Whitcomb allowed himself another little smile, this was the psychological moment if ever there was one "Now if you please Mr Miller."

Mage Captain Miller nodded quickly "Yes Sir," he felt deathly nervous about it, botching a high powered spells could often botch a mans career, and Miller had only gotten his promotion a few months ago. Yet now the magic coursed through him good and true as he broke the seals of the scroll holding the spell while speaking the words of power.

"Make it green Mr Miller," Whitcomb said, green was a Mohammedan colour.

The fiery bolt of eerily green fire shot forth from the minaret, as if the hand of Allah himself had flung vengeance upon the heathen, the ball seared and sizzled through the air with its light for a moment overpowering that of the sun; then it struck!

The explosion was awesome, for several seconds the breeze was much stronger, small pebbles shifted uneasily, grey dust rose up and flushed through the streets like a wall, and every window in and surrounding the palace shattered in a shower of sharp sparks. In the distance they could see the smoke and fire rise up, even though their ears were ringing from the force of the blast, seconds later tiny fragments, so light that they had been carried hundreds of feet up into the air, began to rain down on them.

A large chunk of the palace had been destroyed, the gardens were covered in soot and dust, they could see people milling around madly still in shock and confusion. Then from beneath them they heard a roar rise up to enormous power "ALLAHU AKBAR! ALLAHU AKBAR!" the crowd had found its fury, and now the sound of thousands of throats were drowning out the aftermath of the explosion. Already the crowd had gained that fanatical look, that wild and savage look like a school of piranhas about to enter a feeding frenzy, or a flock of wolves about to tear into a wounded deer.

Whitcomb whipped out his binoculars and peered down at the Captain of the Guards had begun to realise just how the mood of the crowd had changed, indeed his soldiers seemed just as ashen faced as him. They knew that even with their rifles they could not hope to stop a group of Ghazi this large.

Suddenly he laid down his weapons and bowed, saying something, something which greatly pleased the Sheykh, and then the crowd surged forward but joining the two hundred rather than killing them clever that Captain Whitcomb thought he might live to see the sun set.

In the City proper

In different places of the city men responded to the sight of a green bolt of fire striking the palace, cries went up "It is the Wrath of Allah!", or else "The Infidels have brought doom to us all!", but one voice rung out louder than any of these cries; standing on the flat roof of one of the taller buildings of the poor district the Muezzin Khaleel Sardar stood clutching his hears firmly while his loud clear voice carried above the din.

"PRAISE ALLAH THE ALMIGHTY! THERE IS NO POWER AND MAJESTY ASIDE FROM ALLAH! THE MIRACLE OF ALLAH HAS OCCURRED! IT IS A SIGN! TAKE UP ARMS AND STRIKE THE INFIDEL! COME TO JIHAD! TAKE UP ARMS IN JIHAD! GO TO FIGHT IN THE PATH OF ALLAH! JIHAD! JIHAAAAAD! JIHAAAAAD!"

He improvised this verse remembering how he would call to prayer, but his voice was soon joined up by countless other, the cry of "JIHAD!" carried throughout the city as men rushed to grab sticks, or swords, or whatever implement of destruction they could find even if it was nothing more than a big rock.

Somewhere near a butchers store, the white chalked walls had splotched of brownish dried blood from countless animals slaughtered there over the years, the butcher was an enormous man struggling with a lamb as he lifted the razor sharp knife. Then he heard the voice in the distance, at once he let the lamb go and roared out to his family "SONS! BRING FORTH THE BLADES!"

From all around crowds of angry natives milled into the streets, and the muscular butcher rushed into his shop and brought out ever blade and hatchet and meatcleaver, and these he joyfully pressed into the hands of his neighbours "GO TO JIHAD!" he yelled. As he passed out the last dagger he hoisted up his enormous meatcleaver and rushed towards the palace, and joy filled his heart as his lusty big sons ran next to him "ALLAHU AKBAR!" they cried at the top of their voice.

The riots spread throughout the entire city, everywhere you looked people had been dying to avenge the countless insults to themselves and their faith. Here a soldier of the Khan was slain, held down by the butchers' sons and his head chopped clean off by the cleaver, the head rolling down the streets only to be kicked around by the screaming crowd. There a foreigner was found, at once the mass beat and struck him, smashing his bones, and somehow he ended in a clutch of women that attached him with nails, and daggers, and shoes, and kicks, tearing him piece from piece before kneeling down and licking his blood from the streets. Such scenes of horror and many more repeated themselves over and over.

Occasionally some of the soldiers would decide to fight, kneeling down behind cover, or maybe just forming lines in the middle of a street; the deadly rate of fire of their guns could tear through most crowds leaving only broken bleeding bodies in the streets. Yet the people were no cowards, they would climb on top of roofs and begin to fling stones down at the enemy, or oil pots with a burning rag, there would be gun shots and screams, and then the fires began. In cities such as Kunduz fires would spread oh so easily, if one house went up a half dozen would surely join it, and if one house crumbled the neighbouring houses would.

In the chaos there were many horrid scenes, screaming women dragged from the house of assumed collaborators and violated in the streets, houses and ships looted and their proprietors slain; and wherever you looked there was no quarter asked nor given, this was a fight to the death.

Rushing among the angry crowds there were some strangers, but they were always encouraging the slaughter, and occasionally killing the officers of a particularly stubborn group of soldiers. Sometimes when the fighting stopped they would yell out "COME TO JIHAD!" or gather up weapons from the fallen and pass them around to those who came to fight. They would never lead, but always play the drummer boys to whip the men into frenzy, to pass around incendiary pamphlettes, or to lead groups to particularly good fights.

Unfortunately there is much too and fro in street fighting, and during one of the fros a group of soldiers rushed forward, guns blazing as they smashed through the rabble, even in close combat an automatic rifle is a formidable weapon, and so are the pistols of the officers. Anyone who peered out from a window was shot at, and as they ran down the streets they spotted a man who tried to hide; ordinarily they'd have shot or ignored him, but for some reason their officer cried out "Get him!"

For John Harris, an Agent belonging to the Espionage department of the Bureau of State Security, these were the worst of times. He fought quite valiantly, first punching one man, then kicking another's groin, and nearly managed to squeeze away till suddenly he felt a rifle butt in his head and he crumbled to the ground. The angry soldiers beat him and kicked him for a bit, but then seeing the mob gathering around them again they grabbed their prisoner and rushed him up to the palace.

The Palace of Suleyman Khan

Suleyman Khan and Colonel Berezovsky was inside one of the largest rooms that were not yet wrecked, through the broken window they could see the flames rising over the city; the reflection of the flames flickered red against the white chalked walls. The room was beautiful with carpets, with ornate calligraphy, and even a few foreign chairs and other furniture for people to sit or recline on, but it was nearly empty now except for messenger rushing in and out.

Suleyman Khan seemed to have diminished in stature, he had composed himself but the way his eyes sought out the carnage was most unhealthy, he had betrayed everything for a chance at power and now... what would he have left?

It was then that a beaten and bedraggled figure with ginger coloured hair was dragged into the room by two of the guards "O Great Suleyman Khan," they began as they bowed "We have captured this foreigner who is neither an Azhistani, nor a Rumite, nor a Krasnayan!"

Every eye in the room was pulled to John Harris, but he simply spat blood and looked defiantly at them, the guard continued "He fought most fiercely."

"A spy! A damn counter-revolutionary degenerate running dog lackey spy!" Colonel Berezovsky said as he rushed over to the bound and helpless prisoner, lifting his boot he kicked the prisoner hard in the guts.

John Harris gasped, but remained silent, saying nothing just another hour at most and I'll be free or dead he thought, summoning all the inner fortitude he had to resist for just a little longer.

"Who do you work for?" no response, another kick.

"Who do you work for?" still no response, a slap, a kick, and then a barked order "Tie him to the chair!"

They quickly obeyed strapping the struggling agent down in one of the chairs, the Communist Colonel watched the whole affair with a cool and dispassionate glance "This was not caused by the local sheep shaggers," he said finally, ignoring that some of the local sheep shaggers were in fact in the room "This was done by someone who knew what they were doing..." he leaned down and held a lit cigarette in front of Harris "So who... do..."

This was when Harris spat a glob of blood and saliva at the communist that earned him a hard backhanded blow "When our ship comes," the Colonel said "We will win, even if we must blow up this dung heap."

Despite himself a brief smile crossed John Harris' lips no ship you commie bastard, if there's justice then you won't see any damn ship.

"So be it, I don't have time for this," Colonel Berezovsky said as he pulled out a very strange and peculiar looking device, it was kind of like a pistol except with strange long twisted antennas and blinking lights. The Colonel aimed it at the head of John Harris, the agent closed his eyes and prepared for death, but it didn't kill him, instead a blueish-green swirl of energy struck his head and... his brain was shredded, but as it was destroyed every bit of knowledge the colonel wanted was uploaded into the Tartaran Mind-Siphon.

When it was all over John Harris was twitching slightly, his left foot in particular, and a thin stream of drool ran from the corner of his mouth, as well as a thin stream of blood from his nose, but there was no life in his eyes.

"According to this he is John Harris of the Bureau of State Security, he is of Avonlean ancestry, whatever that means, but his father was emancipated for long service," Colonel Berezovsky stopped there he mouthed the word emancipated but then continued "He was keen to prove that an Avonlean can also be loyal to the state; his mission is, and this is how they expressed it 'Limiting the growth of Communist groups by whatever means necessary.'"

There was more, but it was of such a worrying nature that Colonel Berezovsky declined to read it, the Azhistanis didn't see anything odd about the word emancipated but Berezovsky did; Civilized, as opposed to Black Arses, did not as a rule enslave other civilized men, but then again they were capitalists.

"Raise the ship," the Colonel ordered Let me get the ship, oh sweet St Barabbas, patron saint of Secret Policemen, still worshipped by some counter-revolutionaries, let me have that ship and I'll turn my eye to the next superstitious reactionary that comes my way.

One of the Krasnayans desperately worked his communicator, he was so agitated and nervous that his fingers slipped twice, but finally he got the right channel "Nothing Comrade Colonel, there is no response!"

"Nothing?" the Colonel said they caught the ship! St Barabbas you bastard!

"Allah have mercy, all is lost!" Suleyman Khan said as he very theatrically rent his robe as he stared at the city "Your ship! It is gone!"

"Relax O Suleyman Khan," the Colonel said as he tried to calm down their stooge "We have more than one ship, and many other resources to boot, we shall overcome this threat to our rule and retake the city."

"To my rule you mean?" Suleyman Khan said with a tinge of suspicion in his voice.

The Colonel smiled and nodded "Of course, the threat to your rule, a mere slip of the tongue, but now lets hurry and leave before it is too late."

Discretion being what it is to valour, Suleyman Khan, the Colonel and a few other troops rushed to the rear of the palace where they had hidden several shuttle craft; with great speed they boarded them and stealthily left the city before anyone could stop them.

The Palace of Suleyman Khan

The city was burning, the palace was in ruins, and everywhere you looked the bloodthirsty mob was searching for more victims. Here and there, in various fortifications, small groups of loyalists troops were holding up, they were too safely ensconced to be drive out by the power of the mob, or even by those troops that had changed their side.

However the city was fallen, all that remained was the mopping up, and in the distance if you looked really hard you could see clouds of dust rising up from thousands of feet marching towards the city; Dost Khan was coming to claim his prize.

More! More!

LadyTevar wrote:More! More!

Why I'm working on it, and thank you for the feed back, as you all know we writers live for feedback

What a great story!

Azhistan
June 1005 NE

The City of Konduz

The air was rent by a thunderous shrieking sound as the fireball flew through the air before striking one of the Communist redoubts with a resounding boom. Bits and pieces of mortar and white wash went flying, and a thick cloud of dust spread across the streets of Kondoz. When the dust settled a gaping hole had been torn in the thick walls surrounding the redoubt, and at once the cry went up "ALLAHU AKBAR!" and hundreds of tulwar wielding fanatic screamed themselves hoarse as they charged into the opening.

Within there was frantic combat, the clanging of bayonet against sword, the short sharp barks of the Kalashnikov rifles and the long booms of the ancient Jezails. The Communists and their supporters sold themselves dearly, tipping over tables and using them as cover, crouching behind the rubble that had fallen from the walls, and always keeping up a steady stream of fire; but it was all in vain the walls had been breached and for every Azhistani patriot that fell there was just another cry of "ALLAHU AKBAR!" as one of his comrades threw himself to the fore of the fight. The Communist numbers were steadily declining, and meanwhile new fresh Azhistani troops would pour in from the side alleys to join the fight.

Everywhere in the city these scenes were repeating themselves, the few holdouts of Communist and Suleymanist die hards, no doubt hoping they could last till reinforcements arrived, were systematically reduced. In a couple of places the defences built up were impressive indeed, for instance one of the corner towers of the city, a literal bastion in its own right, could not be reduced by ordinary spells; instead one of the mystical four seal scrolls was broken up to summon the power that would end resistance.

As a demonstration of magical firepower it was awesome, perhaps too awesome, as the thick walled tower was shattered and the broken debris was sprayed in a peacocks tail pattern down the hill and across the river plain surrounding the city. As the enormous cloud of dust slowly settled down there was little to be seen other than the foundations for the bastion, and crumbling walls on each corner; before such power, and such a sound, there was naught anyone could do except seek refuge in almighty Allah and proclaim "DEATH TO THE INFIDELS!" and charge in with their curved blades held high as they cut down the bedraggled survivors staggering out of the ruins.

However just as it would seem that all the loyalists were about to be destroyed, as they were slowly forced into ever more insecure redoubts, constantly awaiting the approaching doom, and yet determined to sell their lives as dearly as they could.

At that precise moment there was a roar up in the sky and two wedge shaped aircraft, escorting a third one that looked rather more blocky, scooped down from the sky! One of the Azhistanis, Mousa Abd-Rahim, cried out "It's a shuttle, I have seen them when they sold us wea..." alas he could not complete his story about buying weapons from corrupt communist officers for in in that very moment a small bundle of what appeared to be metallic cigars detached from the shuttle.

One of the Commandoes had enough presence of mind to cry out "INCOMING!" at the height of his voice before the shock wave from the explosions sent him flying ass over teakettle into a pile of rubble; he was lucky and survived, but Mousa alas stood too close and was caught in the shockwave, which threw him about as a ragdoll.

The Azhistanis and the Pendletonians spread out and began to fire on the fighters and the improvised bomber, but the bullets even when they impacted simply bounced harmlessly off the flying wonders that were the Communist aircraft. Beneath the protective cover of these aircraft the remaining Communist troops made good their escape, even though several of them fell to the incessant sniping of the Commandoes.

"Run you cowards! Run home to your mothers! Run you pretty boys!" came the taunts after the fleeing loyalists as Dost Khan's men stood on the remaining city wall cheering and jeering at the fleeing enemy. They hooted and laughed as they shook their weapons at the fleeing foe, occasionally making potshots, but always dodging quickly if the bomber-shuttle made another pass.

Captain Thornborough gritted his teeth "Infernal machines," he said as he peered up at them and to think they said that if God had intended man to fly then he would have given them wings, that was a comfortable thought but obviously having air superiority gave the ungodly a great advantage. He nodded with satisfaction though as he saw that Lt Flowers was already making drawings of the airplanes, it was a good thing to show initiative and to gather as much information as possible.

"Carry on Mr Flowers," he told the lieutenant "and what do you think of their airspeed?"

"Sir," Flowers turned slightly "Their airspeed must be between three hundred to five hundred miles an hour, albeit it slightly slower when they strike ground targets," he showed his calculations they were a tad crude made by taking the time on his wrist watch and noting how fast the airplanes moved from one point to another; but once more it showed initiative, and gave the gunners some idea of how far ahead of the enemy they should aim.

The Geode Mines

Shifting through the warehouses was boring meticulous work, ever crate had to be opened, every stone turned, but fortunately the natives had abandoned the area and apparently didn't think about returning here in the immediate future. Every now and again a bunch of crates would fall over and whip up a cloud of dust, leading to a great deal of coughing from the Commandoes doing the searching.

"Bloody 'ell, what the devil we lookin' for anyway?" One of the soldiers asked as he emptied a crate filled with peculiarly shaped metal objects. They were squarish green with a copper ribbon on one side, and a silvery metal field on the other side, on the flat green surface lots of strange objects had been welded on, and when he peered at it just so he could see strange patterns on the surface.

"Not that nonsense," the Corporal barked back as he walked across the scattered objects crunching them under his feet.

Occasionally however they'd find more interesting things, like a collection of rather glossy magazines of a very dubious nature! The Corporal and the Private were both shocked "Now that is jus' plain wrong!"

"Yes Corporal, jus' plain wrong..."

"Lookit that, 'orrible, 'orrible, shows you jus' 'ow perverse them commies are."

"Yes Corporal."

After tsk tsking for a while the Corporal, a clever chap, naturally confiscated it for the sake of mental hygiene "I'll have to dispose of that," he said as he carefully tucked it away in his knapsack.

Naturally the poor chappy was delighted to comply with this order, although in his confused state he forgot to report when he found another very dubious magazine, and instead accidentally slid it inside his uniform jacket. No doubt the strain of battle was telling on him.

Fortunately all this upset was soon forgotten as there came a cry "Hullo!" as one of the privates broke open a particularly well made crate, packed in among the straw were several greenish stones that shone eerily in the dark warehouse. Eager troops gathered around, the greenish glow reflecting of their faces, "Now this' more like it!"

At once they set to the task with increased vigour, breaking open crates and scooping out the precious geodes as fast as they could, there were extra-rations in it, and possibly an extra stripe too for clever members Other Ranks.

Down the Mine Shafts

The safety lights cast a flickering glow down the long mine shafts, the soldiers had to crouch slightly so as to not slam their heads into the rather low ceiling. Every now and again there'd be a drizzle of sand falling down on their heads, and they'd look up at the supporting timbers, there were rather fewer of them than they'd like.

In front of them a low crouched native was half running, he was skinny and sinewy, his body covered in dust mixed sweat, and indeed all her wore was a dirty turban and a loincloth; his feet had long ago become so calloused that he could run across sharp cross or thorns without feeling it. Occasionally he'd turn around and smile, revealing a toothy grin with many missing teeth "Hurry now O Great Ones," he would plead "not far!"

"Roit, you bleedin' heathen'," one of the soldiers muttered "Barmy wog probably leadin' us into a cave in or sumthin'!"

"What's that Exalted One?" the guide cried out in his own language.

Captain Chrisman, who had already acquired some of the native language, re-assured him "Nothing O Guide, just soldiers talk."

"Yes O Emir!" the guide cried, then he continued his lopping gait down the mineshaft while the Pendletonians did their best to follow.

Now their guide was Dikhal Allah, or so he said for the name meant "One who seeks refuge in Allah", and Dikhal has many meanings including one that asks for sanctuary. However insane he had remained with the Pendletonians, claiming to be impressed with their fighting prowess, and sensing that they were the ones responsible for his freedom he had offered them "Come come O Lords, let me show you a wondrous thing that we hid in the mines!"

AS they proceeded some of them were having second thoughts, but the thought of possibly making his rank, currently a brevet, a permanent one was an incentive for Chrisman to push on a bit faster and further than he normally would.

Then their guide grew most excited as he pointed into a seemingly abandoned side tunnel "In here O Great One, we hide it in here," he smiled widely and danced around a bit "Evil guards they don't know about it, nobody knows except us!" He then scurried into the side tunnel forcing the Pendletonians to follow as quickly as they could.

Deep inside the tunnel there was a spot where it felt rather warm, but at first the Pendletonians thought it was purely from their own exertions for they were perspiring heavily. Yet soon they all realized that there was a distinct touch of heat here, and it seemed to emanate from a cave in not too far from them.

"What is this?" Captain Chrisman said as he walked over to the cave in.

"It's here, it's here!" the Dikhal Allah cried "We hide it in the dirt, we hide it deep!"

The Pendletonians clustered around the detrius, feeling the heat strike their face, when one of them, a young brash soldier, walked over and picked up a rock. He threw it away at once and let out a surprised scream. "'ell but it's bliddy 'ot!" he cried in surprise and consternation as he shook his burnt hand.

It wasn't easy but they slowly removed the hot dirt only to reveal a strange material beneath, it looked like a group of uncut gems, but there was something of a metallic quality to them too; at any rate they shone bright red, and every now and again a flame would briefly flicker over them.

"Thermoberyl!" Chrisman said, he had of course heard of it, indeed it had been a subject of discussion in his geology class, but the stuff was very rare indeed; sometimes a rich man would use it in his fireplace, or they'd discuss using it to make coal gas, but to see it in such a pure state was something else entirely.

There was a lot of it, enough to equip a whole division as far as he could tell, and little by little they brought it to the surface in iron buckets, by the end of the trek upwards the buckets too would begin to shine a dull red like they'd just been removed from the blacksmiths forge. Here was a fortune in pure thermoberyl, and here surely, Chrisman hoped, lay his promotion!

The Communist Ship

The Captains quarters were surprisingly Spartan, at least by Pendletonian ideas, there was a couch, a wood and metal table whose legs were secured to the floor, some chairs made from a mixture of a shiny slightly sticky material and metal, and of course electronic screens. Then of course they had the liquor cabinet a tasteful one made from cherry wood, it was remarkably well stocked in fact with a series of liquors ranging from a clear and tasteless Communist specialty, to any number of foreign imported liquors.

Spread around the room were several Pentletonians, including Captain Whitcomb, "A-ha!" he said as he opened the Liquor cabinet "Unless I am much mistaken the text on this bottle is in Armenian, and it is a Rumish cognac!"

"Indeed Sir," their native guide said, he was a wiry young fellow who Dost Khan had borrowed them, his eyes were alert and awake, his beard a little stringy but behind the seemingly frail surface there was a keen mind and courageous heart which had helped him greatly in acquiring knowledge of the Communist infidels "The Godless infidels purchase much liquor from Rum."

"Well then it's only our duty to liberate this from the wicked communists," Whitcomb announced as he poured a healthy dose into one of the tall glasses "Here you go, sanctuary in my belly," he said as he first toasted and then chugged it down.

Encouraged by the others their guide helped himself to a bottle of a strong clear liquor from which he drank eagerly as he opened up a thick book that they found laying about. It was an unusual thing since there were few books here in the first place, indeed the ship had been disturbingly devoid of books of any kind, apparently all the information was communicated by way of their infernal Cyrillic alphabet projected onto their glass screens.

The guide held up the book and pointed to the emblazed picture of the ship they were currently in "It says Sir the Project Project 775 'Sundown'-class Support Frigate," the Azhistani began "It's a users manual of sorts, O Lord" now he took another swig and continued to read.

Elsewhere in the ship

Sergeant Haddock slapped his enormous ham like hand onto the control panel "Blast! What is a 'cumputer control node'? Can't we just put some good old buttons and levers here? And where the the gauges?!"

The bridge was an unholy mess with wires, shattered glass, and peculiar metal objects scattered all over the place, and of course wherever you looked there were sword marks; indeed in a few places there were rather large round holes often with big powder marks around them.

It was enough to make any mechanic just sit down and cry, but Haddock was hardly a man for weeping, even as he passed by some natives using ropes and bolted on plates of black hand hammered iron to patch up some of the worst damage. They had this thing, now they had to figure out what to do with it!

The City of Konduz

The Sultans Palace

Captain Thornborough stood over John Harris' corpse, it wasn't a pretty sight for foam had gathered in the corners of his mouth, and he was still securely bound. The relatively cool air of the palace had preserved the body though, so much so that the smell of burning flesh from whatever device they had used on him was stronger than the smell of rotting flesh.

"They know how much Mr Lebeau?" he asked the head of the BOSS mission a Mr LeBeau.

LeBeau seemed almost embarrassed "John Harris was one of our finest men Sir," he stopped there realising that this was not the time for a eulogy "Ordinarily he'd say nothing Sir, but given the technology the Communists have we must assume that at the very least they have his name, employer and nationality."

"With those they could easily enough piece together what we have done Mr LeBeau," Thornborough said, a frown spread across his forehead and his beard shifted a bit "This is bad, very bad."

"Yes Sir," LeBeau admitted as he studied the body.

"I know Mr LeBeau, I know," Thornborough said "He was a good man, we all work for the Bureau here."

There was a silent moment of shared understanding, the kind of mutual understanding that is alas often impossible between members of BOSS and the regular army; who though both place themselves in danger for the benefit of the Fatherland, often lack a true understanding of the deprivations, duties and dangers afflicting the other part.

"Mr Flowers, how many," Thornborough asked as he turned his attention to his aide Lieutenant Flowers.

"Sir casualties eighteen, of which there are ten fatalities, to wit we have lost Mr John Harris, BOSS Agent, ..." he now began to list the dead, one agent, seven Commandoes, and two Mage Hunters, only once did Thornborough show a sign of emotion "John Mathias Wilcox, Colour-Sergeant," there the Captains jaw tensed slightly. Lose Lieutenants and you are upset of course, they are after all from the Right Sort of family, but when an officer loses Colour-Sergeants they say he cries tears of blood.

Later
Deep palace dungeon

Mohammad Najibullah shuddered inside of the cold cell, oh why oh why had he listened to Suleyman Khan? He rested on the bitter hard cot of the cell, they had separated them for some reason and put them inside these cold dry cells. He was an educated man dressed in a scholars long robes, black and white coloured, and he had shaved his beard in favour of a moustache to show his adherence to the new ways; if not for that damnable lack of a beard he could perhaps have gotten away, but then again he was also a large man.

Down the dark prison corridor, lit only by the occasional flickering torch, there was another cell, it was also quite dark, the only light was the flickering light of a torch outside the cell, and through the barred window in the door only a small portion of the light could come in. Sitting there in twilight was Nur Muhammad Taraki the poet of the revolutionary movement, and in the darkness he proclaimed his new creations out loud.

"New books, old books,
the leaves all piled together.
A paper blanket
is better than no blanket.
You who sleep like princes,
sheltered from the cold,
Do you know how any in prison
cannot sleep all night?"

Standing in the corridor was LeBeau, he peered cautiously into the cells, deep in his Gallic mind the machinations were already plotting how to get the most advantage of these prisoners. The Communist prisoners had used a very peculiar word to describe the handful of Azhistani's that were Suleyman Khan's Cabinet, they had called it a Politburo, and these two men were the most important in that Politburo.

For a moment he stood there further, but then he walked away, let them simmer for a bit before being sent to Pendleton proper, and there they would have means of making them talk, civilized means but nevertheless quite effective.

Later in July
Foothill near Konduz

Up in the foothills it was quite cool, if you looked down you could easily see the city of Konduz, indeed if you had keen eyes you could even make out some details. They were standing in a glacial valley that led into the main river valley where Konduz was situated, indeed there was a small road stretched from here to Konduz.

It was a road which was already being improved by thousands of slaves labouring endlessly under the sun; some were carrying on their backs large woven wicker baskets filled with stones, they also had a strap of woven textile around their foreheads to ease the load; others were working with crude sticks, or roughly made pick axes and shovels, all under the watchful eye of the Pendletonians.

Captain Thornborough frowned slightly as he watched the scene, making his ordinarily stern features appear yet more foreboding. The slaves were driven a mite too hard and yet too little work was done, if only there had been some proper management here! He made a note of acquiring more water bearers, armies and workgangs both lived on water, and without the bucket or waterskin brigade they'd get precious little done.

"So then Captain Miller," he asked as he turned around back to his own party "Is it done?"

"Yes Sir, it's done I've placed the beacon and the opening should be around now, if our calculations are corrected," Mage Captain Miller replied easily enough.

Assembled by the side of the valley was a motley crew indeed, the captive communists had been tied together in a very large group, manacles and ropes ensuring that they weren't getting away. Some of the women were crying and trembling in a most heartbreaking fashion, despite all the assurances of the Pendletonians, most of them though were more appropriately silent and stoic.

Lt Flowers did rather pity them, the crying women that is, but he realised the simple fact that untying them wouldn't solve anything right now, and there were too many of them to control easily if it happened to be a rouse. Like most of the Pendletonians he was of course somewhat uncomfortable about the situation, after all they occupied a very peculiar place; soldiers captured in war, and women to boot, both deserving of some consideration, but of a very different kind.

The natives on the other hand were most distraught that these women would be taken by their allies, indeed Captain Thornborough, as well as Dost Khan, had often been approached by Azhistani warriors complaining that the blond haired and blue eyed women were not given to them as their slaves; part of the settlement of the war as it were.

Naturally the Pendletonians were not entirely without sympathy for this view, but in general they saw the Communists as being soldiers still, even serving a particularly vile regime, and for now they'd receive the benefits of soldiers. That and of course Pendleton had better uses for them than as hewers of water and drawers of wood, or any other use to which they might be put, and to his mind Lt Flowers comforted himself by thinking that even as slaves they'd still be better of in Pendleton.

Such musings were however cut off as everyone's attention was drawn to the scene in front of them, up the glacial valley. The tableau of a glacial valley seemed to melt away, as if it was an amazingly accurate and lifelike wax mosaic, and instead it left behind something else; a shimmering area that both reflected the light but also let you see what was on the other side, it was as if a giant wall of green ocean water had suddenly been erected in front of them and kept there by no natural means.

Peering through this wall, which reflected the light slightly creating hazy mirror images, they could see a rich and verdant landscape on the other side; Pendleton! The fields were lush and green, and not too far away there were fine groves of trees, indeed a cooling breeze seemed to emanate from the magical gateway. Also assembled on the other side was however a rather large collection of soldiers, as well as row upon row of cannon, and several large piles of supplies.

Some of Dost Khans aides seemed rather nervous, one of them whispered something frantically into the great leaders ear, but he simply laughed showing perfect white teeth in his coal black beard, and replied quietly in his own language. No doubt they feared treachery, but this seemed quite far from Dost Khans mind.

"Your Pendleton appears to be quite a cool and pleasant place," he said as he peered through the gate "water, green pasturelands, and trees, what more does a man need to be happy!"

"Tis' a green and pleasant land, this sceptred isle," Thornborough quoted from a long lost memory "I shouldn't mind to show it to you O Lord, but today needs must."

The first things to make the crossing were the prisoners, pushed forward in their restraints, they came to a full halt in front of the shimmering wall, and their natural terror of all things magical now reached a crescendo. They screamed and struggled all as one now, and indeed only the most strenuous and physical persuasion sufficed to make them pass through the gate, but on the other side a steady supply of sturdy lads were able to get control of them and pull on the ropes binding them even as the Pendletonians on the Azhistani side began to push.

Next came the bodies of the deceased, they were carried reverently by their comrades, sewn up inside their old sleeping bags or using a pair of blankets if they didn't have one; even now the scent of lavender, which had been liberally placed around the bodies, could not hide the sweet scent of decay.

"God willing," Thornborough said "They shall have a suitable burial," for he knew that the morticians could work wonders, at least in the short term, on even poorly treated bodies.

Sombre and silent fresh young man came to replace the fallen, and sombre and silent they stepped into the ranks.

Now it was time for the exchange of mule trains, for there were several big trains of mules carrying the geodes, and several special loads for carrying the thermoberyl. Meanwhile another mule train, this one carrying supplies of diverse types, went the other way. Sometimes the packmasters would turn and nod to one another, quiet like for they knew each other well, but there was no time for idle talk, and all that filled the air was the shouts and jeers and barked orders that accompany all such operations.

It took the best part of several hours to make this exchange, meanwhile the quality had retreated to a nearby tent which provided shade and shelter, here they enjoyed a sumptuous dinner while watching the proceedings. Dost Khan was keen to show his wealth and hospitality and so served fine meats, fresh and dried fruits, glazed fruits too, but the two great marks of wealth up here was as always the nearly fresh fish most delicately prepared; for to bring fish out to his city was a difficult and expensive undertaking. The other dish that all the assembled Pendletonians would remember was Falodeh, this is a whitish jelly strained from wheat, and Dost Khan had it served with sherbet, another thing that required a great feat namely snow brought down from the mountains.

Suddenly the tent began to flap slightly, a strong wind came whipping up the sand, then a giant shadow passed over them; some of the natives looked very worried, and even some of the Pendletonians dove for cover, but Captain Thornborough and Dost Kahn could both laugh. The PRS Explorer dove into the narrow valley and straight through the worldgate, it was a rather perilous operation but no more so than leaving it on Azhistan to be found or destroyed.

Finally though the great guns rumbled through, there were some two hundred of these 3.75" cannon and they were the great pride of Pendleton; alas their barrels were such that they quickly wore out for they fired a particular high-speed shell, but for this they were thought an excellent weapon both against airplanes and against tanks.

"Inshallah we shall have opportunity to use these weapons soon!" Dost Khan announced as he walked among the cannon, gently patting them as he passed by each one "Inshallah the infidel shall be driven out!"

"Yes, Inshallah," Captain Thornborough replied, then he peered at the city "If I may O Lord at least fifty of the guns should be brought into the city, to protect it, the rest can be place elsewhere."

"Yes Captain," Dost Khan announced, he nodded "This valley, the geode mines, yes... even my army would benefit from these," he smiled again "Inshallah they will strike terror into the souls of our enemies!"

"Inshallah," Captain Thornborough repeated as he turned to watch the city of Konduz in the distance Truly Inshallah, for it is all in the hands of the Lord of Hosts...

Interesting to see if the Pendletonians can put that ship to use.

Azhistan
August 1005 NE

The City of Konduz

Sitting in his office Captain Thornborough was carefully studying the improvised map of the surrounding areas, unfortunately beyond the aerial photographs captured from the Communists they lacked any accurate maps; and the Communist aerial photography did not always reveal all the trails and sites that you might wish. Matters were further complicated by a lack of native names for the places, and how the natives seemed incapable of determining distance except by way of daily marches or fractions thereof, a measure that could be anything from ten to a hundred miles.

The office was a rather Spartan place, much to the surprise of the natives, and even his fellow officers, Thornborough disdained all luxury and lived a very simple life. However this trait, as well as his wild eyes filled with life, made the locals respect him greatly, for Ascetics of any sort were valued greatly in a land where most would live in as much physical comfort as possible.

The reports from all around were the same, the petty kingdoms and baronies of Azhistan were starting to stir, but no one knew why... rubbing his forehead Thornborough remembered the occasions when scouts would come rushing into Dost Khans hall and bring news of some other kingdom. Of course they all tend to skirmish with each other on and off so they may be enemies or allies today, depending on the weather

"And it came to pass, after the year was expired, at the time when kings go forth to battle," Thornborough spoke it out loud, to clear his mind.

"Sir?" Lt Flowers chimed in.

"And it came to pass, that after the year was expired, at the time that kings go out to battle, Joab led forth the power of the army, and wasted the country of the children of Ammon, and came and besieged Rabbah. But David tarried at Jerusalem. And Joab smote Rabbah, and destroyed it." Cpt Thornborough said "1 Chronicles, Chapter 20, Verse 1, but also repeated in 2 Samuel, Chapter 11, Verse 1."

"I should hope that our fate would be better than that of poor Uriah Sir," Lt Flowers returned.

Thornborough raised an eyebrow "Why then is it Uriah that comes to mind, and not the Ammonites or the Philistines?"

"Surely Sir we are not counted among the gentiles, and in fairness I do not worry about a fair battle, but rather my concerns are of treachery and dark dungeons," Flowers replied.

"It's a thing of youth not to be afraid of a stand up fight Mr Flowers, but yes treachery, how easy would it not be for our enemies to make all these petty kinglets fight each other and then... when they are exhausted to strike the weakened remants," Thornborough looked back at the maps "So where, oh where, can the rest of them be."

Border of the Kingdom of Khatlon

All manner of caravans crossed the wind swept plains near the borders between the city states of Konduz and Khatlon, so no one saw anything odd about another small group mixing mules and camels in a long train. To native mores it was a ordinary looking thing filled with odds and ends, and all the men were of course armed to the teeth, there was not a one that didn't have a tulwar or a jezail indeed even their slaves were armed as their masters, or at least given big sticks to fend for themselves.

Among this rag tag group of traders and travellers there were however some that did not really belong, they had brought cargo of their own, and they chatted amiably with the other travellers; but hidden beneath fur cloaks and white travelling robes, they had .44 revolvers, and hanging from their necks were cunningly disguised spyglasses. These spyglasses deserve some mention for they were very small but of excellent quality, and they had been concealed inside what looked like amulets; for the natives being very superstitious no one saw anything odd about ostentatious amulets, or the wearer being most cautious about them.

The pair was riding quite close and there was nothing odd about them having a whispered conversation, for so did everyone else from time to time.

"Looks like they're preparing for something nasty eh Simmons?" one of them whispered.

"Yes Watts, looks like," the other agreed.

Their keen eyes were scanning the distance where small dust clouds could be seen, and a low rumble heard, some might think it small thunder storms but they recognised the sound of thousands of hooves and cavalry mustering.

"Think they want some wine Simmons?" Watts asked casually "Wine and trinkets?"

"Like I should say it myself Watts," Simmons replied.

These two men were of course taking a risk as they departed from the caravan, along with some others, to take a chance on bartering with the assembled army, however it seemed worth their while. All armies like drink, idle entertainment, and loose women, and Azhistani armies were no exception.

Stretching before them they found several camps, small tent cities really, with bored soldiers finding exercise wherever they could; here and there other bands of merchants and camp followers had already found them and were working hard to deprive the troops of their belongings, one way or another. For Watts and Simmons the matter was simpler, they had wine, strong date wine, always favoured, but they also had trinkets like amulets, sweets, and all kinds of things that could be sold anywhere you choose.

Wandering among the tent city they saw many things, here and there dancing dervishes and Sufi mystics were showing off their powers by dangling scorpions from their face, handling snakes, or pouring boiling water on their arms without taking injury from it; merchants had spread rugs and placed their goods upon them, and of course here and there young boys, handsome and friendly, could be seen offering themselves up to the soldiers in returning for a handful of coppers.

Yet Watts and Simmons watchful eyes spied other things, good horses that seemed well fed, repeating rifles of a recent make, good clothes, plentiful food, yes even money seemed to be there in abundance. They gossiped and sold their goods easily enough, taking home with them a heavy bag of monies, then they quickly hurried to catch up with the caravan again.

Yet some time after they were out of sight, indeed they took their time to ensure that they were not watched, the two men stopped and began to undo the pack on one of the camels. Kept within was a small wicker cage, quite solid though, and inside were two greyish downy doves.

"Now then Watts," Simmons began as he finished writing on the tiny scroll of paper "think that's all?" he held it up for Watts to see.

"Yes I think so," Watts said as he tucked the scroll into the metal holder on the dove's leg before releasing it into the air.

"And God bless her," Simmons said as he saw it vanish.

Watts nodded "Yes, God bless, lets move a bit more before releasing the second one, just in case there are nasty customers with hunting falcons."

"As you wish," Simmons said as he mounted his camel "then maybe we can see about spending some of that money we made!"

"Yes, we'll be rich as kings!" Watts said as he laughed while mounting his own camel.

The City of Konduz

Dost Khan's Hall

Two merchants in colourful Rumish robes prostrated themselves before Dost Khan, who was currently seated on his throne, he was leaning forward slightly and listening to their accounts, occasionally asking questions. Meanwhile Captain Thornborough stood in the shadows in one of the many alcoves, he was dressed rather more ornately than he usually was, all the better to impress the natives; but right now he was standing unseen peering at the scene before him, a scene so favoured in miniature paintings.

After what seemed to be an eternity they bowed again, politely, and scurried out again, moving quickly but not turning their back on the sovereign. Dost Khan sat apprehensively on his throne for a while, slowly brushing his long black beard "O Captain, your presence is most pleasing" he suddenly cried out as he was made aware of Thornborough.

"O Lord it is I who am honoured to meet with you," Thornborough announced before he approached and kissed Dost Khans hand.

"Now O Captain what brings you to my hall?" Dost Khan asked, for though it was his custom, like it was the custom of any Azhistani lord, to hold court and hear the complaints and petitions of the people, he knew that this faranj rarely came simply to pay his compliments.

"As you know O Lord there are rumblings in the mountains, your neighbouring Kingdoms are stirring," Thornborough began.

"The Ungodly and their lapdogs!" Dost Khan announced firmly "Bah! Tis' a pity you didn't kill the leader of the pack, that cur, that donkey, Suleyman Khan!"

"Indeed O Lord, tis a pity we did not apprehend the rascal" Thornborough conceded.

A smile played around Dost Khans lips, he let out a soft chuckle "Ah very well then, tis' a pity we failed there," he then sat back down on his throne "but pray tell what news did you bring?"

"The Northern Kingdom of Khatlon is mustering for war O Lord," Thornborough said "Already they are sending raiding parties south."

"Yes I've heard of these raids, petty camel thiefs, O Captain" Dost Khan said, he motioned his hand making the large sleeves on his robe flutter "Bah, they are a pack of beggars the lot of them, the threat is I should say from Suleyman Khans brother in law, the villain, who even now hides the snake in his city."

"Poor beggars they may be O Lord, but nevertheless they have mustered over ten thousand men on the border, all well equipped with horses and rifles," Thornborough pressed politely "No doubt they are poor, but the Communists have gold."

A nasty fire rose in Dost Khans eyes at that news "Feh! Filthy thieves to consort with the ungodly, but yes... the Communists have gold," he rubbed his beard "It's amazing is it not O Captain," he smiled now showing his perfect white teeth "Just what you can do with money? Hmmmmm?"

"Yes with money you can buy much, but not courage O Lord," Thornborough said.

Dost Khan chuckled "Yes O Captain, you buy many things both whores and their sons it would seem, but let them come, I shall ride out to smash them," he said dismissively "There is at any rate nothing else to be done, I can't ride around swatting at flies, no let them commit themselves to a course of action that I can oppose and then we'll see what comes out of it!"

It was a strategy, perhaps not the one that Thornborough would have chosen, but at the moment they needed more time to prepare so he nodded his assent.

"At any rate O Captain I am delighted you are here, I was about to send a runner to you with my own news..." Dost Khan began, studying Thornborough for a reaction "It would seem that Tartarus has sent a rather impressive vessel to visit Rum, the ungodly are stirring."

"Tartarus O Lord?" Thornborough said "The world ruled by a Daemoniac moon?"

"A clockwork horror O Captain, a machine of great intricacy made by that great Shaytan Lenin himself!" Dost Khan announced clearly "and yes, we have, as you say, thrown sand into its gears, we've angered it," he smiled widely now "I hope to anger it yet more."

Captain Thornboroughs' Office

There was a meeting of the officers, the two Brevet Captains had been summoned, while Thornboroughs Aide de Camp Lieutenant Flowers was talking politely to the Captain.

"A moon that's a machine inside? The entire moon?" Lt Flowers asked incredulously "Sir that is..."

"A weapon that can make a crater thirty miles in diameter Mr Flowers," Thornborough said as his eyebrow raised slightly "It's old, that old."

"Point taken Sir," Flowers replied, he didn't feel too confident though, the idea of enormous malign moons like some enormous satanic Communist clockwork filled him with dread.

Thornborough returned to his papers for a while, studying them carefully as he made sense of all the dispositions that had been made. A few moments later however the other officers arrived and the meeting could commence.

It was a rather peculiar scene though, first of all for the setting with the peculiar keyhole shaped doors opening out to an enormous balcony with an excellent view of the city. From the windows there came a cooling breeze which made the diaphanous drapes flutter gently. Placed in the room were also large wooden tubs with a big lump of magically produced ice in each of them. Though higher up the temperatures would be cool, even cold, at day the temperatures could easily go over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, only the Platans and the Southern Islanders seemed to find this heat agreeable.

The furniture was also peculiar, a table was of course found being rather impressive, and the chairs too, but both had been looted from the Communists for such items were not known or used by the natives. Thus the eastern opulence of the deep carpets, the wall paintings, the ornate fringes around every door and window, clashed sternly against the overly western design of the furniture.

"Gentlemen," Thornborough greeted them "It would appear that we shall have a fight on our hands..." he then briefly introduced them to the salient facts regarding the build-up in Khatlon, and the other worrying news. To this the other officers nodded but asked few questions, having in part heard much of it already, and also not having much to offer at this stage, Thornborough then proceeded "Mr Whitcomb if you please how goes the restoration of that Communist ship?"

"Sir, the restoration of the Sundown class Support Frigate is almost complete, it looks very peculiar I'll admit, but it works," Whitcomb said firmly.

"Will it be ready for battle if our friends up north come south looking for a scrap?" Thornborough asked.

"Yes Sir, I should venture it will be," Whitcomb said "Indeed we're doing shake down cruises right now."

"Most excellent Mr Whitcomb, well done," Thornborough said before turning towards Chrisman "If something should happen and we have to leave I will leave you in charge of our assets remaining in the city, I would encourage you to familiarize yourself further with the dispositions."

"Yes Sir."

"Mr Chrisman, what is your position on the city?" Thornborough suddenly asked even as he looked about "There's just us gentlemen here now."

"IT can't be held Sir," Chrisman replied at once.

"No? Mr Whitcomb your thoughts?

Whitcomb fidgeted slightly, then he sighed "Sir, I have to concur with Captain Chrisman, this city cannot be held any way that I can see, we took it easily enough and I doubt the Communists are less capable than us."

"And you Mr Flowers?" Thornborough asked.

"Sir I have to agree," Flowers replied.

"Yes I thought so," Thornborough said, then he paused "Not a word of this to the natives mind you, but lets not put all our eggs in one basket, fifty cannon should be enough for the city eh? The rest we keep in the mountains just in case."

There was a chorus of "Yes Sirs," to that, the rest of the meeting dealt with matters of less importance, while the officers fidgeted slightly since the rather puritanical attitudes of their commander prevented them from smoking.

Northern Konduz

The sound of hoof beats were like a thunder on the plains, and the dust of thousands of horses rose up like a thundercloud, joy shots rang out across the entire length and breadth of the army as it surged into the territory of Konduz.

The Kathloni army was coming, and across the plains they cut a swathe of destruction as they raided and slaughtered herds of cattle and camels, stole horses, and raided dozens of small villages slaughtering the men and carrying away the women and handsome boys. Bribed by the Communists and equipped by them they were an army motivated by the offer of pay, and the chance to earn their fortune in a great and glorious raid.

Their cruelty was however not motivated entirely by cupidity, for by so brutally ravishing the land and assailing Dost Khans people they assured that he could not wait it out behind the walls of Konduz; which to the natives seemed most formidable and impregnable. Rather he should have to come out to face them.

The City of Konduz

War Council

The war council was grim, the news of the outrages in the north had upset everyone greatly, in the room sitting upon thick soft carpets were the officers and nobles of Dost Khans council; and of course his erstwhile foreign allies in the form of Captain Thornborough, he had a suitable beard to make him fit in with the other bearded and dark eyed dignitaries. A scent of sweat, fruit flavoured tobacco, and sandalwood filled the air as each of the dignitaries puffed their nargile, the sour cherries in the crystal bowls dancing around hypnotically with each puff.

Dost Khan announced to them, immediately the bearded heads bobbed up and down "I seek your council, that we shall know how best to crush our enemy, O Sheykhs O Commanders O Great Men, surely your council is worth hearing, for I desire to ride forth and meet them,"."

"You are most gracious to agree to listen to our humble advice," the first among them said, an elderly but still vigorous man named Mousa abd-al-Aziz Karzai "May almighty Allah reward your kindness, and you are right in riding out to fight them for only a coward remains behind city walls while he still has the men to offer battle."

One by one they all gave their assent to this, in different words, and even Thornborough would speak up saying "It is not for me to speak too loudly at your council, but if you should fight O Gracious Ones then I am for you, and should fight as well." He mangled the bard a bit but felt confident he'd be forgiven.

"Then we shall only have to gather our hosts," Dost Khan announced "We march to war within the week," this of course would give him time... time to organise certain contingencies.

Then matters turned to a discussion of their strategy, and their tactics, to which there were many points of view, including those worried about the heavy cavalry presence of the enemy. Yet once more Dost Khan spoke clearly and summarized the prevailing view, which curiously enough was the one he had held to begin with "We shall ride straight at them, engage them where we encounter them, and as for tactics they depend on where we meet, so it is pointless to talk of them before we know where we shall engage in battle."

Here however Thornborough interjected "O Lord, it is indeed wise to strike firmly, but if I may offer one addition, among us are three mages of some power; if Dost Khan would permit I should have one of them take some of the ether in your warehouses and prepare a spell of great potency so that when the battle is joined the bulk of the enemy can be struck."

"Your speech is wise O Captain," Dost Khan replied "My Seneschal will give you access to the æther stores, Inshallah this will bring misfortune to our foes."

A Week Later

Dost Khan had spent the week quite well gathering his hosts, taking special care to reward the two thousand or so men that were truly his and not merely his by alliance. However he also took great care to secure his flanks by calling upon his friends and allies to cover his flanks, by blood and by friendship he had secured his southern flank and was now free to move up North; provided of course that there was no treachery, but that was in the hands of Allah.

Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners? Thornborough thought as he watched the assembled forces of Dost Khan. Who can truly understand the words of the Bible unless they've seen an assembled army, especially a barely civilized one, dressed in all its barbarian fineries and with their banners carried by proud, brave, honourable, yet deceitful and treacherous men, who saw no contradictions in having all those qualities at once?

Along with Thornborough rode ten of the Mage Hunters and thirty Commandoes, on a pack of sturdy mules they had loaded two Maxim guns and much ammunition, which helped lift their spirits, for as the men would sing:

"Whatever happens, we have got,
the Maxim gun, and they have not!"

A fine surety against large hordes of natives on horseback, for as the Platans had to learn a group of horse charging a Maxim gun is a recipe for disaster; and Mystery Meat once the cooks get their hands on the remains.

"ALLAHU AKBAR!" came the cry from ten thousand throats, over and over, followed by another "JIHAD! JIHAD!" as Dost Khan rode forward. He was dressed in his white fur coat held open, it was rather warm in the clime but a splendid sight all the same, his eyes had been emphasised by Kohl, across his chest ran two spectacular bandoliers filled with well polished cartridges, and he also carried on him much jewellery and embroidered clothing, as well as a large hefty purse so that if he was slain his killer would not think ill of him.

Then came his personal banner bearer carrying an enormous green banner upon which was written a quotation from the Koran, and following this came all the other officers and lords leading their hosts; each with his own banner, and each with his own retinue of kinsmen and armed slaves, all of which were dressed splendidly and armed with jewelled weapons, only the fact that the slaves had their beards shaven off and their cheeks emphasised by rouge could tell you which was which.

The soldiers were also fierce figures, rough men with huge beards, tulwars by their side, and jezails slung upon their backs, some had drab coloured turbans, while others wore woollen caps or fur hats, all of them had the big loose pantaloons and baggy shirts and jackets that so mark out Mohammedan attire. There was little order in their march, except that they remained close to their banner and attentive to their lord, and in the early days they were quite joyful and would occasionally fire their weapons in the air.

Dost Khans soldiers however, and the favoured soldiers of the lords, wore somewhat better clothes, but most importantly slung over their shoulders they had stolen automatic rifles which they treasured above all things.

Finally in the rear came some five or six thousand camp followers, a motley collection of merchants, artisans, entertainers, Sufis, mad dervishes, and of course the inevitable fair skinned boys and thinly veiled women. This group was an undignified mass, but still moving on at a fair clip.

During the advance there were continual scouting parties sent forth, and there was scarcely an hour that went by without scouts returning with news of the enemy advance; often this news was little more than tribal gossip, but what was clear was that the main body of the enemy was drawing near.

This of course pleased Dost Khan immensely for he would call "Inshallah I shall strike them sunder soon!" and the men were thus encouraged by the aggression and confidence of their commander and despite fatigue they pressed on quickly.

Each night the army would stop and the camp followers would rush forth to gather up firewood, or in many cases dried dung from the many beasts following the army, and this they would pile up on the fires even as others were busy making a quick ditch and earth wall around the camp. Many of the men groaned at these precautions, but Dost Khan was cautious and secretly most concerned about a night time raid.

Such cavalry raids were a great terror for a thousand horse riding hard can sweep across a camp many times that number, throwing torches firing rifles and driving away beasts of burden and cavalry horses. The warlike Azhistanis were of course experts in such tactics, but they were also good at countering such tactics if they had a commander with the presence and strength of will to enforce such counter-measures.

Around the gates to the camp brambles and thorns were gathered, and in the ditch surrounding it Dost Khan had the camp followers stick sharpened pieces of wood; not only this but sharp stones, tiny holes, and even caltrops were also used, but the most effective trick was no doubt a hidden rope strung across certain strategic parts of the wall, even a steady footed horse would stumble and fall upon hitting that at full gallop.

During the night when Thornborough lay in his Spartan tent he could hear the loud chanting of the dervishes, designed to keep the camp guards awake in the cold night. Loud mournful cries as they sang of the glory of battle, the splendour of paradise, but most of all a passionate ecstatic love of Allah. In his tent Thornborough stirred, he couldn't sleep, and he rose up from his bed, walking past the sleeping shape of Lieutenant Flowers.

Outside it was bitterly cold, but above him he could see the stars being so utterly clear, only a few fires added light on the ground, and most of them were dying down with the shapes of blanket draped men huddling around them. Feeling oddly restless he began to walk the ramparts, the cold ground crunched under his feet, but he didn't shiver for his cloak was thick.

Once he spotted a guard sitting quietly upon the ground just outside the light giving circle of the fires. There was a thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and the barrel of the jezail sticking up from the between the folds of the blanket; Thornborough thought that the man was asleep but as he moved closer there was a sudden move of the head and he stared into the keen eyes of that warrior, the mans eyes reflected the torchlight and his breath was misty in the cold of the night. For a moment their eyes met, and then the moment was over and they each went their separate ways.

In the morning of the third day, just before the camp broke up, there came a rider moving at a great rate indeed, the guards shouted a challenge at him but he only cried "FRIEND FRIEND! By Allah I am a friend! For the sake of us all let me in!" seeing that there was just one haggard figure they let him through and he rode as hard as he could straight towards Dost Khans tent where he brought his horse to a halt and rushed towards the tent "O LORD! O LORD! Hear the plea of your people!" he cried at the top of his voice.

AT once Dost Khan came out, his thick white fur coat fluttering around him, he saw the haggard man kneeling upon the ground and taking ragged breaths; and then he saw the horse which was covered in layers of sweat as thick as a mans finger, and foam out of its mouth as the animal rested at deaths door. "Speak O Messenger, for I shan't refuse to hear the pleas of my people," he cried knowing full well that the news had to be important.

"O Lord, O King," the man began, then he coughed "I am Abdalaziz, son of Kerim Hajj, your foes are upon us, they have raided our cattle and as we speak their armies close upon our village!"

"By Allah!" cried Dost Khan "All men arise! Go forth go forth!" he cried, and then he reached into his purse and poured gold coins in the lap of the messenger "By Allah you are worthy of reward! Give him a robe of honour! Give him a horse! For Inshallah I shall on this day smite my enemies and restore your herds of cattle."

Abdalaziz bowed deeply in gratitude "May Almighty Allah bless and preserve thee O Lord for you are most gracious, generous, and Allah loves those who protect the weak!"

The Village of Ayvaz

Upon the endless plains of Azhistan there was a village surrounded by a tall dirt wall, inside the village there was a small cluster of one or two story buildings made from sun dried brick. Only the local mosque and its two minarets towered above the lower houses, but it too was a simple chalk white building. Upon the ramparts around the city could be seen the natives, simple herdsmen and peasants most of the time, but now clutching heirloom Jezails.

Upon this small village there descended from three sides the Khatloni armies, thousands of them, appearing like an army of locusts about to devour the village. The advance parties of this army was already skirmishing with Dost Khans scouts, it was rather indecisive though as both sides moved back and forth firing the odd shot at one another without either one pressing too hard just yet.

All of this could be seen by Dost Khan as he sat on his horse on top of a small hill, if you could call it that, for it was scarcely more than twenty feet taller than the plains around it. By his side Thornborough also studied the scene through powerful binoculars.

"What is this village called," cried Dost Khan.

"It is called Ayvaz O Lord," came the reply from one of his scouts.

Dost Khan smiled once more showing his perfect teeth, but now it was more like the smile of a wolf "Good, then this will be the Battle of Ayvaz."

Azhistan
August 1005 NE

The Village of Ayvaz

Within the village of Ayvaz there stood fifty or so men with Jezails and rusty swords, peering out above the earthen walls at the approaching enemy army. These men clutching their weapons, their hands and faces grimy, were defending their house and home, but they knew they were outnumbered and outmatched, yet if they did not fight they would be just as doomed as if they did; and so they had determined to fight to the bitter end, praying for the intervention of Sufi saints, and reciting "Ya Muntaqim! Ya Muqaddim!" over and over till the sound rose like a low drone over the men.

Suddenly one of the keen eyed young men spied something on top of the distant hill "Father! Father!" he cried at the top of his voice as he pointed at the hill.

"What is it my son?" An ancient village elder asked, his robes rustling about him as he came running with his Jezail held firmly in a wizened birdlike hand "Have they surrounded us fully now?"

"Nay father, look! The green banner! The man in the white furcoat! Praise Allah! It is Dost Khan!" his son called.

"Ya Allah! Can it be?" the old man said as he lifted his rosary beads to his mouth, fiddling with them so the finely carved wooden beads clacked together.

On Top of the Hill

"Now what do you think O Captain," Dost Khan said as he stroked his long black beard.

Thornborough looked at the enemy and their dispositions "They seem most determined to capture that village O Lord, which surely work to our advantage!"

"Yes, I remember O Captain your concerns that your spell should strike us, but..." he motioned at the village "If we put ourselves in that protected village, why then we can use all our surprises without fear."

"Indeed O Lord, we may anchor our lines on the village," Thornborough hesitated now, there was one other tactic that immediately leapt to mind.

"Or O Captain we can go in there, hold the village, and let the enemy surround us, and then when we are surrounded we can pour fire into them, call upon our spells, and of course," he motioned upwards into the air and smiled very widely "Our other surprise!"

Suddenly with violent speed Dost Khan turned about and rode to Mousa abd-al-Aziz Karzai "Hear me O Sheykh and Noble Lieutenant," he called out "You shall lead our main body, dig here a trench before this hill, with a dirt wall to aid us, and then take the enemy charge when it comes; I shall relieve that village, when we strike the enemy with fire and magic lead the armies forward to sweep them up if you can!"

"I hear you O Lord," the venerable officer replied as he gave a bow "So it shall be, Inshallah we shall prevail!"

"Inshallah O Venerable one," Dost Khan agreed, then he smiled and drew his sword "Are you ready to ride forth?" he cried out to his men, he was met with an earshattering roar of approval.

"GOOD!" Dost Khan now let out a frightening battle cry and then roared "TO THE VILLAGE MY MEN! ALLAHU AKBAR!" as he set his horse in motion riding hard towards the village.

"Praise God!" Thornborough muttered as he spurred his horse, the fine chestnut mount leaped into action bounding forward at a prodigious rate.

Behind the pair followed very closely Dost Khans banner bearer holding the fluttering green banner whereupon was embroidered, in gold of course, quotations from the Koran. The rest of the cavalry force, several hundred in number, came thundering behind them, shouting wild warcries that could be heard all across the plain.

The Village of Ayvaz

The villagers looked nervously upon the approaching figure, but then they recognised their chieftain, and the elaborate banner that was behind him. Better yet when Dost Khan cried "I am Dost Khan! I have heard your pleas for justice O Faithful and come to aid you in the battle, open your gates and grant us entrance."

"Allah be praised!" the village elder cried as the gates opened letting Dost Khans men flood into the village, the moment that Dost Khan dismounted the elder rushed towards him and threw himself in the dust "Blessings upon thee O Dost Khan," he cried.

Dost Khan simply handed the reins over to one of his trusted soldiers and then called "Arise O Elder," and he offered up his hand to the elder. The elder then reverently kissed the sleeve of the white fur coat "Aaaah," said Dost Khan "Humility is a most admirable quality! From now on you may kiss my hand O Elder," he called.

"You honour me O Lord," the Elder said as he bowed once more.

While they were speaking Dost Khans men & the Pendletonians were spreading out quartering their horses in the village square, where big eyed young lads came running out to help and to admire the beautiful warhorses and the men that rode them; many a young boy idolized these cavalry men, and seeing them up close was like a dream come true. They looked eagerly at the strange automatic rifles, and even more curiously at the bizarre Khaki clad men that seemed to be part of the great lords army.

"Mr Flowers," Thornborough called as he rushed over to the mules that held the precious Maxim guns "Take one of the maxim guns and ten men, set up position on the North-East wall, wherever is most expedient, Sergeant Jones shall take up position towards the North-West. Sergeant Haddock take ten men under your command you will protect the south! The rest of the men will be in a roaming command commanded by me, except two of the mage hunters who will ascend the minarets and use them as snipers perches, are we all clear on our orders and position?"

"Yes Sir," the trio called at once, before rushing to fulfil their duty, both Maxim guns were rushed towards the best positions. While they worked to prepare everything the men sang merrily to ease their minds.

"Oh, I'll take the tripod,
And you take the gun,
And you'll be in action before me.
And if you get shot,
I'll take the blooming lot,
And I'll eat your iron ration in the morning."

The rest of the songs were however not fit to be printed, at any rate the dirt wall was a bit tall, but the men quickly dug up dirt to make a mound, and some enterprising fellows were smart enough to break down a sagging wall nearby and take the bricks from there to help build a secure machinegun nest. It is incredible what men can do, and how quickly, if they are motivated and well trained.

By the minarets there were quite a few keen eyed men, aside from the Pendletonians, they cheerfully threw the doors open and ran up the stairs to the top of the minarets; there they threw themselves down and cradled their rifle, some of them resting the barrel against the railing on top of the minarets as they waited for the enemy to come within range.

In each minaret a Mage Hunter was cradling a slightly peculiar looking rifle, these weapons were slightly longer than the other rifles, and lacked the large visible magazine being instead single shot. The barrel was also unusually thick, a heavy contour barrel as it was called, and the stock cut down but also given a cheek rest. A powerful Helvetian scope completed the make-up of this weapon, they casually removed the bullets, every time they got bullets they would smooth them out with fine nail files so to remove any burrs or imperfections that might affect the flight of the round.

Keen eyed men now surveyed the approaching throng, some might call their methods unchivalrous but the snipers place in war is one that requires great courage, and many of the rules of fair play must alas be abandoned when full war is joined, particularly against such savage groups as the Khatlonis.

Meanwhile Dost Khans men were manning the dirt walls spreading across the ramparts with their jezails at the ready resting carefully on the top of the dirt wall as they squinted and tried to see through the dust whipped up by the hooves of the charging enemy horse. Their Pendletonian allies were acting much the same, lining the wall and loading their SMLE rifles as they waited for the enemy to come within range.

Standing in a central area, an improvised command post, Captain Thornborough turned to Dost Khan "Any regrets O Lord?"

Dost Khan looked at the approaching enemy, then he smiled again "Regrets? I have no regrets, the dice is cast, the game afoot," and then he recited the poet Omar Khayyam.

"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it."

Main Body of Dost Khans forces

By the hillside the first regiments of the enemy force had reached the Konduzi line and the forces were skirmishing, here and there small clusters of Konduzi warriors would discharge their Jezails at the charging cavalry men; the initial charge of several hundred of Kathloni warriors had been broken up, and now small scattered groups were making probing raids, searching for weakness, and firing their carbines at a distance. Every now and again some man or other would fall down clutching his chest or gut, or a horse would crumble sending its rider flying.

Even as the Konduzi forces under Mousa abd-al-Aziz Karzai dug furiously into the parched hard soil of the plains, cursing that this manual labour was unworthy of them but still held together by the strength of their officers reminding them that the Prophet Mohammed had won a great victory by having his men dig a trench; "Surely ye are no worthier than the Companions of the Prophet!" he would shout, and the men would turn back to digging.

Meanwhile they could see the vast mass of the Kathloni army moving into position, thousands of horsemen forming seemingly endless lines; but they were also sending part of their army to surround the village itself.

The Village of Ayvaz

By now the bulk of the enemy army had surrounded the village, with wild savage war cries they promised to break the defenders "We spit on the followers of Dost Khan! We pull their beards! We strike off their heads!" were but some of the insults and challenges that they shouted at the top of their voice towards the defenders.

However when they tried to take the village there was a great misfortune, they were a picturesque sight as the first regiment of their horse charged at the city walls, no doubt determined to reach it and then breach it before the defenders could organise. Yet despite their new fangled rifles they had never attacked a defended position where the defenders had repeater rifles and machine-guns.

The lead party was led by a dark and pale man waving a glittering sword over his head, the entire regiment gave out a single ululating war cry as they charged at the walls. Their long robes and native garb fluttered in the wind, so did the elaborate black banner with the silvery calligraphy praising Allah and the Prophet. Then the charge, the mass of horses was so intimidating, their rifles fired so fast that it seemed a single moving sheet of lightning was attacking them.

At the dirt wall they could hear a very peculiar sound trrrprprrprrrpprr-thk-thk-trp as the bullets struck it, and occasionally there was a cry as some warrior or other was hit in the head or shoulder and collapse with a bloody wound. Yet a dirt wall has the benefits of being very resistant to bullets, two or three feet of dirt will stop even the mightiest round, and the dirt wall cannot be burned.

As the regiment came closer and closer, and the defenders could feel in their bones the vibrations of the enemy horse, the defenders did not falter for a moment. Closer and closer the attackers came, and with each yard closer the officers would cry out loud "Hold! Hold!" and the Sergeants would cry "'old you blighters! An' if any o' ye lot fire' ah'll nail 'is arse to the wall! 'old or a baton on yer 'ead!" and walk among their men adding "Calm now, an' 'old" if that was needed too.

Then as the enemy came closer, and closer, and closer, the soldiers grew ever more nervous, here and there you heard a loud BOOOOOOOOM from a jezail often followed by loud yelling and the occasional sound of a stick against a head as an irate commander corrected his overeager men.

Closer they came, 400 yards, 300 yards, 200 yards, and then they could be held back no further the order came "FIRE!"

Over a hundred Jezails and a score of automatic rifles barked at once and the massive heavy lead balls tore into the tightly packed enemy mass, horses screamed and fell over, mens stomachs were torn apart, arms and legs shattered, but in the main the mass moved on.

Then all of a sudden the Maxim gun opened up with its loud TAKKA-TAKKA-TAKKA the gunner slowly swept the barrel of his weapon across the advancing horde, while his loader held the long cloth belt carefully feeding it into the bucking machine. The rounds tore into the enemy horse, shredding the entire first rank of their regiment, and indeed he began to cut them down almost as fast as they could advance even at a full gallop.

This was when ten Commando riflemen opened up, their SMLE's blazing away so fast that the brass cartridges did not hit the ground before the next shot was fired, this was the fastest bolt action rifle ever made and the men firing it were some of the finest marksmen in the world. The fierce blaze of their rifles was so intense that the Konduzi and a handful of communists became convinced that the Commandoes were using automatic rifles. Each shot was an aimed shot worked untold damage to the charging enemy which was now leaving a bloody trail of mangled men and horses.

Yet for all this carnage they were not cowards, on they came onwards and onwards until their leader collapsed and fell his banner striking the dirt, then they scattered like a flock of birds struck by a predator.

Over by the Maxim gun the gunner slowly lifted his finger from the trigger, he smiled a bit as he reached out and gently touched the barrel quickly yanking his hand back. "You wanna cuppa?" he asked as a big grin spread across his face, he peered at the couple dozen rounds still left on the cloth belt. Once one of those 250 round monster belts had been fired to the end the gallon or so of cooling water was boiling hot, just right for a nice cup of tea which is indeed what they did with it as they poured the steaming hot water into the kettle.

Main Body of Dost Khans forces

A few miles away their Prince was fighting for his life, but the thousands of men of Dost Khans army were tied down by a couple thousand tribal raiders.

The battle raged back and forth around the half finished trench line, initially as the enemy cavalry regiments advanced they formed a single long line several files deep and launched a massive charge with jezails swinging, and rifles barking madly.

This grand charge struck the firm like of Konduzi warriors in a tremendous clash, booming jezails and barking automatic rifles, lances and swords clashed with bayonets, and above all the pitiful screams of the wounded horses so unwillingly brought into this fray. Yet each grand charge was shattered upon the defensive line, drawing back with a trail of bodies behind them littering the ground like a grizzly carpet.

Nevertheless these tribal raiders accomplished one thing, they forced the main body to remain still for there was no way that they could endure the withering fire and harassment that would be their due if they should leave their defences and march across the several miles to the besieged village.

The Village of Ayvaz

Outside the village, just outside the range of the rifles, a group of women dismounted, they were dressed in striking yellow burkhas and surrounded by a bodyguard of riders. Immediately they began to move their hands in a strange pattern while uttering secret syllables.

One of Dost Khans men hissed at the sight "Witches!" he said and spat, at once the word travelled up and down the firing line, there was spitting and many of them made the sign against the evil eye.

On top of one of the minarets Corporal Bendick peered down the scope of his rifle he slowly moved the crosshairs across the yellow burkha'd woman, then he took a deep breath; there was no condensation on his scope so he knew that the air was dry, so dry that his nostrils hurt, and the strings he had tied in front moved just so telling him how the wind was. Gently he aimed slightly away from the witch before squeezing the trigger, the rifle kicked against his shoulder and the witch tumbled down "No spell tonight, they call us mage hunters for a reason," he said to no one in particular.

There was a brief pause and in that pause native water carriers poured relatively clean water from goatskin waterskins into the metal jacket surrounding the barrel of the Maxim guns, and the gunners mate loaded each with a fresh 250 round cloth belt.

"God in 'eaven 'ave mercy!" one of the soldiers muttered in English as he watched the thousands of Khatloni soldiers line up ready for the final charge. This time they looked quite serious, a mixture of infantry, dismounted cavalry, and cavalry that would charge up against the dirt wall.

Over by the command post "Mr Miller now would be a good time for our little surprises," Thornborough said as he turned to the Mage Captains "If you gentlemen would please summon Brevet Captain Whitcomb and commence firing at the enemy."

"Yes Sir," Captain Miller replied "Please advice when I should cast the Big One Sir."

"Of course Mr Miller," Thornborough replied.

As the Khatlonis began massing the Battle Mages began to cast their spells, with great regularity the three of them would pour large fireballs into the enemy ranks, they'd whistle through the air trailing smoke behind them and spreading great panic even before they hit; then they'd strike with a momentous explosion like a heavy mortar shell tearing through flesh, sending wounded horses screaming madly while their guts seeped out through their bellies, and men who caught fire howling in anguish.

Yet these were men, and though they were startled by it they recognised magic and howled and hooted in anger as they continued to form their ranks, the banner bearers waving the huge flags and the commanders running back and forth yelling encouragements to their men despite the hail of fireballs and bullets. Many times one of the leaders would be cut down by sniper bullets though, but as fast as they were running or riding it wasn't so easy to hit them at that distance.

KKS Hayreddin Barbarossa Pasha, Formerly Communist Ship

The Kingdom of Konduz's ship was named after the famous family of Turkish admirals, but it was also the only famous naval commanders name that the Azhistanis had heard of and so of course it was used. The ship was truly an unholy jumble, shining screen read outs and holographic displays were now supplemented by shiny brass levers and dials crudely fixed to damaged parts; and inside the consoles and walls the strange greenish plates with all the odd metal parts attached were now supplemented by huge banks of vacuum tubes, and the odd row of incandescent tubes set to light up if something went wrong. Moreover in some areas the old plastic surfaces used to cover banks had been replaced by neat panels of polished wood.

In short it looked truly strange, but most importantly from Whitcombs point of view it WORKED, indeed this was what was on his mind as he lounged in the comfortable captains chair peering at what appeared to be an enormous panorama window, but which was in fact a projecting device capable of showing him a view from any part of the ship, and even zoom in on distant objects; truly a wonder of technology!

"NOW"

The telepathic message made him almost leap out of his chair, his hairs stood on end, he recognised the voice at once "Men," he called to the bridge crew "It's time that we join the fray!"

AT once the anti-gravity engines of the KKS Hayreddin Barbarossa Pasha kicked into drive and the ship leaped forward like a young colt released from its pen. All over the ship eager young men were testing the fusion cannons that made up the bulk of its armoury, and in the bomb bay the huge blackpowder bombs were lovingly checked to ensure that they would indeed go off.

The Village of Ayvaz

"Here they come!" came the shout from the allied ranks, they saw a veritable tidal wave of human and horse flesh charging towards them, banners waving, swords gleaming in the air, and automatic rifles kicking up dust all along the dirt wall.

None of this mattered to Mage Captain Miller, he was casting what was normally a simple spell but so boosted by magic "As the fire burns beneath me," he pointed two fingers of his left hand at the ground "as the fire comes from above me," he pointed three fingers of his right hand up into the air "by the promise of justice and the fire that burns, I conjure you fire from the soil and from the sky."

He now held out his hands as if a cup and it seemed as if a single drop of burning oil dripped into his hands falling from above, and as it did a fire so thin that it looked like burning gas seemed to leap from the ground to his hands "In fire," he called as he let the tiny marble sized but brilliantly bright pebble fly from his hands towards the enemy.

It was such a harmless thing, it flew through the air gently, not like the large fireballs earlier on, but to the witches it was a thing of horror! They saw it as it truly were, and when it struck the ground it set it on fire, and the fire spread outwards further and further, a ring of fire and everything it touched it burned. Horsemen were consumed so quickly that skeletal horses with skeletal riders seemed to continue riding before being shattered as the ammunition carried exploded. The fire tore through the ranks shredding them like a horror.

Then to compound it just as the fire of that spell died out they looked up to the south and saw a thing come through the air, it was an enormous ship that streaked above the Konduzi lines straight at the Kathloni position. The massive fusion cannon fired tearing vast holes in the Kathloni lines, and then the enormous bomb bays opened up; within the ship there were hundreds of barrels filled with gun powder and dynamite, the crew struggled to let them out and a steady stream of barrels dropped out from the belly of the ship wreaking untold havoc on the enemy below as explosions shattered their lines yet more, and huge wooden fragments would often impale men and horses alike.

At this the main bulk of the enemy had enough, they turned tail and ran as fast as they could screaming about djinns and evil magics; at that precise time a wild cheer went up among the defenders, but Dost Khan cut it short as he grabbed the reins of his horse and rode around the town shouting "TO HORSE! TO HORSE! UP AND CHARGE!" as one his men rushed away from the dirt walls and charged towards the town square where they grabbed their horses before rushing out through the main gate.

The Fields around Ayvaz

Dost Khan was like a hawk among sparrows, his sword cut to the right, it cut to the left, and his enemies fled before him. Seeing that the bulk of the enemy army was being chased north by the frigate he turned around and called "TO THE SOUTH!" as he pointed with his sword and wheeled his cavalry south.

The troops skirmishing with the infantry were struck in the flank and rolled up quickly, with many of them despairing upon being caught between Dost Khan and the trench line; for the first time many of them threw down their weapons and begged for mercy "NANAWATAI! MERCY MERCY!" they cried as they surrendered in troves. IT was indeed over almost before it had begun with Dost Khans men rushing out to take prisoners and to loot the dead.

The Village of Ayvaz

Back in the village Mage Captain Miller was sitting down on a pile of masonry, he was feeling quite fatigued, and his mind was wandering. Someone had pushed a mug of hot strong tea into his hand, and they'd applied plenty of sugar, he slowly sipped it trying to regain his strength when suddenly his hand trembled and he let the mug drop to the ground...

After a few moments he rose up "Sir, I fear something terrible has just happened," he told Captain Thornborough.

The City of Konduz
Azhistan
August 1005 NE

Outside the city of Konduz a couple of Rumish freighters had landed, beautiful wooden ships, similar to the ancients dhows, but with huge wooden ætheric propellers protruding from the front and the rear. During the day many of the natives had come out to gossip with the merchants and do some petty trading, and no one saw anything odd about some members of the ships crew and the Rumish merchants heading into the city to speak to their colleagues or get refreshments. The guards at the gates received some minor bribes and after that their interest in the matter ended.

Now let us follow a small group of these merchants as they enter the city, they are dressed in the long colourful robes of the Rumish merchant, complete with turbans and beards, as well as wide belts into which are tucked brilliant scimitars. Then all of a sudden they tear away their robes, shredding the cloth as if it were paper, and beneath they were wearing the uniforms and colours of Suleyman Khan's army!

An astonished cry went up, then the soldiers rushed towards the guards barracks, they were brandishing flared barrel energy weapons quite unlike anything seen before. A couple of the guards had the presence of mind to present their halberds and shout "DOST KHAN!" before charging, but there were several flashes of bright light and the charred bodies of the attacking guards fell to the ground.

Within moments the soldiers rushed into the barracks surprising the guards, one of them drew his tulwar and charged with a loud how, slamming it into the chest of a soldier, the blade bounced of the armour and the soldier backhanded the guard so he flew into the wall with enough force to make the stucco shatter and come crumbling down around him.

Dost Khans Palace

The guards in front of the palace gates didn't stand a chance, one moment they were standing guard and the next they were struck down by carefully aimed energy bolts fired from hiding. Moments later the soldiers rushed across the courtyard with their energy weapons at the ready, ignoring the erratic response from surviving guards.

As they entered the palace itself they rushed unerringly towards the grand hall itself, the struggle in the hallway was brief but intense, the occasional jezail or automatic rifle would open up for a moment, and then there'd be a strange sound like a lightning bolt and the firearm would die down. Even with this their speed was such that when they burst into the grand hall the governor, who was holding court, had only had time to rise up and start towards the door when those same doors were thrown open and the soldiers stormed in.

"GUARDS!" he roared as he turned about and ran towards the far exit, his robes fluttering behind him, his guards rushed towards the intruders perhaps with more courage than their master deserved. Even before he reached the far entrance he knew that his guards had been defeated, for he was suddenly thrown to the floor by some force that felt like a vice had grasped his heart.

"You are under arrest for your treachery," he heard a voice say above him, and then firm hands began to restrain him firmly. In the distance he could hear some of his courtiers and petitioners plead with the intruders, but suddenly with a blunt dull sound the petitions ceased, replaced by low whimpers and an attempt at flight; or so he thought it was for there was the sound of feet running and then a loud crashing sound followed by a scent of ozone and then silence.

The Main Mosque

The Mosque was quite empty this time of the day, aside from a few beggars that had fallen asleep inside of it. The Sufi Shaykh, and currently the Imam, of the mosque sat cross legged on a prayer rug as he meditated. He sat still even when there was a heavy commotion outside, but then the doors to the mosque opened and the sound of dirty boots trampling against the floor of the mosque.

He peered up and saw several men wearing the uniforms of Suleyman Khan "You are under arrest for your treachery!" one of them called out to him.

"Treachery to whom?" the Shaykh asked as he studied these men.

"To your lawful and popular sovereign Suleyman Khan!" their leader called out "Take him away!"

"No."

"No?" the leader said, disbelief clear in his voice.

Two of the soldiers were approaching the Shaykh, but as they reached him it was as if some invisible force pushed them away.

"No, remove your boots this is a sacred place," the Shaykh said quietly.

The leader spat on the floor "This is a place of superstition!" he called.

"Then go join your master in Jehenna," the Shaykh called, and now his eyes seemed to shine as brightly as the sun, the leader was thrown back as a leaf even as the Shaykh seemed to be jerked up by an alien force.

"KILL HIM!" cried the leader as he struggled to rise, and the sound of the beam weapons reverberated through the walls.

The Shaykhs robes caught fire, even his flesh burned under the heat of the beam weapon, but he seemed entirely unaffected not screaming or fidgeting as his skin twisted like parchment thrown into the fire "You kill a Shaykh," he called from within the inferno "but a Saint will take his place." Then finally he crumbled to the ground as even his mystic life force could not sustain him anymore.

The Streets of Konduz

Here and there the Mujaheddin were coming to life, the people were still in a state of Jihad and the memory of the oppression of Suleyman Khan were still keenly in their mind. It started with a clear headed bricklayer who was working on a roof, seeing one of the soldiers run past him he began throwing bricks at them while shouting "ALLAHU AKBAR ALLAHU AKBAR! Death to the tyrant!"

Meanwhile the garrison was starting to stir as well, all over the city hundreds of Dost Khans soldiers, or Mujaheds as they styled themselves grabbed their weapons and rushed forth to fight.

In the main the fights were short when they occurred, for the preternaturally accurate aim of the invaders, and the strength of their armour, meant that they were usually one sided massacres where piles of Konduzi soldiers and citizenry were slain by the Suleymanites.

Dost Khans Palace

Chrisman was running hard with ten of his men, the sound their footsteps echoed through the palace hallways, he had been in his offices in the old viziers quarters when all of a sudden he had heard the sounds of a fight. Naturally they had grabbed their rifles and rushed towards the sound, worried that there might be some tribal mischief or an assassination going on.

All of a sudden a terrified man in fine robes rushed into them, he let out a shout as he saw them, but as he realised they were not Suleyman Khans men he cried "The usurper! His assassins have captured the governor!"

"Damnation!" Chrisman cried at this news, it would explain the sounds all too well, but then another thought struck him "Dost Khans family!" he cried as he rushed in the direction of the family of their protector, if they should be taken hostage all would be lost.

Behind them the man they had run into gave a plaintive cry before grabbing a decorative sword from wall and following them closely "I am Abdal-Jabbar Warai and I do not flee from danger," he yelled after them as he strived to pursue.

Within moments they had reached the massive gates leading into the harem, said gates were guarded by four equally massive eunuchs wearing nothing more than very baggy red pantaloons, oriental slippers, ornate embroidered vests and of course carrying the enormous scimitars that were both their weapons and their badges of office. The moment the Pendletonians showed up the Eunuchs fearlessly placed themselves in their way, drawing their scimitars and looking quite fearsome; though they were neutered the eunuchs were not inferior to full men in size or ability, indeed aside from their tendency to obesity they were some of the most formidable fighters you could hope to find.

"Hold Faranj!" their leader cried out "Here you cannot enter, HARAM!" he cried, forbidden, even the word Harem comes from Haram which means forbidden. He would have looked ludicrous with his shaven heat, inches of fat and large golden ear rings, but his massive muscles and sheer size, for he stood a good six inches taller than most men, did not invite to argument.

"Salaamu Aleikum O Guardian of the Harem," Chrisman said politely.

At once they replied "'Salaamun 'Alaa manittaba'a al Hudaa, O Lord" which means "Peace be upon those who are rightly guided" in other words Mohammedans, for 'tis the way that they are expected to greet the Infidel.

Chrisman frowned a bit, the neutered ones were getting above their station, but that was neither here nor there "Hashasheen employed by Suleyman Khan has breached the palace, have you not heard the fighting O Eunuch?" he regretted the last word but he was still upset about the fellows discourtesy.

Before the Eunuchs could answer they heard a booming voice from the other side of the corridor "Surrender now and you shall be treated well!" It was one of Suleyman Khans soldiers who was hefting his weapon menacingly.

Without hesitation four of the Commandoes lifted their rifles up into a firing position and opened up at once, the sharp sounds of thk-thk-thk filled the air as bullets tore into the enemy soldier. Several of the bullets struck his head and he fell down onto the ground.

"He will not be the only one..." Chrisman began as he tried to explain the severity of the situation to the eunuch, that's when he saw something in the corner of his eye.

The enemy soldier was stirring, and all of a sudden he sat up outright, his ruined face peeled away to reveal bright metal beneath as well as a single shining red eye like an ember of coal in a metal skull. At once the Pendletonians opened fire again, only to have the creature ignore it as he rushed them.

"Demons!" cried the eunuch leader.

"Run! Run you fools!" cried Chrisman to the Eunuchs, pleased to see that they followed his advice, then he drew one of his .44 Adams revolver and joined his men in shooting at the intruder but without doing any appreciative good.

"HUZZAH!" two of his men cried as they attached bayonets and charged, hoping that momentum and cold steel might do what fire had failed to. The scuffle was mercifully brief but ended with both of them crumbling to the ground like broken rag dolls.

"STAND FAST!" Chrisman cried, at once the Sergeant began barking orders too keeping the troops in order as they struggled to slow down the daemoniac machine.

As the machine rushed the door Chrisman and four others rushed it instead, this time the struggle took longer, Chrisman emptied his revolver into it and then pulled his second one emptying it too tearing loose chunks of flesh and ripping open the things uniform. Meanwhile his soldiers dug their bayonets into the creature and tried to push it down or into the wall, but it was all in vain.

Finally though there was a loud thud, after what seemed to be an eternity, as the massive harem doors slammed shut and the iron cross bar was slammed down on the other side of the door.

"FALL BACK!" Chrisman ordered.

I twas not one moment too soon, for in the scuffle another two commandoes had been slain, one of them had let the creature grab his arm and a moment later he had been thrown head first into the wall; the other had been deprived of his rifle which had then been driven bayonet first into his skull.

They began pulling back in an orderly fashion, their sergeant using his cane to thwap anyone who seemed too keen to run away "Oy! No fleein'! Keep your eyes on that farking tin man there!" Fortunately the creature seemed more interested in the apparently futile task of blasting open the door, but his punches barely dented it, and even his now recovered energy weapon only left black sometimes burning scorch marks.

"Sergeant is there some back door into the harem? Someplace where the Eunuchs and residents might escape?" Chrisman cried out to the sergeant.

"I'll be damned if I know Sir," the Sergeant replied "Not too keen on fellows wanderin' about that spot Sir."

"There is O Captain," Abdal-Jabbar called out "A backdoor used for receiving the doctors attending to the harem, and no doubt for fleeing too."

"How would you know this?" asked Chrisman, fearing that there might be some mischief here.

"O Captain, it is a sad story, but alas it is rumoured that the wives of Suleyman Khan, may burning curses fall upon him, were not devout and faithful too him!" Abdal-Jabbar said "May Allah preserve you from such infidelity, but they met many handsome and generous men by way of the backdoor."

"Then lead the way O Courtier!" Chrisman called out.

Within moments of running through the hallways, past small throngs of very confused and frightened looking palace staff and courtiers, they came outside into the garden. The door was a small unobtrusive one looking much like any other backdoor, except that it was positioned maybe a foot or so up on the wall with no step to ease the passage to the garden.

Suddenly the door was kicked open with great force, a small cloud of dust scattered since it had not been opened in a while, and the first eunuch leapt out of the door quickly followed by a tall strapping lad of maybe twelve, almost too old to be allowed in the harem. They both looked with some surprise as they saw the Pendletonians, but instead of stopping more eunuchs came out the door and quickly began to help veiled ladies, as well as the sons and daughters of Dost Khan, down into the garden.

"It is breaking through the door!" cried one of the Eunuchs, and indeed even hear they could hear the sound of splintering wood.

"O Guardian of the Harem keep on bringing them out and go for the stables, take such camels and mules as you need to flee," Chrisman began even as the noises got louder "and hurry now, but where are the older sons of Dost Khan?"

"With some luck Sir they'll be by the stables," the Sergeant mused "they are fine horsemen."

"Luck won't do Sergeant, go there and find them, if they're not there find out where they are, and round up the rest of the men," Chrisman ordered "Spread the word that any guns that can't be saved are to be spiked and the crew to make it out by themselves."

"Yes Sir," the Sergeant said before rushing out to carry out his order.

Chrisman now turned towards his ace in the hole, for earlier he had been partially responsible for emplacing the 3.75" guns, the ones so suitable for punching through both armour and airships. The garden was such a perfect spot for one of them, since it could defend the palace too, so now he rushed towards that very gun. The crew were surprised to see him but fortunately they had been smart enough to load the gun at the first sound of trouble.

"Put your backs into it men!" Chrisman cried as they began to push the cannon towards the door, they really had to put their back into it to do the job that would normally be done by several horses; but with sweat and the extreme strength of a truly perilous situation they pushed it across the lawns and began to aim it at the door.

"Step aside!" Chrisman called out to the harem and the eunuchs who, finding themselves staring into the barrel of a cannon, were only too keen to obey. Then he waited.

Before too long the infernal machine had broken through and rushed through the harem before reaching the far doorway, it seemed to stop in the doorway and look in disbelief at the scene before him, it was no doubt merely a trick of the imagination Chrisman would later muse, but at the time he had smiled and called "Cheerio old bean, here's for my four lads," before he yanked the trigger of the gun with all of his might.

There was a loud BOOOOM and then the high powered shell hit it square in the torso make the creatures head, arms, and legs flew off in different directions, trailing electric sparks behind them.

"A hit! A palpable hit!" Chrisman cried out, before he lovingly patted the barrel of the gun "Now if we can round up the rest of the men we might still..."

A shadow fell on them, Chrisman looked up he raised an eyebrow, but one of the soldiers was not so restrained "Oh nice," though his accent made it sound naaiis.

"Yes quite," Chrisman said as the huge metallic freighter descended from the sky, this was definitely not a Rumish model for it looked like a steel brick with rockets on it. The freighter was however surrounded by aeroplanes flittering around it, smooth elongated shapes very far from even the wildest fantasies of Pendletonian futurists.

"Sergeant track the gun up!" he called out to the leader of the gun crew "fire at those damnable aeroplanes!" Even if it seemed hopeless his spirit rebelled against the idea of giving up without a fight, it was not the Pendletonian way.

All over the city other gunners seemed to have gotten the same idea for explosions went up all around the freighter and the aeroplanes, like black cotton balls popping up all over the sky. One of the aeroplanes were struck full on half exploding at once, and with a pitiful whine it spiralled towards the ground trailing a tail of flame behind it before crashing with an earth shattering boom which sent clouds of smoke rising.

However the freighter could not be stopped as it descended onto the town square, though a few glancing blows came close it was simply moving too fast for the disorganised and surprised troops on the ground. Moments after it landed several huge doors, similar to draw bridges in principle, opened up and the troops inside, all natives loyal to Suleyman Khan, came rushing out guns blazing. A couple of guns placed in the main square, as well as what loyal guards had the presence of mind to rush over, began to open fire upon the attackers, but despite the heavy losses they pushed on like a malign tidal wave.

It was the Sergeant, the same one sent to look for Dost Khans sons, that returned with the news as well as the sons; fortunately enough he had also managed to round up the remaining Mage Hunters and Commandoes who now rushed to Chrismans side.

"Spike the guns and evacuate!" Chrisman ordered, he felt sick to his stomach but there was nothing else to do, the city was lost but there was perhaps time to evacuate first "You harem guards protect the harem, and we will be a rear guard," he cried.

One of the older sons, a fourteen year old named Tarik, called out "Why do we flee? We should do battle right away and drive out the enemy!" He was tall and strapping and had with him both a tulwar and an automatic rifle which had already been decorated extensively in the native custom.

At that very moment a score of Suleyman Khans troops came rushing into the gardens, their bullets whizzed over head, "That is why O Young Lord," Chrisman said "there are hundreds more where they came from!" even as he spoke he pulled out a pair of stout .44 revolvers and began to fire at the enemy, so did his men and the foes were soon cut down, but more kept coming.

There was nothing to do except fight a desperate rear action, time and time again a Commando or a Mage Hunter would be cut down, but not before taking five or more men with him in return. The Redlegs too did their regiments proud, though they had to flee their guns they did leave one surprise behind, the guns were loaded with special shells and set on timers; moments later there was an explosion and the breach and much of the barrel was shredded like a comic book exploding cigar.

Road to Ayvaz

Later...

It was night and the small caravan was still moving quickly, the sturdy camels and mules pressing on despite the toil of the past hours. Peering up at the slightly clouded night sky their guide navigated part by the stars, and part by the dark outline of the mountains in the horizon "Inshallah we shall have avoided them!"

Chrisman kept from shivering, the thick coat over his shoulders kept him warm, but a superstitious dread came over him at the words of the guides, and he gently tapped the wooden stock on his rifle.

The caravan was a very eclectic party, here you had the camels belonging to Dost Khans women, on top of them were cloth covered booths that hid them from prying eyes; and all you'd see of them was a finely formed hand reaching out to accept some morsel or take the camels reins.

The Eunuch, they were not men at all but still huge and long limbed, deadly warriors and utterly devoted to their charge.

Dost Khans sons, proud and warlike, sitting astride their mounts like the princes they were, the eldest with the barest fuss on their cheeks and with that wild eager energy of boys on the cusp of manhood.

Nobles and officials too, dressed in whatever garb they had worn as they fled, so they were definitely a motley bunch, all of them prematurely aged by worry and hard living, but carrying their burdens with silent dignity.

Then there were the Pendletonians, Chrisman wept as he counted their numbers, oh certainly there were quite a lot of redlegs, artillerists that is, and they had lived up to the proud traditions of their branch: Upon seeing their position overrun they had spiked their guns, while others had died defending theirs. Their leader rode silently, his head hanging down, he seemed quite irreconcilable, and Chrisman loathed seeing an officer in the grips of such depression.

Yet for Chrisman the count of heads was horrid, eight Mage Hunters and two Commandoes had lived to flee with him, the rest having been slain in the assault. "Oh my God, my Lord, have mercy on me!" he prayed, but silently that his men might not feel it.

"Allah have mercy," their guide suddenly cried, immediately Chrismans head jerked up and he looked to their rear, far in the distance a small group of riders could be spotted.

"Are they enemies?" Chrisman asked as he pulled out his binoculars.

The guide peered more closely, his brow creased and he frowned a bit "Yes O Captain, for they are not native."

Studying the approaching shapes in his binoculars, to him they looked much like the common tribal riders "Are you certain O Guide?"

"O Noble One forgive me for my pride," the guide began, "Yet I am certain, for they ride improperly, sit upon their camels like sacks, they move awkwardly, and their costume..." he stopped there confident the foreigner understood now.

"Damnation," Chrisman uttered "Those are not automatic rifles or jezails" he gritted his teeth, even at this distance, even at night, he recognised the slightly flared barrel of the damnable energy weapons used by the mechanical men "They're the enemy!"

"Ya Allah!" the guide cried out, he turned around and whipped his camel, quickly followed by Chrisman.

The chase was on, in the distance they could see the strange shapes pursuing mercilessly, even as they themselves pressed on towards Dost Khans camp and hopefully safety.

The braying of mules, and the cries of the camels mixed with grunts and curses from the men, the earlier gossiping and chatting was over as each man focussed on driving his mount harder. In the distance their foes, having fresher beasts and not being weighed down with women, came steadily closer.

Day broke, a red rim in the east, very red, it was most beautiful and the red glow seemed to spread out to cover the entire horizon, bathing everything in a strange almost magical light. Then came a strangely warm breeze, delightful after the long cold night, but a harbinger of the heat of the day.

Twisting around in his seat Chrisman looked to the rear, in the horizon he could make out the shapes of the enemy even closer now, he tore up his binoculars for a closer view. Now in the light of day he could see far more, they were men in native clothes long shirts that almost reached their knees, a scarf wrapped around their faces, and a native cap over their heads. If not for their long peculiar weapons with their flared barrel he might have thought them natives, but these were the mechanical men relentlessly chasing them down.

"Ya Qawi! Ya Qawi," their guide recited loudly, and his call was picked up by other Mohammedans in the party reciting one of the 99 names of Allah to preserve themselves from harm.

"Their camels are fast O Noble Captain," the guide said after a while, with great fatalism he shrugged "Inshallah we shall be counted among the Martyrs."

"Inshallah we shall live," Chrisman replied as he egged his camel on.

The chase, if you could call it that, took place over several hours, and slowly the sun would begin to rise, it was a hot day but not overly so, but nevertheless a stream of perspiration ran down their faces moistening them, so that the fine dust could cling to them. In the end all the travellers looked like were made up of sand, only when a new bead of sweat ran down their brow momentarily exposing the skin beneath could you see they were men.

Every now and again they'd look back to see the enemy drawing nearer, and if they listened they thought they could hear the long grunts of the camels. Roughly at mid day the Tartaran mechanical men opened up fire, small fountains of dust rose where the beams struck dirt, Chrisman and his team returned fire but had as little luck in hitting.

Their solace was in the winds blowing across their faces, winds that had steadily grown stronger over the day, and then the guide suddenly cried "It is the winds of the one hundred and twenty days O Captain!" He pointed at something in the distance, it looked like a brownish grey mountain was blocking their path.

"What winds?" asked Chrisman when he suddenly realised that by Jove the wall was moving.

The guide let out a shrill cry and frantically whipped the camel "Hurry hurry, for cover," he motioned at some hill in the distance "Inshallah we shall reach it for it is the only cover!"

The beasts of burden screamed, and many a time one of the women almost fell out of her booth as they rushed towards the cover, everyone strained to the utmost to get there. Chrisman felt his camel groaning under the strain, and in the rear he noticed that the enemy were also picking up speed.

Then one of the camels crumbled, it belonged to a eunuch, Chrisman watched the fellow get up and wave his hands, trying to half run after the party "Leave him behind!" he cried out loud when he saw one of his soldiers begin to turn "We must go for cover!"

"Yes Sir!" came the reply, but the poor service man could not take his eyes of the pitiful figure of the eunuch now running in earnest.

"Ya Allah!" the guide mourned, then one of the noble courtiers said something in an Azhistani dialect, crying it wide and far.

"He shall be a man again in Paradise, and a martyr!"

They reached the cover, a sheer rock wall at an angle, "I have sought cover here before, O Captain" the guide informed them "Inshallah we shall find shelter here again, surely Allah has provided a miracle of a sandstorm to protect us!"

"Is this the season for great storms?" Chrisman asked even as he forced his camel to kneel, and he himself pressed his body against the rough cliff surface.

"Yes O Captain," the guide replied "but it is still a miracle of Allah, for all is in the hands of Allah."

The women were ushered out of their booths by the eunuchs and by Dost Khan's sons, the elders of which cried "Cover yourself mother, there are foreigners," and shielded their mothers from the prying eyes of the infidel.

Then the storm hit them, any thought of conversation was lost as the sound was so horrible that it must be experienced to be believed, turning towards the guide, maybe two feet away from him, Chrisman could see the mans lips moving but could not hear a word. Then came the sand, cascades of sand, it flew over you, it got into your clothes, your nostrils, pressing itself against you and concealing everything more than a couple of feet away; if a man should take three steps away from the wall he might not come back.

"If this is shelter!" cried Chrisman at the top of his voice, though no one could hear it "Then a wall with no roof is a house!"

Later, much later

It was dusk again when the storm finally abated, when it happened the silence was stunning, a couple of men began to speak only to stop again as if astounded by the sound of their own voice. Chrisman shook of the dust and the sand, of his camel only the nostrils were truly visible but soon the trusty beast struggled back up.

"Where are our pursuers?" he asked.

"I dunno Sir," one of the soldiers, the closest fellow, replied "Shall I take a look Sir?"

"No, we'll know soon enough, O Guide lead us out," Chrisman called, and immediately the whole caravan mounted again and rode out.

The change in the terrain was stunning, indeed it was hard to tell that they were in the same area, and of their pursuers there was no sign at all. The only sounds they heard was their own breathing and the light chime of the tiny bells sewn to the saddle cloths of the camels.

After riding for half an hour or so one of the soldiers, the same one that had spoke up earlier, called out "Sir, beggin' yo' pardon but one o' them tin men jus' dug oot of the sand."

In the distance Chrisman could indeed see a figure staggering out of the sand, soon followed by a couple more, he suppressed a shiver damnation! Is there nothing to stop those daemoniac machines?

Their guide however laughed "Now you can walk infidel tin pots!" he threw back his head and laughed "Walk! Go home to your mothers!" there was braying laughter at that as they put the machines further and further behind them.

Chrisman however did not join their laughter, for each time he turned his head he could see that though the mechanical men were further and further away they were still moving in his direction; relentlessly and tirelessly, but for now oh so slowly.

Dost Khans Camp
Plains around Ayvaz
Azhistan
August 1005 NE

Dost Khan's Command tent

The mood within the command tent was most gloomy, the splendour of the interior could not hide that fact. Dost Khan's command staff and allies were sitting around the table taking deep breaths of fruit flavour smoke from their nargiles while listening to the account Brevet Captain Chrisman had brought them.

"The Communists put Suleyman back on the throne, and he then declared himself the rightful popular ruler of Konduz, well..." Chrisman looked a bit exasperated as he said "He referred to it as Suleymaniyah, and he is currently claiming to have returned with his own men and being accepted by the people."

"The liar!" Dost Khan burst out "By Allah may every lie he has uttered turn to molten lead on his lips on the day of judgement!" he called cursing the name of Suleyman Khan.

Thornborough took a deep breath of the nargile as he was a total non-smoker normally he had to suppress a massive choking fit, even though the cool smoke did not irritate his lungs as much as normal tobacco would. He peered at the other men in the room, most of them cut from the same cloth, some wiser and some bolder than others.

"It is fortunate that the cannon were spiked," he mused as he took another puff of the nargile, studying the sour cherries as they bounced around in the water bowl, the pipe gave him time to think "as fighting men should they fought to the last," he added.

Dost Khan nodded to this, the shock of the news still followed him, making his current victory seem bitter "By Allah!" he cried "The coward Suleyman Khan would never have overcome my brave soldiers if not for the aid of the Satanic machine!"

"Coward he is, and a liar too O Lord," Mousa abd-al-Aziz Karzai mused, the old man puffing on his nargile "Shall we strike him down right now?"

Dost Khan stroked his beard "That is a matter for the days to come, whether we strike at the city, or take to the hills, or maybe..." his eyes narrowed a bit "take our army into Khatlon to teach these beggars the true price of dealing with the ungodly."

There were many advocates for each view, and the discussion flowed back and forth between those who wished to strike at Suleyman Khan right away, and those that wished to follow one of the other courses of action. Indeed the discussion would probably last for many days, and not be decided until some news from outside made the matter clearer.

The Quartermasters encampment

The Quartermaster was a middle-aged man named Mehmet Kohr, he would not have been out of place in a bazaar stall, and indeed had been a merchant of some success before being made the Quartermaster of Dost Khans army; a position that he had used to enhance his fortune and power, but not more so than what was common on Azhistan.

Before his simple table, weighed down with scrolls and styluses, there were hundreds of stands of rifles, and poured into barrels and even heaps on the ground there lay tens of thousands of rounds of ammunition. Indeed there was so much ammunition that they had given up counting it proper and instead measured it in bushels, even the rifles were counted by stands.

"Ya Allah," he would cry from time to time as he added up his figures, a thousand rifles and ammunition, a princely capture. Then there were the horses, five hundred fine cavalry horses with saddles and tackle, his eyes shone as they were rounded up and moved into improvised paddocks, already thinking of how he should secure a price dozen for himself.

The Graves

The Mohammedan faith dictates that the dead be washed before they are buried, but when water is not available you may use sand or dirt instead. So it was now, while in the distance women ululated with sorrow the last bodies, already disgustingly bloated, were rubbed with sand before being lowered into a long trench.

The five hundred or so graves belonging to Dost Khans men had individual markings, and were already tended to by the people of Ayvaz, to whom Dost Khan had promised freedom from taxes in return for tending to the graves of his men.

For the thousand men who died during their struggle against Dost Khan there was less care, several large trenches had been opened and into these their bodies were dropped; most of the time after having been stripped of their valuables and other belongings. Even so a handful of great men and officers were given separate graves, as a mercy shown by Dost Khan, and among them were the officer and banner bearer that had charged Ayvaz; courage deserves recognition, even if it comes from the enemy.

The Prisoners

There were hundreds of them, their heads bowed, many of them with strips of cloth wrapped around wounds on their heads, or hastily applied bandages to other limbs; few among them were truly hale and hearty since most of those had escaped, but there were a few whose only fault was the death of their horse. Their mood however was in the main quite glum, their fate was after all uncertain, and even if they were to be ransomed back who knew what abuses they could be subject to first?

"What are we to do with them," Whitcomb said out loud, not to anyone in particular, but the sight of the hundreds of prisoners cramped together in one great mass did make him wonder.

"Ransom them or make them swear allegiance to us Sir," Flowers commented from behind him "the alternative being somewhat unpleasant," he added.

Whitcomb was a little surprised at the sound but turned around "Yes Mr Flowers," he agreed "Not much for that..." The alternative of course was to kill them all, but that was quite a disagreeable thought; no Pendletonian ever liked the idea of killing defenceless prisoners.

The Black Tent

Yet there was one other problem, and that were the handful of witches being kept under careful guard in a special tent. It was surrounded by guards, most of them were Pendletonians since most of the natives were too spooked to be near it. On the surface the tent seemed ordinary enough, it was a large black tent made from camels hair, much like many other tents that you'd find in the desert; however what made it different was the occupants.

If you were to approach the tent you would be told to leave in a polite but firm fashion, unless you were one of the handful of men and women were allowed to enter. Once you were inside you would notice the smell of burning sandalwood mixing with sweet perfumes; here there were plush pillows, thick carpets, and all the luxuries that you might expect to find in the tent of an Azhistani chieftain, even to the extent of unveiled slave girls and smooth cheeked eunuchs waiting on the residents.

Within the captive witches could lounge in relative luxury, a silken cage if you would, having been deprived of their stored spells and were keenly guarded to prevent them from fashioning new ones. Dealing with them however had and were proven quite a headache, for they caused much fear and fascination among the peoples of the camp.

Although they were in their thirties and forties they possessed that mature beauty that practitioners of magic often acquire; unless the energies they deal with turn them into hideous hags, but at any rate this meant that many men wished them as their own. Not only that but there were many who wished a blessing, a curse for an enemy, or many other things that a witch might provide, and so struggled to gain entrance to their tent.

On the other hand there was the fear of magic that many possessed, take for an instance the events that occurred immediately after their capture, for they give a keen idea of such troubles...

Earlier...

IT was in the immediate aftermath of the Khatloni defeat, the air was filled with the stench of battle, a mixture of gunpowder, burning grass, and the sickly smell of blood and bowels having been emptied over a field. Overheard they could see the vultures and other scavengers circling, indeed only gunshots and fire had threatened them off, but the smaller rodents were not so easily deterred and they were already crawling among the bodies of dead men and horses.

If a man comes to a battlefield three days after the battle he won't be able to breathe, the stench is so cloying that you risk vomiting, unless of course the bodies are disposed of quickly. Even now the hundreds of prisoners were being put to work, forced to dig trenches and graves, and to carry their dead to the graves, sending a strong message "Do not fight us again!"

For now Dost Khan was merciful, the men of good families were spared this duty, as were chieftains and those who had been noted for bravery, so they sat cross legged and recited ayaats, which are Koranic verses, while waiting to hear of their fate.

Now the men of Dost Khan came across the yellow burkha'd women, they looked much like yellow ambulatory tents in their outfits, and upon seeing the heavy horsemen approach they cried in despair, for their guardians had been slain and they did not expect any mercy from the victors.

Seeing this Dost Khan came riding up as fast as he could, his own bodyguard following closely behind him "Surrender yourselves now!" he cried "Your witchcraft cannot save you now, only submission!"

They pleaded for mercy in humble and educated tones, for as their dress indicated they were women of some status and importance; after all only the rich could cover their women up so much, the bulk of the native women covered their hair and sometimes their face but did not bother covering themselves more. Indeed native garb could often be downright risqué, emphasising the female form far more than anything that would be decent in a civilized country.

The very richest men, merchants, princes, nobles, and those imitating them, the few that could afford a proper Harem they liked to make their women wear such clothes to conceal them more fully from the world, least covetous eyes see a neglected beauty and offer her that which her absent husband could not supply.

Dost Khan however did not upon them himself, but instead he called "Summon my eunuchs and have them take these women to a great tent to be prepared for them," and as he spoke a pair of riders broke off from his group riding all leather could bear back to the main encampment. Meanwhile Dost Khans men surrounded them and prodded them on, making them walk towards the encampment, but not descending to touch them or in any other way mistreat them.

Moments later the long limbed eunuchs arrived, only their shaven heads, and occasional thick jowls, distinguishing them from the other warriors present, for they too were dressed in fine native garb with gilded weapons, fine furs, and expensive embroidered textiles; though of course they were quite grimy from the struggle, and many of their garments rendered by the fight they had been in. Seeing their lord they at once gave their prostrations and called "Commands us O Great Lord!"

"Take the witches to a tent O Obedient Servants, and confine them therein, but let no harm come to them, nor let them want for anything," Dost Khan commanded magnanimously "and if any man should do ill to them, against the law, let his life be forfeit!"

The witches bowed deeply and praised him "O Gracious Lord may almighty Allah smile upon thee and give you more blessings than a camel have fleas!" they called even as the stout eunuchs carried them away.

As they were taken away to the tent that had been hastily erected for them the witches had to walk past many of Dost Khans men, who gave them long questioning looks, and often made warding gestures against the evil eye and other wickedness that witches were known to commit. One of the witches made a hissing sound and kicked up dust, something which made the men begin to cry out loud and wave their hands, and encouraged the eunuchs to grab their charges and rush them inside the black camel hair tents.

Present time...

The Pendletonian Mages had worked to ensure that the witches could not cast their spells, fortunately they had stored their magics in rings and brass bowls as was the local custom, and not inside themselves requiring more strenuous measures to remove. Of course during their work they had gotten a look at the captives, even if it was strictly forbidden, the witches seemed to be in their thirties and forties, but were still possessed of a mature beauty that was much enhanced by the mystic fire that burned inside them.

Dost Khan was quietly inquiring with them "and now they are helpless O Aalim?"

"Yes O Lord," Mage Captain Miller replied "they have no more æther and no more prepared spells, and without those they cannot cast magic."

A smile played around Dost Khans lips "Good, I thank you O Aalim," he said as he pulled out a jewelled dagger still in its scabbard and gave it to Captain Miller "Inshallah this shall protect you against the dangers of the flesh as your powers protect you from the dangers of the spirit O Aalim."

Miller accepted it gratefully "I thank you O Lord," for it was truly a princely gift.

The Camp Proper

Dressed in his native garb Whitcomb wandered among the allies, there were so many people present that no one paid attention to another man in good, but not ostentatious clothes, carrying with him a plethora of personal weapons. Sometimes he'd stop down to talk to people, small groups of them muttering about the campaign and the loss of Konduz, but in the main he did not sense that oppressed angry spirit leading to desertion or mutiny.

Near the witches tent however he spotted something odd, several men were standing around reciting out loud from the Koran, being led in this by a green turbaned Mullah who recited the same chapters of the Koran over and over as he stood atop a boulder. It was not one of the obligatory prayers, and the men were standing upright as they recited, and it was all very queer to Whitcombs eye.

Nothing could have prepared him for what happened next, the men began to blow into their palms and rub their bodies with their palms, indeed they rubbed every part of their body often contorting in strange and bizarre ways; even the Mullah was doing it, ruffling and wrinkling his expensive robes.

Have I come into the company of madmen? Whitcomb wondered as he watched the bizarre performance before him, he was crouching down half leaning against his tulwar as he pondered what he was witnessing.

Then the Mullah began to preach aloud again speaking loudly "The Koran and the Sunnah of the faithful have given onto us protection against Black Magic! Recite three times the Aayatyul Qursi and last three verses of the Koran, then blow onto your palms and rub your body with your balms! Do this in the morning and the evening and Inshallah you shall be saved from Black Magic!"

Not madmen, just Mohammedans, Whitcomb thought as he lounged there and listened more to the Mullah preaching, so far it seemed like pretty harmless advice against witchcraft and what not.

"Surely the faithful should not tolerate the presence of the shameless witches! For they are harlots who wander without guardians, and walk about outside the house! They should be crucified! They should be stoned! They are casting curses upon the faithful and..." the Mullah continued in that vein encouraging the followers to do something about the witches, something bad.

Whitcomb sighed and rose up to his feet walking towards him slowly but apparently reverentially. First though he grabbed a passer by, a slave, and told him calmly "Go to Dost Khans tent and tell the footmen there that a guest of the Khan is in an argument," then he pulled out a coin and gave it to the slave.

The slave accepted the coin and bowed deeply "Yes O Lord, but what argument do you speak of?"

"The one I'm about to start, now tarry no further, go to I say!" Whitcomb said and waved his hand, the slave peered at the Mullah, at the men surrounding the Mullah, and then at Whitcomb, then he shuddered like a young willow in the wind and ran towards Dost Khans tent.

"You are mistaken O Learned One," Whitcomb called out as he walked up to the Mullah "for Dost Khan is most learned and generous, and not prone to mistakes."

"Only Allah is without mistakes!" the Mullah cried "And you cannot refute my argument for..."

"I refute it thus!" Whitcomb said and at that he grabbed the Mullahs beard and yanked it hard as he might, before pulling the man with him and pushing him forward, and then kicking him so soundly in the rear that he stumbled to the ground. Before any of the Mullah's audience could do anything Whitcomb began to beat the Mullah with his tulwar still in the scabbard of course, while shouting "How dare you, you scare crow, to slander the Great Dost Khan! Who is the Lord of these lands and not fooled by witches!" with each word there was a blow "You ungrateful wretch! Would you violate the hospitality of Dost Khan?! Have you no obedience?"

It took them a while to respond, but the wonderful thing about Mohammedans is that they are very sensitive to authority, and the moment one of them seemed to move Whitcomb exploded in apoplectic rage; he had an enormous beard, his eyes were wild and savage, his voice carried across the whole of the camp "If no other man will punish him then I will!" he roared "for I am Ibrahim al-Baghdadi, a guest of Dost Khan and I will not let these slanders stand!" Then he turned and kicked the Mullah's rear once more, now was the critical moment, when they'd either laugh or tear him limb from limb, and this time at least they laughed much to his relief.

Dost Khan's Command tent

Dost Khan leaned his head back and laughed cheerfully "Ya Allah! I wish that, Inshallah, the next time you try something like this O Captain that I shall see it!" he cried out with obvious joy, a silver goblet of date wine in his hand "but by the Prophets Beard you are most fortunate that they did not tear you limb from limb 'ere I got there, you are a mad man!"

"Perhaps, but they seem to respect madmen around here," Whitcomb replied, trying not to tremble as he thought of how close a call it had really been.

"But I wish that I could have done this myself, for these men they wrap a turban on their heads and call themselves Mullahs," Dost Khan said and chuckled "then they challenge my authority, and that is far worse," he smiled now again, his teeth coloured slightly red by the wine he'd been drinking "if they had found you were an infidel they most assuredly would have, but your response was the essence of a Mussulmans!"

"Not much for turning the other cheek eh O Lord?" Whitcomb allowed himself that small joke, not really expecting a serious answer.

"Do you turn the other cheek when you're struck?" Dost Khan asked, and then with an amused expression he laughed "of course not!" he swung his fists in the air "That, and that, that is your response, only a fool turns the other cheek!"

They laughed, but the feeling had given Whitcomb a bitter taste in his mouth, the natives were not hostile to magic as such, but any power in the hands of women... no wonder they wrapped witches up in burkha's oh how they must fear them, I wonder how they'd respond to the High Worshipful Mistress that thought was sufficiently amusing that he chuckled even as he drained his goblet, but fortunately Dost Khan thought it was due to his own joke.

Pendletonian Command

The Pendletonian command tent was rather Spartan, and for now it was just the officers here, Captain Thornborough was leaning back in his collapsible chair as he listened to the story. He didn't comments on Whitcombs actions against the Mullah, it was after all the only thing for it, can't have garrulous rabble rousers stir up riots without beating them down, eh?

"Mr Whitcomb, tell me now, do you think this chappie was a plant? An enemy agent?" Thornborough asked.

"No Sir, I don't think so, it didn't have the right feel to it," Whitcomb replied, then more thoughtfully he added "however that's just a hunch Sir, I really can't tell for sure."

Thornborough nodded, the curse of command was that though you could ask for advice and opinions the decisions were always yours. "Mr Flowers how bad are the losses?"

"About five hundred of our allies in the battle of Ayvaz Sir, and we lost ten of our men in the Battle of Konduz, in addition to fifty guns," Lt Flowers announced.

"And we have now 9 000 infantry and 2 500 cavalry unless I am much mistaken," Thornborough said "in addition to our own men that is." Recognising a rhetorical question Lt Flowers didn't reply, and Thornborough went on "Mr Whitcomb how is the ship?"

"The KKS Hayreddin Barbarossa Pasha is ready for duty Sir, but the late excitement is making our supplies wear thin," Whitcomb answered, then he laid down the unpleasant facts "truth is Sir we have enough to last us out the month, but unless we get additional supplies from somewhere we'll be grounded a couple of weeks after that."

"In other words Mr Whitcomb it is your opinion that we need an additional supplies?"

"Yes Sir."

"And you Mr Chrisman, what are your views?"

Chrisman hesitated, he had rested and gotten a new uniform, but he still felt weighed down by the failure at Konduz, a blot on his honour that he felt he had to erase "I concur Sir, the guns, the guns are beauties but they eat supplies like a spoiled child eats candy."

"Interesting comparison Mr Chrisman but yes," Thornborough said "we need a gate back home, and that means that we need to do some scouting."

"Sir," Whitcomb spoke up "I think I know of a place actually, it's something I encountered on my first trip here, well hidden, easily protected, and not too far away either."

Dost Khan's Command tent

Once more a select council of war was gathered, for Dost Khan wished to speak frankly, and seek the advice of his followers. Now he had opened the floor, he sat perched on his chair, leaning slightly forward, his left hand resting on his cheek while his right dwelled almost casually on the sword that was leaned against his right thigh. All around the torch lit tent his advisers and chieftains were offering their advice, and indeed shouting their opinions.

"We should take the city! It is a shame to let him have the city!"

"We must call for Jihad! The Shehaads will take the city!"

"No! He's ready, let us pursue our beaten foe into his own nation and take his realm!"

"Let us retreat to Dost Khan's friend and ally to the south-east."

"Hit run hide! That's the Azhistani way!"

Thornborough also offered a statement of his own "We are the enemies of the Communists, and thus your friends, and we know something of how they think... they are here for the ether in the hills, and the geodes too, so it is that you should deny them; harass their convoys as they remove the geodes, raid the mine, they cannot endure here forever to no profit!"

"JIHAD! JIHAD!" one of the more fervent cried, indeed he got rather excited and would have pulled his sword out if it were not for the venue "Call for Jihad!"

Finally Dost Khan lifted his hands and called for silence "Hear me now O Loyal Captains, I have given this some thought," indeed he had conferred with the Pendletonians too, but earlier and in private "of course we could take the city," he smiled "of course, we took it once, we can take it again, but then what? We should have to guard it with most of our men, for if we did not they would take it back and then..." he moved his hand and a smile came "we'd have to take it back yet again!"

There were some chuckles here "So now Suleyman Khan sits there with his soldiers, and he daren't move, for if he does then he risks losing his city once more, it is a place he must defend, and so are the geode mines, he and his godless allies need that," Dost Khan continued "No... we shall harass them, we shall strike Suleyman Khans estates, take his cattle, rob his tax collectors, and we shall ensure that they never take a single geode from that mine, but..." he held up his finger "we shall not attempt to take this to the field just yet."

There were murmurs of agreement, but also of puzzlement, for they were divided on whether to do raids or whether to seek a battle.

"Let his forces rot on the vine, but when we begin to harass him he will squeal as a branded calf," Dost Khan smiled evilly at that, and there was laughter around the room "oh how he will scream, and his patrols will be lost, large parties harassed, and if he should send out his own forces in bulk then he will tremble at the thought of what mischief we can do to the city, and if we take not the city we will chip away at his army and steal his baggage train and lead them further into the mountains."

"So now he shall despair, we have a couple of good bases, and we have the skyship, as long as our armies are in the field he will despair indeed, and he will beg his godless allies for help, and Inshallah they will grant it!" his eyes now become fiery "yes, they will grant it, little by little, but they will have to send their own forces for what rubbish they can raise locally cannot break this army in the field, and then when they come ... the godless... the heathen... then we shall call for Jihad to unite all the peoples and drive the foreigners out, and we will all be the Great Mujaheddin and Emirs of this mission, and I shall be your Sultan!"

Here they broke into murmurs of loud agreement, raiding, looting, hit and run, tricking the enemy to overextend himself, all of this was old news, so indeed was Jihad, but the simplicity and boldness of Dost Khans plan was stunning; to turn the strengths and victories of the enemy into their greatest liabilities.

He held his hand up again "but we must not loot the people of Konduz, we shall strike the servants of Dost Khan, his granaries, his flocks, his estates, but not those of the common man; let the common merchant and his caravan be safe from us, let the common peasant walk in peace, let not one single dirhem or as much as a straw hat be taken from a man who is not in Suleyman Khans camp," his voice now grew low, his eyes narrow and sincere "and let any man that abuse the peasant or the pauper, any man who lays his hands on chaste women, that man shall surely die! For every abuse that comes onto the people shall come by the hand of Suleyman Khan, and from us they shall know no hurt, for I am Dost Khan and I am an honourable man."

Then with a smile he grew more amiable and added "also this was the land of my father, and his father before him, Allah rest their souls and grant them Paradise, and I should like to pass it on to my son and his son to come, and therefore I'd rather it was in a state fit to hold," there was a little twinkle in his eye but this was a language that they all understood and there were chuckles and nods. No ones feelings were hurt, but they all got the point quite well.

Thornborough however noticed how well he handled it, each man here was proud, each man here also expected leadership, and the leader was not one that was easily swayed; yet here Dost Khan, having already made up his mind in part, would listen to all that was said and when everyone had said something he could use he would speak, each time he referred to something one of the men had said he would look at that man as if to acknowledge his contribution.

Loyalty here was personal, you did not deal with your officers you dealt with Kerim who's father stole camels from your grandfather, but who later made peace; or Najib who rode with you hunting for deer when you were both fifteen; but there was also Musa who was a middle-aged Sheykh when you were just a stripling, and all of these men had to be brought beneath his will. It was all intensely personal, more like a feudal lord rallying his vassals, and indeed that was exactly what this was like.

The Camp Proper

The following day...

The camp was ablaze, everywhere tents were being pulled up, camels, donkeys and horses were being laden with goods and supplies, the camp followers did a brisk trade in offering their labour to handle such jobs as the warriors saw as being beneath their dignity. It was an astounding sight, and quite noisy too with loud cries from every kind of beast, and the hollering and hooting of the soldiers themselves.

It was in short chaos, so many people milling all around the place, so many beasts, and so many different dialects, being shouted loud enough to overpower the din, that you'd be forgiven for thinking yourself back in biblical times and the confusion that befell Babel.

What few villagers were present did not seem overly saddened by the departure; except of course when an official could be seen, then they would bow deeply and protest, but in truth no village would ever be sad to see a group of rowdy soldiers ride away.

Whitcomb peered at the scene with some curiosity, but in truth what he was truly looking for was a group of ragged strangers straggling into camp, it was really quite simple five miles an hour, 120 miles a day, 840 miles a week, the mechanical men were still out there and they rested heavily on his mind.

Then he turned around and walked towards the ship, practically leaping up the metal gangway and then walking to the bridge. "Gentlemen," he cried as he entered said bridge, everyone on duty standing to attention "time to depart."

"What course Sir?"

"South by South-East..." a smile nearly crossed his lips, but he suppressed it, it was not seemly "It's time to revisit a site of an old adventure..."

FINIS