Report by John Stock, lieutenant in the 1st Regiment of Punjab Infantry, sent to George Curzon, 1st Marquess Curzon of Kedleston, Viceroy of India, at his residence at Government House in Calcutta, dated February 1903

*   *   *

Dear Lord Curzon,

Having made it safely back to Kabul, I am pleased to provide you with an account of my mission, trusting that you will pass on the intelligence contained herein to our paymasters in Whitehall and that it will prove valuable to them as well as to you.

You will recall how I ventured into the Pamir mountains at the start of the winter, accompanied by my trusty Pundit colleague, Aarav Choudhury. This I did at your personal behest, with a view to discovering more about Queen Zohra. She, it was rumoured, had taken it upon herself to unite disparate regional tribes in revolt against Russian incursion upon their territory, inciting them to harry and kill any of the invaders they came across. This resulted in numerous skirmishes and not a few casualties on either side. My mission was to ascertain whether there was any substance to these claims and, if so, whether Zohra and her policy might prove advantageous to our own interests in the region.

There was some debate regarding the woman’s very existence, with certain parties suggesting that she was naught but a myth, and likewise Lamakan, the remote city over which she supposedly ruled. In these confused times, and in this benighted corner of the world, it is perfectly possible that stories about an idealized queen—imperious, insubordinate, beautiful, exhorting her subjects to revolt against an oppressor—might arise spontaneously, out of nothing more than a fervent desire for them to be true. At the very least, wishful thinking might distort and exaggerate fact into fiction.

It turns out that this latter-day Boadicea is not only real but is, in my judgement, a force to be reckoned with. As to the likelihood of her accepting support from Britain, and perhaps even entering into an alliance with us, I shall leave that to wiser heads than mine to determine.

*   *   *

We had a hard journey of it almost from the moment we left Afghanistan, travelling north into Turkestan and thence into the Pamirs. Choudhury has huge expertise when it comes to the region, having conducted numerous one-man expeditions there as part of the Great Trigonometrical Survey. I could not ask for a more reliable companion, or for that matter a more resourceful one.

He instinctively performed various of the techniques he was taught in order to make his observations unnoticed, such as taking steps of equal measurement, precisely two thousand of them to the mile, and counting off the miles on the prayer beads on his wrist. Thanks to this and other skills, he is akin to a human sextant: he always seems to know where he is, to the nearest degree of latitude and longitude.

Yet, as we ventured deeper into that high fastness, with its broad-beamed valleys, its sharp blue lakes and its close-shouldering, sinewy mountains, we strayed so far outside Choudhury’s scope of knowledge that even he admitted we were entering terra incognita. Large swathes of the area are under Russian control, and our every footstep was dogged by the awareness that at any time we might stumble upon some of the Tsar’s men, whether soldiers or spies.

In the past, while undertaking missions such as this, I have adopted the guise of a hakeem—a doctor or wise man—a role I have been able to pull off convincingly thanks to some basic medical training and my fluency in Persian, Pashto, and several of the regional dialects. However, for all that my skin has been darkened by years of exposure to the tropical sun, my features remain distinctly European, and there have been times when my imposture has come close to being penetrated, with potentially dire consequences. As an example of this, you will perhaps recall the perilously close shave I had with some Turcoman slavers a couple of years ago.

Hence on this occasion I purported instead to be an English rug merchant on a quest to establish new sources of fine kilims, with Choudhury posing as my assistant, translator, and guide. While any Russian might look askance upon a trader from an enemy nation, he might not immediately assume me to be there for nefarious purposes. As long as there was the least notion in his mind that I might not be a secret agent working on His Majesty’s behalf, I stood a chance of escaping his ire.

It was bitterly cold amid those towering barren peaks and rough, rocky gorges. On some days the wind did not so much cut through us as flay us to the bone, an onslaught which no amount of clothing layers could mitigate. At the same time, for all that the temperature seldom rose above freezing, the sun bore down blazingly, reddening and blistering exposed skin.

Our horses found the going treacherous, their hooves forever slipping on shale or scree, and there was precious little forage for them to consume and only the occasional icy stream from which to drink. The air, meanwhile, was desperately thin; our breathing became laboured, every inhalation an effort. Not for nothing are the Pamirs known as the “Roof of the World.” It feels like a place man was not meant to inhabit and only its Creator should behold.

Whenever we encountered locals, be they the inhabitants of some tiny, isolated village or a group of itinerants, we would do our best to befriend them. Traditionally, blandishments and a little bit of coin sufficed. In such instances, I played the ignorant, monoglot foreigner, leaving it to Choudhury—fluent in even more languages than I, and possessed of a personal charm that easily wins over strangers—to carry the bulk of the conversations. Choosing his moment, Choudhury would make subtle, sidelong enquiries about Queen Zohra and Lamakan. The answers provided were either evasive or only tangentially informative, but every so often we would obtain assurances that such a woman and such a city did indeed exist. We would even be offered indications, albeit based on second- or third-hand testimony, as to where they might be found.

“Six days’ travel due west,” one interlocutor might offer, or “Follow the valley on the other side of yonder range, and at its far end is where Lamakan is said to lie.” We duly pursued these leads, which one after another turned out to be false.

If there was a common thread to these interactions, it was that the locals approved of Queen Zohra’s stand against the Russians. The indigenes feel little love toward the imperialists from the north, who sow cruelty and brutality wherever they go. The Russians will stop at nothing in their desire conquer all of central Asia, crushing khanates and installing puppet regimes, with torture and execution meted out regularly, almost as a matter of course.

Nor are their ambitions limited to central Asia. They have their sights set on wresting India from British rule and claiming her treasures for their own. That is why their expansionism must be resisted, and that is why we conduct this intricate business of espionage, counterplot and coalition-building which Captain Arthur Conolly once described so memorably as “a great game, a noble game.”

*   *   *

After weeks of fruitless searching in those inhospitable climes, with the ever-present danger of bumping into a Russian patrol or agent, I began to lose heart. I am as diligent a servant of the Crown as you could ask for, but like anyone I have my physical limitations, and both Choudhury and I were struggling with the privations we were forced to endure.

With little sustenance to be found in that desolate place, both of us had lost weight—almost to the point of emaciation—and both of us were badly sunburned, too, such that our noses and cheeks were beset with open sores. I developed a digestive complaint that would be debilitating even under the best of circumstances; as for our horses, they were becoming increasingly skittish and refractory, as though they too were succumbing to a sense of futility.

The weather kept worsening as the winter deepened, each day bringing sleet, snowfall, sometimes a blizzard. There came a point when I resolved that if we did not find Lamakan within a fortnight we should cut our losses, about-face, and make for Kabul, to return again in the spring for a fresh attempt.

That was when we fell afoul of the snow leopards.

*   *   *

The beasts descended upon us one dawn, as we slept in our tent. Choudhury, with his sharper ears, heard them first, awakening to the sound of their paws padding outside. He roused me, and together we listened as the leopards sniffed around our little shelter, which all at once seemed flimsy and able to afford scant protection.

Their shadows, cast by the rising sun onto the canvas, revealed there to be two of them. Each was a bulky, sturdy thing, at least two feet tall from ground to shoulder and five feet long from muzzle to tail. Their every movement spoke of exquisite strength, grace, and confidence, and there was no question in my mind that they would be able to tear through the tent if they wanted, besetting us within.

I groped for my pistol, and Choudhury for his rifle, and by unspoken agreement the pair of us awaited the leopards’ attack, poised to repel it to the last bullet. We could only assume that the creatures were hungry and that we humans offered them tempting prey.

Finally, one of the snow leopards began testing the tent entrance with a paw. The flaps were securely fastened, but a casual swipe of a claw slit open the topmost tie, allowing the beast to peer through the gap. Choudhury raised his Martini-Enfield and sighted along the barrel, slipping a finger round the trigger. The gun was trained on the single amber eye that gazed inquisitively—and perhaps acquisitively—in.

At the same moment, the other leopard began pawing at the rear of the tent, obliging me to shuffle round until I was back-to-back with Choudhury. I cocked and levelled my pistol, a double-barrelled Lancaster, the type of handgun that is renowned throughout the Raj as a hunting weapon and prized for its usefulness in close-range defence against big game.

“Do we shoot, sahib?” Choudhury enquired in a low voice.

“I am loath to harm any animal,” I replied, “unless it is for sport or my life is threatened. They may, like any cat, simply be curious about us.”

“If they are not careful, their curiosity will kill them.”

“So be it,” I said. “Hold your fire until there is no alternative.”

Anxious moments passed as the snow leopards continued to probe the tent, now and then emitting low, menacing snarls. Then one yowled to the other, which I took as a sign that Choudhury and I were deemed fair game.

I braced myself. Neither my companion nor I could afford to miss. The great cats, given the least opportunity, would tear us to pieces.

At that moment of crisis, gunshots resounded from without, three reports in swift succession. The snow leopards were gone in a trice. I heard them scurry off across the snow in panic. We had been saved, but by whom?

Warily I undid the tent flap and leaned out, my Lancaster still at the ready.

I was greeted by the sight of a stocky, doughty-looking fellow striding towards us, armed with a repeating rifle that I identified as a Spencer carbine. He was holding the weapon at port arms, from which I inferred he did not intend to use it again straight away. I, for my part, lowered my pistol but, through a surfeit of caution, did not extricate my forefinger from the trigger guard.

The man was as swarthy and dark-eyed as any native of the region. He dressed like one, too, from the turban wrapped about his head to the tulwar scabbarded at his waist, all of which rendered anomalous his possession of an American-made rifle—rather than, say, a jezail or similar local matchlock. More anomalous still was his accent when he addressed me, for it was American, with a touch of a Texan twang.

“Those cats weren’t bothering you, were they?” he asked. “I thought I’d scare them off, in case they were.”

In an instant I knew exactly who this was. I was face to face with a figure as fabled and elusive as Queen Zohra, if not more so.

“You are,” I said, crawling from the tent and straightening up, “Francis Xavier Gordon, he who is also known as El Borak—‘The Swift’.”

“Guilty as charged,” the Texan said. “And you are the English rug merchant who’s been traveling hither and yon through the mountains. I hear things. Word about you has spread.”

“I am he,” I admitted. “And this is my guide, Aarav Choudhury.” The Pundit had just poked his head out from the tent.

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Gordon said with a nod. He turned back to me, his eyes narrowing somewhat. “Maybe, though, we can dispense with the sham.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re no businessman. Not carrying a gun like that—and not with all those questions you and you friend have been asking lately about Lamakan and Queen Zohra. I’ve met your kind before. British military. In disguise. A spy, in other words. Only, your government won’t openly acknowledge that that’s what you are, in case you get caught. It could cause a political brouhaha, if that were to happen. They need to be able to claim they had no idea what you were up to. So you’ve been granted—what’s the expression?—‘shooting leave.’ You’re absent from the army with permission, and what you choose to do in your own time is your affair. So if what you choose to do happens to be a little intelligence-gathering…” He shrugged his shoulders. “Well.”

He had, in just a few sentences, summarised my situation precisely, and I could see no reason not to make a clean breast of it.

“Lieutenant John Stock,” I said, extending a hand.

He shook it, his grip remarkably strong. “How do you do, leftenant? It comes as little surprise to me that our paths have crossed. It was perhaps inevitable.”

“How so?”

“Because I’m interested in Lamakan, too. But before we get into that, we should make us a fire and have some breakfast.”

“Allow me,” Choudhury said, clambering out from the tent, leaving his Martini-Enfield within. He later told me he had not relinquished his hold on the rifle until that point, once it became indisputably clear that the American was friend, not foe.

“No, sir,” Gordon said. “I’m not English. No man buttles for me. I’ll do it.”

Presently, he had a small cooking fire going, and he produced some eggs and strips of meat—goat, I fancy—which he fried in a pan. Choudhury and I had been subsisting on meagre rations of hardtack and pemmican, so the smell of fresh food sizzling in the pan was intoxicating.

“Figured you folks could do with a decent meal,” the American said as he dished the food out. “You look about half-starved.”

We ate with gusto, and afterward I enquired of Gordon what significance Lamakan had for him.

“If you know anything about me,” he said, “you’ll know I like to keep the peace round these parts. Anything I can do to stop tribes warring, or calm feuds, or prevent the world powers from interfering too much, I will do. And Lamakan has lately been upsetting the Russians, what with Zohra publicly declaring her opposition to their occupation and rallying to the cause her own people and others. Upsetting them so much, in fact, that the Tsar has despatched one of his top men, Major Andrei Razin, to deal with the problem.”

“Razin.”

“You know him, huh?”

“By reputation.” My lip curled. “Major Razin is a fiend even by his own nation’s standards. His barbarism knows no bounds. It is said he personally has put more than a thousand men, women and children to death, and that he likes to fall asleep to the sound of screams, with human suffering as his lullaby.”

“I have heard he’s a Tatar,” Choudhury said, “and professes himself a direct descendant of Genghis Khan.”

“He may be all those things,” Gordon said. “What concerns me is the fact that he is leading a regiment of cavalry and artillery into these mountains, with a view to quelling Lamakan’s rebellion and bringing Queen Zohra back with him to St. Petersburg—either alive and in chains, or just her head: Tsar Nicholas doesn’t much mind which. I don’t know how far Razin’s gotten yet, but he’s definitely on his way, and if he’s half as terrible as his description, he’s bringing hell with him.”

“You propose to stop him?” I said.

“However I can,” Gordon said flatly and with finality.

“One man, against several hundred well-armed, well-trained troops?”

The man called El Borak shrugged his shoulders. “The odds don’t matter, if the tactics are right.”

I barked a laugh. “You are surely mad.”

“I’ve been called worse. Fact is, Leftenant Stock, I was kind of hoping you’d help me. Both of you.”

I laughed again. “Two men, three men, against several hundred well-armed, well-trained troops—it’s still the same. Futile.”

“You forget. We’d have the people of Lamakan on our side.”

“Even so,” I said, “I can’t believe they, however incentivised, can hold out against a contingent of the Imperial Russian Army. Their weapons will be no match for their adversaries’, for one thing; and for another, the Russian, with his blood up, is a formidable opponent, relentless and implacable, almost suicidal in his pursuit of victory. I appreciate the offer, Gordon, really I do, but I am not the man for the job.”

Gordon mused briefly, then said, “At the very least, will you come with me to Lamakan? You’re here to learn about it and its ruler, aren’t you? Perhaps, if you see the city and meet Queen Zohra, you’ll decide her revolt is worth backing. A regiment of British soldiers garrisoned at Lamakan would make Razin think twice before attacking the place.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “I am still having difficulty believing that Lamakan can even be found. I was coming to the conclusion that it was as fictitious as Atlantis or Lilliput.”

“Oh, it’s real all right,” Gordon said. “More to the point, it’s less than two days’ ride from here.”

“Truly?”

“You were getting close. Of course, reaching Lamakan and gaining entry to it are not the same thing. By all accounts, Queen Zohra isn’t receptive to visitors. She guards her city’s sovereignty jealously. Outsiders are viewed with suspicion and rarely welcome. The way I see it, your best hope of not getting skewered by an arrow as you approach the gates is to have someone with you who has had plenty of dealings with mountain folk, and understands their customs and habits.”

My eagerness was piqued, and Gordon knew it. I looked at Choudhury, who wobbled his head in that Indian way, denoting qualified agreement. Francis Xavier Gordon was our ticket to Lamakan and, having come so far and borne so much hardship in our quest, we would be foolish to turn down his proposal.

*   *   *

For the next two days Choudhury and I found ourselves riding behind El Borak—whose own horse had been tethered just out of eyeshot of our campsite—through some of the ruggedest and most treacherous terrain I have ever encountered. We filed along tracks so narrow and with so precipitous a drop on one side, a mountain goat might have baulked at them. We trekked atop sharp ridges that jutted upward like a series of gigantic axe blades, where one misstep would have sent both mount and rider plunging to their doom. We traversed natural rock bridges that spanned deep, seemingly bottomless ravines and that, in their slenderness, looked scarcely capable of supporting the weight of a single man, let alone three on horseback.

Gordon retained an enviable composure throughout, which in turn reassured me somewhat. He struck me as a fellow of great conviction and tenacity, but there was, too, something primitive about him, something elemental. It was as though even his native Texas, with its endless scrubby wastes and its outposts of lawlessness, was too civilised for his liking; whereas here, in the East, he had found a new frontier, one that could never be tamed, where the sheer bleak desolation found a correspondence in his soul.

I apologise, Your Excellency, if I seem to be waxing lyrical, but if nothing else I hope to give an accurate portrayal of a man who, in his way, embodies the genius loci more than any other Westerner.

It was not long after noon on the second day of our journey that we arrived at Lamakan. The city nestled in the centre of a large, bowl-shaped valley, ringed by jagged peaks upon which the snows had accumulated thickly, sculpted into undulating waves by the wind and, in places, cresting to form huge, teetering overhangs.

A defile just wide enough to afford access for a cart snaked through the crags, and at one point as we passed along it, Gordon leapt from his saddle to examine the ground ahead and then inspect the rockface on either side. His expression darkened to a scowl.

“See these?” said he, indicating multiple hoofprints and wheel tracks. “They’re recently made. Someone has passed this way not too long ago.”

“A great number of someones,” I said.

“A small army. And as for those…” Gordon pointed to certain fresh scratch marks on the sides of the defile.

“They suggest the scrape of metal against rock.”

“As of wagons going by. Or artillery pieces.” The Texan’s face was sombre. “We’re too late. Major Razin has got here already.”

*   *   *

As we emerged from the defile onto a broad ledge overlooking the valley, there below us lay Lamakan. It was a walled stronghold which might comfortably accommodate a couple of thousand inhabitants, surrounded by farmland—fields and orchards irrigated by a river that wound sparklingly from north to south. To see such greenness and lush fertility amid so much empty grey sterility was startling, akin to finding an oasis in a desert.

Yet this oasis was, as it were, polluted. For occupying the countryside around the city was, as we had feared, a military force. Tents dotted the ground. Horses stood in makeshift corrals. I spied dugout trenches and cannon emplacements. Here and there were men in olive drab uniform, crouched in battle lines, their guns directed at Lamakan. The city walls bore the marks of artillery bombardment, riddled with holes and in places partly demolished. I was looking at a place under siege: a state it had clearly been enduring for several days now.

Gordon, casting a bitter eye over the scene, said nothing but let out a low growl of discontent.

“There is surely little we can do,” I said, with a hapless gesture. “Lamakan is as good as done. The Russians are well entrenched around it, and judging by the condition of its fortifications it is only a matter of time before the city succumbs to their assault. Would we not be wise to turn about and withdraw?”

“Are you a coward?” Gordon shot back.

“No,” I replied hotly. “I am a man of good sense. I might ask you, by the same token, if you are a lunatic.”

Before he could respond, there came a bugle voluntary from down in the valley, swiftly followed by a thunderous peal of cannon fire. Shells hurtled at the city walls, punching into those earthen bulwarks with devastating effect. The fire was concentrated on a single section and succeeded in reducing much of it to rubble, creating a breach.

No sooner had the echoes of the artillery detonations faded and the gunsmoke cleared than a band of invading cavalry mustered and charged, making straight for the newly opened gap. In return, defenders poured forth from within Lamakan, wielding matchlocks and swords and letting out high-pitched, ululating yells of defiance.

A pitched battle ensued right at the city perimeter, with sheer murderous ferocity that was apparent even to the three of us perched on high, half a league distant. Russian horsemen and Lamakani citizens engaged with one another in a tumultuous, thrashing throng. Bullets flew. Blades flashed. The besiegers had discipline and skill on their side, plus the advantage of being on horseback. The defenders, by contrast, were fighting for their lives, their families, their city’s very existence. This lent them added courage and determination.

Eventually, after twenty minutes of gruelling close-quarter combat, the Russians were repelled. The order to retreat was sounded. The cavalrymen reined their mounts round and rode away, leaving perhaps a third of their number behind, sprawled in bloody, motionless heaps.

The Lamakanis, though victorious, had fared worse. A good three quarters of those who had rushed headlong out of the city now lay dead, their bodies mingling with those of the Russians and their horses, all of them hacked about and mutilated, just masses of bloodied flesh, severed limbs and spilled innards, man and animal undifferentiated.

The surviving remainder limped back inside the city’s confines, and soon the process of sealing up the breach commenced, with broken masonry piled in the opening and, above this, thick timbers laid across.

Even as these repairs were being carried out, a small group of Russians returned to the battle site and began picking through the shambles of corpses. I presumed they had gone to retrieve the bodies of their fallen comrades, but in fact they gathered up any of their enemies who were not dead but lay incapacitated or badly wounded. They dragged them back behind their lines, whereupon they set about nailing them to crosses.

Not content with that, the Russians proceeded to put out their eyes and mutilate their hands and feet. Their victims were spared no indignity.

Raised vertical in plain view of the city, the crucified Lamakanis writhed and shuddered, their piteous, agonised wails echoing across the valley. It was abundantly clear that this suffering was intended as a lesson for Lamakan’s defenders.

“See how we treat your fellows?” was the message. “See how little you mean to us? See the contempt in which we hold you?”

In retort, arrows flew from the city walls. The Russians took cover, but they themselves were not the targets. Rather, the arrows found their mark in the Lamakanis on the crosses, and thus was their torment brought to a swift end.

Witnessing the Russian cruelty, Gordon grew ever more tense and grim. His hands clenched into fists, and I heard his teeth grind. I could hardly gainsay his anger, but did not see how it might profitably be acted upon, and I confessed as much to him.

“I have an idea,” he countered, “but we must be patient. Nothing can happen until nightfall.”

What his idea was, he did not vouchsafe, but I was content to take his lead for now, and so we tied up the horses just inside the mouth of the gorge and settled down to wait.

*   *   *

Soon enough the sun sank behind the valley’s western rim, casting purple shadows over Lamakan and its environs, while the clouds dotting the sky blazed blood red. Then came dark, and campfires twinkled below, far outdone in number and brilliance by the stars above.

“Mr. Choudhury,” Gordon said, “you are to stay and mind the horses. Leftenant Stock?”

“I can’t tell whether you pronounce my rank that way as an insult or not.”

“It’s how you English say it, isn’t it? I’m just trying to be accommodating. At any rate, Leftenant, I’m going down into the valley now. Stay here, come along, makes no difference to me, but if you want to help me give those Russians their due comeuppance…” He left the sentence unfinished.

Goaded like that, how could I refuse? Besides, Gordon carried himself with such conviction, such quiet competence, that it was impossible not to be swept along by it.

A trail led down from the ledge, zigzagging back and forth across the mountainside. Gordon and I descended this slowly and carefully. A crescent moon afforded a modicum of illumination, enough for us to see our way but not so much that we might be readily detected by others.

Once in the valley, we gave the Russian encampment a wide berth. Now and then raucous laughter reached us, emanating from various of the tents. It was unmistakably the sound of drunken revelry, which was not surprising, given the Russian’s notorious fondness for alcohol. In my view, it spoke of arrogance. So certain were the besiegers that Lamakan would eventually fall to their depredations, they thought nothing of imbibing and carousing late into the night.

On two occasions Gordon and I were obliged to lie low as a patrol came past. Again, however, these infantrymen seemed anything but alert. They clumped perfunctorily along, chatting to one another, their sword belts rattling, as though guard duty required neither watchfulness nor stealth. However fearsome Russian soldiery may be in combat, the incaution I witnessed there, away from the battlefield, struck me as a serious defect.

Onward we stole to Lamakan, at last arriving at the breach we had seen inflicted earlier in the day. Here, by means of signs and gestures, Gordon indicated that he would climb the haphazard repair work, while I should remain below.

So he went, scaling the piled-up masonry and then the crisscrossing timbers, agile as an ape and silent as a serpent. I felt he was taking an undue risk, for surely this vulnerable spot in the city walls was going to be better guarded than anywhere else.

Largely, though, my concern was for myself, in as much as I was out in the open, exposed, and my presence might be discerned at any moment. I shrank against the base of the wall, clinging to the shadows, and prayed nobody would spot me, whether from within the city or from elsewhere.

Shortly a low whistle came from above, and I descried Gordon at the top of the blockade of stone and wood, beckoning to me. With some trepidation I undertook the ascent, managing it not as adroitly as the Texan had but successfully nonetheless. Reaching his side, I perceived a group of Lamakanis huddled upon the battlements of the nearest intact portion of wall, their swords drawn but not brandished.

One of their complement lay flat on his back, unconscious, and I could only infer that there had been an altercation of some sort. Gordon had been challenged and had defended himself. Why the others had not then retaliated, overwhelming the American with sheer numbers, I could not tell.

The explanation came as Gordon spoke to the Lamakanis, in fluent Pashto.

“This man Stock is an ally of mine. You are to accord him the same respect as you do me.”

They murmured assent. “We shall comply, sir,” one of them said. He looked the most senior and authoritative. “Had we but known it was El Borak who had entered into our midst, we would not have assailed you. Your prowess in hand-to-hand combat is equalled only by your mercy in not slaying us all.”

There was awe in the fellow’s voice, matched by the deference in his comrades’ demeanour. I had not appreciated, until then, the sheer depth of the mystique that surrounded Gordon.

El Borak, it seemed, was a name spoken in hushed whispers, as one might when referring to a deity or a devil, and his very presence commanded respect. It only goes to show, Your Excellency, that influence among the peoples of this region can just as handily be gained through earning their respect as by imposing one’s will on them. In that regard, Gordon’s example is one we would do well to follow.

Be that as it may, the mighty El Borak had no difficulty persuading these men to grant him an audience with their queen, and in due course he and I were escorted through Lamakan’s mazy, close-clustering streets by a four-strong contingent. The shapes of mudbrick houses loomed around us, neatly-built dwellings with small windows, low doors and flat roofs. Now and then we would cross a small square, and on one occasion we passed through a covered bazaar, whose market stalls were bereft of all wares.

Everywhere was evidence of a city in misery. Bodies lay outdoors, wrapped in shrouds, awaiting burial but with no consecrated place to inter them. Weeping could be heard from within many of the houses, and the stench of mouldering refuse and stagnant drains affronted the nostrils.

We learned from our escorts that the Russians had arrived just five days earlier, yet already they had halved the number of Lamakani fighting men with their bombardments and sorties. Beardless youths were now bolstering the defenders’ ranks, and often women and the elderly, too. Meanwhile food stocks were running low, since the surrounding farmland that supplied the city was now in Russian hands. Worse still, the besiegers had corrupted the river from which Lamakan drew its drinking water, by introducing quantities of human waste and rotten meat into it upstream.

In short, it was felt that Lamakan could not hold out very much longer.

*   *   *

Queen Zohra’s palace was a large, pillared dwelling located at the city’s heart, with spear-bearing sentries stationed at its entrance. The name El Borak secured us ingress, and presently Gordon and I found ourselves in a torchlit antechamber, where we whiled a good ten minutes or so before being ushered into an adjacent throne room.

Zohra sat upon a chair of marble inlaid with gold, raised on a dais, attended by a handful of courtiers and ladies-in-waiting. Her manner was stately and regal as she greeted us, and it would be remiss of me not to remark upon her physical attractions, for she was sloe-eyed and statuesque, with a mane of sleek dark hair bounded by a silver diadem, and a jewelled pendant ornamenting her ample bosom. Her brow was high and intelligent, her lips full, her neck swanlike. I would put her at no more than twenty years of age, yet she exuded the comportment and sagacity of someone far older. I never had the honour of meeting our own late queen, but I imagine Victoria to have been not dissimilar in person, a woman quite content with her exalted status and accepting the obeisance of others as her due.

“Your Majesty,” Gordon said, “we thank you for granting us this audience.”

“When the much-vaunted El Borak turns up on one’s doorstep,” Zohra said, “what else can one do? Would that it were under less inauspicious circumstances.”

“I agree. Yet, as you will doubtless have intuited, the very inauspiciousness of the occasion is what brings me here. You have incurred the wrath of the Russian bear, and now Lamakan feels the rending power of its claws.”

“We are prepared to withstand anything the Russians throw at us. We will fight those dogs to our dying breaths.”

“That is all very laudable, Your Majesty,” Gordon said, “but what use will it be if Lamakan is destroyed and you yourself slain? How will that deter the interlopers? Will it not, rather, embolden them in their efforts to subjugate these lands?”

“If we must be martyrs,” the queen said, “then through our martyrdom we will motivate others to resist all the harder.”

“What if I were to offer you an alternative, Queen Zohra?”

The monarch essayed a wry half-smile. “Tell me more. When El Borak speaks, even a crowned head must listen.”

“Your predicament may seem hopeless, but I believe I have the solution to it. I should warn you, however, it is one that will require great valour, and perhaps sacrifice, on the part of your people.”

“Go on.”

Gordon outlined his plan, which I shall describe in due course as it was in the process of being implemented. I was impressed by its audacity while at the same time dubious of its practicality. There seemed much that could go wrong, and only through some miracle might it succeed wholly.

Zohra expressed misgivings similar to my own, but Gordon was adamant that the scheme would work. Moreover, as he pointed out, unless some form of drastic action was taken, Lamakan was certain to fall to the Russians within days, if not hours.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“Very well,” Zohra said. “If you will play your part, El Borak, we shall play ours. Indeed, I shall see to it personally that we Lamakanis fulfil our side of the bargain exactly as required. You have my word that we shall not be found wanting.”

“That is all I can ask for, Your Majesty,” Gordon said, and after some further details were settled, he and I made our way back to the breach in the wall and thence out into the surrounding farmland, to steal past the Russian encampment once more.

*   *   *

Dawn was just greying the eastern horizon as we toiled up the trail to the ledge where we had left Choudhury and our horses. We ate a swift meal—dates and cheese from Gordon’s supply—but there was no opportunity to rest, for a laborious enterprise lay ahead of us and there was not much time. Gordon transferred certain items from his horse’s pannier into a knapsack, and then he and I set about scaling the nearest slope, again leaving my Pundit companion to mind things while we were gone.

I soon lost count of the number of times I slipped on that near-sheer mountainside and almost went slithering downhill to my death. Gordon, by contrast, seemed quite at home, ascending the rock face as though born to it, his progress steady and relaxed but deceptively so, for it was also rapid. I did my best to emulate him, using the selfsame handholds and toeholds he used. After a while my limbs trembled, my muscles ached, and the patches of my skin where the sun had inflicted those various blisters and burns made a sore protest; yet I did not dare beg for surcease.

Rather, I drew strength and inspiration from Gordon’s relentless drive. His stamina was remarkable and spurred me to heights of exertion I might not otherwise have attained. Both the urgency of our task and the desire not to be found wanting impelled me onwards, past the usual bounds of my endurance.

When at last we reached the summit, I was breathless but exhilarated. Gordon forged straight on, following the apex of the ridge as it curved westward around the valley. In due course we were wading at first knee-deep in snow, then thigh-deep. For perhaps a mile we trudged effortfully, with Gordon continually checking our position relative to Lamakan down in the valley. Finally he halted, seeming to have found a satisfactory spot.

“This will do,” he murmured, and so saying, he delved into his knapsack and produced the dozen sticks of dynamite he had taken from his horse’s pannier. Why Gordon happened to carry dynamite around with him, I cannot say and did not enquire. I can only assume that for an adventurer such as him, explosives are something that might be required in the normal course of events. He would perhaps have felt ill-equipped without.

Handing me half of the sticks, he invited me to insert them into the snow at two-yard intervals, with the fuses exposed. I did as bidden, while he performed a similar operation a little further along the ridge. We were positioned atop one of those great long teetering crests of snow that hung over the edge of the mountainside, an unfathomably vast weight of frozen-solid whiteness suspended above empty space.

The job done, our only recourse was to sit tight and wait for Zohra and her fellow Lamakanis to discharge their part of the plan.

*   *   *

It was not long in coming. The sun was just breaking free of the mountaintops when the gates of Lamakan all at once flew wide open and out came a horde of citizenry. This was not just the city’s able-bodied fighting force. This was every single inhabitant capable of locomotion and of wielding a weapon—and at their vanguard was Zohra herself. Even though I was too far off to confirm that it was her leading the charge, I had no doubt about the matter, for last night she had solemnly vowed to do so.

The Lamakanis issued forth in a tremendous torrent, waving rifles, swords, clubs, cudgels, sticks, and practically any other implement that might be used for offensive purposes. Their massed warcry, bellowed by several hundred throats in unison, was a roar of pure, heartfelt fury, and it thrilled me to hear it, even at a distance.

It must, by the same token, have terrified the Russians, most of whom were still abed at that moment, no doubt sleeping off the previous evening’s excesses.

In no time the Lamakanis had encircled the Russian encampment in a pincer, the majority of them on its eastern side. The two flanks began moving inwards, wrecking tents and slaughtering unwary enemies as they went. The besiegers had become the besieged, but soon enough, after an initially sluggish response, the Russians were on their feet and fighting back.

This was our moment.

Gordon and I struck matches and lit the fuses on the sticks of dynamite. Once every fuse was sizzling, we fled. By God, how we fled! The deep snow hampered us, obliging us to take long loping leaps. At one stage I made a misjudgement, not stepping quite high enough, and fetched up flat on my face, but Gordon grabbed me by the scruff of the shirt, hauling me upright. On I went, and on went he.

There was a ripple of detonations, the snow deadening the dynamite’s usual ear-splitting thunderclaps each to a muffled whump. Next thing I knew, an enormous swathe of overhanging snow crest had sheared away and was tumbling down into the valley. Gordon and I paused just long enough to glance over our shoulders and see that vast tonnage of frozen water become an avalanche.

Then we resumed fleeing, for fissures were appearing in the snow behind us, forking toward us like lightning. A cascade effect had begun. Snow was starting to slide down the other side of the mountain, as well, and if we were not careful, it would snatch us up and carry us with it.

We escaped that fate, and having reached a patch of stable, snowless ground we were able to stop and take stock.

The main avalanche had by now arrived in the bowl of the valley, having gathered up vast quantities of loose rock and even some boulders en route. It swept across the valley floor in a gigantic flood of white dotted with grey and black, making straight for the Russian encampment, rumbling like an earthquake as it went.

Its progress was rapid and remorseless, scouring all before it. This included the Lamakanis’ western flank as well as the Russians, their tents, their horses, and their artillery.

The eastern flank of the Lamakani attackers beat a hasty retreat. From the outset their fellows on the other side had known their lives would be forfeit. Their task had been to help keep the Russians pinned in one spot, at fatal cost to themselves. I could only salute their bravery.

As soon as they heard the dynamite go off, the remaining Lamakanis began seeking refuge on the far side of the valley. The avalanche, its impetus starting to abate, nevertheless pursued and engulfed some of them, but the majority evaded it.

Soon the avalanche had run its course completely, and an eerie silence ensued. A pale mist drifted over the valley floor, slowly thinning to reveal the devastation that Gordon and I had wrought. Much of Lamakan’s farmland now lay buried beneath a layer of snow and rock. The Russian encampment was gone altogether, wiped away, and of the Russians themselves none remained, at least as far as we could tell.

Wearily, but with a sense of grim gratification, Gordon and I wended our way back down to rejoin Choudhury on the ledge.

*   *   *

It took perhaps an hour to get there, and when we arrived we found Choudhury in a state of some agitation.

“Sahibs, I am glad to see you. Look!” the Pundit cried, gesticulating towards the zigzagging trail. “Russians. A handful of them have survived and are coming this way.”

Sure enough, a raggle-taggle band of Russian soldiers were heaving themselves up the trail, ten or eleven of them all told. They were as yet incognisant of our presence on the ledge. To me they looked dazed and bewildered, as if unable to countenance how sudden, crushing, and monumental their reversal of fortunes had been. Their campaign of attrition against Lamakan had seemed destined to have only one outcome, and now here they were—these few men, the last pitiful remnants of a once mighty military force—bested, stumbling away in ignominy.

Gordon did not hesitate.

He snatched the Spencer carbine from his horse’s saddle scabbard and took up a sniper position at the rim of the ledge. Choudhury followed suit with his Martini-Enfield. Aiming downslope at the Russians, they opened fire.

Was it wrong to ambush those men like this? To take potshots at them, without warning? To treat them as though they were no more than targets at a shooting gallery? You might think so, Your Excellency. All I can say is that in certain situations clemency, though desirable, is not always advisable. Had the roles been reversed, the Russians would surely have done the same to us.

Five of them were eliminated before any return fire came our way. Thereafter Gordon and Choudhury had a somewhat trickier task, as Russian bullets ricocheted off the rocks around them, often coming dangerously close. Nevertheless, a further four of the Russians were accounted for before there came a pleading cry from below.

“Mercy!” First it was in Russian, then in crude Arabic, then French, and finally English. “We surrender! We surrender!”

“If we let you live,” Gordon called back, “you are to return to your Tsar and tell him to leave Lamakan alone. This place is under the protection of El Borak. Tell him—if I see any of you borscht-guzzling barbarians round these parts again, they’ll end up the same as your comrades down there in the valley.”

“El Borak?” The reply was couched in a mixture of curiosity and wonderment, with a hint of surly anger. “Is it truly you? The American who haunts these peaks like a vengeful ghost?”

“Who asks?”

“I am Major Andrei Razin.”

I saw Gordon stiffen at the name. I myself felt a frisson of excitement and trepidation. So the notorious Major Razin had somehow survived the carnage in the valley. Well, they say the Devil has all the luck, do they not?

“I’ve heard of you, Razin,” Gordon said.

“I should like to meet you in person, El Borak,” Razin said. “Behold you with my own eyes. Would you be agreeable to that? Under terms of truce, naturally. It is rare that one gets the chance to see a legend in the flesh.”

“This sounds risky to me,” I muttered to Gordon. “I don’t trust him an inch.”

“Neither do I,” Gordon whispered back.

“We could just keep shooting,” Choudhury said. “There are only two of them left.”

“No,” Gordon said. “They have their eye in now. We open up on them again, odds are one of us will get shot too. No, let’s invite them up. I’ve a mind to meet this Razin myself.”

He conveyed his assent to Razin. “But only on condition that you leave your guns behind. Walk up here nice and slow. Any funny business, and you’ll regret it.”

“Very well,” Razin said.

*   *   *

Shortly, he and the only other Russian still alive came into view, lurching up the last section of trail, their hands aloft. Razin cut an imposing figure, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with a fine, dark, bushy moustache and deep-set, darting eyes. He held himself with a distinct swagger, so much so you would hardly have realised that here was a commander who had just suffered a humiliating defeat and, for that matter, lost an entire regiment.

By contrast his companion, some junior-ranking officer, was thin and nondescript, very much the mouse to Razin’s lion. He at least had the decency to look chagrined as he approached us.

“You are shorter than I expected,” Razin said, clapping eyes on Gordon. “The way the natives speak of El Borak, I would have assumed you a giant.”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you where you stand,” Gordon rejoined, working the lever action of his Spencer to chamber a round in the breech. “Monster like you, you don’t deserve to live.”

“But you are gifted with a strong sense of honour, so I understand,” Razin said. “Eh, El Borak?”

“What if I am?” the American snarled, and I half wished he would simply pull the trigger, thus bringing to an end the life of this inhuman brute.

“If you wish me dead so much, why not grant me a duel?” the Russian said. “Man to man, with swords. Then, assuming you kill me, you will have done so in a fair fight, with no stain upon your conscience. It will still leave one of us—my adjutant Morozov—alive and free to return to Mother Russia with your message for the Tsar.” Razin spread out his hands, in the manner of someone making a request he considered eminently reasonable. “What do you say to that?”

I could see Gordon weighing his options. Razin’s words had apparently tweaked something in him, impinging on the righteousness that formed such an integral part of his nature. Suddenly, decisively, he lowered the Spencer, passing it to Choudhury.

“No…” I murmured.

But Gordon either did not hear or did not care. He slid his tulwar from its sheath, while Razin, wearing a wide, mirthless grin, likewise drew the sabre that hung by his side.

The rest of us—myself, Choudhury, and Morozov, the Russian junior officer—took a step back in order to give Gordon and Razin some room. I could scarcely believe that Gordon had agreed to this duel, especially since just a moment earlier he had had Razin at gunpoint, helpless. It seemed the height of foolhardiness.

Then again, that primitive streak in the man, that urge to live according to some ancient, long-lost code, must have left him no choice. He actively wanted this swordfight.

It appealed to his notion of how the world ought to be.

There could be no more overt indication of this than the fierce smile that creased El Borak’s face as he and Razin drew their blades and began circling. Each man eyed the other warily, gauging his opponent, assessing possible strengths and weaknesses. All at once the Russian lunged, causing Gordon to take a pace backward, but it was just a feint. Razin chuckled, and the circling resumed.

Then it was Gordon’s turn to lunge, but Razin parried the thrust with a deft sideways flick of the wrist. Tulwar and sabre met with a resonant clang. Gordon seemed pleased with the clash, as if it had taught him something about the other man. To my mind, Razin appeared a very skilled swordsman. He showed no fear, only a self-assurance that suggested long hours of practice with a blade.

Abruptly, the fight commenced in earnest. Gordon and Razin closed in on each other, and their respective swords whirled and flurried and bit. The ringing impact of steel on steel came again and again, at such a quick tempo that a drummer might have had trouble keeping up.

The difference in the two men’s styles was marked. Razin rained blows down on the Texan, pressing him hard, as though he were the blacksmith’s hammer and Gordon the anvil.

Gordon, for his part, aimed neat jabs and slashes at the Russian, testing his defences at every turn, seeking the one opportunity—the chink—that would allow him to deliver a decisive hit.

Razin countered and riposted, and as the battle wore on it seemed more and more likely that he might wear Gordon down until, eventually, the latter would make a mistake, one Razin would exploit without compunction.

Indeed, Razin drew first blood. It was the merest nick on Gordon’s cheek, but the sight of it elicited a yelp of triumph from the Russian and he continued his assault with redoubled vigour.

The slight injury to Gordon’s face did not deter him. On the contrary, he fought all the more intently, and it was then that I truly understood why he was nicknamed “The Swift.” Never, Your Excellency, have I seen anyone move at such a pace. He became a blur, a mortal Mercury, his tulwar flickering back and forth through the air as fast as a hummingbird’s wing.

Razin, seemingly taken by surprise, was on the back foot. No longer was he beleaguering Gordon. Rather, it was all he could do to maintain a guard against that whirring tulwar, which came closer and ever closer to finding a berth in his flesh.

Then it did.

There was almost an air of inevitability about it. Gordon ducked low, drove the tulwar forward at waist height, and an instant later the sword’s point was protruding from the small of Razin’s back. The Russian looked astonished. He peered down at the steel shaft that had pierced his midriff, almost to the hilt. Then his gaze strayed up again to meet Gordon’s and he gave vent to an oath in his native language.

Gordon, in turn, withdrew the tulwar. Razin sank to his knees, blood gushing from his wounds both front and back. His eyes rolled upward in their sockets and he sagged sideways.

I think he was dead before his body hit the ground.

*   *   *

That was the end of Major Andrei Razin, and it brings me to the conclusion of this report. We let Morozov go free, as originally proposed, and I imagine he is halfway across the Caucasus by now, still formulating how to break the bad news to his Tsar. We headed down to Lamakan, where we found the denizens of that city in a state of shock, mourning their many dead, but also relieved and pleased that they had been delivered from their foe.

Queen Zohra was among those on the western side of their two-pronged assault who had escaped the avalanche unscathed. She greeted us with sombre gratitude and asked if we wished to be rewarded for our efforts in helping lift the siege. She offered us gold, bolts of silk, women, anything we wanted, but all three of us turned her down.

“I don’t do this for money or glory, Your Majesty,” Gordon said. “I do it because it’s right.”

It is a motto I would happily have inscribed on my tombstone.

*   *   *

Choudhury and I parted company from Gordon a day later, even as the Lamakanis were starting to rebuild their damaged city walls and clear up some of the havoc wrought by the avalanche. Our destination was Kabul, and Gordon gave us some advice on directions. We shook hands, and as he rode off I found myself wondering whether such a man could be induced to join the British cause.

He alone would be worth a hundred of us. With him on our side we could even see off the Russians once and for all. You yourself, Your Excellency, might be thinking just that thought.

I put it to you, though, that Francis Xavier Gordon will never want any part in our “great game.” He plays a game of his own, abiding by rules only he can understand. It is a game with its roots in prehistory, and throughout the eons few have risen to be its champions.

Fewer still, I would submit, have excelled at it quite like El Borak.