Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul by Alex Rutherford Read Free Book Online Page B

listen to reason. She’s convinced our uncle will seize the throne and murder you. She once heard him boast that Ferghana would make a nice addition to his kingdomof Samarkand. She says he has always regarded us both acquisitively and with contempt. That’s why Father used sometimes to raid his borders – from pride, to show he wasn’t afraid.’
    ‘Well I’m not afraid either. If we don’t respond to this threat we’ll lose face among all of Timur’s descendants. I would rather die in battle than give way.’ Babur’s voice shook with a passion that startled him. Glancing round he saw his mother had woken. She must have heard what he had said. Though her eyes were still red her handsome face was alight with pride. ‘My son,’ she said softly, and held out her hand. ‘My youthful warrior.’

    The stars had never seemed so bright, Babur thought, staring up from the battlements into the heavens, or so numerous. The air felt cold and pure, and as he breathed it deep into his lungs he could almost taste the approaching winter when the rivers would freeze and wolves would come howling from the mountains to haunt the villages and prey on the herdsmen’s fat-tailed sheep.
    In just a few hours he would be riding on his first campaign. His father’s eagle-hilted sword, Alamgir, hung from his belt but his father’s armour was still too wide for him. Wazir Khan had found him chain-mail, a jewelled breastplate and a plumed helmet from the royal armoury, which did not fit too badly. Which Timurid prince had they once belonged to, he wondered, running his fingers over the gems, as cold and brilliant as the stars above him, and what had been his fate?
    A soft whinny came from the stables below. Wazir Khan had told him that horses always sensed a coming battle. Beyond the fortress walls, Babur could see the red glow of charcoal already starting to burn in the braziers as the encampments came to life. Shadowy figures were emerging from hide tents and stamping on the ground to drive the early-morning cold from their limbs. Servants were scurrying about with jugs of water and lighting flares of cloth dipped in pitch.
    Nearly every one of his chiefs had come, Babur thought, with satisfaction. He would march with an army of four thousand. Small,perhaps, compared with the might of Samarkand, but large enough to do some damage and make a point – maybe enough to force a truce and agree a settlement. He should have paid more attention to his father’s lengthy, excited accounts of military strategy. Instead he would have to rely on Wazir Khan’s advice – but he would learn quickly, he promised himself. He had to.
    Dawn was breaking now, a pale orange glow rising over the mountains and illuminating their jagged outline. Suddenly Babur spotted a cluster of horsemen galloping hard along the valley – latecomers, perhaps. Pleased by their sense of urgency, he ran down the steep stone steps from the battlements to the courtyard to greet them.
    Steam was rising from the horses’ heaving flanks as the riders surged up the castle ramp. Their leader shouted for the metalstudded gates to be opened and for permission to enter.
    ‘Halt!’ Wazir Khan’s voice rang out. Hurrying to his side, Babur saw what the commander of his bodyguard was staring at through the grille of the gate. The crouching tiger on their green silken banners proclaimed the new arrivals subjects not of Ferghana but of Samarkand.
    The leading horseman’s mount reared as he pulled hard on the reins. ‘We bring news,’ he shouted hoarsely. ‘Our king is dead.’
    ‘Majesty, stay back. I will deal with this. It may be a trick,’ Wazir Khan cautioned, then signalled his guards to stand aside and open the gates to allow the riders into the courtyard. Hand on the hilt of his sword, he strode forward to confront them. ‘Identify yourselves.’
    ‘I am Baisanghar, a captain of the King of Samarkand’s bodyguard. These are my men.’
    Baisanghar’s face was streaked