Alexander Tyurin
Kazakh's Kingdom of Sentsov

1

They quickly moved away from the rest area like sparrows that had been pecking crumbs — Nikita Kelyarev suddenly pressed his protruding ear to the ground, listened for a moment, and said in a bored voice:
— They're galloping from the hill, they'll be here soon.
I, sitting as I was, jumped up over the low scorched grass. And on the hill between the stick trees, a dozen or so dark specks were already flickering. That’s Zegers with his Parvus Internationalist detachment. And I had hoped that after crossing, we would gain a day to dissolve into the mountains. There was even hope — he wouldn’t dare to cross the Afghan shore.
— Nikita, take off the reins. Don't pack the grey, he's already limping poor fellow. Let's move towards the Kyzylbash gorge.
And so the mountain road winds under me again, and the gusty wind whistles sharply, piercing my ears. I took the middle position in the chain. Kelyarev and Ilovaisky were galloping ahead, Pantaleev and Rittmeister Suzdalcev on a snoring stallion were bringing up the rear. And the old man who betrayed us, whom we met after crossing the Pyanj, still weighed on my mind. Kelyarev suggested immediately crossing him with a sabre, but I hesitated, the old man had frozen completely like a stone "baba." Sentimentality seems to be a bad thing.
Internationalists must not be allowed closer than half a verst, or they’ll cut us down with rifles — they have ten times more ammunition than we do. We’ve already checked the paths in the Kyzylbash gorge; we’ll pass quickly while Zegers and his Latvians and Estonians are scrambling over the cliffs. But will we be able to shake off the pursuers before the gorge? Though we rested from midday, the enemy’s horses are fresher. Ours, by now, have been on the march since Irgiz; the skin under the saddles is nearly rubbed to the bone.
The road beneath the hooves sways, and I feel as if I’ve frozen in the very middle of the universe. But then, the first shot rang out, and a chill ran down my spine.
— We need to split up, Your Excellency, — shouted Wachtmeister Pantaleev.

My nickname here is “Vashbrod” because I don’t exactly resemble “Your Excellency” in the least. And according to regulations, the detachment should be commanded by Rittmeister Suzdalcev. But he started mumbling back in Astrakhan. He would line up the detachment and, instead of the stern command "Silence in ranks!", he might say, "Kisses in ranks." And on Irgiz, he started seeing spirits, both individually and collectively.
— Vashbrod, go straight along the path with the Rittmeister and Kelyarev, I’ll lag behind with Ilovaisky. We’ll head for the Zulkarnayn cliff, and the Latvians will surely follow us. We’ll somehow make our way down the slope, while the “Internationals” will break their legs on the rocks. You turn south after Kyzylbash. If God wills, we’ll meet near the Mavaran settlement.
From here, we can only ride together as far as the dry riverbed. The river has left only a dull grey rut, followed by a former high bank, now a stone wall of the gorge. Pantaleev and Ilovaisky dashed left along the wall, visible to the Latvians, while we disappeared into a crack, the remnant of some long-gone tributary, and in about half an hour reached the Kyzylbash gorge.
From the north, the sound of gunfire could be heard, meaning our comrades had gotten into a fight. We entered the gorge, and it became completely silent.
The horses slowed to a walk to cool off. We moved through a winding, long pass between rocks, almost dozing for an hour, when suddenly our mad courtier Suzdalcev perked up and waved his hand forward.
— THERE THEY ARE.
— I don’t see anyone, sir, — I politely replied.
— There they are, centurion. Black horses, grim-looking, stepping on long, reed-like legs, with small heads that can't contain their rage; the riders are pale-green, covered in cobwebs that bind them all together, and above the army, a tailed figure flies.
It's tough when a comrade loses his mind, and it’s impossible to prove it to him... And indeed, the sound of hoofbeats was heard.
— Everyone dismount. Sir Rittmeister, find a niche between the rocks, take the horses there, and brush them off with some grass so they don’t catch a cold. Kelyarev, go up the slope, take a position for firing, and focus your eyes on that turn. I trust your judgment.
We started scrambling quickly up the crumbling rocks, then hid behind larger boulders: Kelyarev was a few yards higher than me. Barely hidden, the sound of a horse squad clattered by. Not the Latvian internationalists, but Mohammedans with henna-dyed beards and black eyes. The most important ones were in front, as usual, creating a flashy display. Satin robes, white turbans; their horses’ tack, scabbards, and sabers decorated with ornate designs. They sparkled in the sun so brightly it hurt the eyes. Behind them, came others, less important but still impressive: small round shields, large curved sabers, and even steel breastplates adorned with niello and granulation. They had even forgotten about their English carbines. These were most likely the Badakhshan Afghans.
— Vashbrod, I think I’ve found a crack, maybe even an actual pass, — hissed Kelyarev, — should we slip through?
— And leave the Rittmeister for these fiends to eat? You bastard.
— I’m sorry, Your Excellency, I thought that our lunatic was of no use to us, but after your words, I realized I was wrong.
— Don’t think too much, or you’ll keep making mistakes.
And suddenly, a squad of Zegers appeared facing the Mohammedans, or at least half of them. The Afghans froze for a moment, but then two shots rang out, followed by a rattling noise. I didn’t immediately realize what had happened: Kelyarev had fired twice as a signal. Once at the Mohammedans, and once at the internationals, and they began to respond in kind. Finally, the surviving Latvians scattered in all directions. Some, on horseback, galloped back up the gorge, but the Mohammedans chased them down and hacked them apart. Others, the internationals, began scrambling up the slope quickly, heading straight for us. While I was considering whether to shoot or not, Zegers appeared beside me, a big-bore white-eyed man. He grabbed my rifle by the muzzle and jerked it aside, so the shot was wasted. Zegers immediately swung his free arm, holding a German wide saber.

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