The Sayak Fury
that of Monsey. Beside it he tossed the bulky form that was Abbas, and turned to Mahmoud, who, with the hadji, stood beside the Arab chieftain.
"The son of Tahir is dying," said Mahmoud to Aravang.
While the fury without ebbed through the Kurgan Donovan sat passively on the lowest step, holding the precious burden of the woman close to his chest. Having assured himself that she was uninjured, he waited, stroking the coils of heavy hair that had fallen loose upon her shoulders.
And while he waited, for the fall of the dice of destiny, the battling elements of this world of the hills tore at each other, and parted.
The smoke lifted and drifted away from the walls of the castle. In the heavens, the moon declined behind the cloud bank to the west, and the stars alone looked down upon the mountain top.
To the exhausted watcher on the stairs it seemed as if his life and the life of the woman in his arms were carried onward by a current he could no longer resist. But he held her firmly, joyful in the knowledge that they could not now be parted.
Footsteps approached the tower entrance slowly. Looking down, Donovan saw Mahmoud peering up at him apathetically, a lantern held in a clawlike hand. Behind him Aravang limped, soaked in his own blood, blackened and bruised, wounded in body and every limb, but keeping himself stoically upright.
"Salaam, Mahmoud," said the Englishman. "Is the fighting finished?"
"It is finished."
"And the son of Tahir?"
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