"For life or death," murmured Khodadâd giving the rein to his mount, a chestnut Sindi stallion almost oversized for the game, but savagely keen in the playing of it.
By this time a perpetual film of dust lay square over the ground showing lighter than the undimmed dusk around it, and the watching eyes of the spectators strained into it, seeing now a faint star of light as the blazing ball sped onward, now a cloud of darkness as the huddled riders followed on its track. Not all of them, however; one rider held aloof, evidently biding his time for something which every instant of growing darkness would favour. It was Khodadâd, Tarkhân. A sinister indifference possessed him. If the chance came, as come it might, he had made up his mind to take it. A purely accidental collision would at least serve his purpose of personal revenge without much personal risk, his being by far the heavier horse, while its rider, of course, would be prepared for the shock.
Yes! if the chance came.
Like a skimming meteor the ball shot to the right of him and the King's voice came close on it. "Ride! Birbal, ride!"
Which of them was on the ball? No matter, thought Khodadâd, either was fair quarry!
He dug his spurs into the vicious chestnut and cut across to take them on the flank.
Birbal! Yes, that was Birbal's little gray. All the better since there could be no doubt as to who would have the worst of it. The Hindu pig would at least get a fall heavy enough to send better men to Jehannum.
Khodadâd's malicious chuckle ceased abruptly. A lean bay head showed close to his stirrup leather, and he realised in an instant that he was observed. Yes! he was being ridden off--ridden off by the King, damn him!
Well! let him try! Two could play at that game!
He jagged fiercely at the chestnut's tight rein and, overborne, the bay head yielded a point. But the pace of the brute was the devil. What right had even Kings to ride racers at chaugan? If once it crept past the stirrup level ... Curse it...!