“Travellers to Mekran,” remarked Dirrag, calmly. “The sirdars have been assembled. Doubtless it is the party of some dignitary journeying to the death-bed of Burah Khan.”
“How far distant is Mekran?” asked Ahmed.
“We shall reach it, Allah willing, by another daybreak,” replied the warrior. “It will be the morning of the sixth day. The Persian gave me full six days. I shall save twelve hours, and twelve hours to a dying man is a long time.”
There was an accent of pride in his voice. Agahr had said the journey would require seven days with fast riding. But Agahr was a townsman; how should he know how fast the men of Ugg can ride?
The group of horsemen drew nearer. At noon Dirrag could see them almost plainly enough to determine what tribe they belonged to—almost, but not quite. Shortly afterwards, however, they whirled and rode directly toward the two travellers, and then Dirrag straightened in his saddle, cast the sleep from his eyes and gave a low growl.
“They are of the Tribe of Raab—a wild and rebellious band that hates Burah and supports the cause of Kasam the Pretender.”
“Why are they here?” asked Ahmed.
“To prevent our reaching Mekran I suppose. They do not want the sirdars and your father to publicly acknowledge you the successor to the throne.”
“Well?”
“It was for the same reason the pool was poisoned. Treachery first; then the sword. Can you fight, my prince?”