Warlord is boy aged 15

Mohammed Humayun is busy fighting his own private war on the side of the country's Northern Alliance. He controls an army of 300 hardy soldiers, six tanks and a BM 21 multiple-barrelled rocket launcher. Not bad for a 15-year-old.

Standing on the roof of his sprawling mud-brick compound in the village of Bolak Kushlaq, near the town of Kalafgan, he is quite literally king of all he surveys.

Stretching out in every direction are the brown parched fields and scattered settlements of the 26 hamlets and villages under his control.

Rising sharply to the north and west are the jagged peaks of the outstretched fingers of the great Hindu Kush, their brown sides flecked at the top with the first snows of winter. And behind the peaks are the Taliban.

Humayun's story is a graphic illustration of the almost medieval nature of the various factions which make up the Northern Alliance which has been battling for control of Afghanistan.

It is this grouping to which the West is making increasing overtures as it seeks to overthrow the Taliban and Osama bin Laden.

Humayun gained control of this little empire three months ago when his father, Aghagan, 40, was killed in a Taliban rocket attack. Since then, all that he had built up passed to his son. "It was not just because of being his son," says Humayun. "There was a great council meeting. They decided to give it all to me."

His father's death has also put him in charge of his mother, his father's two other wives and a total of seven brothers and three sisters, all younger than him.

"It is a big responsibility but I am used to it," he says. "I was my father's deputy. I was in charge of things when he was away. When he died, I was very sad. Very sad. But then I understood I am a man."

His self-confidence is bewildering. This pint-sized warlord, who looks younger than his 15 years, strides among his giant soldiers like a little Napoleon. He is already married, to Jamila, a girl he met at school rather than in the more usual arranged marriage.

She lives with his mother in the nearby town of Kalafgan. His grandmother lives here in the courtyard but men, even esteemed foreign visitors, are not allowed to see her. Here women go out wearing the full burqa.

"I think this is wrong, I would like my wife to have only a headscarf," he says brightly. "But these are the traditions here."

Aid officials say child soldiering is a product of a society which puts clan loyalties ahead of anything else. "This case reflects the reality of Afghanistan's problems - you have the leading family where a man died only to be replaced by his oldest son," said Red Cross official Eloi Fillion. "It's like succession for a king."

We are led into Humayun's compound with its high mud walls by the bearded soldiers of his Uzbek militia - Uzbeks claim descent from Ghengis Khan, and are the fiercest of the Afghan tribes.

Our translator, an ethnic Tajik teacher, is nervous at first. But once Humayun appears to greet us, the soldier's expressions change from fearsome to fawning.

Hoisting their Kalashnikovs, two men rush off through the courtyard dust, one returning with a plastic watering can for us to wash our hands, the other with a pink towel for us to dry them.

Then we are ushered into his long meeting room, with bare white walls and mattresses on either side.

Along the middle, a plastic sheet is unrolled and food is produced - fresh-baked nan bread, bowls with potatoes and meat, and hardboiled eggs and fresh fruit. "I am sorry, if I knew you were coming my men would have gone shopping in the bazaar," he says. The remnants of the first course are hurried away by men stooping so low they struggle not to fall over. Then there are bowls of pistachio nuts, raisins, and coffee-flavoured boiled sweets, along with the first of a stream of tea urns brought by flunkies throughout the evening.

Through it all, Humayun explains his responsibilities. His is one of a chain of interlocking fiefdoms which shore up the Northern Alliance front line: until the arrival of American bombers this month, holding this position had been touch and go.

His father was killed in one of the battles of summer, during which the Taliban had tried, and nearly succeeded, in its annual ritual of pushing the Alliance back a few dozen more miles.

But these Uzbeks gave no ground: they are a rock in the Alliance - and one reason why, if the valley decides that a 15-yearold is their new commander nobody, not even the president, queries the decision.

"My system is simple," he says. "All the time I split my men - 150 to the front line and 150 here." Then, in a touch of modesty, he adds: "You know, the tanks are not really mine. They belong to the government. The government has made them mine to use."

The star piece of kit is the truckmounted BM 21 Russian-made rocket launcher, a fearsome weapon which can fire 40 threemetre long rockets far up over the hills, each landing without warning and with the force of several artillery shells. This is not only a devastating weapon, but the Afghan equivalent of owning a Lear jet.

Humayun is not uneducated: until the fall of Taloqan last year, he attended its most prestigious school, the Abdul Ostman - named after Afghanistan's most famous poet. When he assumed command shortly after his father's death, his first decision was to recruit 70 Abdul Ostman old boys - all he could find from the school, now in Taliban hands, to fight in his army. And he made his cousin, Juma Khan, 16, his personal bodyguard.

"Children make great soldiers," says Humayun. "In the West, you have the wrong idea about this. Children are strong and fast, and they are very brave."

Evening draws in, with the orange setting sun momentarily lighting up the far hills. Darkness falls fast here and it is total in a valley without electricity.

A petrol lamp is produced. Humayun's face, already young, now looks positively cherubic, all the more so for the contrast he gives to the deeply lined faces of the elders fawning before him. When he speaks, they all sit and listen.

For all his youth, he shows more knowledge of the outside world than most other warlords. "The problem for Afghanistan has always been the foreigners," he says. "It is their meddling that creates these wars. If all the forces leave, there will be peace here."

And the United Nations? "Two years," he says with a frown. "A United Nations force could stay in my country for two years. After that, I think, there will be trouble."

Humayun has powerful friends. The next warl o rd along, Mohammed Daoud, speaks highly of him - as well he should, given that Humayun's men control the only road to his isolated fortress.

Another supporter is Northern Alliance President Burhanuddin Rabbani, who has guaranteed to fix things for Humayun to study at a London college of his choice once the war is over.

"Do you think Juma Khan will have a problem with the gun in your city?" he asks me, on discovering I work for the Standard. I tell him yes. "How about a pistol?" he asks hopefully.

Then, with politics out of the way, he turns to other matters. He moves to the top of the room, his men hurriedly scuttling from their seats. And he pats the cushion next to him and nods at my Norwegian colleague. She obeys the summons, and he stares at her as she sits, towering over him. We have moved from the Sun King to the King And I.

"You are very beautiful," he says. "Could you tell me, in the West do ugly women find husbands?" She says yes. "That is good," he says sagely. "Over here, beauty is everything.

"In Afghanistan, a woman who is ugly will not get a husband. But still it can be all right for her, as long as she learns a skill. Like making carpets."

As the evening draws on, he relaxes, and is not afraid to pick his nose in public. There is an awkward pause when the picking triggers a nose bleed - and a dozen flunkies rush to offer their neckscarves to mop up the blood.

"Sometimes people do think I am just a child," he suddenly confides. "I went visiting the foreign ministry in Hoja Bowdin. At the gate, the guard would not let me in. He told me I was a child."

He pauses, staring at my colleague, letting the words sink in. "I was angry. Later, of course, the man realised his mistake. He brought me tea, `but," he adds ominously, "I did not drink it." And, you suspect, that is one man who will not be journeying into the Bolak Kushlaq valley.

We sleep on these same mattresses - after a chain of goodnights in which the Norwegian has her hand shaken many times.

Morning finds his soldiers already crammed into the adjacent room, hoping for a glimpse through the glass doors of this strange blonde female as she rises from her sleeping bag.

And then, after a quick breakfast of bread, tea and something like rice pudding, it is time to show off the rocket-launcher.

A column forms on the road, with Humayun and ourselves in the van, his village commanders following and a mass of ordinary soldiers behind them, with Humayun's green army jeep with tinted windows bringing up the rear.

As Humayun arranges his men around his rocket launcher, one of his elderly uncles, Yakop, steps forward, walking with the aid of a long brown leather-bound cane. Yakop explains that he is one of three uncles who "advise" their chief on military matters.

So do they take the decisions? "Er no, we just offer advice, you know, for the battles. For the times when he might not have all the experience that is needed."

But what if he ignores their advice? This causes a moment of embarrassment on the face of the uncle, surrounded as he is by Humayun's foot soldiers. "Look, it is like this. It is only advice, but he always accepts it."

That is the nearest note of dissent you will hear in the Bolak Kushlaq valley. Everyone else, asked about how they feel to have a 15-year-old making life-or-death decisions, says that is fine.

And then it is time to go: Humayun bids us a happy farewell, and then the royal jeep is prepared. He says he must go. To the front line? "No," he says, suddenly bashful, "I must have my hair cut."