Lolyngton, Johannes, and I had ridden far in quest of game. We had seen several bear and one moose, although no more than a glimpse, when Lolyngton suddenly drew rein, lifting a hand. "I smell smoke," he said.
We were traversing a small meadow bordered by a fine stand of ash, and we held our mounts, trying the wind.
"A campfire," I said, "it can be no more than that." We had seen no one in days, now we entered the woods, picking our way. Johannes, who was not feeling his best, remained with the horses. We wore chain mail with tunics over it and conical helmets brought from Spain.
Threading our way, we came to a blowdown where a number of trees had been felled by a great blast of wind. We stopped well back under the trees, for an observer who knows his business remains back under the trees where he is concealed but can see just as well.
Clustered around a fire not over a hundred yards away were a dozen strangely clad men. They wore conical helmets, somewhat different from our own, and tunics of hide that fell to the knee but were split up the sides for easy riding. Their boots seemed to be of soft leather, and they carried quivers of arrows and shorter, thicker bows than I had seen. They were swarthy men with broad, flat faces, narrow eyes, and square jaws. They looked a rugged and dangerous lot.
Eyes appear as dots at one hundred yards; mouth and eyes can usually be plainly seen at fifty yards, so we were actually somewhere between the two distances, not nearly enough if they gave chase.
These were the Petchenegs of whom we heard, hard-riding men from the steppes of Asia. Such as these had long ago attacked and destroyed Roman armies. As we watched, one of the soldiers lifted his saddle and brought out a slab of meat. I recalled hearing such was their method of tenderizing meat, carrying it between the horse and the saddle and riding on it all day. The idea did not appeal to me, but the smell of broiling meat aroused our hunger. We drew back deeper into the woods, then returned to Johannes. "This must be reported to the Hansgraf at once," he said.
"Do you return. I shall circle about to find where they come from and if there are more."
"What of you? We shall move on, you know."
"Drive hard for the sea. If they are some distance from their main body, we will gain distance."
When they had gone I mounted and rode until I came upon the Petchenegs' tracks. At a swift canter I rode their back trail, and coming to a rise, I turned in my saddle. In the distance was the flat plain over which we had crossed with the caravan.
Riding a short distance along the rise, I found where a large body of horsemen had stopped for some time, facing the river.
They had seen us then, but how far away was their main body?
The day was warm; a slight breeze stirred the few leaves remaining and rattled skeleton fingers among the bare trees. A heron flew up from a sphagnum bog, and I followed the back trail of the Petchenegs. Topping a rise, I saw their camp lay before me, and my heart lay heavy within me, for the black tents spread wide upon the plain.
How many tents? How many horses?
Five thousand men? Ten thousand? I looked at the horse herd, and even allowing for three or four horses per man as was often the case with the Petchenegs, it was a great number. If they came against us, we would be swept up like leaves in the wind. We would be destroyed, trampled into bloody dust.
Flight, swift, driving flight, was our only recourse. The Hansgraf would suspect, when Johannes reached him, that the party we had seen were not alone. By now our company would be moving, flying toward the sea, but their scouting party would be riding in, and their army would mount.
Could I stop them? Slow them, even a little?
Far off, a party of horsemen were riding toward the Petcheneg camp, and the man riding that magnificent gray horse, surely two such horses did not exist, that man I knew, even at the distance.
It was Prince Yury.
They were some distance away, and the idea came as naturally as such an idea can come. The attack on the convoy must be delayed, and the Petchenegs kept in their camp, and there was nothing, or so I had heard, they liked better than to witness a good fight.
Prince Yury's presence could mean but one thing: that he had come to enlist their services against us if he had not done so already. Therefore, Prince Yury was my enemy.
Deliberately, I rode my horse into the bright sunlight, removing my tunic so the sun could strike my bright-polished armor. I wanted them to see me; they must see me.
"All right, Ayesha, let us hope you do not have a fool for a master and that his blade cuts sharply this day!"
Touching her lightly with a heel, I rode my mare down the gentle slope toward the camp of my enemies. I sat very straight in the saddle. I rode at an easy canter. Perhaps I rode to my death, but at whatever the cost there must be delay for the caravan and my friends. Without it they would have no chance.
Nor would Suzanne.
39
THE PEOPLE OF the camp saw me coming from a distance, but I came as a visitor comes, and they had respect for visitors. My route brought me into their camp at the opposite end from that of Prince Yury, as I intended. Immediately, I asked for the Khan.
They understood that word and no doubt believed I came as an ambassador or expected guest. They recognized my Arab armor, and there was murmuring among them as they looked at Ayesha.
Four horsemen fell in around me, and we came to a larger tent. There was Prince Yury, staring at me in blank astonishment, swiftly giving way to triumph.
"Seize that man! He is from the caravan!"
Knowing nothing of their tongue, I trusted to Arabic, which many of them would understand. "I have come to your camp of my own will. I have been told of the hospitality of the people of the Black Tents."
Their Khan was a square, powerful old man with bowed legs and a grim expression. "Why come you here?" he demanded.
"In Kiev it was said you were followers of Prince Yury," I lied cheerfully, to put my enemy on the defense, "but I do not believe the Khan of the Black Tents follows any man."
Ayesha stepped about a bit, and when she quieted, I said, "I have come here, trusting to your hospitality as well as your nobility, to challenge Prince Yury to combat.
"You are noted men of the sword and respect those who fight. I do not ask your friendship, although to be your friend would make me proud; I ask only fair treatment, which I know you will give. The blood upon your swords has never been the blood of cowardice."
"You come here, in the camp of his friends, to challenge Prince Yury?" The old Khan's eyes glinted, and I felt I had won his respect where nothing else would have done so. These were men who loved daring. "Why do you seek him?"
"Because he tries to get other men to fight his battles, and because he is a knave, a coward, and a mongrel, fit only to be fed the meat of dogs!"
Prince Yury drew his sword. "By the gods! For this I shall have your blood!"
"Why fill thy belly on the east wind and give utterance to vain and foolish words?" I said contemptuously. "Will you meet me on foot or horseback?"
By now hundreds of the Khan's followers had gathered about, eager for the fight. Yet all that I could think of now were ways to make the fight last. The scouting party I had seen had not yet come in. Could I hold them when they did come? Every minute gained would bring my people closer to the sea, and the boats that should be waiting.
Suddenly, there were shouts and a band of horsemen charged into camp. Men rushed to them for their report. It was the scouting party. I was too late.
Amid the confusion, Prince Yury stared at me with hatred. He pointed at me. "Kill him! His coming was a ruse to distract your attention."
"There speaks a coward," I sneered, "who would have his killing done by others."
"He has challenged you, Prince Yury," a voice said. "His challenge deserves respect. Do you fear him, that you shrink from battle?"
That voice! Where had I heard it before?
"He is our enemy," Yury replied coldly. "His coming is but to gain time."
"How much t
ime do we of the Black Tents require?" The speaker was behind me. "He has come to our camp as a guest, of his own will, and he shall leave it when he wishes."
"Who says?" Yury demanded, his voice hard with anger.
"I say!" He walked forward and stood beside me. "I, Abaka Khan!"
A moment I stared, then remembrance. "Abaka Khan! The man for whom I bought a drink in Cadiz, so long ago!"
Prince Yury hesitated, and I could gauge Abaka Khan's importance by that hesitation. Yury was suddenly uncertain of his ground.
"Do you speak for this enemy?" Yury demanded.
"Whose enemy? They have not attacked us. You say they are enemies."
"There is loot among them."
"And a woman," I said, "whom he hopes to take." Deliberately, I thickened my tone with contempt. "This dog cannot seize her for himself. He must have the Black Tents to win his woman!"
"Is this so?" The old Khan turned to Prince Yury. "You spoke of a woman when you told us of the caravan."
"The woman is important. It is a matter of politics."
Aside to those nearest me, I said, "What manner of mouse is this? That he claims politics as an excuse for taking a woman? Is he a man or a eunuch?"
Prince Yury heard my remark and took a step toward me, and the crowd opened to let him come, eager for the fight.
"A proper duel? Or do I spank you with my blade upon your bare bottom?"
"A duel it is," Abaka Khan said sternly, "and we will see it properly done. Come, Prince Yury? Will it be foot or horse?"
"Horseback," Yury said angrily, "and no quarter. A fight to the death!"
"Agreed." I spoke carelessly, and drawing my blade, I rode Ayesha fifty yards down the course, walking her slowly, for we needed time, then turning to face Yury.
How long since Lolyngton and Johannes reached the caravan? How much time had I won? Was it twenty minutes? A half hour? An hour could mean five miles for the caravan, perhaps six at top speed. It was not much, but the sea was not far away. The Hansgraf would know how to use the time.
What I feared most was that the caravan might be caught crossing the Chicheklaya. Once across the river there would be nothing between them and the sea, less than fifty miles away.
"Steady girl." I spoke softly and caressed her neck, knowing she understood. Ayesha had been ridden in many a tilting and many a duel. She pranced eagerly, nostrils dilated, her delicate head bobbing as she tasted the bit.
The word was given, and we started forward. Despite my talk, which had been for the purpose of forcing a fight, I knew I was in trouble. Prince Yury towered several inches above me in height, and his long arms gave him a reach advantage. He was a powerful man with every appearance of the fighter.
His sword was ready. Suddenly his horse gathered speed, and of her own volition, Ayesha did as well. Charging, we swept at each other, but when we neared I simply parried his blow and slipped past.
An angry shout went up at my evasion, but wheeling Ayesha, I lunged at Prince Yury. Yury had turned, but despite the fact she had been ridden all morning, Ayesha was the quicker. My blade swung and was only partly parried, and Yury was off-balance in the saddle. There was a moment when I could have killed him, and it was seen by everyone.
For an instant there was stark fear in Yury's eyes, for he was powerless to prevent a thrust, and I was in position. However, the fight would have been over, and it was time I was battling for. Contemptuously, I lowered my blade. "You shall not die so easily," I said to him, and circled my horse.
There was a cheer from the crowd, who misunderstood my gesture, and then he was upon me again. We fought desperately, thrusting, parrying, circling. Once, Ayesha almost fell, his heavier horse pushed against her, and I reined her swiftly away. Seeing his advantage, Yury charged me, and only Ayesha's swift turn prevented our being run down.
Our blades clashed, and disengaging, I thrust suddenly. I felt my point tear cloth, and then his blade struck me on the skull, and my helmet rang with the force of the blow. Rushing his horse into me, he struck viciously. Off-balance I fell from my horse.
As my body struck the dust, a tremendous shout went up, and he wheeled his horse to ride me down. However, rolling free, I sprang to my feet, and as he leaned to strike me, I threw myself against the side of the charging horse and under his sword arm.
It was such a feat as I had practiced many times with the acrobats and bareback riders who would mount and dismount from running horses. Catching the pommel and Yury himself, I swung to his horse's back behind him. With one arm across his throat, I brought my sword up, but his horse wheeled suddenly, and we were both thrown to the ground.
Thanks to my acrobatic training I was instantly up, but badly shaken, and there was blood on my face from somewhere. Yury got up, but he had several steps to recover his sword, and the wild Petchenegs yelled angrily for me to kill him. This time I did not delay because of gallantry or an attempt to prolong the battle, I simply lacked the strength to go after him and needed to catch my wind.
He caught up his sword and came for me, all the fire and fury gone now. He was cold and deadly, meaning to kill me now with no further nonsense.
How long had the fight lasted? Only seconds, perhaps, certainly no more than a few minutes, but I no longer dared think of simply delaying. To survive at all, I must fight only to win.
He came at me, feinted and lunged. Springing away, I moved in again quickly and went for his face, narrowly missing. We circled, our blades touching, almost caressing, then mine leaped past his thrust hard. The point took him in the chest but at the end of my lunge. I felt his chain mail give before that lovely Toledo steel, and recovering, I saw a spot of blood on his chest only inches to the right of his heart.
We circled, and then he drove at me fiercely, demanding all my skill to ward off his attack. My blade lowered, and he drew his blade back for one tremendous swing, and there flashed into my mind how my father had once saved his life in a battle aboard ship. Dropping to one knee, as his weight came forward over his right leg and his blade started down, I thrust upward into his throat.
At the last it was more his doing than mine, for his descending blade and the force of his swing were enough to send my blade through his throat and into his skull. He gave a choking scream, and his sword fell, banging on my helm. His body twisted as he fell, pulling the blade from my grip, but springing up, and with a tremendous jerk, I wrenched it free.
The old Khan rode out to me as I stood gasping for breath, holding my bloody sword.
"It was well fought."
"I owe him an apology," I said. "He was a brave fighter and a strong man. I but spoke to gain time."
"You are honest."
"You gave me opportunity; I give you truth."
Abaka Khan had ridden up beside the old warrior. "This is my son," the Khan said. "He was long from my side."
"A strong son makes a father proud."
There was a wineskin on the saddle of Abaka Khan. I indicated it.
"Abaka Khan, I once gave you a drink. I would have one now."
He took the wineskin from his saddle, and I held it high, before drinking. "Yol bolsun!" I shouted. "May there be a road!"
"Yo lbolsun!" The shout went up from a thousand throats, and holding the wineskin high, I squirted the wine into my throat, parched from battle.
Handing the skin back to him, I said, "It was a good drink. Remind me that I owe you one."
The old Khan pointed. "There is your horse. Ride to your company and tell them we come with the rising sun, and what they have we will take."
Stepping into the saddle, I faced them, the short, powerful old man and his tall, slender son. "I shall tell them, and we shall meet you, but many of your men will die."
"Where there is gold"—he shrugged his heavy shoulders—"there is blood."
Turning my horse, I lifted my blade in salute, for they were good men and strong, but before this hour came again many would lie with their throats choked on the dryness of death.
"Yol bolsun!" I shouted, and the hills rang with their reply. "Yol bolsun!"
40
THE LOW SHORE that is the north shore of the Black Sea between the mouths of the Dnieper and the Dniester is cut far inland by a number of drowned valleys that form inlets in the flood plains of the coast. There are no forests there, only clumps of willow, black poplar, and European alder with some mixture of filbert, maple, pear, and apple. Wild grape vines climb into the highest branches of the trees.
The drowned valleys form long narrow bays or estuaries into which the rivers empty. Into one of these emptied the Bug, the river that had been our companion on our trek to the sea.
Between two of these estuaries we prepared to meet the attack of the Petchenegs, forerunners of the great Mongol tribes that even now were stirring restlessly on the far-off steppes of Asia.
Behind us were the waters of the Black Sea, on either side of us a fork of an estuary. The Hansgraf directed preparations for defense, and each of us knew it would be a fight to the death. There could be no retreat, and no escape unless the boats arrived. The forces arrayed against us outnumbered us by ten to one, at least.
On our right, beginning close along the shore of the inlet was a dense thicket of brush, its millions of branches tightly interwoven and overgrown by grape vines. This barrier, which the Hansgraf immediately elected to use, was several hundred yards in width and extended almost a quarter of a mile across the neck of land we had chosen to defend.
For horsemen this was an impenetrable barrier and a trap for all who might attempt it. There was a narrow stretch of sandy beach between the thicket and the water, and there we piled driftwood to make a barrier. Beyond this we sowed some hundreds of caltrops. These were made of metal or hardened wood so devised that one of their four points always stood up, a deadly defense against cavalry charges.
The remaining area we must defend was protected in part by a thick wood, a tangle of willow, poplar, and grape vines, along with some thorny brush whose name I did not know. Branches were cut from trees and wedged between other trees to make a continuous fence. Inside of this and outside as well were set up sharp-pointed sticks of all sizes, their ends thrust into the ground on an angle that faced a charge.
The Walking Drum Page 29