Riders of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  "He keeps his head up," remarked the young ataman, following the progress of the renegade with his eyes. "Noble blood is in him somewhere. Hai—the Pleiades are low, and dawn is near. We must be across the open ice of the river before light comes. It is time—time!"

  "Time!" One of the Don men caught the word.

  Balaban, standing at one of the open casks, emptied a beaker of vodka down his throat and laughed, stretching his arms.

  "Oh—time! Now for one bravo, now for another! A toast, Broad Breeches, to the fair courtesan, Luck! When we are gone, no one will drink."

  With a stifled chuckle he picked a burning stick out of the fire and dropped it into the keg of liquor. Blue flame rushed up from the vodka and the Levantine laughed again.

  From across the camp a deep voice began one of the Cossack chants—

  Glorious fame will come To the Cossacks,

  To the heroes,

  For many a year,

  Till the end of time.

  1

  The Sea of Marmora.

  2

  Constantinople.

  III

  The Straight Sword

  Where the gray ice of the Dnieper began to shred away into cakes that drifted down the white fringes of the shore, a faint snow trail led north. Along this trail a sledge was making its way upriver.

  Three steaming horses drew it onward at a round pace; a fur-clad Tatar, astride the off pony, wielded his whip in response to an occasional word from the one occupant of the rude vehicle—a human being so wrapped in wolf skins that only his eyes and sable cap could be seen. Behind, perched on the runners of the sledge, was a shivering servant.

  The bells on the shaggy ponies tinkled lustily, the postilion's whip cracked, the leather-bound runners wheezed as they flew forward. It might, indeed, have been the invisible thread of Destiny that drew forward the three men, so that, in rounding a corner of the trail, they came upon a detachment of Zaporogian Cossacks who had been halted by the sound of the bells in the act of crossing the ice of the river at the point where it was still strong enough to bear horses.

  They had halted in the trail, and they were the party that had been led south by Demid four days ago.

  Seeing them, the Tatar muttered something of mingled astonishment and disgust, and reined his horses to one side, leaving the trail clear for the riders.

  "By the Rood! Would ye step me aside, to give yon sons of perdition the road!"

  Although spoken in a slow, musical voice, the words were barbed. Moreover they were good, round English words.

  "Excellence," remarked the dragoman, a Circassian, by name Giorgos, as it proved, "the Tatar does well. These folk will not stand aside for us, and it is best not to stir them up."

  "And Michael of Rohan will not yield the road to the Grand Monarch himself, at all. A pox on ye, George—gibber in their tongue and ask the question of them and we will make shift to answer."

  Admonished in this fashion the dragoman seemed to hesitate, his smooth olive face puckered, and when he spoke it was in Turki. He addressed Ayub, removing his cap and bowing low; but it was Demid who made response, curtly. The Cossack chief noticed that the occupant of the sledge listened as if trying to follow the talk, although he was staring at Ayub curiously.

  "George, clod," the traveler observed idly, "here is a giant, and—faith— they must be of the race of Gog and Magog. Mark ye, they sit their cattle well, with straight backs and Louis himself would not be ashamed of such dragoons—but what are they? Have we come to the edge of the habitated world, George—to the dwellers of Cimmerian darkness?"

  The dragoman, occupied with his own fears, looked up reluctantly. "Nay, excellence, these are Cossacks who are masterless men and bloody minded. Being here they are out of their bounds and so must be bent on evil."

  "Blister me, George," objected the man in the sledge, "if they are not Christians, by token of those silver crosses they parade. Being Christians their officer will not draw the line at a friendly bout o' the blades."

  Giorgos shivered.

  "Sir Michael, the great ambassador of the Franks at Constantinople would whip me if harm comes to you. Be pleased to turn back—"

  "I despair," observed Sir Michael reprovingly. "Mark me—I am skeptical of your sporting instinct, George. Ye are sly,-sly, and—did hear

  me request, nay urge, George, that ye translate to yonder officer my wish to cross swords for a moment, the winner to take the road?"

  The Cossacks grinned broadly at the dragoman's interpretation of his master's desire, then they stared and reined closer when the traveler swept aside his robes and sprang from the sledge. They beheld not a Muscovite or Turk but a slender figure, diminutive beside their towering bodies, in scarlet boots, buckskin breeches and trim greatcoat. Out of a lean, mobile face blue eyes scanned them coldly, yet with a hidden glint of mirth.

  But what stirred their ridicule were the black ringlets that fell from the plumed hat to the lace collar of Sir Michael of Rohan.

  "Their weapons would snap your blade, excellence," muttered Giorgos.

  "I warrant me," responded the traveler dryly, "ye have not seen a rapier at work."

  Whereat he whipped from its scabbard of Spanish leather—a trifle worn, in truth—a straight, tapering length of steel that gleamed blue in the sunlight—a three-edged shaft of Toledo forging that he bent nearly double in his powerful fingers and released with a thin hum. It was not too long, the blade, and at its base it tapered to an inch in width where the hand-guard joined. And Sir Michael of Rohan laughed, for the blood was warm in his veins that morning, and it was his way to stand his ground when opposition offered.

  Sir Michael, bending his blade between his fingers, studied Demid from under level brows noticing the lithe figure, half a head taller than himself, the long reach of the Cossack, the jeweled hilt of the curved scimitar, and the silver cross at the warrior's throat.

  "George, lad, say to the handsome bucko that I have no wish to draw blood; nay, at the third pass I will pluck out his neckcloth."

  More than once he had matched weapons with the Moslems and he knew the infallibility of the straight blade in a hand such as his. Years of campaigning in Flanders and Italy had schooled him in his work. The salle d’armes in Paris had added finish to his skill; he had mastered the tricks of the Italian school, and men who had been so unlucky as to face him in duels had died. He was a maitre d’escrime, and so sure was he of the result of the coming encounter, he would have waged the sum of his possessions—if he had any—upon the third thrust. But his greatcoat was neatly mended in more than one place and his vest—Sir Michael sighed— his waistcoat was shabby, indeed.

  Demid, on his part, smiled and, touching the green silk cloth around his throat, shook his head.

  "Garde-toi, mon sauvage!" cried the traveler, bending his knees and sweeping the rapier overhead, releasing the tip as he did so.

  The Cossacks urged their ponies around the pair eagerly, pleased at an unexpected entertainment. Demid saluted briefly with his scimitar, and engaged at once, making a careless cut. It was warded.

  Again the light blade of the scimitar caressed the thin line of the rapier— then swept it aside and cut swiftly at the traveler's head. His blade passed through air; Sir Michael had drawn back, from his knees, and for two seconds Demid lost touch with him. In that time the Cossack felt a tug at his throat, a tiny burning of his skin as if a pin had passed across it.

  Drawing back he beheld Sir Michael smiling, the green silk neckcloth resting on the tip of the rapier. The brows of the young Cossack drew together and the dark blood rushed into his face. To be tricked, like a buf-foon—to be played with, like a puppy!

  Beholding the mask of anger that transformed the face of the chief, Sir Michael let the silk fall instantly and stood on guard, his left hand raised in the air behind his head, the point of his blade describing tiny circles.

  Demid rushed as a Cossack attacks, with unrestrained, reckless fury. His scimitar flashed aro
und and over the rapier; steel slithered against steel; but always the thin blade was between the scimitar and the body of the smaller man. It was Sir Michael now who was careful to keep touch with his enemy, content to rest on the defensive until Demid's fury had spent itself.

  For a while he stood his ground; but Demid's strength did not exhaust itself. Instead, Sir Michael gave ground a little under the whirlwind slashes. He was breathing quickly, perspiration under his eyes, the corners of his lips smiling a trifle.

  His rear foot, exploring the uneven trail cautiously, felt deep snow, and his knees stiffened.

  "No help for it," he muttered.

  And with that he took the offensive. Demid, who had been startled out of his usual composure by the first thrust, yet felt the change in the touch of the rapier, and, turning the point of his saber down, parried a lightning lunge at his side. Once more he was aware of the tiny pin point of fire, scraping his skin through the cloth.

  Instead of making him wilder, this touch steadied the Cossack. His iron wrist served him well now, and in a dozen tries, the rapier failed to get home upon him. Sir Michael tried intricate feints—complicated passes

  that got the other's blade well to one side—but ever as he thrust, the light scimitar warded in time. It was, to him, an exhibition of incredible quickness of hand and eye, for the Cossack was not familiar with such tricks of the sword, such rogueries of the blade.

  "'Swounds!" cried Sir Michael, wholeheartedly.

  Barely in time, with numbed wrist, he had freed his blade from a twist of the scimitar that would otherwise have sent it flying through the air. If the rapier had been a saber it would have been lost to him.

  "Good lad," he panted, with a smile of acknowledgment.

  Now the Cossack did not understand the words, but Sir Michael's smile was eloquent, and the glare passed from the eyes of the tall warrior, who sheathed his saber and sprang forward to pull his adversary to his chest and kiss him on both cheeks. The Cossacks, pleased with the sword-play, rose in their stirrups and shouted and the bout was at an end.

  Yet the result was still a matter of uncertainty. Balaban muttered that the blade of the Frank was bewitched, and Demid, who was no believer in black magic, shook his head.

  "Nay, the play was fair. Yonder Frank is my match. Twice he touched me and I marked him not. What man can he be?"

  "No true man," put in Ayub, frowning. "He has curls like a Polish wench, and he is not big enough to amount to anything. Ho, dragoman, what has your master to say for himself?"

  The Circassian pondered, his black eyes roving. Drawing closer to the Cossacks he said in a low voice:

  "The lord, my master, is high in favor at the Imperial City. He has called you dogs, and bade me order you to stand aside and beat to him with the forehead1 as he passes, along the road."

  Demid stopped in his tracks, surprised. Ayub, enraged, began to snort and clutch at the hilt of his broadsword. An expression of sullen triumph crossed the olive face of the Circassian, as Ayub controlled himself enough to demand a sight of their papers.

  He took the strip of folded parchment that Giorgos drew from his girdle, glanced at the seal and the Turkish writing, and sniffed.

  "As I live, though this scroll is a riddle to Christian eyes, the Sultan Mustapha has set his mark at the bottom. At least his seal is here."

  Protesting volubly that the letter was a seguro—a safe conduct—Giorgos managed to whisper to Sir Michael, who was puzzled by the change in the temper of the Cossacks, that it was well the dogs could not read. Demid, who had been studying the open face of the traveler, took the parchment from Ayub and glanced at it, then scanned it a second time, thoughtfully.

  "A safe conduct to Satan," growled the big Cossack. "This bird has strange plumage, and why is he here unless to do evil to Christians, if he bears a letter from the Turk?"

  Demid folded up the missive again, his face inscrutable. Even Giorgos could not be sure if he had read the safe conduct or not.

  "Time to break our fast," be observed, glancing at the sky. "Down from your ponies, kunaks. Start a fire and boil millet and mutton—chop a hole in the ice, Ayub. The detachment is in your hand until I come back."

  Taking Sir Michael by the arm, and motioning for Giorgos to remain at the camp, Demid led the traveler aside to some rocks where he sat down and proceeded deliberately to light his clay pipe. Placing the black Turkish tobacco in the bowl, he laid a pinch of tinder on it and struck steel against flint until he ignited the tinder.

  "This paper," he said abruptly in Turkish, "is sealed with wax, yet its true seal is blood. It is your death warrant."

  Demid had full mastery of that tongue, and had seen enough to suspect Sir Michael knew more than a little of it, which proved to be the case.

  "Marash! That is strange; what does the paper say? I cannot read it."

  "First," said Demid gravely, "tell me who you are, and your business here."

  In broken Turki, garnished with many a phrase from the slave galleys, Sir Michael told his tale. A one-man Odyssey it was, of wandering, of warfare under different standards; yet most of all it was the tale of a restless spirit.

  Chief of an Irish clan, Michael of Rohan was schooled by a monk, one of the wisest of men, and taught by his father to handle weapons well. When James the First sent his deputies into Ireland, and the king's writ ran in the land, Michael went overseas to the French court. Here he sought his fortune in the wars, and won, instead, knighthood.

  Embarking in a French corvette for Sicily, he fell foul of the Barbary corsairs, whose appetite for the plunder of Christian shipping had begun to sharpen. The corvette made a running fight of it and gained the harbor of Syracuse, into which the polaccas of Tunis followed. The pirates beat down the resistance of the mariners and made off with prisoners and spoil unmolested by the forts. Sir Michael was one of the last to fall into their hands, and it was long before he recovered from his wounds.

  When he did, it was to be chained to a rower's bench with the other slaves of a Barbary galley. And he said little of the years that followed, or the shame of them.

  Luck sent his galley with a shipment of Christian slaves to Constantinople. While anchored in the roads, off the Asian shore, Sir Michael won free of his chains, aided by a giant negro who told him where the foreign legations were located near the imperial seraglio, and the two decided to risk an attempt to escape. A long swim at night, across the Hellespont, ended the blackamoor; but Sir Michael evaded the patrols of janissaries and reached the gardens of the British embassy. He was not altogether a welcome guest, he admitted, because the discovery of an escaped slave of the Moslems in the house of the consul would have meant a fine of several thousand pounds, and perhaps imprisonment for the ambassador who lived, as it were, on the edge of a volcano.

  Luck had not deserted him, for Sir Michael won at cards and dice the clothing that he now wore and the fair rapier. A mandate went out from the palace that all the legations were to be searched and any weapons found were to be taken from the foreigners. Even the duelling pistols and the sword with which the English ambassador had been knighted were seized by the Turks, but the rapier of Sir Michael they did not gain.

  Discovered and identified by his scars as an escaped galley slave, the former cavalier of France presented the tip instead of the hilt of his weapon and won free to the harbor. After dark he had himself taken out to a Venetian bark that cleared for the Black Sea, having a favorable wind, at dawn, thus escaping search.

  Running into a storm almost as it passed the twin rocks of the Bosporus, the bark was driven north for two days, eventually striking on a strange coast. At least it was so to Sir Michael, who, cast again upon the water, swam ashore with his servant, Giorgos. The two made their way to a small trading town at the mouth of a great river, and Sir Michael, learning that the frontier of Christian Europe was not many days travel north, hired a sledge hoping to reach in time the large towns of Muscovy—in spite of the objections of the Circassian who favored
waiting for Spring and a ship back to Constantinople.

  "Hai—it is clear that you are not a snow-pigeon," observed Demid. "You are a wild goose, flying to the north."

  Most of the tale was meaningless to him, dealing as if did with kings and wars unknown to the Cossacks. But he was weighing in his mind not the story so much as the man who told it. There was truth in Sir Michael's eyes, and in the scars upon his hands. Demid knew well the marks of the slave-bench. Many Cossacks had felt the chains of slavery; many were now under the lash of the Turk slavemaster.

  "How," he asked, "did the letter of safe conduct come into your hand?"

  At the British embassy, Sir Michael explained, the Circassian who was hanging about the place had approached him and offered to obtain a general passport—for a small sum in silver. Giorgos had been absent on this business when the Irishman had his fight with the Turkish guards, but the dragoman, who had not been paid, found him aboard the bark.

  Giorgos had carried the seguro, saying that he knew best when it should be shown.

  Until his pipe was out, Demid thought this over. Then—

  "I will read you the paper, Ser Mikhail:

  I, that am lord of lords, conqueror of Christiandom, King in Babylon and Istanbul, governor of the holy cities of Damascus and Mecca—I give command to all pashas, governors and captains in my domain to slay the wandering dog who bears this letter and send his head to my court. The unbeliever is an escaped slave who hath lifted his voice against a true follower of the prophet. My favor to him who carries out my wish. The Circassian servant is to be trusted. Peace to him who directs his steps aright. —Mustapha. ”

  To Demid's surprise Michael burst out in hearty laughter.

  "The-of a safe conduct!" he muttered to himself, and wondered

  whether he was to believe the Cossack; but there was no doubting the candor of the young chief.

  "Your head—" Demid followed out his own train of thought—"Gior-gos would have had it to bear back with him, if my sword had slain you. The jackal did not think that a Cossack could read, so he gave the paper and spurred it on with an insult. Who was this true follower of the Prophet?"