Riders of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  "Aye," he cried, "we'll ride at the gate. Alive or dead, I'll be through it before you twain."

  Khlit's eyes gleamed and he turned away to seek his horse, while Ayub, whose spirits had risen at the prospect of action, leaned on the crosspiece of his broadsword and boasted.

  "Eh, ouchar—eh, young warrior! No one will take away your bib or spill your milk. But as for me, I've had cannon go off under my nose too often, to cry about it."

  Kirdy had gone off to find his horse and tell Gerai Khan what they meant to do, and Ayub finished his recital to himself.

  "Well, it's not exactly all sugar and cream, charging two guns loaded with grape. The balls will go through us as a sickle through grass, but God knows it's better so than lying stretched out for these last hours with a Nogai lariat fast on every wrist and ankle and the ends of the lariats tied to the saddle peaks of their ponies."

  The Cossacks were too experienced to try to escape in the darkness now that they had their weapons. The Nogais would have run them down within a mile.

  It was noticed in the castle that after the first arrow struck in the wall the howling of wolves was heard on every quarter. The Muscovites climbed the towers but could see nothing in the elusive moon light. When the first flaming arrows quivered in the palisade on the steppe side, Vladimir's captains roused the sleepers and formed their men in the enclosure, and the prince himself, who had been through more than one siege, gave command to extinguish all fires.

  "Gentlemen," he said to his boyars, "the glow-worms of the steppe are showing themselves. We must put our heels on them."

  The arquebusiers, slow-match in hand, were told off, half to the menaced quarter and half to take station behind the cannon. They were phlegmatic Moldavians, veterans of the emperor's wars. Under Durak the thirty pikemen were placed in reserve at the door of the blockhouse itself, while the sixty-odd retainers of the boyars, armed with sword and spear, were sent to the defense of the palisade.

  Watchmen were dispatched to the towers, and reported that the burning arrows were doing little damage. Sometimes the blazing reeds fell off in mid-air, and when a shaft, fanned by the gusts of wind, began to kindle flames in the heavy logs a sack of water or a wet cloak put them out.

  More deadly were the unseen arrows of the tribesmen, which hissed through the air whenever a head was shown on the steppe side. Here, too, resounded the shouts of the Tatars and the trampling of horses through brush.

  Vladimir listened, his head out-thrust as if he were looking into the darkness beyond the walls.

  "They make too much ado yonder. The attack will come here, through the gate. Barnetski, are the cannon primed? Then set your firelocks in the rests, and Durak, you send a dozen stout fellows to each side of the gate. Keep them out of sight."

  The captain of the Moldavians, Barnetski, bent over to look at the priming of the two pieces, where black grains had been spilled over the touch-holes. The holes were properly covered, and so he made announcement to Vladimir, swinging the slow-match gently to keep the glowing spark at the end of it bright. Like his master, Barnetski believed in leaving nothing to chance.

  Glancing back from where he stood between the two cannon, the veteran captain observed that the arquebusiers had laid their heavy firelocks in the pronged rests.

  At either of side the door Durak's men waited, some with their hands on the wings of the gate that Vladimir had left open on purpose.

  Shining dully in the moonlight, clad in bronzed armor even to shoulder pieces, brassards and crested morion, Barnetski looked like some black Vulcan tending a tiny spark of light. But it was Vladimir who first heard the thudding of hoofs down by the river.

  "They come, Barnetski! Wait for my word to touch off the cannon."

  His level voice, amused and eager, as if he were about to watch some new antics of mountebanks or dwarfs grimacing to pleasure him, carried to the pikemen by the gate.

  "When the artillery has blasted them, close the gate, my fine fellows. If some few ride through alive so much the better. My iron wolves will pull them down."

  Sure of what would happen, having left no slightest alternative to the whim of that fickle lady, Fortune, Vladimir narrowed his eyes to stare down the strip of moonlight. By holding his fire he made certain of havoc, knowing that the tribesmen would never ride to a second attack, once the gate was shut. So he watched a dark blur of horses race up the roadway until he could see flying manes and the flicker of lance points. When he made out the white svitza of Kirdy, the black bulk of Ayub and the gray head of Khlit within stone's throw of the entrance, he laughed. The Cossacks were standing in their stirrups, whipping on their ponies, racing with death.

  "Touch off both cannon, Barnetski. May the Lord have mercy on their souls!"

  The captain lowered the point of flame in his hand to one breech, shifted it to the other and pressed it down in the priming. Then, shouting out an oath, he dropped on one knee, calling over his shoulder—

  "Fire with the arquebuses!"

  Both cannon had failed to go off.

  Behind Barnetski the firelocks roared, covering everything with white, swirling smoke. But an instant before the volley every rider dropped in the saddle. Some, gripping the long manes of the ponies, swung down, crouched upon one stirrup. Some leaped to the ground and sprang into saddle again when smoke rolled over them. Others bent close to the necks of the racing horses.

  Kirdy's horse was shot from under him, and he cleared the stirrups in time to run out of the way of the pack behind him, plunging among the arquebusiers who were drawing their rapiers. Ayub's leg was pierced by a ball and he lost his seat in the saddle, rolling to one side and limping to his feet.

  "Down pikes!" roared Vladimir. "To me, Durak, you dog!"

  Shaggy ponies were catapulting through the portal—only a pair of horses and riders had gone down at the hasty volley from the firelocks—and the prince saw at once that the gates could not now be closed. The entrance was jammed with Tatars barking their war-cry: ghar-ghar-ghar!

  Meanwhile the armored boyars and their henchmen were running up from all sides.

  Khlit had slid from the saddle and had run beside his horse until he was past the cannon. Regaining his seat with a leap he reined off to one side and peered through the smoke. The moon was bright in a clear sky, and one of the wind-whipped towers was breaking into flames. The figures that darted and stumbled through the haze were easily to be seen.

  The first Tatars, urged on by Gerai Khan, had not checked their ponies, but were circling the enclosure around the blockhouse at full speed, brandishing their round shields and thrusting with their lances. So they made room for others to come after, and now seventy or more were wheeling and plunging in the enclosure.

  Ranged in clusters, the boyars were hacking with their long, straight swords, trying to unite with other groups. The arquebusiers of Barnetski had been separated, knocked asunder by the rush of horses, and the Moldavian captain was down with a broken lance point under his chin. Ayub was nowhere to be seen and Khlit looked anxiously for Kirdy.

  He saw the white svitza at once, on the far side of the scattered Moldavians. Kirdy had heard Vladimir's shout and made toward him as a hawk stoops. He had lost his hat, and ran bent low, his bare right arm swinging by his left hip—at the end of it a glittering arc of blue steel.

  "Cut down the horses!" Vladimir's clear shout rose above the shouting and the clashing of blades. "We are the stronger."

  A Muscovite with a pike stepped in front of Kirdy and the young warrior thrust up the man's weapon, drawing the edge of the curved sword under his ribs. The Muscovite lifted the pike as if for another blow, when his knees gave way and he fell on his back.

  "Guard yourself, lord prince," Kirdy cried.

  Although Vladimir turned eagerly, he was not permitted to cross swords with the young warrior. Durak had brought up the dozen remaining arque-busiers. Neither time nor space served for them to set up their clumsy matchlocks on the rests and their bullets went wild fo
r the most part. Plucking out their rapiers, they advanced in a body toward the prince, coming between him and Kirdy, who raged at them, his sword striking sparks from the massive armor that had been cast to turn bullets. And Durak's great ax swept up and down, slaying a dismounted Nogai and splitting open the chest of a rearing pony.

  This did not escape the keen eye of Gerai Khan who had been circling around the heart of the struggle.

  "Take your lariats!" the chieftain called to his men. "Pull the iron warriors apart."

  His words ended in a grunt, and the zvuk of a bullet striking into flesh. He barely swayed in the saddle, but one gnarled hand gripped the horn and he rested his scimitar across his knee. The Nogais swept before him, swinging their long ropes with running nooses at the end.

  Then began a strange struggle, the Moldavians thrusting at the elusive tribesmen and the Nogais wheeling away from them. But the heavy iron plates, the gussets at the shoulders and the hip pieces, slowed up the movements of the armored men, and first one, then another, was caught by a noose about the neck and jerked from the rank. As the Nogais whipped up their ponies, the arquebusiers were pulled from their feet and dragged, clattering about the wide enclosure until they strangled. Durak and those who escaped the flying nooses ran back to the blockhouse entrance, where the boyars had formed at last.

  "Will you end your life on a rope, Vladimir?" laughed Kirdy.

  "You will not see it!" cried the prince, springing forward. His scimitar grated against the curved saber and such was the power of his long arm that Kirdy gave ground at once.

  The Tatars had suffered as severely as the Muscovites, pent in by the palisade, and there fell at this moment a quiet in the merciless conflict. The Muscovites who still kept their feet were backed against the blockhouse, the tribesmen circling about Gerai Khan, swaying in his saddle.

  Over their heads the flames were devouring the tower and burning brands fell thick among the warriors.

  Khlit, sitting his horse apart from them, shaded his eyes against the glare of the fire and watched the sword duel, his muscular hands clasping and unclasping.

  The two blades, now flashing silver in the moonlight, now gleaming red from reflected flames, coiled together—down and up. They parted and engaged again, and parted when Vladimir slashed wide and left himself open to a cut.

  Kirdy darted in and his curved blade grated against the mail under the Muscovite's kaftan. Vladimir, who had foreseen this, hacked down, his arm only moving from the elbow—a swift cut, impossible to parry.

  Nor had Kirdy the fraction of a second to leap back. Instead he dropped to his knees, the prince's scimitar flashing in front of his eyes. Then, when Vladimir recovered and thrust swiftly, the young warrior leaped up as a wolf springs back. The two blades struck and sparks flew.

  The flames crackled above them, lighting up the pallid, smiling face of the noble, the wild countenance of the boy. Their boots thudding through the smoking ashes of a fire, they changed ground, and Vladimir mustered his strength to attack for the last time, being certain now that his skill was greater than the warrior's.

  Kirdy gave ground, but he threw aside all caution as well. Sweat dripped into his eyes and instead of parrying, he slashed with all the strength of his arm in each cut. A groaning shout came from his tense throat—

  "Ou-haa—ou-haa!"

  Vladimir now sought to engage the blades and lock hilts; his breath whistled from his lungs, and his teeth gleamed between his lips. The whirlwind of steel was about his head and he stepped back to gain a second's respite. Again—and he tossed up his scimitar.

  The boy's heavy blade whistled in the air and struck full against his side. The keen edge snapped the links of the iron mail and the watchers saw Vladimir drop to one knee when Kirdy jerked his sword free. A rush of blood stained the girdle of the prince, and Vladimir raised his head slowly.

  "Better," he gasped, "than rope—or flames."

  The curved saber had penetrated far under his heart and the color was already draining from his lips.

  Dazed with weariness the young warrior stood before him, scarcely hearing the ghar-ghar—ghar of the tribesmen who were beginning to shoot arrows at the Muscovites. Nor did he hear Khlit's shout—

  "Well done, little bogatyr—by-that was well done."

  Ayub, on one good leg, had hobbled steadily toward the stables, beating down with his broadsword any Muscovite who rushed at him, but never swerving from his course. More than once he fell, and he had been cut with a pike over one ear and down one arm before he reached the carts and began to haul himself around toward the horses of the Muscovites.

  For some time he sought among the oxen and the ponies of the boyars before he saw the small, black head and loose mane of the Kabarda tossing restlessly.

  It was almost dark in the stable and he edged his way toward his horse, stumbling over packs and harness, heedless of what went on outside. When he laid hand on the stallion's sleek flank at last he breathed a sigh of relief. Then he bellowed with anger.

  On the other side of the horse a man was quietly putting on a saddle. Reaching for the cinch, he had not seen Ayub. The light was behind him, and the astonished Zaporogian recognized the square shoulders and steel cap of Durak.

  "Turtle-egg!" he shouted, fumbling for the hilt of his broadsword which he was dragging, sheathed, in his right hand to save his injured leg. "A dog fathered you, but now you disgrace your sire by horse stealing."

  Durak reared up silently, and even in his blind rage Ayub remembered the great battle-ax. The Cossack leaned back and poised his massive sword as if it had been a javelin. Grunting he heaved it at Durak's head, putting all the strength of his ox-like shoulders into the cast. He heard the round silver ball of the pommel strike something with a dull thud.

  Then he flung his arms over the stallion's back, praying that the ax of the Muscovite would not drop on the horse. The Kabarda, recognizing his master, did not kick out, but jerked its head, quivering with excitement.

  For a moment Ayub held his breath, listening with all his ears. He heard only the muffled tumult outside, and judged that Durak lay where he had fallen, whether dead or nor he did not know.

  Reaching under the horse he felt around in the straw until he grasped his scabbard with the sword in it. The silver ball on the hilt felt damp. Ayub strapped it on his back and satisfied himself that the snorting stallion had the bridle on, and the bit between his teeth.

  "You little devilkin," he muttered when the bony muzzle smote his cheek. "Gerai Khan won't change his mind about you now. I saw him swallow a bullet the wrong way. As for that turtle-egg, it wasn't a knightly blow I struck him, but the son of a dog laid me down with a log. Now we must go and have a look at the battle. I didn't see Khlit or that bit of forked lightning, Kirdy—"

  Mounting from the wrong side, to the utter astonishment of the stallion, he pushed his wounded leg into the stirrup with a grimace and wheeled out of the stable.

  His first glance was at the tower, up which the flames were roaring, and he shook his head when he beheld the bodies heaped about the gate. No Muscovites were visible, but the Tatars were trotting about the blockhouse, bows in hand, sending arrows into every aperture. Only a few pistols answered them. The boyars had taken refuge in the blockhouse and the tribesmen held the palisade and the outer ground.

  "If they don't sally out, they'll be smoked like hams in the penthouse," Ayub thought, "and if they do, they'll be cut open like fish in a boat. Hi, the ataman has a sober head at last."

  Khlit had reined his pony in front of the closed gate of the blockhouse, holding up his hand without a weapon in it.

  "Ho, within there!" His deep shout was heard above the roar of the flames in the towers. "Lay down your arms and come out. Your game is played."

  There was silence for a time, while no pistols barked, and the tribesmen held their arrows on the string.

  "Who speaks?" demanded a voice from the log castle.

  "A Koshevoi Ataman of the Cossacks."
>
  Other voices began to argue. The Muscovites had lost their leader; Bar-netski and Durak were gone. Flight was impossible, and they could not hold the flames in check for long.

  "What terms?" asked the first voice, not so arrogantly.

  "Fair ransom for the boyars—slavery for their slaves," responded Khlit briefly.

  "At your hands?"

  "Nay, the Tatars."

  "But you are taking the villagers safe across the frontier."

  "No fault of yours. Open the door or that gold will be lost, and the Tatars will give you only their sword edges."

  Almost at once the door was pulled back and some forty men including a half dozen nobles walked out, weaponless, many of them trying to bind up their wounds. When the last was out, the Nogais ran into the castle, seeking the bed of the prince and the chests that stood beside it.

  Ayub trotted over to where Kirdy was kneeling by the dying lord of the Muscovites. Vladimir, propped up on one elbow, was trying to speak to the little priest who was shivering, his cope wrapped close about him.

  "Batko," the hoarse voice of the prince forced out the words by an effort of will, "do not forget—the fifty-three souls to be prayed for. My estates— money will be given—and for the others, slain back there. For the boyars whose wife—ah, batko pray that God's mercy be not denied me. I sinned in leading my men here—stood by when the Tatars came the first time. They came back—the scourge of God." In spite of himself, looking into the haggard gray eyes, Ayub was moved.

  "Faith, 'tis a sad thing to have a black spirit like that. Fall to your work, priest! Nay, Kirdy, don't sigh—you'll get used to things like this. Give him a sip of brandy and make the sign of the cross over him. If he lived like a devil, at least he turned up his toes like a man."

  And the boy, rising from his knees, took the curved saber still stained with blood and swept it down and across the dying Muscovite.