Riders of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  By now the Tatars who had been guarding the captive villagers had hurried up, eager to take part in the pillaging, bringing with them Kuku-benko and his people. The tavern-keeper, standing outside the gate with pale Galka beside him, stared dully at the flames devouring the castle. The events of the last hours were past his understanding, but his daughter was more quick-witted. She watched the Tatars herding the Muscovites down toward the river, and stripping the bodies of armor and weapons. When she saw Gerai Khan carried by, in a horse litter escorted by a dozen tribesmen, she knew that the Tatars were leaving and that the villagers had been exchanged for the Muscovites.

  She tripped up to Ayub, caught his hand and pressed her fresh lips against it.

  "Zaporogian, our hearts thank you. May the Father and Son bless you for this night's work!"

  "Well, it was a small affair," responded Ayub, pleased. "You could hardly call it a battle, lass. Still, it was warm for us, for a moment."

  He glanced at the spear points of the retreating Tatars, and was silent until they reached the river.

  "I thought the Nogais would rub us out after everything was over. Then you'd have been no better off than before. But Gerai Khan had a bullet in his throat—can't speak for a while—and Khlit, the ataman yonder, had got over his drinking bout. He ordered them around in their own language, and when they looked at him they thought his eye was like a basilisk. So they kept their word and went off like lambs."

  Only half understanding this, Galka smiled. She was scarcely a woman grown but she knew that she could persuade big Ayub to do what she wanted.

  "And now, Zaporogian, out of your kindness you will take us back to the border where we can find Christians?"

  "Aye, why not? This is no place for the likes of you. But first you'll have to bury your former masters. Can't leave them lying around like this."

  "The men will see to it, noble knight. I'll tell Kukubenko at once, and he will get the priest. Indeed, you think of everything and I am sure that you are the finest bogatyr of all the Zaporogians."

  Ayub stroked up his mustaches and glanced down at the slip of a girl feelingly, but he saw that she was watching Kirdy, who sat on a log, his head in his hands, the curved sword still across his knees.

  "Nay," he said honestly, "there's the bogatyr. At least he'll be one if he keeps on like this. He won't look at you now, lass, because the fever of sword-strokes is still in his veins and his knightly spirit is intent on

  Cossack glory. Tomorrow he'll strike up with the bandura and have you dance."

  He stroked her head while the gray eyes looked up at him inscrutably, glowing with the thoughts that come to the young, and the veteran warrior could not read the message in them. Besides, his throat was dry and he had been hunting high and low for gorilka to drink.

  Abandoning Galka, he continued his search until he halted by the two cannon in the entrance of the palisade. Sniffing strongly he peered to right and left and finally bent over the breech of one of the brass guns.

  Thrusting an exploring finger into the tiny heap of powder over the touch-hole, he held it up to the light, then put it to his tongue. Without doubt the priming smelled strongly of corn brandy, and he wondered why. Picking up a blazing stick that had blown from one of the towers he laid it on the breech of the other cannon, to the consternation of the villagers who were in the gate.

  "It's quite true," he muttered, "that the priming has been dampened and the guns won't go off."

  Waxing curious, he called Kirdy over and explained what he had discovered. The young warrior considered a moment with bent head, and uttered an exclamation.

  "When we came to the gate to arrange the ransom with Vladimir, Khlit drank deep from the gorilka cask. When all eyes were on the maiden Galka and the torch burned low I saw my grandfather stoop over each cannon. It is in my mind that he was not drunk at that time."

  Ayub would have spoken, but then he sighted Khlit approaching. The old ataman swaggered in his walk, the silver heels of his boots striking the earth powerfully.

  "Hey, Zaporogian," he cried, "I am too feeble to ride with the brotherhood again. I will not gird on the sword. But I have brought you an ouchar—a fledgling grandson who will lead men and whose name will yet be a terror among the Tatars and the Turks. This night he faced Gerai Khan boldly and cut down the Muscovite prince. Without aid from us he made a good plan."

  "The sir brothers will bid him welcome," assented Ayub earnestly. "But when you say he did it without aid you lie, old dog. Was it not you who spat on the breeches of the Muscovite guns? The angels themselves must have put a turnip on Barnetski's face instead of a nose, that he did not smell the corn brandy when he examined the priming."

  Khlit looked at him gravely from under shaggy brows.

  "Not corn brandy," he growled. "In my day we had corn brandy. If you poured it on the breech of a cannon and put a match to it the powder would go off like mad. More than one cannon did we burst that way."

  Ayub put both hands on his massive sides, and bowed to the girdle. "Prince of liars and father of battles, I bid you welcome. Nay, you are Khlit."

  White Falcon

  About the White City are three walls.

  Within the earth wall dwell the slaves—within the red wall the men-at-arms guard the palaces of the peers.

  In the heart of the city within the white wall sleeps one who is master of all.

  Yet his sleep is broken and he himself is no more than a slave to Fear.

  Chapter 1 Three Travelers Enter the Gate

  The sentry at the Gora gate of the city of Moscow was a good soldier. He knew the four duties of the guard, because his sergeant had instructed him carefully and he had repeated them until he remembered them—

  To bow the head before rank, to drive away vagabonds, to hand over any coin given him to his sergeant, and—unless some extraordinary event befell—on no account to call the captain of the guard who, at this hour of a cloudless Midsummer day, was asleep in the cool anteroom of the gate tower. The sergeant was not in evidence because he was making his rounds which led him, to the best of the sentry's belief, through several nearby taverns and took up a great deal of time.

  So the sentry had the gate to himself. In the warlike days of the Tsar Ivan the Terrible this would not have been the case. But the new tsar, Boris Godunov, was a different sort. He cared more for the trade caravans that entered the gates of Moscow than for the warriors who guarded the gates.

  Leaning on his halberd, the sentry watched a file of dusty ox-carts pass between the towers into the city. Some of the bales smelled deliciously of tea; the wooden casks reeked of oil or wine. God alone knew whence they came—perhaps from the land of the great Moghul, perhaps from Cathay— but the sentry knew they were going into the Kremyl of Boris Godunov.

  Suddenly he stepped forward and lowered his weapon across the open half of the gate.

  "Hi there, my fine fellows, just pull in your reins a moment!"

  The last of the ox-carts had rumbled by and through the pall of dust three horsemen appeared, riding abreast. They looked, at first glance, like vagabonds.

  Their sheepskin coats and embroidered linen shirts were rent and weather-stained. No baggage followed them in carts and no servants went before with staves.

  One of them, with a good-humored, sunburned face, was the heaviest man the sentry had ever seen astride a horse. The rider in the center wore no sword and was very old; white mustaches hung down from lined, hollow cheeks. The youngest of the three was beautiful as a prince's son. The hilt of his sword was gold, with a circle of pearls on the pommel, and the sword curved like a bent bow.

  This puzzled the sentry, because in Moscow such a sword would be worn by a high officer, not by a boy. And the boots of the three were of shining red morocco—their horses excellent and well cared for; they held their heads high—undoubtedly in some respects these men were like boyars—nobles.

  "Come now," he said pacifically. "tell me your names and the mission upon which yo
u ride."

  Easing his weight from one stirrup to the other the stout rider considered him from restless black eyes. The sentry wore the long black coat with red facings of the Moscow strelsui, the town guard. His beard was cut as square as the toes of his cowhide shoes, and there was not too much rust on his iron morion or his halberd head.

  "I am Ayub the Zaporogian," the big man said, "from the steppe—"

  "What is that?" demanded the Muscovite alertly.

  "Eh, Rusty, don't you know?" Ayub rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, it's like this. The devil will not enter the lands of the good Muscovites, because you've built churches everywhere. But even the devil has to exercise his horses, so he made a great plain just beyond the frontier. He took away all the mountains so his stallions would not try to jump too high and he cut down all the trees, so the fire from their nostrils would not start a blaze. That's the steppe, and that's why you won't find anything there except a lot of wild horses and the Horned One himself, of nights."

  In the opinion of the sentry the frontier of which Ayub spoke was a haunt of outlaws and evil spirits, with hordes of Tatars and Turks—what lay beyond the border he could not imagine. "What is your mission in Moscow?" he asked.

  "We have come to holy mother Moscow of the white walls to see our brothers who are the best warriors of the tsar, because they are Cossacks like us."

  Now the sentry had never set eves on a Cossack before, and knew of no such warriors in the service of Tsar Boris Godunov. And he could not decide whether to admit the three wanderers or bar them out. "How many brothers have you, good sir?" he pondered.

  "Five hundred. They are the Donskoi—the Don men."

  Upon further reflection the sentry decided to awaken his captain.

  Bearded to the eyes, clumping along in clumsy boots the starosta of the guard emerged from one of the towers and yawned heartily. The three Cossacks took off their tall lambskin hats politely and he ceased yawning. Every head was shaved to the peak of the skull, from which dangled a long scalp lock.

  "Oho," he said, "you are Cossacks from down below. What master do you serve?"

  Seeing that Ayub was growing red with anger at the delay and questioning, the youngest reined his piebald pony forward and spoke respect-fully—though he did not dismount to address the starosta.

  "We serve no one. We seek permission to enter to rest our horses and refresh ourselves."

  "Well, what regiment are you from? Are you from the light cavalry that has been scouring the Don river of its filth?"

  "Captain, we come not from the emperor's service. Nor do we know where your cavalry has quested. For years we have been beyond the border at the courts of Eastern kings."

  "What is your name, youngling?"

  "Kirdy is my name. And this old one, my grandsire, is Khlit, who is a bogatyr of the border."

  The officer of the guard put his hands on his hips and shook his head as the sentry had done. A bogatyr was a hero warrior, whose name was handed down in legends. Always the bogatyri had been princes of the throne, and the warrior with the thin, dark face and the white beard that fell to his chest was not even a noble. "Nay," he muttered, "I think you are lying—"

  The oldest of the Cossacks—he called Khlit—urged his horse suddenly between the captain and Kirdy. A veined hand closed on the wrist of the youth who had snatched at his sword hilt, his black eyes blazing. "This is a lofty threshold, my falcon," he growled in a speech the Muscovites did not understand. "Kabardar—walk your horses slowly here, looking to right and left, saying nothing without thinking three times."

  The boy who wore the white camel's hide cloak dropped his eyes and took his hand from his sword, and after a moment Khlit turned to the officer. "You of the guard," he said bluntly, "be at peace. We wish to enter to speak with our brothers."

  "Are they royalty?" The Muscovite essayed a jest.

  "Aye, by-they are!" cried Ayub. "They are the Donskoi—the Cossacks of the Don. Upon the road I heard that my brother-in-arms, Demid, is in Moscow. Even the tavern-keepers up this way have heard of his deeds because he is chief of the Don men. With five hundred of his falcons he is visiting Moscow, so we drew our reins hither. I have not drunk a cup with Demid for two harvests."

  The eyes of the starosta changed and he glanced at the sentry who was staring, slack-jawed. "So, my masters, you wish to be quartered with the Donskoi?"

  "Aye, where is their barrack? Do they serve the tsar?"

  Until now Ayub had been doubtful whether they would find his friends in this gigantic city of the Muscovites. He did not understand why Demid, who had been a chief on the border, had taken service with the lord of Muscovy. But now the captain said it was so and he was relieved that his long ride had not been in vain. In another hour he would be drinking the health of his former companions, and not in mead but in fine sparkling wine or heady spirits.

  "Well, my wanderers, if you are truly friends of the Donskoi you may enter," responded the officer readily. "All Moscow has heard of their deeds and every honest man has gone to look at the heroes. You will find them easily."

  "I warrant they are quartered with the best of your warriors," granted Ayub.

  "Aye, that is truth. Go to the gate of Saint Nicholas—pass through the red and the white walls, to the citadel, the Kremyl itself. Only ask for the Don Cossacks and you will be shown the way. They await the pleasure of the tsar's majesty."

  "God be with you," said Ayub, mollified, "you have a civil tongue in a dog's face. I don't see why Demid wanted service with farmers, but he always was a devil for rooting into dark places."

  When they trotted past, the florid cheeks of the starosta grew ruddier still and his beard twitched in a silent laugh. The halberdier, seeing the good humor of his officer, was gratified because he would not be flogged for waking up the captain.

  The three Cossacks kept abreast as they entered the environs of the city, and gazed curiously at the scattered barracks of the militia amid the hovels of the peasantry. Here and there arose the walled pile of a monastery with only narrow embrasures to let in the light of day.

  Within the Kitai-gorod with its red brick wall the wanderers found a different city. Here the houses formed irregular streets and foreign merchants hung out their signs. Covered stalls of harness makers and silver-and gold-smiths almost touched the flanks of their horses. But the street underfoot, even though timbers had been laid on it, was fetlock deep in mud, and the sun beat down on damp earth and piles of filth.

  "Only look yonder," cried Ayub, "surely there is the father of all churches. How it shines!"

  It was the great church of Vasili the Blest that had caught his eye—a bulbed spire rising from a nest of ten cupolas, all different and all resplendent in varying colors, red, gold and white.

  They moved on, scattering the mob of beggars that clutched at their knees and the pack of dogs that snarled and fought at the heels of the beggars. The horses shied at a body that lay half buried in the mud—a mere skeleton of a man black with flies where the skin showed through the rags.

  Ayub tossed a handful of silver among the mendicants, but the halfstarved pack only clamored the more until a three-horse carriage of a noble trotted through the narrow street, with servants running before to clear the way. The Cossacks drew aside, taking note of the boyar's green kaftan trimmed with sables, of the silver eagle on his breast, and the fine belt of Siberian silver fox. He rested his hands on the gold hilt of a long sword and looked neither to right nor left.

  As the carriage passed, an odor of amber and musk swept away for a moment the stench of drying mud and uncleansed human flesh.

  "Is that one the tsar," Ayub asked the tavern woman who set brandy before them, "or one of his lord-colonels?"

  The Cossacks had rubbed down their ponies and spread hay before them in the stable yard, and not until this was done had they hastened into the taproom.

  "Nay, good sir, that is a member of the okolnitchi."

  "Of what, lass?" demanded Ayub, draining
his glass and sucking his mustache.

  "The men who follow the tsar."

  "Well, aren't they the greatest nobles in all this part of the world?" The big Cossack glanced around and beheld dark faces under spotless tur-bans—Armenian and Turkoman merchants quaffing forbidden wine in the city of infidels—broad white faces and drab velvets of traders from the north.

  "Some are great nobles, some are different. All is otherwise now."

  "How otherwise?" demanded the Zaporogian who was impatient of half-truths. "More brandy, wench—nay, bring the cask. Here are gold ducats. Bear a glass to everyone in this room. We are Cossacks and Satan himself never saw us drink in a corner."

  Whether the sight of gold heartened her—who had been skeptical of their worn garments—or whether Ayub's ignorance reassured her, the thin-cheeked woman in the soiled kerchief set the spirits before him and bent close as if to wipe the table that bore no evidence of such care.

  "The angels bless you, good sirs! Do you not know? Ever since the old tsar died and the new father sits in his place there has been a curse on the land."

  "What curse?" Ayub asked, interested.

  "Every year since it happened drought has destroyed the harvests, and we have had little food. Only today they carried out a hundred and five bodies in wagons to the burial ground."

  Khlit's gray eyes searched the woman's face casually. He had noticed the cortege with its sad burden while Ayub was arguing with the guard at the gate. But famine stalked through more than one land in these evil times.

  "Such things have happened before." The woman's tongue once loosened, must needs tell the full story of woe. "Yet here the black plague has been among us. They do say it is worst where the—the new tsar lies."

  "Nay," muttered Ayub, fortified by his fourth glass, "even the Turks have the plague."

  "Whenever the-the wise tsar rides forth," went on the tavern-keeper,

  "they ring the bells, real fine. But it ain't a joyful sound the bells make. No matter how the monks pull the ropes, the sound always comes out the same. The bells ring a dirge. It's been like that since it happened."