by Harold Lamb
By then his feet lagged and his head drooped. He stretched himself out on his svitza and fell asleep almost at once.
It did not seem any time before someone came and pulled the shirt from his shoulder to look at his wound. He was conscious of an odor of burning oil from the lantern beside him and of leather and sweat-soaked sheepskins. He looked up into the deep-set eyes of the Wolf.
Other hands washed the hardened blood from his side and bound the torn flesh with mud, held in place by a turban cloth. The touch of the mud cooled his veins and he became drowsy again, though he was aware that two men were squatting over the lantern.
"O father of battles," a voice began in Tatar gutturals, "I have looked upon the millet seeds again and they are red—red."
Kirdy peered over his shoulder and recognized the lined face of Sha-maki, ruddy in the glow from the oil lamp.
"Some have died but it is written that the graves of many lie not far from here," the voice went on. "It is time that your servant goes to his own place."
"You have been paid," Khlit's growl made answer.
The twain were silent and Kirdy closed his eyes. The sleep that had come upon him was the first in fifty hours and it held him like iron fetters.
"Listen to me, O bahadur," the voice of Shamaki began again, persuasively, "do not scorn the shadow snakes in a swamp. Take your men and go. Y'allah! Was your servant not once a khan? It is true. Some honor I had—my herds grazed on the Jaick. The Turkomans came—may dogs litter on their graves—they took my herds and my children they slew with the sword. I was their slave.
"In time I went north and west to the land of the Aga Padishah, of the White Emperor of the Muscovites, knowing well that he had more spears to his command than Arap Muhammad Khan. Many times I told him of the jewels in Urgench. He listened and he asked tidings of the caravan trade. What do I know of merchants—I who have hunted with eagles in the Ak-Tagh?"
The old Tatar paused as if gathering to himself the memories of the past.
"To everything there is an end. You spoke to me in a serai of the City of the White Walls, and it was agreed between us that if you could enter the presence of the White Emperor, I would add my word to yours. So you gained the freedom of these five hundred—and I came likewise, being weary of the court of the emperor. Ai-a, I have seen the Turkomans rub their beards in the dust. I have spoken."
There was a jangling of chains, a scraping, and ruffling of feathers, a brief word from Khlit, and Shamaki passed out of the room taking with him the great golden eagle.
Drowsily Kirdy opened his eyes and beheld Khlit occupied with a strange task. He was filling two saddlebags with millet, which he poured in a cupful at a time. And with each cup he took up a precious stone from the caskets that lay open under the lantern. Now the yellow light gleamed on the shadowy surface of jade, now it sparkled fiercely on a many-faced diamond, or lurked in the depths of the great emeralds.
When the bags were filled, Khlit laced them up and strapped them together. Then he blew out the light and the boy sank again into the coma of exhaustion.
Gray dawn was stealing through the round window and the room was empty when he sat up, wide awake. Men were talking in the courtyard and he heard the stamping of hoofs and snorting of restive horses.
He was very hungry and the first thing he did was to fill a bowl with gruel from the pot that had been cooked by the warriors on guard. Then he broke away the dried mud from his side and found that the bleeding had stopped. At first he listened idly to the talk of Ivashko and the Cossacks, then he became curious and saw that they had placed the articles taken from the castle in packs and the packs were being roped on Turkoman ponies.
"Eh," Ivashko was saying, "at the council of the squadron leaders in the afternoon Demid told them. It was like a flea in the ear. All night they searched for their men and horses."
"It is time," someone grumbled. "Three days have passed since the castle was taken."
"How, three days?" demanded Kirdy, looking up from his bowl. "It is not yet two."
Ivashko laughed. "Harken to the ouchar! He has slept for ten watches. The first night I dressed his wound, and the second Khlit and Shamaki woke him up, but he has made up for lost time."
Kirdy sprang up, and caught the essaul's arm. "Is this the third day?"
"Aye, and Arap Muhammad Khan will be here before it is past. The ataman says a pigeon was loosed from the castle with a message for Khiva."
"And the Cossacks—"
"Take the road within the hour."
Running into the street Kirdy saw that the squadrons were forming in the cleared space that stretched down to the bazaar; wagons, loaded with grain and piled high with plunder, were being drawn into line by Dog-Face and Witless who were quite sober and intent on the work in hand—certainly they had not been planted on stakes by the ataman, or drawn by horses.
Where, two days ago, all had been drunken disorder, a common purpose now reigned. The kuren atamans were taking position at the head of their detachments, and one of Makshim's lancers had raised the standard of the white falcon. Dog-Face, catching sight of the boy, called out cheerfully:
"Time to take the road, lad. Na kdn—the order has been given. Arap Muhammad Khan must be drawing near by now and we will give him a taste of Cossack steel."
From the flat roofs and mat-covered alleys of the bazaar dense curls of smoke were rising into the morning mist, and, struck by a sudden fear, Kirdy looked back at the castle. A red tongue of flame licked out of the gallery where Nur-ed-din's quarters had been. The Cossacks had fired both the castle and the bazaar.
Striding back into the house, the boy caught up his saddle and sought out the piebald pony in Khlit's string of captured Arabs. Jerking the girth savagely he cantered into the courtyard of the khan's dwelling and dismounted. The Cossacks had withdrawn from the place and smoke was thickening in the mist overhead. In a tower room Kirdy had locked Nur-ed-din and if no one had freed the woman she would be burned to death.
It would be a simple matter to leave her where she was, but Kirdy felt as if her dark eyes were fixed upon him, and her lips were praying to him. He could not ride away and leave a woman to be burned.
Threading his way through the corridors, he felt his way up through the stinging smoke in the garden tower and came to the door of Nur-ed-din's prison. He could hear nothing except the snapping of flames below him, but, pushing open the door he saw the slave of Arap Muhammad Khan standing facing him, her eyes wide with hope that faded as soon as she recognized the young Cossack. She was veiled and she followed obediently when he took her by the hand and led her down the dark stair into the clearer air of the courtyard.
He could feel the pulse throbbing in her fingers, but his fingers did not tremble. The witchery of her beauty cast no spell over him and he looked upon her only as a Moslem slave, sullen with anger. Then he dropped her hand as if it had been a nettle.
Sitting a gray Arab stallion beside his pony, Khlit was looking at him grimly, half shrouded by the drifting smoke.
"Eh, you puppy," the old Cossack growled, "what good is there in you? First you sleep like a peasant for two days; then you sneak off with a woman. What horses or weapons have you taken in Urgench? None."
Kirdy hung his head, not justifying himself with words because he understood that his grandsire was very angry, or amused at him, and Khlit, bending down, recognized Nur-ed-din with a grunt.
"Is it clear to you, Kirdy," he observed after a moment, "that it is easier to play with serpents than to meddle with such beauties as this?"
"Aye, Khlit."
"Then give Nur-ed-din this gift."
A tiny roll of paper fell into Kirdy's hand, and he started. Spreading it out eagerly, he stared at the square of rice paper no larger than his thumbnail, and at the scrolls and curlicues that were Turkish words written with a henna pencil. A gasp from Nur-ed-din showed that she had recognized her missive, sent on the carrier pigeon.
"How"—he cried and fell silent, be
cause Khlit did not love useless questioning. After a moment he handed the paper to Nur-ed-din and said slowly: "Was it the golden eagle of Shamaki that brought down the pigeon, when you, Khlit, and the Tatar were on outpost, that morning? Then you must have been to the south of Urgench."
"Aye, the golden eagle. It was a fine sight."
Kirdy reflected. Khlit must have sighted the pigeon heading south in the clear sky of early sunrise—the eyes of the old Cossack were keener than he chose to admit—and he would have suspected that a message had been sent in this fashion from the town. So Shamaki had loosed the eagle. When they rode back to the Cossack lines Dog-Face had told them about the trick played by Nur-ed-din.
"You did well," Khlit conceded, "to take her from the fire, for the slave does not lack courage. We were well served by thee," he added to the woman, "because the Cossack brothers had need of a spur. It is our nature, O Light of the World, to revel overmuch when we have come in from the road. Were it not for thy missive, the warriors would still be frolicking in Urgench, and so—farewell to thee."
Nur-ed-din threw the crumpled paper on the ground and spat at them. Tearing at her hair, she cried shrilly—anger drawing from her the lamentation that fear had not inspired. And the roar of flames behind her accompanied her cries.
But Kirdy was in the saddle of the piebald pony, riding like one possessed down the column to take his place by the standard. He was clear of blame, and he had made a raid across the border. No longer would the warriors call him ouchar. He was a Cossack.
Drawing rein sharply he made his pony rear and swerve into position between Ayub and the new standard-bearer. He thrust his kalpak well back on his shaven head and, putting his left hand on his hip—wound or no wound—joined in the song that began as the first squadron started forward—
Shall we sit idle?
Follow Death’s dance!
Pick up your bridle,
Saddle and lance—
Brothers, advance!
Chapter 9 Demid Turns North
Where a city is, there are no wolves; where peace exists, no Turkomans are to be found.
Proverb of the Trans-Caspia
The column of smoke that hung over Urgench became smaller and smaller. Twenty miles distant, it could still be seen. And the first night a red eye of fire glowed under the smoke, following the Don Cossacks in their flight northward over the gray breast of the dry lands. At noon they had halted, to sleep under their svitzas propped up on the lances. When the sun grew red at the horizon's edge they resumed their march, changing saddles to the rangy Turkoman ponies, pushing these hardy beasts through the night.
At sunrise the column halted without a command being given and every rider eased himself in the saddle to gaze attentively into the south.
Even the most experienced among them—they whose eyes were the keenest—could detect no sign of pursuit. Certain that the back trail was clear for ten miles at least, they looked to the north and the youngest warriors shouted in amazement.
By now they should have been close to a line of high bluffs. Demid had marked the position of this ridge in his mind as a possible refuge on the return journey and had headed toward the only pass that would admit wagons through the bluffs.
Nothing was to be seen of the heights. Instead, lines of black Turkoman tents took shape on the horizon. Among the tents were dark herds of horses, and here and there strings of laden camels could be seen moving—cara-vans bound across the desert.
The void of the plain had been peopled with a multitude, silent and threatening. Strangely enough, the men of this encampment did not look toward the Cossacks, nor did the caravans cease from aimless wandering among the black tents.
"Arap Muhammad Khan has camped in our path!" cried one of the Donskoi. "That is the Turkoman horde!"
Shading his eyes with his good hand—his broken arm was strapped to his side—Ayub the Zaporogian shook his head. "'Nay, it is otherwise. When did Turkomans let laden camels pass, without taking their pick of the spoil? When did merchant caravans seek the black tents—or goats run into a Tiger's lair? Yonder is witchcraft at work."
In fact as the sun gained strength, the mirage faded, disclosing the purple buttes for which they had been looking. On their way to Urgench the Cossacks had seen more than once the domes and minarets of great cities lying near at hand—until the visions faded like this one. It was palpable magic, they thought—Moslem trickery, intended to lead them astray. But what was the meaning of the encampment of the black tents?
"'Tis an omen," hazarded the one who had first cried out, seeking to justify himself.
"Then the omen is a good one," retorted Ayub. "And why is that, sir brothers? First the way was barred to us, and peril, like an eagle, hovered over us. Now the way lies open—we have water in casks on the camels, and grain and good kuniaki, war ponies. Urgench was a rich city and we have its treasure here in these six carts. May the devil clip the ears of him that says otherwise!"
The scalp locked heads of the listening Cossacks nodded agreement, and word was passed from squadron to squadron that the magic encampment had been an omen and a good one. Meanwhile—for Demid had called a halt to allow the men to eat a little and the horses to roll—the warriors crowded around the six carts and fell to speculating as to the value of the treasure. Some felt of the burlap rolls that contained fine silks and damasks, others told of the many gold cups, and chains and ornaments they had seen packed into the wolf skin sacks. No silver had been taken, owing to its greater weight.
Ayub pointed out a chest bound with tarred ropes and covered with horse cloths on the top of the leading wagon.
"This chest, sir brothers, is worth more than all the rest. Within it are the precious stones of Arap Muhammad Khan, the pearls and the emeralds and the green jadestone that the Cathayans covet."
"But, noble sirs," ventured Witless who had been cogitating, "is the treasure enough? Will it buy back our lives from the Muscovite tsar?"
"May the dogs bite you!" cried the young Cossack. "Can't you understand what is outside your own belt? The tsar, Boris Godunov, swore to give us life if we brought him the treasure of Urgench. It is here, and if we give it to him, he must keep his word."
"Allah birdui," murmured Witless, who was accustomed to be mocked whenever he spoke. "God gives! Only this was my thought, my brothers: if our father Demid had said, 'I will set you free,' that would be the end of the matter. If Khlit, who was koshevoi of the Cossacks, had made a promise, no one could doubt the promise would be kept. But this Muscovite prince is a horse of another hide. God alone knows whether he will keep an oath."
"That is well said, Witless!" cried Dog-Face, who was the brother-in-arms of the stupid Cossack. "Is not Boris Godunov a merchant? And is it not well known, sir brothers, that a merchant thinks only of profit and not of honor at all?"
"But he swore the oath before all the lords of Muscovy."
"Well, that is true. And yet, devil take him, he murdered a fledgling boy so that the path to his throne should be clear."
The warriors were troubled by these words and the hungriest ceased eating to turn to Makshim, who had just come up from the rear. The hawk-faced squadron leader was ready of tongue and they looked to him to settle the question.
"Hai, it is clear enough," he said, throwing one leg over his saddle horn. "The tsar will keep his oath if it pleases him, not otherwise. He is a prince, not a merchant. It suited him to give you weapons and send you against Arap Muhammad Khan. When he has the treasure in his hands he may change his mind about making the Donskoi brotherhood free men."
"Then what is the best path for us to follow?" asked Dog-Face, wrinkling his broken nose.
Makshim laughed. "Why, you have weapons, horses, riches! Seize the land at the river Jaick where the desert ends—take Moslem women for wives—breed sons and train them to steal from the caravans. Then ye will be free men—not otherwise!"
Several grunted approval, but Ayub, who was in charge of the treasure, did not relish
the mockery of the man who had been a noble before he joined the brotherhood of the Don.
"Nay, sir brothers," he put in, "this one chest is sufficient to ransom us. So Khlit said, and his wisdom is greater than Makshim's."
"Did the Wolf say that?"
"Aye, he swore that Boris Godunov would leap from his chair when he saw what is in this little chest. Khlit had the precious stones in his care, so he has been able to judge them."
The kettle drums by the standard beat the summons to horse at this point and the Cossacks about the treasure wagons scattered to their various kurens. But Kirdy went with Makshim and the advance of twenty lancers, and remained buried in thought until the detachment had entered the boulders of the narrow pass between the buttes.
"Is it true, Makshim," he asked, "that you would form a new tribe?"
"In the desert?" The handsome Cossack smiled. "Nay, the river Don is far, very far from my home. Once in Kiev"—he broke off with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "Perhaps I am different, Kirdy, from the Donskoi, and you, too, are unlike them. But we will do one thing together. We will take the treasure to Moscow to the tsar and in all the world it will be said our word is not smoke."
So he boasted and Kirdy began to understand a little of this man's nature. Makshim had once been a leader of men, perhaps khan of a tribe—for Kirdy knew nothing of the Christian peoples or their lords, except what Khlit had told him, which was very little. This vast steppe that stretched immeasurable distances to the east was his home.
"Rein in!" said the boy under his breath.
When Makshim halted his charger, the detachment stopped, the experienced Cossacks becoming quiet on the instant. Kirdy dismounted and searched the bed of the ravine for tracks without finding any. His glance ran along the heights, topped by a gray fringe of tamarisk. And he even crouched down to put his ear to the ground.
"What did you hear?" asked Makshim with some amusement, because the boy's face had grown bleak with sudden concentration.
"Nothing, ataman—but look at the birds!"
Glancing up at a flight of rooks at the gully's edge, Makshim shook his head carelessly. "A hawk has stirred them up. Rishiy marsh!"