by Harold Lamb
When they found it they meant to make camp, reaching the frozen Don the next day, and striking due west until they gained the shelter of the siech—the war encampment of the Zaporogian Cossacks, their destination. Moreover, on the portage they expected to find the hut of an Armenian trader, or a wayside tavern that would give them some protection against the storm that all three knew to be coming down the Volga at their heels.
The youngest warrior, a remarkably fine-looking man, rode in advance, watching the ominous wrack of clouds that hid the sun, studying the surface of the snow on his right, picking out the tracks of a wandering wolf. The wolf had been following the slot of an antelope without much hope because he had turned aside to try for a hare—vainly. So much the young Cossack read in a flurry of marks in the snow.
He was Kirdy, called the White Falcon by his comrades; and now he was white indeed, for his slender shoulders were wrapped in a svitza of splendid ermine, gift of the great Muscovite tsar whom he had well served. But his face was brown and merry, and he rode as a nomad rides, crouching in short stirrups.
The heaviest of the Cossacks, Ayub, the Oak—a man six feet and a half in height, armed with a gigantic broadsword that he carried slung to his shoulders—glanced at the youngster admiringly.
"Eh, how is that?" he cried. "You say Kirdy is not in every way a warrior. Then something is biting you, because as —— lives he is a regular bogatyr—a hero."
Khlit, surnamed the Wolf, a gaunt figure in gray sheepskins, did not look up or answer.
"He's your grandson, you old dog!" resumed Ayub earnestly. "He's a master hand with the saber, by ——! Once he clipped my mustache for me, and I've never taken grass in my teeth for any other dog-brother. That's the truth."
Khlit nodded gravely and Ayub glanced at the aged Cossack suspiciously.
"Umpff!" he grunted. "And here's something else. Kirdy can lead men. Because he's not afraid of a vampire or the archfiend himself, men will follow him anywhere. Isn't that the truth?"
"Ay-a tak," assented Khlit. "Aye so."
"Then why is he not a warrior in all things?"
Ayub, usually careless and good-natured, was puzzled and a little angry. At first with tolerance, then with joy, he had watched Kirdy. On the road, in the press of battle, and at the Muscovite court, he had seen this youth, who had emerged from the depths of Central Asia, bear himself bravely and modestly. He knew that Khlit's grandson was wiser than other boys. And he looked forward to the moment when Kirdy would be brought before the atamans of the Cossacks of the siech. This moment, Khlit had said, was not at hand because the young warrior was lacking in one way.
"Kirdy," Khlit made answer, "is blind."
Ayub stared and then scratched his ear.
"Blind? Only look at him. If he is blind, my mother was a sow."
"His eyes have not been opened."
"Ekh-ma! It may be that he has few hairs in his mustache, and that he's drunk more milk than corn brandy. He blushes when he looks at a fair maiden. But he can search out an ambush like an old Zaporogian."
Again Khlit nodded seriously. "An ambush but not a soul."
"How, a soul?"
Gloved hands clasped on his saddle horn, the old leader ruminated. Ayub, his kunak—comrade-was a warrior of few ideas. Since Khlit had said that Kirdy was lacking in one way, Ayub would decide that the young warrior was a coward or a weakling or a fool. And Kirdy most certainly was none of that. So Ayub must be made to understand what was in Khlit's mind.
"It is true," he growled, "that the suckling pig yonder is a swordsman." Although Kirdy had been honored by the Don Cossacks, it was not for Khlit, his grandfather, to praise him to another Cossack. "Yet what sword stroke can parry treachery? Hai, the boy is still blind in this way: He has not learned to see what lies in another man's soul—treachery or good faith."
"Well, that's easily seen," argued Ayub the Zaporogian. "When a man draws steel on you he is a foe, right enough; if he spreads his legs under the same table and drinks from the same keg he is a comrade."
"Not always."
This ability in Khlit to read men's hearts—to scent danger and to strike before he was overcome—had kept life in the old Cossack's scarred body in a place where most men died swiftly and violently almost before they had sons of their own. He wanted to live until he could bring Kirdy to his old companions of the Zaporogian Siech, who were the chosen warriors of the Cossacks. That the youth was a redoubtable warrior and would soon be a leader of the Cossacks, he knew—provided he could give to Kirdy this last bit of wisdom, the fruit of his long years of strife.
"This young dog," he explained, "was weaned in the tents of the Mongol khans beyond the roof of the world. There, in a man's yurta, a wanderer is safe from treachery. If friendship is pledged, friendship is kept. Aye so. Even among the Afghans a foe rides boldly, his weapon drawn in his hand. Only here"—with the stem of his short clay pipe he pointed at the dark mists that ran around the edge of the horizon at their backs— "in the cities where Christian men gather together will a man hold out his hand to you and stab you, to take your horse."
"Aye, or your wallet, if it clinks of silver," assented the big Zaporogian reminiscently. "Only in the camps of the bratzi Kasaki, of the brother Cossacks, is your back safe from the knife or your purse from a thief's fingers."
"We are not there yet. Kirdy, the young son of a jackal, cannot see treachery. Yet in the yurtas of Christendom he will meet treachery. Only one thing is more to be guarded against than the faithlessness of the men of Frankistan.1
"What is that?"
Ayub's mind ran on vampires, and fiends that, in the likeness of men, climbed up behind a rider and sucked the blood from his neck. The big warrior feared spirits heartily.
"Women." Smoldering fires of memory quickened the gray eyes under shaggy brows.
Ayub stroked down his mustaches to hide a grin. A woman—so long as she be not a witch—he did not fear at all. Yet he stood in awe of Khlit, who had emerged from the unknown world that lay to the east of the Volga. Behind the silence of the wanderer and his grandson lay tales of mighty battles, of the courts of strange kings, and the arts of the magicians of Cathay. "Ekh-ma," he muttered. "And how will you teach him to read souls?"
But Khlit, having made Ayub understand what was in his mind, was well content to hold his peace.
"Brothers," Kirdy's clear voice hailed them, "here is the trail."
The trail was no more than a track left by a single horse, winding up over hillocks, bare except for a fringe of sedge tips and scrub oak. The track, plowing through a foot of snow, had been made by a small pony, heavily laden, whose rider did not trouble himself to dismount and break the crust for the horse. So much the Cossacks saw at a glance.
They would have doubted that this was the portage leading to the Don, but for a building ahead of them—a dot of black in the gray sea that stretched away under the darkening mantle of clouds.
And the track of the pony led past this habitation—neither blockhouse nor tavern. It was a tiny wooden tower with thatched roof, large enough to shelter only one man. And a human being did emerge from it—a serf in greasy sheepskins and leg wrappings who held out an open pouch to them.
Ayub had reached into his wallet for a silver coin when the occupant of the tower croaked at him: "Toll, wanderer—toll for three. Aye, three silver rubles it will be."
This he repeated in a kind of hoarse singsong and the Zaporogian, who had taken him to be a beggar, withdrew his hand from the wallet empty.
"Hai, animal—what was that?"
"Three silver rubles it will be."
"May the foul fiend take you and your three rubles! Here is no bridge or gate, and you talk of toll to Cossacks on the steppe."
The keeper of the tiny tower merely held out the sack, pointing his finger at them in turn, his lips moving as he counted three. Through his long, tangled hair his small eyes peered at them fiercely.
"Now by the emperor of-and his dam!" cried Ayub, who was growing angry. "
If you had ten men to back you with halberds you'd not smell a Cossack kopek. We'd toll you with sword edges!"
Rising in the stirrups, he looked around for any sign of another dwelling or a trace of smoke against the leaden sky. The steppe appeared deserted except for the shaggy man of the tower—and this tower was too small to admit the giant Zaporogian. It was in fact, very much like the sentry boxes he had seen at Moscow.
"Well, brothers," he growled, "it is clear that this fellow is mad. And it is a sin to draw weapon on a witless wight."
Khlit, who had been watching the keeper of the tower, reined forward and took the leather pouch from the serf, shaking out a single silver coin.
"Hai," he said, "the rider who passed before us has paid tribute. You of the tower, tell me what he was like, this rider."
The deep voice of the old ataman stirred the wells of speech in the keeper.
"V zid."
"A Jew!" Ayub chuckled. "No blood is to be seen on the snow and so this dog-face is liar as well as madman, because it is well known that a Jew will not part with silver without shedding tears of blood—"
"What master do you serve?" Khlit asked the serf.
"Erlik Khan."
The Cossacks exchanged glances. The name was not Muscovite; in fact, it had a Tatar ring and meant Lord of the Dead. "And where is he?" asked Ayub, amused.
"Where else but in his hall of Tor?" The keeper of the tower, having retrieved his ruble, still held out the pouch expectantly.
"In Peristan—in fairyland mayhap," smiled Kirdy, breathing on chilled fingers.
"Nay, good sir," the serf made answer literally, "in the forest."
"What forest?" Khlit perceived that the stranger was capable of explaining only one fact at a time.
"Where else but to the north, Uncle, an hour's ride."
Here indeed a dark line of timber stretched along the horizon, barely visible in the wan light.
"And do Jews pay tribute to Erlik Khan, who sits in this forest hall?" Ayub put in, to discover to what flights the mad brain of the toll man would wander.
"Nay, all men pay, who pass along the dorogou. Give three silver rubles and no harm will overtake ye, my lords."
There was something stolid and sensible in his insistence that made the big Zaporogian thoughtful.
"And if we do not pay?"
"Do ye not know? It will happen that ye will lose all things—gold, horses, weapons—when the riders of Erlik Khan overtake ye."
"Come!" said Khlit, gathering up reins.
The tower would not shelter all of them, not to mention the horses. So he pressed on at a trot over the trail broken by the Jew without further thought of toll or gatherer.
Close at his heels Ayub was muttering to himself.
"Aye, I mind the place now. Here between the rivers it was, in another age. A great duke built himself a hall as great, and filled it with men-at-arms. They had long swords, those pani—perhaps even as long as mine. That was before the name of the Lord Christ was known in this land—"
He paused to ransack his memory and stare again at the darkness in the north.
"Well, brothers, here's the tale. This duke, being a dour man, crucified a priest or stewed him in a caldron. I think the priest had built him a church near the hall. No matter—as soon as life left the priest and his lungs fell in, the hall of the pagan duke, with every soul in it, sank beneath the earth. And there it has been ever since. Only at times the bell that the priest put in his church tower is heard chiming, down there beneath. That's all true, brothers, because otherwise how could bells be heard in such a place as this?"
Reaching over his shoulder, he touched the cross on the pommel of his sword. Khlit listened with only half an ear, because Ayub was superstitious to the marrow of his big bones. Khlit cared neither one way nor the other—he had seen magicians, it is true, but they had died like human beings.
As for Kirdy, that youngster hailed from the desert where ghils were known to take human form and slay unwary riders. He believed that the scions of Peristan were thick upon the earth but he feared them not a jot.
Rounding a rocky hillock, they came upon the Jew, a shivering figure bundled up in seemingly limitless wrappings, topped by an enormously long woolen cap. On the rump of his weary pony rested a heavy bundle that clattered when the horse stumbled.
"Ai-ee, most noble pani," cried he the instant he set eyes on them, "I have nothing upon me but some dirty garments—not a kopek, nor a single dinar. This horse was broken in the wind—not fit for such illustrious knights to trouble themselves about, I swear—"
"How are you called, Jew?" growled Khlit.
"Shmel is my name, brave Cossacks—Zaporogians, I swear by all that is holy! Surely in all the world such noble lords were never before seen! I thank the fortune that sends such splendid warriors and not brigands who would strip me like a peeled turnip. Not that I have aught of value—"
Even while he spoke he kept an arm upon the bundle, and his keen, dark eyes were mirrors of his fear.
"Shmel, do you know this trail? Is there a tavern near at hand?"
The Jew drew his shoulders up to his ears and shook his head so that the tip of his long cap danced about like a wayward imp. There was, he swore, not so much as a hut on the trail this side the river Don.
"Then whither do you draw your reins, jackal?"
Shmel burst into a torrent of self-pity. A storm was threatening—the noble lords must know that—and his pony had gone lame. He had intended to camp on the Don but now that was out of the question. It was cold— he did not know what he would do.
In fact, the bitter wind was whipping up tiny spirals of the fine snow. Somewhere the sun had set, and the air was growing chill. The Cossacks availed themselves of the last of the gray twilight to make camp in the lee of the rocky eminence, gathering the dry tops of the bushes and the debris of a dead oak, clearing a space for a fire. They took off the saddles and the experienced ponies began to dig with their hoofs to get at the grass under the snow.
Khlit kindled flame and started a small fire over which Kirdy roasted a quarter of lamb while Ayub heated brandy in a small pot that he always carried. They had slept out a night's storm before this, and if a buran—a long blizzard—should catch them here they could always gain the shelter of the woods an hour's ride distant.
Torn between discomfort and fear of the Cossacks, Shmel lingered on the outskirts of the fire after tethering his horse, dining on some indistinguishable food that he drew out of a bag a fistful at a time covertly. When he saw them lie back on the saddle-cloths and light their pipes, he ventured to draw near and warm himself, his bundle in his arms.
This brought him again to the attention of Ayub, who had been discoursing on the village that had been buried under the earth.
"Hai, zida! How came you to part with a ruble to the mad beggar in the tower? Is he your brother?"
"Nay, noble lord, he is the toll gatherer. In Summer there are many to take the toll—a whole regiment of armed men. That is when merchants pass over this road. Now that the Volga is frozen few come this way."
In the midst of a cavernous yawn the big Zaporogian grunted and terrified Shmel by frowning.
"You lie, you dog! If you do not tell the truth I will beat you. Who takes toll on the snow road?"
He had no intention of beating Shmel, but he knew the best way to get at what puzzled him.
"Ekh panzirniky!" The Jew glanced appealingly at Kirdy, who seemed to be the mildest of the three. "No doubt you are mighty lords in the siech or somewhere, but it is evident that you are strangers here. Do you not know that Erlik Khan is master of Tor? He sits in the castle back yonder in the forest and a hundred of the very finest warriors eat at his table from heavy silver plates. Aye, he has more slaves than I have ko—than a dog has fleas."
"In that case why are you shivering here in the steppe instead of toasting your toes in this castle—Tor?"
Shmel smiled at them all uneasily and took off his long hat, dis
closing the black skullcap beneath.
"No one takes the road to Tor who is not a captive."
"Why not?"
"Because Erlik Khan is a koldun."
"A magician? —— take you, Shmel. No magician was ever served by knights and slaves."
"Ai-ee! Erlik Khan is not as others. He is more to be feared even than a Zaporogian. By spells he draws warriors to him and once they have dwelt in Tor they have no desire to go elsewhere. May I burn if that is a lie. He has white eyes that can see at night. At his table a drink is served—a drink that renders his warriors braver than other men."
"Have you ever seen his castle?"
Again Shmel hunched his thin shoulders and smiled.
"Am I a litzar—a noble knight? Nay, I have seen his riders. Such horses were never known before—"
"Is Erlik Khan a Tatar?"
"No more than a Muscovite or Frank. Some say he is a Persian and can turn himself into the semblance of a beautiful woman—others hold he is a dwarf."
Ayub crossed himself and glanced at his companions—at Khlit who was dozing close to the fire and the boy who was polishing the bright, bluish blade of the curved sword, the gift of his grandsire. And then the hair stirred on his scalp, under the stout Cossack cap.
From near at hand came the sound of a bell—clearly chiming above the whisper of the wind and the snuffling of the horses. More and more loudly it tolled, until Ayub could have sworn that a church must be within musket shot of them.
Snow was falling, the first white flakes rushing out of the upper darkness into the circle of firelight. The voice of the wind became strident. Kirdy asked if they should not saddle up and seek the protection of the wood. But Ayub, seizing the pot of warm brandy and emptying the last of it down his throat, shook his head.
"Look here, kunaks. First a serf, a very animal, dares to out-face three warriors; then a Jew gives a silver coin without being compelled. And now a bell tolls, under the earth, as-lives. Here be three miracles, and yonder wood is a prokliatoo miesto—an unhallowed spot."
"Nay, the wind is apt to twist sounds, making them seem far and then near," put in Kirdy.
"The serf," growled Khlit, "was not mad. He was sure that he would not be harmed. And the Jew was sure that he would be harmed if he did not pay."