Riders of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  "And the bell?" demanded the Zaporogian doubtfully. Khlit mused for a moment.

  "Hai, it must be in the tower."

  "Oh! Noble lords!"

  From his corner under the rocks Shmel sprang up in sudden consternation.

  "Did you refuse to pay toll?" He read their faces at once and groaned, clutching at his long ear-locks that projected from under the skullcap. "What a pity. What a splendid ermine coat the young warrior wears! I would have given thirty shekels of full weight for it. And that belt, surely it must be six feet in length and would make two with a little cutting."

  He was staring at Ayub's girdle, a matter of some pride to the Zaporo-gian, being gold-embroidered on damask and sewn with pearls. He even looked at their boots, of red and green morocco, with high silver heels, shaking his head the while.

  "What do you mean, Jew?"

  "It is a pity that such noble garments should go to the men of Tor. Always when toll is not paid on this road, men are slain. That is the law of Erlik Khan. Put on your saddles, my lords, and ply your whips. Go—go at once. Already it is a long time since the bell tolled."

  Irresolutely Ayub rose, certain now that Shmel was speaking the truth and fearing greatly the invisible powers of Tor. But Khlit, who had been looking beyond the light of the fire, spoke up gruffly.

  "The clouds are breaking and the wind is going down. Devil or brigand, we will not show him our backs."

  Shmel, who was thinking of himself, wrung his hands, went off to hide his precious bundle, and ran back to argue with the old warrior.

  "By all that is holy, the ataman is brave as a lion; yet in what way can he strive against a magician? The law of Erlik Khan has been broken. Always he leads forth his riders, because if he did not attend to it, the law would not be obeyed and he would not be wealthy as a baron from the toll money. Ekh, of what use are your weapons?"

  "Enough!" Khlit stowed his short clay pipe carefully in his belt. "Enough of words. In this snow men cannot find us. If the people of Tor be spirits and not men, what would it avail us to mount and take the road again?"

  This silenced Ayub, who went and squatted by the glowing embers that sizzled as the damp drift struck them.

  Around the dying fire the three Cossacks clustered, turning up the high collars of their svitzas, setting their backs to the wind. Their dark faces, thoughtful and expectant, fascinated Shmel, who could not refrain from estimating the many yards of wool and fur in the Zaporogian's gigantic garments. Every now and then he shook his head, exclaiming: "A pity. Such a notable sword!"

  He could not understand why the Cossacks had not paid toll to Erlik Khan; nor could the warriors comprehend why the Jew was shivering, although by his own account his skin was safe enough.

  When, somewhere overhead, the sky lightened and wan moonlight struck through the falling snow, Khlit reached out with his foot and covered the last smoking embers. Kirdy lifted his head, turning it slowly from side to side; then he rose and glided away without a sound to where the ponies were pawing and crunching at the dead grass. Ayub reached over his shoulder and eased the five-foot broadsword from its sheath, to the annoyance of Shmel who perceived something vaguely alarming in the movements of the warriors. He noticed that the horses made no more noise.

  "Shmel," whispered Ayub hoarsely, "if a sound comes out of your body you will no longer carry your pack—you will find yourself on the road to purgatory and you will be carrying your head."

  Holding it in one hand, he swung the tip of the great sword under Shmel's chin, and the little merchant began to shiver more violently than ever. All his senses became acute, and his heart began to pound against the bottom of his throat. And he began to hear other things than the whistle of the wind.

  Not far away a horse snorted, and a bit jangled. In another direction iron clanked dully; then a voice called out and another answered. The Cossacks, outlined in the silvery glow from the sky, peered from right to left without moving from where they squatted.

  A horse stumbled and a curse rang out clearly; saddles creaked—beyond the white, transparent curtain of the snow shadowy objects moved.

  A greater fear drove from the agitated mind of the Jew the memory of the sword blade hovering near his throat.

  "Oh!" he screamed. "Noble riders of Erlik Khan, I have paid the piece of silver. I have—"

  He yelled frantically and fell over backward as Ayub lashed at him savagely. Then, although he was unharmed, he continued to groan, until out of the drifting curtain horsemen appeared.

  They were powerful men on black horses, and they wore chain armor covered by leather cloaks. It seemed to Shmel that they filled the whole steppe. One of them laughed and spurred at Ayub, who rose to meet him, heaving up the broadsword. The rider half turned and struck down with a scimitar. Ayub stepped aside and the man's laugh ended in a gasp as his ribs were crushed in by the impact of the long blade that shattered his light shield and smashed the iron links of his armor.

  "Ai-ee!" wailed Shmel.

  Other horsemen pressed up, shouting, and he heard the clang of steel upon steel. Sparks sprang up from the huddle of shadows. Then two pistols bellowed together, a man cried out hoarsely, and when the dark smoke cleared away Shmel could no longer see the three Cossacks. Instead the riders plunged here and there in the drifts, thrusting up with their lances and shouting.

  It became apparent to Shmel that the fight was by no means ended. He peered down, and then up, and saw Ayub's bulk on the summit of the ten-foot boulders that had given them shelter against the wind. They had abandoned their horses and taken to the ridge of rock, holding it against the onset of the horsemen.

  Shmel was knocked hither and yon by the plunging ponies, and he breathed a prayer of relief when the clashing of weapons ceased and a clear high voice cried out in the drifting snow: "Yield, Kosaki—we have bows."

  Instantly Kirdy responded from above.

  "And we have swords. The Wolf does not yield—the White Falcon does not yield to any man."

  A moment of silence and the voice proclaimed, vibrant with mirth: "What cares Erlik Khan for swords? Nay, are you truly the Cossack twain, Khlit and Kirdy?"

  Shmel, protecting his eyes from the drift with his hand, peered at the speaker and saw something that gave him no comfort—a rider no more than half the stature of the Cossacks, sitting on a huge white horse. A warrior, apparently no larger than a child, wearing a silver helmet and bearing upon his back a pair of eagle's wings, which closed and opened when the rider moved.

  "Sokol moi ridniy," mocked the voice. "Falcon, my dear, by what token are you Kirdy?"

  "Count your empty saddles and ask again," responded that youngster grimly.

  Other horsemen reined up to the winged rider and Shmel heard their low whispers urging that a rush be made upon the three wanderers. But the leader shook off the whisperers impatiently and urged the white horse closer to the rocks, until its steaming breath beat against the neck of Shmel, who dared not move. No slightest attention was paid him.

  Leaning upon his broadsword, Ayub was clearly to be seen, but the winged rider stared at Kirdy, standing a little apart in his white ermine svitza, the curved sword in his hand.

  "Cossacks," cried the chieftain of the horsemen, "you have spoiled three of my warriors. I shall take you with me to Tor in their stead."

  "Are you he called Erlik Khan?" Khlit's deep voice questioned.

  "Aye, so."

  Shmel groaned and mustered courage to look over his shoulder. The long cloak hid the figure of the chieftain, as the nasal piece, and bars running down from the light silver basinet, hid his features. But in the face of the master of Tor there was a pallor and a strangeness that surprised Shmel. The rider's eyes were closed.

  "Yield yourselves," he said softly, "to me, for I am a koldun and not a man."

  "Nay," said Khlit and Kirdy together.

  Again the winged chieftain laughed.

  "Who shall say to me nay? I have need of you, Cossacks, and because of that need
I will spare you. Yield not—keep your weapons. Ride with me to Tor."

  In the silence of the three warriors there was no hint of consent. And the master of Tor seemed to understand their thoughts.

  "Here is no treachery, my falcons. Erlik Khan pledges you safety of life and limb, and freedom to go hence again, if you will. If not, I will waste no more souls upon your weapons but will drive off your horses— even this nag of the Jew's-and then you may face the storm on foot. Ohai, upon the next day or the next I will ride again forth to look at your bodies, stiff and dark."

  So proclaimed Erlik Khan, looking at the silent Kirdy. But it was Khlit who stepped forward to peer at the winged rider.

  "Draw back then, Erlik Khan," he growled, "until we are in the saddle. We will sheathe our weapons. Look to yours."

  Only Shmel heard the amused laugh of the winged rider, as the white horse wheeled away through the veil of snow and the others followed. He was not surprised, then, that the Cossacks should leap down and fling their saddles on the ponies that had remained as they had been trained to do where they had been grazing. He knew that such warriors dreaded nothing so much as to be left afoot. And if the storm developed into a blizzard they were indeed lost, dismounted in the steppe.

  At once the riders from Tor closed in again, their swords sheathed, their bows in the cases. A word of command was spoken and the Cossacks trotted off with them, leaving Shmel staring at three bodies already whitening under the falling flakes.

  He ran to the fire and found it beyond repair. The moon was no longer visible.

  The wind was eating into his very bones, and he was torn by a threefold fear—dread of the dead men, of the cold, and of the warriors. With numbed fingers, he roped his bundle to his saddle and set out, in a kind of dogged desperation, on the broad track left by the riders of Tor.

  II

  Strength bends a crossbow with ease; but only Wisdom knows the moment to release the trigger.

  Maxims of Sun Tsu

  A great fire roared upon the hearth of Erlik Khan. Candles gleamed on the pine tables of the long, low hall. And serfs hurried hither and yon bearing platters of wild boar flesh, ducks, and sturgeon, to feed the warriors who crowded the benches and laughed at sight of steaming food and fragrant wine.

  Although the tables were bare wood, the dishes were silver and of massive weight; the goblets and pitchers of the wine service were gold, and the wines themselves—gorilka, brandy, white spirits, spiced red vintages from the south. The log walls, cemented with mud and clay, were concealed by draperies of Chinese silk.

  On one side of the fireplace was a stand of falcons—small peregrine falcons resting on rings, and the great brown bouragut or golden eagles used for deer and wolves. On the other side, brightly lighted, stood a raised space filled with a teak table and Venetian chairs of ebony inlaid with ivory. This was the krasnoi miesto, the honored guests' place, and here at ease sat the three Cossacks and the two captains of Erlik Khan.

  Save for these five no one in the hall wore any weapon, except the girdle knife they used to cut meat. Such was the law of Erlik Khan.

  Swords, pistols, and battle bludgeons had been left in the quarters of the warriors on either side the hall. So too they had stripped themselves of steel shirts and breastplates. The serfs of course carried no arms.

  Ayub had noticed this at once, and had seen that only one door beside the chimney opened upon the guest dais. Weapon in hand, the three Cossacks could have inflicted bitter harm on the men of Tor if attacked. He placed himself so that he could watch the narrow door at his side, and loosed the broadsword, laying it against the table within reach—convinced that, for the moment at least, no treachery was intended.

  Moreover, the officers of the khan filled him with curiosity rather than misgivings. One, a tall man, his sallow face clean-shaven, would drink no wine. His garments were—to Ayub's thinking—outlandish, being black velvet, with white lace at the collar and cuffs.

  "I am called," said the tall captain, "Giovanni, at your service, my lords. I am of Genoa."

  His eyes, amber-colored, dwelt on Ayub reflectively as he leaned forward to breathe deeply of the pungent incense. "Genoa?" Ayub frowned. "Where on the Volga is that?"

  The tall captain did not smile. Having appraised the big Zaporogian, he glanced at Khlit. "It is a city in Frankistan where—no matter, my lords. Permit me of your courtesy—which of you is leader?"

  When Ayub would have answered that Khlit, a Koshevoi Ataman of the Cossacks, was assuredly their leader, the old warrior forestalled him.

  "The White Falcon is our hetman. We twain are no more than wanderers, journeying in his company."

  Ayub gaped and would have denied this, if Khlit had not touched his knee under the table. Messer Giovanni seemed to be in two minds about this, but he bowed and waved a slender hand toward his companion.

  "Call him Jean, messers. He also is a wanderer, from France."

  Jean the Frenchman lifted his goblet to the three with a smile. A short man, too stout perhaps—as one who has fared well after long starvation— his red cheeks, carefully trimmed beard, and moist dark eyes all bespoke good humor.

  "A vous, messieurs!"

  "Pan Giovanni," said Kirdy, "surely you have rank, and more of a name?"

  The Genoese glanced at the door and shrugged.

  "Here, I am Giovanni, no more. For the rest, it is better to forget. You, messer, from this night will be known as the White Falcon."

  He spoke in the clear, precise voice of one who knows his own mind and is accustomed to addressing inferiors. His words were softened by a careless courtesy, as if he were communing with himself, yet aware that others heard him.

  "From this night?" Kirdy's dark brows drew together. "Nay, we shall not hang our saddles for long in the stables of Tor."

  "Ah. I fear me the storm will close the road for more than one night."

  "And then?"

  "Then, my White Falcon, you are quite free to mount and go—if you will."

  When Ayub would have spoken out bluntly, Kirdy silenced him again with a touch. "And you, my lord," the youth asked quietly, "are you captive to Erlik Khan? Is the road open to you, or closed?"

  And again Giovanni leaned forward to breathe deep of the fumes from the incense jar.

  "I am free," he answered indifferently. "While the devils of frost hold the steppe, it is comfortable enough here. When the steppe is green again, I may go."

  The behavior of the two captains from Frankistan puzzled the young Cossack, because they seemed eager and at the same time drowsy. The man called Jean was drinking heavily without livening up. His boots were wet, and Kirdy thought that he had been out on the night expedition, while his comrade had not left the shelter of the manor house, the ousadba of Erlik Khan.

  "Look," exclaimed Ayub in what passed for a whisper with the giant, "at the horde."

  Kirdy looked and became thoughtful. The men lining the tables of the great hall might have been gathered from the corners of the earth. Broadfaced, clear-eyed Tatars sat beside slender Circassians from the southern mountains; red-cheeked, bearded Muscovites thumped on the pine boards for mead to refill their glasses and were cursed by thin, pallid Poles who were casting dice—and an unmistakable Turk snarled at a Greek who sprawled too near him. The place reeked of sweat-soaked sheepskins, of musk and oil and damp leather—silk-clad shoulders rubbed against rags, and the babble of voices in twenty languages drowned the rattle of goblets. Here were cropped ears and slit noses, and here too were manly heads scarred by battle strokes. Erlik Khan had acted wisely in forbidding weapons within the hall.

  But, though he rose and searched the shadows with keen eyes, he saw no one who at all resembled the winged chieftain.

  Then the door upon the dais opened and the man called Jean sprang to his feet, with a low bow. Kirdy's hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, but shifted at once to his hip and he bowed in Cossack fashion, to the girdle, to hide the rush of blood that darkened his face. A young g
irl had entered bearing a tray upon which, in goblets of Venetian glass, wine sparkled.

  Although her head came no higher than Kirdy's shoulder she appeared tall in her long sarafan of white silk bordered with dark sable, in the shining headcover of silk embroidered with silver and emeralds, with two strings of glowing pearls reaching to her slender waist.

  Unlike the Muscovite women, this girl bore no paint upon her cheeks. Nor did she need kohl to darken eyelids and brows that were blacker than the sable. The brilliance of her soft eyes and hair, the grave dignity of her bearing, stirred the heart of the young Cossack, who could appreciate both beauty and pride. At sight of him, her eyes half closed and she paused as though held back by an invisible hand. Ignoring Ayub and Khlit, she presented her tray to Kirdy with a low-voiced welcome—

  "Volni Kasai dom moi, vash dom. Noble Cossacks, my house is your house."

  In turn the five men took a goblet and bowed again, tossing off the wine. Jean's moist eyes sparkled with admiration, and Giovanni roused from his reverie. Ayub, speechless, held his breath and put down the fragile glass as if afraid it would break in his massive fingers.

  In the lower hall the tumult dwindled to silence and men rose from their seats, shouting—"Boyarishna—the lady!"

  She inclined her head and turned her back on the revelers to look again at Kirdy.

  "Honored guest, a chamber has been prepared for the three heroes. Command Ibrahim, chief of the slaves, in all things. And," she added, almost in a whisper, "may no harm come to you under this roof."

  "May harm never come near you, my lady!" Kirdy smiled, white teeth flashing under his dark, drooping mustache.

  The firelight gleaming on his open, brown countenance showed an instant boyish delight in the beauty of the woman who had tendered him the greetings of the mansion.

  When Jean would have detained her with blundering words, she slipped past the Frenchman and Kirdy was at the door, bowing as she passed. He had a fleeting glimpse of soft lights and veiled women slaves, and the door was drawn shut. He heard an iron bar drop into place.