Riders of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

The fear that shone from the stained faces of Ivga's men was no greater than the bewilderment of the Volga men when they beheld a young woman in command. They thought that the wizard, Erlik Khan, had chosen to appear in this semblance. All this amused Ivga, who issued orders to fetch in the pirates who had sought shelter in the forest, and to build up the fires.

  "I will no longer wear the mask, Messer Giovanni," she assured the Genoese, who looked more sallow than ever when he saw her admiration for the Cossack. "Do you make known to these animals of mine why I hid behind the helmet of Erlik Khan."

  "Men of Tor," responded the ready-witted captain, "the mistress is no magician. Erlik Khan is no more than a name, to put fear into our enemies. Those who first came to the ousadba beheld the dwarf, Erlik, and made up a tale that he was a koldun. The boyarishna could not lead you, in the raids, if you thought she was no more than a maiden, unskilled in war. So she clad herself as you see, and took the name of Erlik Khan—and you have seen that no foeman could stand against her. Even," he added with a faint sneer, "these lordly and renowned Cossacks were taken—"

  Ayub lifted his head angrily, but Ivga smiled at him, and flicked Giovanni with her whip.

  "Enough, sir captain! And now harken, O ye river-men. Your lives are spared—if ye serve me faithfully in all things, giving up the ships hidden in the reeds of the river."

  The captives answered with an instant shout—"We will serve you, gracious lady!"

  Without leaders of their own, awed by her beauty, those nearest Ivga fell on their knees and beat their foreheads against the snow.

  "Ohai, my dogs!" she laughed. "The portage is ours; now we will frolic on the Volga. We will make the red cock crow in the walled villages, and drink the wines of Astrakhan. Did Skal show you good hunting? Now the frontier is yours and you will take what you will—red gold and fair women, and the altar pieces of the monks!"

  She knew how to stir their blood. They raised up their hands and roared approval, while the men of Tor listened eagerly, understanding now why the lives of the burlaki had been spared. With Skal's men, the power of Tor was doubled. With cannon and ships they could levy tribute on the river. Outlaws all, they grinned and nudged one another, elated—not quite certain yet whether she were witch or human, but assured of the good fortune that followed her.

  "We will kindle things up, Lady-Miss!" they proclaimed.

  Again Ivga laughed, her hand on Kirdy's shoulder.

  "We shall kindle a flame that will light the border. The Tatars of the far steppe will obey the White Falcon; their hordes will cross the river, to our aid. We shall sow terror. And why, men of Tor?"

  They held their breath and crowded closer to hear the better, forgetful of wounds.

  "Why?" echoed Jean, the Frenchman, his eyes on her face. "Boris Gudu-novis dead!"

  Giovanni, his thin features sharp in the firelight, cried up at her.

  "The tsar is dead?"

  "Aye so—he who ruled Muscovy and the steppe with a hand of iron and bound you—and you—serfs to the soil." She pointed her whip at the outlaws. "Now the power of the tsar is no more than a shadow. Already his empire breaks up—the Kalmuk across the river rides against the Muscovites; the Poles are on the march. One town arms against another. The plundering has begun and we will take our share."

  Only half understanding, the outlaws bellowed their glee. Plunder— they lived for nothing more than that.

  But Ivga, utterly heedless of them, had bent her dark head to the silent Kirdy.

  "My lord," she whispered exultantly, "such words serve to feed the rabble. Yet it is true, my falcon—all true. Once I lied to you, but now—"

  The color deepened in his cheeks, and she brushed back the tangle of her hair.

  "Now I yield Tor to you."

  When he did not answer at once, she went on swiftly: "Out of the fragments of the border an empire can be built up. At such times of stress the masterless men flock to leaders. The Cossack Irmak made an empire with fewer men than these."

  "Fewer, but they were Don Cossacks," said Kirdy reflectively.

  "And cannot you lead Don Cossacks to Tor? It has been told me that Boris Gudunov sent five hundred of your comrades, you among them, to suffer in the deserts of Asia. Do you not live by the sword? Be master of Tor and the khan of all the hordes will send envoys to you."

  The pressure of her hand, the insistence of her splendid eyes stirred the blood of the warrior. The hint of coming war aroused him instantly.

  "And I, Ivga"—the words barely reached his ear—"will serve you, my falcon, body and soul. Of all men, I love only you."

  "You!" he cried, trying to understand. "You love—"

  "The White Falcon." She bent still lower in the saddle and raised his hand, pressing it with sudden strength to her forehead. Of all those who stood around them, only Giovanni saw the act, and frowned.

  "Nay, my falcon," she added merrily, "do not the very gods serve you? Your sword will never be drawn against your brother Cossacks, because the Zaporogians have lifted the standard of war. Their siech, their mother, has declared itself free."

  The beauty of the woman who had aroused his admiration, the savage appeal of her ambition, her very pride in him—all these faded from his thoughts. With an effort he drew his eyes from hers, and felt as if invisible chains had fallen away from him.

  "The siech's at war!" A voice within cried it out, and the words rose to his lips as he looked around eagerly for Khlit. "Little grandfather," he shouted, "there is war in the Cossack land. We must hasten to the siech."

  No longer was his spirit troubled; the path he meant to take was clear to his eyes; an eagerness to be in the saddle seized upon him.

  "You would leave me?" Ivga's lips were still smiling, but her cheeks had turned colorless.

  "The road awaits us."

  "But—you would not leave me. Why? Among the Cossacks of the siech who would know the White Falcon? Here you are master. Yonder you would curry your horse and ride guard at night, in the snow. Your captain would shout at you, and if there is a battle, you would charge like cattle, pressed in among a thousand of your kind. Why do you think of that?"

  Kirdy smiled. Ivga had painted for him the very longing that was in his heart. To take his place among the Cossacks, and hear a sotnik swear at him in his own language; to be in the saddle, on the night round of the picket lines, singing to the restless horses—to charge with the thunder of a thousand hoofs in his ear!

  "Ekh, I thank you for the word. You are brave, boyarishna, and beautiful as the dawn on the southern steppe. Now Skal is dead and you have many swords to serve you. Nay—we must seek the horses, because the road is long to the siech."

  The bewilderment and dismay had left her eyes and they had grown bleak. Ivga had smiled at men before now, and they had given their lives to her.

  "I would have—slain Erlik, for your sake," she whispered.

  Kirdy's lips tightened. Because Ivga had almost tricked him into dishonoring his sword by cutting down the dwarf, who was no longer useful to her, he had distrusted her after that hour. But he found no words to make this clear to her.

  Nor could he make clear to her that he had no love for Tor and its brig-ands—a woman's kingdom, luxurious as a court of Ind, but impalpable and brief as the morning mist. Khlit had said truly that the soul might be loosed from the body but a Cossack's pride could not be driven from his soul.

  He did not see the flush that darkened even her eyes, or hear the swift pounding of her heart. Ivga's pride, in its own way, was no less than his.

  "Choose!" she cried, struggling to breathe evenly. "The road, or my—service!"

  Kirdy looked out beyond the fires. Over the serried line of the forest, the first dull streaks of the sun's rising were showing in the sky. The moon had grown smaller, it seemed, and was like a round orange lantern hung near the horizon.

  "Farewell, boyarishna—may God keep you."

  And in that moment Ivga had a feeling that it would be better to permit the th
ree Cossacks to go, as she had pledged, unharmed from Tor. But anger, like a hot flash, leaped from her heart to her brain. She smiled strangely.

  "I jested, my falcon. I see it is true that Cossacks are clowns without spirit who groom horses well. Giovanni!"

  A glance at the thin, sardonic face of the Genoese captain decided her, and she spoke to him under her breath, turning her back on Kirdy.

  With a half nod Giovanni passed around her horse, drawing off one of his gauntlets as he did so. Ignoring Khlit and Ayub, he bowed before Kirdy, the hand with the glove sweeping low.

  "Ha, you are in haste, Messer Cossack. You would be off before I could remind you of your promise—a little matter of satisfaction that is due me."

  Without giving Kirdy a chance to answer he stepped forward and made as if to flick the glove in his face. Kirdy's hand went to his sword hilt instantly and Giovanni appeared to ponder.

  "Perhaps if I stir you up with the flat of the blade, you will stay to cross swords with me. Ah, so!"

  Kirdy had started forward, his eyes blazing, until he was checked by Ayub's great arms.

  "Will you fight with your own weapon?" Messer Giovanni asked with some curiosity. "Then choose the ground. As for seconds—"

  "Enough!" cried Kirdy. "Begin!"

  But the Genoese, who was no stranger to the dueling ground, wished to make the most of the Cossack's impatience. He would have challenged Kirdy on his own account; now, at the unexpected suggestion from Ivga that he do so, he experienced a keen satisfaction, knowing that the young warrior had aroused such anger in the mistress of Tor that his blood would certainly be shed.

  Giovanni knew much of women. In Ivga's passion he foresaw favor for himself, and a step toward that for which he had planned patiently ever since, coming to Tor, he had been aware that Ivga was the winged rider.

  Leisurely, he removed his coat, and warmed his fingers at the fire, bidding the outlaws throw on more wood so that the light would be better.

  Then he stamped on the surface of hard, trodden snow, to make certain of the footing, and took off his coat.

  Jean the Frenchman approached Kirdy, who, his svitza flung aside carelessly, stood with his eyes fixed on the black form of Giovanni.

  "Par dieux," exclaimed the captain, "you will not fight with that light saber?"

  Impatiently, Kirdy nodded.

  "But you cannot do that!" The Frenchman flung out his hands and his eyes widened. "Look! Giovanni uses the heavy campaign rapier—a straight blade. With the curved blade you cannot parry his thrust—for long. Perhaps you have never dealt with an Italian rapier before?"

  "He has not," Ayub put in, and added anxiously to Kirdy, "Eh, brother, that black dog will outreach you—his blade will glide around your sablianka."

  The French captain put his hand on his hip and bowed.

  "Young sir, you are brave. I—Jean Etienne de Montleherey—was once accounted a maitre de l’escrime. I have had bouts with Giovanni. Consider, he is fresh, you are wearied. Take then my blade, if you will. In its day, it served well a Christian king."

  His blurred eyes gleamed and he straightened his shoulders with something of a swagger. Kirdy glanced at the plain rapier of the Frankish captain.

  "Nay, sotnik, the curved blade fits a Cossack hand."

  "As you will." Jean de Montleherey hesitated, and added under his breath, "Sir Cossack, in our duels the dagger may be used in the left hand. Giovanni wears a knife at his hip. Watch, then, his left hand."

  He glanced at Giovanni, who had chosen his ground with his back to one of the fires and was bending the supple blade of the rapier in both hands. Kirdy, arms and throat bare, quivered with eagerness, the curved blade moving restlessly in his grasp.

  "To one death, to the other life!" he cried.

  The Frenchman glanced again at Giovanni, who nodded gravely. "Begin, messieurs," he said, and turned to Ayub. "A pity, is it not? A splendid youth. Name of a name!"

  Kirdy had sprung forward, slashing thrice at his foe's heart, so swiftly that the watchers stared. And, quietly, Giovanni parried the cuts. His right foot slid forward, his arm shot out and up, and when Ayub could see Kirdy again, blood was dripping from the base of the young warrior's throat. The point of the long rapier had pierced beneath the skin.

  Kirdy gave ground. Here was no sweeping onset, no crashing strokes of the saber. He could not leap in and out, as a Cossack fights. The gliding thrust of the rapier could not be foreseen.

  Confident now that he had checked the first rush of the Cossack, the Genoese began to attack at once. He was utterly cool as he took matters into his own hands. A master of the sword, driven to flee as an outlaw by an unfortunate duel, he had no doubt of his ability to slay the young Cossack.

  "May God and His holy angels watch over Kirdy—Aga," groaned Ayub.

  "Ekh, he draws back again. The--in armor could not stand before him

  with a saber, but that long spit is always at his throttle."

  Giovanni was feinting and thrusting without an instant's respite, the corded muscles standing out on his forearm. The two blades were ripples of flame as the firelight gleamed on the bright steel. And still Kirdy gave ground, perforce, before the menace of that dancing point.

  Breathing heavily, the Volga men pressed against the shoulders of their captors, forgetting everything in their delight at the savage play of the swords. Ivga never took her eyes from Kirdy, except when she glanced once fleetingly at Khlit. The old ataman, quite undisturbed and feeling the bite of hunger, had drawn a barley cake from his wallet and was munching it steadily, his eyes hidden by shaggy brows watching the flashing weapons.

  Kirdy had retreated until he felt one of the wagons behind him. Here he held his ground, crouching, his right arm shortened, only the wrist and elbow moving.

  The grating of the blades never ceased, nor were they for an instant disengaged. Giovanni was feeling the saber, his rapier whirling in and out. Both men were breathing fast, and sweat ran from their heads. Steam rose around them in the bitter air.

  Giovanni's knees were bent, his body swaying back and forward. Now he smiled. He was growing tired, but Kirdy, weary when the fight began, was panting. Thrust followed thrust, always to be parried by the instinctive skill and the iron wrist of the Cossack. Once the rapier point passed through a fold of Kirdy's shirt at the side, and he cut at Giovanni's head.

  But the Genoese slipped back a pace—and the blades had engaged again before the watchers were aware that the saber had struck, fruitlessly.

  "Not then," gasped Giovanni, his smile fixed as if painted on a mask, "but presently—you will die."

  He was growing flushed under the eyes, and anger surged through his veins. He had been confident of tiring the Cossack, and it was inconceivable to him that a saber could parry a rapier point for so long. The two men, nearly at the end of their strength, were gathering themselves together for the end.

  And still the blades twisted and flashed without respite.

  "He lives yet!" whispered Ayub hoarsely. "A golden candle to Saint Nicholas, and a new robe to the good Saint Andrew. May they—"

  Suddenly he clutched his head, and Khlit drew in his breath sharply. For the last moment Giovanni had repeated the same glissading thrust—a light feint, a thrust to the other side, against the heart. Three times Kirdy had knocked the rapier point aside. Again Giovanni had feinted. But this time the rapier flashed up before Kirdy's eyes, and a knife gleamed in Giovanni's left hand as it drove for the Cossack's heart.

  Kirdy's eyes, fastened on the livid face of the Genoese, had caught the sudden purpose and the flicker of the knife. His saber swept out and then up. The blade whistled as it cut down twice.

  "Name of a name!" whispered the French captain.

  Giovanni, slashed through the temples on each side, lay motionless in the snow. But his left hand, severed from the wrist by the first snap of the keen-edged blade, had fallen a dozen feet away, the dagger still gripped in its fingers.

  For a moment no
one moved and then Jean de Montleherey went to the Genoese and turned him over. He was dead—had died in all likelihood before he touched the earth.

  Ivga, her lips bloodless, spurred her horse up to the two men and smiled at the French captain.

  "Monsieur, you, too, have a word to say to this Cossack. Slay him!"

  "I? It is true that I challenged him, and another day I will await him where he pleases." He shrugged plump shoulders, as if explaining a simple matter to a child. "Name of a name, though, he has fought ten men this night and is cut up, I—Jean de Montleherey—could not cross swords with him."

  Ivga's hand, which had been pressed against her throat, sought her side. Kirdy, leaning against the wagon, his eyes closed, did not see that she had drawn a dagger from her girdle.

  "No!" The Frenchman caught her arm impulsively, and she screamed suddenly.

  Wrenching free, she leaned down, and before the man could defend himself, drove the knife blade into his throat.

  "A hundred gold pieces to the man who strikes down the Cossack!" she cried to her startled men-at-arms. "Bows—take bows!"

  Some of the archers began to string their bows; others, lifting pike and sword, ran forward. They were checked in their onset by a loud whistle from Khlit. The old Cossack had leaped to the top of the line of wagons, and now he whistled again. The men of Tor heard the soft impact of hoofs on the beaten snow and turned to see what riders were approaching.

  They beheld, instead of riders, a gray pony with an empty saddle, followed by two others. The horses shied at the fires but made toward Khlit, who leaped into the saddle of the gray. He wheeled away, leaning to the neck of the pony so that all the archers saw was a gaunt leg, the tail of a flapping svitza, and a polished boot hanging over the saddle.

  Kirdy and Ayub had jumped for their mounts before any man thought to prevent them. Running beside the ponies, they gained the saddle and raced beyond the firelight. A few arrows whistled over them without doing any harm.

  At the edge of the forest Khlit had reined in, and they paused to look back at Ivga.

  Motionless in the saddle, the boyarishna pressed her hands against her face. On the snow by the white horse lay the bodies of Skal and the two men who had sought her love. In the illusive glow of the firelight it seemed as if they were still trying to look upon her face with their sightless eyes.