by Harold Lamb
“Now will thy fate be decided, lord of the Nazarenes. The Eagle has come back from the Horde without sending word to me. If thou art able, stand!”
Sir Hugh rose to his feet, resting his good arm on the wide hand guard of Durandal. Kutsai glanced at him with some anxiety and whispered swiftly:
“Do not look for mercy. The Eagle tears with his talons more often than he lifts with his wings. Bear thyself boldly and answer from an open heart—that is the only help for thee.”
The flap of the partition was thrust back, a gust of wind whirled through the chamber, setting the lanterns to swinging, and a man stood between them—a warrior whose like Sir Hugh had never beheld.
Tall as the crusader, his limbs were massive as a bear’s, and his mighty body seemed to roll forward on its bowed legs as if driven in by the wind. In a single movement he unclasped and tossed away a dripping sable cloak and lacquered helmet from which hung an eagle’s feather. His armor was black lacquer, his under tunic, wide-sleeved, was soft shagreen. His broad, dark face out-thrust from high shoulders had an animal’s alertness and vitality; but his long hair was red and his eyes—to Sir Hugh’s utter surprise—a clear blue.
“Ahatou noyon Kitai!” His drawling voice greeted the Cathayan, and his eyes went to the scimitars lying on the carpet. He picked them up instantly, weighed them in a gnarled hand, tried the flexible steel, and cast them down on the khalat of the Shah. “We have pulled a little hide from the running hare,” he said in Mongolian, “but the hare has vanished like an arrow shot into thick reeds.”
Then his blue eyes fastened on Sir Hugh, and after a moment he held out his hand.
“Timur—the sword.”
The crusader extended Durandal, the scabbard grasped midway in his right hand. He was captive to this pagan lord and Subotai was privileged to ask the surrender of his weapon. But Kutsai’s fine eyes were shadowed by anxiety.
The Eagle gripped the hilt and drew the long blade from the scabbard, still looking squarely at the wounded knight. The weight of the sword seemed to surprise him, and he took it in both hands, raising it above his head. Sir Hugh, holding the empty scabbard across his knees, made not the slightest movement when the Mongol general began to swing the sword.
To wield such a heavy weapon skill and supple muscles, were more necessary than the sheer strength of a man like Subotai. The steel blade moved slowly over Sir Hugh’s yellow head, but the Mongol’s sinews cracked, and he breathed deep. The gaze of neither man faltered.
“Khai!” Subotai said abruptly.
Kutsai put in at once, “O noyon of the Horde, I saw him swing it in one hand, so that it whistled in the air.”
“Who could lift it in one hand?” Subotai shook his head, unbelieving. “Let him take it, and I will judge of his strength.”
Returning the sword to Sir Hugh, he stepped back, dropping a powerful hand upon the head of a short ax in his belt.
“Canst lift thy weapon, Nazarene?” Kutsai asked anxiously in Arabic. “Beyond all feats the Eagle loves a feat of strength.”
Without answering, Sir Hugh planted his feet wide on the carpet, resting the tip of the long sword on the ground before him. He glanced at the teak pole that supported the pavilion, seasoned wood, as thick as a man’s thigh. Setting his teeth and letting his left arm hang limp, he whirled up the blade.
He put forth every ounce of strength in him. Skilled in handling the sword, he swung it high and lashed down at the teak pole, striking it a yard above the ground.
So keen the edge of the sword, so great the impact, the hard wood cracked and split. The jagged end leaped out and darted into the earth, piercing the carpet at Subotai’s side. The whole pavilion sank and billowed as the top was loosened by the shortening of the pole. The lanterns set up a mad dance.
Subotai had not moved, though the pole had brushed his hand.
“Khai!” he shouted, and his blue eyes gleamed. “A good stroke.”
As he spoke he placed himself astride the slanting pole, wrapped both arms around it, and lifted. Sir Hugh, amazed, saw the Mongol walk back the five paces to the stump projecting from the earth, bearing the weight of the pole and the rain-soaked pavilion top. Sticking the shortened tent pole beside its stump, he turned upon Sir Hugh swiftly.
Seizing his opportunity, Kutsai related the crusader’s story as he had heard it from Nureddin—the death of Khalil, and the meeting in Rai. “And there is a tale, Subotai Bahadur, that once this Nazarene held a castle gate against the emperor of the Roumis and his men. In him is high courage and no falsehood.”
“And in thee a woman’s pity.” Subotai’s blue eyes were expressionless, until his wide lips smiled. “At least he is a warrior. He shall come with me and find his death in the Horde.”
Kutsai, arms folded in his long sleeves, bent his head.
He had learned that it was useless to argue with a Mongol.
“Bring tea,” Subotai ordered, “and use thine arts to seek trace of the Shah. Be like a ferret in cunning. I will sleep.”
He waited until the Cathayan summoned some attendants with a steaming bowl of tea. Quaffing this slowly he flung himself down on the carpet, drew the wet sable cloak over his limbs, and after a few deep breaths slept as quietly as a child. He had been in the saddle for two days and nearly two nights.
“He spared thy life this day,” Kutsai whispered to Sir Hugh, “for he wishes to see thee in battle.”
Sir Hugh slept also, waking at times when Mongol officers came to the tent and talked with Subotai. Then the pavilion was deserted, all the lanterns but one darkened. Kutsai alone was visible, sitting by a little table on which was a board marked in silver and gold squares. In this board stood tiny images of kings and queens and priests and bowmen on prancing horses. From time to time the philosopher would stretch out his hand and move one of the pieces to another square.
It seemed to the knight that this man was, after all, a magician, weaving a spell by the aid of these effigies.
The rain still pattered on the pavilion, and a voice cried out of the storm:
“Woe to Islam! O ye who believe, the wrath of God is at hand!”
CHAPTER XIV - TWO ROADS
FOR several days Sir Hugh saw nothing of the Cathayan or the Eagle. He was possessed by a vast hunger, to which his guards ministered methodically and in silence. They brought him roast joints of mutton, and sugared fruits and jellies that were part of the spoil of the Shah’s camp.
When Kutsai appeared again it was in haste and clad for the saddle.
“Our scouts brought in captives,” he said, “and I have learned from them that Omar was seen going with a few camels to the north, toward the mountains. It is clear that Muhammad hath departed from this camp and is hastening in disguise upon one of the two roads. Subotai gave command to divide the Horde, half to go with him to the north, and half to ride toward Bagdad under leadership of the khan of Almalyk. I go to Bagdad. In Bagdad I have heard are the academies and mosques of the caliphs—the library of a certain Haroun al-Rashid, and there will I find scholars who will help me finish my map, who will have tables of the movements of the planets, to verify mine. A pleasant city, a place of ease. Come, then, with me, for the road is smooth and straight.”
“What of the Eagle?”
Kutsai’s brow clouded.
“His is the road beset by peril, guarded by the tribes of the shan—of the hills. I do not know what lies beyond the ranges, but winter draws on, and the snow increases on the far summits. Subotai will never turn back. He will ride with his men even to the ta tsin, the edge of the world. The choice is thine.”
“Whose captive am I, Lord Kutsai?”
“Ah!” The Cathayan smiled. “The Mongols take neither slaves nor captives. What king dost thou serve, O Nazarene?”
“For twelve winters I have not set foot upon the land of Frankistan. My liege lord is in his tomb, and of his successors I know not.”
“Good!” Kutsai seemed to draw satisfaction from this. “Wilt give
obedience to the great Khan, Genghis?” Sir Hugh considered, chin on hand.
“Ay, so. For the Sultan of the Kharesmians is my foe, and to the warriors of the Eagle do I owe my life.”
“Then ponder the debt of obedience. Thou must obey without question all commands of the gur and orkhans, of the bearers of the falcon and eagle and tiger tablets. It will be forbidden thee to lift hand against a Mongol, to steal or to utter an untruth. Death is the reward of transgression. In battle thou must keep thy face toward the foe, save when the standard is carried back. When a comrade of thy ten is wounded, thou or another must bear him from the conflict; if one is taken, thou or another must succor him.”
“In that there is no dishonor,” Sir Hugh made response. “And this obedience I will give.”
Kutsai inclined his head.
“Forget not, it is forbidden to take spoil, even though no eyes may behold thee. All weapons and gold and horses must be given to the officers of the Khan.”
“Ay, so.”
“And think not to flee from the Eagle. In the darkest night, eyes will see and swift hoofs will follow. The road of obedience will try thy strength, and at the end—what awaits thee?”
Sir Hugh sprang up and clapped a stalwart hand upon the thin shoulder of the philosopher.
“Verily, the Dragon was a fair omen! Aforetime the Arabs told me a tale of far-wandering. They said that beyond these mountains lies a sea wherein all the birds of the earth do come at certain seasons—a vast sea, penned on two sides between mighty ranges, and on two sides between deserts. And the name of it is the Sea of the Ravens.”
Kutsai’s fine eyes were incredulous, and when he had thought for a moment he said gravely:
“That may not be. In the first cycle of the Heavenly Emperor, the great waters were divided from the earth, so that the seas surrounded the land. In this desert country there can be no great water.”
“And yet, Lord Kutsai, thou hast seen the desert of salt and sand. Was not that once the shore of this hidden sea?”
“Ah! It may be so. My son, thou art wise beyond thy years. Come with me and help draw my map.”
Sir Hugh shook his head.
“Nay, father of wisdom, I was bred to the sword, and I have no skill save that. If the sea is there, I shall embark upon it. Surely it must lead beyond the lands of paynimry, to Christian folk.”
“I, too,” observed the prince after a pause, “long for my home. I would like to go back to my garden that is fringed with bamboo and azalea and dark pine trees, above a pool that is a haven of meditation. I would like to watch my grandchildren eating mulberries. Upon my roof I would sit, studying the course of the Fire Star. Alas! I grieve because we must part.”
“Farewell, Lord Kutsai! I shall follow the Eagle.”
“Ay—I knew thy mind. I fear for thee. Nureddin, thy companion, was seen stealing a pearl necklace from the spoil found in these tents, and now he waits at the yamen gate.”
Clasping his hands over his breast, the Cathayan Philosopher bent his head, turned, and strode from the pavilion. Sir Hugh heard chariot wheels rattle away, followed by the hoofs of the escort. After a while, bethinking him of Nureddin, he went forth to stand by the guards and look around the camp, rejoicing in the sunlight and the brisk wind.
In the cleared space before the entrance Nureddin hung. His curling beard was sadly limp, his shaggy head rested strangely on one shoulder. Going closer, the crusader saw that he was bound to a stake by a cord passed under his arms.
The astrologer’s mouth was open, the tongue hanging upon one side, and from his throat protruded the end of a pearl necklace that had strangled him.
At the end of a week Sir Hugh was roused from sleep before sunrise by a young warrior who held an iron lantern close to his eyes.
The visitor wore a sheepskin jacket and heavy woolen breeches thrust into high deerskin boots. His forehead was bound with leather strips, to which was attached a hood that covered his features except a pair of alert black eyes.
“Khoudsarma!” He raised his hand to his lips and forehead. “My lord! A command hath come for thee.”
He spoke fluent Arabic, and Sir Hugh, rising at once, saw that he wore no weapon but a short saber. Around his throat hung a silver falcon tablet, and a leather wallet—insignia of a dispatch rider.
“Is thy strength mended?” he asked earnestly. “I have orders to guide thee, but I may not wait for thee to pick thorns from thy skin or to make fires.”
Sir Hugh, drawing on his mail hauberk, looked up suddenly.
“My horse Khutb—”
“Ay, the Master of the Herds hath an order to forward the gray stallion by the first northbound caravan. He will be led, not ridden. Be thou at ease as to him, for no one horse—nay, not Afrasiab’s own—may carry thee upon the road we take.”
He held out a long wolfskin surcoat with a hood.
“Snow is in the passes, my lord. Subotai bids thee hasten.”
Two horses were waiting for them—a slender Arab pacer that the courier mounted, and a big-boned Persian charger. Sir Hugh bound his surcoat on the crupper of the saddle and noticed that saddlebags were already in place. He wondered why there was no escort and where they would get fresh mounts, until a mandarin of Cathay came up with a lantern and handed the Mongol rider a roll of paper bound with red silk.
This the courier put into his wallet, and the mandarin made a note upon a tablet, the guards stepped back, and the two riders trotted through the shadowy masses that were the pavilions of Muhammad’s camp. At the outer sentry post mounted archers drew aside at a glimpse of the silver falcon.
Without a word the young Mongol bent forward, the bells attached to his girdle jingling, tightening knee and rein, and the pacer began to glide away from Sir Hugh. He touched the charger with his spurs, and they went forward at a gallop, the horses snorting, the men chilled by the frost in the air, watchful of the darkness into which the gray ribbon of the road stretched.
The sun came up in a haze, and the day grew no warmer, but the steady riding stirred Sir Hugh’s blood, and he felt at peace with the monotonous world on either side of them. Not a living man was to be seen, though there were villages in the clearings by tranquil streams. Through the blue haze he could make out a dark ridge, white on its summit, and—although they pushed the horses hard until noon—the mountains drew no nearer.
When they came suddenly upon a company of Mongols escorting some camels northward, the courier pulled in and dismounted, taking the best horse he could find among the warriors and giving Sir Hugh the next best. Here they were given drinks of mare’s milk and a little cheese.
“I am Arslan of the Uighur orda,” the young rider vouchsafed as they started off, again at a gallop. “Until the last grass I carried the yamkh7 from Kambalu.”
“Do the Muhammadans make trouble for thee upon the road?”
“At first they shot arrows; now they have gone away.”
“Is it far to the Orluk?”
“Ay, far!”
“Is he in the mountain passes?”
“We will know when we find him.” Arslan glanced at Sir Hugh’s big body and the heavy sword askance. “Akh, thou art weighty. Thy horses will fall behind.”
This seemed to trouble the carrier of the yamkh, because he shook his head from time to time and glanced impatiently at the sun. He was careful, however, to pull in and breathe his horse every little while.
“What was the command of the Orluk?” Sir Hugh asked.
“To bring thee alive and unhurt to the Horde. They have come upon the tracks of the Sultan.”
“The Shah? Where?”
Arslan pointed to his left.
“At a place called Hamadan. He wore the garments of a pilgrim, and there were many with him. A gur khan scattered them, and learned afterward that he was the Shah, Muhammad. Then the Eagle took up the chase. It led north, into the foothills.”
Sir Hugh thought that Kutsai, after all, had the easier road. Nothing was more certain th
an that there would be hard fighting where Muhammad fled.
A little after sunset they arrived at the first station of the post route—a group of heavy wagons bearing domeshaped felt tents. A score of Mongols seated around a dung fire greeted Arslan respectfully and stared at the crusader.
“It was in the command, O Nazarene lord,” said the courier, as he dismounted and went to sniff at the pot boiling over the glowing dung, “that thou shalt sleep for three hours during the night. Eat now, and then sleep.”
And he muttered to himself as if begrudging the waste of precious hours. Well content, the crusader drew near to the fire and explored the simmering pot with his poniard, spearing strips of mutton until the first ache of hunger was satisfied. Then one of the warriors handed him a wooden cup, and he ladled out the savory broth, quaffing mightily.
“Health to ye, messires,” he smiled, “be ye paynim folk or wolf-men!”
The lined, bronzed faces of the nomads turned toward him silently, and they watched with intense curiosity while he quenched his thirst and then washed hands and face in fresh, cold water. Some of them rose and made place for him close to the embers. Rolling himself in his fur surcoat and laying Durandal against his side, the crusader lifted his eyes to the stars, trying to pick out the Great Bear among the constellations that glittered in the cold air. Close to the ground, his ear caught a distant monotone of voices and a measured treading of hoofs from the outer darkness where the Mongol herders were singing as they rode around the horses of the station.
Then the stars seemed to lift to an immeasurable height, the Bear became distorted and took on the shape of a flying dragon. Almost as soon as his shoulders touched the ground, Sir Hugh had fallen asleep.
And still the warriors gazed stolidly at the mighty body of the knight, the sword that was longer than any they had ever seen—at his white forehead and the thick beard and hair the color of gold.
“What chieftain is he?” they asked Arslan, who was still eating methodically.