by Harold Lamb
Rashideddin's expression did not change as he stirred the sands with his dividers. “At Astrakhan there was a fedavie who is dead. You and the jackal Toctamish were under his roof. You came with him to a ship. And the fedavie was slain. Aye, the wolf was
hungered. Much have I learned from the stars. There was a girl with you on the ship. She did not come with you to Alamut.” Khlit made no response, and Rashideddin continued to stir the sands.
“The girl was not one easy to forget. You have not forgotten her. The jackal is drunk. But you have an ear for wisdom. The girl might be found in Alamut. Aye, by one who knows her, in the thousands of slaves.”
Khlit shook the ashes from his pipe. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the hangings move behind him. Well he knew the chamber of Rashideddin was pregnant with danger. The pallid astrologer toyed with men's lives as he did with the magic sands. He made no move, waiting for what was to come.
It came in a blinding flash. A burst of flame, and the sands leaped upward. Smoke and a wrenching smell filled Khlit's eyes and throat. The skin of his face burned hotly. Blinking and gasping, he rocked back on his haunches.
“The wolf is wise in the ways of the steppe,” purred the astrologer. “Yet he came to Alamut, the vulture's nest. It is a pity. The girl, too, is missing. Perhaps she can be found.”
The face of Rashideddin stared at him through thinning clouds of powder smoke, and Khlit wiped the tears of pain from his eyes. Rapidly, he thought. Rashideddin wanted Berca. Halen ibn Shad-dah would pay a high price for the girl, who was dangerous, being not as other girls.
“Aye,” he muttered, coughing, for the flame had burned his face, “she may be found.”
“Tomorrow, there will be an audience by Halen ibn Shaddah for the fedavie. She will be there. I shall send for you before evening. Fail, and the fedavie will break your bones slowly, with stones, or tear the skin from your back.”
Khlit rose to his feet without obeisance.
“Have the stars,” he asked, “any other message for me?”
For a long moment Rashideddin studied him through narrowed lids. Idly, the dividers traced patterns in the powder ash in the circle of stars. And Khlit cursed himself softly. For in the eyes of the other was the look of one who measures swords. Once too often he had drawn the attention of the astrologer on himself.
Dismissed from the round chamber, Khlit sought out Iba Kabash, and secured the promise of the Kurd that he would be put with Toctamish among the sentries for the next night, for being admitted to the paradise of Alamut this was their privilege. To gain this point, it was necessary to assure the Kurd that Berca could be found. Once more, Iba Kabash swore Khlit would get a good price, whereupon Khlit had the thought that the other was too glib with a promise.
Then he found Toctamish, and told the Tatar enough of what had passed in the garden of Halen ibn Shaddah to keep him sober overnight. This done, Khlit seated himself in a corner of the banquet-place and took out his sword. Placing it across his knees he began to whet it with the stone he always carried. As he did so, men near him stared curiously, for Khlit was singing to himself in a voice without music.
And Rashideddin sat over the circle of silver stars, tracing and retracing patterns in the ashes of powder, with the look of one in whose soul there is no peace.
XII
Came the time of the divan, the assembly of the Refik, and closed gates that guarded the apartments of Halen ibn Shaddah in the cellars of Alamut swung open. In poured the followers of the Refik; fedavie, hillmen of Persia, men of the Khirghiz steppe, janissaries of Yussouf, prince of princes. Scattered in the crowd were magicians of Rashideddin in white tunics and red girdles, in company with white and gold Dais. Also came Khlit with the Khirghiz chief who had seen fit to keep at his side.
The throng moved in silence, and Khlit waxed curious at this, until he questioned the Khirghiz. For reply, he received a hard blow in the ribs.
“You are surely a fool, Cossack,” growled the other, “to bray at what is strange. We are walking through the talking chambers of the Shadna, built by Ala-eddin. Harken.” He lifted his voice in a shrill syllable. “Aie!”
Instantly the sound was taken up and repeated through the corridors. A hundred echoes caught the word and flung it back. Shrilly, gruffly, it rang further into the caverns. Men near them stared and cursed. Khlit observed that the corridors were lofty and vaulted, with pillars of stone.
“It is said,” whispered the Khirghiz, gratified by the effect of his experiment, “that before the time of Rashideddin, when the Refik prayed to Allah, these were the chambers of prayer. A man could pray a thousand times with one word.”
“And now?”
“We do not pray.”
Pushing a way through the crowd recklessly with his elbows, the Khirghiz gained a place where he and Khlit could see the array of the divan. In the center of a cleared space in one of the larger chambers stood Halen ibn Shaddah, easily marked by his great height and the cloak that shadowed his face. Around him were grouped certain men in heavy turbans and green embroidered coats. These Khlit recognized as Daikebirs, emissaries of the master of Alamut. At his side was the bent figure of Rashideddin.
These were talking in a tongue that Khlit did not know, not loudly, for fear of disturbing the echoes. His eye wandered over the throng. Wandered and halted. A woman's figure stood out from the crowd and he swore under his breath. Arm's length from Rashideddin among the Dais, her blue cloak closely wrapped on her slender form, stood Berca. Her black curls were pushed under a fold of the cloak; her brown eyes, darting from under fringed lashes, swept about the gathered Refik and passed Khlit by in unconcern. Yet he felt that she had seen him.
No other woman was present. Khlit saw that the eyes of many searched her, and he touched the Khirghiz on the shoulder.
“Is there talk about the woman?” he asked softly. “Tell me.”
The chief listened, tolerantly, for a space.
“Aye,” he said, “there is idle talk. The woman is the daughter of a hill sheik. She was sent to be the wife of Kiragai Khan. That is a good jest, for Kiragai Khan loves not the Refik. She has said that she was sent without a dowry. So, the painted flower has come to one who tramples on flowers, to ask that the dowry be given her.”
“And will it be done?”
“Will the tiger give up its slain victim? Nay, you are without understanding, Cossack. Halen ibn Shaddah does not play with such. The sheik's daughter will find a place among the slaves, not otherwise.”
“Such is not the law.”
“There is no law in Alamut but one—the word of Halen ibn Shaddah. And the law that the curved dagger must avenge a wrong.”
Khlit made no reply, considering carefully what had been said.
Rashideddin, then, had found Berca as he had declared he would.
Was it Berca's purpose to come before Halen ibn Shaddah? Had she forgotten the cunning and cruelty of the man who had dishonored her? Perhaps the girl's pride had impelled her to appeal for justice and a wedding dowry to give the khan to whom she had offered herself. Yet Berca had not forgotten the manner of her father's death, of that Khlit was sure. Wise in the ways of men, the heart of the sheik's daughter was a closed book to him. He looked around for Toctamish. The Tatar was not to be seen.
Meanwhile, Rashideddin had been speaking to the girl.
“What said the astrologer?” asked Khlit.
“The old one is crafty,” grunted the Khirghiz. “Aye, he has learned the secrets of magic where Marduk hangs by his heels in the hell of Babylon. He asked why a girl so fair in face and form should bear a gift in offering herself in marriage.”
Berca, who seemed to ignore her peril, lifted her dark head and answered quickly in tones that stirred the echoes.
“Hah, the painted flower has a sharp tongue,” grunted the chieftain. “She says that her beauty has moved the heart of Ki-ragai Khan as wind stirs fire. The khan, who desires her, would have taken her for his favorite wife. Yet would
she not, being ashamed for reason of the trick Halen ibn Shaddah played her. So she has come back to ask a dowry from the hand of the master of Alamut, who is her lawful ruler now that her father is dead.”
The giant form of Halen ibn Shaddah turned on Berca, and a peculiarly shrill voice reached the ears of Khlit. Once more he wondered what kind of man was the master of Alamut, of the giant figure and shrill voice.
“Halen ibn Shaddah says,” whispered the other, “that Berca belongs to Alamut. She has returned to Alamut and here she must stay.”
Khlit thought of the paradise of the master of evil, and understood why the eyes of the fedavie in the throng burned as they stared at the girl's slender figure outlined in the blue cloak.
“She asked for justice—” he began.
“Nay,” interrupted the Khirghiz carelessly, “her father was slain by Halen ibn Shaddah. How is she then to be trusted?”
Khlit did not answer. For the gaze of Berca had met his. In it he read anxiety, and a warning. Slowly her glance crept to Rashideddin and back. Again. And Khlit saw the astrologer turn to leave the chamber.
Truly, he considered, the sheik's daughter was daring and proud. And, obeying her look, he followed Rashideddin, slipping away from the Khirghiz.
So it happened that when the astrologer left the divan, Khlit did likewise. Rashideddin made his way quickly and alone down one of the corridors without waiting for a light. Khlit followed him, keeping as close as he could without being seen. Presently both halted.
A voice called through the corridor clearly, and seemingly very near.
“A man must be crafty and wise,” the voice of Berca came to their ears, “when danger is 'round his path, else is his labor vain.”
Khlit crossed himself in astonishment. For a moment he had forgotten the echoes of the corridors of Ala-eddin.
XIII
Rashideddin went straight to the winding stairs that led to his own apartment. At the foot of these stairs Khlit, who had traced the astrologer closely, paused. It would not be easy to go farther without being seen. And this Khlit wanted to avoid. He believed that Rashideddin was having him watched, and that the Khirghiz had attended him to the divan under orders. And at all costs he must be free to act that night.
Rashideddin, thought Khlit, sensed something impending. In some way the magician of Alamut kept himself informed of what went on in the citadel. His spies were everywhere. And on the night when Berca planned to admit the enemies of the Refik, both were under watch. Where was Toctamish?
Khlit wasted no time by the foot of the winding stair. There were other entrances to the circular chamber where Rashideddin kept his henchmen, and the Cossack cast about until he came to one of these. A passage led upward, unlighted in the direction he sought, and this Khlit followed until he came to a curtain which he suspected divided it from the chamber of the astrologer. Beyond the curtain he could hear voices.
Lifting one edge of the hanging, Khlit looked out cautiously. Candlelight in the chamber dazzled him for a moment. He made out a dozen figures, Rashideddin not among them, dressed in the red and white of the magicians' cult. They were grouped around a man prone on the floor. This man was Toctamish.
The Tatar's coat and shirt had been removed. Two fedavie held each of his arms outstretched on the floor. His thick chest was strangely red, and he gasped as if in pain, not once or twice, but long, broken gasps that shook his body.
As Khlit watched, startled, one of the fedavie, a gaunt Tatar with a pocked face, placed some brown dust on the chest of the prostrate man. Khlit recognized the dust. It was the same that had singed his face when he sat opposite Rashideddin.
Thrusting aside the hanging, Khlit stepped into the room. The fedavie took no notice of him, believing that he was one of Rashideddin's henchmen stationed in the passage. Toctamish, however, lifted his eyes, which gleamed as they fell on the Cossack. Khlit saw that his brow was covered with sweat, and that blood ran from his mouth.
The man of the pitted face lifted some brown powder and sifted it on the chest of his victim. Another pushed a torch into his hand. Khlit realized then how his companion was being tortured. The smell of burning in the air came from singed flesh. And Toctamish was feeling the angry hand of Rashideddin.
Khlit stepped to the side of the fedavie with the torch, and peered closely at Toctamish. He saw then what made the Tatar's chest red, of a strange shade. Strips of skin had been torn off over the lungs, and here the powder was laid. Khlit swore and his hand strayed to his sword. And fell to his side. The fedavie numbered a full dozen, armed, and able-bodied. To draw his sword would be to bring ten whirling around him.
Khlit had no love for Toctamish. Yet in this room the other had stood with his sword drawn beside him. And they had shared bread and salt. Toctamish was standing the torture with the stark courage which was his creed. The lips of the sufferer moved and Khlit bent closer.
“Kiragai Khan—Khan of the Horde,” the cracked lips gasped, “tell him. Blood for blood. We have shared bread—and salt, and arak. Tell him.”
The Cossack nodded. Toctamish was asking him to report how he had endured torture to Kiragai Khan who was advancing on Alamut at the head of his men, and claiming vengeance. He was weak, and seemed to have no hope of living.
“What said the dog?” muttered the fedavie with the torch who had been trying to catch what Toctamish whispered. He spoke in a bastard Tatar with a strange lisping. “He will not speak and Rashideddin has said that he must or we will hang by the heels.”
“He is out of his mind,” answered Khlit carelessly. “What must he tell?”
“He stuck a dagger into a fedavie, a Syrian, on the shore of the Salt Sea. A girl, Berca, the sheik's daughter, was there also. This yellow-faced fool must tell if the girl ordered him to do it. Bah! His skin is tough as oxen hide, and his flesh is senseless as swine.”
“And he has not spoken?”
“Nay. Rashideddin was here and questioned him, but the Tatar cursed him.”
Khlit scanned the face of Toctamish. The yellow skin was dark and moist with sweat. The eyes were bloodshot and half-closed. The mouth lifted in a snarl, disclosing teeth pointed as an animal's. He felt that Toctamish would not yield to the torture. And great love for the man whose courage was proof against pain rose in the heart of Khlit whose own courage was such that men called him the Wolf.
“Aye,” he growled, “blood for blood. That is the law of Alamut. And Kiragai Khan shall know.”
He saw by a quick opening of the eyes that Toctamish caught his words.
“What say you?” queried the fedavie. “Kiragai Khan?”
Toctamish's knotted figure writhed under the hands of his captors. He spat, blood and foam combined, at the other.
“Aye,” he groaned, “Kiragai Khan—lord of fifty thousand spears—chief of a hundred ensigns—master of Alamut.”
“He speaks,” interpreted Khlit swiftly, “of one Hulagu Khan who conquered Alamut. Tell Rashideddin. And cease the torture, for the man has nothing to confess.”
The fedavie stared at Khlit suspiciously.
“Nay,” he snarled, “shall we hang by the heels?”
He thrust the torch near the powder. There was a hissing flash, a smell of burning flesh. Toctamish's body quivered spasmodically and sank back. The eyes closed.
Under cover of the flare and smoke Khlit slipped back through the circle and sought the stair. Gaining this he did not pause until he had reached the inner gate of the underground citadel where a Dai was assembling his men to guard the outer gate by the river.
When Khlit, who was nursing in his brain the sight he had just left, went down the river stairs to his post in the River Shahrud, he found that his companion was the bearded Khirghiz chieftain.
The outer post of the guard around the citadel of Alamut was in a small nest of rocks several hundred paces from the entrance, and midway in the stream. So shallow was the river that they could wade out to the rocks. The Khirghiz led the way.
&n
bsp; It was not yet the middle of the night, and a bright moon lighted the winding ribbon of the Shahrud that twisted between the rocky heights of Rudbar. The mass of Alamut showed dark, giving no sign of the evil world it concealed. A wind from the heights brushed Khlit's face and he breathed it in deeply, for he was nauseated by the stench of the caverns.
“You and I, Cossack,” said the Khirghiz, seating himself unsteadily on a ledge of the rocks, for he had been drinking, “will keep the outer post.”
“Aye,” said Khlit, “you and I.”
He stared out into the moonlight haze that hung over the river.
Berca had said that he and Toctamish were to hold the outer post. From some quarter the horsemen of Kiragai Khan were nearing the gate of Alamut. Khlit realized that unless the attack came as a surprise the citadel was impregnable. A surprise might carry the Tatar horde into the entrance. Berca had said there was a way. And this was it. Yet, if a surprise was to succeed the Khirghiz must be disposed of. He had been drinking, but he was still watchful. No movement of the Cossack escaped him.
Quietly Khlit drew out a small vial. From this he poured a few grains of a white powder into his hand. Lifting his hand he made as if to take the powder into his mouth. The Khirghiz bent forward, and his face lighted with evil desire.
“Have you—” he began.
“Come, Brother,” whispered Khlit genially, “we will be comfortable on the rocks. Is not the bread of the Refik the vintage of the Shadna to be eaten? Come.”
The Khirghiz swore softly and held out his hand. In wine and food, the vintage of the Shadna was often in the hands of the Refik men. But not, except on expeditions of the Master of Alamut or by costly bribery of the Dais was the pure powder of hashish to be had, the hashish that brought bright dreams of paradise and lulled the mind with pleasures, that hardened the souls of the men of Alamut, and steeled their hands to the dagger.