by Harold Lamb
Khlit, who had discovered the secret of the drug through the babblings of Iba Kabash, quietly dropped his portion back into the vial. Later, he knew, the Khirghiz would want more and he had but a little.
XIV
It was not long before Khlit was alone. The Khirghiz lay at his side on the rocks, muttering to himself with enough hashish inside him to make an imbecile of an ordinary man. Khlit sat by his side, saber across his knees, and watched the moonlit sides of the heights that frowned down on him. On the slopes he could make out the shadowy outlines of droves of horses, and he wondered if the Dais were planning an expedition that night.
Usually, Khlit was not given to forebodings. Yet the black mass of Alamut rising at his back gave him the feeling of approaching danger, and when he scanned the shadows along the river they moved as if filled with the bands of drug-crazed fedavie. Especially, Khlit wondered if the spies of Rashideddin were watching him. Rashideddin had learned of the murder of the Syrian, had connected Berca with it, and Toctamish with Berca. Toctamish, at his order, had been tortured with such devilish cruelty that even the Tatar's fortitude might break down.
How much did the astrologer know of Berca's secret? Once the alarm was raised in Alamut a thousand swords would block the stairs at the river gate and the rope hoists of the slaves at the rear would be drawn up. There were no signs of activity that Khlit could see, but few ever saw the movements of the fedavie. Accustomed as he was to war on the steppe, he was skeptical of horsemen taking such a stronghold as Alamut.
Once the Tatar horde forced the entrance there would be a battle such as Khlit had never seen before. Himself a Cossack, he cared little whether Refik or Khan were the victor—except that he had sworn an oath, a double oath, that the life of the Master of Alamut, Halen ibn Shaddah, would fall to his sword. Wherefore, he waited patiently, eyes searching the road by the river where the invaders might come.
Berca had told him that twenty thousand Tatars were riding through the hills to Alamut. Yet the road was narrow and the way twisted. It would be hard to move quickly. And there were the horse-tenders on the hills who would give the alarm. Khlit had come to grant a grudging admiration to the sheik's daughter who had defied Halen ibn Shaddah. But she was in Rashideddin's hands, and the astrologer was the man Khlit had marked as most dangerous of the Refik.
Rising suddenly, Khlit drew in his breath sharply. Outlined against the summit of a hill he saw a horse and rider moving very swiftly. The man was bent low in his saddle and Khlit thought he saw the long cloak of the fedavie before the rider came over the brow of the hill. Halfway down the descent the horse stumbled and fell.
Khlit saw a dark object shoot from the rolling horse and lie passive, clear in the moonlight. The messenger, if such it was, of the fedavie would not reach his destination. And at the same time Khlit saw something else. Before his eyes as if by magic he beheld Kiragai Khan and thousands of his horsemen.
Then Khlit, surnamed the Wolf, buckled tight his belt and drew on his sheepskin hat firmly. There was to be a battle that would redden the waters of the Shahrud, and among the swords of the fedavie Halen ibn Shaddah was to be found.
Apparently there was nothing stirring on the mountain slopes of Rudbar except the shapes of the horse droves that drew down to the river as was their custom, awaiting the bands of the Dais which came out for mounts. Tonight there were no men issuing from Alamut. And it was only when one of the herds moved across the face of the moon that Khlit saw the tips of Tatar helmets moving among the horses, and understood why the horses seemed more numerous than before.
Even as Berca had promised, the Tatar horde was approaching the gate of Alamut. One of the herds reached the river's edge and pressed on, in the shadow of the hillside. Khlit could see the faces of men peering at him, and catch the glint of their spears. He gave a hasty glance at his companion. The man was sleeping heavily.
Familiar with the ways of the Tatars, the Cossack could guess how their whirlwind rush into Rudbar had cut off all news being sent to the citadel, and how, after dark, the Refik horse-tenders on the pastures had been singled out and cut down. One had broken away with the news that was to carry the doom of Alamut, only to fall by the river.
The foremost warriors had reached him, clinging closely to the sides of their horses. A low voice called out to him cautiously.
“You are the Cossack who will guide us?”
“Aye,” said Khlit, “but the moon is bright here and there are others within the caverns. Are you ready to rush forward at once?”
“Lead,” said the voice, “and we will follow. Lead us to the gate of Alamut and we will purge the devil's hole of its filth.”
Khlit cast a quick glance at the hillsides. Other bodies were moving down. Some were nearly at the river. Thousands were coming over the hillcrest. More were coming by the river road. On the far flanks detachments were moving to the rear of Alamut.
Drawing his sword, he sprang down into the river and splashed toward the shore. Dark forms closed in beside him, and the welcome stench of sweat and leather filled his nose. The river was full of moving forms, and horses that dashed, riderless, to either side. Khlit's heart leaped, and his clasp tightened on his sword. One of the foremost caught him roughly by the arm. Khlit had a quick glimpse of a dark, lined face and flashing eyes.
“I am Kiragai Khan, Cossack. Where is Toctamish? He was to stay by the side of Berca!”
“She sent him to watch with me. Yet, very likely he is dead by now.”
The other swore, as they gained the shelter of the caverns.
“Take me to her, then,” he snarled.
So it happened that before the light of day touched the date trees on the summit of Alamut, citadel of the Refik, and place of plague and evil, the first of the horde that had ridden from the shores of the Salt Sea entered the river gate, overcoming a few guards, forced their way up the stair, and spread through the passages of Alamut, making no sound but silently, as tigers seeking their prey.
XV
In the annals of Abulghazi it is written how, in the Year of the Lion, came the doom of Alamut. The Refik folk were cornered in the cellars of the citadel, and taken by surprise. The swords of the Kallmarks Tatars flashed in the passages, and their sharp arrows sped through the corridors. And, as the prophecy said, the waters of the Shahrud were red.
Yet in the book of Abulghazi and the annals of the Persian dynasties there is nothing said of the fate of Halen ibn Shaddah, who was the last leader of the Refik. The followers of Kiragai Khan sought through Alamut from the wine chambers to the gardens among the ruins on the summit, and they did not find Halen ibn Shaddah.
The battle was not over for many hours. Separate bands of mounted Tatars had surrounded the height on which Alamut stood, and when throngs of slaves and the eunuchs with the houris of the gardens swept out from hidden tunnels and were lowered over the wall, they were cut down. They were not spared, for that was the word of Kiragai Khan. The fedavie, cornered, and led by their Dais, rallied and attacked the columns of invaders which were penetrating to the heart of Alamut.
The Tatars without their horses and fighting in the gloom of the caverns were at a disadvantage, which was offset by greater numbers and the leadership of Kiragai Khan. For the fedavie had no leader. Messengers who sought through the tapestried apartments of the Shadna for Halen ibn Shaddah found none but panic-struck Daikebirs. The tide of battle flung the fedavie back to the banquet-place, and to the treasure house beyond. If there had been a leader they might have held the dark passages until the Tatars were sickened by the slaughter of their men.
Such was the doom of Alamut. Torches flaring through chambers hung with gold cloth and littered with jeweled statuary from Trebizond, with silk rugs of Isphahan. Swords flashing in dark tunnels, where naught was heard but the gasping of men bitten by steel and the sound of bodies falling to the earth. Wailing and lamentation in the gardens under the date trees which were the evil paradise of Halen ibn Shaddah, and the splash of stricken
women in the canals. Dark-faced, squat men in mail and fur cloaks trampling through treasure rooms where the riches of a thousand caravans and a hundred cities stood.
Never had the followers of Kiragai Khan taken spoil so rich. Pearls from Damascus, golden fish from Che-ting, emeralds and sapphires from Tabriz, urns of gold shekels from the merchants of Samarkand and ornaments from the caliphate of Baghdad that would grace the court of a Mongol emperor. Slant eyes of the Kallmark horsemen widened, and they urged their dogs into the rivers of wine in the gardens, ripping into shreds rugs and hangings, splintering porcelain kiosks with rocks, and trampling on the bodies of the dead. Few lived.
And still the Master of Alamut was not found. Once Iba Kabash, who had attached himself to the winning side, and was spared because he brought Berca safe to Kiragai Khan, paused beside the body of a very large man, cloaked and jeweled. But he spurned it with his foot when he turned it over, for the giant face was that of a black eunuch.
Yet there was one who said he had found Halen ibn Shaddah. Iba Kabash, who was eager to find favor with his new lord, offered, trembling, to take him to the circular chamber of Rashideddin. Berca came with them, for she was not one to leave the side of Kiragai Khan in battle, being the daughter of a hill sheik and not a Tatar woman.
They climbed the winding stairs escorted by the renegade with torch-bearers and armed Kallmarks. In the circular chamber of the astrologer they saw a strange sight. The room had been dark. By the flare of their torches they made out three men, two dead, and the third sitting on the floor. Kiragai Khan paused for a moment by the body of Toctamish, burned and bloody, for the man had been one of his lieutenants, and very brave.
“He died under torture, lord and Celestial Master,” gibbered Iba Kabash, pointing. “For he would not tell of the queenly Berca, or the coming of the noble Tatars.”
Kiragai Khan said nothing, passing to the next body, and pressing the hand of Berca when the girl cried out. This one was Rashideddin, his gray robe stained with red, and his lean face convulsed. His arms hung wide, and sightless, leering eyes staring upward through the opening to the stars, the astrologer had died in the grip of anger. Berca, leaning over him, watched vainly for a breath to stir the gray cloak. Seated beside Rashideddin she saw Khlit, wiping his sword calmly with a corner of the dead man's cloak.
“Have you seen Halen ibn Shaddah?” demanded Iba Kabash officiously. “The noble Kiragai Khan has missed you since he came into the entrance of Alamut. Was it you that killed Rashideddin?” “Aye,” answered Khlit, looking up indifferently. “Have the Kallmarks or the Refik the upper hand? I have seen Halen ibn Shaddah.”
“The battle is over, Khlit,” exclaimed Berca pressing forward, but keeping the hand of the Tatar leader. Her eyes were shining, and she held her head proudly. “The doom of Alamut has come, as I swore it would. It was my will that it should, mine and my lord's. For I came to him without a gift and was ashamed. Yet did he marry me in spite of that. And I swore to him that if he would avenge my father such a gift should be his as no other bride could bring. Alamut would be his, with the treasure of the Refik. And now he has seen that the gift is rich. All that Halen ibn Shaddah had.”
Khlit's glance sought that of the Tatar leader, and they measured each other silently.
“The way is long from Tatary,” went on Berca, tossing her head, “but I am very beautiful in the sight of my lord, and he consented to my plan—to come to open the gate to him—saying only that Toctamish should come. I picked you, Cossack, as my father of battles. Yet I am grieved. You swore that you would slay for me Halen ibn Shaddah—”
“Have you seen,” broke in Kiragai Khan gruffly, “the one who is called Master of Alamut?”
“Aye, he was here.”
“Which way did he go? Speak.”
“He did not go.”
The khan looked around the chamber. It was empty except for the two bodies. A sudden blast of air from the opening overhead made the flame of the torches whirl, and cast a gleam on the face of Rashideddin as if the dead man had moved. Berca drew back with a smothered cry.
“The man who was called Halen ibn Shaddah,” said Khlit, “was a eunuch of great size. The real Master of Alamut was another. He concealed his identity to avoid the daggers of those who would slay him. Yet is he slain. And I have kept my oath, Berca, princess.”
The eyes of the others strayed to the body of Rashideddin and rested on the red stains that garnished the gray cloak with the red ribbons of death. The blind eyes of Halen ibn Shaddah were fixed on the stars visible through the opening in the ceiling. And Khlit, seeing this, knew that he would be very glad to turn his horse again toward the steppe and away from Alamut.
The Mighty Manslayer
The Wealth-Bearers are heavily burdened. Their burden is more precious than gold gleaming under enamel. The Wealth-Bearers are strong. Their burden is finer than the seven precious substances.
The faces of the Onon Muren are turned toward the mountains of Khantai Khan. The white faces of the Onon Muren are still.
There is fear in the shadows of Khantai Khan. Yet the fear does not touch the Wealth-Bearers.
The five sons of Alan Goa have dried their blood in the earth.
But the fear is still in the forests of Khantai Khan. Can another hand lift what One hand held? Nay, the fear is too great!
From the Book of Chakar Noyon, gylong of Uhoten Lamasery
Chakar Noyon was dead, long before the end of the sixteenth century, when Khlit, the Cossack called the Wolf, he of the Curved Saber, rode into Samarkand. Yet the book of Chakar Noyon, who was very wise, was owned by Mir Turek, the merchant; and in the bazaars of Samarkand Khlit met with Mir Turek.
Truly, there are many books that are not to be believed. Yet did Mir Turek believe the book of Chakar Noyon, and Mir Turek was not only a shrewd merchant, but a scholar. And he thirsted for gold. Likewise there was the tale of the Leo Tung astrologer. The astrologer did not see the Bearers of Wealth, but he saw the white faces of the Onon Muren and he told of the terror of Khantai Khan.
Khlit could not read, not even the gold inscription on his famous curved sword. He was sick of the hot sands of Persia and the ruined towns of Turkestan. His dress had changed since he became an exile from the Cossack camps—he wore green leather pantaloons, topped by a wide purple sash, with a flowing cloak of crimson silk. He still had his sheepskin hat, and his burned pipe. As he rode through the sun-baked bazaars of Samarkand his eye fell on the booth of Mir Turek, and on the elephant in the booth.
It was a small elephant, or rather a pair of them, of ivory and gold. Khlit had never seen such a creature before, and the sight delighted him. He dismounted and sauntered slowly to the bazaar of the merchant, lest the latter suspect that he was anxious to buy.
Mir Turek was a stout man, with a broad nose and slant, bleared eyes. He was dressed in the white robe of a scholar, and he put down a parchment he was reading as the Cossack seated himself cross-legged on the rug before him. Mir Turek watched the stars with the astrologers, and the month was one when his star was ascendant. The ivory elephants, he said, in bastard Us-bek which Khlit understood, were not to be sold. They were a talisman of good fortune.
Khlit took from his wallet the last of the gold coins left from the sack of Alamut and laid them on the rug before the merchant. Likewise he drew his sword from its sheath and laid it across his knees. The sun, gleaming on the bright blade with its curious lettering, threw a pallid glow over the yellow face of Mir Turek.
The merchant glanced curiously from the sword to Khlit. His eyes widened as he scanned the inscription on the weapon. Long and steadfastly he looked at its owner. Truly, thought Mir Turek, his star was ascendant.
“Offspring of the devil's jackal!” growled Khlit. “Scouring of a beggar's pot! Where is there a merchant who will not sell his goods? Sell me the images or I will slit your fat belly for you.”
Mir Turek turned a shade grayer and his eyes watered. Still, he could not tear his eyes f
rom the inscription. He pointed to the sword.
“Is that, like the gold pieces, from Persia?” he asked.
“Nay, one without honor,” replied Khlit carelessly, “a Cossack does not buy or steal his sword. It was my father's and his father's.
I will take the images.”
“Nay, lord,” hastily broke in the merchant, “they are a talisman. I dare not sell.” He glanced swiftly to each side down the bazaars. “But come to my house tonight—the house of Mir Turek, the merchant—in the alley at the south corner of the Registan, and we will talk concerning them, you and I.”
When Khlit had gone Mir Turek drew together the silk curtains in front of his booth. Yet he did not leave the stall. He sat motionless, in thought. He fingered the parchment as one caresses a treasure. Carefully he read over a portion of the book and drew in his breath with a grateful sigh. Without doubt, his star was watching over him, as the astrologer had said. And the elephants were truly a potent talisman.
In the mind of Mir Turek was a picture. The picture was of a host of fighting men following their banners over the steppe. Also, of the oak trees of Khantai Khan where few men ventured. In the back of Mir Turek's mind, like the reflection in a pool of water, was a fear, an old fear, that had been his father's and his father's before him.
Khlit was weary of Samarkand and homesick for the wide plains of the steppe. Wherefore he drank much that night, many bowls of Esbek wine, that stirred his memories of the Ukraine and the Tatar land, but did not affect his head or the firmness of his step. He remembered that Mir Turek had invited him to come to his house. So Khlit sought and found the door of the merchant's home on the Registan, and, although he could not read, he came to know somewhat of the book of Chakar Noyon.
The door of Mir Turek opened at his touch and the Cossack swaggered through the antechamber and walked uninvited to a room in the rear. It was a chamber hung with yellow silk of a strange kind, and filled with ivory images of elephants and small pagodas. A girl who had been sleeping curled up on some rugs in one corner sprang to her feet and would have fled swiftly, but Khlit checked her.