by Harold Lamb
He did not put trust in the promise of Fogan Ultai. More than once he caught the agent looking at him contemptuously, sidelong. But he said nothing.
They passed out of the Chinese encampment and gained the plain. Khlit headed toward the Kukulon Lake. The group rode without speaking, Khlit busied with his thoughts. There was no hope of breaking free from his guards, he saw, and he did not intend to try.
Khlit had been playmate with death for many years. He had never, however, planned to come so close to death as at the cavern of Khantai Khan, by the Onon Muren. He circled the lake in the path Mir Turek had taken. He thought of the dead merchant, and it occurred to him that he was the only survivor of the four who had ventured into the tomb of Genghis Khan. Verily, he marveled, the Onon Muren watched over the treasure well.
He noted grimly how his companions stared at the skeletons in the lake. But he did not pause when they dismounted from the camels, pressing onward over the gray soil, among the blasted trees. Fogan Ultai had fallen silent, and more than once the agent stopped and stared about him curiously, as Khlit had done. Chan Kieh Shi, however, pushed ahead as fast as his bent legs could carry him.
At the Kukulon gate Khlit paused to explain to his companions how they must go under the waterfall. They followed him without hesitation, first the mandarins, then the guards. Khlit stood again in the cavern under the falls and smelled the strange odor that came from the chasm. Here he noted that Fogan Ultai spoke with Chan Kieh Shi but the old man replied impatiently and pushed on.
Still Khlit had not spoken. They felt their way to the light that came down the corridor, Chan Kieh Shi turning over with his foot the Tatar forms that lined the way. They came out into the light and stood on the ledge by the rock bridge.
Khlit pointed silently to the giant forms outlined in the vapor on the other side of the bridge. The Chinese stared curiously about them, at the gray vault overhead and the chasm.
For the second time Khlit stood before the tomb of his ancestor. He raised his hand as if in greeting to the casket that hung between the golden elephants. Then he drew his belt closer about him, and spoke for the first time.
“There is the tomb,” he said, “come!”
Fogan Ultai stepped back cautiously, motioning for him to go ahead. As he advanced the Chinese followed closely, their eyes straining on the dim forms across the chasm through the mist.
Khlit bent his head low on his chest and raised the sleeve of his coat against his mouth and nose. He broke into a run as he stepped on the rock bridge. He felt the vapors warm his face and heard the rumbling below. On he ran, without looking back. He heard a sound that was not the rumbling of the mountain.
His brain was dizzy as the stifling fumes gripped him. Staggering forward he fell to his knees and crawled onward. Biting his lips to keep from breathing the poison he gained the further end of the bridge and the clearer air of the plateau. A cold breeze from some cavern drove the vapors back. Khlit had crossed the rock bridge in safety.
He climbed to his feet, supporting himself by one of the legs of the elephants. His hand touched a long pole, and he glanced at it. The pole supported a crest of horns hung with a hundred yaks' tails. Khlit knew that he held the standard of Genghis Khan.
Leaning on the standard for support he looked back the way he had come. On the rock bridge one man was crawling, choking and gasping. Khlit saw that it was one of the guards, the last to venture on the bridge. He watched the man draw himself forward. The Chinese, blinded and strangling, slipped to the side of the rock bridge. Vainly he tried to gain his balance, clutching at the smooth rock. His hold slipped. Khlit heard a hoarse cry, and a white figure dropped into the depths of the chasm, after the others.
Khlit was alone in the tomb of Genghis Khan.
The Cossack seated himself against the form of the Bearer of Wealth. His eyes wandered idly over the standard, gray with dust, above him. Then he stretched out at full length on the rock, and in a little while was asleep.
XIII
In times which are gone thou didst swoop like a falcon before us; today a car bears thee as it rumbles, advancing,
Oh thou, my Khan.
Hast thou left us; hast thou left wife and children, and the kurultai of thy nation?
Oh thou, my Khan.
Sweeping forward in pride, as sweeps forward an eagle, thou didst lead us aforetime,
Oh thou, my Khan.
Thou didst bring triumph and joy to thy people for sixty and six years; art thou leaving them now?
Oh thou, my Khan.
Death chant of Genghis Khan
The night sentries were dozing at the door of the kurultai hall where the Tatar chieftains of the Jun-gar were assembled. In the hall, where the sound of the Chinese cannon echoed at intervals, were the nine khans that ruled what was left of the Tatar race on the borderland of China. Here was the leader of the Kalkas horde, from Karakorum, the chief of the Chakars, whose people had been between the Great Wall and the desert of Gobi, the commander of the Eleuts, and others.
The ranks of the commanders of the Tatars were thinned. A Kallmark khan had left Altur Haiten with his followers when they deserted the ill-fated city. The leaders of the Hoshot and Tor-got hordes had fallen in unsuccessful sallies. Evil was the plight of the chiefs of the Jun-gar and they drank deeply, to forget.
They lay on benches around the long table of the kurultai council, swords and spears stacked against the walls, waiting for word of the expected attack of the army of Hang-Hi. For a year they had been directing the defense of the walls, leaders of horsemen penned in a citadel. They were veteran fighters, but they were weary and there had been many quarrels over the wine goblets.
They had been drinking deeply, these lords of Tatary, and few looked up when a man entered the hall. Yet these few did not again lay their heads upon the table. They stared in amazement and rose to their feet, feeling for swords.
The man who had come in was tall, with gray mustaches hanging to his broad shoulders. His face was scarred, and his eyes alert. His heavy boots were covered with gray dust, as was his svitza.
High was the ceiling of the hall, yet the standard of yaks' tails which the man carried reached nearly to the ceiling. It was a standard like those of the Jun-gar, but of a different pattern. It bore a gold image of the sun and moon, tarnished by age.
Without speaking the man stood in the doorway and looked at the chiefs of the Jun-gar. Leaning on the stout pole of the standard, he watched them and his mouth curled in a snarl.
“Who are you, warrior, and what do you seek?” asked a khan whose head was clearer than the others. “What standard do you bring to the kurultai?”
One by one the sleepy warriors awakened, and fixed their eyes on the newcomer. A veteran, chief of the Chakars, gave a hoarse cry as he saw the standard of yaks' tails and rose dizzily fighting the wine fumes in his brain.
“Who are you, Standard-Bearer?” he asked.
Still the stranger did not speak. He leaned on the pole, and watched them until the last of the chieftains had risen.
“Evil is the day,” he said in broken Tatar, “when the Jun-gar khans put aside their swords for the wine cup.”
“Who is it that speaks thus to the Jun-gar chiefs?” asked the Chakar veteran. “These are not the words of a common man.” “My name is Khlit,” said the newcomer, gazing at the circle of watchers, “and I am the Standard-Bearer of Genghis Khan. I have come from the tomb of the Master of the Earth with the banner of the sun and moon, because there will be a great battle, aye, such a battle as has not been for many years—since the Grand Khans were dead!”
In the silence that followed the chieftains consulted each other with their eyes. The man who had appeared in the hall had startled them, and the Jun-gar khans felt a quick dread. The words of Khlit did not reassure them. The old Chakar leader stepped close to the standard and ran his eye over each detail of the design and emblem. He faced Khlit and his face was stern.
“Whence came this warrior?�
�� he spoke in his gruff tones. “Answer truly, for a lie will earn death. The banner of Genghis Khan was like this, yet it has been buried for generations in the hills of Khantai Khan.”
“From the tomb in the hills of Khantai Khan came this,” said Khlit grimly. “From where the Onon Muren watch, by the Kuku-lon gate. I have slept at the tomb of Genghis Khan, among the twenty thousand slain. Have the chieftains of the Jun-gar forgotten the standard of a thousand battles?”
“Nay,” said the old man, “it is truly the banner of Genghis Khan. For here, by the sun and moon are the emblems of the old hordes, the wolf of the Kallmarks, the doe of the Chakars—” The other chieftains crowded around the two, and their slant eyes gleamed at Khlit. In the eyes he read amazement, suspicion, and uncertainty. Khlit saw that they but half-believed the words of the elder. He raised his hand for attention.
“Harken, lords of the Jun-gar,” he said slowly. “You ask who I am. I am a fighter of the steppes and I follow the paths of battles. I found the road to the tomb of Genghis Khan, looking for treasure. Yet while I slept in the tomb a thought and a plan came to me. Genghis Khan is dead. Yet the thought came to me. It was to carry the standard that stood in the tomb to the chiefs of the Jun-gar, through the Chinese lines, so that they might have new heart for battle. If you truly believe this to be the standard of the Mighty Manslayer, I will tell you the plan, for words of wisdom should not fall on dead ears. Speak, do you believe?”
The chieftains looked at each other, with bleared eyes. Then the Chakar lord raised both hands and bowed his head.
“Said I not this was the banner? Aye, it is an omen.”
One by one the Jun-gar chiefs raised their hands and bowed. In their hearts was the dread of the name of the Mighty Manslayer. One of their number stepped forward.
“Aye,” he said slowly, “this is the standard that was buried. But it belongs to the grave of the One. The man who brought it from the grave will die, for it is written that none shall come from the tomb Genghis Khan and live. Shall we keep the standard for the men of Hang-Hi to carry to Liang Yang? Altur Haiten and all in it doomed. How may we keep the standard, when it cannot serve us, except to fall into the hands of the enemies of Genghis Khan and make their triumph greater?”
“Not so,” said Khlit, “for there will be a great battle. And the standard of the dead Khan should be with the men who are the remnants of his power. There is fear in the hearts of the Chinese at the name of Genghis Khan.”
He saw, however, that the Tatars had been impressed with the speech of their companion. Even the Chakar khan nodded his in agreement to what the other had said.
“The battle,” continued the khan, “will be the assault of the city. How can we prevent it? Hang-Hi has a quarter million men. We have a scant sixty-five thousand horsemen. The Chinese have driven us from the Wall of Shensi and across the desert to Altur Haiten. Many Tatars died in the desert. Those in Altur Haiten are deserting by night to go to their homes. The engines of the Chinese are breaching the walls. We have only spears and arrows to fight against powder. Our food supplies are running out, and the men fight among themselves for what is left. We are shut in on four sides. The men are losing their strength from lack of food.”
A murmur of assent went up. Khlit found no encouragement in the yellow faces that were lined with weariness and drunkenness.
“If we were in the plains,” said the Chakar chief, “there might be hope. But our sallies have been repulsed. We are penned in the city. Truly, Hang-Hi is too great a general to outwit.”
“Fools!” Khlit's lips curled in scorn. “Would Genghis Khan fear such a man as Hang-Hi? I have seen him, and he is like a fat woman. I have seen the fortifications of the Chinese and the cannon. They can be taken.”
“The earthworks keep us from attacking on the east,” returned the Chakar leader, “and the walls are breached so that an army can march through.” He laid his hand on the pole. “What is the word of the kurultai, noble lords; shall we lay the standard of Genghis Khan in the flames, so that it will not be taken by the enemy? This man must not have it, for no low-born hand should touch it. Such is the law.”
An assenting shout went up. Instantly Khlit snatched his sword from its sheath. The Chakar khan was quick, or his hand would have been severed from his arm. As it was, Khlit's sword slit the skin of his fingers which dripped blood. The others reached for their weapons angrily. Khlit raised his sword as they closed about him.
“Aye,” he said gruffly, “no low-born hand shall touch the standard. I will keep it, for I am of the blood of the Grand Khans. My sword which was my father's and his before him bears witness. Read the writings, dogs!”
Several of the Tatars scanned the inscription and wonder replaced the rage in their slant eyes. The Chakar chief broke the silence.
“I bear no grudge,” he said, “for this man is of the royal blood. How otherwise could he come from the tomb and live? It is so written. Yet shall he burn the standard rather than let it fall into the hands of the Chinese.”
“If I am the keeper of the standard,” growled Khlit, “shall I burn what it is my duty to protect?”
He leaned on the pole and watched the Jun-gar chiefs. Khlit had brought the standard from the tomb with him with much difficulty into Altur Haiten because he saw an opportunity to throw in his lot with the defeated Tatars. He counted on the banner restoring their spirit. He had not counted on the reception he met, but all his cunning was aroused to make the Jun-gar chiefs believe in the standard of the dead conqueror as an omen of victory.
He planned to place all his cunning, with the talisman of Genghis Khan, to the aid of the weakening chieftains. He understood the plan of the Chinese camp, thanks to his experience as a prisoner. And he was burning to seek revenge for the twenty-nine blows that had been given him. Kerula had named him her anda. The girl had sacrificed herself for him, and Khlit was determined to win her back alive or take payment for her death. And the prospect of the coming battle intoxicated him.
Already he had won the Jun-gar to acknowledgment of the standard and of his right to advise them. But he proceeded warily.
“As one of the royal blood, oh Khan,” said the man shrewdly who had first objected, “you will take the command from us? We will yield you the command, for since Tal Taulai Khan died we have had no one of the blood of Kaidu on the frontier.”
“As one of the royal blood, Chief,” responded Khlit dryly, for he saw jealousy flame in the faces of the others, “I shall carry the standard of Genghis Khan. Is not that the greatest honor? You and your companions will lead the hordes, for I have come only to bring the banner, and to tell you the plan that came to me in the tomb of Genghis Khan. Do not insult my ears further by saying that the standard should be burned, however.”
He saw understanding come into the faces of the Jun-gar, and they sheathed their swords.
“Did the spirit of Genghis Khan suggest this plan to you?” asked the Chakar.
But Khlit was not to be trapped.
“As I slept in the tomb the plan came to me,” he said. “Who am I to say whence it came? I am not a man of wisdom, but a fighter.
“Harken, men of the Jun-gar,” he went on, raising his voice, “you say that your men are deserting? Will they desert if the banner of Genghis Khan leads them? You say that the Chinese engines are breaching the walls. Are we prisoners, to stay behind walls? You say that your men are horsemen. Let them fight, then, as horsemen.”
The Chakar khan bowed low. This time he kneeled and the others followed his example.
“Speak, warrior,” he said, “for we will listen. Tell us your plan and our ears will not be dead. We, also, are fighters, not men of wisdom.”
XIV
The day set for the capture of Altur Haiten by Hang-Hi dawned fair upon the activity of the Chinese camp. A pavilion of silk supported by bamboo poles and hung with banners was erected for the general of Wan Li on a rise fronting the eastern walls of the city which had been breached for the assault.
Hang-Hi's lieutenants had made final preparations for the attack the night before. Junks moored at the riverbank had brought extra powder supplies from China. Scaling ladders had been assembled in the earthworks. The ditch around the city had been filled in long ago by Chinese engineers. The cannon were loaded and primed for the salvo that was to start the attack.
Early in the day Hang-Hi took his station in the pavilion where he could see the eastern walls. Past the pavilion matched streams of bannermen with picked footmen and regiments in complete armor. Hang-Hi's advisors assembled by his chair. But the general wore a frown.
“Has no trace been found,” he asked Yen Kui Kiang, impatiently, “of Chan Kieh Shi?”
The secretary bowed low and crossed his arms in his sleeves. “Gracious Excellency,” he explained, “riders have searched the surrounding country. They have been to the mountains of Khantai Khan. Chan Kieh Shi went with the agent, Fogan Ultai to find the tomb of Genghis Khan, and since that day we have found no sign—”
“Fool!” Hang-Hi struck his ivory wand against his knee. “Tell me not what I know already. Have you learned that Chan Kieh Shi lives?”
“Nay, Excellency,” muttered the secretary, “we know not.” “There are volcanoes in the mountains of Khantai Khan,” mused Hang-Hi, “and our men have been troubled by the sulfur fumes, which the Tatars fear, not knowing their nature. It is possible—”
He broke off, for some of his men were staring at him curiously. Hang-Hi did not desire to let them know how much he felt the loss of the wisest of the Chinese generals. Still, there was nothing to fear. The Tatars, his spies had reported, were weak with hunger and torn by divided leadership. Their number was small. And his preparations for the attack were flawless. It could not fail.