by Harold Lamb
Lanterns of many colors were lighted along the walls of the hall, and banners of victory hung around the vacant chair of Hang-Hi. The Chinese general had planned to sit there that night with his councilors, after the fall of Altur Haiten.
Kerula ran up the silken carpet to the dais and crouched in some of the hangings where she was safe from observation.
“The junks!” she heard continually. “Hang-Hi is defeated, His men are running back from the south. To the river!”
Gradually the shouting diminished, and Kerula guessed that that part of the camp was deserted. She was about to venture out from her hiding place for a look into the street when she heard the sound of horses' feet outside.
Her heart leaped, for she thought that the men of Genghis Khan had come. Surely, she felt, the horsemen must be Tatars, for the Chinese had no cavalry. She head voices at the archway and listened. Her heart sank as she heard Hang-Hi's voice.
“Go to the Leo Tung men, Yen Kui Kiang, and order them to hold the other side of the river. Put the junks in motion and take the survivors of the Sung forces with my own Guard back along this side of the river. The flames of the camp will light the way. Go! The battle is lost, for those we let pass as deserters were not deserters, but an army, few at a time.”
“Nay, Excellency,” Yen Kui Kiang remonstrated, “my place is with you. Shall the viceroy of the Son of Heaven go unattended?” “Does the viceroy of the Son of Heaven need the help of men?” Hang-Hi answered. “I give you this as a duty. Go!”
A brief silence followed, when the horses' hoofs sounded down the street. A murmur of voices, and Kerula heard the doors of the Hall of Judgment close. She looked out from her hiding place. Hang-Hi, gorgeous in his silken and gold robe, was walking up the carpet toward his seat.
XVII
Kerula did not move. It was too late to hide behind the hangings. A movement would have attracted the attention of the general, who advanced quietly to the dais. The girl wondered, for the appearance of the commander was not that of a conquered man.
He seated himself on his throne and spread his robe on his knee. Kerula watching him, saw the wide, yellow face bend over his robe thoughtfully. He was writing on the cloth with a brush dipped in gilt.
Hang-Hi's stately head turned and the slant eyes fastened on her. Kerula did not shrink back. Her eyes met the general's proudly, and the man smiled at her. Again Kerula marveled. Was this the man who had been defeated by Genghis Khan?
“Little captive,” said the Chinese slowly, and she understood, for she had learned the language, quickly, “why are you not with the other women? Have you come to die with your master, as an honorable woman should?”
“Nay, Hang-Hi, lord,” Kerula answered proudly, “I am waiting for my anda—a warrior to protect me. He has promised. He is a great warrior—Khlit, the Wolf. He has been to the tomb of Genghis Khan.”
Hang-Hi had finished his writing, and laid down his brush. He took a stout silk cord from the breast of his robe and fingered it curiously.
“Khlit said that the banner of Genghis Khan was at the tomb,” added the girl. “He will come, for he has promised.”
Hang-Hi lifted his head and pointed to the writing on the robe. “This is an ode,” he said slowly, “and it means that it is better to lose one's life than to lose honor by saving it. Little captive, you also will lose yours. We shall know the secrets of life and death, you and I. The banner of Genghis Khan?” His brow darkened moodily. “Could it have been brought from the tomb to the Tatars? If Chan Kieh Shi were here he could answer my question.” He listened, as a roar and crackling that was not of a mob came to his ears. He passed his hand over his forehead, seeming to forget the girl.
“Fools!” he murmured. “How could they believe—Tatars and Chinese—that Genghis Khan was alive? He is dead, and the dead cannot live. Yet the name of Genghis Khan was on the lips of the Tatars, and my men feared. Fools! Their folly was their undoing.” The roar and crackling came nearer and Kerula thought she smelled smoke. She gazed in fascination at the silken cord.
“Nay,” he said grimly, catching her glance, “the cord is for me, little captive. It is easier than the flames. The flames are near us, for I ordered my men to set fire to the Hall. Listen—”
Kerula heard a crackling that soared overhead. Smoke dimmed the banners along the wall. She saw Hang-Hi lift his hands to his throat. Once they fell to his lap, and rose again with the silken cord. With a cry she sped down the aisle.
The heavy teak door at the further end was closed. She beat on it with her fists helplessly, and wrenched at the fastenings. Behind her the hall glowed with a new light.
She pulled at the door with all her strength and it gave a little. She squeezed through the opening, and ran under the archway into the street.
As she did so she threw up her hands with a cry. Rank upon rank of dark horsemen were passing. Their cloaked figures and helmets were not Chinese. She was struck by one of the horses and fell to ground. Dimly she was aware that the horse which struck her turned. Then the black mantle of night seemed to fall on her and her eyes closed.
When she opened her eyes again and looked around her she was in a very different place. She lay on a pallet, covered with straw, in a small hut. The sun was streaming into it from a window over her head.
Kerula turned her head. She felt weak. The darkness that had closed on her was very near, but the sun's rays heartened her. The hut was empty save for one man. She looked at him, and her pulse quickened.
Khlit was seated on a stool, watching her, his black pipe between his teeth and his curved sword over one knee. His clothing was covered with dust, but his eyes were keen and alert. She put out one hand and touched the sword over his knee.
“Khlit, lord,” she said happily, “you came to me as you promised you would. I told Hang-Hi you would come. But—”
A frown crossed her face as if she was striving to remember something.
“I dreamed such a dream, Khlit, lord. It seemed as if I was being carried on a horse by a warrior. I saw flames, and then darkness of the plains. Then I saw that he carried the standard of Genghis Khan that Hang-Hi feared. The standard of yaks' tails flapped over me as we went to the tomb in the mountains, and I cried with happiness. I dreamed it was Genghis Khan that carried me.”
“It was a good battle,” Khlit growled, “it was a battle such as
I have never seen. Nay, little Kerula, was your dream anything but a dream?”
“Aye, Khlit, lord. But then the standard of Genghis Khan. Surely that was real, for the men of Hang-Hi saw it.”
Khlit touched the lettering on his sword.
“Nay, Kerula,” he said slowly, “the standard of Genghis Khan lies in his tomb where the Onon Muren watch. No man will go there. For the standard and what is in the tomb belong to Genghis Khan.”
In his eyes as he spoke was the look of a man who has looked upon forbidden things unafraid. Yet when men asked him if he knew the way to the tomb where the treasure was he said that surely no man could find his way to the dead. And when Kerula told him again that her memory of the ride was real, he laughed and told her that it was a dream among dreams.
The White Khan
Swift as a falcon is the White Khan to protect his people, keen is his eye of an eagle; his pride in his warriors is the pride of a strong war horse; his craft in battle is the craft of an aged wolf.
The White Khan’s victories are countless as the sands of the Great Desert; his enemies slain are as the drops of water in the river Kerulon. What is the power of the White Khan?
It is the sword of a warrior!
Chagan, the strong man, bearer of the two-handed sword, lifted the wine cup high. He bowed once to the south, once to the north, once each to the west and east, pouring as he did so a little wine from the cup. As he bowed to the north, in greeting to the dead, the assembled khans roared out a prayer and dashed their wine beakers against their bearded mouths.
The sun filtered through lofty pines u
pon the wedding assemblage. Here was Hotai Khan, the host, leader of the Ordus, and Togachar, khan of the Kalkas, with leaders of the Chakars and Kallmarks, the Hoshot, Torgot, and Tchoros of the Jun-gar. In the pine wood beside the river Kerulon the khans were assembled after a battle in the seventeenth century.
For a day they kept high the revelry, always wearing their swords, for quarrels were frequent, and the temper of the Tatar khans was savage. The wedding was that of Berang, son of the white-haired Hotai Khan, and Kerula the Tatar girl, who had been brought to the country of the Jun-gar by a stranger. Hotai Khan had asked for the marriage, for it was his wish to ally himself with the stranger who had come with Kerula and who had brought victory to the standard of the Tatar lords in their last battle with the Chinese.
Hotai Khan, a straight-backed veteran of a hundred battles, blind in one eye, rose from his bench and stepped to the side of Chagan, his sword-bearer. From the breast of his coat he drew forth a parchment inscribed with the written names of Kerula and Berang, and with pictures to represent them. This parchment he held high for all to see.
Then, stooping over a torch that Chagan grasped in a mighty hand, Hotai Khan touched the edge of the parchment to the fire. The blaze caught it and in a moment the written names of the two young people had disappeared in smoke. Thus, they were married. Chagan lifted his stout voice in a shout of approval, and the lords of the Jun-gar echoed the shout.
Grim men they were, with scarred faces and broad shoulders. They lounged carelessly over the massive tables, quaffing heartily at their favorite drink, mare's milk. It was a wintry day and a cold wind searched the pines, but the Tatars, warmly clad in jackets of sable furs, long undervests of silk, and heavy boots fashioned like horses' hoofs, ignored it. The glances of the khans strayed to Hotai Khan, to Berang and his slim bride, and to the stranger. More often than not, as they looked at the stranger, they scowled.
Khlit, the wanderer called the Wolf, famous for his curved sword, heeded not these scowls. He had exchanged his Cossack svitza for a fur jacket and tunic of the Tatars, but he still wore his round sheepskin hat. His curved sword hung at his belt, with a pair of Turkish pistols. This sword bore in engraved writing the testimony of his rank. Khlit, outcast from the Cossack camps, was one of the few living descendants of Genghis Khan. He had the blood of Kaidu, the Tatar hero, in his veins.
And for this reason his presence made the khans uneasy. Khlit, the newcomer, outranked them in blood. Moreover, he had aided them in their last battle when they defeated and slew Hang-Hi the Chinese general. Yet he was not a Tatar. He was alone, having reached them without any follower other than the girl Kerula. Who was this wanderer? How were they to receive him in their ranks?
Hotai Khan had not taken his seat after burning the marriage script of his son and Kerula. His glance strayed along the rows of brown faces, and he raised his hand in greeting, carrying it next to his mouth.
“Lords of the Jun-gar,” his deep voice rang out, “my son is married to the girl of Khlit. Hence he is now a brother, an anda. Honored am I that one of the blood of Kaidu is my anda. The smoke of my household will ascend for long, because of this. Let the nacars sound, to announce my new brother-in-arms!”
Chagan had been waiting for this, and the sword-bearer motioned to followers of Hotai Khan who were assembled with trumpets. A loud blast of the shrill instrument echoed through the pine grove. At the tables around that of the khans, warriors put down their glasses in surprise. The nacars were seldom sounded, save to herald a charge or to announce a council.
The khans consulted each other with glances. They were jealous by nature, and twofold so regarding Khlit. Each was jealous of his rights among the others, and each resented newcomers. In silence they waited for Hotai Khan to continue.
“The honor is great,” pursued the old Khan bluffly, “for Khlit is a worthy warrior. You do not know how he came here. I have heard the tale from the girl Kerula. He left his own land to seek fighting. He joined the followers of Tal Taulai Khan, who is now dead, without disclosing his rank as descendant of Kaidu. After a mighty battle he went into Persia where he led the Kallmark Tatar horde against an idolatrous fortress.”
Some Kallmark chieftains murmured confirmation of this. They had heard of Khlit's entry into Persia. But the others kept silence.
“My anda is a true man among warriors,” went on Hotai Khan, “for he alone was khan to us and led us in battle against Hang-Hi, whom he defeated bloodily. Not for a generation have the nobles of Tatary seen the Chinese in fight. Is not this proof that Khlit's Tatar blood has led him here, to his brothers? Is he not worthy of high rank among us?”
The murmur that went up at this changed to a growl. Hotai Khan searched the faces of his comrades and found sullen anger written there. He had hoped to have Khlit acknowledged as his brother—a rank that might lead to the post of Kha Khan, White Khan, which could only be held by one of the blood of Genghis, now empty for two generations among the Jun-gar.
Hotai Khan was old in years and his wisdom foresaw that if the khans were to keep from further defeats at the hands of the Chinese, they must have a leader.
Khlit was entitled by blood to be this leader. So Hotai Khan reasoned, in his wisdom.
Sullen glances were turned toward Khlit, who had not known beforehand of the purpose of Hotai Khan. All attention was centered on Khlit, the warrior known as the Wolf.
“What rank will the Tatar lords give to the descendant of Kaidu?” asked Hotai Khan. “It must be a high rank, by token of the warrant written on his sword.”
Still the khans did not speak. Hotai Khan flushed in anger, and would have spoken, but a short, powerful warrior in tarnished Persian mail rose from his seat and folded his arms.
“You did not say, Hotai Khan,” he growled, “when you bade us drink at the wedding, that it would be a kurultai council. Your words are cunning as the tongue of a wounded fox. We did not come to listen to them. We came to drink with Berang and wish him many sons.”
Several of the khans nodded their black heads in agreement. One or two put on their pointed helmets, which they had removed when they sat down at the banquet.
“Do your thoughts ever wander further than wine, Togachar?” said Hotai Khan promptly. “They say you were born with a sack of mare's milk, but you drank it all when she was not looking. Harken, before another moon or two is ended the khans will be going back to their own districts. Is it not well, while the kurultai is assembled, to give rank to one who has nobler blood than we?”
Togachar sat down, disgruntled; but a lean man in leather armor rose, and the eyes of the gathering were turned on him. He lifted his hand in greeting and smiled sardonically at Hotai Khan. This was Chepe Buga, leader of the Chakars.
“Are we, Hotai Khan,” he began clearly, “like a woman bereft of her husband, or a herd without a master? Are the Jun-gar like a flock of sheep without a herder? Nay, we are lords of our riders and of the Tatar steppe. We would like to be in friendship and agreement with Khlit, the lord who is called Wolf. Let him be your anda. Is not brotherhood with the oldest of the khans a fitting rank for a stranger?”
The gray-haired warrior bowed his head at the shout of approval that rose at these words. He knew the obstinate independence of the Tatar hordes, and how they would be fighting among themselves before a year was up. Only united by a common purpose could they hope to hold ground against the oncoming hosts of China. He saw the hoped-for chance to bring them together slipping away.
“Khlit is welcome to half my belongings and to half my men,” he retorted proudly. “For he is my anda and we have exchanged girdles. Yet this is but a poor honor for the warrior who carried the banner of Genghis Khan in our van.”
“Where is the standard, Hotai Khan?” queried Chepe Buga, twisting his dark mustache. “Khlit admits that he has put it back where it should be, in the tomb of the mighty Kha Khan. Truly our White Khans, the rulers of the long white mountains of Tatary, have been heroes. Shall we make a stranger such a hero?
Nay, we know him not.”
The assembly shouted approval at these words, which satisfied their jealousy of power and their hostility to the newcomer. “How can we make this man a White Khan?” said one angrily. “He is not even a Tatar.”
“The standard of Genghis Khan won the victory for us over Hang-Hi,” echoed another drunkenly. “Behold how the Khan of
Khans watches over his children. This man who has come among us had not a horse to his name. He has not been proved yet.”
A clamor of agreement greeted this. As is the way with crowds, the chiefs vied with each other in objections, and even insults to the Cossack. True, they did not know that Hotai Khan alone had been responsible for the proposal to give Khlit rank among them.
Khlit gave no sign that he understood what had passed, although his knowledge of the Tatar tongue was good. Catching the eye of Hotai Khan, he made a quick gesture of acknowledgment. He pointed the fingers of his right hand toward his knee. The handle of his sword he laid on his knee. He bowed his head. This was the Tatar rendering of thanks.
Hotai Khan saw the sword, the blade that had been Kaidu's, and his sharp old face twisted in anger at his failure. Chepe Buga, still laughing at his jest, had lifted his beaker for a general toast when for a second time the nacars sounded.
This could not be a summons to the kurultai. Chepe Buga's hand went to his sword. At the same instant a roll of drums answered the nacars. As one man the assembled Tatars were on their feet. From infancy they had known well the sound of Chinese drums.
II
Confusion reigned for another moment in the ranks of the Tatar revelers. With the exception of the khans, every warrior ran to his horse and mounted. Bows and spears flashed out. The horsemen formed into ranks through the pine grove. Squadrons dashed out into the open toward the sound of the drums, which came nearer along the riverbank.
Then Chagan trotted up to the table. The sword-bearer of Hotai Khan was replacing his mighty two-handed blade in its scabbard, and a grin spread across his tanned face, scarred by a sword cut that had sliced away part of one cheek.