by Harold Lamb
Khlit heard the familiar sound of the door grating on its hinges. He caught a glimpse of several spearmen who bore torches outside the door. Cho Kien with one priest advanced into the room and closed the heavy door upon his attendants. In his hand the eunuch held a steel-tipped flail of bamboo.
The priest carried a torch.
XIII
Old Li Chan Ko had drawn farther from the pillar and Cho Kien did not see him as he stepped in front of Khlit, his narrow eyes gleaming, the curved sword at his fat middle. The priest stood near, watching them. The man's face stirred Khlit's memory.
“Li Jusong has said,” Cho Kien whispered, “that your death must come this night. His men are weary of slaying, and I have come with the flail, to carry out the command of my master, Wan Li. Soon you will no longer kick away the rats.”
“I saved your life at the Tatar camp, Cho Kien,” said Khlit grimly, “and you have this in payment for me. If you were a true man you would free me and give me my sword. I am weak and you would risk little. Should a man of noble blood be beaten to death like a servant?”
“Nay,” grinned the eunuch, “I have heard tales of that sword of yours. I shall wear it, for it bears the inscription of a Tatar hero.”
At Cho Kien's command the priest stepped nearer with the torch. The Cossack eyed his sword longingly. Truly, Chagan had been wise when he said it was better to face the Chinese weapons than trust to their good faith.
“Are you going to leave me tied to the pillar?” he said. “Aye, the devil has planted fear in your heart, Cho Kien. Before your birth you were a woman, and when you are born again, it will be as a jackal.”
The eunuch snarled angrily, the whites of his eyes showing. He laid aside his long robe and stepped close to Khlit, who laughed in his face.
“Dog,” mocked the Cossack, “one without honor! Aye, the name of dog is too good for you, for a dog is faithful—”
“To his master,” cried the eunuch shrilly. “It is the word of Wan Li, monarch of the earth and dispenser of life and death that I am obeying. You shall die more slowly for those words. The torch will burn the soles of your feet until you bellow like a dying ox!”
“The torture will not make me cry, jackal. But to die at the hand of such as you—I would that I had let the Tatars drive home the nails into your ears. Then they would be less apt for spying.”
Cho Kien held the flail before Khlit.
“Your head shall be sent to the Tatar camp, Khlit,” he cried. “With a tale of how you whimpered under the lash and begged Cho Kien to let you live as a slave. I searched for you long, Tatar Wolf, in the city after I saw you in the crowd. I learned that you had been seen at the house of Wen Shu, the candle-maker, and I went thither. You had gone, so I exacted penalty on the family of the candlemaker.”
“Nay, Cho Kien, they were dead.”
The eunuch laughed shrilly.
“We tore their jewels from their clothes and cut down the bodies of the women, for Wen Shu had fled. Then we threw them into the street, to be food for dogs, and offal under horses' feet!”
Khlit heard a sound behind Cho Kien, and thought that Li Chan Ko had spoken. The magician, however, was silent in the shadows. The eunuch turned to the priest with a snarl and took the torch, which he waved in front of the Cossack's face. The priest stepped nearer as if to see what was to happen.
As he did so Khlit had a good glimpse of the man's face. In spite of the shaven head and the white robe, he knew that he had seen the man. The latter was breathing heavily as if from excitement. He stretched out his hand toward Cho Kien.
Khlit closed his eyes for an instant as the torch singed his face. As he opened them he caught the gleam of steel. He saw the priest withdraw the sword from the scabbard at Cho Kien's side. He read burning hatred in the man's convulsed face.
Then the blade swung aloft and descended upon the eunuch's neck.
The evil eyes of Cho Kien opened wide with pain. He wavered on his feet for an instant. Then the torch dropped to the floor. With a shudder Cho Kien sank to his knees. The priest hacked and stabbed at his frame as if possessed of a demon. Then Khlit remembered where he had seen the man before. It was Wen Shu, in the dress of a Buddhist monk.
There had been no sound save the fall of the torch, and the guards had not been alarmed. Khlit's heart gave a bound as he saw the dead Cho Kien. He whispered to Wen Shu to free him. He raised his voice, but the candlemaker was standing over the slain eunuch, with eyes for nothing but the blood which spotted Cho Kien's elegant dress. It had been an evil moment when Cho Kien had boasted of his visit to the shop of Wen Shu.
Then the form of Li Chan Ko made its appearance beside Wen Shu. The candlemaker started back in alarm as he saw the blind man. He made no move to attack the other, however. All his rage had been spent on the eunuch.
“Where is Cho Kien?” asked the magician of Khlit.
“Dead,” said Khlit grimly. “Your dream has come true, Li Chan Ko.”
The blind man closed his eyes as if in thought. Then he stretched out his hand toward Khlit. He spoke softly to Wen Shu, and the latter unbound the Cossack's arms.
“One man is dead,” said Li Chan Ko to Khlit, “and you need not remain, now that the prophecy is fulfilled. Lead me out by the closet door.”
Khlit groaned with the effort of moving his arms. With the assistance of Wen Shu, he buckled his belt around his waist and replaced the sword in its sheath. The candlemaker, who was now trembling with fear of what he had done, took up the torch and by its light Khlit was able to lead Li Chan Ko to the narrow door through which the magician had come. As he passed from the gloomy chamber he heard the scurrying of many tiny feet over the floor. The rats were hurrying toward the body of Cho Kien.
XIV
The wind is swift, but swifter is a Tatar horse. A fool will ask thee why, but the wise man knows that it is because a Tatar wears no spurs. His horse is one with himself.
From the Kang Mu Chronicles
Arslan the archer nodded with sleep. He was weary with watching on the summit of the Tower of the Five Falcons. Since the last of his comrades had been slain by musket shots from the wall below, Arslan had had little sleep. He lay prone on the battlements of the tower, where he could make out in the moonlight sentries moving back and forth on the wall below him, out of reach of his arrows.
The Tower of the Five Falcons was the highest in the city of Shankiang. It topped the city wall against which it was built by some thirty feet. It had been designed as a watchtower, and was a scant dozen feet in width, with a narrow door opening on the ground, and slits for windows on each of its five stories.
Had the tower been built against the wall Arslan might have escaped before this by a rope made from the coats of his dead comrades. But the distance of five times a man's height separated wall and tower, and the Manchu archer had chosen to remain in his stronghold rather than run the gantlet of the watchers who were posted around, waiting for starvation to bring him forth.
Arslan nodded with sleep. But even as he heard a sound below him he wakened and fitted arrow to bowstring. He had sent many Chinese speeding to their ancestors and his enemies had prudently left him unmolested for the past week, but Arslan was wary and vigilant. Moreover, although the other defenders of the tower were dead, a half-dozen helmets showed around the battlements of the summit. At intervals these helmets and spearpoints which were a target for arrows of the besiegers changed their positions.
The moon was bright overhead, and Arslan yawned, stroking his black mustache. All at once he sat up alertly. He had heard footsteps in the square underneath, and a shout. In an instant he was peering over the side, with raised bow. He saw a figure run from the shadows of the buildings into the clear space under the tower. The figure approached the door of the tower, climbing over the dead men, and Arslan wondered. For it was a single, tall man, sword in hand, who did not look like a Chinese. As it reached the door the figure called up to him.
“A Tatar comes to the tower, Ars
lan,” it growled. “Let me in, for I am followed.”
Suspicious of treachery, Arslan scanned the newcomer, arrow poised. Truly, the man looked like a Tatar. And Arslan saw arrows flicker out of the shadows, to rattle against the stones of the tower.
“What is your name, Tatar?” he cried.
“Khlit, the chess player, of the southern gate. Do you remember Chagan, the wrestler—”
Arslan cast down his bow.
“Aye, Tatar,” he called cheerily, “Chagan was a true man. He said he would live to fling my carcass over the wall. Instead of that he flung over his own. Climb in the door. It is blocked by stinking bodies and a heap of masonry, but there is an opening at the top that leads in, over the pile—”
Khlit dived within the door as a new volley of arrows sought him out. Arslan discharged a shaft or two at the shadows and a cry told him that he had aimed well.
The arrows ceased. Presently he heard the sound of steps on the stone stairs that led to the summit, and a shadow emerged that became the figure of the tall Cossack.
“Bend that tall head of yours, uncle,” grunted Arslan, “or it will be a rare target for the sly cutthroats yonder. Welcome to the Tower of the Five Falcons. Did I not say it was proof against the host of Li Jusong! Chagan was here a few days ago, but he said you were kept in the gilt bird cage of Li Jusong's palace.”
Khlit dropped to the stone flags, breathing heavily, and moving his cramped arms painfully. He caught sight of the dozen silent watchers of the tower and pointed to them inquiringly. Arslan chuckled under his mustache.
“My good warriors, uncle,” he whispered. “Such warriors have never been seen before. Their flesh is the coats of my dead comrades; their bones are spears. Arrows harm them not—and give me more shafts for my bow. Although I collect plenty from the quivers of the dogs lying at the door. And they ask not for food— although I saw to it before I took command of the tower that it was well stocked with wine and dried meat. Ho! I am glad to have a comrade. It had been ill watching alone.”
Khlit scanned the archer keenly. Arslan's eyes were haggard. His helmet was dented by a crossbow bolt, the leather gauntlet on the left arm was stained with blood. But his hardy spirit shone in his black eyes. Khlit's heart leaped at being with a comrade again and out in the clear air, after the fetid room of the temple. A swallow of wine, drunk from Arslan's helmet, and a mouthful of meat sent the blood stirring in his veins again.
“They will be after you presently, uncle,” grinned Arslan, eyeing the shadows. “Li Jusong will hear of your arrival at the tower, and will whip his dogs to the attack. My warriors will not aid us much, I fear. Aye, it will be warm work. Chagan told me that Cho Kien was sharpening his knife for you.”
Khlit drew his curved sword and ran his thumb along its edge lovingly.
“Cho Kien is food for the rats,” he said grimly. “How did you meet with Chagan?” Arslan peered over the rampart cautiously. A musket shot greeted his appearance.
“Ho! The dogs are giving tongue,” he cried; “soon they will run in for the kill. Why, Chagan came to me as you did, but without his great sword. He was eager to be over the walls, and so like a fool he leaped to the wall from the tower. It was a desperate chance. The night was dark and the sentries saw him not. He had my twisted rope around his middle. One end of it I held here while he lowered himself down on the outside of the wall. But my rope parted and he fell.
“I think his leg was broken, for he limped as he rose after his fall. No one but an iron brute such as he could have done it. He must have got free the next morning. Many horses were loose on the plain and he may have caught one.”
The archer gave a warning hiss and caught Khlit by the shoulder.
“The dogs are astir, uncle,” he whispered. “Go you and stand at the top of the stone heap inside the door. If any of the vermin escape my shafts, shave their skulls for them with that long sword of yours.”
Khlit hastened down the narrow stairs to the lower story, where he took up his stand on the summit of the pile of stones that Arslan and his comrades had torn from the floors above to form a rampart behind the door.
He saw at a glance the strength of the place, which had enabled a few men to stand off the attacks of many. The door was scarce a yard in width, and the stones formed a barrier inside to the height of a tall man. The entrance was choked with bodies, and barely wide enough to permit two men to come in at a time.
He placed himself where he could see through the door. A thin stream of moonlight came in, but the top of the stone heap where he stood was in darkness. Khlit was weary, but the prospect of battle refreshed him. He sat down calmly, lighting his pipe, and waited. A sound from the top of the tower caught his ear.
It was the soft note of a lute. A second later he heard Arslan's voice lifted in song.
Where the Fox athwart is lying,
And the moonbeams hang,
They hunt—the pack is dying—
These men of Wang.
He heard arrows strike against the stone of the tower, but the song did not falter.
A sound of music lulls them,
To the Serpent’s fang.
Alas! The sweet lute gulls them My men of Wang.
The next moment footsteps pattered across the square in front of the tower. Khlit heard a cry of pain, and a heavy fall. He sprang to his feet and peered down at the entrance. He saw a man fall bodily into it, and lie writhing, an arrow sticking from his shoulders. A hand appeared and jerked the body aside.
Khlit saw a Chinese warrior clamber through the door and start up the heap of stones. The man held a pike before him, and peered anxiously ahead of him. He did not see Khlit, who stepped to one side softly, avoiding the pike.
The next instant the man fell prone. A stroke of the curved sword had severed his head cleanly from his body. Khlit caught the pike as it was sliding down the stones. With it he pushed the body back into the door. A second man appeared, climbing over the body of the first.
Khlit shortened the pike and waited until the man was up to him. A quick thrust and the second warrior followed the first. He heard Arslan's voice above the clamor outside.
To my chant they sing the chorus,
And woe they sang.
They fall in their blood before us—
Dead men of Wang!
Two of the attackers essayed the entrance together, crowding each other and helpless in the dark. Khlit's spear felled one of the two, and the other crawled back hastily. The door was now choked with bodies. No further effort was made to clear it.
For some time there were shouts outside and on the wall beside the tower. Khlit waited with ears strained. The shouts died away and he could hear men running from the tower. Silence followed, broken by Arslan's shout of triumph.
“Ho, there, uncle of the curved sword! Come to the tower. The hunt has ended for tonight.”
XV
Khlit found Arslan filling his helmet at the wine cask on the roof of the tower. The Manchu was spitting blood from a cut through his cheek where an arrow had glanced, but he grinned as he saw the Cossack. He pointed to where dawn was showing in the east. A cold wind whipped across the tower, and a few snowflakes fell between them.
“A warm skirmish, and a cold dawn, uncle,” said the Manchu, wiping his mouth after the wine, and offering his helmet to Khlit.
“How liked you my song? I play my lute day and night for these dogs of ours—and to keep awake. It brings me a rare harvest of arrows. Would that Chagan was here to see that skirmish. He was a rare drinker of wine. The cask is near empty.”
Khlit seated himself and wrapped his coat close about him. The snowflakes were the beginning of a storm which presently began to whiten the tower. There was little satisfaction in Khlit's heart. A second attack on the tower with ladders might prove successful. Two men could not hold it long against odds. And there was no escape. He could not hope to leap thirty feet to the wall as Chagan had done, even if there had been a second rope. “Where went Chagan
?” he asked shortly.
“To his people, no doubt,” responded Arslan indifferently, sitting close to Khlit and wrapping himself in his fur cloak. “We can rest for a while, uncle. The men of Wang may leave us in peace now, for the troops are drunk with pillage. You and I are too small game for them to bother about. Aye, the Tatar was in a hurry to carry some message he bore. His mission here was ended.” “How was that?” growled Khlit. “Speak, minstrel without wits!”
“Nay,” objected Arslan, “my song was witty indeed. Why was his mission ended? Well, it is a long tale in the telling. Chagan was sent after you by the Tatar khans when they found you were leaving the camp. It seems they trusted you not.”
Khlit looked up impatiently, and something in his eye made Arslan hasten on, more seriously.
“I meant no offense, comrade. Chagan told me the tale, and it is not in the brute to lie. It seems that a certain fat eunuch, Cho Kien, upon whom may the rats hold high festival, came to the khans with a missive from Wan Li, demanding your person. So much he read. The rest the khans read for themselves, for Cho Kien left the script behind him in his haste to get away with a whole skin.
“Wan Li offered you a post in his army, and high honor. When you left secretly, refusing aid and escort from the khans, some were suspicious. So Chagan was sent to accompany you and leave you not on penalty of having his hide ripped.”
Khlit made no reply. He recalled the first meeting with the sword-bearer and how he had thought it strange that the man had left Hotai Khan, his master. So the jealousy of the khans had followed him into China.
“If you yielded to Li Jusong,” went on Arslan, “and took the place that was offered you, Chagan was to slay you and stick your head on a spear in front of your tent. If you did not bargain with the Chinese, and remained true to the Tatars, who seemed to think you one of them in blood—although you look not like a Tatar to me—Chagan was to serve you faithfully and bring the news to the khans. I know not why they take such an interest in you.”
Khlit smiled grimly as he thought of the kurultai in the forest. Truly, the khans had debated much about him. Chagan had not told Arslan of Khlit's rank, or of the curved sword of Kaidu.