by Harold Lamb
“Aye,” said Khlit.
“Hotai Khan, eldest of the lords of Tatary, was slain on the wall,” continued Chepe Buga, “and Togachar died in the city. Many faces will be missing from the kurultai of the khans tonight. Lord, will you come to take your rightful place in the kurultai? The khans are waiting.”
Khlit's glance searched the face of Chepe Buga.
“Have I a place,” he asked slowly, “among the khans?” “Nay,” the voice of the Tatar rang out proudly, “not among the khans. When Chagan brought the message you whispered to him in the hall of Li Jusong, that the Chinese forces were scattered and disorganized by pillage; and that Shankiang might be taken by surprise, there were some in the kurultai by the Kerulon who doubted. But when Chagan told of your answer to the offer of Cho Kien, we knew that you spoke in wisdom, and in loyalty to the khans. Nay, your rank is Kha Khan, White Khan of the Jun-gar.” “Your message, lord,” added Berang, “brought us victory. Without your wisdom we are a flock without a shepherd. Glad were we when we saw you on the tower, for we knew then that you had not been slain.”
Quickly Berang raised his right hand, and carried it to his spear. Chepe Buga did likewise. A shout went up from the horsemen,
in which Arslan joined. Khlit was silent, but his heart was big within him. Khlit, the wanderer, the man called the Wolf, had found honor and a home.
Arslan, the archer, lifted his voice in song.
They sing no more the chorus That once they sang.
They are—see their ghosts before us—
Dead men of Wang.
Changa Nor
Older than the five sons of Alan Toa; older than the god Natagai or the sword of the hero Afrasiab is the hunting-ground of the Dead World.
Skillful must the hunter be—wary, and mindful of the guiding star—or he will not come back from the Dead World.
Aye, he will join the thing that he hunts. And the game he seeks has been dead for ten thousand moons.
When the rising sun shone on the blue waters of Changa Nor, in the Year of Our Lord sixteen hundred and seven, Gurd the hunter set forth on his Summer hunt. He left the castle of Changa in a small boat which took him to the shore of the lake. On the shore he found his reindeer waiting.
By Gurd's reckoning it was the Year of the Lion according to the Tatar calendar. Although the summits of the Khantai Khan mountains around Lake Nor were capped with snow, the sun still held its Midsummer warmth, and Gurd knew that the way to the Dead World, above Lake Baikal, was open.
Gurd was clean-limbed and massive of shoulder. He had the black hair, high cheekbones and sparkling black eyes of the Siberian Buriate Tatar. His head was shaved in front, allowing a long tress to fall back over one shoulder. His clear eyes, somewhat slant, and white teeth bespoke youth.
He wore a reindeer jerkin, girded about the waist, with a quiver at his side. His baggy trousers of nankeen were tucked into horsehide boots. Although Gurd was young he looked to the saddling of his reindeer with the skill of an old hunter. His hands, veined and corded, revealed great physical strength. Without these two qualities Gurd could not have gone as he had done for the past five years into the northern hunting-ground and returned alive.
Gurd was not a hunter of sables or ermine. Nor did he follow the reindeer herds of the Baikal region. He was one of the few hardy spirits that went after the treasure of the Dead World, up the bank of the Lena to the Frozen Sea.
Taking a firm grasp on his staff, the brown-faced Tatar sprang nimbly into the saddle on the shoulders of one of the reindeer. At once the beast was in motion, the pack-reindeer following. The cloven hoofs of the animals made a clattering sound as they trotted with their peculiar swinging motion over the hard ground up the trail into the mountains.
When he had reached the pass where he had a last view of Changa and the lake, Gurd halted his mount and looked back. He caught the white flutter of a scarf waving from the battlements. A soft light came into his shrewd black eyes as he lifted his hand in answer before taking up his journey.
Gurd did not delay. He knew that he was late in starting on his hunt. The barriers of frost and snow would descend on the entrance to the Dead World within two months, and before that time he must be on his way home. By the time the sun had climbed the mountain summits he had vanished into the passes leading to the North.
But if he could have looked back at Changa he would have seen the white scarf still waving at intervals to speed him on his way.
II
The setting sun that day lighted the encampment of the Jun-gar Tatars by the Tula River, not far from Lake Baikal. Sunset was the signal for gathering the kurultai council. But no nacars were needed to summon the khans. For the encampment was small, and the council consisted of a scant half-dozen of the lords of Tatary—a remnant of the warriors who had held dominion over China, Tibet, Sogdiana, and Persia for centuries.
The council assembled in the pavilion of the Kha Khan, or White Khan, of the Jun-gar. This was a felt-covered tent erected on a large wagon. As the warriors entered they seated themselves, after greeting the Kha Khan, on bearskins ranged around the fire. Behind them the walls of the pavilion were hung with weapons and trophies of their recent victory—the last of its kind—over the Chinese at Shankiang.
Opposite the entrance to the tent sat the Kha Khan, a whitehaired Cossack, keen-eyed and scarred of face, known to his enemies as the Wolf. Over Khlit's knees lay the curved sword of Kaidu which had earned him his right to leadership of the khans.
On Khlit's left sat Chepe Buga, a swarthy veteran of fifty battles, and a man quick of wit with tongue or sword.
On the right of the Kha Khan was Berang, the young khan of the Ordu horde. The khans of the Hoshot and Torgot tribes completed the circle. Opposite Khlit sat Lhon Otai, a shaman and leader of the priest-conjurers. By the entrance lounged the giant figure of Chagan, sword-bearer of the Kha Khan.
Grim men they were, hard riders and fighters. With the Kall-marks, their powerful neighbors, they formed the last of the race of Genghis Khan, conqueror of Asia. But today their faces were sullen and downcast. Chepe Buga puffed silently at his pipe, while Berang fumbled uneasily with his sword.
“We are like a herd of horned cattle, Khlit, lord,” spoke Chepe Buga at length, twisting his mustache, “with flocks of sheep pressing in on our pasture on all sides. Hey, soon there will not be room on the Tatar steppe for our horses' dung!”
“Aye, that is true,” nodded Berang. “The tidings we have received today are that the Kallmarks are driving their herds over our southwest boundaries, near Khamil. And there are many horsemen in the Kallmark horde. Now they are quarrelsome, being more numerous than we are.”
“The Mings and Manchus,” added another khan, “have driven us from the dorok graves of our fathers by the great desert of Gobi, to the river Kerulon and the Khantai Khan Mountains. They have killed many of us.”
“We can go no further north, Khlit, lord,” agreed Chepe Buga moodily, “for the frozen rivers of Baikal are near us, and the cattle cannot graze in the snow.”
Khlit smoked his black pipe silently, scanning the faces of his companions shrewdly. He understood their anger. The Tatar of the steppe must have freedom to rove, without tie of home or god; no intruder can take their lands. They looked to him for protection of their boundaries. He had aided them twice to defeat Chinese invaders of the steppe. But since then the strength of the khans had been diminished by the loss of the powerful Kallmark horde.
“Our lands,” he said slowly, “the lands of the Jun-gar which stretch from the desert of Gobi to Muscovy and from the white regions of the North to the Thian Shan Mountains, are the richest in the world for grazing and for hunting. I know, for I have seen the steppe of Russia, the fertile valleys of Persia, and the hinterland of Cathay. So long as we keep these lands we shall have large herds and plenty of food.”
“That may be, Khlit, lord,” spoke Berang respectfully. “But how shall we keep them, when the Keraits are driving their sheep o
ver our boundary to the south, and the Muscovy soldiers and traders are at Tomsk? By the god Meik who watches over the forests we must give these Kallmark men a taste of sharp swords.” “Aye,” growled another khan approvingly, “we will take their herds that have come over the boundary, and their widows will seek new husbands.”
“Our swords grow rusty, O Kha Khan,” broke in the mighty Chagan from the door. “Come, let us whet them up a bit with bones and blood.”
Khlit made no answer. He knew better than his companions the strength of the Kallmarks, whose territory was the heart of Asia. Furthermore they were allied to the men of Muscovy who were as numerous as the sands of the great desert. War with the
Kallmarks must be avoided at all cost. But how was he to keep the lands of the Jun-gar from invasion?
To gain time to think, he addressed Lhon Otai, the shaman, who had not yet spoken.
“What is your word, Lhon Otai?” he asked. “Do you also counsel war?”
The shaman's shrewd eyes swept the circle. He was an old man and stout. The khans declared that he had the craft to coax a fish from a river. He was a leader of the shamans who played the double role of physician and priest to the tribes of central Asia.
“A shaman does not counsel war or peace, Khlit, lord,” he responded with a bow. “Truly we can heal the sick, or drive out unclean spirits by the aid of the god Natagai, as our fathers have done, or prophesy events that will come to pass—”
“Prophesy then, Lhon Otai,” demanded Chepe Buga, who was lacking in reverence, “how we may be rid of this plague of invaders. Come, give us a good prophecy!”
The khans muttered agreement. A frown passed swiftly over the shaman's smooth brow. He stood up by the fire in his long fur robe ornamented with rabbits' ears and walrus teeth.
“A prophecy!” chorused the khans, with the exception of Khlit. “Read us the future, O wise shepherd of the spirits.”
Lhon Otai made no response. He doffed his fur coat. Advancing to the half-circle of chiefs, he drew a long cord from his girdle. One end of this he gave to a khan. Then he passed the cord in a loop around his neck under the chin.
For a moment Lhon Otai stared mutely at the ridgepole of the tent. While the khans watched intently, he lay down full length on the ground. The remaining end of the cord, which was still around his neck, he tossed to Chagan, who took it gingerly. Lhon Otai now lay on his back, both arms extended wide.
Berang, who had witnessed many manifestations of the shaman, took the fur coat and laid it over the prostrate figure, which was now concealed except for the extended hands. The khans fell silent. The heavy breathing of Lhon Otai raised and lowered the coat. The exposed hands clenched as if in suffering.
“See,” whispered Berang to Khlit, “the shaman is visiting the forest of Meik in spirit, where he learns wisdom of the king of the ravens. That is why his face is hidden—that we may not read his thoughts, whether good or ill. The ancient raven knows all that has happened, or will happen.”
The hands of Lhon Otai dug themselves into the rugs on the floor of the tent, and the shaman groaned. Chepe Buga watched the proceedings with a half-smile hidden under his black mustache, but the smile faded at a groan from the conjurer.
“That is the signal!” cried Berang. “Pull on the cord.”
Chagan and the khan who held the other end both tugged quickly on the cord. The rope appeared from under the coat, taut and whole. A sigh of amazement came from Berang, for the hands of the conjurer had not been lost to sight. The young khan rose and drew off the fur coat. Lhon Otai lay as if asleep, and his yellow face was pale.
“Presently,” whispered Berang again, “he will return from the spirit forest and will tell us the wisdom he has learned. Truly, he must have been among the spirits in the radiance of Begli the moon, for the cord cut through his neck.”
Khlit made no response and before long Lhon Otai sat erect, his eyes half closed.
“I have heard the words of the raven,” he chanted, “by the pine trees of Meik. The raven that has talked with Genghis Khan, of the Golden Horde, and with the five sons of Alan Goa. I have heard the sacred magpie fluttering in the trees by the tomb of Genghis Khan, the conqueror of the world. I bring a wisdom from the spirit world of Begli to the living paladins of Tatary. This is the wisdom.”
Lhon Otai paused, while the khans bent closer, and Chagan stared from the shaman to the cord.
“The land of the khans,” resumed Lhon Otai, “has been entered by strangers. But there is a way to drive them from the land of the Jun-gar. A day's ride to the south from Lake Baikal, from the three gods of Dianda, is the lake of Changa Nor. In the castle which stands in the middle of the lake there is a treasure. The khans must seize the castle, with its treasure. Then they can pay the Kallmarks to leave the land of the bowmen, and their boundaries shall be as before.”
Silence greeted the words of the shaman, broken by Berang. “Aye, Lhon Otai,” he said respectfully, “there is a ruined castle that stands on some rocks in the waters of Changa Nor. I have heard it belongs to an ivory hunter. But I heard nothing of a treasure therein.”
“That may be,” broke in Chepe Buga, “for I have heard a similar tale. My father told it. There was a powerful kingdom to the south, ruled by a rich Gur-Khan in the time of Genghis Khan. The Gur-Khan was slain in a battle. But his treasure was not found. He had kept it in one of the castles. Speak, O gossiper with magpies and ravens, is this the treasure you would have us seek?”
Lhon Otai scowled, for Chepe Buga, who was one of the most powerful of the Tatars, treated him with scant reverence.
“You have seen, Chepe Buga, how true are the words of wisdom. Aye, this is the hoard of the Gur-Khan, watched over by a hunter named Gurd who is a solitary fellow of dark pursuits. He has gone on a hunt to the North and Changa castle may be easily seized. But the wisdom told me that it was guarded by evil spirits.”
“No doubt,” retorted Chepe Buga grimly, “it is well guarded or you would have had your claws in it before now.”
Lhon Otai pulled his fur robe about him and rose to his feet. The khans drew back at the dark glance he threw Chepe Buga. He bowed before Khlit.
“Go to Changa Nor, O Kha Khan,” he said firmly. “There you will find the aid you seek.”
Khlit, who was stroking the sword on his knees, did not look up.
“They are evil folk, I hear,” put in Berang. Unbuckling his gold-chased girdle, the khan tossed it to Lhon Otai. “Take this,
Shaman. There will be other rewards, of jewels when we find the treasure.”
“Aye,” muttered Chepe Buga, rising and stretching like a dog, “and there will be split bamboos for the soles of your fat feet if we do not find it, Shaman.”
With that the kurultai broke up. But Khlit remained in his tent in thought. The words of the shaman had touched a chord of memory. In his Cossack days he had heard of a kingdom like that of the Gur-Khan and a treasure. There had been tales of a rich monarch in Asia whose wealth had escaped search. But he could recall neither name nor place.
Khlit dismissed the matter from his mind with a grunt, resolved that Changa Nor should tell him the truth, if there were truth, in the tale.
III
The second sun was high when Khlit, followed by Chagan and the khans with two hundred picked horsemen from the encampment, reached the summit of the hills around Changa Nor. Lhon Otai, at Chepe Buga's request, had accompanied them.
They saw a blue lake, a scant half-mile in width, with a castle a short distance from the opposite shore. The castle, a square, massive structure, stood upon a stone foundation which rose a few feet above the surface of the lake sheer with the walls. There was no sign of a gateway, although narrow slits pierced the walls and the single tower.
A small boat was moored beside the castle, showing how the occupants gained the shore. But there was no sign of life about the place. The battlements of the keep and tower were in ruins, although the walls seemed solid enough.
“Hey, he
re is a fair stronghold to which you have brought us, Lhon Otai,” growled Chepe Buga. “Methinks it would take an army of sea serpents to seize it, or a regiment of harpies. Did the ancient raven croak to you how we were to take it, if perchance its people refuse surrender?”
“Nay, that is your business, not mine,” muttered the shaman. “Said I not, it was guarded by evil spirits?”
As the riders surveyed the scene its desolation impressed them. The snow-capped mountains in the background cast their reflection into the still waters of the lake. The shores were a wooded wilderness. The boat was the only indication of human beings about the place.
“It will take more than spirits, evil or otherwise,” retorted the Tatar, “to keep me out, if I choose to enter. By the same token, only a devil's brood would infest such a place, where there are no horses or pastures.”
When they had gained the shore nearest the castle Khlit directed Berang to swim his horse out the short distance to the castle and demand that the place be opened to them and the boat sent ashore.
The young khan carried out his orders eagerly. He spurred his mount into the water and steered him toward the black bulk of the castle. The watchers saw him linger under the walls for a moment, his face turned up to the openings overhead. Then Berang slid from his saddle and swam alongside his horse back to shore.
The khan swaggered up to the group of horsemen, happy in the display he had made of his mount.
“Strange folk are those, Khlit, lord,” he made report. “I told them your word, but they answered that the castle would not yield. Then I swore that we would storm it, and the voice within cried that many who had tried to do that had died.”
“We have warned them,” said Khlit, “now we will take the castle.”
Berang cast a doubtful glance at the lake. He had seen no foothold in the smooth walls, slippery with moss, nor any door. Cannon would batter the place into submission, but the khans had no cannon. The walls were within long bow-shot. Yet there were no defenders visible to shoot at.
Khlit, however, soon showed how he meant to set about the attack. Under his direction the Tatars were divided into two parties. One, commanded by Chepe Buga, set about cutting down large pine trees with the axes they always carried at their saddles. The other party trimmed the fallen trees and rolled them to the water's edge.