Wolf of the Steppes

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by Harold Lamb


  “Our outriders, lord,” he cried to the Cossack, who was standing before his tent, “have come upon one who says that he is from the Holy City. He wears the orange robe of a Chutuktu lama, and his name is Dongkor Gelong.”

  Khlit raised his gray head and scanned the messenger keenly. Although his costume of furred coat with wide sash and horse-hide boots was similar to those of his companions, the Cossack was taller. His hard gray eyes were not aslant like those of the Tatars. He had taken off his heavy woolen cap and his gray hair hung to his powerful stooped shoulders. A veined hand tugged thoughtfully at his drooping white mustache. The deep lines of his browned face alone showed his age.

  “Dongkor Gelong,” he said in his deep voice, “must be the envoy of the Dalai Lama, whom we have come to meet. Take a hundred horsemen, Chagan, and bring him to my kibitka with all due honor. Tell the khans of the Jun-gar that he has come.”

  The rider wheeled his mount and spurred away, leaping the piles of game with the ease of a man who had been weaned on mare's milk. But the tidings had already spread through the encampment. The Tatar khans left the game they had taken and hurried to the Kha Khan's tent, before which the standard was planted. Ranging themselves in a semicircle, they watched for the coming of the envoy from the Holy City.

  Khlit's searching gaze scrutinized the eager faces of the Tatars. They were grim men, these of the Jun-gar, descendants of Genghis Khan and the Golden Horde. The broad faces of many bore battle scars. They had been more numerous when Khlit came to them, for they had been with him in many battles. His leadership over them rested on two things: his consummate skill as a warrior, bred of fighting from the Cossack Ukraine, Persia, and Turkestan to the Tatar steppe, and his descent from Kaidu, the hero of the Tatars, whose curved sword he bore.

  By sheer daring and shrewdness Khlit had held the Tatar clans together against their enemies. His craft had earned him the name of Wolf among men bred to war and conquest. And had earned him as well many enemies, chiefly among the priesthood, for Khlit alone of the Tatar khans carried the gold cross of a Christian about his neck under his tunic.

  The throng of hunters parted and a cavalcade appeared, headed by Chagan, the sword-bearer, and a man in bright robes mounted on a white camel, who wore a crystal rosary on his chest. Two attendants in black and orange robes followed, an array of spearmen on camels trailing behind them.

  As the white camel knelt, Khlit raised his right hand in greeting, carrying it to his mouth. He did not advance from his tent, and, seeing this, the lama remained by the head of his camel instead of coming forward. The gaze of the Tatars went eagerly from one to the other as they matched glances.

  Dongkor Gelong was unlike the shamans and monks whom Khlit had seen on the steppe. He was a tall man, stout and richly robed in furs and Chinese silks; moreover, he had the carriage of one accustomed to command. He had the smooth olive skin of a Chinese and the broad frame of a Tibetan. He wore the close-fitting orange hat of a lama of the Gedum Dubpa monastery, the home of the Dalai Lama. It was evident that his stately appearance had already produced a strong effect on the Tatars, to whom the name of the Dalai Lama was an earnest of supernatural power.

  “Welcome to the camp of the Jun-gar, Dongkor Gelong,” observed Khlit gravely in Tatar, which the other understood readily. “We have had a good hunt, and choice meats will be prepared for you. Tonight we will summon a kurultai council of the khans, and hear the word of the Dalai Lama who has sent you.”

  Dongkor Gelong inclined his dark head courteously.

  “It is well that you should hear the word of the almighty Tsong Khapa, O Kha Khan. Although it is many li from the Jun-gar steppe to the Holy City, the power of the Dalai Lama to safeguard his servants knows no limits of space.”

  Evening saw a bustling preparation of mutton and horseflesh in the camp by the lake. When the envoy and his attendants had been feasted, the expectant khans assembled around a circle of fires built in front of Khlit's kibitka. The Cossack and Dongkor Gelong sat together in the center of the circle. Behind Khlit, as was customary, loomed the stalwart form of the sword-bearer, Chagan, accompanied this time by the two Chubil Khans, who had come with the envoy from Lhassa.

  At the right and left of the two leaders were seated the khans of the Jun-gar, headed by Berang, of the Ordus, and the chieftains of the Hoshot, Torgot, and Tchoros hordes. Behind these were ranged the lesser personages: cloaked shamans and tawny masters of the horse herds, together with warriors of the rank of khans who were not leaders of a horde.

  The kurultai of the Jun-gar was assembled.

  II

  Dongkor Gelong stepped into the semicircle of light. To the watchers it seemed as if his eyes were closed, but the lama had not failed to scrutinize his listeners shrewdly. He faced toward the south, where was Lhassa, and drew a parchment from the breast of his robe. This he pressed reverently to his forehead.

  “To the Khans of the Jun-gar,” he read aloud, “greeting from the almighty Tsong Khapa, Dalai Lama of the Gedun Dubpa and keeper of the sacred Kandjur books.”

  Khlit stroked the scabbard across his knees pensively. He noted, as did all the listeners, that the Dalai Lama had omitted mention of the Kha Khan in his greeting. This might have been, thought Khlit, because it was the council of khans and not himself who had appealed to the master of Lhassa.

  “The messenger of the khans,” went on the musical voice of Dongkor Gelong, “has brought to the Dalai Lama word of the trouble of the Jun-gar. The word that the Tatar hordes are threatened with doom and the loss of the lands which are their birthright. In their trouble they have rightly asked aid of the only one who can restore their power.”

  A murmur of agreement greeted this. Khlit chewed at his black pipe impassively. Still the lama had made no mention of him, treating the matter as one between the khans and the Dalai Lama. He did not look at Dongkor Gelong, watching instead the attentive faces of the Tatars.

  “On the east the khans have complained,” continued the lama, “that the Ming armies of China have forced them across the great desert of Gobi. To the south the Khirghiz clans have invaded the Jun-gar steppe where the children of the mighty Kha Khan, Genghis, were accustomed to graze their herds.”

  Another murmur, louder this time, greeted the mention of the great Tatar conqueror. Was it by chance that Dongkor Gelong spoke first of Genghis Khan, before the living Kha Khan of the Jun-gar? Had he meant to compare the two in the mind of his audience?

  “To the west, by Tomsk and the Yenissei, the traders and soldiers of Muskovy are taking the lands of the Jun-gar. Many of the hordes have deserted the Jun-gar, taking with them their tumans of horsemen. Only on the north are there no enemies. And there is the land of ice—the Dead World beyond the frozen waters of Baikal. The power of the Jun-gar trembles like a reed when the wind blows. It is time they asked for aid from the glorious spiritual king whose name is heard with reverence from the Great Wall to the cities of the Moguls, from the Roof of the World to the sea.”

  Chagan, the sword-bearer, was a man of tranquil wits, but he stirred uneasily. Truly, he thought, Dongkor Gelong had the voice of a golden eagle, for he painted the evils that beset the Jun-gar with an all-seeing eye. Chagan did not perceive, as the envoy went on with his oration, how cleverly Dongkor Gelong played upon the name of Genghis Khan, and the power of the master of Lhassa.

  But it was clear to Chagan that Dongkor Gelong was appealing to the khans and not to the Kha Khan, Khlit, called by them the Wolf. Many glances besides his own sought out the impassive Cossack. The allegiance of the khans to Khlit, Chagan knew, was strong by reason of the Kha Khan's leadership in battle. Khlit had broken the power of the shaman priesthood. But the shamans, with their conjuring tricks, were allied to the Dalai Lama as the fleas on the belly of a horse were kin to the horse.

  So much Chagan was aware of. He, like Berang and the other khans, did not choose to realize that their present plight was the fault of the jealousy and waning power of the hordes, rather than any
mistake in leadership by Khlit. Chagan leaned forward eagerly as Dongkor Gelong came to the end of his parchment and paused, one hand uplifted for his final word.

  “Wisely have the khans of the Jun-gar,” he cried, “appealed to the precept of the gods. It was well they asked for an oracle. The question has been put to the oracle in Gedun Dubpa. The sacred ashes have formed the answering words, which have been truly read by the clergy of the Yellow Cap. This is the answer.”

  A breathless silence greeted this. Khlit raised his keen eyes and scanned the lama. Dongkor Gelong turned and pointed at him.

  “In this way may the Jun-gar restore their power and safeguard their lands from the Khirghiz. Like the sun and moon, the Lama and the Kha Khan should mount the sky together. The Kha Khan, by order of the Lama, must do this.”

  He swung his long-sleeved arm until it pointed to the south.

  “In the fifth moon of the Year of the Ape, the Wolf of the Jun-gar must go to the citadel of Talas on the Jallat Kum, where the river Tarim goes to its grave in the sands of Taklamaklan Desert. There he will find aid for the Jun-gar. In this manner the oracle has spoken.”

  Profound silence reigned in the council. The dark faces of the khans showed blank surprise and a dawning hope. Dongkor Ge-long regarded them gravely, with folded arms.

  “Truly, lords of the Jun-gar,” he said in a low voice, “this is little short of a miracle. For at Lhassa none save the gods knew that the Kha Khan Khlit was surnamed the Wolf. Since I have come, I have been told that is the case. Such is the wisdom of the gods. Now, to aid his people, the Kha Khan must choose those among you whom he can most trust and travel to Talas by the Taklamaklan Desert, beyond the Thian Shan, to the south.”

  There was an excited stir among the shamans at mention of the verification of the prophecy. From somewhere back in their ranks came a voice.

  “We have heard the oracle of Lhassa. What is the answer of the Kha Khan?”

  At this all eyes were turned to Khlit. The Cossack did not move to rise, for it was not his custom to speak hastily. Tugging at his mustache, he considered the message of Dongkor Gelong. The city of Talas he had never heard of, but it must lie a week's fast riding to the south, if it was beyond the Thian Shan Mountains. The Taklamaklan Desert, he had heard, was a portion of the great Gobi, at a high altitude. It should not be hard to find the river Tarim at the edge of the Taklamaklan and follow it to its end. So much was clear.

  The message of the Dalai Lama was little less than a command. The master of Lhassa was head of the Buddhist priests in Mongolia, China, and Central Asia. To disobey would be to risk the allegiance of his own people. And it was possible that the Dalai Lama knew of assistance that Khlit could gain at Talas. The Dalai Lama knew many things—from the eyes and ears of the Tsong Khapa, the priesthood of the lamas.

  Khlit's shrewdness probed the words of Dongkor Gelong for their inner meaning. The Dalai Lama must have heard that Khlit was a Christian. As such, he would not be favored by the clergy of the Holy City. Did Dongkor Gelong hope that Khlit would refuse to undertake the mission proposed by the oracle? Or did he reason that, having gained aid through the Dalai Lama, the Cossack's prestige would suffer?

  Khlit got to his feet and surveyed the ranks of the Tatars. Dongkor Gelong folded his arms and waited.

  “Harken, Dongkor Gelong,” spoke Khlit slowly. “Look into the sky and tell me what you see.”

  As one the eyes of the Tatars flew upward, the firelight glaring white on their eyeballs.

  “O Kha Khan,” responded the lama composedly, “I see the crescent moon and Jitti Karakchi, the great bear among the stars. And it is the fifth moon of the Year of the Ape. The Ice Pass that leads to the Jallat Kum will be open for your coming.”

  “Do you see the sun, O man of wisdom?” growled the Cossack. “Nay; how could that be? The earth is in the dark, Erlik clouds of night.”

  “Truly have you spoken, Dongkor Gelong. Then tell me, how can it be that the sun and the moon mount the sky together? Or the Kha Khan and the Dalai Lama rule one people?”

  III

  The Chutuktu Lama smiled and turned to the assembled warriors. “Nay,” he answered promptly, “when the moon steals into the light of day, her radiance dies because of the glory of the sun. Is not the almighty Tsong Khapa the father of many nations? In all the world there is not a king with a glory such as his. For the Dalai Lama knows the wisdom of former ages, being incarnate. The light of his wisdom points to the citadel of Talas as the salvation of the Jun-gar.”

  A murmur of agreement echoed this, in which the shamans joined the loudest. The more warlike khans stirred uneasily and looked at Khlit.

  “The wisdom of the master of Lhassa is beyond my knowing, O envoy of the Yellow Hat,” said Khlit slowly. “My skill is in arranging battles and the clash of armies on the steppe. Ask the Jun-gar where lies the host of Hang-Hi, general of the Son of Heaven. Or the banners of Li Jusong. They have fallen before the yak-tailed banner of Tatary. How has the Tsong Khapa thought, in his wisdom, that we may have aid from Talas? Who are the people of Talas? I know them not.”

  Dongkor Gelong bent one cotton-wrapped knee and bowed his head.

  “I came as the bearer of words more precious than the seven substances, because they were inspired by the gods. Who am I to seek to explain them?”

  From the ranks of listeners came the voice of the hidden shaman. “Question not what is written, O Kha Khan.”

  Khlit stared at his followers moodily.

  “You have sworn an oath, O Khans of the Jun-gar, that my word should be law in the kurultai of the Tatars. It is not in written words but in the fellowship of warriors that a khan may put his trust. Nay, tonight I will not ask the advice of the kurultai. Does a wolf seek the will of the pack when he makes a kill? I alone will choose my course.”

  In the deep silence that followed this, Dongkor Gelong raised his arms in alarmed surprise.

  “Will you dare to disobey the Tsong Khapa?”

  “I have chosen my path,” responded Khlit shortly. “It lies to Talas. But I will go alone.”

  Cries of protest greeted this. The khans of the inner circle sprang to their feet, protesting. Berang of the Ordus declared that he would go with Khlit.

  “Nay, Kha Khan,” objected Dongkor Gelong. “It was the wish of the Dalai Lama himself that you should take followers whom you could trust. The journey will be through the lands of Iskander Khan and Bassanghor Khan of the Khirghiz who have violated your boundaries—”

  “I have chosen,” growled Khlit. “And I will go tonight.”

  The news spread swiftly through the encampment. The Tatar hunters gathered about the kibitka and watched silently while Khlit arranged a few things in his saddlebags—some meat smoked until it was dry, milk curds hardened into cakes, a flask of kumiss, spare powder for his pistols—and selected a horse from several that Chagan brought him. Khlit had never forsaken his fondness for a horse in favor of the hardier camel.

  Still in silence the khans watched him mount. Dongkor Ge-long and Berang said a few words of farewell. Khlit thought that he caught a disappointed light in the lama's eyes. Was Dongkor Gelong sorry that he had agreed to go to Talas?

  The stolid faces of his followers veiled strong feelings. Hope, disappointment, relief, and uneasiness were in the glances they fixed on him. If he had not gone, to a man they would have turned against him—such was their faith in the word of the Dalai Lama. But, now that the old Kha Khan was leaving on his mission, some felt misgiving.

  Khlit sprang from the ground into the saddle—a trick of his Cossack days—not sitting, but standing erect in the saddle. The horse wheeled and darted away from the kibitka through the tents. There was hardly a Tatar who could not have done as much. Yet the trick stirred their fancy and a hoarse shout of approval followed him as he vanished into the dark.

  Once clear of the encampment, Khlit reined in his horse and seated himself in the saddle. He cast a shrewd eye up at the stars and struck off across the p
lain to the south. The steppe here was level as the surface of a lake. A warm breeze stirred the lush grass, and his horse sniffed heavily of the fragrant air. As he rode, Khlit struck flint and steel and lighted his long-stemmed pipe. Thus did Cossacks always ride.

  The magic of the steppe warmed Khlit's blood. It was the same endless plain that stretched to the Ukraine, lighted by the same stars. It had been Khlit's home, and here he was always happy. He muttered to himself—he had never been known to sing—fragments of Cossack songs. And then he suddenly drew his mount to a halt.

  His keen ears had caught the sound of riders behind him. He judged there were several and that they were coming at a rapid pace. Alert for possible danger, he turned toward the sound and drew one of the pistols he carried in his sash.

  The patter of hoofs neared him and presently he made out a group of dark shadows. At first he guessed them to be riderless horses escaped from the encampment. Then he saw that one horse had a rider. The man saw him at the same moment and halted the small cavalcade he was leading.

  “Chagan!” swore Khlit, peering at the other's bulk in the gloom. “Devil take the dog! Why do you follow me?”

  The sword-bearer laughed uneasily.

  “Lord,” he growled, “you said before Dongkor Gelong that you would ride to Talas alone. Wherefore I slipped from the camp and followed with extra horses, so that none would see me. Almost, I lost you in the dark.”

  “I need but one horse, Chagan. Get back to the camp, where there is horseflesh to be eaten.”

  Chagan laid his heavy hand on Khlit's knee.

  “Nay, lord,” he said gruffly; “you have said that a fat hound hunts but ill. Since the time of Genghis, when did not the sword-bearer follow the Kha Khan in battle or hunt?”

  “Yet I give you this as a duty—go back.”

  “Harken, lord.” Chagan moved nearer. “I have a thought, that you had best make haste. I have listened at the camp—”

 

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