by Harold Lamb
Khlit had wheeled his mount into the group. But by now the fire had caught about the door and roof of the sedan. The wind quickened its progress.
“To the emperor!” Wei Chung was shouting. “Treachery!” “Aid for Wan Li!” screamed the nobles, charging into the dancing horses of the hunters.
Swords gleamed in the glow from the flames. Khlit saw that the huntsmen, surprised and surrounded, were being cut down. The Chinese appeared blinded by their excitement. Yet the Cossack noticed that their efforts were devoted as much to killing the riders as to quenching the fire that was consuming the remnants of Wan Li's chair.
By now it was impossible that the man within the imperial chair could be saved.
The lattice door had swung inward, its fastenings loosened by the flames. Khlit had a fleeting glimpse of a ghastly, round face and wide, staring eyes. Already the face was blackened by heat, and the dragon robe was shriveling.
What he saw made Khlit rein in his horse and wheel away from the chair.
“This way!” he cried above the tumult. “Kurluk, men of the hunt!”
Several of the riders heard him and spurred toward him. The giant Kurluk, however, was hemmed in by the Chinese, using his sword valiantly. Some nobles were beating at the flaming chair with their cloaks, but the eunuchs seemed intent on cutting down the riders who had been escorting the sedan.
Khlit rose in his stirrups after the fashion of the Cossacks and led his few followers into the group around Kurluk. The giant Manchu saw them coming and beat himself free from his antagonists, who quailed from his heavy sword.
Another moment and he had gained Khlit's side, cursing, his face streaked with blood.
“The devil himself set fire to Wan Li,” he panted. “By my father's grave, it was no work of ours—”
Ch'en Ti-jun rode up to the Manchu, his seamed countenance alight with evil triumph. The eunuch pointed a pistol at Kurluk's shaggy head and fired. Khlit saw his friend sway in the saddle, eyes closed and chin on breast. Then he slid to the ground.
“Ride,” shouted the Cossack to his remaining men, “or you are dead men!”
From three quarters the Chinese were closing in on them. But ahead of them a way was clear to the plains. Through the opening Khlit and his handful of hunters spurred, cutting down the few who tried to head them off. Cries and shots pursued them.
They were now free of the Chinese and settled down into a fast gallop, hugging their saddles to avoid the pistol shots. A motley troop of soldiery galloped after them. But the huntsmen were well mounted. Led by Khlit, they slowly widened the gap between them and their pursuers.
“Ho, comrade,” snarled a bearded fellow close to the Cossack, “the accident to Wan Li will cost us dear. The Son of Heaven is burned to a crisp.”
Khlit eased himself in his saddle, with a hard laugh.
“Have you lost your wits?” he demanded. “That was no accident.”
“Be that as it may,” growled the other, “we are dead men. Aye, dead by the rarest tortures known to those devils behind us. They will hunt us down like cornered antelope.”
“Aye,” muttered another, “there is no hope for us.”
Khlit was silent, thinking grimly of the false words of the Lady Li. Truly, they had been trapped. The Chinese courtiers and soldiers, as well as the eunuchs, had seen the flames break out on Wan Li's chair in the midst of the hunters. The torch-bearer who had been responsible for the mishap was undoubtedly slain. Those of the sedan-bearers who lived would testify against the hunters to save their own skins.
He had suspected that they would be used in some such manner by the scheming eunuchs. But the swiftness of the catastrophe had surprised him. Wei Chung had planned well. There was no proof that the affair had not been an accident.
“Silence your loose tongues,” he growled over his shoulder, “and you will yet save your skins.”
In the plains ahead of him the dawn showed the rocky ridges of the Togra, still veiled in the distance by morning mists.
Arslan had ridden very rapidly to the Togra, for Khlit's words had been urgent. When he came to the first of the rocky defiles, the Manchu drew rein and halted his beast with a calculating glance of his black eyes over the heights in front of him. The midafternoon sun shone full in his tanned face. There was no sign of watchers in the defiles, but Arslan knew that the men of Dokadur Khan could not be far off. It was the season of the hunt, and at such times the riders of the Togra were accustomed to come forth from their haunts.
The experienced archer had no wish to be taken for a scout of the imperial forces, as might readily happen. So he slung his bow over his back, adjusted the quiver carelessly at his left hip and displayed his guitar ostentatiously. By these signs he hoped to make plain that his mission was one of peace. To leave no doubt in the mind of those watching him from the heights, he rode forward slowly, to all intents heedless of where he went.
His strategy had its reward, for, instead of a matchlock ball or an arrow in his back, he was accosted by a dark-faced Khirghiz, exceedingly well mounted. In response to the other's questions, Arslan stated that his mission was to see Dokadur Khan; that it was imperative; that he was alone and without intention of spying on the men of the Togra. Only half satisfied, the Khirghiz bade him accompany him, and they presently came out into a large gorge in which some hundred men were dismounted about fires.
Here his guide left him, and it was only after a long delay that the man returned, accompanied by the broad figure of Dokadur Khan, whom Arslan easily recognized by the missing ear. The Togra chieftain inspected his visitor narrowly.
“What is your message, Manchu?” he growled.
Arslan, who had dismounted, returned the other's somber stare thoughtfully, his small head cocked to one side.
“In the last moon, Dokadur Khan,” he began—Khlit had told him as much—“you had a guest at your yurt in the Togra, a grayhaired rider who was not Tatar nor Manchu.”
“I remember. What of him?”
“He sends a message by me. Also a token. Do you recognize this, also?”
Arslan drew the chased Turkish pistol from his belt, being careful to handle it inoffensively, for the men of the Togra being outcasts were quick to suspect evil. Dokadur Khan's eyes lighted as they fell upon the weapon, perceiving that it was one he had coveted. He was now the owner of the brace, for the other reposed in his own belt. He accepted it without acknowledgment.
“And the message?” he asked again.
“Was one of pressing importance. The hunt of Wan Li has begun. The man who sent me bids you sharpen your eyes and ears and watch well from the Togra, or the Chinese swords will slit your jaws from your gullets.”
“Does a goshawk need warning to watch its quarry?” snarled the chieftain. “You ride hard to say very little.”
Arslan held up his hand as a sign he had further tidings. Khlit had had time to tell him few things that were in the Cossack's mind. But Arslan knew that Khlit would not send him on a venture that was not necessary, supremely so. There was no telling if Dokadur Khan was professedly loyal or not to the Chinese, for the moment.
“Heed this well, Dokadur Khan,” he said impressively. “There will be taking of spoil before many suns. He who sent me, knowing this and trusting in the skill of the men of the Togra, will offer you a share in what is to happen.”
The Khirghiz threw back his broad head with a growling laugh.
“Nay, small of wit! Does a man offer share in the spoil he has taken, if not from weakness? Has this old man of yours a tribe of horsemen? Nay, he is alone. How then can he take spoil? And where is it to be found?”
Arslan considered. Khlit had told him that they would have need of refuge in the Togra. And to bid Dokadur Khan be prepared with his men when he came to meet them. More than this he did not say. Arslan himself was curious as to why Khlit would come to the Togra; also, what he had meant by speaking of the hunt that had already begun. It would not do to promise anything, or the Khirghiz would sus
pect.
“There be matters, Dokadur Khan,” he suggested, “that are best managed by one man alone. Where the stake is highest, a few players gain the best reward. Such a matter is this. The man who sent me has eaten at your fireside, and he has judged that you are one who may serve him. The honor is high.”
“Nay, am I a jackal to feed from other's offal? In the Togra I am master.”
“Be it so. You are a free man. You need not come to meet the one who sent me, if it pleases you not. Yet Khlit said you would be of service.”
Arslan turned toward his horse indifferently. The Khirghiz halted him with an exclamation.
“Is this man Khlit of the Curved Saber? He who was master of the Jun-gar?”
“And of many others. Yet you need not join with him in this matter. The Khan Khlit deals with higher stakes than horseflesh or the plucking of a scurvy caravan. I will tell him that you will not see him.”
Arslan made as if to mount. In his interest at the news he had just learned, Dokadur Khan went so far as to lay hand on his shoulder. The archer swung around with a scowl, hand at sword.
“Stay!” muttered the chieftain quickly. “I will not harm you, Manchu. So, I remember now the old warrior's face. It was like that of Khlit as it has been described to me. Dog of the devil! That is strange. What does the Curved Saber in the land of Wan Li?”
“That is for his telling,” responded the Manchu curtly, not failing to note the other's quickened interest. His own indifference appeared the greater. Khlit had chosen his messenger well. “He comes to the Togra early tomorrow. I will meet him and say that you will not hear his tidings.”
Dokadur Khan meditated, his thoughts mirrored in his swarthy, pockmarked countenance. Khlit he knew to be a warrior of note, one who had more than once caused grief to the men of the hat and girdle. What was he doing alone on the plains? Surely, it must be an important mission. He recalled that Khlit had hinted at a certain event that was to come to pass. What was this?
“He comes alone to the Togra?”
“What friends has he in the camp of Wan Li?” countered Arslan. “Nay, there will be few with him.”
“He is the foe of Wan Li, without doubt.”
“He has many enemies.”
“And he schemes to take plunder from the Chinese courtiers during the hunt?”
Arslan laughed. Khlit had not told him what was in his mind, but the archer knew it was not that. He judged that the Cossack had come to Wei Chung's yamen to gain sight of the Chinese court and that yesterday he had made up his mind on a course of action. What this might be, he did not know.
“Does a great khan seek for such plunder? In your village you know not the ways of the white-boned.”
The Tatar tradition of believing nobles to possess white bones and their inferiors black was known to Dokadur Khan, who stared ominously at the archer, angered, yet curious and anxious to learn what was in his visitor's mind.
If Arslan had delivered his message outright, claiming refuge and aid for himself and Khlit against the men of Wan Li, Dokadur Khan would have given him a contemptuous refusal. This in spite of the magic of Khlit's name. For the slow-witted khan could have nothing but indifference for men who sought help from him. But an enterprise against Wan Li was another matter and familiar ground to him.
“I also am a khan not lightly named by men,” he boasted, and Arslan smiled at the vanity of the man. “I have two thousand horsemen in the Togra, who are proved fighters, the chosen warriors of a dozen tribes.”
Arslan looked fleetingly at the motley array of riders, lying about the fires, occupied with bowl and dice. Mongrels, he thought, but hardy.
“Hey,” he growled as if disappointed, “no more? Khlit of the Curved Saber has led fifty times as many. Nay, I was at his side in the pillaging of Shankiang. Still, he has said that the fewer men the larger portions of spoil.”
Dokadur Khan scowled. “What is his plan?”
“He will say. How should I know? Am I one of the whiteboned? But this I will tell you. In the Ming court the leaders are no more of one mind. Wan Li is fast losing his grip on the Dragon Throne. Others have their hands on it already. The factions may divide during the hunt. And while they fight among themselves— Nay, you are said to be quick of wit.”
“Aye, that I am. If the Chinese quarrel, we may profitably join with one party, now that they are on the plains, far from their main armies.”
Arslan laughed long.
“Have you forgotten the wisdom of Khlit? Would he waste thought on such a plan? Not so. I tell you he is foe to the end with the Dragon Court. Can you not see what he means to do?” The shrewd archer knew that others were within hearing and that Dokadur Khan would be loath to admit his stupidity. As he had fancied, it came to pass.
“Aye, Manchu. But I will speak only with Khlit. He and I are one kind.”
“See that your men are ready when he comes. He will act quickly, or I know him not.”
Hence it was that the band of Dokadur Khan watched expectantly from the defiles of the Togra the coming of Khlit. But at this time, although Arslan did not know it, the old Cossack was riding to them, hard-pressed and harassed, a man marked for death by a half million swords, and the outlawed foe of the Ming nobility, as well as the party of Wei Chung and the Lady Li.
V
Two men may have equal cunning, but he who can best look into the mind of the other shall be leader. Not otherwise.
The sun was near the point of midday the morning after Arslan's arrival at the camp of Dokadur Khan when Khlit and six followers spurred their wearied horses into a gallop within the shadows of the Togra ravines.
More men had been with the Cossack at dawn. Some had fallen by lucky pistol shots of the pursuing Chinese—who were poor marksmen with this new weapon. More had dropped behind when their horses became exhausted. These, facing death with grim hardihood, knelt by their fallen beasts and shot what arrows remained to them into the ranks of their pursuers. Thus, each man lost in this manner had served to delay the Chinese as a straggling deer holds the wolf pack for a moment until its flesh is torn from its bones.
Khlit had done his best for the men. Well mounted himself, he stayed near the rear of his group of riders, encouraging them and directing their course. They knew as well as he that there was no hope of quarter at the hands of the Chinese soldiery. On the frontier of the Dragon Empire war is carried out to its termination— the sword or bowstring for able-bodied men, the conqueror's kang for children and handsome women, and whatever spoil may be available taken to the last bit of bronze or of silk cloth.
The Cossack had taken responsibility for the betrayal of the huntsmen upon himself. He had suspected that they were to be tools in Wei Chung's intrigue. But how was he to foresee the manner of the eunuch's treachery?
The men were content to follow him. They knew the fate that lay upon them after the burning of Wan Li's chair. It mattered not if Wei Chung proclaimed it a plot on the part of the huntsmen or an accident. It meant death for them in the land of the Dragon. And Khlit had said they might yet be saved. By reason of his careful leadership during the pursuit, they had come to believe there might be truth in his words.
They rode into the nearest rock-bound defile with horses foam-flecked and dark with sweat. They splashed across a stream and wound into some scattered scrub larches. As they did so, one who had looked behind gave an exclamation.
Khlit glanced over his shoulder in time to see two of the pursuing Chinese drop from their saddles with the feathered ends of arrows sticking from their chests. The others drew rein. The arrows continued to fly from the larch clump with great accuracy, and presently the riders turned and galloped back the way they had come. They were lost to sight almost at once in a bend in the ravine.
The huntsmen walked their horses forward slowly. Out of the larches trotted Arslan, several of the bandits following.
“Ho, uncle and brothers,” laughed the Manchu. “You bring a swarm of venomous insects into the Togr
a. Where are the others of our band?”
“Slain,” said an evil-looking plainsman with an oath.
“Nay, devil take it—Kurluk?”
“Slain.”
Briefly Khlit told Arslan what had happened at the beginning of the hunt and asked for Dokadur Khan. The sobered archer informed him that the master of the Togra with the bulk of his men was at the encampment, a short distance into the defiles. Also, that strong troops of Chinese had been sighted riding toward the Togra from the plain.
“It was an evil day we entered the service of the devil-begotten Wei Chung,” he growled. “Kurluk and two-score brave fellows spitted like ripe fowls! Nay, that is an ill word. Bethink you, lord, our lives hang by a thin halter here. The Chinese will not lightly give up the pursuit. And Dokadur Khan has seen them and suspects that it is you they are after. He is like a weed moved in the wind, a friend to the strongest side. It may enter his fat head to give us up to the Dragon riders.”
“I sent you with a message.”
“It was faithfully delivered.” Arslan recounted what had passed between him and the bandit chief. “Nay,” he concluded, “where the saddle chafes is here. Dokadur Khan believes you have come to offer him a share in a rare barranca, with excellent spoil for the bait. Instead you come like a tired antelope, marked by the falcon—”
“You did well. What do the Chinese?”
“The yellow faces are spreading out to cover all approaches to the Togra on the east—whence you have come—so our lookouts report. Presently they will enter not one but several of the passes at once. They are many, with leaders.”
“Then take me to Dokadur Khan.”
Khlit was silent until they reached the encampment where the master of the Togra was seated on his horse, several hundred followers with him. He eyed Khlit blackly as the Cossack rode forward with his dust-coated men. He did not raise his hand in greeting, nor did he offer to speak. Arslan would have broken the silence but refrained at a quick glance from Khlit.