Warriors of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  Hindu. “They mean no good; we will take the sword of the tall one with the yellow mane and carry it to Jani Beg, who will be pleased."

  He made a sign to his two followers to close in on the stranger. The man threw back his cloak, resting his sword-point in the earth in front of him. He was not ill to look on, with his legs planted strongly, his straight body bending forward from the hips slightly and his head high. His face seemed drawn. Later I knew that he had not eaten for a day and night.

  The slaying of the servant had not mattered, but this man had not the bearing of a common person. Moreover, it was one without armor, afoot, against three mounted and with mail vests. I reined my horse forward.

  “Only a wild boar hunts in a pack, Gutchluk Khan," I said. “Do you meet this man alone? He bears himself well. There will be more honor if you take his sword in fair play. Dismount! A coward seizes advantage when he can: a brave man will deal fairly with an adversary."

  The pig eyes of the Uzbek glittered from me to the stranger. He liked my words little. I think it had occurred to him that if the three attacked the Ferang they would leave their backs open to me. And, as I have said, the Uzbeks know how well I use a sword.

  He whispered to his men, who fell to eyeing me. I was within arm's reach and the way was narrow.

  “If your servants slay the man and you take his weapon to Jani Beg, I shall tell the true story of what happened, Gutchluk Khan," I said again, “And the bahadurs of Jani Beg will make mock of you."

  The words had their effect. The stupid Uzbek could not draw back now without disgrace. He scowled and whispered again to his men. Perhaps he urged them to put an arrow into me if chance offered. But it did not.

  “So be it," he said with bad grace and sprang from his horse.

  He was eager to gain honor by carrying the Ferang's weapon to his chief.

  He dressed his round shield and drew his scimitar. That which followed was swift in passing and I saw it well—although I watched the two followers from the corner of my eye.

  Gutchluk Khan ran against the tall Ferang, seeking to catch the other's sword on his shield and cut him down with a scimitar stroke. Shields are a clumsy thing, useful for defense, but—is not a good thrust the best defense?

  The tall Ferang poised his long sword straight before him and warded aside the scimitar. I saw that he watched not the weapon of Gutchluk Khan but the Uzbek's eyes. That is the mark of a good fencer.

  Truly, it was strange swordplay. The scimitar of Gutchluk Khan could not beat down the guard of the Ferang. And almost at once the Ferang's weapon thrust under the shield and bent sharply against the mail vest.

  He gave an exclamation at that and turned his attention to Gutchluk Khan's neck. He was very cool and moved slowly; still, with good effect. Another moment and the straight sword had passed twice against Gutchluk Khan's fat throat, over the armor, and blood flowed freely.

  The two followers shouted and Gutchluk Khan squealed like a hurt pig. He was afraid he was dying and the cuts had melted his courage, like snow before the sun of the desert of Khorassan.

  With their shields the two covered Gutchluk Khan from the thrusts of the Ferang while the Uzbek ran to his horse and mounted. The khan spurred away up the path whence he had first come, followed by his two, without further heed to me. I laughed, for he had squealed just like a pig.

  They passed me at a gallop, going toward Khanjut.

  “Lend me your horse and I will go after them," cried the Ferang to me, coming to the bridle of Wind-of-the-Hills.

  I laughed again. To none save Baber Shirzad Mir or the Mogul himself in battle would I render my horse.

  He had spoken in broken Mogholi, a language which, in the spoken word, is my own. For writing, we use Turki.

  “Nay," I answered in the same tongue. “You would be a fool. They would send an arrow through you, and—I have need of Wind-of-the-Hills. I ride to Khanjut tonight."

  With that he glanced up the pass after the three angrily. Almost, I think, he would have run after them afoot. Yet he should have been thankful that he was still alive.

  Then he turned to the servant, who was dead by now. He lifted the man in his arms and I saw that his grave face was marked with grief. He glanced once at the stream; then he walked up the hillside a few paces to a great poplar tree. It was a noble tree, with wide branches. Here, using his sword and the servant's staff, he fell to digging a grave between the roots of the poplar, where the soil was soft and there was no grass.

  I could not help him, for it is forbidden. I dismounted, taking food—dried prunes and rice—from saddlebags. After washing in the stream, I sat and ate—after making the noonday prayer. It is well to pray and the hours of life that remained to me were uncertain. That night I was going to Khanjut—after that, who knows?

  The Ferang did not cease his labors until he had hollowed out a hole sufficiently large to place the body in, when he doubled it up. Truly, that was an unwonted thing. The dead man had been a servant and the kites would have seen to the corpse. But the Ferang had unwonted thoughts.

  When the grave was filled in with dirt, he brought several large stones, one after the other, and laid them on it so that the animals would not dig the body up. This done, he hacked a cross in the smooth bark of the poplar with his sword. He took off his hat and stood by the grave for the time that it took me to swallow four times.

  It was a strange custom, even for a caphar—an unbeliever. The thought came to me that each race has its road to follow and at the end of the road, its shrine. I was meditating upon this and upon the skill with which the Ferang had used his straight sword when he came and stood by me.

  Since then I have told many that the straight sword is a goodly weapon, but they would not believe—not having seen the Ferang use his.

  “What was the name of the stout man who ordered my servant slain?" he asked.

  I told him.

  “He shall pay for what he did," he said.

  He spoke directly, as he had thrust with his sword, in a clear voice that came from his chest as if he knew what it was to give commands to many men.

  “Where has Gutchluk Khan gone?" he said again.

  “To Khanjut."

  He was silent, watching me eat. Then—“I have not had food for the space of a day and night," he said.

  I made room for him beside me. He was a caphar, but a brave man. He ate very much. I gave him all the prunes and rice, because he was hungry and I did not know when I should eat again. When he had finished he sat back moodily.

  Who was he? Where had he come from? What was his rank? I knew not. And there was the straight sword.

  “Give me leave," I begged politely, “to hold your weapon in my hand. I have not seen the like."

  He glanced at me quickly from his green eyes. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, he was my height, but broader through the chest and with more muscle on his forearms. His neck was round and firm and when he moved it was with the ease of one whose muscles are not slack. He had not put on his hat and the yellow hair curled around a broad, white brow. He was young—perhaps twenty-five.

  “I heard what you said to Gutchluk Khan when the rascal was about to attack me with his two men," he said in his broken

  Mogholi. “For that I give thanks. Yet how am I to trust another with my sword? I have no other weapon." His voice fell and I thought I heard him mutter, “Nor aught else."

  “You have eaten my bread and salt," I reminded him. “And he who has done that is safe from harm at the hand of the giver of salt."

  He looked at me again and handed me the sword without another word. It felt strangely in my hand. It would have been hard to deal a good cut with it. Still, the steel was very fine. I thanked him.

  “What is your name?" I inquired, for my curiosity had grown.

  “Weyand."

  “Wey-and," I repeated. “Is that all the name?"

  He told me that he was called Ralph Weyand; that he had the rank of Sir, or Ser in my tongue; that he had c
ome from the country of Ferangistan, from a very large tribe, the English.

  I had heard of them.

  “Then you are a lord," I asked, not quite believing, for he had neither attendants, rich garments or horses, and the title of Ser is not less than the Persian Shah.

  “Nay," he said. “My rank is not more than that of khan among your people."

  That was little enough. Still, Sir Weyand carried himself like one accustomed to command.

  He was a sailor—by which he meant khan of a ship—and a merchant. That is, he had not come to India to trade for himself but to make easy the way for others. After he had said that I would not have talked with him further—for a merchant is but a getter of coins, and a seaman is a man without wealth or honor—had it not been for two things.

  He had used his straight sword well; and I was still curious.

  Why was a man of the sea walking afoot in the hills of the Hindu Kush? Why was a merchant come to the highland of Badak-shan, instead of the cities of Hindustan—Agra, Delhi and Lahore? Also, how had he learned Mogholi?

  He told me all, sitting back against a willow and speaking sadly. I harkened, for I did not plan to reach Khanjut until nightfall. As for Sir Weyand, he must have cared little what he did. His was a great sadness.

  Sir Weyand had been sent to India to the court of Jahangir by him who was the ameer of England. He had come, he said, in the service of his sovereign lord, the king. The English had a thought to make a company to trade with India. This they called the East India Company. They were merchants who knew something of fighting.

  The Ferang had landed from his ship at Surat and had gone from thence to Agra. There, he had presented himself at the court of Jahangir. But he had few attendants and fewer presents. That was not well. As I, also, had learned at Kabul.

  Likewise, the Ferang made enemies. In those years the Portuguese were in favor with Jahangir—the Portuguese, whose priests and traders had come from Goa and were at Agra.

  The Portuguese, said Sir Weyand, knew that if the English received permission to trade in India for the East India Company, their own traffic would be hurt. I knew naught of merchants and their ways, but the Ferang said it and it may have been true.

  The priests of the Portuguese had contrived to persuade Jahangir that the English were robbers. Sir Weyand was not granted a second audience. Some of his followers had died from illness; others returned to the ship.

  Sir Weyand said the priests had tried to poison him. I know not. Priests, who are not warriors, may not be trusted. They had cut him off from his ship.

  When Sir Weyand learned that Jahangir had been turned against him, he sent a message to the Mogul that he would return to the Presence. He swore this on an oath—that he would return to the court and gain the right to trade for the East India Company.

  Then he went into northern Hindustan with one servant and studied Mogholi with certain kwajahs—learned men. He had come to distrust the interpreter of the court. And so he mastered Mogholi. But the priests had tracked him, and because they were afraid, they were dangerous. The Ferang had been attacked by paid men; he had left Kabul to seek refuge in the hills.

  That was his tale. Much I believed, for he spoke frankly; some I could not believe.

  “How is it," I asked, “that the Portuguese, who are Christians, wish your death, when you are also a Christian? It is not fitting."

  “In your religion, Abdul Dost," he replied after a moment, “there are many sects. Are they always at peace?"

  “Nay."

  “Neither am I at peace with priests of Agra. We are two sects. Likewise Portugal is bitter to the English."

  “Then," I said at once, for here was a plain puzzle, “why does not the ameer of the English make war upon the ameer of the Portuguese and try the issue by the sword?"

  “We do not seek war, but peace." The Ferang looked long and thoughtfully at the distant snow peaks of the Hindu Kush. “War, perhaps, will come; if so we will have the victory."

  “Meanwhile," I pointed out, “the Portuguese hold the favor of the Mogul and you are an outcast from Hindustan, like the lepers of Kashgar—not otherwise."

  This being true, he said nothing.

  “What do you plan to do?" I asked.

  “In time," he said, “I shall return, as I have sworn, to the court of Jahangir, and the Mogul will hear my message."

  Verily, this was strange. The Ferang had no thought of fate. It seemed that his fate was assured—as he was alone in the hills, his servant slain, without food or money. He had neither horse nor armor. Yet he spoke with conviction.

  Some have said that it was not fitting that I, a mansabdar and warrior, should be named Abdul—the man of books. This, like many other riddles, may have been one of the unseen ways of

  God. For I, by dint of fighting through many lands, had become a speaker of three languages; wherefore my account of the fighting in Badakshan in the year of the Ox has been written down by the Mogul's scribes in the annals of Mohulistan.

  What is written is written. It was fate that brought Sir Weyand to me in the Pass of Shyr. And from this meeting was born the strange event at Khanjut that night.

  Even as I had questioned the Ferang, he asked many things of me. And I told him what lay so heavy on my heart—the captivity of Baber Shirzad Mir, the Tiger Lord of Badakshan.

  We were of an age, Shirzad Mir and I, although the mir's curling beard was gray and his hawk eyes set in wrinkles. We had fought from Herat to Samarkand against the neighboring Uzbeks of Turkestan.

  Before dawn on the coming night Shirzad Mir was to be bow-stringed. His wives had already been taken by Jani Beg, who was holding the women for the coming of his son, Said Afzel, from Kabul the next day or the day after. And Shirzad Mir had no sons.

  “It was the will of God," I explained to the Ferang, who had listened closely, “that this heaviness should be laid upon us. No man may escape his fate."

  “Then Shirzad Mir is a rebel—against Jahangir?"

  I put my hand on my sword and scowled.

  “Eh, Ferang," I said, being angry, “that is an ill word! You know not what you say. When a Mogul dies, the chieftains of the tribes send to pay fealty to the new Mogul—or they revolt. Shirzad Mir did not revolt. But Jani Beg had the first word to Jahangir at the court. He offered to take the hill country of Badakshan from Shirzad Mir—who had not yet sent homage, the distance to Agra being great."

  And I told him how our fortunes—the fortune of Shirzad Mir— had fallen. Again he listened.

  “If Shirzad Mir could live," he said, “he might make his peace with Jahangir. The Mogul would forgive him the war for the sake of the mir's service to Akbar."

  I was silent. The Ferang knew not the ways of the court. Jani Beg had been clever. And he held Badakshan in the palm of his hand. Likewise, the memory of a Mogul is short.

  “So you are going to Khanjut," went on Sir Weyand, “to make an effort to save your lord?"

  “Nay," I said. “No man may escape his fate. Shirzad Mir will go to the mercy of God tonight and perhaps I shall keep him company. I shall ride in front of the gate of Khanjut and shout an insult to the men within. Riders will come forth, and of these I may slay several before I am slain. This will be an honor to Shirzad Mir. For there will be one man to strike a blow for him, even when his hour has come."

  “Then you are a greater fool than I, Abdul Dost," he replied.

  “How?"

  “Because Jani Beg has the upper hand, you say it is your fate to die."

  “It may be written that I shall slay the men at the gate of Khanjut and live," I pointed out.

  “Your fate, Abdul Dost, lies with Shirzad Mir; if you are a true follower of his, you will try to save his life."

  “It may not be."

  I lay back and watched the white flecks of clouds moving across the blue, blue veil of the sky above the pine-tips of the hills. They were like foam flung from the muzzle of a horse. The Ferang was silent for a long time, perhaps the
time that it takes milk to boil.

  “What manner of place is Khanjut, Abdul Dost?"

  Now Khanjut is the citadel of Badakshan, for the great city of Balkh has dirt walls and is not easily defended; the Pass of Shyr ends at Khanjut. Wherefore the citadel is called in the language of my people the Iron Gate—Khalga Timur. Caravans bound from Kabul to Kashgar and Balkh pass by it. It was built in the time of the first Mogul, of stone from the quarries, and it has walls to four times the height of a man. Also four towers built inside, to

  command the walls. It is a small fortress, made to be held by a picked army. And it had never been taken by storm.

  “Jani Beg has made his camp within the walls," I said, “with fifteen hundred horsemen and as many more bazaar followers. An outpost is kept at the cliff gate. Sentries are on the walls at night."

  “And where is Shirzad Mir kept?"

  “In the tower by the hill."

  So the sheep-boy had told me.

  “Can the cliff be climbed?"

  I laughed. Many had tried it during the siege. But the cliff is the height of many spears, facing the plain. Below it runs the caravan track. On the top—as those who climbed it learned—is dug a moat against the castle wall.

  In the rainy season and in Summer, when the snows on the peaks melt, the water from the river beside which we sat is at the flood. God has given this fine water to Khanjut and Badakshan. It flows from its gorge into a covered way, built cleverly of brick, which leads into the citadel from the hillside of Khanjut. Thus, we have water for drinking and to fill the moat.

  So much I told the Ferang.

  “Is the stream at flood now?" he asked.

  “Nay; it is the season of harvest, when the snows above have melted and the rain is not yet."

  He sat near me, nursing his sword. I was fain to sleep, for I would need my strength that night, but still he talked.

  “Are any followers of Shirzad Mir within call, Abdul Dost?"

  “Nay—save for old Iskander Khan, the Kirghiz, who with his two striplings of sons tends sheep on the mountain near Khan-jut."

  “He is a friend?"