Warriors of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  Khlit wheeled alertly, hearing stealthy steps behind him. A caravaneer had crept within arm's reach, dagger uplifted.

  The Cossack, who was fighting with the cool intentness that was peculiar to him, had expected such a move, and the man fell back. His neck had been half-severed by a short stroke of the curved saber. Khlit reached behind him and pulled the sinking body of Nasir Beg between him and the second caravaneer. And the arrow the man aimed embedded itself in the form of the Arab.

  Holding Nasir Beg in one arm—his sword arm—Khlit felt for and found the pistol in the Arab's girdle. Before the archer could fit another arrow to bow, the pistol bellowed in his face, sending its heavy ball through his brain.

  Khlit cast down the smoking weapon, watching the man reel to the earth. A shrill cry from Yasmi came to his ears. He caught the arrow that had pierced his lower leg, broke it and limped upward through the rocks.

  He heard a shout, the beat of hoofs. A horse plunged forward into view, sweating and sobbing with weariness—plunged and fell. A mailed form sprang clear, casting aside a flying cloak that glittered with jewels.

  The newcomer alighted on his feet, gained his balance deftly and sprang at Khlit with uplifted scimitar.

  Khlit caught a fleeting glimpse of a small, jeweled turban, a silvery coat of mail, and a dark, scarred face, dust-stained and alight with the joy of battle. He saw white teeth bared in a smile, and black eyes that bored into his.

  “Hai—hai—look to yourself, graybeard! Stealer of women and seller of the death anointed! Ho—graybeard—Pir Kasim! The thread of your life is thin. Look upon the angel of death, Pir Kasim—”

  The whirlwind attack of the warrior left Khlit no time to consider or to speak. The next instant he was fighting for his life, his saber crossing a blade that had an arm of steel behind it.

  Many times and often had Khlit fought with the swordsmen of Tartary and Hindustan, but now he was faced by a master of the scimitar and one who fought as recklessly as Khlit himself.

  The two retainers who had scrambled down over the rocks, panting, looked upon the combat and paused, observing the play of the blades with eagerness, and staring one upon the other in wonder.

  “Hai—hai—” Khlit's hat had been struck from his head and his fur khalat slashed by a glancing blow—“I have trimmed your scalp, graybeard; look to your beard.”

  A blow of the scimitar nearly found Khlit's throat.

  “Does Abdul Dost keep his pledge!”

  For several moments the two swords held in never-ceasing play.

  And ever Khlit grew weaker, his knees trembling with fatigue. No chance was afforded him for a trick of the sword, nor any respite.

  The lean muscles of the Cossack's long arm were quivering, and his vision blurred. Still the scimitar flashed almost in his eyes.

  He did not give ground. Nor did he speak. He smiled upon Abdul Dost.

  Then the two watchers saw a strange thing. They saw Khlit exhausted and at the point of death. They noted that Abdul Dost was panting, fighting with savage intentness. And they saw the man whose strength had ebbed gather himself together, limping, his weight upon one leg.

  And Khlit sprang at Abdul Dost with the curved saber gripped in both hands, hacking and hewing, beating down the other's weapon, slashing at his mail so that the sparks flew from the steel. Then Abdul Dost sprang back.

  The two watchers saw Khlit sink upon his knees and the saber fall from his hand and his head fall upon his chest. The last effort of the Cossack had exhausted the remnant of his strength and had blinded him.

  Abdul Dost surveyed his foe, panting and half-stunned by the unexpected attack.

  Then a small figure rushed upon the Muslim, and Yasmi cast her arms around him.

  “Ai, lord—stay your hand!” she cried. “This is not Pir Kasim. The dog of a merchant has fled afoot up the mountain. Nay, this is he who took my quarrel upon him, my baba-ji—father-lord.”

  Abdul Dost was quick of wit. He sheathed his weapon. Then he stared around, marking the bodies of Nasir Beg and the cara-vaneers. He wiped the sweat from his brow and seated himself wearily upon a stone.

  One of his men approached.

  “The eunuch will watch no more women, Lord of Badakshan,” he informed Abdul Dost grimly. “He was in the hands of the women and—the hatred of the high-born is not akin to mercy.”

  Abdul Dost stirred the form of the Arab with his foot and glanced up at Yasmi, who was watching him fearfully.

  “Rightly have they named this the caravan of the dead, little Yasmi. My eyes tell me the truth of this and what I have seen I have seen.”

  Abdul dost rose, not oversteadily, and stared at Khlit, who still rested on his knees, drawing gulping breaths.

  “Did the hand of this warrior slay these three?” he asked.

  Yasmi looked around with a shiver.

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “What name bears he?”

  “He is Khlit, who has come from very far. It is said he was once Kha Khan of the Jungar, and leader of the Tatar horde. He it was who brought Nur-Jahan, wife of the Mogul, from China. He is my baba-ji.”

  Abdul Dost leaned over Khlit and lifted him to his feet. He noted the arrow in the Cossack's leg and swore under his breath.

  Then he helped Khlit to a seat on the stone where he had been resting. Yasmi noticed the Cossack's sword lying on the earth and would have picked it up, but a sharp command from the Muslim stayed her.

  Motioning the girl aside, Abdul Dost picked up Khlit's weapon, wiped it clean, weighed it curiously in his hand and laid it across the other's knees. Khlit glanced up at this, for the stupor of weariness had passed from his sight.

  “Hey—it was a good fight, warrior,” the Cossack said.

  His head sank once more between his shoulders. He lifted a lean hand and gazed wonderingly upon its trembling.

  “I have met many swordsmen in Hindustan and in Badak-shan,” responded Abdul Dost gruffly, “but none equal to you. Aye, it was rare swordplay. Yet was the fault mine, for I—in armor—set upon you unknowing—”

  Khlit shook his head indifferently. The lines of his harsh face had deepened within the hour. Then he sought to take his sword but could not, for his strength was gone.

  His head sank again, near to his knee. He lifted it with an effort.

  “I shall not wield sword again, warrior,” he said, breathing heavily. “The strength that was once mine is gone. My arm is weak. Something that was here—is sped.”

  He touched his chest.

  “You—overmastered me. It is my last fight.”

  Abdul Dost would have spoken but checked himself. He turned aside, musing.

  “The blame is mine,” he said to Yasmi. “I would that I had known.”

  He ascended the rocks, for there was much to be done. In an hour he had arranged for Yasmi and the other women to be conducted back to the territory of her father, the Sheikh of Kuhistan, by way of the northern passes, and had mounted them under escort of his two followers, for food was lacking in the caravan and their departure was pressing.

  “None will molest my men, who will go by the route through Badakshan,” he told Yasmi. “And in the camp of your people these women may have peace.”

  “Aye, my lord,” assented Yasmi.

  When she would have knelt and poured forth her thanks, the mansabdar stayed her gruffly.

  “Go—and sing among your hills, little Yasmi,” he bade her. “Here is but an evil spot for such as you. In Kuhistan young warriors will give you their love, doubtless.”

  Khlit raised his head as the caravan moved off. He saw that his horse was not among those that went. Then he fell again into meditation, for he was very weary and his wound pained him.

  He wondered why Abdul Dost had not gone with the caravan. Then he saw the mansabdar approach with his cloak again on his shoulders.

  Khlit lifted his hand. He was not troubled at being left alone, but he was very tired and he wondered—without being con cerned—whet
her Abdul Dost had thought to leave him food.

  “Farewell, warrior,” he said gruffly. “Ho—it was indeed a good fight.”

  Abdul Dost did not reply. He was carrying an armful of wood. This he laid on the ground and presently kindled into flames by use of his flint and tinder. Then he approached the Cossack and drew off his boot.

  He cleansed and washed Khlit's wound with water from the ford after drawing the arrowhead, which Khlit suffered him to do silently. This accomplished, he bound the leg with some strips of cloth tightly.

  By now the fire was blazing. Abdul Dost returned and presently came back carrying many things.

  He laid Khlit's sheepskin robe on the ground near the fire, and his own beside it. He drew some meat from his saddlebags and began to toast it on a stick in the flames.

  By now it was twilight, and the Darband was in deep shadow. Abdul Dost helped Khlit to lie on his sheepskin.

  “Eh, Khlit,” he said, “the horses are fed, and it is now our turn.”

  Not until then did the Cossack understand that Abdul Dost would not leave him. He looked at the Muslim in surprise. Never before had another tended him in this manner, or given him such comfort.

  Neither man spoke. But Khlit was strangely content.

  He had found a friend, and he who had been named the wanderer was no longer alone.

  The Bride of Jagannath

  Down past the stone shrine of Kedarnath, down and over the tall grass of the Dehra-Dun, marched the host of the older gods.

  The Pandas marched with feet that touched not the tall grass.

  Past the deva-prayag—the meeting-place of the waters—came the older gods bearing weapons in their hands.

  In the deva-prayag they washed themselves clean. The gods were very angry. The wind came and went at their bidding.

  Thus they came. And the snow-summits of Himal, the grass of the valley, and the meeting-place of the waters—all were as one to the gods.

  The Vedas

  The heavy morning dew lay on the grass of the land of the Five Rivers, the Punjab. The hot, dry monsoon was blowing up from the southern plain and cooling itself among the foothills of the Siwalik in the year of our Lord 1609 when two riders turned their horses from a hill path into the main highway of the district of Kukushetra.

  It was a fair day, and the thicket through which the trail ran was alive with the flutter of pigeons and heavy with the scent of wild thyme and jasmine and the mild odor of the fern trees. The sun beat on them warmly, for the Spring season was barely past and they were riding south in the eastern Punjab, by the edge of Rajasthan, toward the headwaters of the Ganges, in the empire of Jahangir, Ruler of the World and Mogul of India.

  “A fair land,” said one. “A land ripe with sun, with sweet fruits and much grain. Our horses will feed well. Here you may rest from your wounds—”

  He pointed with a slender, muscular hand to where a gilt dome reared itself over the cypress tops on a distant hill summit.

  “Eh, my Brother of Battles,” he said, “yonder shines the dome of Kukushetra. Aye, the temple of Kukushetra wherein dwells an image of Jagannath—”

  “Jagannath!”

  It was a shrill cry that came from the roadside. A small figure leaped from the bushes at the word and seized the bridles of both horses. They reared back and he who had pointed to the temple muttered a round oath.

  “Jagannath!” cried the newcomer solemnly.

  He was a very slender man, half-naked, with a gray cloth twisted about his loins. The string hanging down his left chest indicated—as well as the caste-mark on his forehead—that he was a Brahman, of the lesser temple order.

  “The holy name!” he chanted. “Lord of the World! Brother to Balabhadra and to Subhadra! Incarnation of the mighty Vishnu, and master of the Kali-damana! Even as ye have named Jagan-nath, so must ye come to the reception hall of the god—”

  “What is this madness?” asked the elder of the two riders gruffly. The Brahman glanced at him piercingly and resumed his arrogant harangue.

  “The festival of Jagannath is near at hand, warrior,” he warned. “This is the land of the mighty god. Come, then, to the temple and bring your gift to lay at the shrine of Jagannath of Kukushetra, which is only less holy than the shrine of Puri itself, at blessed Orissa. Come—”

  “By Allah!” laughed the first rider. “By the ninety-nine holy names of God!”

  He shook in his saddle with merriment. The Brahman dropped the reins as if they had been red hot and surveyed the two with angry disappointment.

  “By the beard of the Prophet, and the ashes of my grandsire— this is a goodly jest,” roared the tall warrior. “Behold, a pilgrim hunter come to solicit Abdul Dost and Khlit of the Curved Saber.” He spoke Mogholi, whereas the misguided Brahman had used his native Hindustani. Khlit understood Abdul Dost. Yet he did

  not laugh. He was looking curiously at the marked brow of the priest, which had darkened in anger at the gibe of the Muslim.

  “Eh—this is verily a thing to warm the heart,” went on Abdul Dost. “A Brahman, a follower of Jagannath, bids us twain come to the festival of his god. He knew not that I am a follower of the true Prophet, and you, Khlit, wear a Christian cross of gold under the shirt at your throat.”

  He turned to the unfortunate pilgrim hunter.

  “Nay, speaker-of-the-loud-tongue, here is an ill quarter to cry your wares. Would the wooden face of armless Jagannath smile upon a Muslim and a Christian, think you?”

  “Nay,” quoth the priest scornfully, “not so much as upon a toad, or a pariah who is an eater of filth.”

  In his zeal, he had not taken careful note of the persons of the two travelers.

  He scanned the warriors keenly, looking longest at Khlit. The elegantly dressed Afghan, with his jeweled scimitar and his silver-mounted harness and small, tufted turban, was a familiar figure.

  But the gaunt form of the Cossack was strange to the Brahman. Khlit's bearded cheeks were haggard with hardship and illness in the mountains during the long Winter of Kashmir, and his wide, deep-set eyes were gray. His heavy sheepskin coat was thrown back, disclosing a sinewy throat and high, rugged shoulders.

  In Khlit's scarred face was written the boldness of a fighting race, hardened, not softened by the wrinkles of age. It was an open face, lean and weather-stained. The deep eyes returned the stare of the priest with a steady, meditative scrutiny.

  Abdul Dost was still smiling. His handsome countenance was that of a man in the prime of life, proud of his strength. He sat erect in a jeweled saddle, a born horseman and the finest swordsman of northern Hindustan. He rode a mettled Arab. Khlit's horse was a shaggy Kirghiz pony.

  “It is time,” broke in Khlit bluntly—he was a man of few words—“that we found food for ourselves and grain for our horses. Where lies this peasant we seek?”

  Abdul Dost turned to the watching priest, glancing at the sun. “Ho, hunter of pilgrims,” he commanded, “since we are not birds for your snaring—and the enriching of your idol—tell us how many bowshot distant is the hut of Bhimal, the catcher of birds. We have ridden since sunup, and our bellies yearn.”

  The Brahman folded his arms. He seemed inclined to return a sharp answer, then checked himself. His black eyes glinted shrewdly. He pointed down the dusty highway.

  “If the blind lead the blind, both will fall into the well,” he chanted. “Nay, would you behold the power of the name of Ja-gannath whom you foolishly deride? Then come with me to the abode of this same Bhimal. I will guide you, for I am bound thither myself on a quest from the temple.”

  “So be it,” nodded Abdul Dost carelessly and urged his horse forward, offering the pilgrim hunter a stirrup which the Brahman indignantly refused.

  Abdul Dost was not the man to repent his own words, spoken freely. But he understood better than Khlit the absolute power of the Hindu priests in the Land of the Five Rivers.

  The fertile province of Kukushetra was a favorite resort for the Hindu pilgrims of the high
lands. Here were the ruins of an ancient temple, near which the new-gilded edifice—a replica of that at Puri at the Ganges' mouth—had been built. Here also were gathered the priests from the hill monasteries, to tend the shrine of the Kukushetra Jagannath.

  Religious faith had not made a breach between Khlit and Abdul Dost. The Cossack was accustomed to keep his thoughts to himself, and to the mansabdar friendship was a weightier matter than the question of faith. He had eaten bread and salt with Khlit.

  He had nearly slain the Cossack in their first meeting, and this had made the two boon companions. Khlit had treated his wounds with gunpowder and earth mixed with spittle—until Abdul Dost substituted clean bandages and ointment.

  The two ate of the same food and slept often under the same robe. They were both veteran fighters in an age when a man's

  life was safeguarded only by a good sword-arm. Abdul Dost was pleased to lead his comrade through the splendid hill country of northern India, perhaps influenced—for he was a man of simple ideas—by the interest which the tall figure of Khlit always aroused among the natives.

  Khlit was well content to have the companionship of a man who liked to wander and who had much to say of India and the wars of the Mogul. Khlit himself was a wanderer who followed the path of battles. From this he had earned the surname of the “Curved Saber.”

  It was the first time that Khlit had set foot in Hindustan, which was the heart of the Mogul Empire.

  The priest, who had maintained a sullen silence, halted at a wheat field bordering the road. Here a bare-legged, turbaned man was laboring, cutting the wheat with a heavy sickle and singing as he worked.

  The Brahman called, and the man straightened, casting an anxious eye at the three in the road. Khlit saw his eyes widen as he recognized the priest.

  “Greeting, Kurral,” spoke the man in the field; “may the blessing of divine Vishnu rest upon you.”