Warriors of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  “It avails not, my lord,” he said gruffly. “Let us to horse and then we may do something.”

  The chieftain, dazed by his misfortune, followed the tall Afghan toward the stables, which so far had escaped the notice of the mob, bent on the richer plunder of the castle. Here they met

  Khlit walking composedly toward them, leading his own pony and the Arab of Abdul Dost, fully saddled.

  “Tell the stripling,” growled Khlit, “that his palace is lost. Retha I saw in the hands of the priests. They will guard her from the mob. Come.”

  He led them in the direction of the elephant-stockade. He had noted that morning that a gate offered access to the elephants' pool. Avoiding one or two of the great beasts who were trampling about the place, leaderless and uneasy, he came upon a man who ran along the stockade bearing a torch.

  It was Sawal Das, bow in hand. The archer halted at sight of his lord.

  “I had a thought to seek for Asil Rumi,” he cried. “But the largest of the elephants is gone with his mahout. Aie!—heavy is my sorrow. My lord, my men are slain—”

  “Come!” broke in Abdul Dost. “We can do naught in Thaneswar.”

  Even then, loath by hereditary custom to turn their backs on a foe, the chieftain and his archer would have lingered helplessly. But Abdul Dost took their arms and drew them forward.

  “Would you add to the triumph of Nagir Jan?” he advised coolly. “There be none yonder but the dead and those who have gone over to the side of the infidel priests.

  “This old warrior is in the right. He has seen many battles. We be four men, armed, with two horses. Better that than dead.”

  A shout from the garden announced that they had been seen. This decided the archer, who tossed his torch to the ground and ran outward through the stockade and the outer wall.

  Avoiding their pursuers in the shadows, they passed by the pool into the wood beyond the fields. Here a freshly beaten path opened before them. Sawal Das trotted ahead until all sounds of pursuit had dwindled. Then they halted, eyeing each other in silence.

  Matap Rao leaned against a horse, the sweat streaming from his face. His slender shoulders shook. Khlit glanced at him, then fell to studying the ground under their feet.

  Sawal Das unstrung his bow and counted the arrows in his quiver.

  “Enough,” he remarked grimly, “to send as gifts into the gullets of the Snake and his Kurral. They will not live to see Retha placed upon the car of Jagannath. I swear it.”

  Abdul Dost grunted.

  Matap Rao raised his head and they fell silent.

  “In the fall of my house and the loss of my wife,” he said bitterly, “lies my honor. Fool that I was to bring Retha to Thaneswar when Nagir Jan had set his toils about it. I cannot face the men of Rinthambur.”

  “Rinthambur!” cried Abdul Dost. “Ho—that is a good word. The hard-fighting clan will aid us, nothing loath—aye, and swiftly. Look you, on these two horses we may ride there—” “Peace!” said the Rawul calmly. “Think you, soldier, I would ride to Rinthambur when they still hold the wedding feast, and say that Retha has been taken from me?”

  “What else?” demanded the blunt Afghan. “By Allah—would you see the Lotus Face fall to Jagannath? In a day and a night we may ride thither and back. With the good clan of Rinthambur at our heels. Eh—they wield the swords to teach these priests a lesson—”

  “Nay, it would be too late.”

  “When does the procession of the god—”

  “Just before sunset the car of Jagannath is dragged to the ruins.” “Then,” proposed the archer, “if Vishnu favors us we may attack—we four—and slay many. Twilight will cover our movement near the ruins. Aye, perchance we can muster some following among the nearby peasants.

  “Then will we provide bodies in very truth for the car of Ja-gannath to roll upon. From this hour am I no longer a follower of the All-Destroyer—”

  Matap Rao smiled wanly. “So have I not been for many years, Sawal Das. My faith is that of the Rinthambur clan, who are called children of the sun. I worship the One Highest. Yet what has it availed me?”

  He turned as Khlit came up. The Cossack had lent an attentive ear to the speech of the archer. He had completed his study of the trail wherein they stood. He swaggered as he walked forward—a fresh alertness in his gaunt figure.

  “It is time,” he said, “that we took counsel together as wise men and as warriors. The time for folly is past.”

  Abdul Dost and Sawal Das, nothing loath, seated themselves on their cloaks upon the ground already damp with the night dew. Matap Rao remained as he was, leaning against the horse in full moonlight notwithstanding the chance of discovery by a stray pursuer.

  The mesh of cypress and fern branches overhead cast mottled shadows on the group. The moon was well in the West and the moist air of the early morning hours chilled the perspiration with which the four were soaked. They drew their garments about them and waited, feeling the physical quietude that comes upon the heels of forcible exertion.

  Khlit, deep in the shadows, called to Sawal Das softly.

  “What see you here in the trail?” he questioned. “This is not a path made by men, nor is it a buffalo-track leading to water.” The archer bent forward. “True,” he acknowledged. “It is the trail of elephants. One at least has passed.”

  He felt of the broad spoor. “Siva—none but Asil Rumi, largest of the Thaneswar herd, could have left these marks. They are fresh.”

  “Asil Rumi,” continued Khlit from the darkness. “It is as I thought. Tell me, would the oldest elephant have fled without his rider?”

  “Nay. Asil Rumi is schooled in war. He is not to be frightened. Only will he flee where his mahout leads. Without the man Asil Rumi would have stayed.”

  “This mahout—is he true man or traitor?”

  “True man to the Rawul. It is his charge to safeguard the elephant. He must seek to lead Asil Rumi into hiding in the jungle.”

  “A good omen.”

  Satisfaction for the first time was in the voice of the Cossack. “Now may we plan. Abdul Dost, have you a thought as to how we may act?”

  The Muslim meditated.

  “We will abide with the Rawul. We have taken his quarrel upon us. He may have a thought to lead us into the temple this night, while the slaves of Jagannath sleep and the plundering engages the multitude—”

  “Vain,” broke in the archer. “The priests hold continued festival. The temple wall is too high to climb and the guards are alert. Retha will be kept within the sanctuary of the idols, under the gold dome where no man may come but a priest.

  “The only door to the shrine is through the court of offerings, across the place of dancing, and through the audience hall—” “Even so,” approved Khlit. “Now is it the turn of Sawal Das. He has already spoken well.”

  “My thought is this,” explained the archer. “There will be great shouting and confusion when the sacred car is led from the temple gate. A mixed throng will seek to draw the car by the ropes and to push at the many wheels.

  “We may cover our armor with common robes and hide our weapons, disguising our faces. Men from the outlying districts will aid us, for they are least tainted by the poisonous breath of the Snake—”

  “Not so,” objected the Afghan, ill pleased at the archer's refusal of his own plan. “Time lacks for the gathering of an adequate force. Those who were most faithful to the Rawul have suffered their heads and hands cut off and other defects.

  “Besides, the mastery of Thaneswar has passed to the Snake. When would peasants risk their lives in a desperate venture? Eh— when fate has decreed against them?”

  “Justly spoken,” said Khlit bluntly. “Sawal Das, you and the Rawul might perchance conceal your likeness, but the heavy bones of Abdul Dost and myself—they would reveal us in the throng. It may not be.”

  “What then?” questioned the archer fiercely. “Shall we watch like frightened women while this deed of shame is done?”

&nbs
p; “Has the chieftain a plan?” asked Khlit.

  Matap Rao lifted his head wearily.

  “Am I a warrior?” he said calmly. “The Rinthambur warriors have a saying that a sword has no honor until drawn in battle for a just cause. This night has brought me dishonor. There is no path for me except a death at the hands of the priests—”

  “Not so,” said Khlit.

  The others peered into the shadows, trying to see his face. “You have all spoken,” continued the Cossack. “I have a plan that may gain us Retha. Will you hear it?”

  “Speak,” said Abdul Dost curiously.

  “The temple may not be entered. The multitude of worshipers is too great for the assault of few men. Then must the chieftain and Abdul Dost ride to Rinthambur as speedily as may be.” “And Retha?” questioned the Rawul.

  “Sawal Das and I will fetch the woman from the priests and go to meet you, so that your swords may cover our flight.” Matap Rao laughed shortly. To him the rescue of Retha seemed a thing impossible.

  “Is my honor so debased that I would leave my bride to the chance of rescue at other hands?”

  Whereupon Abdul Dost rose and went to his side respectfully. He laid a muscular hand on the shoulder of the youth.

  “My lord,” he said slowly, “your misfortune has befallen because of the evil craft of men baser and shrewder than you. Allah—you are but a new-weaned boy in experience of combat. You are a reader of books.

  “Yet this man called the Curved Saber is a planner of battles. He has had a rank higher than yours. He has led a hundred thousand swords. His hair is gray, and it was said to me not once but many times that he is very shrewd.

  “It is no dishonor to follow his leadership. I have not yet seen him in battle, but I have heard what I have heard.”

  The Rawul was silent for a space. Then, “Speak,” he said to Khlit.

  While they listened Khlit told them what was in his mind, in few words. He liked not to talk of his purpose. He spoke to ease the trouble of the boy.

  When he had done Sawal Das and Abdul Dost looked at each other.

  “Bismillah!” cried the Afghan. It is a bold plan. What! Think you I would ride to Rinthambur and leave you—Khlit—to act thusj'

  “Aye,” said the Cossack dryly. “There is room for two men in my venture; no more. Likewise, two should ride to the rajas, for one man might fail or be slain—”

  Matap Rao peered close into Khlit's bearded face.

  “The greater danger lies here,” he said. “You would take your life in your open hand. How can I ask this of you?”

  Khlit grunted, for such words were ever to his distaste. “I would strike a blow for Retha,” he responded, but he was thinking of Nagir Jan.

  His words stirred the injured pride of the Hindu.

  “By the gods!” he cried. “Then shall I stay with you.”

  “Nay, my lord. Will the chieftains of Rinthambur raise their standard and mount their riders for war on the word of a stranger —a Muslim? So that they will believe, you must go,” adding in his beard, “and be out of my way.”

  So it happened before moonset that Abdul Dost and the Rawul mounted and rode swiftly to the West through paths known to the chieftain.

  At once Khlit and Sawal Das set forth upon the spoor of Asil Rumi, which led north toward the farm of Bhimal. Now as he went the little archer fell to humming under his breath. It was the first time he had sung in many hours.

  VI

  When the shadows lengthened in the courtyard of the temple of Kukushetra the next day a long cry went up from the multitude. From the door under the wheel and flag of Vishnu came a line of priests.

  First came the strewers of flowers, shedding lotus-blossoms, jasmine and roses in the path that led to the car of Jagannath. The bevy of dancing women thronged after them, chattering excitedly. But their shrill voices were drowned in the steady, passionate roar that went up from the throng.

  The temple prostitutes no longer drew the eyes of the pilgrims. Their task in arousing the desires of the men was done. Now it was the day of Jagannath, the festival of the Janam.

  Bands of priests emerged from the gate, motioning back the people. A solid wall of human beings, straining for sight of the god, packed the temple enclosure and stretched without the gates. A deeply religious, almost frenzied mass, waiting for the great event of the year, which was the passage of the god to his country seat—as the older ruined temple was termed.

  A louder acclaim greeted the appearance of the grotesque wooden form of the god, borne upon the shoulders of the Brahmans. The figure of Jagannath was followed by that of the small Balabhadra, brother to the god, and Subhadra, his sister.

  Jagannath was carried to his car. This was a complicated wooden edifice, put together by reverent hands—a car some fifteen yards long and ten yards wide, and lofty. Sixteen broad wooden wheels, seven feet high, supported the mass. A series of platforms, occupied by the women of the temple, hung with garlands of flowers and with offerings to the god, led up to a wide seat, wherein was placed Jagannath.

  This done, those nearest the car laid hold of the wheels and the long ropes, ready to begin the famous journey. The smaller cars of Balabhadra and Subhadra received less attention and fewer adherents.

  Was not Jagannath Lord of the World, chief among the gods, and divine bringer of prosperity during the coming year? So the

  Brahmans had preached, and the people believed. Had not their fathers believed before them?

  The decorators of the idols had robed Jagannath in costly silk and fitted false arms to the wooden body so that it might be sightly in the eyes of the multitude.

  The cries of the crowd grew louder and the ropes attached to the car tautened with a jerk. A flutter of excitement ran through the gathering. Had they not journeyed for many days to be with Jagannath on the Janam?

  As always in a throng, the nearness of so many of their kind wrought upon them. Religious zeal was at a white heat. But the Brahmans raised their hands, cautioning the worshipers.

  “The bride of Jagannath comes!” they cried.

  “Way for the bride of the god!” echoed the pilgrims.

  The door of the temple opened again and Retha appeared, attended by some of the women of the wardrobe. The girl's slim form had been elaborately robed. Her cheeks were painted, her long hair allowed to fall upon her shoulders and back.

  A brief silence paid tribute to the beauty of the woman. She glanced once anxiously about the enclosure; then her eyes fell, nor did she look up when she was led to a seat beside and slightly below the image of the god.

  Once she was seated the guardians who had watched her throughout the night stepped aside. In the center of the crowd of worshipers Retha was cut off from her kind, as securely the property of the god as if she still stood in the shrine. For no one among the throng but was a follower of Jagannath, in the zenith of religious excitement.

  The priests formed a cordon about the car. Hundreds of hands caught up the ropes. A blare of trumpets from the musicians on the car, and it lurched forward, the great wheels creaking.

  1

  One of the lowest orders of the priesthood.

  “Honor to Jagannath!” screamed the voice of Bhimal. “The god is among us. Let me touch the wheels!”

  The machine was moving forward more steadily now, the wheels churning deep into the sand. The pullers sweated and groaned, tasting keen delight in the toil; the throng crushed closer. A woman cried out, and fainted.

  But those near her did not give back. Instead, they set their feet upon her body and pressed forward. Was it not true blessedness to die during the passage of Jagannath?

  Contrary to many tales, they did not throw themselves under the wheels. Only one man did this, and he wracked with the pain of leprosy and sought a holy death, cleansed of his disease.

  Perhaps in other days numbers had done this. But now many died in the throng, what with the heat and pressure and the strain of the excitement, which had continued now for se
veral days.

  Slowly the car moved from the temple enclosure, into the streets of the village, out upon the highway that led to its destination. The sun by now was descending to the horizon.

  But the ardor of the pilgrims waxed higher as the god continued its steady progress. For the car to halt would be a bad omen. And the dancing women, stimulated by bhang, shouted and postured on the car, flinging their thin garments to those below and gesturing with nude bodies in a species of frenetic exaltation.

  Those pushing the car from behind shouted in response. The eyes of Nagir Jan, walking among the pilgrims, gleamed. Kurral, crouched on the car, had ceased to watch the quiet form of Retha.

  Rescue now, he thought, was impossible, as was any attempt on her part to escape. For the car was surrounded the space of a long bowshot on every side.

  The wind which had fluttered the garlands on the car died down as the shadows lengthened. The leaders of the crowd were already within sight of the shrine whither they were bound.

  Retha sat as one lifeless. Torn from the side of her husband and carried from the hall of Thaneswar, she had been helpless in the hands of the priests. A proud woman, accustomed to the deference shown to the clan of Rinthambur, the misfortune had numbed her at first.

  Well knowing what Matap Rao knew of the evil rites of Jagan-nath, to be exhibited to the crowd of worshipers caused her to flush under the paint which stained her cheeks.

  She would have cast herself down from the car if she had not known that the Brahmans would have forced her again into the seat. To be handled by such a mob was too great a shame.

  She had heard that Matap had escaped alive the night before. One thought kept up her courage. Not without an effort to save her would the Rawul allow her to reach the shrine where the rites of that night were to take place.

  This she knew, and she hugged the slight comfort of that hope to her heart. Rawul Matap Rao would not abandon her. But, seeing the number of the throng, even this hope dwindled.

  How could the chieftain reach her side? But he would ride into the throng, she felt, and an arrow from his bow would free her from shame.