by Harold Lamb
“Aye—and more.”
Tala related how when the Afghans took up arms, Alacha— who was well-prepared—had given up Balkh, but had fallen back on the Shyr Pass, the main road to Kabul and the Mogul's cities. He held Khanjut, the “Iron Gate” of the pass, on the Afghan side, while Abdul Dost assembled his forces in the plains.
“The Mogul musters his army at Lahore, not far from Kabul,” mused the boy. “And by the Shyr he will pass his men through the Koh-i-Baba hills, which are the walls of Badakshan. Oh, they are shrewd. How can we oppose such men?”
“By the sword of the tribes.” Tala's brown eyes flashed. “And even the women will do their part—even I. Here I can see little, for the mists and the rain veil the movements in the pass below. So I have decided on what I must do. Alacha has an eye—so it is said—for the Afghan women. I will drive my cows by the trails I know to the bed of the pass. The Slayer's men will seize the animals for their food, but I—”
“You will be taken!” cried the boy.
“That is what I plan.”
The girl's serious brow was stern with purpose. Her eyes fell, but she nodded bravely.
“I have heard that Alacha keeps the fairest women for himself. Thus shall I see what goes on in his camp and hear something of his plans—for I am quick of ear.”
The boy's face fell; then he laughed—checking himself swiftly, as he put his hand on the tangle of her hair. “O little flower, I am very wise. I have journeyed among the camps of the world—and seen Alacha and the Mogul. Such men as they, Tala, have eyes solely for the elegant women of Persia and Hindustan. The Slayer scarce would notice you in your rags—”
“Am I not fair?” She gazed at him wide-eyed, questioning. “Alas, Alacha had eyes for my sister! And, somewhat, I resemble her.”
At this Chan gazed at the girl keenly.
“True, Tala. You are very like her. Yet we Afghans are not spies and, therefore, are blind to the tricks of our foes.”
Tala rose with a nod, bravely determined. “I shall go to the camp of Alacha and watch, and if any one tries to harm me I shall shoot him with my bow.”
Chan shook his head moodily. Then his eyes brightened.
“So be it, Tala. If you could learn aught to aid Abdul Dost. . .” He smiled, merry again. “And I will join you, after I have delivered my message. I will come to seek you at the Shyr bank, behind the Iron Gate, wearing some old garments of the holy man, Muhammad Asad.”
“Alacha would slay you.”
“Nay, for I will be a begging kwajah, lame, for all to see.”
He caught the girl's slim wrist fiercely. “O Tala, you and I will contrive a mighty thing. We will be a thorn in the side of the World-Gripper! For we will sow the seeds of fear.”
While the Afghan maid listened, wondering, Chan told her the message that he bore to Abdul Dost—that the old warrior who had befriended him was bringing aid to Abdul Dost. That a horde of wild riders would come to Badakshan from the North, through the mountain passes.
“Such men as you and I have never seen, O Tala. They live for fighting alone, and they ride like the demons of the air. They wear the hides of beasts for armor, and their bodies are like iron.” “Who are they?” Tala was amazed.
“The Tatar Horde. They, like the Afghans, are the children of Genghis Khan. Eh, little flower, we will spread fear in the camp of our enemy. We will foretell the coming of the spirits of the dead warriors, of whom the Mogul's bards sing.”
His eyes were smoldering as if with fever.
“Thus will I knit the arrow-stitch of vengeance. Once before, the Tatar Horde swept through the Caliphate and Samarkand crumbled like a house of dust before them, and Balkh and Lahore. Ameers and sultans were cut down like ripe grain. So, we will sing, you and I—”
Chan laughed, clutching her slender shoulders. “We will sing a chant of doom—of doom from the mountains. We will say that the Ghils are a-horse, and the dead walk again. The Mogul's men live by omens. Eh—we will give them an omen, a mighty omen. They will hear the trumpets of the Conqueror, Genghis Kahn.” He leaned back against the wall, his small body exhausted. “Now I will sleep.”
So Tala cast wood upon the fire and dragged her blankets close to the stone hearth, and made Chan comfortable thereon. She sat close to him, watching until he slept.
But she did not sleep. From time to time she replenished the fire, gazing into its glow and turning over in her mind the strange things the minstrel had said.
And in this manner did a boy and girl plan to match their wits against the intrigue of a master plotter.
In the early morning they parted, Tala assembling her herd and driving it down to the valley, while Chan turned his horse's head toward Badakshan and the Afghan camp.
Before sunset the tidings he brought were repeated to Abdul Dost, where the chief of the Afghans had planted his standard in the plain.
“Do not give battle with your full strength until I join you. With my men, I will reach Badakshan from the northern passes before snow closes the valleys.”
That was the message from Khlit. On hearing it Abdul Dost flushed with pleasure and uttered a broad oath, saying to the blind Muhammad Asad, who sat near him, that they would have the aid of the old warrior whose wisdom was worth more than two thousand swords.
The mullah nodded gravely.
“Verily does it seem that the aid of this warrior could not be bought with gold. It is in my mind that he has felt the tie of friendship, and that he keeps faith with you. Yet what tribes are these of the North and how may they come hither?”
Neither Muhammad Asad nor Abdul Dost had seen the Mongol clans. Between the Afghan valleys and Mongolia rose the mountain barrier of the Himalayas. No merchants went to the steppe. Only some legends and tales of travelers had reached their ears.
What manner of men were these from the steppe? They did not know.
“And how,” asked a warrior, “are they to surmount the barrier of the hills? Can an army pass over the Roof of the World? Nay, it may not be.”
Abdul Dost realized the force of this.
“We are in the hand of God,” he repeated gravely. “We will wait.”
His men—villagers, shepherds, hunters, clansmen—were impatient for action. Afghans, Hazaras, Kirghiz—all had assembled to fight for their liberty. From the distant tribes of Ferghana and from the desert itself they had come. Old men and former soldiers, boys and priests, had cheerfully taken up the burden of war.
The boy who had been the ward of blind Muhammad Asad rode proudly at the left hand of the mansabdar. Hope was rife in Badakshan—the reckless exuberance of the Afghan who never reckons the strength of a foe.
Meanwhile in the Shyr Pass Alacha sat in his red tent, hearing the messages of his spies, drilling his men, plundering cattle and grain. And in Kabul the high ameers of the World-Gripper mobilized the imperial army. Raja Man Singh and Paluwan Khan planned the coming campaign. The Lord Thunder-Thrower cast more shot for his camel artillery. The matchlock-men furbished their weapons under the eye of a Portuguese captain of mercenaries.
The imperial army, the corps d'armee of the Mogul, formed itself slowly into a gigantic, machine-like whole. Levies of horsemen from the northern provinces trotted in daily, the warriors resplendent in silver armlets, silk and cloth-of-silver and precious jewels sewn into turban and tunic—bearing upon their backs more often than not the whole of a year's pay while their families in the villages hungered.
Camp followers, bazaar-merchants, armorers, courtesans, flocked to Kabul until a veritable city of tents arose in the valley by the winding river.
Then came the day when Jahangir placed robes of honor on Raja Man Singh, Paluman Khan and the ameers of his host; the alam, the imperial standard, was raised, the kettledrums sounded, and the long camel-trains began to move forward to the northern pass, attended by the advance guard of Rajput cavalry. From the balcony of his palace the World-Gripper watched the dust that rose over the moving host.
“See
that an accounting is made to me,” he observed idly to the vizier who stood by him. “An accounting of the spoil taken from the Afghans. It will add in my memoirs to the glory of my reign.”
VIII
By the waters of Kerulon, by the hills of Khantai Khan, in the heart of the ocean of grass, a palace is.
Above the waters of the sacred river, under the breasts of the mountain, there is the court of a monarch.
The eyes of a warrior host turn toward the lord of souls. Yet he moves not and the standard over his head stirs not. For the palace is a tomb, and the standard is dust. And no man may see the warrior host that lies at the feet of Genghis Khan.
Yet in the hearts of men still lives the fear that was fear of Genghis Khan.
In the annals of the Mongol khans it is written that the Horde journeyed south and west from their homeland by the Kerulon and the basin of Jungaria in the Autumn of a year early in the seventeenth century, and this was to escape the Winter cold that was creeping down from Lake Baikal, as well as the inroads of the Chinese.
For the khans and their people lived not in cities. Their yurts, great felt tents, moved over the mid-Asian steppe drawn by bullocks, and with the yurts moved the herds that were the remaining wealth of the Mongols.
They roved restlessly, seldom dismounting from their shaggy ponies, passing aimlessly over the vast spaces, ringed by distant snow ranges that lay just to the north of the Himalayas.
The clans of Mongolia were thinned in numbers; their glory was a thing of the past, recited in song by the minstrels, brooded over beside the fires at night. They wore the sheepskin and leather taken from the animals slain for food. Their weapons were antiquated, being fashioned for the hunt—bows, and short swords.
Powerful, slow-thinking men, warriors and herders, the khans ate what they might, drank deep of mare's milk and slept much, listening at times to the songs of the minstrels.
So Khlit found them by the lakes north of the Thian Shan.
“It is well,” they said. “He who was our Kha Khan has come to us to sleep in our tents and eat of our food.”
Word passed swiftly along the invisible channels of the steppe that the Cossack in whose veins ran Tatar blood, and who— himself a descendant of their royal chiefs—had once been their leader, had returned to them out of the mysterious splendor of Ind beyond the mountains to the South.
“He has come in the twilight of old age,” they said. “It is well. For the steppe which is our home is his also.”
And then swiftly the messages changed. The gray-haired chiefs of the kurultai, the council, assembled and spoke together.
“The warrior who was Kha Khan has followed the path of battle in the land of Ind,” they repeated gravely. “He has come with a word for our hearing.”
Hunters who were following the gazelles and wild horses of the plains began to drift back to the yurts, hearing the rumor. Khans, seeking Winter quarters for their clans, rode to the kibitka where Khlit sat.
“There is war beyond the mountains to the South and West,” they said next. “A people of our race live in a valley there—the valley of Badakshan.”
Then also riders passed from the lakes to the outlying hordes, as the Tatars still called their tribes, although now but a shadow of the numbers that had overrun China, the Himalayas, Iran, Persia, and the Caucasus.
“The Kirghiz and the Afghans, who are like to us, ask aid,” they remarked to each other. “They are the children of Timurlane, the Lame Conqueror, who is of the line of Genghis Khan.”
“The army of Ind rides to the hills,” replied shrewder ones, “and there is the wealth of a kingdom in the camp of the Mogul's men. Aye there is gold and weapons—horses, jewels and cattle.” Under the magic stimulus of war the men of the hordes gathered about the lakes. Once assembled, they sought Khlit out. The elder men of the Jun-gar brooded silently. And Khlit addressed his old friends of the kurultai.
“To the South,” he said. “lies a road that the khans have not followed for the space of eight times the life of a man. In the time of Genghis Khan the road led to the Caliphate; now it leads to Ind.”
Bearded heads bent attentively to catch his words; slant eyes peered at him immobilely from under tufted brows. Massive, scarred hands clutched spear-shafts as the Tatar chieftains leaned on their spears to listen.
“At the end of the road danger awaits the rider,” went on Khlit's deep voice. “I have been your leader. Brothers, khans, you know I speak not idle words—” his glance roved from face to face—“nor make promises that may not be kept. I have made a pledge that I will bring aid to a warrior, my brother-in-arms, Khan of Badakshan.”
“Aye.” The fur-capped head of youthful Berang, khan of the Torgot clan, nodded. “O Khlit, we know.”
“Then hear my message. Before this I have said that I would lead those who dare follow against Jahangir, the World-Gripper, the Mogul. Now I say, brothers, khans, that of those who follow me few will return.”
Silence greeted this, and the hard eyes did not falter.
“Well said, by the blood of the horse of Natagai!” bellowed a lion-like voice—Chagan, the sword-bearer, a man thick-set as a gnarled oak, powerful enough to break the neck of a yak by a twist of his hands. “That is no lie. Good!”
Khlit lifted his hand. “Spoil there may be—spoil from the tents of the Chatagais.1 Yet those who are slain may bear away no gold. I want no riders to follow me who think of naught but plunder.” “Aye,” said the khans. “In flashing sword-strokes does a warrior find honor.”
“If there be a battle—and a battle I seek—those who follow me must face the tramp of elephants and the thunder of cannon. I want no cowards.”
The khans growled at this, clutching their weapons the tighter. One grumbled that Genghis had overmastered the “moving castles,” the elephants, when he vanquished the emperor of Han.
“And among those who come with me there will be no leaders. I will lead, and he who disobeys will die. At my side will be the yak-tail standard, as when we drove the Chinese banners before us at the Kerulon.”
“Ho!” cried one. “That was a battle. The minstrels will sing of that.”
“But not of this,” broke in Khlit harshly. “For we will be in a strange, southern land, and the bards of Ind will not remember the bravery of the Tatar khans. Nay, we will have naught but hard blows and hard words, for we go to the aid of an oppressed people. Nor—” he faced them gravely—“do I seek the leadership save that one man must be chief and not many. And I know how we may strike the Mogul.”
His aged countenance lighted up at this, and his keen eyes gleamed. “Ha, lords! We be old, many of us, and our race is passing into the shadows. Come, shall we strike one good blow with the sword—” his curved sword flashed in his hand at this—“of Genghis, the Conqueror! Shall we ride into battle once more? Has our blood grown too thin to shed?”
The somber faces shone, and the intent eyes held his fiercely. “Tomorrow at daybreak—” Khlit sheathed his weapon and folded his arms across his broad chest—“I ride to the South. Those who will go with me must be mounted and assembled at the council place by then.”
Such was his last address to the Tatar khans.
That night beside the campfires that sprinkled the plain and flickered into the lakes the men of the Horde sat in unwonted talk. Here and there the one-stringed fiddle of a minstrel strummed and a deep voice recited an endless chant of former glory. And with this rose the plaint of the women—the sound of mourning that has since the world was new attended the departure of the warriors.
And with the dawn, when the fires had sunk to embers, there was a stirring of figures, the soft tread of horses, and the clink of weapons.
The first glow of scarlet sunrise over the steppe showed a multitude of riders gathered around the tent of Khlit.
Truly it was a strange army. For there was no baggage save the saddlebags on the spare horses—each Tatar brought an extra mount. Nor was any ammunition train to be seen. Eac
h warrior carried his own weapons.
There was no muster, no fretting of waiting ranks. The riders of the clans grouped about their respective banners, and the whole hive-like mass centered around the yak-tail standard.
This was outlined clearly against the yellow of the flooding sky. It moved forward, and helmeted heads and spear-points followed swiftly. Once a woman burst from a tent to run, weeping, beside the horse of a young warrior, who thrust her aside with his foot.
Again rose the song of the minstrels, harsh and discordant in the semi-darkness. Groups of old women, straining aged eyes, clutched the young ones to them in silence.
“Hai—the Horde is onward bound. . . the khans of Tatary ride . . . they follow the standard of Genghis . . . Woe to those who stand in their way . . .”
It was the chant of the riders, remembered from ancient times. And, in the half-light of dawn, the black mass of riders under the banners seemed not otherwise than the mass of the ancient Horde.
IX
Alacha Hunts
Tala sat watchfully upon the broad rump of a buffalo, the last of her herd. While the beast drank from a pool in one of the icy mountain streams, the girl eyed the surrounding thicket thoughtfully. She had drawn a fold of her heavy cloak across the lower portion of her face, and only her alert eyes were visible, under a dark tangle of hair.
The echo of a distant shout pierced the quiet of the glade. Overhead the echo reverberated from lofty sandstone cliffs, winding in and out among narrow rock ravines, and returning unexpectedly from the face of some distant mountain. The buffalo raised its dripping muzzle inquiringly, but Tala made no move to pull its nose-cord away from the stream.
She listened keenly as the voices of men approached through a willow thicket along the bank of the stream. Then horses' hoofs were heard, trampling on stones. Tala sat upright, her small figure tense. She had been waiting for the coming of the riders.
And presently, as she had anticipated, a brilliant cortege trotted through the willows, led by two noblemen. She recognized the silks and velvets of Alacha and the russet-and-green overtunic of Paluwan Khan—the Northern Lord. On the gloved wrist of the Slayer rested his favorite gyrfalcon, hooded.