by Harold Lamb
“Menelitza is strong,” he said. “He desires you. What he desires he will get.”
“Then it will be another wife,” cried the girl. “I will not marry him!”
Khlit puffed thoughtfully at his pipe and leaned closer to her. His glance bored into the girl’s brown eyes.
“Are you afraid of me, wren?” he asked.
“No,” said Alevna seriously.
She advanced to the horse’s side and placed both arms across the saddlebags, her smiling, fresh face within a foot of Khlit’s shaggy countenance. Brown eyes peered into gray for the space of a minute. Khlit’s hand shot out and closed firmly around the girl’s white throat. Just a little, his fingers tightened. One of the maids screamed. But Alevna did not cease smiling.
“You are not afraid now?” questioned the Cossack. “I might kill you.”
“No,” she said.
She felt safe, being a woman and beautiful. Arrogantly she said, “Will you know Alevna now?”
Khlit dropped his hand and gathered up his reins.
“Yes,” he said. “You have a snub nose.”
Whereupon he trotted away up the village street, without a backward glance at the dark-haired beauty he had come ten miles to see.
II
The passing of time did not assuage the anger of Khlit. Tales were brought to him at his cottage overlooking the banks of the Dnieper of how the army of the Siech fought the Poles, and old women did not scorn to mock at Khlit because he was not with the others.
To tell the truth Khlit did not much heed the tales of fighting on the Polish border. His thoughts lay in another direction, across the river. From childhood Khlit had heard tales of the Tatar Horde, of Nogai, grandson of Teval, seventh son of Juchi, leader of the Golden Horde.
He had seen towns laid in smoke and ruins from one end of the Ukraine to the other, when the Krim Tatars marched, and he knew how followers of the Great Turk incited the ever ready horsemen of the East to try the strength of the Cossack armies. Year by year he had faced the flying hosts of swarthy horsemen who discharged clouds of arrows as they advanced or retreated and he had seen the ground covered with bodies of good Cossacks.
Such memories were not lightly forgotten, and Khlit waited at the door of his cottage, his eyes searching the river for what he knew would come—a sally of Tatar horsemen across into the Ukraine in the absence of the Siech army. To get him food, he went to the river with a pronged spear and returned with fish, which he baked in smoke and ate. Only at midday he slept and then, like his Tatar enemies, with one eye open.
It was during one of his midday naps that Khlit learned the news he had been waiting for and expecting with the wise knowledge of a fisherman who is sure of his prey.
He had not many visitors at the cottage, partly because he was wary about making friends, and partly because Cossack folk held him in some fear, wherefore they lost no chance to mock him because he had not gone with the Siech.
So it happened that he was instantly alert when there was a patter of hoofs on the rough trail leading to his cottage, and a small, bent figure came into view mounted on one horse and leading a pack animal. By its gray cloak and wizened brown face, Khlit recognized the figure as that of Yemel, a Jewish merchant, who spoke all tongues and ordinarily haunted the path of the Siech, as full of news as a squirrel, news gleaned from Kiev to Tatary.
“Hail to you, Khlit,” cried Yemel, climbing down from his horse and seating himself on the tree trunk beside the Cossack. “I have some rare gold ornaments taken from the Polish towns by our brave Cossacks. Perchance, noble sir, you would like to exchange some trifling things for them.”
Yemel rambled on describing his goods, his bright little eyes on the Cossack’s impassive face, and throwing out occasional hints that he was thirsty and corn brandy was excellent to the taste. Khlit motioned to the hut, whereupon the Jew jumped up spryly, and reappeared with a full beaker of brandy, at the same time wiping his lips. Khlit did not fail to debit Yemel with two beakers instead of one, but he said nothing until his guest had done refreshing himself.
“A fox does not play tricks without reason, Yemel,” he said finally. “Full well you know I trade not in spoil, which I take by the sword. In your jackal brain there is something you would tell—for barter I care not—so, Yemel, speak or be gone.”
“Aye, noble sir,” chirped the merchant, his eye brightened by the drink, “as always, your words are the very coinage of pure gold in their wisdom. You might add that the jackal does not come to the lion’s den without reason. Honor me with your attention, bogatyr, for Yemel scorned to believe what he heard in the villages, that Khlit, he of the Curved Sword, the Wolf, had stayed behind to sleep when the Siech—”
“Enough!” said Khlit impatiently. “You have news?”
“For your ear alone, Khlit,” admitted Yemel, “for we two are wiser than the whole Zaporogian Siech.”
“Spawn of the devil,” said Khlit mildly, “do you link your name with a Cossack? Is your blood the same as mine?”
“Nay, Khlit,” broke in the merchant hurriedly, “I said not that. Do not believe that of me, noble sir. I meant that my word was for the ear of one wiser than all the Siech. Just a little moment and I will tell it. Khan Mirai Tkha has gone upon a hunt.”
Khlit’s gaze flickered over the Dnieper and back to Yemel.
“The Khan, who loves the chase of the stag,” continued Yemel, “has taken many horsemen as beaters and crossed the Dnieper in his hunt. Truly, it has been a great take, for I have come this day from the spot where the stag was found. Khan Mirai is a great hunter.”
“Aye,” said the Cossack.
“He hunted the stag into the streets of Garniv, just across the river,” explained the merchant. “And his horsemen who were beaters surrounded the village. It is a pity that the Zaporogian Siech wars against the Poles, for Khan Mirai hunted well.”
“Were many slain?” queried Khlit.
“All. I saw the scalp-locked bodies of Cossacks strewing the street like fish in the bed of a brook which has run dry. Khan Mirai has returned across the river with many slaves and much booty.”
“Aye, he is a good hunter.” Khlit bethought him for a moment. “What of Alevna, she who was the beauty of Garniv, the black-haired one? Was she among the slain?”
“Nay, Khlit, Alevna is missing. They say she was among the slaves, being beautiful, in spite of her temper. What a pity!” Yemel shot a calculating glance at Khlit. “The news of the Khan’s great hunt is not as old as the sun today. Truly, I hurried here with the tidings, for I said to myself that Khlit should hear. It has cost me much trade, for you will not barter, only give. They say you are more generous than Yussaf, prince of princes—”
“Peace!” muttered Khlit, impatiently. Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, he added, “Go to the hut for reward, Yemel. Select one thing. If it be too fine I will take it from you and rip your hide for payment. If it be too little you will cheat yourself. Choose!”
Rid of the chattering merchant, Khlit knitted his brows in thought. The coming of Khan Mirai did not surprise him. He had been looking for it. It irked him that he had not seen the Tatars cross, even ten miles down the river. For them to escape unfollowed was to Khlit a sin of the first magnitude. Yet, with the army away, who was there to follow into the land of the Horde after the swift horsemen of the Mirai tribe?
Another thing Khlit meditated on. The Tatars had taken Alevna, the woman who had come between Menelitza, his foster son, and himself. Well and good, he thought. A woman always bred trouble, and Alevna he had read as a great mischief-maker. Now he was well rid of her.
With Alevna disposed of, Menelitza would return to his cot in Khlit’s hut and eat and drink and fight as a Cossack should. But—Khlit shook his head—suppose Menelitza became very angry when he learned that the girl was gone? Young men were unreasonable as wild horses. Menelitza might even go so far as to blame him, Khlit, for the loss of the girl.
Khlit filled his pipe and con
sidered the question with great care. It was true that the foster son would be saddened by the news from Garniv, as he had joined the Siech to win knightly fame so that he could claim Alevna for wife. It was, furthermore, quite possible that Menelitza would try to go after the Tatars when he returned, which would be dangerous, as well as useless, it being then too late. Alevna was desired of Menelitza. She was, in a way, his property.
That being the case, Khan Mirai had despoiled Menelitza of something he coveted, which was the same as saying that he had despoiled Khlit. Which was not to be permitted. Would the women begin saying that Khlit had been robbed by the Tatars and had slept in his hut like a swine-tender? There was no telling what Menelitza would say when he got back.
At this point in the Cossack’s meditations, Yemel emerged from the hut, having been inside a full hour. The merchant’s face was wet with excitement. In one hand he held a Turkish scimitar with jeweled hilt and chased-gold scabbard. In the other was a silver beaker with an emerald of considerable size set in the handle.
Khlit looked up and scowled. “Hey, dog,” he growled, “said I not one thing, and you have two? Do you love your skin so little you would try to cheat me?”
“Harken but a moment, noble sir,” whined Yemel, clutching his treasures. “You did tell me to fetch one thing, but if it was too much I could have nothing. So, to make sure of pleasing you, I brought two things, one little and one big, to allow you to select my reward. If the sword is too much, I will take the small beaker, and be gone.”
“Then the sword is more valuable than the beaker?” inquired the Cossack thoughtfully.
“Assuredly, noble sir,” Yemel cried. “You can see its pure gold and fine jewels for yourself. It is too great a gift, I fear, even for your munificence. Of a truth, I did wrong to bring it. I must take the beaker.”
“Nay,” returned Khlit, “you can have either. Did I not promise the one you want? At once, dog!” Yemel’s agitated eyes traveled from sword to beaker and back again. He gripped both for an instant. Then he flung down the sword, clutching the beaker to his breast. A smile twitched Khlit’s gray mustache.
“You lied, Yemel,” he growled. “For the jewel in the beaker is worth two swords, and you were not blind. However, I have a mind to deal lightly with you. Take the beaker. You might have had thrice its value, for there are other emeralds within. Hey, come with me to the Tatar camp, and you shall have ten times its worth.”
A wail broke from the merchant at this news, silenced by a wave of the Cossack’s hand. Gathering up the gold sword, Khlit went into the hut. Yemel watched him with the despairing eyes of one who was punished beyond his deserts.
The merchant had gone, and the sun was low in the west when Khlit again emerged from the cottage. This time he was dressed in red morocco boots, long svitza or coat, a wide leather belt from which his sword hung together with gold tassels, and high sheepskin hat, from the back of which his gray scalp lock reached to his shoulders.
He went directly to the stable behind the hut, saddled and bridled his horse, filled his saddlebags with mealcakes and tobacco, and sprang on his horse. For a moment he searched the river with his glance, and then urged his horse forward in the direction taken by Khan Mirai.
III
Next day’s sun saw Khlit riding steadily along the steppe on trail of the riders of Mirai. The level plain, covered with lush grass and with only occasional ravines where trees and undergrowth offered shelter, was not a favorable place for concealment. What there was, Khlit made the most of with customary caution, for he was already far into the country of the Horde where a captured Cossack was a dead Cossack.
For various reasons the old warrior had come alone on his quest to gain Alevna. There were few Cossacks left in the villages. The pick of the fighters were in Poland. And Khlit was not the man to encumber himself with clumsy assistants. Likewise, it would have been impossible for many men to travel unseen across the steppe, and such force as he could have mustered would have been too small to encounter the full strength of Khan Mirai’s thousands.
Khlit knew from experience that the Tatars were dangerous foes, wary, swift to act, and more merciless even than the Cossacks themselves. The Horde were roaming folk, carrying their houses with them on wagons and going from place to place to obtain good grazing for their herds of cattle and horses.
Yet, if he had considered his quest impossible, Khlit would not be where he was now. His ability to think clearly into the future had kept Khlit alive until his hair was gray, when few Cossacks lived to middle age. Khlit, reasoning coolly, saw that he had certain advantages. He knew the land of the Horde from previous forays after cattle and horse. He was familiar with the Tatar way of fighting, which was deadly to strangers. Also, Mirai’s men had a wholesome respect for the name of the Wolf. And they did not suspect he was following them.
Although he had been riding fast, Khlit had seen nothing of the Tatars by midday. The steppe appeared deserted, except for the deer and hare that fled at the sound of his approach. When the midday sun beat down on him, Khlit slipped from his horse, leading the animal into a grove of oaks that bordered the trail he was following. He seated himself on the turf, took some mealcakes and dried fruit from his saddlebags and prepared to eat his first meal of the day.
He had scarcely set his teeth into the first cake when he knew that he was no longer alone on the steppe. Farther along the trail a horse whinnied. At the first sound Khlit sprang to his own animal and wound his neckcloth about the beast’s nostrils lest it should make answer to the newcomer. Then he trotted to the edge of the grove to get a view of the stranger.
Khlit had not seen a Tatar for some years, but he did not mistake the little figure seated easily on a steppe pony trotting down the trail. The man’s swarthy face peered out under his pointed helmet. A cloak was thrown loosely over his coat of mail, a quiver of arrows at his back, his bow in a case at the saddle.
Evidently the Tatar was not suspicious of enemies, for he was singing a low, chuckling song, glancing occasionally to right and left, more from force of habit than watchfulness. Khlit crouched in his cover and scanned every movement of the rider.
The latter’s course took him to within a few yards of the oak and he went by with a careless glance into the grove. Khlit did not move until the Tatar was well past his retreat. It was his first sight of prey in many months and his nostrils opened eagerly, while his gray eyes narrowed.
When Khlit did move, he lost no time. Trotting out, very quietly for a man of his size, into the trail, he covered the distance between him and the rider. As the latter, startled by some sound, or by a glimpse of a moving shadow beside him, turned in his saddle, Khlit’s arms closed around him in a crushing grip that the Tatar strove in vain to break.
The Cossack had caught his enemy’s lasso from the saddle as he grasped him, and when the two fell to earth Khlit made quick work of binding the smaller man securely, pinioning his arms to his side.
Flat-Face,” he grunted, standing upright and adjusting his coat, “a sword is needless when a fool rides recklessly over the steppe. You are a nasty-looking villain. I think I may slay you after all.”
The Tatar made no move, his small eyes fixed intently on Khlit’s every movement. The latter crossed his arms and stared down at the bound man thoughtfully.
“Hey,” he said, “I need a messenger to the great Khan Mirai. You know what I’m saying, devil take you, in spite of your rude stare. Tell Khan Mirai that Khlit, he called the Wolf, the Cossack of the Curved Saber, is following the trail of the Horde, and he will not leave until the Khan presents him with a gift. A gift of the girl Alevna, taken from the village of Garniv. Tell your leader if he does not hand over the girl, the Wolf will bring death and woe upon the tribe. Aye, great woe.”
He assisted the man to his feet and helped him into the saddle, first carefully removing sword, bow, and arrows.
“Bring back your answer to me here, Flat-Face,” added Khlit. “And think not of treachery against the
Wolf, or you will do little more thinking.”
Khlit struck the horse on the flank, and the beast started quickly back along the trail. The Cossack watched it for a moment, then took a mealcake from his pocket and began his interrupted repast. He did not sit upon the turf, however, for he led his horse out to the trail and trotted after the Tatar.
Khlit had had time to eat many meals, and he had, in fact, smoked many pipes, by the time that the other appeared again. This time the Cossack had staged his welcome in a different spot, some two miles nearer the Tatar camp. He had selected a place near the trail where he had a good view of whoever might return, and at the same time be safe from observation himself. A turn in the trail around some rocks screened him.
He saw the Tatar making his way along the steppe alone, but his glance was fixed on the distance, not on his late foe. Apparently the man came unaccompanied, but Khlit was not one to believe in the good faith of anyone until convinced by his five senses. Which was fortunate, for as the Tatar was nearly abreast of him, the Cossack made out several helmets and spear points coming up the trail a good distance in the rear.
It needed no second sight to convince him that other riders were following their friend with no good intentions toward him—Khlit—and, as before, he acted swiftly.
As before, he let the Tatar pass by him a short distance, when he wheeled his horse from cover and sprang after him. The unfortunate rider heard the hoofbeat, and turned his horse with the quick skill of his race, feeling in the quiver at his back for an arrow.
But Khlit had not misjudged his distance. As the Tatar fitted arrow to bow, the Cossack’s horse struck him and dashed his own horse to the ground at the same instant Khlit’s heavy sword found his head. Horse and rider alike were cast to earth, and the Cossack wheeled away from the trail with a flourish of his curved sword.
“Hey, that was good, very good,” he chuckled to himself, as he put several miles of steppe between him and the spot where the Tatar lay. “Now Khan Mirai will know that the Wolf is following him and that the Wolf is Khlit.”