by Harold Lamb
Khan Mirai lost no time in leaving the spot, with a last glance at the dead man, and hastened to present a gift of gold to the shaman, who, as he expected, was still lying in the wooden house after his convulsions, which must have been severe, as two prophecies had been made, and each had come true.
VII
When the two columns of smoke rose from the western hill and drifted with the wind over the camp, Khlit watched a girl’s form ride past in the distance.
His eyes were keen, and he could not mistake the figure on an Arab mount, whose poise and movements were those of Alevna. Even the tilt of her dark head he recognized, as she looked back at the Tatar camp, and the eager flush of her cheek when she saw freedom before her.
Khan Mirai had kept his promise. Now he would expect Khlit to keep his word.
But Khlit was in no hurry. He watched Alevna until the girl disappeared down a ravine. He scrutinized idly the herds of cattle which were grazing near the foot of the hill between him and the camp. He even tried to count the horses which he saw wandering about the plain riderless, their manes whipping in the brisk wind, their heads lifting alertly at the slightest sound.
The scene was pleasant, revealed by the level rays of the sun, sinking over the steppe to the west. Khlit considered it with appreciation, stroking his gray mustache. It had been several days since he had talked with Khan Mirai and he reflected that the Tatar was probably impatient at the delay. But Khlit was not to be hurried. He had not lit the fire until he was ready.
Now he scanned the smoke thoughtfully as it floated over the plain, dwindling to a narrow thread and then vanishing The lives of men, he mused, were like smoke, gathering size and strength at first, then fading rapidly. Like smoke, they drifted where the wind blew, until there was no wind.
There was nothing to prevent Khlit from mounting his horse and riding away in security back to the steppe, to the banks of Father Dnieper and Russia. The path was open. Night was coming on, and the dark would conceal his flight. Yet he stayed.
Menelitza’s father, Khlit reflected, had shared bread and salt and wine with him. Nay, he had shed his blood for him. And the opportunity was offered now to pay back the debt. Khlit did not bother to wonder whether Menelitza’s father would know of it. It was sufficient that the debt could be paid.
The words of the shaman were true, although Khlit had not wasted a thought on them. The pride of the Wolf would lead him into the Tatar camp. His pride was such that he could not give the Khan the chance to say that he, Khlit, had turned his back upon a foe and broken his word. Yet, Khlit mused, the shaman had said nothing about the cunning of the Wolf. At least he had heard Khan Mirai say nothing of it. And that was very great.
The sun had almost touched the earth and Khlit rose and stretched himself as a dog does, first one foot then the other. He loosed his saber in its scabbard. Stopping for a moment to light his pipe, he went to his horse and very carefully ran his hand over saddle and bridle, feeling for any weakness. The horse, fat and strong from good feeding, whinnied and touched his shoulder with its muzzle. Then Khlit returned to the fire.
For the last time he cast a keen glance over the plain. The camp of the Tatars appeared as usual, but the Cossack noted bodies of horsemen darting about here and there, and others among the camels and wagons. All the Tatars except a handful of horse-tenders were near the encampment. Khlit noticed this preparation for his reception without emotion. He had not expected Khan Mirai to do otherwise. Then Khlit acted.
Stooping over the fire, he caught up a half-dozen kindled sticks and sprang to his horse. The animal snorted and reared at the flame, but Khlit gained its back, and by hand and knee urged it down the slope of the hill, riding swiftly between the trees. In both hands he held the brands.
The horse needed no further urging than the smoke at his ears to stretch into a frantic gallop, and at that pace Khlit slipped from between the trees to the surface of the plain a half mile from the camp.
With the wind whipping his svitza about him, Khlit guided his mount on a course along the edge of the wood, which took him parallel to the camp. As he went, he dropped his smoldering brands into patches of the dry, waist-high steppe grass and watched the wind fan the spots into widening circles of black, out of which smoke poured up and tongues of flame shot.
He was unmolested in his course, for the few horse-tenders had drawn near the camp, loath to miss the spectacle of the Cossack’s arrival in the camp.
Dropping the last of his brands, Khlit wheeled his horse straight for the herd of cattle, which already was alert and watchful of the smoke and flames. As the wind drove the black clouds toward the beasts their uneasiness grew into panic. Running together they began, horses and cattle alike, to move toward the camp. Little was needed to start them into blind fear.
That little was supplied by the careful Khlit.
With his horse at a free gallop the Cossack drove into the throng of beasts erect in his saddle, waving his heavy sheepskin coat and shouting at the top of his voice. The animals nearest him broke into a gallop, others accompanied them. The cattle tossed their heads, and here and there Khlit saw a horse rear upon the back of another, or the broad horns of a steer upflung. Closer and closer the frightened cattle pressed together, until he was forced to climb on the back of his horse to avoid hurt to his legs.
Another moment and the great herd of the Tatars was in full flight, with the roar and crackle of flames at their backs, toward the encampment.
The Tatars who were near the herd had not been idle. Several of them had pushed into the front of the throng, trying to turn the beasts to one side. Some went down, others were carried along in the resistless mass of several thousand beasts. Shouts, arrows, and waving cloths were useless in attempts to control the herd, now that the patches of fire in the rear had been united and spread out on either bank. The herd had smelled smoke and fear drove them on.
Jammed in the center of the herd, where he had taken his place at the start of the mad race, was Khlit. Such aid as he could give to his horse he did, with his sword, keeping the pressure endurable by mercilessly cutting down the cattle around him.
Probably no one but a Cossack could have been sure of his seat and his horse alike in the herd, but Khlit wasted no thought on either. Puffing at his pipe, his sheepskin hat thrust on the side of his head, he had eyes only for the camp as the herd crashed into the first streets. The wagon-houses were scattered at first, with crouching camels thronging the streets.
At the advent of the herd the camels scrambled clumsily to their feet and joined the flight. Houses crashed over on their sides at the first impact of the herd, which now split up and flowed through the openings, crushing Tatar riders who did not keep pace with them and pounding underfoot anything living which got in their way.
Thus did Khlit ride through the Tatar camp, as he had promised.
Arrows were shot at him from a distance, but none of the Tatars succeeded in getting near him, owing to the herd. The arrows missed their mark. Indeed Khlit was soon lost to sight in the clouds of smoke which swelled around the camp. The confusion grew into a tumult of bellowing beasts and shrieking women and children in the houses, who, comparatively safe from the herd, dreaded fire.
Once near the farther edge of the camp, Khlit saw a strange thing. From one of the wagons sprang a weird figure, masked and clothed in a mass of hanging iron images that clashed as he ran. In his arms were clutched some bags which he did not abandon, even when he essayed to mount a horse in the tumult. Looking back over his shoulder, Khlit found that the shaman was lost to view in the smoke.
All the Tatars had seen Khlit enter the camp, but very few saw him leave. By the time that the herd had gained the open space on the farther side of the camp the smoke had descended like a pall over the plain. Such Tatar horsemen as had escaped hurt, and had not been borne away by the rush of beasts, were forced to fight off the advancing flames. Some wagons were put in motion. Others were abandoned. None had time to follow Khlit.
Once, as he climbed the hill that separated him from the steppe, Khlit looked back at the smoldering plain, smoke-covered, strewn with exhausted cattle, at the wrecked wagon-houses and the Tatars, dimly seen in the twilight, put to their utmost to keep the flames from the camp; then he turned his face to the steppe.
VIII
Khlit sat again in front of his house, watching the surface of Father Dnieper. As usual, he was alone. And he was turning over many things in his mind.
The Cossacks of the Siech had returned from Poland. Menelitza had come with them. The boy, as Khlit expected, had won fame as a fighter. He was an approved knight. Yet Menelitza had not come to see Khlit nor had the old Cossack sought out his foster son.
As Alevna had not known of Khlit’s battle for her, or of the ride through the Tatar camp when he rode with the herd before the flames, the news had not spread in the Ukraine, for he himself had said nothing. Yet, out of his wise knowledge, Khlit foresaw that a tongue there was no stopping would tell how the ride was accomplished and the camp of Khan Mirai thrown into a chaos of blood and flame.
That, he thought, was fitting, for the raid upon Garniv should not go unavenged and it would gladden the hearts of his old comrades to know how Khlit had made the Tatar chief pay the price of his daring.
As before, Khlit’s shaggy bead lifted alertly at a sound approaching—a patter of horse hoofs and a jingle of bells. Seeing that it was only Yemel, the Cossack sank back on his seat while the Jewish trader brought his pack animals to a halt and sprang to the ground.
“Ha!” said Khlit, surveying him amusedly, “I thought you had left your carcass where it would do no more harm.”
“No thanks to you, Khlit, I am here,” snarled the trader. “Murderer, mad Cossack, do you value lives as little as cattle?”
“Less,” smiled Khlit, “in battle. Did you not reap spoil enough without whining for gold and jewels—”
“My pay!” gasped Yemel. “Noble sir, I have your word! Ten times the value of the costliest emerald. Did I not sleep in the wagon-house with the man I had killed, to take his place? As God is my witness, the Khan and mirza came to the house and sat on the body of the dead shaman while I danced to keep their mind from the taint of the place.”
Khlit threw back his head and laughed long. Yemel seized his chance.
“Did not I make an excellent shaman, noble sir? Well for you I knew the Tatar camp as a dog knows his kennel. Did I not serve you well, carrying out your plans, even as you said? And the pay is little for such a risk.”
Khlit waved his hand toward the cottage.
“Take what you can carry away, Yemel,” he answered. “I need not such things. For I shall be alone now. Menelitza has taken Alevna to wife.”
Just for an instant the Jew glanced curiously at the old Cossack, somber now and gazing out over the waters of Father Dnieper. He made as if to say something, hesitated, noting the sadness in the Cossack’s eyes, shook his head shrewdly, and, taking a heavy bag from his pack horse, vanished quietly inside the hut.
TAL TAULAI KHAN (1918)
The gates of the monastery of the Holy Spirit rolled slowly back upon themselves. A cassocked priest of the Orthodox Russian Order thrust his head into the narrow opening and gazed upon those who sought admittance to the monastery, which stood in the mountains overlooking the waters of the Dnieper and formed a place of refuge for travelers in the early seventeenth century.
He saw, scattered along the road winding up to the monastery gates, a throng of horsemen accompanied by some carts. The riders he recognized as Cossacks by their astrakhan hats and wide sheepskin svitzas. They were impatiently waiting for the gates to be opened, and the appearance of the priest’s sturdy head and shoulders was greeted by a wild shout.
“Hey, the, batko!” they roared. “Look how be pokes out his shaven skull, like a baby vulture—come and take a drink of brandy, batko, it will warm your frozen bones! Hey, he must think we are ugly, he makes long faces at us!”
Several of the riders spurred abreast of the carts and jerked beakers of brandy from servants who acted as teamsters and wine-drawers. Most of the assembly were drunk, the priest knew, for it was a good two days’ travel to the Zaporogian Island—encampment of the Cossack army—and when the Cossacks rode to escort a fellow member to the monastery it was no crime, as in time of war, to drink on the march. Wherefore few were sober, and he who was too old to serve longer in the army, and who sought peace in the monastery, was least sober.
“Stand forth, Split Breeches!” rumbled the riders. “Let the batko see how tall you are, and fat. Devil take the man, where is he—”
At the command of his companions a powerful, gray-haired Cossack pushed to the front. Although he must have swallowed enough brandy to cripple a camel, he sat steadily in his saddle until he had waved farewell to the others. Then he spurred up to the gate. The priest drew himself up sternly.
“Who is there?” he demanded.
“Cossack, batko!” growled the warrior.
“What do you seek?”
“I am come to pray for my sinful soul.”
Dismounting, the Cossack stepped toward the gates, which opened wider at his approach. Opened and then closed behind him. His horse, separated from his companion of years, stood patiently where he had been left. Somewhere in the chimes, which were wont to sound at evening, echoed melodiously. At the sound several of the Cossacks removed their astrakhan hats and crossed themselves. Others sought the brandy wagons, to begin the march back to camp. They had come out of respect to the one they called Split Breeches, who was too old to fight and who sought to end his life in the monastery. The farewell accomplished, they departed for the camp where there were whispered tidings of war with the Tatars across the Dnieper.
To the free Cossacks, a summons to war was as the scent of game to a trained wolfhound. Wanderers, seekers of adventure, born fighters, they lived by the sword. When one was born the father laid his sword beside it, saying—
“Well, Cossack, here is my only gift to you, whereby to care for yourself and others.”
Fighting without pause, it was rare that a Cossack lived to be as old as the one called Split Breeches, or another who had just filled his beaker at the brandy wagon and held it up for a toast. He was tall as Split Breeches but lean, his scalp lock gray, and his bushy eyebrows overhanging narrow eyes and high cheekbones. His red morocco boots were of the finest stuff, and tar had been smeared over his costly nankeen breeches to show his scorn of appearances. A high sheepskin hat was perched over one ear.
“To our Russian land, and a speedy war!” he cried.
“Khlit has said well,” several responded.
“The horde of the Khan is gathering. Without doubt there will be war—”
“But Khlit will not be there,” spoke up a Cossack who wore a hetman’s attire from the outskirts of the group. “He has fought through too many wars already, devil take him, and he has outstayed his time in the Siech.”
The tall Cossack straightened his hat and, without an instant’s hesitation, spurred through the crowd to the speaker. Throwing down his beaker he pointed out over the Dnieper to the farther bank—territory of the Tatars.
“Hetman,” he growled, “think twice before you say that Khlit, he called the Wolf, Khlit of the Curved Saber, is too old to ride with the Siech. He who rode alone through the camp of Mirai Khan is not ready to seek the gates of a monastery.”
The hetman, who had spoken hastily, was not prepared to take back his words; as a chief of a kuren his speech held weight. Moreover, he had reason for what he said. And the Cossacks knew that Khlit’s years were above those of any other in the Siech. Measuring glances with the angry veteran, he replied:
“This is n
ot a time to think of the past, Khlit. War is upon us, and the men from the hills across the Dnieper say that hordes beyond the Krim Tatars are marching to the riverbanks. The name of Khlit of the Curved Saber has gone through the Ukraine to the Salt Sea. But we must fight with our arms, not names. And your arm is lean. Have I spoken the truth, noble sirs?”
Thee Cossacks, slightly quieted by the sight of the monastery, listened carefully. The incident had assumed the air of a council. And the warriors were jealous of their rights to decide for the welfare of all in a council. Before any could reply Khlit spoke.
“Mirai Khan would shake in his boots for joy if the word came to him that Khlit was humble. Is it the will of the noble sir to give pleasure to Mirai Khan and the ranks of the Flat-Face? The monastery doors are for weaklings and men who have tasted too much blood.”
Several of the Cossacks nodded assent but the majority were thoughtful. They were not given to much thinking—that they left to their leaders. Moreover, the hetman had said that Khlit was old, and the monastery was at hand. Many would like to say that they had seen the last of Khlit of the Curved Saber. Cossack usage was not to be put aside, and usage ordained that old men seek prayer for their souls.
Khlit, keen to judge the feelings of men, and crafty as a war-scarred wolf, saw that delay and debate would not aid him. Cossacks never waste time in quibbling. Inwardly, he laughed, and waved his hand around the assembly. “Come, noble sirs, he shouted, “do you order Khlit to the monastery? How will you fight the Tatars then? What is the decision of the assembly? Come, we are not old women, what is it to be?”
With his fate hanging in the balance—for the word of a council was law with the free Cossacks—Khlit scanned the faces of his companions and his heart sank as he failed to recognize a friend. All were young men, strangers, and few were from his kuren. The hetman was an acquaintance, but Khlit suspected that the officer was not free from jealousy.
Instead of replying at once the warriors glanced at each other and muttered uncertainly. The monastery was near. Yet the name of Khlit of the Curved Saber was known to them all. Finally one voice spoke up.