by Harold Lamb
Kefar Choga watched while the legs of Mirai Khan drew up slowly and were still. Khlit stepped back, panting, and eyed them.
“It is written in the law of the Cossack,” said Kefar Choga to his men, “that a murderer shall be buried alive, yet will we deal generously with this man and slay him on the scene of his crime.”
The Kirghiz chieftain drew a long knife and stepped toward Khlit while a half-dozen swords flashed in the torchlight. Still farther Khlit drew back and held up his hand. He sheathed his saber in its scabbard.
“The word of Tal Taulai Khan!” he cried. “No man may take sword or spear against the game marked for the chase of the Grand Khan. Did he not say so this morning in the council? Who is the man to go against the word of the Chief of Chiefs?”
The Tatars halted and sought each other with questioning glances.
“Tal Taulai Khan himself has said,” went on Khlit calmly, although his breath came deeply, “that none shall harm me until the hunt, and that weapons shall be given me. Who shall say otherwise?” He swept the circle of Tatars with his eyes. “There was a feud between Mirai Khan and the Wolf,” he went on, “and Mirai Khan had an arrow shot at my back. Kefar Choga himself saw. Wherefore is Mirai Khan dead. The feud is settled. Why not?”
With a last look at his enemies, Khlit turned his back. Taking up the sword of Mirai Khan, he stooped and with a quick stroke freed the head from the body of the Tatar. Placing the head beside him, he sat down.
Kefar Choga murmured under his breath, for the back of Khlit was turned toward them.
IX
And so came near the end of the great hunt Of Tal Taulai Khan in the year of the ape, as written in the annals Of Abulghazi Bahadur Sultan. Also is the tale of the last day and night, when the moon was full on the green fire that burned on Uskun Luk Tugra, written in the books of the bonzes who carried the news to the Dalai Lama in the mountains of Tibet.
The annals of Abulghazi Bahadur Sultan tell how fifty yoke of oxen carried baskets of gifts from the Kallmark Khan to the Krim chieftains at dawn of the last day of the hunt.
And now none spoke to Tal Taulai Khan until noon, for there was a frown on the face of the Khan, and Mirai Khan had been slain in the night, and no man was willing to lose his life in telling the news.
Never had hunt begun with such preparations. Khlit, from his pavilion, where he sat alone under guard by the headless body of Mirai Khan, had watched the departure of the gifts that to ally Tatar with Tatar and overwhelm the Siech. He heard the beat of horses’ hoofs as riders rode out to stations to the north and south ready for the beginning of the chase.
When the beat of hoofs had ceased, Khlit knew that the horde of Tal Taulai Khan stretched for a score of miles in a crescent. He had polished the blade of his saber, wiping away all traces of blood, and the Tatar guards heard strange sounds in the pavilion, for Khlit was endeavoring to sing to himself.
He sang in a harsh guttural the annals of the Ukraine that have no end, and the Kirghiz chieftain cursed, for no sleep would come to him. When his song was ended, Khlit had crossed himself devoutly, first removing his hat, and sheathed his saber against the summons to mount.
And the Tatars who thronged about the pavilion as Tal Taulai Khan struck the summons to the chase on the copper basin saw a strange sight. A choice Arab horse had been picked for Khlit by Kefar Choga himself.
“When you are loosed,” snarled the Tatar as he motioned for Khlit to come from the pavilion, “I shall not be far behind. We have a score to settle, you and I, by the name of the great god Fo!”
“Even so,” answered Khlit, and the Tatars murmured in surprise.
For they had seen the captive that was to be hunted to death leap from the steps of the pavilion to the back of his mount, and, lashing the horse’s flank with his Cossack whip, ride like a frightened bird through the camp. On the back of his horse Khlit stood upright, his cloak flying behind him, and his saber whirling around his head. He rode so, and when he was lost to view around the first group of fir trees, sank to his saddle and settled into a long stride toward the slope of Uskun Luk Tugra.
As he went, Khlit surveyed his surroundings critically. Much of the lay of the land he had learned from the Tatars in camp. The slope of Uskun Luk Tugra, fir-clad and rising to forbidding cliffs, began some half-dozen miles in front of him. Up this he could not go unless he knew one of the concealed pathways that were the secret of the Tartar shamans who thus guarded the green fire that burned at night.
On each side of him were the snow-coated hillocks, rock-strewn, with scattered groves of stunted firs that served to conceal him temporarily from his pursuers. To the north these hillocks stretched into the mountain passes where escape was not possible. To the south was a waste of snow and rock ravines that promised no thoroughfare.
Khlit wasted no time in hesitating as to his course. At the first opening in the firs he turned north.
He was passing now between silent ranks of evergreens, twisting and dodging in and out to avoid thickets, but keeping his course by the sun, which was high overhead. A glance showed him that he was leaving a clear trail in the snow.
Somewhere behind him he knew that Kefar Choga and Tal Taulai Khan, fired with the lust of the hunt, were upon his tracks, with their packs of dogs and horsemen. On each side of him the riders from the wings were closing in.
Khlit did not hurry. He steadied his horse to a rapid gallop, feeling with approval the pliable muscles of his mount’s chest and forelegs. The horse was fresh and needed little urging. When he came to a thicket, Khlit halted and drew out pipe and tobacco. As he struck spark to tinder he listened. The horse pricked up his ears. Some distance behind, Khlit heard the faint shouts of men. Although there was no sound of the dogs, he know that they were on the trail, under the eye of Tal Taulai Khan himself.
Urging his mount forward, Khlit resumed his flight to the north. The Cossack was not given to overmuch thought, yet he pondered the lot of Mirai Khan. Yesterday the dice of fate had fallen as the Krim leader wished. Today Mirai Khan was a name on the tongues of men. The old feud was settled. How was he, Khlit, to fare? Were the two enemies to fall together at the last of the Grand Khan’s hunt? Was Khlit decreed by the dice of fate to return to the Dnieper and to tell how the hunt had ended?
Of one thing Khlit was aware. Greater things would come to pass that day than were in the mind of Kefar Choga, or of the consummate chess player, Tal Taulai Khan. Greater even than written in the books of bonzes. Of that he was certain.
Khlit had told Mirai Khan that he would turn his horse’s head to the Krim tribes to the north. As he had promised, he did, hasting on at a pace that kept him just within earshot of the pursuing horsemen.
But now a change had come over Khlit. A little while ago he had been looking back over his shoulder as he rode. Now he watched the way ahead, scanning each clump of brush as he approached and eyeing tracks in the snow which became more frequent.
That he must be nearing the Krim encampment, he knew, yet there was no sound, nor could he see horsemen in his occasional glimpses up ravines ahead. He selected high ground and rode cautiously.
X
The sun was well past its highest point and the shadows of the firs were lying prostrate across his path when Khlit came face to face with the first of the Krim folk.
Galloping into a clearing in the firs, he drew his horse sharply back.
The clearing was filled with moving forms of men. Khlit recognized the small figures and round helmets of the Krim cavalry. Each horseman was fully armed with bow at his saddles side and quiver at his back. The leaders drew rein and stared at Khlit, who raised his hand to attract attention.
“Listen, men of the steppe,” he said quickly.
The remaining horsemen came to a halt, at the summons of Khlit’s raised hand. Their keen ears were strained into the distance. Khlit saw several whisper together. At the same instant he caught the sound of the pursuit, louder than before, and the crashing of many horsemen in the
brush.
“Hey, men of the steppe,” he cried, “do you hear the hunt of Tal Taulai Khan approaching? The Kallmark horde is not on the chase!”
At a signal from one of their number the Tatars divided, passing to each side into the bush. Khlit waited quietly, hand near his sword, but none came near him. With a breath of relief he spurred on his horse, choosing the thickest cover and bending low in the saddle.
His quick eye did not miss the change in the woods.
Cleared spaces showed him vistas of moving horsemen. Thickets revealed Tatar helmets standing stationary. The snow underground was thickly trampled. Khlit must be nearing the Tatar camp, yet he saw no signs of tents or cattle herds.
Farther into the ranks of the Krim folk he trotted, his skill sufficing to keep him from running into the moving groups.
Isolated Tatars galloped full upon him, stared, and passed on at sight of his drawn sword. Once he caught the sound of horns blaring in the hills above him.
He heard a shot echo behind him. Then another, followed by a crackle of shots that seemed to roll up the hills and back into the valleys. Khlit stopped his horse in a grove and listened. The woods behind him were stirring with sound. Shots continued, and he caught the frightened neigh of a horse. Trumpets sounded from several quarters. Truly the hunt of Tal Taulai Khan, he considered, was growing.
Making fast the reins of his horse to a tree trunk, Khlit clambered from its back to the branches of the fir. Grunting with distaste, for climbing trees was not to his liking, he gained a height where he could look out over his surroundings.
He had a full view of the hunt of Tal Taulai Khan. Swarming over the wooded ridges in his rear, distinct against the snow, he saw myriads of horsemen, interspersed with packs of dogs. Every clearing was black with men moving up into the hills. The hunt was drawing its net about him. Yet Khlit was not alone in the net.
Moving down from the hills, in the valleys he could make out swarms of brown-cloaked riders, mounted on small steppe ponies. These were the Krim Tatars, moving from their encampment. Restlessly they pushed ahead, frequently stopping to consult together or to rally to the colored ensigns which led the warriors of each tribe. Were the Krim Tatars riding to a chase? Had they decided to come down to meet the Kallmark Tatars? Were they uneasy for Mirai Khan, their leader of a score of years? Khlit tugged at his mustache and watched them narrowly.
As he watched he heard the crackle of shots growing like the snapping of fire, and a dull shouting arose. The dice of fate, thought Khlit, were thrown upon the board and he must abide by the issue.
“If Mirai Khan leads the Krim Tatars into battle,” he quoted to himself, “there will be victory.”
But Mirai Khan was dead. The one man who know the hearts of both Kallmark Tatar and Krim Tatar, who had tried to bring together these nations long hostile, was not living.
As he watched Khlit learned the meaning of the shots that grew into a long roll. Across one of the clearings he saw a regiment of Kallmarks gallop. Uneasily the riders moved about, a few horsemen darting out to left and right as if to learn what was going on nearby. Then Khlit saw a strange thing. The leading riders sank from their horses to the ground, writhed, and lay still. Those following went forward a few paces, their ranks thinning.
Distant as he was, Khlit could make out a flight of arrows that swept from the woods into the Kallmark ranks. Other bands of brown-cloaked and helmeted Tatars that were not Kallmarks emerged from the wood and drew in around the remaining riders. Swords flickered in the sun’s rays.
And then more Kallmarks swarmed into the clearing. The riders now were so mingled that there was no telling Kallmark from Krim. Yet always, they fell to the snow, singly and in groups.
He had seen what he wanted.
“It will be a good bunt,” be said softly, climbing upon his horse, for above the shouts and confusion he caught the sound of horsemen approaching him.
XI
Glancing back, Khlit saw several figures come into view a quarter mile behind him. He made out the squat, menacing form of Kefar Choga, wearing the cloak embroidered with his rank, and the tall Kirghiz chieftain. They rode behind a pack of dogs. By chance or keen scent the pack had followed him through the maze of firs.
Khlit bent low to avoid a possible pistol shot and urged his horse to full pace. Kefar Choga did likewise, accompanied by the Kirghiz. Khlit’s mount had had a brief rest, but the other two appeared as fresh. Looking back a second time, the Cossack saw that the distance had neither grown nor diminished. He remembered Kefar Choga’s promise to find him out in the hunt, and he knew that the Kallmark was not one to be lightly shaken off.
Khlit regretted that he had disposed of his pistols to the Kirghz as he heard the crack of a shot behind him and saw the snow fly up a short distance ahead.
Turning aside, he swept through a thicket down into a ravine, dodged among some boulders, and came out on the level again to find that Kefar Choga had won a hundred paces nearer. Waving his hand at the Kallmark, he urged his horse up a rise, listening for the crack of a pistol.
The tired beast stumbled and floundered its way to the summit. Although the two pursuers should have been near them, instead he heard a sound that made him turn in his saddle.
Kefar Choga had pulled his mount to a sudden halt. The Kirghiz drew up beside him. The pack of dogs scattered to every quarter. In Khlit’s ear echoed the shrill battle cry of the Krim Tatars.
A troop of the Krim warriors whom he had not seen on his flank had circled around the Kallmark horsemen. One of them pointed to Kefar Choga’s cloak with an exclamation. As a pack of wolves dart in on a stag at bay the horsemen swerved and rode at the two.
The Kirghiz coolly discharged his other pistol without effect. Khlit saw one Krim rider and then another go down before Kefar Choga’s weapon. Then the horsemen crowded into a circle. The flashing swords were sheathed, and Khlit knew that the last of his pursuers was out of the way.
Wisely deciding not to attract the attention of the Krim cavalry to himself, he trotted on and found that he was making his way into the encampment of the Krim Tatars. Gray tents stood on every quarter. Embers of fires blackened the snow. Empty wagons were ranged at intervals. In the camp Khlit saw no man stirring.
Looking about him curiously, he had almost gained the farther side of the camp, on the point nearest the Uskun Luk Tugra, which loomed overhead, when he saw a movement in one of the tents.
Guiding his horse thither, Khlit noted that outside were piled heaps of baskets that appeared familiar. Costly rugs were torn into shreds on the snow. Gold vessels had been trampled underfoot. The baskets themselves had been emptied and cast aside. Khlit pondered as he eyed the remnants of Tal Taulai Khan’s gifts to the Krim Tatars.
Recalling the movement in the tent, he swept the tent pole to the ground with his saber. The cloth covering writhed as it lay prostrate.
“Unnamed one,” growled Khlit, “come, or be spitted to the ground.” The movement under the tent hastened and presently a dismal-looking figure stood upright. A red cloak was tangled in the man’s leg and the front of his undergarment bulged, while from it hung an emerald necklace, with a sapphire cross.
“Hey, shaman,” greeted Khlit, remembering his acquaintance of the steppe, “are you a vulture that you prey upon the gifts of a khan? Disgorge the jewels, toad, and come here”
The shaman obeyed, his face quivering with fright.
“It is the day of fate,” he whimpered, “it is the doom of the Krim folk. The Black Kallmarks are marching upon us. Their lines draw in like a net. They are traitors and idolatrous—foresworn! Before today we had awaited them as friends.”
“Where Is Mirai Khan, who leads the Krim Tatars to victory?” mocked Khlit.
“Aie!” the shaman wailed, stuffing a costly necklace unnoticed by Khlit into his sleeve, “Mirai Khan is dead, his head severed from his body. It is the beginning of doom for the Krim nation. None shall survive the net of the Black Kallmarks, who are more numerou
s than the sands of the salt sea—”
He broke off to cower as the din of combat swept up to the two. Khlit’s nostrils expanded as with pleasure. He hearkened to the cries and shots that echoed from every quarter of the hills.
“It is not my doom devil take it,” he cried. “Come shaman, show the way to the summit of Uskun Luk Tugra, the roof of the world, for our tribe knows it well. The doom of this day is great for the Kallmark hunters who have found other game than they sought, yet it is written that you and I, the wolf and the serpent, shall pass through.”
Wherefore it happened that Khlit rode silently behind the moaning form of the conjurer up concealed paths in Uskun Luk Tugra, past waterfalls that moistened his horse’s feet, and between chasms that glowed on their summits with green fire until he came out on the snow of the summit and stood amazed at the flat field of shimmering glow that seemed to be the fires of a thousand devils, soft, as deep as an emerald’s glow.
“By my faith,” he swore, “is this the court of the devil? No land was ever so fiat, and fires burn red, not green.”
He shuddered, while the shaman edged close to his horse for warmth, for the cold on the roof of the world was great.
“Nay, noble Cossack,” he whined, “the flat is but a frozen lake, and the fire is not flame but light. See”—he caught up a bit of rotten wood—“it is harmless. We call it phosphorus and it lies on the dead trees that were killed when the lake gripped their roots.”
“The shaman laid his flaming hand on the mane of the horse, which did not stir.
“It is well,” said Khlit. “Come.”
And the journey of the two continued along the lake, lit by the green fire, until they could see down into the valleys where the two hordes bad been.
Many fires were there, and over all the dim light of the moon.