by Harold Lamb
Cautiously, Khlit scanned the groups about the well. Among the Kurdish riders and Tatars who were brown with the dust of the desert trail from Samarkand, he recognized a bent figure in a long gray cloak and black kollah. As he watched the figure, it bent still further over a box of goods, and lifted some silks to view. It was the Syrian, without doubt. Khlit felt a thrill, as of one who is hunted and hears the cry of the chase. He stepped forward with an oath, when Berca’s grasp tightened on his arm.
“That is a fedavie of Alamut,” she whispered. “I saw the curved daggers, and they are the weapons of the Refik folk of Halen ibn Shaddah. He must have overheard us in his shop at Astrakhan, and has followed to slay, as is the law of Alamut. Probably there are more of the fedavie among the men of the caravan.”
“Then we must deal with the Syrian before he can speak to them,” muttered Khlit, but again Berca tugged him back.
“Did I not say you were a fool among my people, oh, Wolf,” she whispered. “Watch. The Syrian shall have his reward. Your folly is very great, yet I need a man who is blunt and brave and knows not my plans. It is written that none knows where his grave is dug, yet the Syrian’s grave is here. Watch, and do not move.”
Khlit waited. The fedavie had stooped over his box. One or two Kurds gathered to look at its contents. Among the group Khlit noticed Toctamish who had come up quietly. The Tatar pushed past the others, heedless of their muttered curses until he stood directly in front of the trader. The Syrian looked up, and, seeing Toctamish, was motionless.
Khlit saw the Kurds stare and draw back as if they sensed trouble. The Syrian, still watching Toctamish, rose with a swift, cat-like movement, his hand hidden in the silks. Toctamish grunted something and spat upon the silks.
“See,” whispered Berca softly, “his grave is dug, and the nameless one sees it.”
Toctamish thrust his yellow, scarred face near the Syrian’s. Around him a crowd pressed, watching with attention. With a cry, the Syrian, who seemed to have found the suspense too much for him, drew a pistol from the silks in which it had been concealed.
Instantly two giant arms were flung ’round him. Toctamish was on him with a speed that baffled him, and the Tatar’s huge bulk pressed the Syrian backward to the ground. Writhing impotently, the Syrian saw Toctamish draw a dagger from his girdle. And Khlit grunted as he noted that it was the one he had seen with blade like a curved flame. While he held the smaller man powerless with one arm, Toctamish lifted the dagger and thrust it carefully into his foe’s body, into stomach and chest.
Then, rising, he wiped the curved dagger on a handful of the trader’s silks. For a moment the arms and legs of the unhappy Syrian stirred on the ground. And Khlit saw a strange thing. For, before life had gone from the body, several men of the caravan, Khirghiz warriors by their dress, pushed through the throng with daggers like that of Toctamish and struck at the Syrian. Not until the body was still did they cease to strike.
Then the Khirghiz men looked around for Toctamish, but the stocky Tatar had disappeared in the throng. Khlit, who had missed nothing of what happened, thought to himself that it was well that the dagger had been in the hand of Toctamish, not of the Syrian. Plainly, he thought, the Khirghiz murderers had been fellows, without knowing, to the Syrian. And he wondered how men of many races came to be banded together, not knowing that he was to wonder soon, and very greatly, at other things.
V
Berca had disappeared; and when Khlit strode through the crowd of the caravan seeking her, his horse at his elbow, he met Toctamish. The Tatar was mounted and leading the pack-mule.
“Mount,” he said gruffly, “and follow.”
“And what of the girl?” queried Khlit, who was unwilling to take orders from Toctamish.
“She has told us to go on, as you know, caphar,” snarled the Tatar, who disliked to talk. “Later, she will send word to us. Come.”
“We are both fools. You, to be the slave of a painted girl, and I to seek for an empire which is not to be found, to slay a man who is hidden.”
Khlit’s words were silenced by a sudden uproar in the caravan. Men sprang to their feet and hauled at the camels who had kneeled in weariness. Traders who had been eating gave shouts of lamentation. Laden slaves ran together in confusion.
Toctamish stared at the uproar, until Khlit touched his shoulder.
“Look!” he said.
From the south, over the salt desert a cloud of dust was threading in and out among the rocks. It was advancing swiftly toward them, and the Cossack could see that it was made by mounted men riding very fast. He made out turbans and spearpoints in the dust. The horsemen were headed directly toward the caravan.
“Robbers,” said Toctamish briefly; “there will be a fight.”
“A poor one, it seems,” growled Khlit. “The Kurds are leaving us as fast as their horses can take them and your countrymen like the looks of things little—they have not drawn sword or bow.”
In truth, the Tatars who were acting as guard sat their horses stolidly, while the dismayed traders added to the confusion by rushing about frantically, trying to assemble their goods. Khlit turned his attention in disgust to the oncoming horsemen, and counted a bare two score. In numbers, the caravan was three times as strong; yet no attempt at defense was made.
Instead the traders were anxiously spreading out their bales of goods, so that all were displayed. Camels and donkeys were stripped and their burden placed on the ground. In the meantime the horsemen who had come up were trampling recklessly through the confusion.
A fat Greek merchant held out an armful of rugs to one of the riders who stared at it insolently and pointed to the heavy packs behind the merchant. Other riders jerked out the contents of these packs, and ranged them in nine piles.
Khlit, watching them, saw that they were men of varied race. He guessed at Persian, Kurd, Circassian, Turk and others with whom he was not familiar—dark-skinned, and heavily-cloaked who sat their horses as a swallow rides the wind. Also, the Khirghiz men of the caravan had joined the newcomers.
The first rider flung some words at the Greek who was cowering on the ground and Khlit thought he caught the phrase “Alamut.” Then the horsemen picked up three of the nine piles of goods, and flung them over pack-horses. Other riders who had been similarly occupied joined them. All the while the Tatar guardians of the caravan watched without interest, as men who had seen the like before.
It was not until the horsemen were well away over the salt plain that Khlit recovered from his astonishment at the sight of few robbing many.
“Better the mountain-folk than these,” he growled, spitting in the direction of the merchants who were putting their goods away amid lamentations.
So it came to pass that a Cossack rode into the foothills of Rudbar where, in the words of the historian Abulghazi, none set foot who held Allah or Christ for their true God, and with him rode a Tatar who, under other circumstances would gladly have slain him.
They rode in silence, as rapidly as the pack animal could move, and by nightfall had gained the edge of the salt deposits that made that part of Persia like a frozen lake.
Each made camp after his fashion. And two fires were lighted instead of one. Khlit produced some barley cakes and wine and made a good meal. Toctamish took some raw meat from under his saddle where he had placed it for seasoning and washed it down with his favorite arak. Both kind led pipes and sat in silence in the darkness.
Toctamish’s pipe went out first, and Khlit knew that the Tatar had swallowed the smoke until with the burning arak he had lost consciousness. The Cossack was soon asleep.
His sleep was unbroken, except that, near dawn, he thought he heard the trampling of many horses’ feet, which sounded until the rays of the sun, slipping into his eyes, awoke him. He made out at some distance the track of a cavalcade in the dust, and considered that it might have been a caravan. Yet it was out of the path of caravans. Moreover, he was reasonably sure the track had not been there the night before. To
ctamish, when wakened, yawned in bad spirits and told Khlit he was an old woman, of great fear and unmentionable descent.
When they resumed their path, it led upward through the foothills of Rudbar. A few date trees and some thorn bushes lined the way, but for the most part there was little foliage and many rocks. The grass, however, was good, and this was, perhaps, the reason why groups of horses were met with under the care of single, mounted horsemen who watched Khlit and his companion with curiosity.
They rode apart and silently, as before. Khlit’s thoughts dwelt on Berca’s last words. The girl had spoken as one having authority. She was no ordinary sheik’s daughter, living out of sight of men, he thought. She was daring, and he wondered if she came from one of the hill-tribes where the women ride with men.
Berca had told him they were in the land of Halen ibn Shaddah, in the territory of the Refik folk, yet Khlit saw no signs of a town or city. He did see the tracks of multitudes of horses in the mountains where caravans were unknown. And the horses themselves puzzled him. For he could see nothing of their riders.
Toctamish, apparently, wasted no thought on his surroundings. He rode warily, but kept his thoughts to himself and pressed onward rapidly. Thus it was that the two came to a wide, shallow river, and followed the bank along a valley that seemed to sink further into the hills as they advanced.
Until sunset they rode, making detours to avoid waterfalls and fording the river where it curved—for it was very shallow—and then Khlit who was in the lead came to a halt as they rounded a bend.
“By the bones of Satan,” he swore, “here is the place Berca told us of. Devil take me, if it does not look like a dog with his front paws in the river.”
Like an arched bow the river curved, with the two riders standing at the end of the bow looking inward. Across from them rose a high point of rock, serried and overgrown with bushes, several hundred feet. No trees were on the summit of the rock. Instead, Khlit could make out masses of stones tumbling together and overgrown. A few pillars stood up through the debris.
Around the summit ran the semblance of a wall. So great was the waste of stone that it was hard to see any semblance of order in it, but Khlit judged that a citadel as big as a good-sized town had once crowned the dog-promontory. The rock jutted out to make the massive bead of the beast, and ridges suggested paws.
“Here is no Alamut, Toctamish,” growled Khlit in disgust. “Truly, we are fools—the little sparrow, Berca, has made game of us.”
“Wait, caphar,” retorted Toctamish, dismounting. “She said we would find the dog sitting in the river, thus, and we have found it. We will wait here and see what happens.”
“Well, we will wait,” laughed Khlit, “and see if the dog will give birth to a tribe.”
VI
Little Khlit suspected how true his chance word was to be. The sun had dropped behind the furthest mountain summit, and the night cold of the high elevation had wrapped around the two watchers when they saw a sight that made their blood stir.
The Cossack had stretched on the ground a little distance from Toctamish, who had subsided into snores. He watched the last light melt from the ruins on the summit of the cliff, and as he watched he thought he heard echoes from across the river, as from far off. Straining his ears, he could catch bursts of music and shouting. Remembering his experience with the horses the previous night, he wondered if the mountains were playing tricks with his ears.
The sounds would come in bursts as though a gate had been opened to let them out, followed by silence. Khlit was not at home in the hills, and he did not recognize the peculiar resonance of echoes. What he thought he heard were songs and shouts repeated from mouth to mouth, as by giants, in the heart of the rock opposite him.
Lighting his pipe and cursing himself for a dreaming fool, Khlit sat up and scanned the darkness over the river. As if to mock him, the burst of shouting became clearer. And then the skin moved along Khlit’s back of its own accord and his jaw dropped. He shook his head angrily, to make sure he was still awake.
Out of the rock across the river a multitude of lights were flickering. The lights came toward him rapidly, and the shouting grew. There were torches, moving out on the river, and by their glare he could see a mass of moving men armed with spears and bows. Splashing through the water, they were fording the shallow river.
Khlit could see that they were men of varied race, turbaned and cloaked, armed for the most part with bow and arrows, much like those who had robbed the caravan. As the throng came nearer, he shook Toctamish and stood up.
“Loosen your sword, Father of Swine,” he grunted, “here are men who are not triflers.”
Several of the leaders, who had caught sight of the two, closed around them. The torchlight was thrown in their faces, and for a moment the shouting of the band was silenced as they surveyed Khlit and his companion. One, very lean and dark of face, dressed in a white coat bossed with gold, and wearing a tufted turban of the same colors, spoke in a tongue Khlit did not understand.
“Hey, brothers,” swore Khlit genially, laughing, for the presence of danger pleased him, “have you any who speak like Christians? Khlit, called the Wolf, would speak with you.”
After some, delay, a dirty tribesman was thrust beside the man of white and gold.
“Wherefore are you here?” the tribesman, who seemed to be a Kurd, asked in broken Russian, “and what is your purpose? Be brief, for the Dais are impatient to march. Are you a Christian, Cossack?”
“Say that you are not,” whispered Toctamish, who had caught what was said, “for none with a god can go into the mountain.”
“A dog will give up his faith,” snarled Khlit, “but a Cossack does not deny God and the Orthodox Church. Aye,” he responded to the Kurd, “I am a Christian. I have come to Rudbar, or to Alamut, whatever you call the place, to seek him who is called the Old Man of the Mountain. What is your name and faith?”
A peculiar look of fear crossed the face of the Kurd.
“Seek you the Master of the Mountain, Sheik Halen ibn Shaddah, Cossack? My name is Iba Kabash, and I was once a Christian. What is your mission with the Lord of Alamut?”
“Tell the unbeliever we have come to join the Refik, where there is no law—” began Toctamish, but Khlit motioned him to silence.
“Take us to Sheik Halen ibn Shaddah, and we will tell him our mission, Iba Kabash,” he retorted. “We are not men to parley with slaves.”
The man of white and gold had grown impatient, and spoke a few angry words to Iba Kabash, who cringed. Several of the bowmen ranged themselves beside them, and the throng pushed past, leaving a single torch with the Kurd, who motioned to Khlit to follow him. Leaving their horses with an attendant, Khlit and Toctamish made their way after Iba Kabash to the river. The current was not overswift, and the water came barely to their knees.
“It is the wish of the Dai, Cossack, that you shall enter Alamut. What is your mission? Tell me and I shall be a true friend. I swear it. Surely you have a strong reason for your coming.” The Kurd’s greasy head was thrust close to the Cossack’s. “Let me hear but a word.”
“If the Dai named you guide; Iba Kabash, of the mangy beard, lead us, and talk not.”
In his heart Khlit distrusted the offered friendship of the Kurd. And he watched closely where they went, across the Shahrud, into the shadows of the further bank. And he saw how it was the Dai’s followers had come from the mountain.
Concealed by the shadows were grottoes, where the water had eaten into the rock, grottoes which ran deep into the mountain. The torch reflected from the dark surface of the water, as they splashed forward, with the river becoming shallower. Presently they stood on dry rock. Here they were in a cave, of which Khlit could not see the top.
Iba Kabash pulled impatiently at his arm and they went forward, and up. Khlit saw that now they were on rock which was the handiwork of man. They were ascending broad steps, each one a pace in width, and so broad that the torch barely showed rows of stone pilla
rs on either side.
Khlit had counted fifty steps when Iba Kabash came to a halt, grinning. Lifting the torch overhead, he pointed to a square stone, set in the rocky roof of the stairs. On this rock were lines of writing strange to Khlit, and blackened with age and the dampness of the place.
“The gateway of Alamut, oh, Cossack,” laughed the Kurd. “And the writing of one who was as great as Mohammed, prophet of Allah. And the message:
“With the help of God
The ruler of the world
Loosened the bands of the law,
Blessed be his name.”
Khlit was silent. He had not expected to find himself in a cave in the heart of a mountain. The darkness and damp, rising from the river, chilled him. Glancing ahead, he saw a rocky passage, wide and lofty. The passage had been made by the river, perhaps in a former age, when it had risen to that level. But the hands of men had widened it and smoothed the walls. Toctamish, he saw, was scrutinizing his surroundings, his slant eyes staring from a lined, yellow face.
“Come,” said Iba Kabash, who seemed to enjoy the silence of his visitors, “this was not the gateway of Alamut always, in the days of the first Master of the Mountain. And Alamut has changed. It has sunk into the mountain. Men say the old Alamut was destroyed.”
“Aye,” said Toctamish suddenly, “by Hulagu Khan.”
The Kurd stared at him curiously.
“Come,” he muttered, and led the way up the winding rock passage.
Khlit followed closely. Other passages joined the one they were in. At times, sounds came down these passages—distant rumblings, and strains of music. Occasionally a figure armed with a spear stepped from them and scanned the group. Always a wind whipped around them, cold, in spite of the heat of the air outside.
After a time, Khlit saw that they were no longer in the passage. The torch did not reveal walls, and the footing was regular, of stone slabs. They had entered a chamber of some kind. Other torches made their appearance suddenly. The sound of voices came to them clearly.
They approached a fire around which lay several armed men. Khlit guessed from their dress that they were Khirghiz men; furthermore, that they appeared drunk. Only one or two looked up, without interest. Iba Kabash led them past many fires and men until they came to narrow stone stairs which led away from the rock chambers. Here, a giant Turk spoke with Iba Kabash before letting them pass.