The Harold Lamb Megapack

by Harold Lamb

  The girl, he felt, sat by him, and her finger-nails and the soles of her bare feet were red. He had never seen such a maiden, for her hair also was red, and the sun glinted through it as she drew it across his face. Her hair must be perfumed, he thought, like the harlots of Samarkand, for it smelled very good.

  The music came to his ears from time to time, and he snorted, for Khlit was no lover of soft sounds. Neither did he fully relish the wine, which was oversweet. He was well content to be in the sun, and too drowsy to wonder how it happened.

  The dream, if it was that, changed, and Khlit was in a boat lying on some rugs. The boat was drifting along a canal. From time to time it would pass under a porcelain kiosk, tasselled and inlaid with ivory. From these kiosks girls laughed down at him and threw flowers. One of the tinted faces was like Berca’s, and Khlit thought then it was surely a dream.

  One other thing he remembered. It was in a grave of date trees where young boys ran, shouting, and pelted each other with fruit. In spite of the warmth and pleasantness, Khlit felt very tired. He was in the shade of one of the date trees with his sword across his knees. The music was very faint here, for which he was glad. He seemed very wakeful. The air was clear, and looking up he could see the sky, between jagged walls of stone. He had seen other walls of stone like these. That was when he and Toctamish had stood at the Shahrud looking up at the dog rock that was Alamut.

  Even in the dream, Khlit felt ill. He saw the damsel of the red hair and flowers and beckoned to her, for he was thirsty. She ran away, probably at the sight of his sword. Khlit felt angry, for she had given him drink for what seemed many years.

  Then he saw the gray-cloaked figure of Rashideddin, the astrologer of Alamut, beside him, and the white face stared at him until Khlit fidgeted. He heard Rashideddin speak, very faintly.

  “Where art thou?”

  Khlit was too tired to answer at first.

  “I know not,” he said finally.

  “Thou art in paradise, and by favor of Halen ibn Shaddah. Do not forget.”

  Truly, Khlit had not forgotten. There were other things he remembered. Vistas of blue pools where dark-skinned men bathed, and date groves where bright-colored birds walked, dragging their tails on the ground. He saw girls pass, hand in hand, singing. And the music did not cease.

  If it had been a dream, Khlit said to himself, how could the taste of the strange wine stick to his palate? Or the warmth of the sun be still burning on his skin? Nay, surely it must have been a dream. And the waking was disagreeable.

  The place where he found himself on waking was dark, wet and smelled strongly of wine dregs. Khlit rose to his knees cautiously and felt about him with his hand. He could feel the outline of something round and moist on all sides except overhead. Also he came upon the body of a man lying by him, which he identified by its fur tunic and peaked helmet as Toctamish. The Tatar was snoring heavily.

  “Wake, Flat-Face and son of an unclean animal,” he growled, shaking him. “We are no longer in paradise. Devil take me, if it ain’t a wine cask.”

  Toctamish roused at length and sat up reluctantly.

  “Is it you, caphar?” he asked, stretching himself. “Many times have I been drunk as an ox, but never such as this. May the devil bite me, if there was ever such wine! Let us find some more.”

  “Then you have been dreaming, also,” meditated Khlit. “Did you imagine that you saw Berca?”

  “Berca? Nay, but she said that she would visit us here. That was no dream, caphar, for there was sunlight, and much feasting. Did Rashideddin tell you it was paradise? I met other Tatars there. They told me what it was.”

  “Were they also men who dishonored their god at Rashideddin’s bidding? What said they concerning this paradise of yours?”

  Toctamish snarled in anger, at the memory of the scene by the chessboard.

  “You are one without brains, Cossack, and it is well that we are here alive. My companions said this: that all who came to Alamut were admitted to the paradise by Halen ibn Shaddah, if they were worthy. Then, if they were killed in the ranks of the Refik their souls returned to the paradise. That was a lie, for how can there be a soul in a man?”

  Khlit said nothing. But he thought that he had found the key to the riddle. Halen ibn Shaddah’s power lay in the lusts of his men. They looked on him, even so shrewd a man as Iba Kabash, as one who held the secret of paradise. And, although he did not know it, Khlit’s thought had come near to the evil of Alamut, which was a plague spot on the face of the world.

  X

  In the next few days the two warriors, bound together by mutual interest, although cordially hating each other, made frequent explorations of the chambers of Alamut. In the daytime sunlight filtered in at the banquet-place, the round chamber of Rashideddin and other places, but at night the only light was from lamps or torches. The chambers were large enough to hold a hundred men in each and thee were many. Khlit, who had keen eyes, learned several things, including the place of the Refik treasure.

  First, a certain area was guarded against intrusion by picked Tatars and Arabs. Into the guarded chambers he had seen Dais and other higher dignitaries called Dailkebirs go, and he guessed they were occupied by Halen ibn Shaddah and his court, where was kept the gold that flowed into Alamut as tribute money.

  Also, there was no exit from the chambers of Alamut save by way of the stairway and the river, which was guarded. Frequently armed bands went in and out, also messengers of many races, but all were closely watched. Moreover, few except old residents of the place, like Iba Kabash, the Kurd, knew the way to the river stairway.

  The slaves, he learned, brought food not from the river stairway, but another source. Also wood for the fires. The warriors of Alamut, fedavie, as they were called, lived as they chose, under the eyes of the Dais, ornamenting their quarters with spoil taken in raids or from caravans. Each man was richly decked in whatever suited his fancy, of silks or jewels. The Dais who commanded them took interest in them only when it was time to take an expedition out of Alamut.

  So much Khlit saw, and more he learned from the talkative Iba Kabash, who had won some gold at dice from Toctamish, and was inclined to be friendly. The slaves, he said, brought the food from the side of Alamut away from the river, where they drew it up in baskets to the summit of a wall that barred all egress from the citadel.

  Iba Kabash had not been beyond the walls of Alamut since his entry. Yet he had heard much of the empire of the Refik that stretched its power from Samarkand to Aleppo and from Astrakhan to Basra. The murderers of the Refik were feared so greatly, he explained, that tribute was paid by the cities to Alamut. Questioned by Khlit, he admitted that in numbers any of the califates were superior to Alamut. The power of Halen ibn Shaddah lay in the daggers of his men. No enemy escaped assassination once he was marked. And many were marked.

  “Then there is no way to leave save by the river stair?” asked Khlit, who had listened attentively.

  Iba Kabash stared and shook his head.

  “Where is the fool who would escape, Khlit?” he responded. “Thrice lucky are we who are here. There was a calif who marched against us with horsemen from Irak. We rained down stones and baked clay on his men; then sallied forth, and the Shadrud was red with blood.”

  “Aye,” said Toctamish sullenly. “There are no better fighters than those of Irak. Remember Hulaga Khan and his horsemen.”

  “Nay, I knew them not.”

  Iba Kabash glanced at the Tatar curiously, and Khlit laughed to distract his mind, for he did not trust the Kurd.

  “There was another who opposed us,” continued Iba Kabash. “That was a sheik of the hillmen in the mountains around Alamut. Him we killed by tearing out his belly and bowels. He had a daughter, who was a spit-fire. Rashideddin dealt with her.”

  “How?” asked Khlit carelessly, recognizing the description as Berca.

  “Cleverly, very cleverly,” chuckled the Kurd, rubbing his hands together. “He had Halen ibn Shaddah order her o
ff to marry some Tatar chief who knew her not. It was when she had gone that we slew the old chief slowly, and scattered his tribe.”

  “Truly a shrewd trick.” Khlit gave Toctamish a warning blow in the ribs that made the stocky warrior grunt. “How fared the chief’s daughter at the hands of the Tatar? Your knowledge is greater than that of others, Iba Kabash. Can you tell me that?”

  “Nay, that is a hard one,” laughed the Kurd. “I have heard, from a slave that the chief’s daughter, Berca, was seen in Astrakhan. Also that she was taken as a slave by some caravan not far from here. I know not.”

  “Was the one who told you a slave in Alamut?” demanded Toctamish, who was becoming restive.

  “Where else, offspring of a donkey?” muttered Iba Kabash. “I suppose you will also ask how he came to hear of the girl.”

  “Nay,” interrupted Khlit. “Toctamish wondered at the power of Alamut. He is a clown. You and I, Iba Kabash, are men of wisdom.”

  So it happened that Khlit was not astonished when, as he came from the floor of the banquet-place one night, his head hazy with the fumes of the strange wine, a girl slave leaned close to him and whispered briefly.

  “By the far corner of the balcony,” she repeated, “in an hour.”

  He looked thoughtfully at an object the slave had thrust into his hand. It was the sapphire which Berca had once offered him.

  He did not tell Toctamish of the message. And he was at some pains to get rid of Iba Kabash before the time appointed in the message. So he was alone when he went slowly along the stone balcony to a dark corner. The slaves had retired from the banquet-place and the fedavie were watching for Halen ibn Shaddah to come from his quarters. Standing so that he could not be seen by those below, Khlit waited. Waited until the torches came, with the Dais and the huge figure of Halen ibn Shaddah. He felt a touch on his coat, and turned.

  “Follow,” whispered the soft voice of the Persian, “and do not tread clumsily.”

  Khlit found that this was not so easy. Berca carried no light. He could barely see her cloaked form by the reflection of an occasional candle as she passed swiftly through chambers and rock passages. His head was light from the wine, although his mind was clear.

  Berca kept to passages where there were few persons, and these Khlit saw to be slaves. She was taking him through the slave quarters where he had not been before. Through corridors that narrowed until he had to turn sideways to pass; by sunken walls which smelled evilly. Through a corridor that led out of the chambers of Alamut into the paradise of Halen ibn Shaddah.

  Khlit paused in amazement and felt of his head which was throbbing. A half-moon glimmered down at him, and a cool night wind played in his hair. The branches of date trees stirred lazily. Under his feet he could feel grass, and he saw one of the strange birds that dragged its tail come from the shadow of the date trees.

  Berca shook him angrily by the arm.

  “One without sense, eater of swine flesh!” she hissed. “Are you a clown to gape at strange things?”

  A fountain threw its spray on the wind into Khlit’s face, with a scent like the roses of Ispahan. Below the fountain was a canal, which Khlit remembered vaguely, with a boat attached to the shore. In the water he could see the reflection of the moon gleaming at him. And he was dizzy.

  “This is the paradise of Halen ibn Shaddah,” he muttered unsteadily, “where I came by his favor. So Rashideddin told me.”

  Berca peered up at him silently. Her cloak fell back and Khlit saw the dark masses of hair which fell on either shoulder, and the white throat under the curved dark mouth that was twisted in scorn.

  “A weak fool,” she stormed, shaking him. “Toctamish is a better man than you.”

  “Toctamish is drunk. Nay, little Sparrow, it is my head. It will be better presently. This is no dream. How did you come to Alamut, little Berca?”

  For answer the girl drew Khlit, who was fighting the dizziness in his head, to the canal, and into the boat. Pushing it from the shore, she paddled in the water until it floated into the shadows. Not content with this Berca urged the craft along the bank quietly, and Khlit who was flat on his back saw the shadow of a bridge fall over them.

  “Nay,” he said drowsily, “the stars are good. It is good to see them again. Where are we now? How did you bring me here?”

  Berca came and sat by Khlit’s head, feeling his hot forehead with a small hand. She wrapped her thin cloak tightly about her and rested her chin on her two hands, gazing at the round moon in the water.

  “A man must be crafty and wise,” she repeated softly, “yet, lo, it is a weak girl, a creature of the false prophet’s paradise, who leads him. They told me you were very shrewd, oh, my Abulfetlah Harb Issa, gray Father of Battles. Soon there will be a great battle and the waters of Shahrud will be red again. Have you ever seen wolves of the steppe tear jackals of the mountains into bits, foam-flecked? Have you ever run with the pack of wolves, oh, one called the Wolf? Nay, they have clipped your fangs.”

  “That is a lie, Sparrow,” growled Khlit surlily, “give me a horse and freedom to swing a sword, and I shall trounce some of these evil fedavies for you. Bah, it is a hotbed of sin, a reeking plague-house. Show me the way out of Alamut.”

  “And your promise,” queried Berca, “to cut off the head of Halen ibn Shaddah?”

  Khlit was silent. True, he had promised, and was in honor bound to Berca.

  “Likewise, Berca,” he said moodily, “you said that there was a plan. Why do you keep the plan hidden in your mind, if there is one? Better be in good faith with me. Say how Halen ibn Shaddah can be killed.”

  “How should I kill so strong a man?” she laughed softly. “The Koran reads that Allah weakens the stratagems of misbelievers. Also that they who store up evil shall taste what they store up. Such are the words of wisdom, despised by Rashideddin. Nay, destruction shall come upon Alamut like the storm from a cloud, quick as poison from a serpent’s fang, and Halen ibn Shaddah—”

  “Halen ibn Shaddah,” chuckled Khlit, “is not easily to be found.” Abruptly, he gripped the girl’s wrist. Beside the round orb of the moon in the water he saw the reflection of a turbaned man. It was a stout man, carrying a sword as broad as a horse’s neck, or the reflection lied. Khlit rose on one elbow fingering his saber. At the same time the boat moved backward silently under impulse of the girl’s paddling and passed from the bridge along the canal under date trees.

  “A eunuch, one of the tribe who guard the creatures of the paradise,” Berca whispered. “I have seen them often, because I am, also, a celestial houri—while it pleases me. I saw you when you came here a few days ago. Listen—” her voice changed—“for you must serve me, and the time is near.”

  Khlit nodded. The fresh night air had cleared some of the poison from his brain.

  “I shall take you back to the chambers of Alamut, Khlit, by way of the slaves’s quarters. We are on the top of Alamut, now, where Halen ibn Shaddah, whom may Allah lay in the dust, has built an evil paradise on the ruins of the old citadel to beguile his men. Verily what they have made—he and Rashideddin—is a magician’s trick. The men who come here are drugged with a strange poison that I know not. I have tasted it in the wine—may Allah grant me mercy—and it is evil.”

  Khlit grunted in assent.

  “It is some secret of Rashideddin’s,” she resumed. “The fedavie are foul with it, until they lose fear of death. This drug chains them to Halen ibn Shaddah. That and their lusts. And they have chained others by fear of the Refik. Yet their doom is near. It is coming from there—” pointing in the direction which Khlit thought to be north—“and it is swift as the hunting falcon on the wing.”

  “Another riddle, Berca,” muttered Khlit. “Where have you seen a falcon?”

  “Where you have seen them, Cossack,” she laughed, “and Toctamish has hunted with them. Where swords are sharpened for the cutting down of the fedavie. In the land of the Kallmark Tatars, north of the Salt Sea. Oh, the doom of Alamut will be v
ery great, and Munkir and Nakir, the dark angels that flay dead men in their graves will grow big with power.”

  “Another riddle, little Berca. It is many generations since Tatar horsemen rode into Persia for conquest.”

  “The answer is under your blind eyes, Father of Battles. Am I not beautiful as the rose garden of Tiflis in Spring? Is not my hair dark as the mantle of Melik, and my skin white as aloes under the dew?” Berca moved her perfumed head close to Khlit, and the Cossack drew away. “Nay, others have eyes; so, Allah has willed that my honor shall be cleared and the doom of Alamut shall come.”

  “The Tatars are marching on Alamut?” Khlit bit his mustache in glee. “Devil take me, that is good news—”

  “Hush, fool.” Berca drew in her breath eagerly. “Twenty thousand horsemen are riding along the Salt Sea toward Alamut. They will not stop to plunder or gather spoil. Oh, it will be a good battle. My father shall see it from the footstool of Mohammed. Aye, it will gladden his eyes. I shall open the gate of Alamut to twenty thousand Kallmark horsemen. The gate that leads to the banquet-place, where I bring food every night with the slaves. Here is what you must do, Father of Battles—”

  She listened intently for a moment. The paradise of Halen ibn Shaddah was still, and only the birds with long tails moved.

  “On the third night, Father of Battles,” she whispered, “the Dai who is in command at the river stair will change his sentries at the second watch. Do you and Toctamish get among the sentries of the river gate. I have seen you with Iba Kabash who is one without honor. Pay him and it may be done. Two sentries are as is the custom, in the river, outside the gate. On the third night, those two must be you and Toctamish, none other. That is your task. Then will you have a horse to ride, you and Toctamish. Meanwhile, keep out of sight of Rashideddin—”

  “Aye,” said Khlit, pondering, “Rashideddin.”

  XI

  It is written in the annals of Abulghazi that as the year of the lion drew to its close, very great riches came to the treasury of Halen ibn Shaddah from the cities which lived in the shadow of fear. Save from the north, by the Salt Sea, where the tithes came not. Nor any riders. And in the north, said Abulghazi, a storm was gathering, swift as wind, rolling up all in its path. Yet no murmur of the storm came to Alamut, to the man who named himself prophet of God, to the banquet-place of the fedavie, to the man of wisdom, Rashideddin.