The Harold Lamb Megapack

by Harold Lamb

  “By the mane of my sire!”

  Aruk bared his white teeth. He caught the girl by the luxuriant coils of hair that hung down her breast. Her round face he held close to his, while his anger melted.

  “Ho, I will bind your tongue for you yet. Now bring me kumiss to drink, for I ride to Kob with news. This dawn there were beneficent omens in the pass.”

  Curiously enough his sudden act quieted the girl, who looked at him long and withdrew for the mare’s milk he sought.

  Aruk emptied the bowl Yulga brought him at a gulp and wiped his mustaches.

  “Ho, it would have been better for the tall warrior if he had left his body and that of his servant in your keeping. The baksa will make short work of him in Kobdo. They like not these Krits who come from the other end of the earth and oppose the baksa.”

  “The other Krit was a holy man.”

  A light came into the mild eyes of the Christian falconer.

  “He was an envoy from God. And this one is like him, in face.”

  “The other had dove’s eyes; this one is a falcon,” Aruk retorted.

  Aruk jumped into his saddle, pretending not to look at Yulga.

  “He has a horned soul in him. Tfu! The killing of him would be worth seeing.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The Candles on the Altar

  The man called Hugo did not ride far with his wounded servant. The shattered body he supported easily in his arms, for he had a strength that matched his great stature. The bay horse bore them both easily.

  But the life of the old servant was flickering out. Too many times had Hugo witnessed this passing of nature on the battlefield to mistake it now. So he turned the bay aside from the road into a faint path that ran among the pines.

  It brought him to a hut of logs. Hugo carried the servant to the door, kicking it open with his heavy boot. As the windows were only slits in the logs, Hugo could make out the interior of the cabin only vaguely. Noticing that it was empty, he laid the old man on what appeared to be a long bench and covered his limbs with his own cloak.

  He went out and presently returned with his leather cap full of fresh, cold water, taken from a near-by stream.

  “A sorry bed, Pierre,” he observed French, “and a poor drink to speed you on your way. Now a goblet of good Burgundy—”

  “Ah, monsieur le comte, no.”

  Pierre lifted his thin head wistfully.

  “If there were but a priest in this wilderness! Or—or a holy spot where the sign of the cross is to be seen.”

  Hugo Arnauld, Count of Hainault, castellan of Grav, once captain of musketeers at the court of Paris, then colonel in the border armies of the King of France—the man who now called himself Hugo—tugged at the small tuft of his beard and raised one shaggy eyebrow without answering.

  Having no good to say of priests or the houses of priests, he held his peace before the dying man. Seldom indeed had he failed to speak boldly to priest or minister, wherefore was he now an exile from France, publicly proclaimed an intriguer.

  It did not make much difference to Hugo. It rather amused him that the worthy ministers should now be hoarding the revenues from Hainault which he had squandered so royally when he was young. Doubtless, he reflected, the very intelligent courtesans who were great ladies were drawing their tithes from the ministers.

  “Ah, monsieur,” breathed Pierre again, his thought returning with the habit of a lifetime to his master, “there will now be no one to—to brush your cloaks, to set out your linen and clean your swords.”

  Hugo laughed. Facing the gleam of sunlight in the door, now that his hunting-cap was off, gray was to be seen in his black hair. His dark countenance, on which the skin stretched taut over the bones, bore the stamp of pride; his wide mouth under the trim mustache was hard, his long chin stubborn. Women in other days had looked twice at the man who was Count of Hainault.

  “One forgets, my Pierre,” he remarked gruffly, “that here there exists no need to wear fresh linen or draped cloak over a scabbard. Judging by the manners of the habitants, we have arrived at last in the land of Gog and Magog, so inscribed in the charts of the geographers. My faith, the end of the world—Tartaria. I have made good my promise.”

  Pierre coughed and lay back weakly. Monsieur le comte had always been such a stickler for the niceties of dress. Even now, with the habit of a soldier, his coat and shirt were clean. The promises of monsieur le comte were always kept.

  It had been at Zbaraj.

  They had wandered, exiled, from France to the court of the Commonwealth of Poland. Here honest Pierre had taken heart again, seeing cathedrals and the retinue of great nobles. But his master had declared that the nobles reeked of fish, and the mead soiled his mouth after the red wine of Burgundy.

  So, hearing that the Cossacks and Crimea Tatars were making war on Prince Yeremi, the champion of the Commonwealth, on the southern marches of Poland, they had enlisted under the banner of the prince, had marched for years through blazing forests and over the steppe that was like a sea of grass.

  When Zbaraj, the stronghold of the Poles, had been besieged, Hainault, as castellan, had been called the lion of Zbaraj. Pierre remembered that one night when they had been eating horseflesh, the warrior-priest, Yaskolski, had made the round of the walls in the procession of the holy sacrament.

  Candles borne before the tall figure of the priest had shone upon gilded monstrance and swinging censers, even while cannonballs plunged through the air overhead.

  Pierre had fallen to his knees as the procession passed, and bared his head. Hugo, the doubter, rose from his seat in a trench, but kept his steel cap in place. Yaskolski had looked at him just as a flight of balls drove overhead with the scream of a thousand hawks.

  “Those cannoneers should be herding cattle,” the burly priest had said to Hugo. “They can not aim.”

  Hugo had looked after the calm figure of the priest curiously.

  “That priest is a man: He has smelled powder before.”

  When the war was over Hugo had waxed restless, as always. He had been offered a county by Yeremi himself, with an income sufficient to support a noble of his rank, if he would swear allegiance to the Diet.

  “Be under the orders of swine who stink of ale? Pfagh!”

  In view of his services, Hugo’s insolence was overlooked, but thereafter he drank alone in Zbaraj, until Pierre brought to his chamber the warrior-priest, Yaskolski, who offered the exile the colonelcy of a regiment of armored cavalry.

  Hugo had hesitated. He respected Yaskolski. Unfortunately he had been in his cups.

  “So, you would buy a man’s sword—the sword of a Hainault. Well, you are another breed from the shaven polls who prune their souls and nourish their bellies with tithes from the peasantry. But—death of my life—I will not do business with you.”

  Then he smiled.

  “Your words, Sir Monk, are an echo of my brother, who is likewise a priest. Doubtless he is still praying for my soul. I have not seen him for a dozen years. They tell me he has gone, probably with others of his cloth, to the particular demesne of the devil on earth. That is Tartary. Well, I have a whim to go and see how Paul and his brethren relish the devil’s demesne.”

  These words had been like wine to the faithful Pierre, who had yearned for a sight of the young son of Hugo’s brother. Paul had promised Pierre that he and Hugo would yet sleep in the same bed. And Hugo’s cynicism hid anxiety for the welfare of the priest, Paul.

  Yaskolski raised his great hands.

  “What, Sir Count? In Tartary are hordes of savages, and werewolves. That is a land beyond the domain of God. No man would go there, for he would be skinned alive and roasted by pagans.”

  “Permit me to correct you. I would go there. These burghers and butchers are but tedious society. The domain of the devil would at least be entertaining.”

  In these words, Pierre knew, monsieur le comte had declined a colonelcy to go to search for his brother. And from place to place as far as the
Urkhogaitu they had had news of Paul, for few Franks passed over the caravan route that led from Moscow to Tartary.

  Pierre came out of his stupor with a rattle in his throat. He caught his master’s hand.

  “You will be—alone, monsieur le comte,” he whispered. “There will be no one to laugh at your jests. If Monsieur Paul, your brother had not left you—”

  “The conversation of Monsieur Paul ceased to interest me years ago. These savages are, at the worst, originals. I learned somewhat of their speech in the Polish campaigns and more from the dog who led us on our way.”

  On their way hither Pierre groaned at memory of the endless steppe where wild Cossack bands attacked them, cutting down the rest of their followers, of the gaunt mountains that led to a desert of sand and clay, and then the snow of the Altai. All at once his eyes started, and he pointed toward the interior of the hut.

  “A cross! I see the cross of the Redeemer hanging on yonder wall.”

  He closed his eyes and clasped his frail hands.

  “Monsieur—a holy spot to which we—have come.”

  As his master continued to stare idly at the sunlight in the door at Pierre’s back, a sudden anxiety clouded the pa1lid face of the old servant.

  “Look, monsieur, and tell me if it is not true—what I see. There, in the shadows, over your shoulder. It is so dark I did not see the blessed cross before. And, look, Monsieur Hugo, there is the figure of the Mother of Christ and the silver candlesticks-on the altar. See—”

  The count turned his head casually. He felt that the fever-ridden old man must be the victim of a hallucination.

  And actually his eyes, dimmed by the sunlight at which he had been staring, saw nothing in the shadows.

  “There is—”

  He was on the point of saying there was nothing to be seen. But the cold hand of the dying man was on his wrist. Again Hugo shrugged and made up his mind anew.

  “There is the cross indeed,” he responded. “And the altar, as you have said.”

  So Hugo, to his own mind, deceived Pierre. It would make the dying man rest easier.

  “Ah, monsieur, you have never lied,” the servant muttered. “Now I can believe the miracle.”

  He began a litany under his breath. When his voice ceased his lips moved. Presently Hugo glanced at him, reached over and closed the eyes of the dead man. He freed his wrist from the grip of the clay that had been Pierre.

  After drawing the cloak over the other’s face he rose to seek some tool with which to dig a grave. A gleam of metal came from the interior of the cabin, and he strode toward it. He saw for the first time two silver candlesticks standing on a rude altar of wood.

  “Peste!” was his thought. “Pierre has cast a spell over me, that is all.”

  Still, a closer inspection disclosed the wooden effigy of Mary beside the skillfully carved cross on which hung the figure of Christ. Untold labor must have gone into the making of it.

  Hugo glanced from it to the body of his servant, to the cabin of logs with the thatched roof, made after the fashion of peasants on his old estate. The floor was earth, strewn with pine needles.

  He was glad that he had said what he did to the dying man. Probably, he reflected, there were some Christians among the Tatars here. Yes, that old Ostrim, the falconer up the mountain, was one. Well, this was their chapel.

  And Aruk had said something about another Frank! That might well have been Paul. What had the Tatar hunter said? An ambassador from God? There was no one here, and the place bore no traces of occupancy.

  Suddenly Hugo raised his head and adjusted the pistols in his belt, looked briefly to the priming, and went to the door. He had heard the tread of horses without.

  The pine grove was filled with riders. Some wore the skins of beasts over armor. All bore weapons. They sat in their saddles gazing at him curiously. One held the rein of his horse.

  “A strange congregation,” thought Hugo, freeing his sword in its scabbard, “has come to mass.”

  For the first time monsieur le comte was face to face with inhabitants of the land in a body. His quick eye ran over the throng, noting the care with which they sat their ponies, their garments of leather and coarse wool and furs, their wild faces and direct eyes. He picked out two that appeared to have authority—a huge, gray rider with but one eye, and a scrawny figure in a long purple tunic and square, yellow cap. Hugo suspected this last was one of the baksa, the witch-doctors.

  This was the one who spoke first.

  “I am Gorun,” he chanted, “of the baksa of the Altai. I know when a tongue speaks a lie. I can, without touching you, place a serpent in your mouth and summon it forth. If I do not take it out it will sting you to death. Have a care, Frank—” his eyes gleamed shrewdly—“for you have come to the place of the other Frank!”

  Hugo did not see fit to answer.

  “You are a spy of Galdan Khan,” growled Gorun resentfully. “You wear an eagle feather, like his officers.”

  A smile crossed Hugo’s lips. It was like child’s play. But, much in this manner, he had heard himself accused by a great cardinal at the court of France. So, he was an exile. What next?

  “You came to learn the secrets of the other Frank, who came to spy upon us—and tell them to Galdan Khan,” muttered the baksa. “I saw omens in the sky this dawn and said that evil was afoot. It is so. You shall have your skin pulled off and the noble khan of the Altai will take your weapons.”

  For the first time the one-eyed warrior seemed to take an interest in the words of the baksa. He glanced with interest at the silver-chased pistols and the long sword with its heavy hilt.

  Just then a horse pushed forward into the cleared space between Hugo and the khan. Aruk bent down and touched his forehead.

  “Grant me speech,” he chattered. “May the fires of Yulgen burn me, but this is no spy. He is a falcon, or I am a toad. He is a chief of warriors.”

  “Proof!” screamed the witch-doctor.

  “It is lying in front of Ostrim’s yurt, feeding the crows. Aye, with four thrusts of his sword this falcon slew four robbers.”

  Aruk bethought him of something else.

  “Before his coming the omens in the sky were good.”

  Hugo was surprised that the little hunter seemed to be speaking in his behalf—much of the meaning he lost, being rudely schooled in the chuckling speech of the Tatars. The exile did not know that a few hours ago he had unwittingly saved the life of Yulga, the beloved of Aruk.

  At this Cheke Noyon, khan of the Tatars, raised his head and spoke for the first time.

  “To the dogs with this squabbling. If this Frank is a chief of warriors, he is not a spy. Then let him use his sword so that we may see the truth with our own eyes. So, let him fight with all his strength. If he conquers our strongest, then he is a falcon and a chief, and no man of mine will raise hand against him.”

  Ere the last words had left his lips, Cheke Noyon was off his horse. Stalking toward the French noble, Cheke Noyon drew a heavy, curving sword as wide at the head as two hands joined together.

  Hugo, hand on hilt, bit at his mustache. This was something of a Gordian knot. If Hugo should by chance strike down the chief of these barbarians, his own life, he thought, would not be worth a broken ducat.

  So he reasoned, not knowing the absolute obedience of these men to the word of a chief, living or dead. Cheke Noyon made no salute with his weapon, or any feint. His first stroke was a swishing lunge that would have cut Hugo to the backbone if that gentleman had not stepped aside.

  In so doing he felt the logs of the cabin against his back.

  “Horns of Panurge!” he grimaced. “What a duello!”

  Well tempered as was his long campaign blade, he could not oppose it squarely to one of the Noyon’s cuts without having it break in his hands, so great was the bull-like strength of the old warrior and the weight of his huge sword, which seemed to be designed for two hands rather than one.

  Nor could Hugo step back any farther.
True, a swift thrust and he could pierce the cord-like throat of the other. But the mail on the chieftain’s body made impossible any disabling thrust.

  Quickly, as the Tatar lifted his weapon for a second cut, Hugo’s blade darted forward and its edge touched the Noyon on the brow over his good eye. Blood ran down into the eye, but Cheke Noyon merely grunted with rage and lashed out again, blindly.

  Cleverly the tall Frenchman warded the other’s weapon, before the blow had gained force. For all his strength the Tatar was a child before the master of a dozen duels who had learned the tricks of fence as a boy. Hugo’s skill was the more in that he never seemed perturbed.

  His long blade flashed here and there, and the Tatar’s rushes were staved off The blood in his eye maddened Cheke Noyon. He seized the hilt of his sword in both hands, raised it above his helmet with a roar—and stared about him, dazed, with empty hands.

  Hugo had stepped forward and engaged his blade in the other’s hilt. The curved weapon of the Tatar lay a dozen feet away on the ground.

  “Hai!”

  A yell burst from the onlookers.

  Cheke Noyon peered at his foe. Then, shaking his brow clear of blood, he caught up his weapon, tossed it in air, snatched it in his left hand and struck as a wolf leaps.

  But the gray eyes of the other had followed his movement, and the blow was parried. There came a clash of steel, a grunt from the Tatar, and his sword lay at his feet again.

  Gorun spurred his horse forward with a shrill shout, seeing his opportunity.

  “Sorcery!” he asserted. “O khan, no living man could do this thing to the greatest of the Tatars. A hand from the spirit world has helped him. He has bewitched your sword. How otherwise could be overcome the lion of Tartary? Let him die!”

  Hugo stiffened, realizing the danger that lay in the appeal of the wily baksa to the vanity of the old chief. By agreeing with Gorun, the khan could wipe out the stigma of his defeat in the eyes of his followers.

  Cheke Noyon puffed out his cheeks, and his bleared eye flamed.