by Harold Lamb
Although the Horde made the distance from the Volga to the Yaik, three hundred and fifty-odd miles, in ten days, Mitrassof caught up with the rear guard of two clans on the near side of the Yaik.
Carrying out his instructions, he attacked the Yeka Zukor clan when it refused to surrender to him, and his veteran cavalry swept over the Tatars of that tribe. Disheartened, the other clan gave up and returned to the Volga.
This defeat caused the Horde, which had counted on a week at the Yaik to rest the beasts, to move forward again in spite of the loss of nearly half of their cattle from overdriving. Ubaka Khan had no means of knowing how near the main Russian army was to Mitrassof.
The Cossack colonel was a born leader of cavalry, and he saw his chance to deal a second blow. Ubaka was heading for the Torgai, more than a week’s march. To gain the river he must cross the Mugojar Mountains, and for the space of some two hundred miles north and south there was only one suitable pass for a multitude. This was the Ukim Pass.
Mounting picked Polish cuirassiers—the armored ladies, of Tatar description—on camels and sending with them his own advance guard, Mitrassof gave orders to press ahead with all available speed, to gain the Ukim, where a few hundred men could hold the gorge against as many thousands. Drawing reinforcements from a Cossack post on the Yaik and patching up his wounded as he went, Mitrassof came after his advance, circling the Horde.
And then the steppe called a halt. Snow set in, and a storm kept Cossack and Tatar alike in their tents.
* * * *
The storm had driven the Torguts into shelter, and Billings was working at the outline of his map, sketching from a week’s observation. He had stretched a square of scraped leather over a wooden frame and was laboring under a single candle, when Nadesha slipped in, shaking back the drift from her hood.
The yawning man servant who stood guard over the weapons of Norbo and Nadesha blinked as the girl moved into the light and studied the parchment over Billings’ shoulder.
“They are coming to slay you,” she observed. “They say they will rip the skin from your body and put it upon a tugh.”
She turned and gave a quick command to the Tatar, who stumbled out of the yurt, wide awake for once. Billings laid aside the dividers in his hand and looked from Nadesha to the sword and the brace of pistols hanging over her corner.
“Do not think of that, my anda,” she smiled, following his eye. “The long pistols will go off twice—pang pang—and then you might draw your sword, the one that you cherish. They would pull down the tent and drag you out by your feet and trample you.”
“Who are coming?”
“A crowd of fools who are beside themselves because they have been swallowing smoke and listening to the talk of Loosang. My father is away at the sarga—the council called by the Khan. The mob has had no toil today, so they have guzzled kumiss and their ears are open to evil. They want blood for the blood the Cossacks have shed, and Loosang has told them you are a spy. The lama has seen you making calculations with the needle that points always toward tenni kazyk, the polar star.”
Billings wiped dry the goose quill he was using as a pen. Then he covered up his map. Since the fighting on the other side of the Yaik he had noticed that the Tatars no longer treated him with indifference. They had grown morose, and those who observed him walking among Norbo’s henchmen spat and muttered to each other. Norbo himself was moodier than usual. Men and beasts were hard-pressed. The Tatar boys had lashed the cattle and goaded the oxen to make them keep up, and each day thinned the herds. Occasionally he had seen bodies, twisted and frozen in the snow. The dogs no longer ran barking beside the wagons. They gathered in packs and fell upon the cattle that could not keep their legs.
Nadesha’s eyes, half-veiled under long lashes, looked down into Billings’, and her full under lip thrust out disdainfully.
“Come, my gallant captain, are you thinking of the thousand men in Norbo’s urdus, and the thousands that are like hungry wolves as far around you as you could run in a day and night?”
Even at night the Tatars kept fires burning at the limits of each urdus and mounted patrols held the space between the clan camps. The storm might hide him, but he knew that no man would live long afoot in the icy wind and the snow flurries.
Billings picked up his sword from Nadesha’s corner, tested the blade between his fingers and smiled.
“Better this than the storm.”
Nadesha glared, and her tongue had not been silenced in the least.
“Dog! Mud-puppy! Son of a sow! Have I brought you here when you ought to have had your neck broken with a rope? Tchu! Have I teased that old fool my father until my jaws cracked, just to have you turn into a— Put that blade down or you’ll have your breath out of your body.”
Seeing that her words were unheeded, Nadesha’s tone changed.
“The men who are coming are common, black-boned louts. I can handle them until Norbo comes. I have sent the servant for him. Kai, if you do not believe me, watch! Oh, you are stupid!”
But no consideration would induce Billings to lay aside the sword. He had not recovered his strength, yet the feel of the hilt in his hand was a tonic. A murmur penetrated the tents, the sound of low voices, the chink of steel and the creaking of leather on wooden saddles. Horses seemed to be surrounding the yurt.
Billings listened indifferently. He heard the murmuring come close to the wagon, caught voices outside the tent entrance. After all, it was good to face these savages sword in hand and not skulk like a sick woman, behind a tent.
A hand swept aside the flap covering the entrance, a hand upon which jewels shimmered in the faint candle-light. A puff of snow sprinkled the floor. Other hands ripped open the whole front of the yurt, and Billings saw a score of men armed with spears and swords, their faces hidden in hoods coated white by the storm.
Nadesha sprang forward and tossed back the cape of the leader. An exclamation of surprize parted her lips as she saw a long, olive face with a trimmed beard and eyes as dark as her own.
“So,” she cried, “Zebek Dortshi, chief of the council and noyon of the Red Camel clan of Irak calls at the house of Norbo with armed men at his back! So, while Norbo is at the council, you have come by a dog’s trail to his house.”
The Persian Tatar motioned her back. Billings saw that his outer coat was velvet embroidered with gold, his belt set with turquoise and sapphires. He was a tall man, so that his eyes were on a level with Nadesha’s waist.
“Temou chu, dwell in peace, maiden.”
Zebek Dortshi pointed at Billings.
“We have come for that son of a witch. We have no thought of harm for the child of Norbo.”
If the noyon was taken aback at seeing Nadesha in the wagon he concealed it. But the girl had not looked to find a noble in the crowd. She knew that Zebek Dortshi was in Loosang’s favor and as head of the council, was second to the Khan in authority in the Horde.
“Shall I tell Norbo that you called for his prisoner without first asking the will of the Master of the Herds? He holds this officer for ransom.”
Zebek Dortshi flushed, and Nadesha pressed her attack on his weak point.
“Does the noyon of the Red Camel clan steal like a Kurd? Or has he the command of the Khan to tear down the tent of Norbo?”
“I came from Loosang, spit-fire. He wishes the giaour slain.”
“Oho—and has Loosang said aught to the Khan?”
She had him, but the crowd behind the noble was growing restive.
“That dog is a magician!” some one shouted. Others took up the refrain. “He has bewitched our cattle. Look, the yellow pig has a sword! Let us cut him open, sister, and to the devil with gabbing about prisoners.”
From this Zebek Dortshi took his cue. He opened his hands and shrugged.
“You see, Nadesha, this is not my affair—the men want the stranger’s life.”
Real scorn curled the lip of the girl.
“These are your men, my noyon. When you came wo
oing me you did not say that you were their servant.”
“It is the will of Loosang, the lama of the Tsong Khapa.”
“A beast in a mask!”
Nadesha stamped a booted foot, and a growl issued from the throng. The priest came from Tibet, wore the yellow robe and the black hat of a chutuktu, a disciple of the Dalai Lama whose kingdom comprised the whole of Central Asia. The Tatars, knowing little of religion, respected the Dalai Lama as a matter of course. They had a whole-hearted dread of the mysteries of the priests of the long, cold mountains.
“The time will come,” the girl protested hotly, “when you will know that you have been sheep, following a jackal who wears a sheepskin. Ai-a, you are stupid sheep!”
Nadesha caught the gleam in the Persian’s brown eyes and checked her words.
“This man is my anda. See, he wears my girdle.”
Throwing open her kaftan she allowed them to see Billings’ plain leather belt with the silver clasp wound around her waist.
“It is the law among the people of the tents—two pledged brothers have one life. If you slay the yellow-haired one, I will die with him. Neither brother abandons the other.”
From the outskirts of the throng a figure hooded and cloaked pushed forward to a position close to the wagon tongue. The Tatars, intent on the astonishing confession of Nadesha, did not pay attention to the newcomer. They craned forward, each one anxious to see for himself the two belts.
Zebek Dortshi ran his fingers through his soft beard and his eyes narrowed. He was the most far-sighted of the leaders of the Tatars. He was ambitious, a reckless leader of horsemen in battle, admired for his wildness by these riders of the steppe.
A match with Nadesha had long been in his mind. He coveted the warm fairness of the maiden. She would, out of all the Horde, be a fitting match for the chief of the Red Camel clan. She had wit, fire; she was no sluggard, to be hugged and forgotten.
And now she had named as her pledged brother a foreigner, a Christian and impecunious prisoner. Zebek Dortshi knew there must be a reason for this. He thought she loved the Englishman. Speculatively the noyon glanced at Billings, who stood quietly, resting the tip of the rapier on the floor of the yurt. What kind of metal was in this man?
“You are a child, Nadesha.” Zebek Dortshi’s brow cleared. “And a child at play. Only between men is the anda tie knit, among the people of the tents.”
“Kai, is it so? Then watch if this be play!”
She drew from her belt a curved dagger and flourished it in his beard.
Among the followers of the noyon there was hesitation. All knew that Norbo would take immediate and bloody revenge for any injury to his child. They knew, likewise, that if they rushed the prisoner, Nadesha would probably be severely hurt, if not killed. She might even kill herself—there was no telling what a woman would do.
Just then, while they muttered and fingered their weapons, Billings took matters into his own hands. He had had enough of talk—wrangling that he barely under stood.
“Come,” he said to Zebek Dortshi in broken Tatar, “and taste a sword. You are dogs, that bark at a girl and run off from a weapon.”
Zebek Dortshi decided there was good metal in the prisoner. But the words released the floodgates of Tatar fury. Men clambered past the Persian, thrusting against one another, shouting hoarsely. Billings caught Nadesha’s arm as she would have hurled herself against the invaders. He whirled her back of him to the floor.
The first man to gain his feet within the yurt held no weapon. As he stepped under the candle on the tent-pole, he threw back his hood and faced about.
“Alashan!” cried Zebek Dortshi, and shouted to his men to hold off.
The boy’s thin face was strained and his eyes glowed. He leaned down to twist the dagger from Nadesha’s hand.
“I will deal with this man,” he said passionately to Zebek Dortshi. “Call away these dogs and be gone.”
Although he was half a head shorter than the tall noyon, his anger made the Persian shrink back a little.
“I am the son of Ubaka Khan,” he went on, “and I will attend to this one whom Nadesha calls anda. I will face him fairly and kill him with my own hand. Tatars, this is a vow. You will see it fulfilled, aye, and soon. Now, get to your horses before Norbo’s men cut your hearts out.”
Flinging down the dagger, he clenched his fists, looking up from face to face as if marking those who were present. Zebek Dortshi trembled with fury, and was pulled back by his men, who had heard horsemen who were entering the camp.
“Norbo—Norbo!” cried the girl. “It is Nadesha!”
As the Master of the Herds strode forward alone, the men of Zebek Dortshi gave back, pulling their hoods down as if not eager to be recognized. Norbo climbed slowly to the floor of his yurt and looked about him in silence.
“The Khan of the Red Camels has come to pay his respects to me,” said Nadesha quickly. “With a score of armed men he came, to take the one that is my prisoner, the giaour. He entered the yurt and Alashan stayed him.”
Norbo’s seamed face was emotionless. One of the older Tatars, of hereditary rank, he had not prospered in Russia and the more versatile khan of Irak had been raised above him.
“Noyon,” he observed at last, in a rumbling voice, “you have a stick in your hand.”
It is an unpardonable offense for a guest to enter the tent of a Mongol with a club or weapon of any kind in his grasp. Zebek Dortshi was thoroughly angry, but he was discreet. Chewing at his beard, he sheathed his sword and bent his head very low, mockingly.
“Take heed, O master of the house, lest one day your seat in the council be vacant.”
As Norbo said nothing more, the man of Irak beckoned to Alashan.
“Come, puppy—they growl at us.”
But the boy raised his hand in greeting to Norbo.
“May the road be open before you, Master of the Herds. I go!”
When the old khan had saluted Alashan, the boy left with Zebek Dortshi, without glancing at Nadesha, who looked at him long and curiously as if seeing him for the first time.
“Faith,” muttered Billings, “the old chap treats me like a scab on the arm and the boy has promised to kill me, but I rather think they saved my life.”
* * * *
That night they ate heartily, for Norbo announced that Ubaka Khan had ordered most of the remaining sheep and cattle to be slaughtered, as the beasts were dying fast. While the snow endured the Torguts were to feast, against the beginning of the march. Nadesha disappeared into her corner when the bowls of cabbage and mutton and of fermented mare’s milk were removed, leaving Norbo squatting by the fire, fingering an empty pipe.
Lying on his back, Billings studied the play of shadows on the wall of the tent, but when he started to pull the heavy skins over him, as the chill crept in over the floor, he hesitated. Finally he rose and offered Norbo tobacco from the pouch that he had cherished.
The Tatar grunted, sifted the black, Russian tobacco in his gnarled fingers and filled his pipe without a word. After Billings had warmed his feet and hands at the flames and was returning to his bed, the khan spoke.
“Keep that stick in your hand, giaour, and sleep upon it. There are dogs about. You may need to use it.”
Until then Billings had wondered how long he would be permitted to retain his sword, for he knew Norbo must have noticed that he still had it. Following the old man’s advice, he thrust the blade in its scabbard well down among the skins and rolled himself up for the night.
Turning over presently on his elbow at a sound from the hearth, he found that Norbo had secured the sketch that was the beginning of his map and had turned it to the light. The scalp-locked head of the Tatar was nodding over it.
“Well, he knows good work when he sees it,” thought Billings drowsily.
In reality Norbo had fallen asleep sitting up and was utterly indifferent to the map. Through the closed flap of the yurt there came the clang of a brazen basin—the gong that marked t
he hours for the camp. It was answered by the distant blast of a horn. Norbo raised his head inquiringly, but the trumpet was that of the lamas.
Presently the Tatar began to snore, with a sighing sound like the sucking of the wind in and out of the tent. From Nadesha’s corner a murmur merged with the note of the storm. The girl was crying softly, her arm pressed against her mouth so that she should not arouse the two men.
* * * *
Throughout the ten days of feasting while the snow lasted Alashan kept to himself. When clear, frosty weather set in, he waited impatiently until the wind died down and the drifting of the dunes over the steppe ceased.
The dawn trumpet of the thirteenth day filled him with a glow of eagerness. He was to ride with the advance guard of the Horde that would make forced marches to the Ukim Pass. They would try to gain the upper gorge before the Cossacks; if the Cossacks were there first, there would be fighting anyway. This was what Alashan longed for.
He would show his hardihood in battle, and Ubaka Khan, his father, would declare him a man, with all a noyon’s estate. Then and not until then could he challenge Billings, the tow-headed Christian officer, to a combat with swords. The captain, Alashan knew, would refuse to match weapons with a boy. In imagination, when he could not sleep, the son of the Khan pictured his curved sword biting into the stalwart neck of the stranger.
What tormented him was the favor shown by Nadesha to Billings. When Alashan thought of her looking at Billings and smiling at the quick, Russian words of the stranger—words that he did not hear—his heart pounded and his teeth drew back from his lips.
So he urged his camel up with the scouts of his company. His father had placed him with the captain of two hundred musket men, mounted on picked Bactrians. Zebek Dortshi commanded five hundred other musket men, veterans of the war with the Turks, and the Persian had gone ahead somewhere to the right of Alashan’s detachment.
Behind the two camel corps rode a regiment of mounted infantry, followed by the nucleus of the Khan’s heavy cavalry. These were soon lost to sight in the rear.