by Harold Lamb
“A plague on these savages,” muttered Billings, cutting himself off a piece and roasting it on his long knife. “Raw or seasoned, ’tis all the same to them, and as for salt—”
With a sigh he contemplated his ragged garments, neatly sewn in a dozen places, and glanced over the plain of high grass, muddy and treacherous as a bog.
“Who among you has seen Nadesha the last day and night?”
Their faces, black with exposure to the sun, smoke and grime, were expressionless. They had not seen the girl. Her pony, though, was missing from Norbo’s herd.
“She chose her horse, yet took no weapons,” Norbo grunted, frowning.
By noon he had no word of Nadesha. It was strange that the girl could have gone off from the clan in the center of the Horde without being seen. Billings, too, was thoughtful. He remembered that Nadesha had, when he last saw her, warned him to keep near to Norbo until this moon should be at an end. A blare of powerful horns caused him to glance up. The yurt of Loosang was approaching, rolling over the uneven ground, escorted by the two young priests, both armed. The yellow flag snapped and fluttered.
Billings watched it pass and kept his horse standing after Norbo’s cavalcade had passed on. He was allowed to do pretty much as he chose in these days of mutual suffering. Riding alone, Billings had espied Alashan.
“Dwell in peace, brother,” he smiled as the boy came up. “I have a word for you.”
Alashan glanced at him coldly, but reined in and the two rode on in silence after the joggling cart.
“Nadesha,” observed Billings, “has vanished. She is no longer in the Horde.”
“And you?” The boy gritted his teeth.
“I am her anda. You are her betrothed. Good. This is a dark matter. I smell treachery, and so I would speak to you, as her brother.”
Alashan became grave.
“You speak fairly. Do not forget that I have sworn to lift my sword against yours, until one of us dies.”
“Meanwhile, Nadesha. The daughter of Norbo has been to talk with Loosang, not once, but several times. Now she is gone and the lama is not to be seen. No other Tatar, I think, would harm Nadesha. That is my word.”
“What says Norbo?”
“Naught. But he is troubled.”
“Then I will have speech with these snakes, and learn what evil Loosang has put upon Nadesha.”
When Alashan spurred up to the sacred yurt, Billings was close behind. As the boy came within a spear’s throw of the wagon one of the disciples wheeled his horse.
“Back, Tatar! Away from the dwelling place of the lama whose spirit is with the living Buddha in the sacred city.”
Alashan however kept on; and, his pony being the heavier, the gylong, the young novice, staggered aside, his loose lips shedding a venomous flood of curses. A second disciple, portly, and uncomfortable in the rain, faced Alashan from under the shelter of a purple canopy, held by two servants.
“Rascal unsanctified!” he bawled, taking care that his voice should carry to groups of herdsmen who had halted to watch the scene from a distance. “Ubaka Khan will set thee on a stake for this—”
Recognizing Alashan, the novice blinked, and his fat cheeks twitched.
“Is Loosang within?” demanded the boy calmly.
“The chutuktu’s body lies in the tent. In Sonkor, where he was abbot—”
“Stand aside. I would speak with the lama.”
Such presumption made the pseudo priest gape. His eyes grew round. All at once his stout body quivered. Snatching the umbrella from his attendant, he struck at the boy, who took the blow on his arm and reached out with his other hand. It closed on the crystal rosary the other wore, and he twisted it tight with no gentle touch. The mouth of the gylong opened wider and his eyes bulged.
“Harken,” hissed the boy, “keep silence if you would not wear a noose instead of a rosary.”
With a parting twist Alashan released the gylong. But the man was too startled to be reasoned with. As the boy jumped from his saddle to the wooden steps leading up to the front of the wagon, the fat fellow began to bawl again, sounding indeed very much like a cow.
As the son of the Khan raised the covering over the entrance, Billings saw the other gylong slip up the steps. The disciple had drawn a knife from the wide sleeve of a cassock. Billings had anticipated amusement, but matters were growing serious. He reined his horse up to the platform and caught the wrist of the gylong. A heave of the shoulders and the man was jerked back, to fall into a mud puddle.
Meanwhile the yelling of the fat disciple had brought the watching Tatars nearer. A glance showed Billings that they were from a clan unknown to him, and even in his rage the gylong had been careful not to mention the name of the son of the Khan.
The behavior of the two convinced Billings that Alashan had stirred up a hornet’s nest. Drawing his sword, he swung from the saddle to the platform, shoving Off the frightened servant who had been holding the reins. Alashan had disappeared within the yurt, and Billings was wondering what the boy had seen. But by now the herdsmen, convinced that something was very wrong, were beginning to run toward him. They shouted, brandishing knives and pikes.
Not so long ago Billings had encountered such a mob. He realized that Alashan had gone too far. With the fat priest crying them on the Tatars would probably beat him to a pulp before they listened to any words from the boy.
Gathering up the reins in the hand that held his sword, he plied the whip that had been resting against the tent. Loosang’s horses were well fed, and there were six of them. They lurched forward into the traces. Before the wagon could gain head way a pair of lean herdsmen leaped to the steps and lifted their pikes. Billings dropped the reins and was about to thrust with his sword, when he saw the two hesitate and lower their weapons.
“The wolf of Nadesha!” one of them cried.
They were looking at his belt. But Billings did not wish to be taken in hand, belt or no belt. He shouted to the herds men to give back and lashed out again with his whip. The horses broke into a trot and then to a jerky gallop. The two invaders dropped off.
Others, spurred on by the gylong who urged his horse frantically after the wagon, were running behind the yurt. A clamor of angry yells rose above the creaking of the axles and clattering of the wooden floor. The yellow flag whipped in the wind; the streamers snapped out from the eaves of the purple tent. Dogs barked.
Grinning, Billings plied the whip. It occurred to him that Loosang might emerge from within, and he kept a wary eye over his shoulder while he guided his imposing chariot along the muddy plain. He could make out two ample piles of skins, the beds of the disciples. Also a wine cask and an array of foodstuffs, all jolting about. A bell was ringing violently.
The tent bellied like a sail, and the front portions were torn loose from the floor pegs. From this aperture Alashan peered.
“By the mane of the white horse of Kaidu, what has happened?”
Taking in the situation, he smiled and beckoned Billings. As they had outdistanced the pursuers, the map-maker brought his steeds down to a trot and tied the reins to a carved image of the sitting Buddha.
Behind a curtain stretched midway across the tent he saw a figure lying on a couch. It was clad in all Loosang’s finery. Under the high, lacquered hat was the head of a panther.
As Billings looked, the eyes rolled in the head toward him, and the jaw of the beast opened a little. Overhead the bell began to toll again as the wagon crossed some rough ground. The flesh on Billings’ back grew cold. In the strong odor of the tent there was a smell of something unclean.
“Look,” said Alashan. Around the ridgepole were arranged other heads, some of familiar animals, some of ghastly and obscene shapes.
“A mask,” muttered Billings. “What is beneath?”
“Nothing. Weights, hung under them, move these eyes of painted mica. The jawbone is loose. It is an effigy.”
“To frighten those who might look in while Loosang is away.”
&n
bsp; “Aye. But here is no sign of Nadesha.”
Abruptly the wagon slowed, lurched and was still, tilted to one side. They were ditched. Looking out, Billings saw his pony and Alashan’s horse. A spear’s cast away was Norbo with his two servants and the pack animals.
Alashan walked to the horse of the Master of the Herds and Billings followed, while the Tatars stared in puzzled surprize. Luckily they were among a nest of dense thickets and no others were in view at the moment. But Billings knew that the mad flight of the sacred wagon across the plain had been seen by many, and that presently the fat gylong would catch up with them.
“My lord,” the boy saluted the chieftain respectfully, “it is a lie that Loosang’s body rests here while his spirit is abroad. Here is only a mask and garments. Loosang has gone from the Horde. Nadesha is not to be found. She has spoken with him. He is a master of evil, to my mind. I have read in his eyes that he lusts after her.”
Unexpectedly the old woman servant spoke up, seizing the stirrup of the noble, her master.
“My lord, chief of the ulus, it is said in the tents that the shape of the lama was seen on the night before last, riding like a demon as tall as a tree, and attended by his familiar in the form of a woman.”
“Whither did they turn the heads of their horses?” asked Alashan.
“Who knows, my young lord? Up into the stars where the tengeri leap from mountain to mountain or down, into the earth where—”
“Alashan,” broke in Billings, “the fat priest called Loosang abbot of Sonkor. Is that truth?”
“Aye,” assented the boy, “he comes from the lamasery that is nearest the steppe.”
“Do you know where it lies?”
The boy shook his head, whereupon Billings showed him a strip of yellow paper he had taken from the wallet in his coat—the map of the Armenian, showing the caravan route from Constantinople to Tashkent. It was inaccurate and wildly picturesque as to distances. In the northeast corner was picture of a tower and the legend “Sonkor.” A mountain was drawn close by.
“It is in the air and in the water and the sand,” muttered the old woman, “so the Kara Kirghiz say—the Black Kirghiz tribesmen.”
With his sword’s point Billings traced an equilateral triangle in the mud; then he glanced at the sun, reflecting dimly from the gray haze. With a last look at his map he replaced it carefully in his coat and thought for a moment.
“Sonkor lies in that quarter”—he pointed with his sword “—two days’ and one night’s hard riding.”
Every one except Norbo drew back hastily from the triangle in the mud, and all surveyed Billings expectantly. This was surely magic! Billings, with the knowledge that the gylongs would arrive very soon in the thicket, had done some rapid thinking.
The map—unreliable as to distances—told him that the temple of Sonkor lay near mountains, at the edge of the river Chu, which flowed from the mountains of Tibet far to the southeast. So the old woman had proclaimed—near the heights, the sand and the water.
A single rider moves more swiftly than an army; Loosang would have left the Horde before they reached the point nearest to Sonkor. At the end of nine days he must be back again; so he could not give more than four days to each half of his journey, because even a Tatar jigit would need some hours’ rest and a change of horses at Sonkor. Admitting that Loosang was travelling over the lower sides of his equilateral triangle, and the Horde had journeyed along the northern side for a day and a half, it was easy to see that Sonkor lay about two days and some hours and to the south by southeast.
Billings was sure of this when he observed that the route he had figured for Loosang and Nadesha skirted the edge of the Kangar. No one would willingly cross the Kangar.
“That will lead me through the desert,” reflected Alashan.
“Will you follow Loosang?”
“Aye.” Alashan turned to his horse.
Then Norbo spoke for the first time.
“You have not asked permission of your father, the Khan, to leave the Horde.”
Nadesha was greatly loved of Norbo. All three knew that if she had gone with Loosang to the place of the lamas it would be only by the rarest of good fortune that she would regain the Horde. Loosang, if he desired the girl, would not bring her back to the protection of her father and Ubaka Khan. Yet the Master of the Herds, who could not leave his post, reminded Alashan that he was the son of the Khan and might not leave the Horde unbidden.
“Peace be with you, uncle,” said Alashan moodily. “Let Zebek Dortshi and the others say that I have left the clan during suffering and hunger. Tell them so yourself, if you will.”
He flung himself into the saddle. “Give me goatskins for water, and another horse, Norbo! Give them to me. I shall follow Nadesha’s trail until I find her.” His dark cheeks flushed. “By the white horse of Natagai, my father will not call me a man! I go my own road.”
The cracks in Norbo’s worn face deepened and he pulled at his gray mustache. Billings, who had secured his own pony, now mounted and spoke, before the Master of the Herds.
“Alashan”—he listened for the splash of approaching hoofs—“I have told you one true word. And I have shown you where Sonkor lies. I can lead you to the temple with my maps. I will go with you.”
The boy’s eyes were hostile.
“Nay, I will find Nadesha without aid from you.”
“Perhaps. But two swords are better than one. You are betrothed to Nadesha. I am her brother. We are together in this thing.”
“Kai, be it so.” Norbo nodded. “The son of the Khan must not go without a man to protect his back. Better a hundred men of my clan—”
“Not so,” barked Alashan. “They would take the word to my father at once and I would be bound and beaten.” He looked long at Billings. “If you are my companion in this thing, you are none the less my enemy when it is over—if we both live. Is that agreed?”
Under his mustache Billings smiled.
“Kai—be it so.”
There was no time for more. The man servant who had been watching from the thicket reported the approach of riders led by the priests. Norbo quickly thrust the reins of his own horse into Alashan’s hand, and gave the remaining riding pony to Billings.
“Come back to the Horde,” he growled at Alashan, “or I am dishonored.” To Billings he added coldly—“Protect the prince.”
As they put spurs to their horses, drawing the two spare mounts with them, Billings was still smiling. Here was a chance at liberty. With a horse—two horses and a weapon—he could reach Sonkor, and by the aid of his maps, work south to Tashkent where in time he could find a caravan going west to Samarkand and the Caspian.
In time, it could be done. He had promised to complete the map for Nadesha only so long as he should be with the Horde. Plying whip and spur the thicket was soon left behind and they merged among the groups of tired riders who, half-asleep, splashed through the mud.
Behind them two furious gylongs righted the sacred wagon and searched fruitlessly the myriad tracks around the thicket. They shot questions and threats at Norbo in the same breath. But the old Tatar had retired into his habitual silence.
When the priests rode off he began to walk through the marsh with the ungainly gait of one whose stiff limbs are better schooled to the belly of a horse. Followed by the two servants and the pack-animals, he trudged along, his eyes raised, from habit, to the gray expanse of sky in the east.
* * * *
But not in two days and one night, or in twenty days, could Captain Billings have found the temple of Sonkor whither Loosang had gone with Nadesha. Before the sun had gone down for the first time he had lost his direction and a cloudy night concealed the stars.
They kept the wind, the hot wind that had sprung up during the day, at their backs. They rode in silence, Billings in the lead. Progress was slow—deep sandy dunes to be met with for the most part, and serried clay gullies that turned them aside constantly.
Billings fancied that the
y were ascending. His ears strained for a sound, but the dark ness was like a heated curtain. The croaking of frogs, the trilling of birds—all this had been left behind them with the marsh land. Nor was there any moisture in the air. The steppe of the Kangar, the Hunger Steppe, was a blind labyrinth of dunes and gullies.
“Halt and unsaddle the horses,” ordered Alashan, when the night was about half done and the air was becoming a little chill. “Eat and sleep.”
Surprized, Billings reined in. The boy was already working at the saddle girths and made no response to Billings’ questions. When the maker of maps climbed down, Alashan spoke curtly.
“We are wandering, first on one hand, then the other. I have been watching that rock for an hour.”
He pointed behind them, but only after straining his eyes a long time did Billings make out a bulk that was darker than the sky and the sand, an outcropping of basalt or sandstone shaped like a pillar.
“You are merely keeping your back to the wind,” pointed out the Tatar angrily. “The wind changes.”
Billings heard the boy’s jaws crunch on a portion of the dried meat he had carried between saddle and saddle cloth to keep it warm and soft enough to eat.
“Nay—your map was a picture; this is a desert. How will you find the right direction in the morning?”
Billings was engaged with his scanty rations of decaying cheese and tough meat. They had been able to buy some provisions from another clan, and had filled their goatskins at a pool before leaving the Horde.
The map-maker was accustomed to lay a stick of wood along the course to be followed the next day when he made camp. But now he was aware that Alashan was right: he had been wandering from the true direction, and one quarter was like another. Moreover there had been no time at their departure to retrieve the compass from the packs containing his instruments.
“The sun will show us the way, Alashan.”
“And if there be no sun?”
“Then we will see.”
Morning dawned gray and cloudy. The wind had failed. The horses had found a scrub thicket of tamarisk and were feeding there, near a stagnant pool of yellow water. When Billings would have filled a half empty goatskin here, Alashan pulled him back.