The Harold Lamb Megapack

by Harold Lamb

  A step sounded on the other side of the barrier. Billings knocked again, loudly, as if he had a right to enter. One of the bars was taken down. Then silence.

  Plainly the man on the other side was puzzled. Billings rapped a third time, impatiently.

  “Stand back,” he ordered Alashan softly. “Be ready.”

  The other bar came down. The door swung toward them, concealing them in its shadow. A shaven head, wrinkled and bare as a snake’s, was thrust into the passage.

  A flash, followed by the sound of metal striking bone. Alashan had brought down the back of his sword viciously on the priest’s pate. The man sprawled forward, coughing, writhed; and Alashan struck again, this time with the edge. Then he caught the long, cassocked form and tugged it well into the passage. Billings was not prepared for this.

  “Tchou, my cousin,” Alashan hissed, “would you tie a viper with silk, or play with an adder in the dark? Besides, he is not dead. You do not know these devils. Look!”

  He lifted the head of the guard, pulling back the lips from the teeth. Billings saw that they were sharpened to points. He glanced out of the passage. No one else was visible.

  A lamp glimmered in a basin of oil beside the doorway. They could make out that the room outside the passage was very lofty, that its walls were the white limestone itself. In the center of the chamber directly in front of them was what appeared to be a broad column of black lacquer.

  After Alashan had closed the door and replaced the bars, leaving the unconscious lama in the passage, they searched the walls for another exit. A second door stood opposite the first, and this also was locked on the outside.

  Billings listened at the crack and made out a dull murmur some distance away. It was the camp of the Kirghiz. He knocked tentatively, but this time there was no response.

  “Stop.” Alashan caught his arm. “If we are seen coming from here, it will be the end of everything.”

  He pointed up over his head. They could see the front of the lacquer column now. The candle, behind it, framed in blackness a score of arms projecting from the sides.

  “A spider,” muttered Billings.

  “Bon,” said Alashan softly, “the Destroyer.”

  The entangled arms ended in hands, each gripping some weapon or object. In one was a child, in swaddling cloths. Snakes and varied beasts kept the child—in lacquer—company. On the breast of Bon, who squatted on a square pedestal, was a tiny woman, her legs and arms clutching the broad body of the god.

  They could see clearly, because a round window in the rock wall directly in front of the face of Bon admitted the last, ruddy light of sunset. The face itself was like a Buddha, cold and expressionless.

  “Pfagh!” grunted Billings.

  He could understand now that the lamas had availed themselves of a large cavern just inside the cliff wall for a tabernacle for the figure of the god. The opening in the cliff let in light during the day, and permitted worshipers from the plain to see the face of Bon. If illumined from within the effect must be striking.

  Even as they watched, the last gleams departed from the glittering crown of Bon. They looked at each other curiously. To break down the door would be to bring the lamasery swarming about them. To return to the height by way of the tunnel was impossible.

  There remained the aperture in the cliff. But the rock wall was sheer. So the two intruders sat down and listened to the faint sounds from the camp. They knew that in time some one would come into the chamber of Bon from the temple to relieve the guard at the tunnel door. Then they might slip out. Looking up once restlessly, the map-maker drew in his breath.

  The countenance of the god was shining with a soft, green light. It was a reflection of some kind.

  “The moon is up,” explained Alashan calmly.

  Suddenly Billings chuckled and sprang to his feet.

  “I know how we can look from the hole in the cliff. Help me up this pedestal.”

  When Alashan had boosted him up to the footstool of the image, Billings began to climb the front of the giant god, pulling himself up by the arms that stuck out in every direction, and the limbs of the clinging woman. Now the highest pair of arms were folded, hands crossed, just under the chin of Bon, so that Billings was furnished a perch within a yard of the round opening. Alashan joined him. The statue being fashioned of solid wood under the lacquer work, they were secure.

  The ceremonial had begun. They looked out directly over the roof of the lamasery, between the two towers. Billings fancied that the door from the cavern led out upon the roof itself. The moon was rising somewhere to the left, over the valley, but its half light was eclipsed by the smoking glare of lines of torches in the courtyard of the lamasery. Here the lamas were standing in rows, forming a lane out of the court, through the Kirghiz camp, down the slope toward the Chu.

  “When the moon is full, these devils drag out their idols to the river for all to see,” muttered Alashan. “It is at this time expeditions set out from the land of the Tsong Khapa. See, the Black Kirghiz are watching.”

  Already a line of sakyas—neophytes—carrying lighted pastels were moving out of the courtyard. Next was led a black horse, bearing the state robes of the abbot of Sonkor, horsemen in yellow cassocks with painted spears. Behind a boy carrying a basin of glowing coals were thin Tibetans with the standards of Sonkor—long poles, wrapped around with rags.

  “A tawdry manner of finery,” thought Billings. “Hulloa!”

  Following the standards and pulled by other rows of disciples came a cart filled with women wearing lotus flowers and carrying the blossoms in their hands. Seated among these women was a small figure wearing a red khalal and a cloth of silver cap.

  Billings glanced at Alashan. The boy had recognized Nadesha in her Persian dress as she turned her face.

  “There is Nadesha, the daughter of Norbo,” he said calmly. “But Loosang I do not see.”

  Indeed the cart bearing small, painted images of various gods that came after the women had no human occupant. Billings reflected that here was Nadesha’s country of a thousand devils—the land where men wore the faces of beasts. For the lamas carrying the four trumpets of Sonkor were masked as usual.

  But Nadesha herself was here—apparently of her own will—and riding in the cart with the women attendants of the temple. Billings wondered if she had left the hard lot of the Horde for this estate. He knew that Alashan, who loved Nadesha fiercely, did not believe this. He himself suspected that Nadesha was up to one of her games, a trick that bade fair to be her last, because it was Loosang she tricked and the lama had her in his power.

  “Climb down,” whispered Alashan curtly.

  Not until he had quit the circle of subdued light did Billings hear the sound of the opening door that had aroused the boy. It was too late to gain the ground. They waited, poised on the fat belly of Bon, the Destroyer. Three men entered the outer door.

  Loosang was the leader. The two others were bearded tribesmen, wearing heavy black lambs’ wool hats and with girdles literally stuffed with weapons—good ones. For all their swagger, they eyed the great form of Bon sidewise and Billings was grateful for the deep shadow that covered the front of the god.

  As if puzzled by the absence of the guard Loosang inspected the inner door, the candle, and walked around the image of Bon. Then, satisfied that no one was to be found in the rock chamber, he squatted down facing the tribesmen.

  So long did the chutuktu wait before speaking that one, a red-haired giant, looked up.

  “Where is that Russian money, you fox?”

  “In the tents of the Horde, Nuralin Khan.”

  They spoke freely; believing themselves alone, and in Tatar, the common speech of the steppe. Billings did not understand it all, but learned later from Alashan what had passed. Afterward Billings decided that Loosang had taken pains to stow this cache away for himself where no one would find it.

  “Hai, it shall be ours, Loosang, my owl. And the horses and camels of the Horde—tens of tho
usands of them, you say. And their weapons, bought of the Muscovites, captured from the Turks; good pieces, you swear. If you have lied, I’ll make you dine off your cassock.”

  He leered at the lama, blinking. Nuralin Khan had kissed the jug that night. Then he began to stroke his unkempt beard with a hand on which the very hairs were red.

  “All that is very well my chutuktu. But you claim half the spoil. That is too much even for a devil like you.”

  “If it is too much, then you and your dogs can search out the Horde on the open steppe. Attack them there if you will and see if you will raise their hides or not.” Loosang spoke coldly.

  The other Kirghiz, a stunted man with a pinched mouth and evil eyes snarled at this.

  “You have sworn an oath, Loosang. You have pledged your word to lead the Horde to the place where we will wait, in the hills. If the Torguts go the other way, over the plain to Balkash, then you will have no profit. Nay, our paths lie together in this. Keep faith with us, or we will bring our cannon to knock down the walls of Sonkor—”

  “Fool, spawn of a lizard! Will you go against the word of him who is master of Lhassa?”

  The elder Kirghiz fell silent. But Nuralin Khan, swaying as he sat, continued his grumbling.

  “You will sit safe in your yurt, Loosang, while we face the arrows and the flintlocks of the Torguts. Ubaka Khan is an ox. He will take a lot of killing.”

  “And I—” Loosang’s lips drew back—“have arranged that Ubaka will not be at the head of the Horde when you strike it. There is another khan in the Horde who will see to that.”

  This impressed the two chieftains. They looked at each other and asked the name of the lama’s confederate. But Loosang was not telling all he knew.

  “How many riders have you, Nuralin Khan?”

  “A thousand and another thousand tents6. More will join us at the appointed place.”

  “You were foolish to plunder the Baskirs. With those wolves hanging on the flanks of the Horde your task would be easier.”

  “And there would be more to share the Russian money in the Torgut tents, the leather and furs and weapons and horseflesh. As it is, a half is too much for you.”

  “A half of my share goes to Lhassa. The Dalai Lama is pleased to be angry with the Torguts because they favor the old beliefs and turn their eyes to Natagai, in the skies.”

  “So they must die, eh? Well, it is all one to us, provided you keep faith.” Nuralin Khan considered. “Ubaka has been driving his men and beasts too hard. My jigits are in from the Kangar and they say the Horde is weak—weak.”

  Loosang stuck out his long neck, as if pleased. The Baskirs, he explained, had done that; the Russians under Traubenberg had not followed the Horde beyond Orenburg. So the Moslem clan had pursued the Torguts on its own account. Ubaka had thought the Russian army was on the march, and the Baskirs its advance.

  When he might have rested in the fertile lands before the Kangar, Ubaka had set out again on his journey.

  “How was that?” demanded the old Kirghiz.

  “I persuaded him through the khan who is my friend. After the crossing of the Kangar his riders will be like foundered horses. They will go down before your swords like wheat under the wind. Not more than a hundred times a thousand souls are still living in the Horde. Mustering even old men with spears and young boys with arrows, they will have only fifteen times a thousand to ride against you. I will arrange that they suspect nothing, that the clans travel far apart, the fighting men mixed with the sick and the animals. You must have your full strength drawn up at the place agreed on.”

  The small eyes of Nuralin Khan twinkled. He stretched massive arms, one at a time, and yawned.

  “The old women and the men will be slain; the younger women who are yet alive—”

  “Half to me.”

  “Aye,” leered the older Kirghiz, “silver and gold may be had for the Tatar youths in the slave market at Bokhara.”

  “It is all one to me,” drawled Nuralin Khan. “By the Lotus, you councilors of the pit can slay many men with words. But my sword must do the work, you foxes.”

  Quickly he lifted his head. Alashan had been breathing rapidly during the conversation that revealed the treachery of Loosang. Just then his scabbard had slipped down from his knee to the full length of its strap and clanked against the lacquer image.

  Nuralin Khan sprang to his feet. The moonlight had been growing stronger; by it he could make out, cradled in the long arms of Bon, a shapeless mass.

  “Tchou! Look—it moves!”

  The rat-faced chief, perhaps remembering that they had been speaking none too reverently of the sacred gods, ran to the outer door. Nuralin Khan followed more slowly, glancing back over his shoulder. Loosang stood his ground, frowning.

  Meanwhile Alashan acted. He leaped bodily for the lama, but landed heavily within the shadow in front of the image, plunged down on his hands with the shock of the fall. This was enough for Nuralin Khan, who fled through the door.

  Perceiving that he was deserted, and sensing danger, Loosang slipped out of the door, closing it after him before Alashan could reach him. The bars outside the portal were dropped into place and Loosang’s high voice lifted in a warning shout.

  “Come, Alashan.” Billings joined the boy, who stood trembling with anger, sword in hand. “Pick up your hat.”

  He unbarred the door into the passage, signed for Alashan to help and carried the still unconscious guard back to the spot where the boy had jumped down.

  “Loosang did not see you. I watched. Pray that some tribesmen come in with the priests.”

  He quenched the lamp and drew the Tatar back with him into the passage, closing the door nearly, but not quite. Almost immediately the outer portal swung open and a dozen armed lamas appeared, Loosang among them.

  The torches that the newcomers carried soon revealed the prostrate figure under the pedestal of Bon. After scanning the chamber and finding nothing else amiss they advanced to stare at the guard. They turned him over, noticing the bruise on his shaven skull.

  Then Loosang looked up at the giant Bon as if puzzled. He had seen a man drop, in the shadow. Here was a man with a bruise on his head. Palpably this servant of the temple had been playing the spy, and—of all places—in the arms of the Destroyer. Loosang was not satisfied.

  With a cry one of the Tibetans pointed out the deep sword-cut across the side of the wounded man. They pressed closer, lowering the torches to see better. Some tribesmen edged inside the door in the wake of Nuralin, who had sobered rapidly. This moment Billings chose to slip out of the door opening from the passage and move along the wall with Alashan. They were concealed by the shadow cast by the ring of priests.

  “The passage!” shouted Loosang, noticing the door. “Whoever has entered has gone back that way.”

  Although the most degenerate of men, the lamas were not lacking in zeal, daring or intelligence. They rushed into the passage for the most part. Others bore out the body of the guard and started to clear the staring Kirghiz out of the temple.

  Billings and Alashan had joined the tribesmen during the confusion. The map-maker had pinned his trust to human curiosity; but this same trait was now causing the Kirghiz—who had been drinking—to wonder how a Cossack and a Baskir were in their company.

  Once outside the door, however, Billings gave them no time to grow more suspicious, but made off down the first stairway to hand. It led through the refectory of the temple, out into the courtyard. Coming from within the temple, they were not challenged.

  They pushed through groups of the lamas, went out into the camp and turned aside among the lines of camels where there were no fires. Alashan wanted to go down toward the river to find Nadesha.

  “Listen, my captain,” he said briefly. “What we have heard must come to the ears of Ubaka Khan, my father. We have not yet learned the place where the Kirghiz will lie in wait for the Horde. We must know that. Nadesha will find out. Then we will take her with us and steal horses f
rom the cordon.”

  They came to the wagons standing by the river bank. Most of the women of the temple had mingled with the crowd of soldiers and were laughing and singing about the near-by fires where feasting was going on in honor of the festival.

  Nadesha however still sat on the edge of the temple cart, a lotus flower between her lips, her dark eyes, rimmed with kohl, surveying the crowd that kept at a respectful distance. For Loosang, mounted, and wearing his yellow robe of office was beside her, a half-dozen armed lamas close behind him. Around the wagon eddied groups of tribesmen, thin Turkomans, squat, turbaned Chatagais, quarrelsomely drunk.

  “The vultures are flying together,” whispered the boy bitterly. “They would not attack the Horde in fair battle. They seek a corpse to pick bare with their beaks.”

  Billings nudged the youth to silence. It was all-important that they speak with Nadesha before Loosang and the women withdrew into the lamasery, where no tribesmen would be welcome. Just then Nuralin Khan swaggered up, having recovered from his scare at the temple. He advanced close to Nadesha, hands on hips.

  “By the belly of Bon, here is a wanton to make glad the eye of a chief. A round face and a bright eye, a form fair and melting.”

  Nadesha smiled at him, and the Kirghiz sought to take her hand.

  “Peace, Nuralin Khan,” shrilled Loosang. “She is a Tatar who has claimed the protection of the god.”

  “Tatar or Persian—all one to me,” mumbled the other.

  And Billings, seeing his chance, thrust Alashan back. Pushing the Cossack hat over one eye and lifting the green neckcloth to cover his mouth, he lurched forward, clapped Nuralin Khan on the back and leaned heavily against the wagon, his head almost upon Nadesha’s knee.

  Nuralin Khan looked around, his hand on a pistol, but seeing only a besotted Cossack he spat and returned to his quarrel with the lama. Loosang glanced keenly at Billings, but the red-haired chieftain was between them.