by Harold Lamb
Billings saw the hands of Nuralin Khan wrenched loose from the weapon hilts. The Kirghiz was bent back over the high crupper of his saddle until his fingers quivered and his teeth gritted as the wooden edge cut into the small of his back.
Meanwhile he had succeeded in freeing his feet from the stirrups. Maddened by pain, he twisted to win free, failed, and struck his pony in the neck with a spurred heel. The horse started forward. And Ubaka changed his grip.
One of his vise-like hands thrust under the beard of the Kirghiz giant; the other fastened behind the head. As the pony slipped out from under the Kirghiz and the man fell back, Ubaka gave a wrench. Billings heard two sharp snapping sounds. One of Ubaka’s stirrups had broken under the strain, and the neck of Nuralin Khan had broken.
The Torgut let the body of his enemy fall to earth and looked at it a while, breathing heavily. Without drawing a weapon the Khan of the Torguts had slain an experienced fighter, heavily armed and desperate.
To escape the rush of the Torguts, the Kirghiz who had been awaiting the fate of their leader fled into the forest. As his men came up, Ubaka halted them.
“Find Loosang,” he commanded.
This suited Billings exactly, and he followed the others up the mountain slope along a track beaten down by the Kirghiz. Regardless of the fighting still going on to the right and left, the Tatars pressed on. The head of Ubaka Khan nodded as he rode, and the Khan from weariness slept in the saddle. But he was alert at any noise near by.
A sulking Tajik pointed out the way that Loosang had taken, up one of the gorges, and before long they sighted the blue robe of a priest fluttering into the bushes ahead of them. With a cry the Tatars spurred on.
The bushes gave upon a clearing surrounded on all sides by pines, from which the whole of the Kara-su could be seen far below them. Here the gylong was cornered, but he was not Loosang.
No one paid any attention to him at first. In her bedraggled garments of the temple, Nadesha faced them, a knife in her small fist and her brown eyes glowing with hatred, until she caught sight of their Tatar dress and the big bulk of Ubaka Khan.
On the ground at her feet lay Alashan. One arm was thrown across his eyes as if to shield them from the sun. His right hand gripped the length of a lama’s long trumpet midway between mouthpiece and flare.
Beside him was stretched the lifeless body of a gylong. The grass of the clearing was trampled and crushed as if many feet had stood upon it and moved about.
Without a word Ubaka Khan thrust aside those in front of him and dismounted, bending over the form of his son. Nadesha fell on her knees and attempted to free Alashan’s hand from the horn.
“See, my lord,” she said, “with this trumpet Alashan slew the gylong who lies here. Then they struck at him with swords so that he fell.”
“Tell your story,” ordered Ubaka.
“You have heard the tale of Captain Beel-ing, my lord.” She looked at the map maker and then down at the boy. “You know that we were brought here, captives. The lama, Loosang, would not entrust me to any but his own men. They told us we would see the Tatar clans surprized at the fords of the Kara-su. Alashan said no word to me of what he meant to do.”
She pointed down at the river.
“Here we were stationed, under guard of the lamas. When the first clan of the Horde crossed the river, the men from Sonkor began to watch eagerly through the trees. Those who had Alashan between them also watched. One he pushed aside and from the other he wrested this horn, which sounds a great blast. He blew it, once loudly, then again, before they cut him down.”
“Ha!”
“It made the priests very much afraid, because they believed that Nuralin Khan would ride upon them and kill them for permitting the warning to be given. So they ran away into the bushes; but Nuralin Khan did not come because the fighting began almost at once. I waited here, keeping the sun from Alashan, who is sorely hurt.”
Then for the first time Ubaka Khan’s hand felt of the chest of the boy, and his fingers were thrust into the cuts to learn how deep they might be. Under the rude touch Alashan writhed and opened his eyes.
“Build you a horse litter,” the Khan commanded his followers, “and see that he is taken to my tent. Tell the women to dress his wounds, for they are deep and half the blood is out of his body. But he will not die, for he is strong—strong.”
Ubaka rose, and he held his chin high. Then the Tatar nobles spoke the words for which he was listening.
“The boy is a man in all things,” they said, one after the other. “He is wise, because he saw the trick that we did not see. Alone he went among our enemies. They could not kill him.…” He is a khan.
“Ahatou—Alashan!” they repeated.
Even as they spoke a blue-clad figure crept from among the Tatars and began kissing the boots of Ubaka Khan. It was the gylong, and his face was quivering with a fearful eagerness.
“Oh mighty Khan, ruler of unexampled benevolence—fortunate father of such a son—spare my life! You follow Loosang, and I saw where he went. It was that way!”
The priest pointed into the pines. Ubaka looked at him a moment in silence. Suddenly he stooped, caught up the bronze horn in one hand. Lifting it above his head, the Khan brought down the heavy end on the crown of the gylong.
The skull of the traitor was crushed inward. Ubaka hurled the trumpet into the bushes and strode toward his horse. The sight of his son had driven all thought of Loosang for the moment from his mind.
“The men have called him khan,” he repeated to himself. “So, he shall ride with me.”
Down below them the firing had died out at last, and the Tatars were in possession of the river. But Billings had not forgotten the lama. He had noted carefully the direction the gylong had pointed out, and now turned to see how Alashan was faring.
To his surprize the eyes of the boy were fastened on him. He beckoned Billings nearer.
“My father has called me a man,” he whispered. “I give you thanks and honor for your ride to the Horde with the word of peril. And when my wounds are healed you and I will cross swords until one of us lies on the ground. I have sworn it.”
His glance strayed to Nadesha.
Billings started to laugh and then grew thoughtful. He explained to the boy that, although he liked Nadesha immensely, he did not woo her, and that Nadesha herself loved only the son of the Khan. But Alashan shook his head.
“She has made you her anda, and henceforth her life must belong to one of us only. The swords will point the way.”
By now the litter of boughs was finished, and Alashan was placed on it. The movement rendered him unconscious. As the Tatars were slinging the litter between two ponies, Billings, who had been standing in a brown study, glanced at the boy, but, perceiving that he was beyond reach of words, turned to Nadesha.
“I am not going to fight Alashan,” he said in Russian, “after all this. There is a way out. I am leaving the Horde. Ubaka has said that I am no longer a prisoner.” He pointed to the unconscious boy. “See, the son of the Khan wears your girdle, Nadesha.”
For an instant her brown eyes dwelled in his, and she held out a slim hand.
“May the way be open before you, my brother.”
But even as she spoke, she hurried after the litter, scolding the men for shaking the boughs and urging them to ride carefully. Billings thought briefly of his belongings—if they still existed—somewhere in the Horde, and of horses, supplies, necessary for his hazardous trip back along the road of the Torguts.
Ubaka, however, was out of sight, and there was something Billings planned to do that would not wait.
* * * *
An hour later Billings had reached the edge of a ravine where the boles of the great hemlocks were close together and their branches formed a roof that made the light dim. For some time he had followed a faint track that had now lost itself among the rocks. Down the steep bottom of the gorge a stream rushed and roared in a series of falls.
Scanning his s
urroundings carefully, Billings strained his ears for any sound that might lead him to what he sought. The only movement he detected was that of some kind of a panther on a ledge under him. He could see the hide through a nest of rocks, and once he looked into its muzzle, raised toward him.
For a while he studied what he could see of the thing, and then smiled broadly.
“Gad, ’twill bear closer scrutiny!”
He tightened his sash and drew his rapier, laying the scabbard aside. Sliding, and lowering himself over the boulders, he made his way down to the ledge beside the fall of the stream.
He was within arm’s reach before the hide slipped off the back of the false panther, and Loosang rose to his feet, pulling off his mask as he did so. For a moment the two regarded each other. The lama was half-naked, the scars prominent on his tall frame. Over his waist hung an apron of skin, but his hands were empty.
“I have no weapon,” he said slowly. “Come, Captain Billings, we have no quarrel, you and I. You are a giaour—I, a priest. We are wiser than the Tatars. Instead of fighting, we can share wealth together.”
As Billings did not answer, he went on quickly.
“You do not believe me. But it is so. I have taken gold and silver coins enough from the Tatars to make you a rich land owner with serfs.”
“I do not doubt it. But now we are going to fight—you and I—with our hands, if you have no weapon.”
Loosang’s lined face puckered. Billings never took his eyes from the lama’s.
“Captain Billings, you are not a fool—although some would call you so. Each week, on the road of the Horde, I buried a large bag of Russian money—an official’s salary, each time—under the stones of the shrines that were built where my yurt stood. I can retrace the course of the Tatars.”
The lama broke off, his lips tightening. He had forgotten, as he spoke, the map that Billings had made. His hands fell to his sides.
“You see I am telling the truth. And you have seen the power of the Sonkor lamasery.” Sweat glistened on his bald forehead, but his eyes were bold. “If I return there, safe, I can turn the tables on my enemies. It would be worth a fortune to you—and escort back to Russia.”
“I don’t think you have any second, to serve in this duel,” interrupted Billings coldly, “unless you wish to call in your friend the devil. And we can dispense with a surgeon.”
For the first time Loosang laughed.
“Ekh, after all you are a fool. Do you not know yet that steel can not hurt a lama? What will you fight me with? That sword—”
With the words, Loosang cast himself at Billings. His hand darted under his apron and flew up again. In each fist was clasped a long knife. Lifting these over his head, he leaped. And Billings, leaning forward, thrust his sword through the body of Loosang under the heart.
As he made the thrust he drew to one side, catching the lama’s right wrist in his left and avoiding the downward sweep of the other arm. For a space he held the form of the priest passive, while Loosang squealed between set teeth. Then he drew out his blade, pushing the body clear of it, over the ledge into the rush of the falls.
He caught only one glimpse of brown limbs flashing down through green water. But presently over his head he heard men calling, and the scrape of boots on the rocks.
Billings’ position on the side of the stream was bad if he was to be attacked, so he climbed up the slope as best he could and came out within a detachment of riders who clustered about his empty scabbard.
They were tribesmen, unknown to him. There were a round dozen of them, and he judged they had been raiding because they had with them several led horses, one a beautiful Kochiani mare; the other two beasts were loaded with skins, silver ornaments and a large simitar, splendidly etched with gold.
One of them, their leader apparently, held gingerly what seemed to be a roll of paper. Billings surveyed them until the headman dismounted and knelt, holding up the roll of paper.
“Billings, lord,” he said in guttural Tatar, “we are ten and two men of the Yeka Zukor clan that was overcome in Russia and led back to the Volga. Our hearts inclined toward our kin. So Ubaka Khan this day commanded us to seek you out and serve you, under pain of having our limbs pulled from our bodies by horses. We will go back with you to the Volga.”
He laid down the object he held in his hands, with a good deal of relief.
“Here, lord, is the map you made of our road. Here—” he pointed—“is a sword of honor from Ubaka, and a horse, and other things. Also your magic things for looking at the stars. We are ready. Say the word and mount and go.”
Billings laughed.
“Mount—and come.”
Half-way down the mountain they halted to look out over the plain. The long lines had formed again among the clans; the dust rose over the camel caravans. He could see the sun reflected on the muskets as the riders took up their journey to the east and the valley of the Ili. He could almost hear the hoa-hoa of the drivers, the shuffling of the cattle and the creaking of the wagons.
So it happened that Captain Billings watched the passing of the Torguts along the road that led to the Ili. No other giaour set eyes on them again. But it is written in the annals of Keun-lung that those of the clans that survived the journey gained lands and peace in the valley of the Ili.
After sheathing his sword Billings rode on toward the setting sun. But the Tatar at his side had seen blood stains on the steel blade.
“Has my lord slain an enemy in the gorge?” he asked with interest.
Billings smiled.
“I cut off the head of a snake.”
4 Torguts.
5 The northern lights.
6 About fifteen thousand men.
7 A platform in a tree from which to shoot game.
PROTECTION (1923)
Black Odo’s road was stopped. And he grunted with satisfaction, because this meant a fight, and nothing warmed the blood in his veins like a fight.
Big he was and bold—he could swing his four-foot sword with either hand—and cunning, being Norman born. Besides, he was Duke of Bari with the rents of a countryside to squander and eight hundred good spears to follow him. Black Odo his men called him, because he would draw back neither from peril nor sin. They said of him that he feared not the powers of darkness. Some said more—that for every horse in his stables, he had a woman to his will. They whispered that the tale of his sins was blacker than a pit in the hours of night. But now, in the year of our Lord one thousand and ninety-nine, he was Jerusalem bound, a cross upon his shoulder.
“God’s life!” breathed Duke Odo, “’Tis no land flowing with milk and honey as the shave-pates swore.”
He could see nothing around him but the barren, dry lands covered with tangles of thorn and nests of boulders. The driving dust was worse than the sun, in this long valley between low hills where it was a torment to wear the chain mail that they dared not take off. It was mid-afternoon and the fleshy Norman sat under his pavilion flap nursing his long chin in his hand and gulping warm wine. On his jutting shoulder gleamed a scarlet cross, the edges sewn with rubies, for Odo did nothing in niggardwise, and he had seen to it that the crusaders’ cross was an emblem of price.
His eye roved over the camp, on the boulder-strewn ridge. His banner with its rearing lion swelled and drooped in the wind gusts. Wherever the rocks gave any shade, his men-at-arms were clustered. The faded tents of his knights topped the horse lines, and between them a few women moved wearily, toward the uplifted arms of a barefoot friar who prayed for water.
Odo wondered why these daughters and sisters of his liegemen had taken the road to Palestine. They hungered for Jerusalem, and the salvation of their souls, and they would not turn back, although they were dying by the way. Odo had not seen a shapely throat or a sparkling eye among them. He himself looked forward to his fill of fighting and the despoiling of the pagan castles. The prospect was fair enough.
Ahead of him, only half a league away, some three
thousand Arabs were encamped. And his Armenian guides told him that the Moslems were in possession of the only well in this stretch of the Stone Desert. The Normans were out of water—they had a little wine still—and unless they turned back at once to the coast, they must reach the well. Odo meant to reach the well, after dawn of the morrow, before the heat should weaken his men. And he counted the black tents of the Arabs grimly, for they were the first foemen to come into his way.
“Think ye, Sir Guy,” he asked, looking up suddenly, “they will stand?”
A sallow Norman, his eyes dark with the fever that lurked in his veins, came forward. Unlike the giant duke, he wore faded blue linen, the cross sewn upon the back of his surcoat. He had been with the host that had captured Jerusalem the summer before, and the desert had left its mark upon him. Moreover, to Odo’s thinking, he kept too much to himself, with his half dozen scarred followers and a girl who wore a veil like a Moslem—Sir Guy of the Mount they called him. He had joined Odo’s company, with some Genoese merchants, for protection during the short journey from the sea to the city.
“They will do more than that my lord,” he answered.
“What, then?”
“They are a fighting clan. Having seen the bright armor and shining gear of thy men, and the merchants’ caravan, they know thee for a newcomer in this land, and they will loot thy camp, if so be they may.”
“By my faith,” swore Odo, “they will not do that, for I shall break them, and gladden the foul Fiend by their death.”
“Then guard thee, my lord, against one peril,” the knight of the Mount advised. “These Moslems will come against thee, where thy standard is lifted. At first they will give way, then come in from all sides, assailing thy horse with arrows, and putting thee afoot. Long is thy sword’s reach, but they will venture their lives fearlessly to ride thee down, and slay thee. ’Tis their way thus to make an end of the leader of a Christian host, knowing that his men will lose heart if he dies.”
“Out upon thee for a faint heart!” Odo grinned at the Crusader. “Put some wine in thy belly.”