Swords of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  Kirdy looked up quickly.

  "Don't let the Tartars harm him. I want him alive."

  "Why? What good is he?"

  "He can tell you the meaning of a dream. The science of the tabir is much esteemed by the Moslems. They glean prophecies out of dreams, and no doubt the prophets glean gold. Jania, or Al-Tabir, is well born."

  Upon this Nada went off to ply the captive with questions and Kirdy continued to sit by the hut, drawing lines in the trodden snow with the butt of his riding whip. He had gone among Nogais to try to get tidings of the man he sought; but he had satisfied himself that the entrances of the Wolf's Throat were watched, and he knew the uselessness of trying to escape when his trail would be clear to such keen eyes. Only by an effort

  did he restrain his impatience and settle down to watch for the chance that might open the way into the steppe.

  That evening Nada held the entire attention of the three men. First she sang—the half-barbaric and wholly plaintive songs of the Cossacks that quickened Kirdy's blood and made her father call for more brandy. Then she teased Omelko to tell the young warrior stories of the past, and the lame man took fire at her persuasion.

  "Eh, sir brother," he cried. "Once I followed the little Mother Volga. What is there to say? You know the way of a Cossack youth—to revel in the tavern, to mount when there is war. That was my blade."

  He nodded at the yataghan with the ivory hilt, and the wolf's mask— that filled Al-Tabir with fascinated dread—nodded likewise.

  "A gray stallion I stole from the khan himself, from the stables of Bagche Serai. I rode to Kazan, which was then a Tartar city. In the bazaars were Greeks and God knows how many else. I drank for days, until I saw not one but several suns in the sky. I drank down the gray stallion—ev-erything but my trousers and that blade. Why not? Other horses were to be had and I was young. But then began a great firing of cannon, and the Greeks said the city was besieged."

  He stroked his beard and pushed aside the parchment book that was his companion of evenings.

  "Eh, Falcon, what shall I tell you? I went on the wall, and many foe-men felt the edge of my sword. After a time, when I could see the real sun, I heard that these foemen were Muscovites led by Ivan the Terrible. What matter?

  "The walls of Kazan were stormed after much fighting, and the Tartar dead filled the alleys. Some of the tribesmen broke through, I with them. The armored boyars were all around—thick as flies in the slaughter yard. We tried to swim the Volga but there were boats, and I was taken up by warriors of the tsar who thought at first I was a Muscovite. In time men saw who knew me for the Cossack who had fought on the wall. They should have cut me down or blown me from a cannon.

  "Instead they put my legs in the rack and broke all the bones. Then they carried me across the river and flung me out on the plain. Eh, that was an evil thing. Wolves came and sat by me but did not tear me. I could not crawl. Toghrul rode up—he was then a hunter of stags. He tied the ends of two saplings across his saddle-horn and wove branches to make a drag. So he brought me to this valley, where he had his tent.

  "Ekh ma’a! Why should a man want to live when he can no longer ride? Yet I lived and in time could walk with a staff, as you see. He it was, my brother, who carried to the valley for refuge a Cossack maiden, a captive of the Tartars."

  Omelko's grim head sank on his breast, and he sighed.

  "Nay, I was no longer a hero, no longer a Cossack! Of what avail my life? She would not leave me, when the way was open. She was the daughter of an ataman and Nada was her child—she dying at the time."

  From the sunken eyes of the old Cossack tears crept down his cheeks and he clasped his staff in gaunt fingers that still were powerful.

  "How shall I tell this tale, sir brother? She was in all things like Nada, with a temper like a sword-edge and a heart that was like a very flame of love. She knew many legends of my people that brought me joy in the hearing, and before Nada was born she wrote them down in that book, and taught me the letters. Now I—who am no priest—can trace the legends, and many a time have I read them over to Nada."

  For a while he was silent, his eyes traveling from the sword to the picture of the saint on the wall. To Kirdy there was nothing strange in the life of this girl, who had grown up tended by Tartars, who had hunted stag, and had dared to journey alone to Moscow to listen to the talk of Christians and bring back to Omelko tidings of the world across the river.

  "God provided for Nada," Omelko said finally, "or she would have been lost to me. This was way of it. I dreamed one night that an old man came into my choutar and sat by the fire, saying, 'Omelko, my son, your suffering has been great.'

  "Then, in the dream, my guest rose up, saying: 'I give you power over my children the gray friends, the wolves. They will hunt for you, and you shall be koshevoi of the wolves.'"

  Omelko nodded at the gilded picture upon the wall.

  "Surely that was Saint Ulass! Now, hearken, my brother—I woke up and went to the door. It stood open, and all about the choutar wolves were sitting like dogs.

  "I saw, in the clear moonlight, the leader of the pack, a gray wolf with a part of his tail torn away. Often since then the great pack has come down from the heights, passing through the Wolky Gorlo. And then I say, 'A merry chase to you, brothers!"

  Kirdy pondered this in silence, and Nada met his eyes.

  "It is true my Falcon," she said, "that the wolves have not harmed this choutar. At times, when I have hunted, I have seen the pack running about me. The Tartars believe that my father has power over the wolves, and they will not enter this place."

  At this Omelko shook his head and reached for his glass.

  "Nay, it is the good Saint Ulass who has protected you, my daughter. It is—" he added to Kirdy a smile—"to keep the tribesmen in awe that I wear that wolf's muzzle. Now, my Falcon, let us drink. Glory to God!"

  "For the ages of ages!"

  Chapter XI Only a Ghost

  Only a ghost, sitting on a tomb, enjoys the garlands of dead flowers.

  Persian proverb

  Days passed, and Kirdy fought down his impatience to be in the saddle. One sunny afternoon he heard the whisper of freshets, released from the barrier of ice, eating their way down into the valley from the heights, and he groaned, clasping his head in his hands. By now whatever trace Otrepiev had left would be lost to sight, and soon the steppe would be closed to horses.

  More faithful than the Cossack's shadow, Al-Tabir had kept close to him in the Wolky Gorlo. The interpreter of dreams looked askance at the Tartars and Omelko, but for Nada he had heartfelt admiration. Now he believed he had discovered the reason of the warrior's brooding silence. He ventured closer and sighed.

  "I have seen! Who would not despair? A mouth like the seal of Sulei-man—hair blacker than the storm wind—eyes like a gazelle—teeth like matched pearls—form like a willow! I, too, would cast the ashes of longing upon the fire of life!"

  Kirdy looked down at the stout little man, frowning.

  "What dream is this?"

  "A flower of the garden of blessedness!" The Persian raised plump hands and sighed profoundly. "Why should she wear a sword? Her eyes slay without mercy, and her voice binds with chains that may not be broken."

  "Is it Nada?" Kirdy contemplated the sympathetic native without favor. "Then bridle thy tongue, because if she hears thee she will make trial of the edge of that yataghan without fail."

  "Allah forfend, sahab—how can a man who looks upon her say otherwise?"

  In Moscow the interpreter of dreams had noticed that the wives and daughters of the boyars were kept in seclusion and it did not occur to him that Cossack women were treated differently. But when he looked into Kirdy's eyes he saw that he had not made amends.

  He had meant to condole, in a complimentary way, with one who— as he judged—had experienced the pangs of love for a beautiful woman. Instead, although the White Falcon had not threatened him, the skin of his back felt cold.

  "Canst th
ou truly foretell events from dreams?" Kirdy asked gravely, but Al-Tabir answered without hesitation:

  "That gift have I. Six hundred times have I done so, and it is all written in a book by scribes."

  "Then tell me the meaning of this!"

  Kirdy repeated to the Persian the tale of Omelko's dream, and the coming of the wolves. Al-Tabir remained in thought for some time, shaking his head the while.

  "How can there be good in wolves?" he muttered. "They who are aided by the djinn will die. Take me from this place, young lord! Ai, a fear and a foreboding come upon me!"

  In truth fear grew upon the interpreter of dreams, until he would not let Kirdy out of his sight. Al-Tabir was far from being a fatalist where his life was concerned, and he was shrewd enough to understand that Kirdy could protect him from the people of the Wolky Gorlo, and that the Cossack had taken pity on him—as strong natures will protect weak.

  That night Kirdy was kept awake by his restlessness and the Persian's wanderings. For Al-Tabir ceased not to peer from the windows and mutter to himself. Karai, too, kept sniffing at the door, until the Cossack was brought to his feet by a moan from the native.

  "Ai-i! Look!"

  Kirdy flung the door open and peered out. As his eyes adjusted themselves to the gloom, he noticed shadows passing across the snow. Here and there, for a moment, twin balls of yellow fire glowed and vanished.

  "Here, Karai!"

  The Cossack called the wolfhound that had slipped out the instant the door was open. But the dog did not come back, and after a moment Kirdy started after him. Al-Tabir, divided between dread of the wolves and unwillingness to be left alone, hung about the door until a sound within the cabin brought him around like a startled bustard.

  Stooping over the stove, Nada was thrusting a length of knotted pitch-pine into the bed of coals. Reeds had been wrapped about the stick, and when the end of the torch kindled, she waved it over her head, laughing at the Persian, who saw in this some new incantation.

  Al-Tabir retreated to his corner and left Nada to run alone after Kirdy, the long torch swinging over her.

  "It is the great pack," she said over her shoulder as he strode to her side and took the firebrand. "Look, there is the leader."

  They advanced slowly, because the wolves, though circling back restlessly, were too numerous to be driven easily—gaunt beasts high in the shoulder, and, by the look of them, more than half starved. Nada pointed to a wolf with only a remnant of a tail and caught Kirdy's arm.

  "See the borzoi!"

  Just beyond the circle of light Karai could be made out, moving silently toward the pack. To the Cossack's call the dog paid not the slightest attention, and when Kirdy started toward him Nada held back.

  "It is too late. We must go no farther."

  There was hardly a sound—a rending snarl, the spluttering of the pine. To Kirdy's surprise the wolves nearest Karai were sitting on their haunches in a rough half circle, and in front of them the scarred leader appeared of a sudden—a blotch of gray streaked with brown.

  Karai no longer trotted; he moved into the torchlight stiff from nose to tail, his throat rumbling, his fangs clashing. The borzoi and the gray wolf did not face each other—for the wolf sprang too swiftly, and slashed open the dog's shoulder blade.

  From that instant they were barely visible—Kirdy thought that the wolf rushed again and was thrown off. The clatter of fangs, the thunderous snarls, the impact of the shaggy bodies dwarfed all other sounds. The pack pressed closer, and the yellow eyes glowed more strongly.

  Once the ring of beasts started up, as Karai almost lost his footing. But he was up and whirling on his hind legs in the same instant, blood spattering from muzzle and shoulders.

  Again and again the gray wolf slashed at him, and Kirdy heard the unmistakable snap of a bone broken between steel jaws. Once more the wolfpack surged up, and now the leader was visible. The bleeding Karai had drawn away.

  But instead of whirling on powerful legs, the gray wolf staggered. Blood streamed from its throat. Maddened and fearful to see, the wolf bristled, snapping its fangs—as if to drive back by menace the fate that inevitably awaited it. It was bleeding to death, the throat torn open.

  Karai rushed in, and the wolf was thrown. Then the pack ran in, and a hideous snarling arose as the wolves tore the living flesh from the crippled leader.

  Nada and Kirdy had drawn back to the door of the choutar, and the Cossack could make out Karai's great form, a little apart from the others. Then the borzoi was lost to sight, and the shadows once more flitted from side to side.

  "Vain to call him now," Nada said quietly. "He will run with the pack. Look!"

  The clearing was empty. From the wooded slope of the valley was heard a single howl, quavering and plaintive as the call of waterfowl. A full-throated chorus answered it, drifting farther away.

  "At times he may come back," the girl went on, "but you are not now his master, White Falcon. Aye, he has slain and is hunting with the pack. A merry hunt to you, gray friend!"

  Kirdy listened in silence. He had loved the wild Karai, and he knew that what Nada said was true. More wolf than dog, the borzoi had cast off the fellowship of men for that of his own kind.

  "Go and sleep, little Nada." He raised his hand and a deeper note came into his voice. "May the holy angels watch over you!"

  She looked up at him quickly, but for once could read nothing in his eyes or guess what was in his heart. On the threshold of her door she glanced back anxiously, and found his eyes still upon her. They glowed an instant, and then were veiled, as if ashes had been thrown upon a fire within them.

  For once Kirdy sat quietly beside Omelko, who read aloud to him from the book of his dead wife, until Al-Tabir snored lustily in his corner, and the young warrior put out his hand closing the sheets of the book of legends.

  "Time—it is time, Omelko. Do not wake your daughter or the Persian drone. I must go upon the road."

  Omelko sighed and looked at him inquiringly. During the last few days he had wished many times that the dark-browed hero were his son, that the White Falcon would remain at the Wolky Gorlo.

  "The wolfpack hunts along the valley," Kirdy answered the unspoken question of his host. "The Nogais who have been watching will be afraid for their horses. They will build fires in the timber, or seek their yurtas. The way out of the Wolf's Throat will be open this night."

  "And after?"

  With his usual deliberateness—when there was no need of haste— Kirdy was filling his saddlebags, dried meat, barley, and other things of the Cossack's store. Omelko saw that the warrior would not answer the question. After all, who could know what the future held?

  "Take what you need, my brother. Another horse."

  Kirdy nodded.

  "I will take two of the steppe-breds. Yours is the stallion."

  "I shall give him to Nada." Again Omelko sighed. He was aware that Nada was fond of the White Falcon, because he knew the wayward moods of the young girl. "Do you draw your rein east?"

  "Aye."

  They went out to the stable and here Omelko bade Kirdy take two of the black Kabardas, saying that they were equal to a sultan's steeds and would fare for themselves. In darkness, Kirdy saddled one and strapped on the goatskin bags. On the led horse he placed the sack of barley, and a bow and arrows that he had bought of Toghrul.

  "Well, you must go!" said Omelko. "But the road to the east has not been traveled before; they say only the ghosts of the dead camp beyond the Nogais. Go with God, my Falcon!"

  Kirdy mounted, after drawing his girdle tighter and putting on the wolf skin cap that Nada had made for him. He wheeled the pony, but reined in and came back, to lean close to the lame man.

  "Eh, it is not easy to part from friends. I would like to have a cross from Nada that she had kissed. Yet it is in my mind that if I bade her farewell she would seek to ride a way, to show me the trail. And it is best otherwise, in this night of the wolves and the Tartars. Guard her, Omelko, for—for she i
s a dove and a brave heart. God knows I owe my life to her. Out in the steppe there is death as well as life. If I ride back, I will come to the Wolky Gorlo. S’Bohun!"

  He did not urge the eager horses into a gallop, as usual, but reined them in, walking out of the choutar, so as not to disturb the sleeping girl.

  And after he had disappeared into the darkness without a sound, no tidings of him reached the river, or the Wolky Gorlo. No tidings, except for the tale of a Nogai horde that had drifted in from the uplands of the Chelkar, scenting plunder. The tale was told at the great camp on the Volga to the khan of the Nogais, who was in great anger at that time because the emperor who had come out of Moscow and taken shelter in his tents had left him without warning or leave-taking.

  "O shield of the faithful, Lord and companion of Ali—master of Tur— master of our herds, protector of our lives—Lion of the plain and the rivers, in this wise was the happening." So the Chelkar tribesmen declared, sitting in the tent of the khan. "And lo, it is a thing difficult of understanding and a mystery beyond thought!

  "Allah had caused the morning to dawn, and the mists were not yet gone when we saw riding toward us a man with a wolf skin cap and a sable khalat, far distant as you could hear a loud shout. Now, on either hand of this rider ran wolves more numerous than a flock of our wild sheep.

  "The wolves did not attack the two black horses of the rider, though their bellies were drawn. The leader of the wolves was a great gray beast. And it is not a lie, but the truth that our eyes beheld—the leader of the pack ran back to the horses, and for the time that milk takes to boil, trotted beside the man, doing him no hurt. Nor did the man strike the beast.

  "We said, 'God is one!' And the rider passed from sight into the mists. Surely he was a ghil of the waste lands, a spirit of the dead that lacked a grave. Otherwise we would have slain him, for the horses were greatly to be desired.

  "Now the sun was not on our faces that day, when we met a Nazarene girl, mounted on a bay stallion. Our young men rode about her and she whipped them, saying that she was the daughter of the khan of the wolves and we would eat woe if we hindered her. Among our hunters were some who said this thing was true.