Swords of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  His nostrils tingled with the acrid smoke of dung and damp wood fires, the warm breath of trampled grass, and the reek of wet leather. Axles creaked, dogs howled, and unseen men shouted. It was a dawn of calamity, as if these inhabitants of the steppe had been driven together by flood or fire. But there was order in the chaos. Near at hand an old woman milked a complaining camel, and out of the nearest herd his black Kar-barda was led up, saddled. Two warriors waited to see what he would do next—two broad and silent men clad in wolf skins, with lacquer helmets topped by a horsetail plume, with a leather drop that came down over their shoulders. Bows and arrows rested in carved wooden cases at hips, and each held a weapon Kirdy had never seen before.

  This weapon was a battle-ax—a four-and-a-half foot staff, of ivory or bamboo, with a leather thong that passed around the wrist. The head was long, the edge slightly curved, the butt a steel point.

  "Oucheha keri kari," the Cossack said to the Tartars. "It is the dawn, and the drums summon to saddle."

  The swift roll of the horse drums had ceased near him but had been taken up in distant kibitkas, and he knew it must be a summons to muster. Knew, too, it was infinitely better to make this assertion than to ask the question—because uncertainty is cousin to fear and for a captive to show fear is to invite taunts.

  The Tartars regarded him impassively.

  "Ay-a, the weapon-bearing men ride from the camp."

  "Then I must speak with Tevakel Khan."

  To a black dome rising out of a cleared space in the encampment they led him, and he loosed the girdle of his sword at the threshold. Older than the blade itself is the tabu against carrying so much as a stick into a tent of the Hordes of High Asia—and not for the khan's herd of ponies would any Tartar have stolen a weapon so left at the entrance.

  The dome was of felt, rising on interlashed wattles, and a squadron could have formed beneath it. Within it was divided by partitions of painted leather into many compartments. By the fire in the central chamber knelt Tevakel Khan on a carpet.

  "What gift, O Cossack," he asked, "dost thou bring to the Altyn-juz?"

  He spoke placidly in the half voice of one accustomed to silence in his listeners. An old man, Tevakel Khan, with a thin, good-humored face and brilliant eyes—a straight figure in a horsehide jacket, the dark mane running down the middle of his back. His embroidered boots had very high red heels, and his black satin skullcap was neatly sewn with silver thread.

  Considering him, Kirdy judged that he was not to be trifled with—a generous man, indulgent with increasing years, but with authority in his very blood. And the Cossack tried to think of some fitting gift. He had said that he came to the Golden Horde on a mission, and a present would be expected. But he had no gift

  "I bring—"

  He was about to say a black Karbarda stallion, but a glance about the compartment checked him. Behind Tevakel Khan were ranged sandalwood and ebony chests, rolls of splendid carpets, and saddles ornamented with silver inlaid on iron. The bowls on the little table from which the chieftain helped himself to dried raisins and tea and millet cake were of amber and jade. Tevakel Khan was wealthy—a horse meant little more to the nomad than one of the raisins he selected with such care.

  "I bring a sword," he said.

  Tevakel Khan looked at him expectantly. The Cossack requested one of the attendants to carry in the curved saber that he had left at the entrance, and noticed that the Tartar repressed an exclamation of pleasure when he beheld the jeweled hilt and the rich scabbard that the warrior held forth in both hands. Before Tevakel Khan could take it, Kirdy stepped forward and spoke.

  "I am Ak Sokol, the White Falcon, and I have come to the Altyn-juz from the land of infidels near the setting of the sun."

  The Tartar, sipping a bowl of tea, waited in courteous silence.

  "The dog of a Persian," observed one of his household, "said thou wert near at hand on the plain, with two horses. He was fleeing from the Turkomans. Art thou his brother?"

  The question was put with thinly veiled contempt, and Kirdy paid it no heed.

  "Hearken, O Khan of the Altyn-juz," he went on. "Thy drums beat the summons to saddle. Thine enemies the Turkomans have come up from the southern plain to raid thy herds."

  This was a reasonable surmise, and Tevakel Khan made an exclamation of assent. Pinpoints of fire glowed in his dark eyes.

  "Allah hath caused desire to be born in the heart of Ilbars Sultan of Kwaresmia, the son of Arap Muhammad, lord of Khiva. He thought to find us with our eyes turned the other way, but he has come with a mighty following."

  Not long since, Kirdy had waged a lengthy battle against Ilbars Sul-tan—the Leopard Prince. He seen the Turkomans wipe out five hundred Don Cossacks, and the memory rankled.

  "Ilbars Sultan has a high nose and keen eyes; he would rather slay men than carry off beasts and women. He is shrewd, but the blood lust blinds him."

  A faint surprise was apparent in the emotionless Tartar.

  "What words are these words, O Kazak? 2 Art thou a fanga—a wizard, to know what passes beyond thy sight?"

  "Nay, I have seen the sultan when swords were drawn. I say to thee, O Khan, that he is terrible in battle."

  "And is this thy mission—to praise Ilbars Sultan, the thieving dog, to my face?"

  "As to that, I speak the truth. Yet I sought the Golden Horde to find therein an enemy. Within the year an oath was sworn that this enemy should die."

  Whatever the old khan thought of this he kept to himself. Blood feuds were more to be cherished than religious faith, in the steppe. His eye wandered to the curved sword.

  "What is the name of thine enemy, O youth?"

  "He was khan of the Muscovites."

  "Then he is not to be found within our grazing land. Harken, Kazak. Some have said to me that thou art a spy, sent in advance by the Turkomans. What are words? I bear thee neither ill will nor good. Give me then the sword and go in peace. I have said."

  Kirdy inclined his head.

  "And this is my answer, O Khan! Among my people it is a law of laws that a sword may not pass to another while the master of it lives. Lacking other gifts, I offer to bear the sword on thy behalf in this battle. When I have taken spoil, then I will have a gift that is fitting."

  A murmur of impatience and anger arose from the listeners around the sides of the room—from the sons and grandsons of the khan, and his officers. They resented the appearance of the stranger at such a time, and more than resented his boldness. Even the quiet old man seemed surprised, but he meditated, his arms folded on his knees.

  "Hearken, young warrior, to my second word. The lifetime of a horse before now, the Altyn-juz sought pasture in the west. We came to a river, and there found a lame man, a Kazak such as thou, whose only solace in life was a girl-child. Now this Kazak was assuredly a wizard, because the wolfpacks came to his tent of nights, and he talked with them. We shared bread and salt, he and I, and our talk was as brothers and friends.

  That was long ago, yet I have seen no Kazak since. Abide, then, with me, but think no more of mounting for battle, lest my men slay thee, unknowing. With Ilbars Sultan is a fanga, and it will go hard with us. Tidings have come—"

  With a gesture he dismissed the Cossack and turned to his household, crumpling the millet cakes in his slender fingers. Kirdy smiled as if greatly honored—though his very soul burned with impatience to be free of the tent and in the saddle—and took a seat among the sons of Te-vakel Khan.

  But when he heard the first of the messengers who had been waiting at the entrance, he forgot weariness and disappointment in sudden interest. The Turkomans were within a day's ride of the Tartar camp.

  The messengers, who were soaked and weary with riding through the night and the storm, told tales of tent-villages seized by the foe—of old people cut down, warriors burned or crucified or dragged by horses, and young women that died within an hour of capture.

  This was no ordinary raid on the part of Ilbars Sultan. The Turkomans, wit
h their allies the Usbeks, numbered close to twenty thousand. They had followed the grass up to the north with their horse herds, and they meant to wipe out the armed men of the Golden Horde, to seize the cattle and pasture land for their own, and to keep the Tartar children for slaves.

  In the face of calamity, the patriarch of the Golden Horde remained utterly calm. From the north and the west the Tartar clans were hastening on tired horses to the gathering of the Horde. To Kirdy, it seemed as if Te-vakel Khan must give battle within the next two or three days.

  If he retreated into the northern steppe he would lose the bulk of his cattle, many horses, and all his sheep—and these herds were the very life of the Altyn-juz. On the other hand, if he stood his ground against the dreaded Turkomans now, he would be outnumbered.

  And if there was a battle, what would become of Otrepiev and Nada? They were not far away—a Turkoman does not yield up such captives. And, unless the Cossack could free himself from the watch of Tevakel Khan this battle on the steppe would separate them again, as the black storm drives travelers asunder in the desert.

  "In the night before this last the Turkoman did the two-sword dance in the chieftain's place."

  A lad who had crept through the outer patrols of the invaders had just come in to report what he had seen.

  "They have many ponies, and a great camp. While the sword dance was going on some of them made a great noise and a flash of fire with weapons they held in their hands, yet no harm came to them."

  Tevakel Khan made a gesture of assent. Although the Altyn-juz had no firelocks, he had heard of them before.

  "What does the fanga nialma of the sultan?"

  "He drinks fire."

  "A-ah!"

  A sibilant moan from the listeners greeted this, and the boy glanced proudly around him, to take full credit for the ominous tidings he brought.

  "The wizard drinks fire from a cup, sitting before Ilbars Sultan the Leopard," he went on. "My eyes beheld this. He sits on a white bearskin."

  "A-ah!"

  "He has five lesser fanga, to wait upon him and increase his magic."

  "That is so," put in another, a burly warrior who had carried off the first prisoner from a Turkoman outpost. "The six magicians were found marching toward Ilbars Sultan, out in the steppe. They were clad in red velvet and sables and silver cloth, and their garments were sewn with jewels from skirt to cap."

  Kirdy pushed aside the Tartar in front of him, to hear the better.

  "Allahim barabat yik saftir," murmured Tevakel Khan. "God is just and merciful!" By this he meant that all matters were ordained, and what was happening could not be altered.

  "The fanga nialma," went on the warrior, "held in his hand at that time an apple, and the apple was pure gold. He had changed it to gold."

  "What else?"

  "Six geese took flight from the grass at the moment when the six fanga appeared."

  It was apparent to the old Tartar that mighty forces were opposed to him. The marauding Turkomans were evil, but this fellowship of magicians: drinking fire and changing fruit into gold, were more to be dreaded. But all at once it seemed to him that his captive, the Cossack, had become possessed of a devil.

  Kirdy's dark eyes were blazing and the veins in his forehead stood out. The mention of a cup of fire had aroused his curiosity; the five companions of the wizard had aroused his suspicion, and the gold apple had made him certain of a strange fact. He remembered seeing, in other days, a gold apple among the crown pieces of the tsars.

  "O Khan," he cried, "this fanga nialma is no more than a man, and I have found mine enemy!"

  The Tartars shook their heads and whispered gutturally.

  "Nay—he is beside himself!"

  But Kirdy, on his feet upon the carpet before the khan, seized a bowl of wine and emptied it down his throat. Facing the warrior who had taken a prisoner, he asked:

  "Was there not a Cossack woman among the five companions?"

  "Balmez! Who knows? Yet, there was a woman dressed as a warrior."

  "Aye, so. And this stranger—no hair is on his face?"

  "W’allah! When did a wizard have hair on his face?"

  "Still, I say that I know this man. He is cunning as a steppe fox, and he flees from Frankistan because he has stolen the jewels and garments of a king. I followed him hither."

  Tevakel Khan considered and shook his head.

  "Kai—can a common man drink fire?"

  "Aye, so. I can drink fire from a cup. Bring hither my saddlebags— thou!"

  A stir of interest went through the throng in the tent, and the khan signed for the captive's bags to be brought. The White Falcon, he thought, was possessed of a devil, but of what kind of a devil remained to be seen.

  Kirdy asked for a small china bowl and breathed a sigh of relief when he found his leather flask of gorilka safe in the bag. There was enough of the white spirits left almost to fill the bowl. Deliberately he placed it on the carpet before the khan and went to the fire.

  With his knife he cut a sliver from a pine stick and lighted it in the fire. He touched the light to the spirits in the cup, and a thin bluish flame danced on the surface of the gorilka.

  Tevakel Khan rose on his knees to watch the better, and Kirdy lifted the china bowl in both hands. When the Tartars saw the smokeless blue flame they shivered.

  "Glory to God!" said the Cossack, presenting the fire to the four quarters of the winds.

  "E-eh!" breathed the watchers.

  Tipping the cup toward him, Kirdy drank; but the instant before the spirits touched his lip, he let out his breath soundlessly. Unseen by the khan, the blue flame flickered out. The young warrior drank down the gorilka, and sighed. It was good, and it was his last.

  For some moments the old chief remained buried in thought. He thought of the other Cossack who had power over the wolves, and he reached a decision.

  "Kai—it must be thou art also a fanga. A wizard who bears a sword, with hair on his face."

  Though Kirdy had not been prepared for this conclusion, he took instant advantage of it.

  "Then grant me to ride in the battle. I will seek out this other fanga who drinks fire and destroy him."

  The advantages of such an arrangement were apparent to Tevakel Khan, and he agreed at once, only demanding that Kirdy remain near him until the fighting began.

  Chapter XV Strike Like a Thunderbolt

  Let your swiftness be that of the wind, your steadiness that of the forest. In raiding and plundering, be like fire, in immovability like a mountain.

  Above all, let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, strike like a thunderbolt.

  Maxims of Sun Tzu

  With the determination of a weasel, Al-Tabir sought through the Tartar lines the next night for Kirdy. During the day Tevakel Khan had moved up with his clans to a ridge overlooking a long, shallow valley. On the opposite rise Ilbars Sultan was encamped, and Al-Tabir felt uneasy.

  To interpret dreams, to make verses at the courts of kings—that was his work. He was convinced that a prophet had no honor outside his own country. Because, at every fire he approached, the broad, dark faces of the wild Tartars peered at him suspiciously, and swords and javelins were flourished at his stocky legs. He blundered into a herd of restless cattle and fled to escape the prodding of the long horns. Dogs barked at sight of his kaftan and turban.

  So Al-Tabir was profoundly grateful when he saw one of the Cossack's Kabardas saddled by a fire where an ugly warrior in rusty chain mail squatted, working with whetstone and cloth upon the shining steel head of a battle-ax. This, Al-Tabir knew, was the man who had taken prisoner the first Turkoman. But Al-Tabir saw no prisoner, and the skin of his back prickled uncomfortably when he looked at the ax head. This was a fellow of violence, a dealer of blows—an unlearned soul, no fit companion for Jahia ibn Muhammad al Nisapur, who had written down six hundred true dreams in a book.

  When the Tartar—Girai by name—merely lifted the corner of a thin lip at
sight of the Persian, Al-Tabir decided it would be safe for him to stay by the fire.

  When Kirdy strode up, Girai raised a knotted hand to his forehead and lips, but Al-Tabir gave tongue joyously.

  "Ai-ee, young hero—prince of swordsmen—my deliverer! Let us sit upon the carpet of counsel and take thought for the morrow."

  "How, take thought?" demanded Kirdy, whose mind was on other matters.

  "Where shall I place myself in order—in order to see all that passes without molestation? I will make a song of thy deeds. But, to see everything clearly, I should be as a disembodied spirit, remote from these savages. When I seek the outer lines these unclean dogs drive me back. When the battle begins, shall I go to the standard?"

  "Aye—a good place. The sword strokes will fall heavily there!"

  Al-Tabir squirmed and caressed his ample girdle.

  "That is not what I want. To see the battle as a whole, perhaps the horse lines would be the best."

  "Nay," Kirdy pointed out indifferently. "The herds are behind the ridge. Besides, the Turkomans usually sweep around an enemy—you would be trampled."

  "Ah, the Turkomans. They be worse than these snouted pagans, because they cut innocent people open just to see them quiver. O the sons of nameless fathers! O that I were again in the hill gardens of Rudbar, where men have ears to listen and hearts to feel!"

  But Kirdy was listening to guttural monosyllables from Girai, and now he sprang to his feet and seized the rein of the Karbarda.

  "Eh—what has come to pass? Whither goest thou?We have made no plans—" Al-Tabir was alarmed by this activity.

  "The Turkomans have thrown a head into our lines. It was the head of Sorgai, a grandson of the khan, who rode out recklessly beyond his men, before our coming. Now Tevakel Khan is raging like a devil."

  "Let him rage. Why should we go near him?"

  But Kirdy was in the saddle, and Al-Tabir, intent on keeping his only friend within call, clung to the stirrup, heedless of the Karbarda's snorting as he trotted through the groups of warriors up to the mound where the patriarch sat surrounded by his officers.

  The mound was in darkness because Tevakel Khan did not wish his foes to see his anger. A musket-shot away, the camp of the raiders was in plain sight, for the Turkomans were enjoying themselves after their fashion. They had set up lofty stakes to the top of which they hung captives— women as well as men—by the feet. Warriors with torches were lighting the heads of the unfortunates. Archers were shooting shafts into the struggling and smoking bodies, and the hoarse shouting of the wild tribesmen could be clearly heard. It was answered by a groan from Al-Tabir.