Swords of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  Stacked by the Turkoman tents were piles of plunder—rugs, weapons, and shining silver. Lean warriors, wrapped in grotesque finery, nankeens and furs and silk taken from the Tartars, stalked about in full view, while others roasted whole sides of mutton and beef over fires fed by broken tent furniture and wagons.

  At times other men were visible, dripping red from head to boots, with stained knives in their hands—and Al-Tabir wondered whether these had come from the butchery of beasts or captives. Wild cries and the roaring of flames, drifting smoke and the flash of bright blades in the sword dance— all this filled him with a dread of the morrow.

  He looked at Tevakel Khan and shivered. The old man was grinding his teeth and clutching at his head, muttering.

  "Tzaktyr—kiari. Burn—slay!"

  Tevakel Khan had seen the blood of his grandson and the torture of his people, and for him there was neither rest nor sleep until he could take his sword in his hand and go against the invaders. But Kirdy, squatting at his side and paying no heed to the nudging of Al-Tabir, scanned the extent of the Turkoman camp with experienced eyes and weighed chances. Before long the fires would die out, and then nothing could be seen.

  The Cossack frowned. By dawn the Turkomans would be in the saddle, their best mounted men on the wings; they would circle the smaller array of the Tartars, making play with their long firelocks—Kirdy knew well how they fought, leaping in and slashing like wolves.

  "Attack now!" he said under his breath.

  The old man turned to peer into his eyes.

  "What was thy word?"

  "Attack now."

  "Kai—it is dark. Yonder jackals snarl over their meat. That was the word of a traitor!"

  "I have been asleep. Now my eyes are open. I see a way into the camp of the Turkomans." Kirdy spoke with utter assurance, knowing that, for a moment, life and death weighed in the balance. "After I drank the fire I slept, and the spirits of high and distant places came before me."

  The Cossack was certain of three things: In darkness the crude firelocks of the Turkomans would be of less service than the Tartars' bows; also, for a reason he had never fathomed, the Moslems of the south were reluctant to give battle at night. Also, if Tevakel Khan waited for dawn and the onset of the sultan, he would fare badly.

  Tevakel Khan breathed deeply and ceased to snarl. He was aged and far from timid, and he was thinking that in the hours of night the power of the fanga increased greatly.

  "Then, say!" he urged.

  Kirdy was already shaping a plan in his mind.

  "By fire, by the cattle herd, and by fear the Turkoman can be broken like a dry reed."

  "I will make a whip from his hide—I will make a drinking cup from his skull."

  "Aye, so. Now hearken, Tevakel Khan, to the plan."

  Mindful of possible listeners, the Cossack leaned close to the chieftain and whispered. When he had done, the Tartar sat like a graven image, blinking at the distant camp fires. The shadowy figures of his men crept closer, to hear what he would say.

  "God is just and merciful!" he ejaculated at last. "Yalou baumbi— mount your horses. Bring my shield and my horse. We shall go against the long-haired dogs."

  "What has happened?" Al-Tabir caught the flash of exultation in the Cossack's dark face. "Will we fly? That is good!"

  "Nay, we draw the saber and cast away the scabbard. And that is best of all."

  Now the interpreter of dreams did not lack cleverness. The set lips and blazing eyes of the young Cossack told him that it would be useless to protest; and he had found out that it was worse than useless to try to sneak out of the camp. So he pretended to be pleased and asked for a weapon, saying that he would ride between Kirdy and Girai. It seemed to him that in the company of such redoubtable warriors a man of peace and learning would be safer than elsewhere.

  "Good!" cried Kirdy. "Then wilt thou point out to me the traitor Otrepiev; but I myself shall find Nada."

  It seemed to the agitated Al-Tabir that everyone went mad that night, including himself. Dour Girai gave him a javelin and a short bow with a wooden quiver of arrows and watched the Persian's efforts to string the powerful bow with quiet amusement. Then they mounted, and the night was full of sound.

  A fitful wind had sprung up in the last hours, whipping through the tall grass and muffling the thudding hoofs of unseen horses, the creaking of leather, the rattle of arrows in quivers. Masses of riders moved past Al-Tabir, and the Persian tried to keep his teeth from chattering as he rode after the Cossack. He followed Kirdy back at last to the cattle herd—that had been picked up on the last day's march, and hurried in by Tartars who sought refuge from the sultan's pillagers. There were more than a thousand of the beasts.

  And Al-Tabir rubbed his eyes. Behind the restless herd he could make out dozens of new camp fires, and beyond them a solid mass of warriors drawn up around the oxtail standard of Tevakel Khan. He had left such a mass, out on the left of the herd, and from riders that came and went past the fires he judged that there was another third on the right.

  Only the front of the herd was cleared of horsemen. Here was the black mass of the slope that hid the Turkoman camp from view.

  "What is that?" Al-Tabir startled and gripped his javelin, bow and reins all at once. His gray pony pricked up its ears.

  "The Turkomans are loosening off their matchlocks," Kirdy grunted. "It is the end of the sword dance."

  But Al-Tabir was staring, fascinated, at the herd. Scores of gnome-like Tartars were at work there, and he heard a strange clattering and stamping that grew louder. Warriors ran up with bundles of reeds and brush, and others fashioned torches at the fires behind the masses of cattle. Then the torches began to flicker in and out of the herd.

  "Ai-ee!" he cried. "The horns of the beasts are burning!"

  It did not occur to him that the Tartars had been binding brush to the horns of a great part of the steers. He saw several of the Tartars trampled underfoot, and the blaze caught from one beast to another in the close packed, milling mass.

  Then, to Al-Tabir's thinking, all the devils of the night swooped down. The herds started to run away from the camp fires, and the Tartars around Kirdy howled and roared at it on their wing, so that the leaders plunged down the wind, over the knoll, and toward the Turkoman camp.

  The bellowing of the beasts, the snorting of the frantic horses, the whining of the wind—all this swept Al-Tabir along, close to Kirdy's stirrup. In the depression between the camps, the steers spread out but ceased not their maddened rush as hot embers fell on them.

  Rushing to the summit of their slope, the Turkomens beheld the herd with its blazing horns. Their patrols tried to turn it, but that herd could not be turned. Then the Turkomans ran for their horses.

  Thundering across the depression and up the slight slope, the cattle burst past the watch fires and scattered among the tents, the carts, the piles of plunder of the raiders. Firelocks barked at them, and arrows began to flicker among them, but the mass of them that surged over the tents— crashed head-on into wagons, rubbed blazing horns against flimsy felt. In another moment flames fanned by the rushing wind began to spring up all over the encampment.

  To the best of Al-Tabir's belief madness had given way to chaos, and he wondered into which of the seven hells of Moslem purgatory he had been plunged.

  The "Ghar—ghar—ghar!" of the eager Tartars mingled with the "Al-lah-hai!" of the rallying Turkomens. Al-Tabir was still between Kirdy and Girai, galloping through lines of tents and dodging frantic steers. He saw two warriors on shaggy ponies—two men with gleaming swords and bare, shaven heads. Prudently he pulled in his horse and watched the Cossack spur forward, parrying a slash of a Turkoman scimitar and slipping his blade into the throat of the shouting warrior as he passed.

  Girai arose in his short stirrups, swinging the long battle-ax. The Turkoman who opposed him threw up his sword to guard his head. But the heavy ax smote through the guard and split open the man's forehead.

  "Forward!"
Kirdy cried.

  They turned aside, bending low in the saddle to keep under the whistling shafts that flew from the shadows where men gathered. Their ponies leaped a tangle of bodies and flew up a clear slope toward the green standard of the sultan. Here the wind howled at them and eddies of smoke twined around them, as if to draw them onward.

  A firelock roared and flashed, and Girai's pony sank, head down, at the crest of the knoll. But Kirdy, who had caught sight of Nada, rode on at a free gallop, his sword arm swinging at his knee.

  The girl still wore her Cossack dress and hat for—despite Otrepiev's authority—no woman of such beauty would have been safe in that camp. She was in the saddle of the bay stallion, without her yataghan, and the stallion's rein was held by two men, also mounted—companions of Otrepiev.

  One let fall the rein and rode at Kirdy. He was a young warrior, with thin, cold features, and his apparel was that of a Polish noble, a black velvet kontash thrown over silvered breastplate, a gilded eagle on his light shield. His horse was a splendid gray mare.

  Kirdy tightened his reign and swerved to meet the Pole on his right side; but the other—a skilled horseman—darted in and slashed at his head.

  The sabers clashed and parted, and before the young noble could turn his mare the Cossack had whirled his black Karbarda and crashed into him. The Pole kept his seat in the saddle by a miracle, but his sword wrist was gripped by steel fingers.

  "Yield!" Kirdy demanded.

  At the same instant both heard the flurry of hoofs behind them. The man who had remained at Nada's side was a Circassian, a follower of Otrepiev, and not inclined to let slip an opportunity to use his weapon. Swinging his yataghan over his head, he darted at the Cossack's back.

  "Guard yourself—White Falcon!" Nada shouted, her clear voice cutting through the uproar as a bell pierces the mutter of a throng.

  Kirdy had no time to do that. He caught a glimpse of the lean Moslem, and the gleam of steel—and he swung himself out of the saddle.

  "Hai!" The Circassian shouted once in triumph and again in anger, because his sweeping slash had met only air. The impetus of his rush carried him past, and before he could wheel, Kirdy, who had kept his left foot in the stirrup, had thrust the Pole away and was in the saddle again.

  But—though his grip had numbed the young noble's right wrist—the Pole had plucked a dagger from his belt with his free hand, and the short blade slashed the Cossack's ribs. Feeling the bite of the steel, Kirdy smashed the hilt of his saber into the Pole's face. Both men reeled, but it was the Pole who fell, the Cossack who tightened his knees and groped for his rein with a numbed arm. And upon him all the fury of the Circassian descended.

  The Moslem came on warily this time, and once his twisted blade cut Kirdy's forearm. Squatting in short stirrups, his long teeth bared, his dark eyes gleaming, he edged his horse closer, seeking to thrust under his foe-man's guard with the shorter weapon.

  And now Kirdy swayed in the saddle, his saber sliding off the yataghan.

  "Hai!" cried the Circassian, and thrust.

  But the Cossack, who had been watching for this, was not as weak as he seemed. The curved saber slashed down, and before the Moslem could recover, Kirdy had cut him through the temple so that the steel grated on bone and he had to strain to draw it free. So convulsively had the man gripped with rein and knees when he was struck, he remained for a moment crouching in the saddle—until his frantic horse, rearing, flung him to earth, a lifeless body.

  Then Kirdy turned to look for the other. Instead, he saw Girai climbing into the saddle of the mare and a glance at the splendid figure in breastplate and kontash showed him that Girai had slain the owner before catching the horse.

  "Dismount!" he heard Nada's voice. "Let me see your hurt." Kirdy shook his head.

  "It was a trick. I can ride."

  The girl, in her dark svitza and hat, looked slender and pale as if she had been wasted by sickness, and in the glare of the flames Kirdy wondered if this were indeed the Nada he had left at the Wolf's Throat, or some apparition that had taken form out of the steppe. He leaned forward to peer into her eyes, and the sight of her beauty warmed his blood like the rarest of wines.

  "My yataghan," she begged at once. "The dog of a Circassian took it."

  Kirdy bade Girai retrieve the weapon and its sheath, but when Nada took it in her hand, she shivered.

  "There is blood—your blood upon it."

  "Wipe the blade," Kirdy ordered the Tartar harshly, and Girai did so, on the end of the slain Moslem's turban.

  "Nay," cried the girl. "It is an omen of death." And she looked at the young warrior steadfastly, as if she feared some power might, even at that moment, carry him from her side.

  "Then take me to Otrepiev!" he responded gruffly, because of the pain of the wound in his side.

  And at that she flung up her head, her eyes blazing.

  "Am I a spy? Nay, seek him among the hordes!" But Kirdy, leaning on his saddle horn, looked down into the tumult of battle. In that eddying of horsemen and maddened cattle and fire, no one could be found. He thought that if Otrepiev lived he would return to the knoll where the standard had been, to seek Nada.

  Only Girai—diligently stripping the slain of weapons—was near him. The Turkomans who had held the knoll had ridden off when the main body of Tartars came up—in fact, the standard of Ilbars Sultan was nowhere to be seen. Kirdy noticed a long cart near one of the tents and rode over to it, Nada trotting beside him.

  It was not a Tartar wagon, and narrow iron runners were strapped to the sides. Perched on the fur packs that burdened it was a Muscovite saddle.

  "Aye," laughed Nada, reading his face. "That is the kibitka of Otrepiev. In it he keeps his treasure. Look and see!"

  But Kirdy summoned Girai and bade him take stand by the wagon and allow no one to carry off what was in it.

  "I give thee this as a duty."

  And the Tartar came, swinging his ax, looking like a bear girdled with steel. He had everything from knives to breastplates hung to his belt.

  "If this be truly the wagon of the fanga nialmal," he grunted, "he himself will have a word to say in the matter, because he is riding like a devil to this place—now."

  Before he had finished speaking Kirdy was off and Nada with him. At the crest of the knoll the girl drew in her breath sharply.

  "You are wounded. Do not go against him!"

  Four horsemen were approaching the mound at full gallop. Two were Muscovite boyars in armor, wearing rich cloaks, fur edged. The man who rode in advance of the pair drew Kirdy's eyes instantly.

  Beneath a silvered casque with a crest of eagle feathers, a broad, dark face was visible. High cheekbones, thin, restless eyes, and a sure seat in the saddle—all these bespoke power. And there was power in the body of Otrepiev, and tranquility in his spirit, because he rode through chaos as if he were a king reviewing a host. Even his horse, a big-boned black, swept on with an easy gait. And, seeing Nada, Otrepiev turned to fling a jest at his followers. Rising in his stirrups, he saluted her with a bloodstained sword.

  Then he peered at Kirdy, who was urging his Karbarda down the slope.

  At this instant, as quail dart from a thicket, a bevy of dwarf Tartars came out of the shadows and bore down on Otrepiev, who turned his horse to meet them.

  "Yarou manda!" Kirdy shouted at them, fearing that they might reach his foe before he did. But the Muscovites fired two pistols, and when one of the Tartars fell from the saddle, the others cried out in anger and closed in upon the four riders.

  Horses reared, and blades flashed up. The shrill cry of the nomads mingled with the screamed oaths of the Muscovites. Steel clattered. One of Otrepiev's followers went down, and Kirdy, plunging into the melee, saw the false Dmitri split the skull of a warrior. With all the impetus of the rush down the slope the Cossack's horse struck one of the Tartar ponies, and was jarred back to his haunches, Kirdy keeping his seat with an effort.

  When he looked up, Otrepiev had wheeled a
way, followed by only one man. The Tartars were springing from their saddles to snatch plunder from the two others, who were struggling weakly on the ground. Kirdy set his teeth and made after Otrepiev, who had a bow-shot's start. Through a deserted part of the camp they galloped, beyond the glow of fire into the darkness of the plain.

  "Stay!" Kirdy called angrily. "Will you fly from one?" Out of the murk the voice of Otrepiev answered him:

  "'Tis my hour for the road—for the long road to Satan. Follow if you will!"

  Glancing over his shoulder Kirdy made out another rider at his heels, and, outlined against the distant glow of fire, the gnomelike figures of Tartars, casting about for the fleeing. Follow he did, with the Karbarda going lame.

  For the first time he lashed the black racer madly, and the horse gathered himself together to plunge ahead into the rush of wind. The wind had a chill bite to it; the stars were hidden and rain pelted down as Kirdy, following the distant hoofbeats, swerved into a gully.

  His horse stumbled and recovered with a long stagger and clatter of hoofs. Again Kirdy lashed him, but again he stumbled heavily. They dipped down into a nest of boulders, and when Kirdy reined in the done-up horse he could hear nothing of the men in front of him—only the rider coming up behind, who proved to be Nada.

  Mustering what strength was left him after sleepless days and loss of blood, the Cossack caught her rein and spoke hoarsely.

  "Unharmed he goes again upon the steppe. And what road will you follow?"

  "I will stay with you."

  Kirdy could see nothing at all, and the beat of the rain was like sword strokes on his bare head. With the rein of the Karbarda over his arm, he staggered toward the rocky side of the gully, to seek for shelter. Once he felt Nada catch his arm.