by Harold Lamb
"Am I a horse stealing Tzigani? To the devil with thy tricks!" Ayub frowned. "Still, I would like to see the horse, Poles or no Poles."
He would be given silver and could drink brandy at the tavern. As for the horse, he would not put his hand to that kind of stealing. It was one thing to lift ponies from the Tartar herds or the Turkish lines; it was quite another matter to sneak off with a merchant's beast in camp.
Ayub swung his leg over the Gypsy's pony and they moved off at a foot pace down the gully. As they climbed to the road the chill wind whirled through their garments, and both the Cossack and the Gypsy glanced over their shoulders. It was an old habit—to look up and down the gray stretch of the river, to see whether the shore was clear.
But no dark figures showed against the white line of the far bank, and the old warrior and the boy went on without speaking.
A bundle of pine knots chained to a stake flamed beside Ayub as he worked by the horse. With a chisel he cut a piece of stiff leather to fit one of the stallion's hoofs, and then shaped three narrow strips of the iron-like leather.
"What are those?" demanded the Cossack who watched him.
"Cleats," Ayub explained, between the nails in his teeth. "Eh, the snow is hard."
The other Cossack wore a wolf skin cap and a black wool coat and varnished boots; Ayub suspected that he was an under-officer of a cavalry regiment that had not seen much service out on the frontier. His name was Chort. Also he was the aide of the man who owned the horse.
And the piebald stallion was, as the Gypsy had said, a splendid beast. Higher than most Kabardians, his slender forelegs and arched loins promised speed, and the powerful shoulders and hard flesh told of endurance. His lean muzzle swerved and brushed Ayub's shoulder.
"Akai," grinned the big Cossack. "He watches me! Who is in command of your detachment?"
Chort's plump and ruddy face twisted reflectively.
"I don't know."
Ayub warded off a swish of the wolf chaser's long tail.
"You're wet behind the ears! An essual of light cavalry doesn't know who to take orders from! Isn't your officer in command?"
"The sir colonel? The little father?" Chort pondered. "If God grant it, he's in command."
Under his wide mustache Ayub grinned. He had known officers who liked to lick the cup and at such times were not in shape to give an order. But this was a large detachment—he had seen carts upended down the length of the street, and horses were picketed all around the church. Moreover, he had seen the fires of a Tartar bivouac. Now the frontier was snowbound; even the Gypsies had not heard of any raiders coming in from the steppe. He wondered what the detachment intended doing and why it was in the town of Kudak.
"Who else gives orders?" he asked.
"Well, there's his Excellency the Prince, and his high Mightiness."
"What kind of men are they—soldiers?"
"Ta nitchevo," responded Chort. "What's the difference? They're ambassadors."
"Not kings—emperors?" Ayub pushed the stallion aside and rubbed his knees.
"Nay, they are ambassadors of his serene Majesty, the King of Poland."
"Devil take your serene mighty ambassadors!"
Ayub was sure the Cossack officer was making game of him. Ambassadors went to the courts of other kings and lords, not to the edge of the steppe.
"Hai, they must be going to Satan, or off the end of the earth."
He stopped abruptly because Chort, who had been staring at him, open mouthed, was now gazing fixedly over his shoulder—and had jumped to his feet, taking the pipe from his lips.
Ayub turned around and found himself looking squarely into the eyes of a stranger. The big Cossack stood four inches over six feet, and the stranger lacked no more than two inches of his height. An officer, Ayub knew at once, by the silver crown in his lynx skin hat, and by the sheen of the long gray cloak that swung from his wide shoulders. An officer, moreover, who had chosen his garments with care. Ayub noticed his knee boots of soft red morocco and the linked silver plates of his sword belt.
But the officer turned his attention to the horse. He ran his hand down the piebald's muzzle and picked up the rear foot that the Cossack had shod, looked attentively at the cleats. Then he lifted, one after the other, the remaining three hoofs and made certain that similar cleats had been nailed on them all.
"Well done," he said briefly, and pulled a wallet from his belt.
Out of it he took a silver Dutch dollar and gave this to the Cossack.
Before Ayub could think of anything to say, the officer turned on his heel and walked out into the darkness. Chort released pent-up breath.
"That's the sir colonel," he whispered, "the little father."
"He comes like an owl, without a light. May the fiends take me, if he's a Russian, to come out to look at a horse. Or a Pole," Ayub added, "to leave his glass and fire and walk out in this cold."
The silver coin burned in Ayub's fingers. Within the tavern there was a fire, and no doubt spirits were being poured like water, with such a company in the taproom. He dropped his tools and hastened into the darkness after the colonel.
Threading his way through the wagons he approached the door, through which came the murmur of voices and the strumming of a bandura.
"Eh, things are warming up," he thought, eager for his first taste of brandy.
A shadow loomed up beside him, and a harsh voice challenged:
"Not tonight. Go!"
Ayub made out the figure of a guard, armed with what seemed to be a long pike.
"How not tonight?" he asked bluntly. "My gullet's dry as the hide of a dead cow."
"Because there are nobles within. It is not permitted."
The Cossack swallowed a hot retort. These Poles came from afar. They claimed, no doubt, to be masters of this town of Kudak and all the Cossack settlements along the frontier. But the Cossacks had grazed their cattle over the steppe and had hunted these lands and fought off the Tartars for generations without bothering their heads about the Polish nobility. And Ayub was thirsty.
The sentry, being kept out in the cold, was in no mood for beguilement. A dozen years ago Ayub would have pushed in through the door and let happen what might happen. Now he held his peace and went around to the rear where a door opened into the clatter of a busy kitchen.
"Hi, thou vagabond!" a woman's voice hailed him. "This is no night for the likes of you steppe dogs. Away with ye!"
Had the tavern-keeper said that, Ayub would have dropped him into the well. But the wife of the tavern-keeper was a shrew with a high voice and the kitchen was filled with other women.
"Eh, old woman," Ayub muttered persuasively. "Look, here is silver."
"To the devil with thy silver. We are serving his high Mightiness. We'll have no Cossack drunk on the floor."
"May the foul fiends sit upon ye," Ayub muttered. "When a song is wanted, or a wagon to be mended—'Where's that fine lad, the Cossack?' Now when his Mightiness is sprawled out in the room, it's, 'Get out, dog!'"
Nursing his growing rage and trying to forget both thirst and emptiness, he swung away from the door and made his way again through the wagons to the front. Here, as he was seeking for the street, he stopped suddenly and sniffed strongly. The black bulk of a sledge was beside him, and from the sledge came a familiar smell. Ayub went closer and sniffed again.
"Gorilka," he muttered. "Corn brandy." He went on to the next loaded sledge. "Honey mead and wine. His Mightiness takes his cellar with him."
While he pondered, strongly tempted—if the kegs were not chained he could get one on his shoulder easily enough—he heard the brisk step of the sentry behind him.
"Off to thy kennel, thou thieving dog!"
And in the gleam of starlight, Ayub perceived the steel end of a lance thrust toward him. He said nothing, nor did he move. The anger that heated his veins rushed into his head. In all his fifty years Ayub had never turned his back to a weapon. The sentry, who did not know this, advanced with a sw
inging step and prodded at him—and that was more than he would endure.
Ayub's arm shot out, his hand closed on the lance shaft behind the head, and he jerked it toward him. The guard, unprepared for this, swung forward with the weapon. And Ayub's other fist crashed against his cheek bone. The man went over backward with a grunt and the lance fell on the snow.
But the sentry was no weakling. Rolling over and drawing his sword, he rushed at the Cossack. And the butt end of the lance smote him above the belt.
Before the other could draw breath or gain his footing again, Ayub had wrenched the sword away and caught the soldier and hoisted him to a massive shoulder. Then, in spite of his captive's shouting and squirming, the big Cossack strode toward the well.
Ayub found it covered with boards, and he was trying to work these loose, when other men ran at him in the darkness. He dropped the battered guard and turned on his new assailants, his fists beating at them until they caught him by the legs. Ayub was no stranger to a mauling fight, and he locked his arms around two of his foes, thrusting his head into their faces. For a moment the group swayed around the well.
Light flared before the Cossack's eyes, and the other men wrenched themselves away. Steel gleamed under his chin, and he saw that two powerful men in a dark uniform held him against the stones of the well with drawn swords. Behind them half a dozen others peered at him, and under a sputtering torch a young noble eyed him with some curiosity.
"What kind of a bear baiting is this?"
The youth drew a sable riding cloak closer about his shoulders and a gold chain gleamed for an instant at this throat. He seemed provoked because the brawl had ended so abruptly.
"Your Highness, he was putting Platovsky down the well."
The guard emerged into the light, bending over, one arm clasped to his middle, his eye bleeding. When he stood before the youth in the sable cloak he straightened, not without a grimace of pain.
"True, your Highness. He was lurking about, trying to get in the tavern, stealing from the carts. I did not like to use steel on such an animal."
"Devil take you!" shouted the Cossack. "I pulled one blade away from you. Give me a saber and I'll put you down again." He turned to the noble. "My Lord, I'm no peasant, but a man who has served—aye, before these pole-bearers of yours were whelped. God is my witness, I've led a regiment into smoke."
The man in the sable cloak lifted his brows, staring at Ayub's shaggy head and shabby gray coat, the worse for the fight. A sudden gust of wind swept the group and he shivered.
"Strip him. Give him fifty lashes and let him go."
Ayub took a step forward and a soldier caught his arms. But he was passive now, and his anger had changed to a gnawing fear. To be stripped and lashed by strangers! If the Turks had taken him captive, that was to be expected. But to be laid out like a slave while Poles looked on over their cups—Some of them had run out with great beakers in their hands and were even now quenching their thirst. The odor of the hot brandy came to Ayub's nostrils.
"My Lord," he begged, "if you are a soldier, grant that I may have a sword and face this man of yours with steel."
The young noble seemed surprised, but before he could speak a voice sounded curt in the shadows beyond the torches.
"Your Highness!"
Ayub saw, walking toward them, the officer who had come to look at the mare, the little father, in whose gray eyes and ruddy, weather-lined face, there was no hint of amusement. In one hand he held the sentry's lance, in the other the sword.
"Are these your weapons, Platovsky?" he asked.
"Aye, Sir Colonel."
"Did this Cossack take them from you?"
The soldier who had been on guard started to speak, then drew himself straighter and nodded. Silence fell upon the group by the well.
"What the devil has this to do with whipping the animal, Stuart?" the youth of the sable cloak demanded.
"A peasant would not have faced weapons, Prince Paul. Besides, this man is here at my summons—shod my horse an hour ago. He may not be a thief."
"But he's a rogue, Stuart—a masterless rogue. If your horse is shod you'll not need him more. Par dex, we must have some entertainment."
"Then give him a sword," responded the man called Stuart.
"A duel? A hussar of the guard to face a horse-shoeing vagabond? Oh, 'tis impossible."
"Nay, not impossible," said the colonel quietly, "when the hussar has lost his sword and his lance. Platovsky was on duty."
Men who had been drinking withdrew the cups from their lips and Prince Paul flushed.
"Lord Prince," cried Ayub, "I've faced not only hussars, but a Tartar khan, and more than one sultan, stirrup to stirrup. Only not in a tavern yard."
The thin lips of the youth were touched by a quick smile.
"Rogue thou mayest be," he exclaimed, "but a royal liar thou art. It would be sport—if Platovsky is willing—"
"Only give him a weapon," the hussar responded, "and he will boast no more."
By now the taproom had emptied and a score of men gathered at the well. Some were under-officers of Stuart's regiment, and Ayub saw Chort's red face beside the slender figure of a Tartar mirza in kaftan and helmet. A strange gathering, he thought. But he was glad that he would not be laid out and lashed.
Servants brought fresh torches and hung them on stakes while Ayub was taking off his heavy coat and rolling up his sleeves. Chort did not come forward to offer his sword, but one of the hussars gave Ayub his blade—a long, straight weapon, similar to Platovsky's.
The Cossack would have liked a curved blade better, and a horse between his knees. He knew that his eyes were not as clear as they had been once, and that his strength would fail in a few moments. Platovsky was in no mood to deal with him lightly, but it did not occur to Ayub to draw back and take his whipping. Only one thing he wanted.
"Dai vudka!" he cried.
"As I live, the old clown wants a drink!"
Several beakers were thrust out to him—for a man who stood between life and death was privileged to ask that favor. Ayub selected the largest and seized it in both hands. His head went back and his beard went up, and when he surrendered the beaker he sighed gratefully. The men nearest him nudged one another and whispered, pointed out the corded muscles of his heavy forearms, and the way he selected his ground and took stock of the lights. When he tried the spring of his blade, prince Paul exclaimed:
"Perish me, Stuart—your vagabond acts his part. Ten silver crowns that Platovsky ends him!"
The man called Stuart made no response. Evidently the prince was accustomed to calling his own wagers.
The hussar stood motionless, ten paces away, his sword tip buried in the snow. He had watched every move of the old Cossack but had not troubled to remove either his coat or his fur cap. Ayub, feeling the hot brandy warming his veins, gripped the hilt of his sword and called out:
"To one life! To the other death!"
"The devil!" Murmured Prince Paul. "Begin, gentlemen—or vagabonds."
Platovsky engaged at once, his point sliding forward with effortless ease. A swift slither of steel, a twirl of the hussar's point, and Ayub sprang back, avoiding barely in time the thrust that would have passed below his heart. His lips were drawn back from his teeth and he breathed heavily, while Platovsky, expressionless, seemed not to exert himself at all.
"Look, Stuart," the young noble cried, "your animal gives ground. Faith, again! The ten crowns are mine."
The throng pressed closer, because Ayub had been forced back to the well. The mist of their breathing rose against the smoking flare of the torches.
"Eh, the rogue is pricked," muttered one of the soldiers.
But Ayub had not yet been hurt. Unskilled in the niceties of fencing and realizing Platovsky's power, he leapt suddenly to one side and slashed down at the hussar's guard.
"He uses his blade like a saber," Prince Paul remarked.
With his great strength the Cossack lashed at his adversary. But
a hussar of the guard regiment was at home with the curved blade as well as the straight, and Platovsky hardly moved his elbow. Only his wrist turned, and his eyes flickered under drawn brows. The clatter of the blades sounded louder and swifter, for Ayub was slashing recklessly at his foe.
Well content to let the Cossack tire himself out, the husar stood his ground. Ayub's bearded lips drew back from his teeth and his broad cheeks glistened with sweat. He was laboring now, panting as his arm lashed back and forth. His arm burned with a weariness that was like fever. The watchers saw no slackening in the savage sweep of his long blade, but Pla-tovsky parried a cut and lunged up at his throat.
"Double your ten crowns, Stuart?" Prince Paul asked idly.
"Aye!" cried the colonel suddenly.
Someone laughed, as the hussar thrust again, and Ayub crouched like a cat. Then without a sound the giant Cossack leaped up and forward. He rose nearly his own height in the air, gathering his knees under him— and his sword swept up, and down.
It was a trick of the Moslem swordsmen, this leap and slash, and men who had faced it once took care to jump aside. Platovsky did not move. Instinctively he flung up his arms to parry; a quick thrust might have saved him. The Cossack's sword beat down his blade and thudded into his head. The hussar fell heavily to one side and lay without moving.
"U-ha!" Ayub roared. "I said I would put him down again. If this sword had been a saber, he would never rise."
He bent over his adversary, and the watchers stirred out of their amazement to gather around him. The cut, partly deflected by Platovsky's frantic parry, had slashed through the fur cap and had laid bare the skull. Blood soaked the man's hair and streamed upon the snow. But after several moments the injured hussar was still breathing regularly.
"Don't put him to bed in the snow," Ayub remarked, wiping the sweat from his eyes with his long sleeve. "Carry him in and give him vodka and gunpowder to drink, and he'll be looking at the girls again in a week."