by Harold Lamb
It was in the same state as the first, except that odds and ends of rope and sacking lay on the sand that composed the floor. Ayub looked carefully at the sand near the door. Here and there the print of an iron heel was visible, and the marks of smaller feet shod in soft leather. Long tracks and whorls showed where heavy sacks had been dragged to the door. One thing he picked up, a child's wooden doll with a long beard and black hair painted upon it and a miniature robe of coarse wool sewn over it. Ayub tossed it away and scratched his head under his kalpak.
He did not feel cheerful. There should be people in this hamlet. They had gone, somehow, with all their animals, food and utensils, but without their most prized possessions, the picture stands. Even a doll remained, but nothing worth picking up.
"They went off," Ayub muttered, "before the last snow—three and four days ago. They didn't go toward the river."
Along the frontier sudden removals were common enough—to escape raiding Tartars, or an epidemic, or just because the men wanted to go elsewhere to other lands. Yet these cabins were large and comfortable. Ayub wished that the fresh snow had not covered all the tracks outside. He could not make anything out of the cabin floors.
"If it wasn't for the pictures—"
He shook his head gravely, and went out. The two Tartars had come in from their patrol and were investigating the dwellings.
"Hi, you thieves!" he cried. "What did you see?"
"No horses, no men, no tracks."
Evidently the place had not been visited since the snow fell.
"The tabor is coming," volunteered the other rider. By the tabor he meant the wagon train with the main body.
Ayub nodded and went over to the clump of pines on the lee of the woods, where Ahmak had been preparing camp. Here the horses were tethered, the saddle cloths unfolded and tied over their backs, and Ahmak squatted by piled brush. At a word from the Cossack he fell to work with his flint and steel until he had struck a spark into a pinch of powder. A tiny flare, and wisps of smoke began to curl up. The dark faces of the Tartars turned expectantly toward Ayub.
He took his kalpak upon his arm and faced the south, lifting his free hand.
"Brothers, Cossacks," he cried in his deep voice, "the fire is burning. Come and warm yourselves."
Three times he repeated the words, facing the other quarters of the compass. It was the brief ritual of every evening, and every Zaporogian Cossack did likewise in the steppe, bidding to his fire the spirits of other Cossacks slain in this waste land. They would be cold, those spirits, and unseen and unheard; they might hasten toward him and gather around the flames.
Ayub seated himself on his saddle where the snow had been cleared away, and lighted his pipe. A jangling of distant bells, and the creaking of runners over hard-packed snow told him that the main body was entering the hamlet, but his work was over. The Poles would see his fire, and the cabins and their servants could do the rest. In fact, voices soon shouted back and forth, and the dark masses of the sledge train, from which steam rose from the horses, filled the open space between the wood and the hamlet. Men hastened up to light torches at his fire. The stamping and neighing of horses in the grove, the ringing of axes, and the crashing of broken branches indicated that the military escort was making itself at home under the shelter of the trees.
"The White Beard comes," observed one of the Tartars.
Bells chimed melodiously, and a closed sleigh drew up before the largest cabin. Servants hastened toward it and opened the door, upon which was painted a crimson coat of arms. From the traveling sleigh descended a bent form in a dark velvet cloak.
This was the under-chancellor of Poland, an aged dignitary of the court, who was addressed as his Mightiness. He was the elder envoy, and the Tartars called him White Beard. He glanced around the encampment, frowning, and moved stiffly toward the cabin that was being made ready for him. He did not set out until the tabor had gone far ahead, and his fast sleigh, escorted by a detail of hussars, had easy going over the beaten track. Ayub only caught fleeting glimpses of him, and wondered why such a grandee of the court tried to make the journey across the steppes.
The Cossack ate the supper his Tartars had cooked, and when they rose to go as usual to the camp of their companions, apart from the Poles, he checked them.
"Nay, Ahmak, thou wilt stay by the horses. I go to the fire of the little father."
The broad face of the Tartar warrior grew sulky. He gritted his white teeth and shook his head.
"Ai-a, am I to have the duty of a boy as well as a woman?"
The others stopped and looked at Ayub, who strode over to Ahmak and grasped the thin beard that dangled from his chin. The Tartar felt for the dagger in his girdle, but before he could draw his weapon, the Cossack wrenched his head around and flung him to the ground. Ahmak drew his knife and got to his knees. Then he hesitated, because the Cossack loomed over him, dangerously silent. When Ayub abused them, the tribesmen smiled and retorted cheerfully, but when he said nothing they did not know what to expect. It was Ahmak who spoke first.
"Thou art a wolf. Kai—I have sat in thy shadow, and I obey."
He shook himself like a dog and sheathed his dagger, then went and squatted by the fire, with a muttered "God is one." His companions moved off silently into the darkness.
"Thou hast heard the order," Ayub reminded him. "If I, coming back to this place, find thee not, I shall seek for thee and make of thee something that is less than a boy or a woman."
"I have heard."
Ayub glanced at his follower appraisingly. The stocky little warrior seemed saddened, and his lips moved as he squatted over the embers.
"What has come upon thee?" he asked finally.
"It is not good, this place."
"How not good?"
But Ahmak only closed his eyes, and the Cossack swung away impatiently. He sought through the damp smoke of the grove until he found the round yurt that belonged to Colonel Stuart. Ayub had persuaded his officer to buy this at Kudak—a small shelter shaped like a dome, with a hole in the center. It was a light wicker frame that folded together in several bundles when not in use, covered with strips of heavy felt. When a fire was going inside, the yurt was comfortable in any cold, and its shape
enabled it to stand up against the wind.
Stuart, just returned from dining with the nobles, was taking off his cloak and putting on a short sheepskin jacket.
"How is it?" he greeted the Cossack.
"Not good, Little Father." Ayub sat down on a log and stirred the ashes of his pipe moodily.
"Why?"
Ayub thought of the deserted cabins, now lighted by candles and resounding with the talk of the nobles, and of the ill humor of the Tartars.
"Who is in command, at need?" he asked.
The Scot smiled.
"I am in command of the military escort. As to the journey, Prince Paul gives orders, but his Excellency, the chancellor, has the final word."
"Two heads are worse than one. After this, the road is harder. We have too many sledges, too much baggage. Harken, Sir Colonel—we have only grain enough to feed the horses for eight days. It is four days' ride to the sea. But if a storm comes, we will have to stay under shelter two or three days and perhaps more. If a wind comes with the snow, out yonder, we will lose horses and men."
"Well, Ayub, we must take what the road sends."
"But why does a noble like his Mightiness come into the steppe when the roads are gone?"
"He was sent by the king."
"Then why were hussars given to escort him? Ekh ma, they cannot wear their steel armor; they must carry all their ironware in the sledges and dress themselves in furs. Their horses are heavy."
"That also was ordered."
"No good ever came of orders like that. What does the court of the great king know about a place like this? Devil take it! The horses are nervous, won't sleep. The Dobrudja men are ready to quarrel. There are fiends of some kind about, because the cabins have been aban
doned with the candles still under the holy pictures. Only listen!"
Ayub held up his hand. Above the murmur of voices from the nearby fires could be heard the sough of wind in the pine tips, and the rustle of dry snow blown against the sides of the yurt. And a faint whining, far in the upper reaches of the air, over their heads.
"Don't you hear, Sir Colonel?" the Cossack whispered. "The vampires
are crying, because they are hungry."
Stuart could hear the shrill whimper clearly. It was like the high note of a violin, trailing off into silence.
"Aye, the wind is rising," he assented.
Ayub shook his head and crossed himself.
"Nay, that is how the spirits call when they speed over the trees. Then, along in the night, they come down and stand on their feet—perhaps white-faced women, perhaps little children with lights shining in their heads. They cry and cry, until you go out to them, and when you are far away from your fellows—"
"Faith," laughed the Scot, "there is naught in the air but a storm gathering."
"Didn't you ever see a vampire, or a table goblin, or a wolf-woman begging at twilight?"
"Not I!" Stuart picked up a thin bottle and poured two glasses full.
When he had downed his brandy Ayub grew more cheerful.
"Well, it's an omen, anyway. Perhaps the spirits of darkness, perhaps a storm."
He left his officer feeling more at ease. When he reached his fire he found that it had died to ashes and beside it lay the squat figure of the Tartar Ahmak. He lay face down on his sheepskins and he was whimpering drowsily, like a dog in pain.
Duncan Stuart listened to the voice of the wind over his yurt, watching how the whorls of smoke were drawn up through the central opening as if pulled forth by an invisible hand. Although he had not let Ayub see it, the prospect of a storm did not reassure him.
He did not regret engaging the Cossack. Ayub doctored his horses, interpreted for him, filled empty hours with tales of the steppe. Moreover, Ayub was the only guide with the column, as Prince Paul had neglected to search for others when they left the Dnieper.
Prince Paul had all the gallantry and the heedlessness of a Polish gentleman. And the expedition had been chosen more to impress the khan than for any other reason. The hussars were the famous cavalry of Poland, picturesque in their helmets and dark armor, and the eagles' wings fastened to their shoulders, when they went forth in full regalia. The Do-brudja Tartars were sent to show the khan that other tribes served the King of Poland—so also Chort and his town Cossacks.
And Stuart suspected that he himself had been ordered to accompany the prince so that a Frankish officer would appear in the train of the ambassadors. At least his position as commander of the escort was an empty one. Prince Paul was officer of the hussars, and this left only the Cossacks under Stuart's orders, because the Tartars would listen to no one except their mirza.
But no one realized better than Stuart how much depended on the expedition. Mighty Poland had wasted her strength in continuous war. Now, attacked at the same time by the Swedes of Gustavus Adolphus, and the Russians, she had fared badly in the north. Her armies were thinned, her treasury overburdened, her frontiers dwindling.
Meanwhile the Turks had come up from the south and overrun the border states. Tidings had reached the court of Sigismund of Poland that the sultan was gathering greater forces to advance again in the Spring. And to make this blow decisive, the sultan had sent to the khan of the Krim, bidding him come with fifty thousand horsemen of the Horde.
The Turks themselves had no good cavalry, yet if the khan threw himself across the steppe into the heart of Poland, there would be no forces to withstand him. Poland was prostrate, and in her need, had sent envoys to the khan.
That was why the under-chancellor and Prince Paul must press on without stopping in Midwinter. The ambassadors of the sultan were already at Bagche Serai, and there was no knowing when the khan would decide to ally himself with the sultan.
Ten thousand pieces of gold had been entrusted to the ambassadors. Much of this had been raised by the sale of jewels of the nobility, and it was to be given the khan, to buy a peace. There was no other alternative. The khan made no treaties with Christian kings, but if he accepted the gift he would abide by his word, as long as he respected the Poles. If, however, he discovered the real weakness of the mighty commonwealth, he would not be too tender about pledges. So the king had sent as envoy the arrogant Prince Paul and the venerable under-chancellor, and the escort composed of varied arms of the service. And King Sigismund had ordered Colonel Stuart, one of the most notable cavalry leaders, to go to the court of the khan.
"Faith," Stuart thought, "'tis no light task to buy a peace."
The wind was still rising, and the dry snow swept against the edge of his yurt like the spray of surf. Above the rustle of the trees, he caught a snatch of song from Prince Paul's quarters, and even a deep shout.
"Vivat Imperator!"
"Long live the king!" Stuart reflected. "And may the envoys live also!"
Chapter IV The Price of Peace
It seemed to the colonel that he had not been asleep long when he was called.
"Little Father—Little Father!"
Someone was slapping the entrance fold of the yurt, and Stuart pulled on his boots. Picking up his sword, he thrust himself through the opening. A glance through the trees showed him the red half circle of the old moon. It was near the last watch of the night. Ayub stood before him.
"The Tartars are gone."
"Yours—what the devil?"
"All of them. Only that undersized goblin Ahmak is left, and he is weeping and howling—drunk."
"The mirza too? Bring a lantern."
"No need of that," Ayub vouchsafed. "I heard the horses stirring and left my blankets. Those three dog-born dogs of mine were saddling their nags. Eh, they went off when they saw me. I thought that was not good, and I walked over to the Tartar camp. Not a rope left."
"Did they take any of the sledges?"
"Nay, Chort's lads were on guard at the tabor. The Tartars rode away on the other side of the wood, and no one saw them go."
Stuart went first to look at the site of the camp, then a short distance into the steppe with Ayub. The tracks led directly away from the wood. In silence the Scot returned to the hamlet and roused Prince Paul. The hussars were more than ready to pursue the tribesmen, but Stuart pointed out that the mirza's men had the faster horses and, besides, had headed away from the trail. They had an hour's start—Ayub's detail had been the last to leave-and pursuit was useless. Useless also was any speculation as to why they had gone. Clearly, they had planned their move beforehand, but they had not tried to take anything from the tabor. The officers gathered around the breakfast table for consultation.
Stuart pointed out that a storm seemed to be coming nearer, and advised remaining at the hamlet. The strength of the escort had been cut in half, but they had grain enough now, and food to spare.
"Par dex!" cried the Prince. "Shall we hug the stove for a gray sky and a few deserters?"
The under-chancellor decided that they would go forward, as usual.
So Ayub mounted and rode out. He took with him Ahmak, after tying the Tartar's ankles together under his horse's belly, and binding up his follower's weapon's upon his own saddle.
"He would lie to the nobles," he explained to Stuart, "but he will tell me the truth about his fellows, the little darling, before sunset."
For the greater part of the day Ayub had no time to spare to question Ah-mak. Their course took them through a network of gullies and buttes where deep drifts had formed. This was a place called the Dry Lands, and in Summer a meeting point for raiders who were going to cross the Dnieper. Ayub remembered the way through, but at times he had to cast to right and left to make certain that he was not leading the tabor astray.
It was noon before he came out into easier going, where the ravines yielded to shallow valleys and finally to the gentle sweep
of the open plain. He pushed on swiftly, to look for a good halting place, where wood might be found. Ahmak, who was now able to sit erect in the saddle, followed him without complaining.
"Why didn't you go with mirza?" Ayub asked. "Why did you drink?"
"I was afraid." The little Tartar answered indifferently. "It was written."
"Well it's also written—"
The Cossack fell silent and reined in his horse. For a moment the two riders gazed at each other, their heads bent, listening.
Through the whine of the wind overhead came a new note, like the slow beating of distant drums. When the wind freshened it grew louder.
"Guns," Ayub said.
For awhile the reports were only heard at intervals, then came the thudding of an irregular volley. This could not be hunters after wild horses, or the young soldiers loosing off their pistols haphazard.
After the volley, silence.
"Come," Ayub called to the Tartar, and wheeled his horse, urging the black stallion to a trot and then a gallop. For nearly half a league he rode back over his own trail. Once the wind brought to his ears an uproar of voices. Then, silence again. But the Cossack had located the conflict—be-yond a low ridge where he had stopped to look at the surrounding plain.
Approaching this ridge, he drew rein to listen. Then he dismounted, and assisted Ahmak to do likewise. On foot he hastened up the last of the slope, toward a fringe of gray tamarisk. At the brush he threw himself down and crawled forward with the Tartar. For a moment they stared in silence at the shallow valley beyond the ridge.
Outlined against the white surface of the snow they saw the tabor. The head of the wagon train was tangled in a rough half circle. Behind this group of sledges and animals, the rest of the train strung out like the tail of a kite—abandoned.
Within the half circle Ayub saw the Poles with their servants, and Chort's few Cossacks. Some of them had on breastplates and helmets, and had harquebuses and pistols. They were on top of the sledge loads, their horses within the barricade. A few of the Poles were in the saddle, and Ayub recognized among the riders Colonel Stuart's gray cloak and the piebald horse. He thought he made out Prince Paul's bay mare, but the under-chancellor's traveling sleigh was not visible.