by Harold Lamb
Stuart did not know what was in store for him, and he expected no gentle treatment. Ayub had passed more than one hour on the road relating the tortures favored by the Ottomans, and flaying a man limb by limb was not the worst. No doubt the Turks meant to question him, and he had no delusions as to how this would be done.
It was clear that he was being taken to the Turkish camp, since his captors took such precautions to hide him from the eyes of the Krim men. Indeed, if the story of the attack on the mirza—the true story—were known to the Tartars, matters would not go well with the Turks. Stuart wondered what the khan of the Krim was like.
He noticed that day that they saw few horsemen in the hills. Women in bright khalats and children stared at them from a distance, and here and there old men were out with cattle herds. But they encountered no bands of horsemen and no one approached near them. Probably from afar they looked like three officers with two troopers following. Only once did they pass Tartar soldiers, when the trail, climbing the foothills, entered a ravine so narrow that Stuart could touch the sheer walls of granite by stretching out both his arms. The defile was no more than the bed of a stream, filled with worn stones. But when the weary horses scrambled up the last ascent they came out into a place that made Stuart catch his breath.
It was the summit of the pass—a level expanse of gravel as hard as a parade ground. In shape it was rough square, a long musket shot across, but instead of being the open summit of the hills, it was a valley surrounded by cliffs so lofty that Stuart had to raise his head to look at the summits. And these blue-gray cliffs rose in tiers to jagged rock masses against the cloud-flecked sky. On some of the ledges he saw the dark mouths of caverns and myriad clefts.
But these rock walls fell away in four places, as if the giants who shaped this plateau on the heights had hewn them asunder. Through the gaps he could see the horizon far below the hills. And through these ravines the wind surged gustily, sending the dust devils dancing over the ground.
"Ho, caphars," grinned Zain ad-Din the agha. "Look well, for this is the second gate—aye, the Gate of the Winds!"
And faint, clear echoes answered "Ho caphars!" flinging the words back and forth between the rock walls. The whole place was a subdued tumult of sound that trailed away like the ripple of water. In the center of the arena stood Tartar yurts, and here in the sun sat a few score warriors talking with a patrol of horsemen in round steel helmets and chain armor who carried long lances—a detachment of Turkish sipahis, the best of the sultan's cavalry.
"The two roads meet here." Zain ad-Din pointed to the other ravines. "Look well, for ye will not see the pass again."
Stuart had already noticed that paths zigzagged up the rocks, leading to the upper ledges. On the highest pinnacles tiny black figures moved against the passing clouds. For the most part the ledges and paths were deserted, but at need several thousand men could have stationed themselves on the heights of this citadel of rocks. If cannon had been placed at the summit of the ravines, the defenders of the Gate of the Winds could have maintained themselves against any siege. The plateau was large enough for several regiments of cavalry.
They had come out of the smallest of the ravines, and they must have been sighted from the heights above, because a Tartar officer mounted his horse near the yurts and cantered across the dusty arena toward them. Zain ad-Din spoke to his two troopers and hastened off to meet the officer. They met and talked a hundred paces away, and the Tartar, glancing idly toward the captives, saw only four men halted in the deep shadow of the cliff. The sun beat into the valley and the heat simmered over the dusty ground, although the breath of the wind was chill; it seemed natural enough that the agha's men should keep to the shade—and no one saw that his two troopers had loaded pistols in their hands.
The Tartar officer of the guard seemed more interested in the agha's white Arab than in the waiting men, and presently he turned back to his tents.
"Eh, Sir Brother—" Ayub broke a silence that had lasted for a night and a day—"let us ride toward the tents. We will fall with bullets in us, or steel. But that is better than the skinning knives that we will feel when we stand before the dog of a captain general of the Turks."
Stuart glanced at him quickly. In the Cossack's seamed and blistered face was a gleam of desperation. That morning the Turks had bound their wrists with ropes of twisted leather thongs and the heat had made the bruised flesh swell until it was agony to move an arm, or hold the reins.
Ayub had sunk into a black mood.
"Wait," said the Scot quietly.
But Ayub only shook his head, his bound hands caught in his beard. He saw no good in waiting. His bones ached and he had not eaten since Zain ad-Din had spat in his face.
"What is it you say?" Stuart asked him.
"'The Cossacks still have powder, and their strength?'"
"Ekh ma!" Ayub lifted his head. "It was said long ago by an ataman who was surrounded by enemies. 'There is powder still in the powder-horns—the Cossack strength is not broken!' That is what the brothers call out when matters go hard with them."
"And how is it with us?"
"We have no weapons. Nothing ahead but the knives."
The brief gleam of interest passed from the big man's face, and Stuart saw that he had failed to rouse Ayub from the moodiness that was like a sickness.
"One of us must reach the khan," he said. "For that we were sent. When did a Cossack turn aside from the road because he feared the end of the road?"
"By God, never!" Ayub smote his two hands upon his saddle horn and cursed the stab of pain that made his arms quiver. "I do not fear the Turks, and I will not leave you, but a bullet is better than the flaying knife that lifts your skin a little at a time."
"Will you go on with the agha like a tied dog?"
But even the taunt did not make Ayub angry.
"Zain ad-Din is a fox," he muttered. "He has the tongue of a woman. Just now he went up to the Tartar officer on that Arab—and came away unharmed."
"Why not?"
"He was riding a Tartar horse of price and the other knew it, yet he was not made to dismount."
Stuart looked up quickly.
"Nay, one white Arabian is like another—and Zain ad-Din has his own saddle."
"The tamgha—the brand on the flank. All Tartar clans have their brand marks. The mark on the white Arabian is a circle with a spear through it—and such horses are not often given as gifts," Ayub answered indifferently.
This gave the Scot food for thought, and he looked for the tamgha himself on the flank of Zain ad-Din's stolen mount. As the Cossack had said, the outline of a circle could be traced through the heavy Winter coat of the animal.
Zain Ad-Din led them through the southern ravine of the Gate of the Winds and, as soon as the gorge yielded to the open mountainside, he turned off into a cattle trail. Here they had to ride in file, and it was some time before Stuart could speak to Ayub again.
"Before we reach the Turkish camp," he said, "just before, we will do as you have said. It may be tomorrow or the next day, or the next, and until then we will watch for a chance to get free. If there is no chance, faith, we'll make one."
Ayub bent his head to listen, and looked around anxiously at the Turks, although not one of their captors understood a word they said. His bound hands quivered on his thigh.
"How make one?"
"We have no weapons and can't use our hands. But something will aid us."
"May God give it! Only, what?"
Stuart started to speak, and smiled. Leaning forward, he rested his hands on the sweat streaked mane of the piebald horse.
"He took us out of the storm and he will aid us now."
The Cossack looked keenly at the spotted horse, which favored a lame foreleg as he trotted stiffly after the agha's smooth-paced Arab. The horses had been pushed hard the last two days, and ill fed. Their coats were rough and plastered with mud.
"Zain ad-Din's nag will run down the wolf-chaser now," he said, "an
d even the trooper's mounts will keep up with you."
"I trust the wolf-chaser." Stuart thought for a moment. "It is better to take the chance than go like sheep to the butcher. This is a trick that the agha's men will not know. When we are in broken country, with woods or brush near, I will call to you, and push past Zain ad-Din at a gallop. The Turks will follow, and they may fire with their pistols. They will have their eyes on me and you must make no move—until Zain-ad-Din spurs after me. Then turn swiftly, and make for cover, to the side. Even if the troopers have fired their pistols, they may miss. 'Tis no easy thing to send a ball straight from a galloping horse."
Ayub nodded, his tousled mustache twitching in a grin.
"You to go one way—I another. Well, that works sometimes. But those sons of dogs may all follow you, and you have the king's letter."
Again a faint smile touched the Scot's lips. Zain ad-Din had searched their garments and boots, but Stuart's missive still lay where he had placed it, folded under his broad leather belt. He had not taken that belt off, and the Turks had not seemed to think that an envoy's papers could be stuck under a belt. The agha had no reason to search more carefully because the envoys were prisoners in his hands, their secrets soon to be drawn from them.
"I trust the wolf-chaser," he responded. "If you get clear and I fall, go to the nearest Tartars, ask to be taken to the khan, and tell how the Nogais slew the ambassadors, and how the Turks dealt with his officer in the wood. Bid them search in the wood for the bodies. As to the message from the king, the real ambassadors are dead and there is nothing you can say. But I know the Tartars a little, and if the khan discovers that his men have been set upon and slain, he will do nothing until he has avenged them."
"Aya tak, that is so. But if you escape, how will you talk to the Krim men?"
"I cannot talk to them, not to a soul in all this land of the Krim."
Ayub waited for his friend to say more; however, Stuart remained silent and it was Zain-ad-Din who broke the silence.
"Ho, ye hat wearers! Look! The road—this is the end."
They had been passing through a nest of boulders, and the agha had gone ahead to the brow of a ridge that overlooked the mountainside. When Stuart and Ayub joined him, they stopped instantly.
The ridge gave them a clear view for miles to the south, into a plain that stretched without break to the horizon. And this plain was green, from crops or grass. They saw scattered huts by groves of fruit trees, and far off the gleam of a winding river. The sun, on this side of the range, burned into their faces, and the mild breath of the wind was warm. A faint heat haze veiled the horizon.
This, Stuart thought, was the pasture land of the Krim, always free from snow. What drew his eyes at once and made Ayub mutter in his beard was the great encampment below them.
It was not one camp, but two, a half mile or so apart across the river. On the east of the river, the ground was covered with the domed tents of the Tartars, in the clear places masses of animals grazing. The sun glinted on the horns of cattle, and the bright robes of riders moved like flecks of color against the gray-brown horse herds. Smoke curled up from scattered fires.
To the west of the river appeared the huts and pavilions of a different sort. Some of the pavilions with their red and white sun curtains seemed as large as castles. The lines of regular streets ran through the camp, and a breastwork had been thrown up around it. In a cleared place the sun reflected upon brass. Stuart thought that cannon were parked here. Streamers and banners marked different sections, and there were few horses to be seen, but many men on foot in more somber colors.
"The camp of the Kapitan Pasha," said Zain ad-Din. "Aye, Murad, the Pasha of the Sea."
Chapter VII Comrades
The nearest portion of the Turkish camp was less than two miles away. The path they were following ran close to the river on this side. Across the stream some Krim men were watering their horses, and others were more to the left, apparently flying falcons at the herons that started up from the rushes, but not a Tartar was on their side of the river. The path was clear to the gate of the breastwork, where some guards sat watching peasant carts go in and out. Zain ad-Din was well content. He had obeyed orders, had found and taken the envoys of the Christian king and had brought them safely within sight of his sultan's army. The evidence of his attack upon the Tartars was well hidden, and the two Christians, half-starved men on wearied horses, had nothing more to hope for. Zain ad-Din, as he trotted down the winding trail, wondered whether the Kapitan Pasha would reward him with jewels, or a new command.
"Thou seest," he cried, thrusting his baton into the Cossack's ribs. "There is peace and agreement between the host of Krim and the Ottomans. Soon the Moslem scimitar will strike, and thy brothers' heads will fall like cut grain, and as for thy sisters—"
"I know them well," growled the old Cossack, roused by the taunt. "And they will fall by the men, sword in hand. But as for thee, knowest thou thy sisters?"
The face of the lean agha darkened and he clutched at one of the daggers in his girdle. Then his teeth gleamed in a smile, and he spurred on the white pacer.
"Hasten—hasten! Thy fate is near."
Even the troopers urged on their jaded horses, for the breath of the plain was hot, and the breastwork less than a mile away. Already some of the guards had turned to gaze at the five riders.
Stuart watched the distant figures through narrowed eyes and laughed over his shoulder at the Cossack.
"Well said, O my brother. The Cossack strength is not spent."
"Well, we will look soon at our fate. Why did you not try the trick back in the thickets of the hill? There is no cover here and in a moment the dogs yonder will be leading our horses."
"Wait."
The Scot's lips tightened and he moved his hands between the ropes. A group of janissaries who had wandered out to the fruit trees waved at them and shouted. Beyond this grove the plain stretched as flat as a desert floor to the half mile distant river.
Stuart turned in his saddle and smiled at his friend.
"What was it you said before the duel in Kudak?"
"What, eh? To one of us life, to the other death!"
"That was it. Well, now is the time, Ayub. When the agha starts after me, go for the river, and don't look back or turn aside. Go with God."
Ayub answered mechanically, "With God," before he realized that the Scot had struck the piebald horse on the side away from Zain ad-Din with his heel. Surprised and hurt, the spotted horse lunged forward into a gallop. It passed the agha's Arab and took the road, its head thrust out,
its flanks heaving.
Zain ad-Din watched, at first with curiosity and then—when he urged on the pacer and the gap between them did not diminish—with anger. It was no part of his plan to have his prisoner a runaway into the Turkish camp.
"Stop!" he shouted, and lashed on his Arab.
The swifter horses drew away from the three following. For a moment they all held their places. Looking over his shoulder, Stuart saw that the agha was about ten yards behind him, and some fifty yards ahead of the other three.
Suddenly and without warning of any kind, the Scot flung himself back in the saddle, crying out to his horse as he did so. The wolf chaser plunged and came to a stop, all four legs gathered under him. At the same instant the horse wheeled and reared, lashing out with its forelegs.
And the lashing hoofs and all the weight of horse and rider came down on Zain ad Din.
The agha had tried in vain to check the rush of his own horse when he saw the wolf-chaser rear in front of him. But he was too near, the time too short. His Arab half wheeled, and the result was to throw the white horse.
The crash sent the piebald charger reeling back. If it had fallen, with Stuart's ankles bound beneath, the Scot could not have escaped from the saddle. With a stagger and lurch the spotted horse recovered its balance, quivering all over. Then Stuart reined over to Zain ad-Din.
The agha lay motionless, blood dripping
from his open teeth. He had fallen on his right side, and the scimitar sheath in his girdle was caught under one leg. Stuart, hearing hoofs thudding close to him, slipped his feet from the stirrups and flung himself toward the unconscious man.
With his hands bound together, it was his only chance to grip the scimitar hilt, and grip it he did, although he hung by one knee from the saddle. The rope that bound his ankles kept him from falling clear, and the piebald horse stood quiet. He drew the sword with one hand. And then with an effort that sent a wrenching pain through his hip and shoulder, he swung himself up far enough to catch the saddle horn with his free hand. Another pull and he was back in the saddle, just as the Turkish trooper who had hastened toward him, slashed down at his head with a sword.
Quickly as Stuart flung up his own blade to parry, he could not quite check the blow. The steel blade, near the hand guard, struck his lynx skin cap and grazed his skull.
But the rush of the trooper's horse carried him past, and when he wheeled and came in to strike again, Stuart had found his stirrups and had raised his scimitar.
"Allah!" the Turk cried, and slashed with all his strength.
But a blade in the hands of a skilled swordsman—even though his hands were tied together—overmatched the Moslem soldier.
Once the horses reared, and the steel rang out. Twice the blades clashed, and then the Turk fell, cut across the eyes, and Stuart wrenched his scimitar clear.
He turned to look for Ayub. But the Cossack was not riding for the river, had not left the road.
Instead, two riders were locked together in a crushing embrace, while their horses danced and wheeled like two ships moored together in a swift current. Without trying to guess what had happened, Stuart raced the wolf-chaser back to them.
He saw that the Turk held a knife in one hand and a pistol in the other, and was twisting desperately to free an arm. Ayub had thrown his bound arms over the trooper's shoulders, pinning the other's forearms to his sides. The curved knife was moving spasmodically an inch from his ribs, but the giant Cossack, exerting all the strength of his shoulders, squeezed his enemy's bones in a vise-like grip. The Turk was panting, and foam puffed between his loose lips.