by Harold Lamb
Ayub stepped forward unsteadily.
"Send to the oak forest!"
But the khan took no heed of his words, and before he could speak again, the officer of the Tartar guard advanced to the dais.
"Speak!" murmured Arak Buka.
"Murad Pasha comes, O my khan, to sit with thee."
Like an eagle stooping to earth, Murad Pasha came, calm-eyed, amid a throng of horsemen and glittering, lofty turbans. His attendants brought gifts to the khan—a brown and white kafalka, a peregrine falcon with a silver chain, and a gold box of musk, and a lump of sweet-smelling ambergris as large as a man's head. The pasha himself wore only the uniform of the sipahis, although the crest of his turban was that of a minister of the Ottoman Empire. A sallow-faced man, broad and tranquil and merciless—and unafraid. He took as if by right a seat on the blue carpet beside the khan and leaned back on the pillows that the slaves hastened to bring.
It was sunset by then, because the Captain General of the Sea had not hurried, and the Tartar slaves moved among the throng, lighting the lanterns and raising them upon spears. The throng had grown to a multitude and thousands of eyes stared into the open front of the pavilion, watching every movement of the two leaders of Islam, while the khan feasted his distinguished guest from trays of almonds and mastic and melons. Neither spoke of the Christian prisoners, and only outside the tent did men dare whisper of what had passed.
The khan had taken the falcon upon his wrist for a moment and then handed it to one of his officers.
Stuart could learn nothing from the faces, for the old Tartar seemed only concerned about his hospitality, and the pasha about nothing at all. The khan's musicians were sent for and disturbed the twilight with the whining of flutes and the squealing of bagpipes, and blare of horns. The envoys, seated among the lesser officers below the dais, were left to themselves, and this was not a good sign.
It was Murad Pasha who spoke of them, looking in their direction, idly.
"Allah kirbadiz partalouk! May Allah protect thy shadow, O my Uncle! I have heard that men of mine have taken captive two giaours who say they were sent to thee. As to that I know not, but keep thou the Naz-arenes, as a gift from my hand."
Arak Buka nodded slightly, and after a moment the pasha added:
"Soon, if God wills it, we shall mount for the journey against the Christian cities, and the gathering of spoils. Let this evening be rendered pleasant and our eyes refreshed by the slaying of the two Nazarenes. If indeed they be envoys from the insolent king, their death will be a fitting response. If they be liars, the stake is a good sitting place for them."
The old Tartar thought for a moment.
"Is it thy desire?"
And the Turk's fine teeth flashed in a smile.
"Verily, it would please me, for it is written that the faithful shall be made glad by the downfall of unbelievers."
A soft murmur came from the listening readers of the Koran.
"True, true!"
"My officer, who took them," Murad added indifferently, "saw the letter they bore, but who can read what is written upon it? Nay, only the two giaours can say what is written."
Arak Buka raised his hand to his lips and shook his head as if this thought had not struck him before.
"How did thy servant come upon these dogs, O my nephew?"
There was no relationship between the Tartar and the Turkish pasha, or the sultan whom he called his brother by custom, but the words implied trust, and Murad clapped his hands together, calling out to his more distant followers. From beyond the lights an officer hastened forward and cast himself down at the dais. And Ayub started, seeing that he was Zain ad-Din, pallid from loss of blood, but resplendent in a new tunic and kaftan and his agha's helmet.
"O, my uncle," the Pasha explained, "here is the servant to answer thy question."
"Speak!" Arak Buka closed his eyes as if wearied by the many lights.
"By the threefold oath, by the grave of the Prophet I swear," cried Zain ad-Din, "that when I rode with two followers I came up with these twain crossing the ravine that leads to the Gate of the Winds. We rode up with our pistols in hand and took their weapons, and then bound them and led them to the Pasha's camp. In the plain across the river the young Naza-rene tricked me and threw me from my horse, and the twain escaped to the river. The rest thou knowest."
"Said I not," Ayub whispered to his comrade, "that the agha had a woman's wit? He has been told all that was said here before him. And the khan has not sent to look for the bodies."
"What would it prove if he did?" the Scot asked quietly, and Ayub could only gnaw his mustache.
Arak Buka considered, his eyes still shut and his thin face tranquil.
"They brought thy horse also," he observed.
And Zain ad-Din remembered that the khan was acquisitive where horses were involved.
"May it find favor in thy sight, O Majesty of the Krim, he cried, "if thou
wilt accept the horse as a gift."
"A good horse." The old Tartar nodded approvingly, and even commanded that the Arabian be led before the pavilion entrance for him to see again. The pacer had not yet been relieved of its saddle. "Is that the horse?"
"May it please the Sword of the Faith, the white charger was mine and is now thine."
"How was it bred? Has it been long in thy hand?"
"As to the blood strain I know not, but I had it of a dealer of Sivas, and for four years it has carried me."
"Nay," murmured Arak Buka, "the white horse bears the brand of the Ghirei clan of Tartars. Look upon its flank."
Zain ad-Din's dark eyes lowered and lifted again. In ten seconds he had meditated swiftly; he did not know of any brand, but he did not dare question the khan's word.
"That mark? It was on the horse when I had it of the dealer."
"Kai, this horse is no more than a two-year." Suddenly Arak Buka leaned forward, his gnarled hands on his knees, his slant eyes blazing, and words hissed from his lips. "Thou hast lied! The horse is Tartar bred, and one of that breed is only taken from us by the sword. Thou hast slain my mirza."
The white faced agha swayed on his knees, and Murad Pasha spoke swiftly.
"So, Zain ad-Din, thy tale was false, and—thou has struck down a servant of the khan to gain the horse. For no other reason than that, thou hast the blood of a believer upon thy hand."
His lips curved, and his dark eyes stared at his officer from drooping lids. Only his hand, caressing a dagger sheath, was tense as the talons of a hawk.
Zain ad-Din started to speak, and involuntarily his eyes sought Murad's. The blood seemed to drain from his cheeks, leaving his face a set mask, and his lips a line of pain. Twice he bent his head and murmured:
"God is one! It is true that I have slain a mirza of the great khan to gain this horse."
Immediately Murad rose, his brow dark.
"O dog of the dunghill! Thou knowest the law of the Horde? For the thief and the slayer, death."
The agha folded his arms.
"I have heard, O my pasha."
The pasha spoke to one of his officers, who came forward with a sipahi and took Zain ad-Din by the arms. And the agha rose to his feet at once. He salaamed to Arak Buka, who watched him silently, and then turned to leave the pavilion. His step was firm and he seemed less stirred than the two who walked at his side. At the entrance he waited for the throng to give way.
Then he knelt, beyond the ropes, and for several moments lifted his hands and bent his body in prayer, his eyes toward Mecca. So still was the assemblage that the murmur of his voice carried to the pasha—
"Allah u kerim—God the merciful and compassionate—"
When the murmur ended, and he knelt with his clenched hands against his forehead, the sipahi stepped quickly behind him. In the gleam of the lanterns the arc of blue steel showed for an instant as the soldier lifted his arm, the point of the blade turned down. A quick thrust downward, a check, a final lunge. Zain ad-Din's body jerked forward, and a sig
h ran through the crowd.
The sipahi bent forward and held up in both hands the agha's severed head, holding it by the ears.
"Thou hast seen!" Murad leaned toward his host. "A life taken for a life."
"Aye," said Arak Buka, and thought for a moment. "Now give me back the ten thousand pieces of gold that would have been mine."
Surprise made the Turk frown.
"O Lord of the Krim, believest thou the tale of the gold and the message that none but the Nazarenes themselves can read?"
The old Tartar indulged in one of his spells of silence, until his eyes opened and he smiled as if he saw a solution of the matter.
"I have heard, O my nephew, that thou art schooled in the writing of Stamboul and the writing of the Franks."
"Indeed, O my khan."
Stretching forth his hand for the missive that had been given to a mullah's care, Arak Buka offered Stuart's parchment to the Turk.
"Then read, thyself, and satisfy thyself."
Murad took it in his hands and glanced at it eagerly.
"This is the common language of the Franks, by which one race writes to another and it is called Latin."
He scanned the lines, at first curiously, then with a swift and amazed
stare. Motioning for a lantern to be brought, he bent over it, glancing hastily at the seal and then returning to the written lines. And Stuart, watching from the outer shadows, caught Ayub by the arm with a grip that pressed into the Cossack's muscles.
When he had finished, Murad Pasha looked up, his broad face flushed with triumph, and his dark eyes alight.
"O my khan, this paper is not a message to thee. It is no more than an appointment to the rank of colonel, signed by the king of Poland."
A single exclamation resounded from all who had heard, and the old Tartar rose suddenly, his hand clutching at the hilt of his scimitar. His slant eyes glowed and the lines on his bronzed head deepened into a mask of rage.
"Hai, I have listened too long to thee, Murad Pasha. I have heard thee say thy men seized these ambassadors, not knowing. And then like a snake thou hast come to bid me slay them. Thy men were taking them to thee, not to me. Am I an addled old woman? Am I blind?"
"Nay—" the Turk held out the parchment in both hands—"the words are written—"
"Am I a twice begotten fool? God forbid! Would two Nazarenes ride into the Krim without a letter to me? I am tired of lies. I am weary of hearing talk to lead my horses into the snow!"
Murad Pasha was a man who loved best the boldest course, and now he stifled his anger while he weighed two alternatives and made his decision. He did a very simple and reckless thing. Turning away from the furious Tartar, he spoke to the throng that were now on their feet in a tumult of shouts; he threw back his head and laughed.
"O ye men of the sword, too long has this dotard ruled ye. Verily he is aged as a gray horse. He is a child, grasping at trinkets, and easily beguiled; he is a falcon with dim eyes. Choose, ye Muslimin! I have set up my standard. Come thither, ye who will ride to the holy war. And let the others who are fools come to the standard of the blind khan."
Arak Buka became quiet instantly, and before any one could speak, he stretched out a lean arm, pointing to the pavilion entrance.
"Go!" he said slowly. "Here, thou art the guest of my yurt. Go to thy camp and arm thy men and then watch to see who will come to thy standard."
Throwing back his heavy svitza, Ayub bared his steaming chest to the cool night air and looked up at the sky aglow with starlight. He was in the saddle of his own horse again, and beside him Stuart rode the piebald wolf-chaser. Ahead of them trotted a Krim mirza on his pony, the guide appointed them, to show them the way to the guest pavilion.
"As God lives, Sir Brother," the big Cossack said, loosing long pent up breath with a sigh that was like a bellow, you will never touch death as near as that, until the grave takes you."
The throbbing in his head was echoed by the rising mutter of drums that grew louder as they penetrated the lines of yurts. Lanterns bobbed past them, and dust sifted over them. From far off came the other mutter that, once known, is never mistaken—the swift thudding of hundreds of horses at a gallop.
"And what now?" said the Scot.
"Ekh ma! The khan has received us as ambassadors, and no man of his dare lift hand against us. We are safe in our skins."
"As long as he is the khan."
They reined in, because their escort motioned them back. Past the end of the tent alley a dark mass rushed, visible in the starglow. Dust rose thicker, and they heard the creaking of leather, the jangle of bit chains. They saw steel lance points flash and vanish, as a regiment of horsemen went past at a gallop.
A little farther on they had to edge by the picket lines where warriors were saddling their shaggy ponies and riding off almost in silence, as if commands were things unheard of. Nor did any lights go with them. Stuart sniffed the damp air like a hunting dog nosing out a high scent, and Ayub peered about him curiously. The roar of the drums did not lessen, and now wild pipes wailed.
"Thousands are moving out," Stuart said, "and they are riding light."
"What is it?" the Cossack asked the mirza.
He did not answer, but turned aside to ascend a rise where the great drums thundered, and the pole and crosspiece of a battle standard rose, with its drooping buffalo tails against the stars. Here no lanterns gleamed, and they were challenged by unseen guards.
The mirza turned in the saddle then and pointed toward the west— as Stuart calculated quickly from the stars. Beyond the Tartar lines the plain was dark as far as the distant lights of the Turkish camp. But Stuart made out the banks of the river, and the water itself where it was churned to white foam by some unseen power. And he knew that the mounted regiments were crossing the river.
Suddenly the drums above them were silent, and other sounds reached them—a faint ululation of voices, and a single shrill cry—
"Ghar-ghar-ghar!"
The whole night seemed to be astir and moving toward the west, where now sounded the faint thudding of musketry.
Stuart's hand clenched upon his belt as he studied the far-off flashes that lighted up clouds of rolling smoke. The cavalry of the khan was attacking the pasha's camp. Arak Buka had not waited for any discussion, but had launched his horsemen across the river at once. Ayub had come to the same conclusion.
"Devil take him, he's gone to tear down the standard of the Turks!"
More lights appeared, and a ruddy glow outlined the rampart of the distant camp. The Turks were starting fires, to drive away the darkness. The deeper reverberations of cannon rolled over the plain.
"Will the Horde storm the rampart?" Ayub asked the mirza.
"Kabadir, amamja. Perhaps; God knows."
But the Tartar remained motionless as the Scot, his slant eyes fixed on the plain. Although the wanderers were aching with hunger they did not think of food. Stuart was the first to see tiny black figures moving in front of the fires. They seemed to move very slowly and the musketry fire increased.
Then the sounds dwindled, although the fires did not die out. No more Tartars were crossing the river. The far off murmur swelled and sank. The shooting lessened and finally ceased.
"They are in," Stuart said, "or they have been beaten off."
Lights appeared in the dark plain, moving back toward the river, like fireflies crawling through the grass. It was an hour before the nearest of them reached the water, and Stuart noticed that they moved at a foot pace.
On the near bank slaves were lighting piled up brush at the fords to mark the way and presently the first men came out of the plain, walking into the water up to their waists. Their turbans and heavy breeches revealed them as Turkish infantry. But they carried no arms or packs and they came on in huddled groups.
Beside them rode armed Tartars with bundles slung upon their cruppers. When the Turks hung back at the water's edge, the riders mocked them, laughing and whirling long lances over their heads. Mor
e of the dark columns moved into the firelight—captives, sullen and surprised. Few were wounded, but all seemed dazed, as if stirred out of their sleep. Among them marched dismounted aghas and officers of the pasha.
Through them galloped a warrior of the Horde, a gold mace in his hand, and an ermine khalat thrown over his knees. His shrill shout reached the height where Stuart watched.
"Ohai, ye men of the Krim! The door of looting is open! Arak Buka Khan has pulled down the standard of the Ottomans—aye, he will send them back to their galleys, barefoot and without arms!"
As if in answer to these tidings, the kettledrums roared over their heads. Duncan Stuart sat back in the saddle with a long sigh of contentment. He had carried out his orders, and his mission was accomplished. And the result was more than he had hoped for. Because now it was certain that the Tartars would not ride beside the Turks to the Christian frontiers. And, being young, he felt the thrill that comes to the man who has faced odds and gone ahead in spite of them.
"Well for us, Sir Brother," Ayub mused, "that the khan took that camp. It was a rich camp, and these wasps of Tartars will think we brought them good fortune." For a moment he pondered what had happened. "Only, Murad Pasha must have been struck by madness to make up such about your letter. It was a poor lie."
"Nay," Stuart smiled. "He told the truth."
"How the truth?"
"The paper was my commission as colonel, from the hand of the king, and Murad Pasha read it aright."
Gripping his beard in both hands, Ayub peered at his companion.
"But the message, the message you gave the khan?"
"I made it up as you interpreted. And God knows," the young Scot added quietly, "that every word of it was true."
Ayub snorted, and shook his head slowly from side to side. He put his hands on his lips and looked up at the stars. Then he gripped the arm of the man whose life he had saved and whom he loved as a son.
"Devil take you!" he muttered in his beard. "You're a true Cossack— won't turn aside for anything. Said I not that we twain could find a way through where the ambassadors could not?"
"We two—" Stuart gathered up his reins and leaned forward to stroke the shoulder of the piebald wolf-chaser—"and a good horse."