Swords of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  Beyond, he could see torches moving between low huts and walls whitened with lime. From time to time a strident voice shouted, or a horseman trotted by. The aul was awake and astir.

  Koum knew what lay yonder under the mantle of starlight. A deep well, and a pool of filthy water. A tomb of some holy man, guarded by a handful of mullahs and dervishes. Perhaps three score families of Turkomans in their flat clay dwellings and horsehide tents—the men robbers and slayers by choice and heredity, the women of less account than the horses. Sharp eyes and sharper weapons on the watch, suspicious of each other but merciless to strangers. Koum remembered that his own horse had come from this aul, having been acquired by a hand-to-hand fight in which he had slain the Turkoman who owned the horse.

  By the sounds and by the subdued glow of small fires, he thought that the tribesmen were eating. As yet he had seen no trace of the captive Cossack. But the torture would come after the eating. And from this torment Koum must release the prisoner, if it could be done.

  How it might be done Koum did not know. He had one musket and a tired horse, and there were probably a hundred muskets and swords in the aul. If he were seen, they would drag him down like wolves. He could not think of any plan.

  But he could rest the Karbarda. It might have to carry double, later. Dismounting, he tied the horse in a dark gully and looked around him cautiously. Near at hand camels were dozing, grunting and bubbling. And the black dome of a tent stood by them. Koum walked over to the tent quietly and listened. After a moment he sniffed and moved closer to the entrance gap.

  A strong, sourish smell came from the tent which seemed deserted. The Cossack bent his massive body and went in. He traced the smell to a side where goatskins and leather sacks lay piled. He picked up one of the skins which gurgled cheerfully under his hands.

  Pulling out the peg that served as a cork in one leg, he tilted up the skin and tasted the liquid in it. As he had thought, it was kumiss—the fermented mare's milk that served the nomads for wine and food. Koum drank deep.

  Then he sat down on a sack. He had a little time, and it would be bad luck to leave the skin half empty after tasting it. He drank again and felt refreshed. There was quite a bit of kumiss in the skin, and when Koum had finished he sat still. His head hummed, but he could hear someone approaching the tent. His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and when the visitor stooped through the entrance, he made out the slender figure, the tight-fitting garment and white hair veil of a young girl.

  Presently she stopped, with a hiss of indrawn breath, and Koum thought she had heard or smelled something strange. So he sprang up, groped for her, grasped her shoulders and yowled in her ear.

  "Shaitan, khanum—mumtazkhanum!—Woman, I am a devil—I love you, woman!"

  The girl wrenched herself away, darted from the tent and began to scream when she was a little distance off. Koum also left the tent, going the other way, back to his horse. No one would pay any attention to a girl's outcry, but the Cossack chuckled as he reflected that the next day the mullah would probably be called in to write a prayer against a black seven-foot Tartar devil that waylaid women. Then he tried to think of a plan, but could not.

  He guided his horse up a little rise near the graves, so he could look into the aul.

  And when he did so the shaven hairs bristled on his scalp. The torture had begun.

  A great fire lighted the center of the aul, where there was a little clear space before the tomb. A lance length in front of the white wall of the tomb a heavy stake had been planted in the ground, with a crosspiece fastened to it and upon this cross the captive Cossack had been tied with his arms stretched out. He had been stripped to the girdle and his long white body glinted in the firelight.

  Round the fire a dark mass of tribesmen sat on the ground, shaggy heads moving restlessly.

  "Yah huk—yah hak; yah huk—yah hak!" the wailing of a dervish went on like a tireless drum, and already some of the heads began to sway in time to the chant.

  As soon as the mood seized them, the Moslems would start upon the Cossack with their knives, or perhaps heated irons. Once Koum had seen a victim of such torture—a man with empty eye sockets who ran from side to side in the plain with hoarse cries coming out of his open mouth, while his hands tore at his bleeding stomach. The skin of his stomach had been slit open and sewed together again very skillfully and what had been put inside the slit Koum never knew. But the vultures were hopping around the dying man . . .

  And Koum felt the chill of fear in his blood. In another moment they might start with the knives, and here he was out of reach. He caught the strap of his musket. A lucky shot would save the other Cossack from his agony.

  But the bullet might miss—and Koum did not want to wipe out a Cossack like that. He thought of spurring his horse into the aul, trying to reach the man and cut him loose. No chance of that. They would both be roped, dragged down.

  A strange thing had happened. An hour ago Koum had not been able to think of a plan. Now a dozen plans buzzed and sang in his head. He would pretend to be a ghost coming out of the graves. He would play a ghost march, to draw the attention of the Turkomans. Then he would steal away—creep round behind the captive Cossack and cut him free. Aye, he would even let the Cossack know that aid was coming. While he mused, Koum took up the bagpipe.

  An unearthly cry rent the night, echoed by a wailing moan. It was as if all the devils of the winds had come together, out of the sky. The howling of wolves, the roaring of trumpets and squealing of pigs could not have made such sounds.

  In the aul, men scrambled to their feet and peered into the darkness. The dervish ceased his howling.

  After a minute Koum put down the bagpipe. It was time to change his place. But a new sound caught his ear—a bellowing and rushing of hoofs. The wailing of the pipe had stampeded the cattle sleeping in the nearby fields.

  He trotted down from the hillock toward the dark shapes that rushed past. A horseman galloped out of the darkness, shouting, and—seeing the Cossack—swerved toward him. Koum heard the rasp of steel drawn from a sheath, and saw a bearded face snarl in triumph.

  Beneath him, the Karbarda braced itself, and the two horses came together. The Turkoman slashed at his ribs with a curved knife, but the Cossack slipped to the far side of the saddle. The long arm of the tribesman in its wide sleeve swung past harmlessly, and Koum gripped the other around the waist with his right arm.

  Swiftly the Cossack's left arm shot behind the Turkman's head, his fingers clamping upon the bearded chin. With his shoulder under the other's knife arm, Koum wrenched with all the strength of his back. He pulled the man's chin half around, cutting off a wild cry.

  The Turkoman groaned and tried to strike down with his knife, then kicked at his horse to urge it on. But he was anchored in Koum's arms, which wrenched at him again and a third time. Bones crackled and suddenly the Turkoman's head became limp in Koum's fingers. His neck was broken, the spine snapped clear.

  Panting, Koum looked to right and left, and lowered the big body in its greasy sheepskins to the saddle, catching the rein of the other pony as he did so. Leading the dead man's horse, he urged his own beast at a walk across the fields, until he came to some white boulders and a stunted tree.

  Here he tethered the restless horses, and squatted down to stare over the ground on all sides. A few sheep galloped past, and on the knoll he had quitted ten minutes ago, dark figures moved slowly. Searchers were looking for the source of the demoniac music.

  Koum chuckled silently, and lifted the dead Turkoman to his back by one arm. He loosed the strap of his musket and laid it against a rock. Guns were no use in the dark—only got in the way. But he kept the bagpipe in his free hand.

  Slowly he made his way not toward the mound but to the aul. In the starlight he looked like some humped, eight-legged creature dangling horns before him. Circling refuse heaps, he crept along the wall of a hut, and waited until a group of men walked by. Then he went forward hastily in the shadow of
an alley.

  "Now they will find a sign," he muttered under his breath.

  Carefully he lowered the Turkoman to the ground and pulled his legs straight. Then he stretched the dead man's arms to each side, and stopped to listen. A harsh voice called from a roof top.

  "Hai, Yussouf, has aught been seen?"

  Another voice mumbled a response, and Koum heard a step behind him. Without looking up, he fitted the wind tube to his mouth and filled the bag. A dim figure stooped over him, staring down at the dark mass crouching on the ground.

  "Y’allah!" The newcomer muttered. "O God!"

  Koum's bagpipe skirled and wailed, filling the alley with sound. The inquisitive Turkoman leaped high and ran. Koum's pipe shrieked in triumph, and into its madness, Koum wove snatches of a song—a staccato march known to all the Cossacks. Now the prisoner would know that a friend had seen him.

  Almost at once Koum ceased playing the pipe and hastened into the protecting shadows of the alley. Behind him silence reigned. But he knew that men would come into the alley cautiously, to behold the devil who made the wailing music, and they would find the dead Turkoman. The path he had taken led into the deeper gloom of trees, and Koum made a half circle before coming out into the starlight. He could no longer see the firelight reflected on the high dome of the tomb, but he saw that he was standing in a small graveyard and judged that he was behind the tomb itself.

  In the direction of the alley he heard an outcry and angry shouts. Taking off his kalpak and tucking it through his girdle, he moved forward cautiously to the corner of the tomb.

  By shifting his head a little he could look out into the cleared space. The fire had been allowed to die down, and by the glow of the embers he could see that most of the Turkomans had left the place. Those who remained were talking uneasily, their attention upon the tumult in the alley. Boys ran by with newly lighted torches.

  Twenty feet away from Koum stood the cross facing the other way. The prisoner had not changed his position—only his head moved slowly from side to side. Koum could not see his face. Between the cross and the fire, within arm's reach of the captive stood a tall tribesman with a sword and knife in his girdle.

  Now was Koum's chance to cut the other Cossack free. Not much of a chance, but the only one he would have.

  Slowly, he slid around the corner of the stone tomb. He kept erect because he knew that anything crawling along the ground would catch the eyes of the men out there more quickly than a man moving slowly on his legs. He was flat against the wall, edging toward the shadow cast by the cross.

  For a moment he was in full view of the squatting Turkomans, and he would have been seen if any one of the dozen round the fire had looked carefully at the wall. He took another step. Another. He had six feet more to cover, when a boy galloped by the fire, waving a torch. Koum's head buzzed, and he held himself motionless. Still, not a man looked at him.

  Stepping into the shadow of the cross, he moved forward a pace— touched the stake and stood against it. He could hear the other Cossack breathing quickly. Did the prisoner know he was there? Koum dared not whisper a word.

  He felt along the back of the crosspiece. The wrists of the Cossack had been bound to it with hemp cords. Carefully Koum drew out his knife.

  The tall tribesman in front of the cross spoke suddenly. "Yok, cham-bla, yok. It's bad, no good."

  No one responded, and the Turkoman yawned, and turned his back, picking at his nose. Koum touched the other Cossack on the ribs with his knife blade. The prisoner stiffened, planting his feet. Then, swiftly, Koum cut the hemp cords, pressing his dagger's edge into the wood.

  The cords dangled over the cross bar, but the other Cossack held his arms motionless as before. The big Turkoman had turned suddenly, staring behind the cross and sniffing loudly. He had one blind, white eye, but the other glared into the shadow, and he started to draw the curved knife.

  In that instant the Cossack upon the cross moved. His right arm thrust down. He caught the Turkoman's sword hilt and ripped the blade clear. As the tribesman struck with the knife, the Cossack thrust the point of the curved sword beneath his beard, and the Turkoman staggered back screaming.

  "Y’allah—al-"

  The Cossack whipped round the post, glanced once at Koum, and stumbled against the wall of the tomb.

  "Lead!" he cried.

  Cries of amazement went up from the fire as the watchers beheld the cross empty and their comrade wounded. Koum ran behind the tomb and stopped, hearing the clash of steel at his back. The Cossack had turned at the corner to strike at the first tribesman to leap after him. Twice he struck, knocking the pursuer's sword down and slashing his head.

  "This way!" Koum called to him.

  Instead of heading back into the graveyard and the trees, Koum ran clear round the tomb coming out into the alley where the throng had gathered about the dead man.

  "Put this over your hide," he told the Cossack, slipping off his lambskin coat. The black garment covered the man's white skin, and the Turkomans in the alley only saw two dark figures walk across and disappear among some tents. Meanwhile the pursuers at the tomb were shouting for torches to search the cemetery.

  "I can't run," whispered the Cossack. "Leg hurt."

  "No matter." Koum put his arm under the other's shoulder and walked beside him, heading down toward the rocks where he had tied the horses. "Luck's with us."

  As he sighted the tree and the waiting beasts, he saw torches coming out of the tents through which they had run. He did not ask the prisoner if he could ride—he would have to stick to the saddle. He gave the Cossack his own horse, mounting the Turkoman pony himself.

  They walked the horses at first, then struck into a gallop, down the slope, until the aul and its torches were far behind. Then Koum chuckled and reined in. The Cossack beside him heard a sound of blowing and presently a demoniac wail split the darkness.

  When Koum had finished his parting salutation to the Turkomans they galloped on, heading toward the river. Koum knew that a whole regiment might chase them in vain in the darkness, and they could swim the river when they came to it. His head felt warm and comfortable, and once or twice he snored unexpectedly. Then he settled back in the high saddle, and sighed.

  He woke suddenly when his pony stumbled. Straightening himself in the saddle, he felt to see if his musket and bagpipe were safe; then he stretched and yawned.

  "How is it?" asked the Cossack beside him. "Are you still drunk?"

  "How, drunk?" demanded Koum.

  "Soused, playing hide and find in the aul. But you saved my hide for me."

  "As God lives, you son of a dog," Koum rumbled, "I haven't taken a glass—" He thought of the kumiss sack, and remembered vaguely playing the bagpipe to distract the wolves back yonder.

  The other Cossack nodded. He was a tall man, a good man with the sword, Koum reflected.

  "Perhaps not a glass, but you've had a jugful somewhere, bratik moi. When you were behind the stake you were breathing fumes like a cellar. No wonder the Turkoman smelled you out. Fire would have caught on such a breath. Look here—didn't you know they were looking for you?"

  Koum was silent, trying to remember just what had happened at the aul.

  "The guard in the watchtower saw you riding up at sunset," went on the other Cossack. "They were searching for you down below. I heard them tell of it. When you played that music of yours, they all ran to the spot. They put me on the stake and lighted a fire, as bait to draw you in. I called to you, twice. Didn't you hear?"

  "Nay," Koum shook his head. It seemed to him that the plan he had made to fool the Turkomans had not been so fine, after all. And he began to feel angry, because his head ached and crawled as if lice were biting his brains. He peered from side to side. By the cold feel of the air the night was more than half gone. Ahead of him lay the river and the outline of the far bank looked familiar. "Look," he cried. "You've brought us back to the ford again. The Turkomans will look for us here."

  "Well
, they're not here," the Cossack answered casually. "And I left my kalpak over in those rocks."

  "Your kalpak! By God, don't you know I was riding back to my choutar to see the beautiful lady before she goes off. She's like the moon."

  "She may be that, but I heard her say to her husband that we Cossacks were animals."

  "That's a lie, you foster son of a hog!" Koum began to snort, because it seemed to him that this Cossack was mocking the lady.

  "Don't get your hair up. The countess is fair enough, but if we go back to your choutar she'll make more trouble for us. Better sleep here-"

  "May the dogs bite you!" The hot blood rushed into Koum's head. "I'll sleep where I like. I am Koum, the Zaporogian. Aye, the Tartars beat their foreheads on earth when they see me, and the man doesn't live I can't put down with my hands."

  "Well, Koum," said the other Cossack, "I'm Gurka, the sword slayer, and I could cut you open like a hare—"

  "Death to you!" Koum howled with rage. He jerked his horse up to Gurka and struck out with a heavy fist.

  The blow caught the Cossack on the shoulder, turning him half round. It cast his weight upon his injured leg, and he groaned and fell from the saddle. Still holding to the sword he had brought from the aul, he got to his knee, panting.

  "You fool," he muttered. "Go down to the river and cool off your head. Don't come back until you've soaked it well, and then I'll cut your hide for you if you want."

  Koum had dismounted and drawn his long knife. But his throat was afire with thirst, and he ran down to the water's edge. He stretched himself out on the stones, sucking in the cold water. Then he thrust in his head several times.

  He walked back slowly, wiping the water from his eyes and wringing it from scalp lock. All at once he remembered that Gurka had been hurt, and he felt ashamed because he had struck at him.

  Gurka was standing, leaning on the scimitar.

  "Well," he said sternly, "what now?"