Swords of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  On an impulse—he seldom acted otherwise—the youth leaped in the pool without bothering to rid himself of coat or boots. Feeling under water for the scalp lock of his enemy, Borasun gripped Chilogir and swam for shore. No easy matter that. When at last they lay on the rocks Bora-sun was foredone and Chilogir as limp as a wet sack of meal.

  Presently when the young warrior rose to seek his horse the old Tatar rolled over, vomited and stood up.

  "Hai," grunted Borasun in surprise, "you don't die easily, dog-face."

  As they gazed at each other he burst out laughing, the old man looked so like a besotted grandfather. But the Tatar, after steady scrutiny from his green eyes lifted both hands to his forehead and bent his head to Bo-rasun's girdle.

  "For saving my life, I will call you nephew and give to you two such horses as you have not seen before this."

  Pointing beyond the bluff, he added:

  "Come to my yurt in peace. You will eat and drink like a hero, for no man ever goes hungry from the house of Chilogir, the sangar."

  Borasun considered how much of treachery was behind this offer and judged there was little. Once in the Tatar's hut he knew the inviolate law of hospitality among the high-caste Tatars would protect him. Moreover he lacked both food and a serviceable horse, the last a serious matter. He trusted to his wits to make his escape unmolested.

  If he refused Chilogir's offer he departed on a crippled mount with an empty belly and the certainty of swift pursuit at his heels. Borasun could kill the old Tatar easily enough and leave without being followed. But having half frozen himself to save the old chap's life he was in no mood to strike his enemy, now unarmed.

  "So be it, uncle," he said. "Let the horses be good ones."

  Now Borasun, having left his saber outside the yurt, drank deeply of fermented mare's milk and sour wine. Seated at the guest's side of the fire in the hut, he gorged himself until he sweated with rich mutton, brought by the ancient woman who was Chilogir's wife—and then drank more. But even so he doubted the evidence of his eyes when the Tatar servants of the master of the yurt brought up the two horses for his inspection.

  They were little bigger than ponies. They had horns growing in front of their ears, their hoofs were split like an ox's foot.

  "I am bewitched," he cried. "These have come from the devil's stable to pay me a visit."

  "They are reindeer, good sir," explained the Tatar, not adding that they were his two driving reindeer, not to be sold or killed for food.

  "Ohai!" The warrior emptied his bowl and rubbed his eyes. "Uncle, 'tis said magicians ride them. I will not."

  "No need. They will draw you on a light sledge. See!" Chilogir pointed out the tent's doorway. "Snow falls. It will lie heavy in the mountain passes. My reindeer will take you where no horse can go—aye, and faster. They run with the wind and the wolves cannot catch them. Thus will you go to your own land."

  He bent closer to Borasun, his eyes glittering.

  "Remember this. He who lays an evil hand upon my reindeer, who does them harm—he will suffer. He may not escape."

  In the smoke from the fire the broad-lined face of the gnome who was Chilogir appeared black and his eyes blazed. They were like the eyes of a cat that sees in the dark.

  Borasun crossed himself, then laughed.

  "I will do them no harm, uncle. Hai, if they go fast, 'twill suit my taste. I ride with the whirlwind."

  "Upon their ears is the mark of Chilogir, the sangar. If the Tatar folk see them in your keeping, Cossack, they will cut you open like a hare. So will I give you a mark by which it will be known that you are the friend of Chilogir."

  From the tent wall behind him he drew a broad leather belt, ornamented with iron images of various beasts. At a sign from him the woman strapped it about Borasun, who regarded it with amusement.

  "The little daughter of the house should do me this honor," he muttered. "Where is she hiding?"

  "Chi-li is my daughter," said Chilogir. "She is riding over the snow on the steppe toward the setting sun. Aye, she was seized by the fellows of your Kazak regiment. They have taken her away."

  Borasun felt for his sword, remembered that he had left it outside and shrugged. The Tungusi were wont to guard the virtue of their women closely. It was not well to meddle with the families of the Tungusi.

  But Chilogir had given his word that no harm should come to Bora-sun, and the Cossack felt that his person was reasonably safe from retribution for the carrying-off of Chi-li.

  All the same, the brooding quiet of the old man who was called a san-gar made the youth rather uncomfortable. So he blustered.

  "Was she pretty, this Chi-li?"

  "Aye, she was a red flower of the steppe. She had not seen fourteen Summers."

  "Well, then, she will not be killed."

  The green eyes of Chilogir glittered.

  "Where will they take her?"

  "Over the passes of the Altai to the Kazak steppe, to Tabagatai, our town by the waters of Lake Balkash."

  "And will you go there, my nephew?"

  "Where else, uncle? Give me some more kumiss. I will take the road tonight, before cock-crow—"

  "Chi-li would give the kumiss, if she were here. Tchai, there is nothing but smoke in the place where she sat! On the mare's skin, the white mare's skin by the fire. Ha, my woman, give the stranger hero to drink!"

  Whether it was the kumiss—the fermented liquids of the Tatars were heady stuff—or his own drowsiness, Borasun did not know. Certainly he heard the old woman lamenting, wailing like a bereaved she wolf.

  Deep though he drank, he felt sure that when Chilogir, the old sangar, the white conjurer, made the cry of a falcon a hawk answered, though it was night and snowing. When the Tatar uttered the call of a horse, his own beast whinnied; a wolf howled beside the tent.

  "Remember," he heard Chilogir saying from very far, "no harm to my reindeer."

  The old man stretched his arms out to the west.

  "Chi-li, little daughter, I send the reindeer."

  When full consciousness returned to him Borasun was leaning back against the wooden support of the sledge, wedged in with furs over which were placed his saddlebags with a fresh supply of frozen meat. The snow was still falling, making the daylight gray about him. His limbs were numb and his eyes ached.

  Ahead of him moved the rump of a reindeer; he could see the antlers of the leader farther on. They were moving over the snow carpet with a long swinging gait that caused the isolated firs to flash past quickly.

  Borasun could not see the trail they followed. But at the end of that day when the snow ceased, he could make out the white peaks of the Altai against the gray sky. By the contour of the land he knew he was approaching the pass through which he and his comrades had penetrated into Tatary.

  The marketplace of Tabagatai was the meeting-place of many races. Wandering Cossack bands rode thither from the Ukraine; the Kirghiz shepherd drove in his flocks to be sold. Solemn lines of camels stalked through the mob, grunting under their burden of trade from the people of the moguls to the people of the tsar.

  Thin-faced Moslems squatted in their stalls beside weapons and silver-work for sale, wrinkling their noses at the smells from the fish stall and the cloth booths of bearded and odorous merchants of Moscovy.

  Over the snow, trodden into mud here, the smell of camel and horseflesh vied with sweating humanity. The inns were places of Rabelaisian orgies.

  Before the hearth of one hostelry Borasun matched dice with a bearded Cossack colonel, whose skin was marred by wounds and who was blind in one eye. A bottle of gorilka stood on the table between them and Borasun had looked long on the bottle. Luck was running against him and the hot blood was rising in his head.

  "The devil's in the dice," the young warrior grumbled. "Hai, when I crossed the mountain passes from Tartary I heard werewolves howling in the glens and little children vampires flaming in the darkness. Now my luck is bad."

  The Cossack, Balabash, crossed himself and m
urmured a prayer.

  "It is true that unburied children make the worst vampires," he admitted sagely. "They cry and cry and climb up behind you. Then when you aren't looking, psst—they are sucking the blood out of your neck! How did you escape?"

  Borasun jerked his thumb at the inn yard where a curious crowd was staring at the two reindeer. He had driven his unaccustomed beasts hard, but, being dependent on them for his life, had taken as good care of the animals as was within his power.

  They had brought him safely over the Sair Pass where the howling of the Winter wind was indeed much like the cry of wolves and where the phosphorescent wood rotting under the snow resembled a green fire in the shadows.

  So, going where a horse could not go, he had outdistanced his fellows, without meeting with them. In fact few of that Cossack kuren rode back alive from the killing Winter journey over the mountain passes. Those few had promptly sold what booty they had to the shrewd merchants of Tabagatai, in order to join in the general revelry, and drink to the memory of their departed comrades.

  Rather proud of his driving reindeer—no such animals had appeared in the town before—Borasun drove them about the place in great style, enlarging on their virtues.

  "See, good sirs," he would bellow at the watchers, "here are horses who go before the wind and run away from werewolves. They eat only moss under the snow and bark and such trash. Oh, they are quite a pair, I tell you. I wouldn't sell them; no, I wouldn't think of it."

  Now Borasun felt with an unsteady hand in his wallet.

  "May I taste a scorpion, Balabash, if you haven't the last of my gold. Well, here's my hat and coat. I'll stake them and win."

  But the goddess was perverse. Borasun's gold-inlaid scabbard went the way of his other garments. His sword he would not wager.

  "Two hundred thalers," said a voice at his ear, "for your reindeer."

  It was Cherkasi, one of the richest of the merchants, a dealer in slaves. He was from Kiev, and it was said no man could outdo him in a bargain. Moreover, having a great store of goods, he was one of the masters of Tabagatai. He was a very tall man, in a soiled mink coat, with a broad face marked with the smallpox.

  "Go back to your scavenging, Cherkasi," grunted Borasun; "this is a place for warriors."

  The eyes of the merchant puckered. It was said that he got his start as a camp follower who robbed the dead after a battle.

  Instead of answering angrily he smiled.

  "Two hundred gold thalers," he repeated, "and when you win from the colonel you can buy back your beasts. Here is the gold."

  Flushed and unsteady, Borasun stared at the coins. Then he swept them up and cried to Balabash.

  "What say you, good sir, at one throw? Your gold against this?"

  The Cossack wiped his mustache and nodded.

  "So be it."

  Borasun lost. He caught up the gorilka flask, emptied it, cast it into the fire and straightway went to sleep on the hearth.

  When the war is over, poor chap, when the war is over,

  You will find, poor fellow,

  Your wife gone away from home,

  And your hide full of wounds.

  Thus sang Colonel Balabash, spreading his feet to the fire and sighing deeply, for he was a melancholy man.

  Awake and sober once more, Borasun left the inn and borrowed two hundred thalers from various comrades. Then he swaggered off to the serai outside the town wall where Cherkasi kept his pack-animals, his retainers and slaves.

  Now reindeer are unusual beasts—peculiar that is, to those who do not understand them. The merchant did not know how to handle the halter-cord that controlled their movements and being unfriendly to animals he did not make any progress with the two deer, who at once became very stupid and obdurate. They would not go where he wanted, nor would they stay when he left them.

  Finally, assisted by Kirghiz caravaneers and his henchmen, Cherkasi beat, tugged, and lashed them into the serai, where they stood trembling. He wore heavy boots, and the limbs of a reindeer are frail.

  Borasun walked through the entrance in the rock wall and growled under his breath when he saw the evidence of mistreatment on the hides of his two pets.

  "Here are your two hundred thalers," said the warrior. "I will take back my reindeer."

  The merchant sidled forward as Borasun reached for the driving cord.

  "Nay, what would you do, Cossack? The reindeer are mine. They are rare beasts, and I will take them to Kiev to sell at a good profit."

  "Hai, but look here. You said if I had two hundred gold pieces I could buy back the reindeer. Here is your money."

  Cherkasi smiled.

  "Nay, Sir Cossack. I said if you won from Balabash you could have them back. You did not win. They are mine. Does an ataman break his word?"

  Scowling, Borasun fingered the wallet.

  "Listen to me, you greasy-fingered flesh-seller," he said at last. "These animals saved me my life back yonder in the wilderness. I'll not have them thrashed by a fellow like you. How much do you want for them?"

  "From you, nothing. If they are worth so much to you, they are to me. I have some Osmanli lords of Chatagai coming to look at the women your fellow soldiers have transferred to me in trade. They have never seen such deer. They will pay a good price. I will not sell them to you—"

  "You rat!"

  Borasun's saber was out in a flash. Cherkasi had been waiting for that. He shrank back, calling over his shoulder. Desire for revenge for the hard name Borasun had given him in public outweighed even the chance for gain, at present, in his mind. A half dozen armored soldiers, retainers of the merchant, ran forward at his signal.

  "U-ha!" shouted the Cossack. He warded a blow from one of the servants, and cut the man down. A pistol cracked from the group, but Bora-sun advanced on them, his lean face dark with rage.

  "A Cossack fights!" There came a shout from behind him. "Cut, slash!"

  And the old Colonel Balabash jumped across the serai wall, swinging his saber. Cherkasi raised a cry for help and men were heard running toward the place.

  "What is it?" demanded Balabash, ranging himself beside Borasun.

  When he heard—for the retainers had drawn back a pace, reluctant to match blows with the two warriors—he became thoughtful.

  "This is a knot you can't pick with your sword, ataman," he whispered. "Cherkasi is a dog, but he bought the reindeer. If you kill him or his men, he will appeal to the governor of the town. You struck the first blow—"

  "One of his men struck first, on my oath!"

  "No matter. The governor and the merchants do not love us Cossacks, after they have bought our spoil. They'll hang you off the walls for the kites to dine on. Sheathe your sword and come away."

  He was forced to pull the slender Cossack off toward the gate. Bora-sun called back:

  "Harm those beasts and a curse is on you, merchant. That was the word of a magician, Chilogir—"

  He shook off the elder's hand and strode past the tents of Cherkasi. The flap of one fell open, and a pretty brown face peered out at the two warriors.

  "Chilogir!" Borasun heard a whisper. "Ai-a, you wear the belt of Chi-logir, my lord. Tell me, what of him? I am Chi-li."

  Borasun paused and scratched his head, without heeding the snarls of the merchant at his back. He could not remember where he had heard the name Chi-li. Once, when he had been drinking, it was. She was said to be pretty, he reflected. Well, so she was.

  He surveyed the wasted brown cheeks, and the quick eyes under which were deep circles. He could not remember who Chi-li was.

  "Whose woman are you, little sparrow?" Balabash asked, twirling his mustache.

  "Mine," cried the shrill voice of Cherkasi. "Mine, bought from one of your own comrades, Borasun, for three hundred and twenty thalers. Get along with you! She is my slave and I will sell her to the Turkish lords who pay well for women of other races—"

  Perceiving the mute appeal in the eyes of the girl, Borasun could but shake his head. Somethin
g that he had meant to do for Chi-li—well, he must have dreamed it.

  Seeing that she was staring at his broad leather girdle ornamented with iron images, Borasun unbuckled it and handed the belt to her.

  "Keep this thing, then, Chi-li," he grunted.

  "So, Cherkasi," murmured Balabash, "you would sell this handsome little mouthful to a Turk, eh? Have you any bowels?"

  The merchant refastened the flap of the tent hastily, muttering under his breath. Balabash watched him angrily, and observed,

  "How much will you take for her?"

  Cherkasi spat and was heard to say to himself that he would have no dealing with such dogs of the steppe.

  "Dogs!"

  Balabash had his saber halfway out, when Borasun, grinning, caught his arm.

  "Have you forgotten the governor and his kites so soon, good sir?"

  "True!" The colonel shrugged and linked his arm in that of his comrade. "Cherkasi, you call yourself a Christian, may the devil eat me if you don't. Some day the devil will call you a liar."

  So they went off to the inn, being hungry. Already Chi-li, if not the reindeer, had passed from their minds although their hands itched to get at Cherkasi. Behind them a trembling girl stared from the belt to the slit in the felt tent through which she could see the picketed reindeer.

  It was toward the end of the second watch of the night and even the bazaar dogs were quiet when Pan Pishnivitz knocked at the inn door. Being a mild man, a Pole, with a secret sense of his own importance as lieutenant of the voevod—the governor of Tabagatai, the knock was discreet yet firm. Amid the babble of voices from within it was not heard. Pan Pish-nivitz knocked again, more loudly, and felt of the priming of his pistols.

  True, he reflected, he had a dozen men at his back, halberdiers and musket men from the governor's castle. And the handful of Cossacks in the tavern were little better than vagabonds—since the country was not at war just then. If Holy Church and the voevod and the Empire had been at war and in need of Cossack sabers matters would be different.

  So the lieutenant entered with a steady tread and fixed his eye on the hawk-like face of Borasun.

  "Cossack," he proclaimed, not without importance, "his Excellency the lord governor of the town and province of Balkash has placed you under arrest to answer for a manifest crime and be punished accordingly." He nodded solemnly, adding: "Be a good fellow, Borasun, and don't stir up a rumpus. If you are to be hanged, you no doubt deserve it; it's your Christian duty to obey the law."