Swords of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  "Oxhead! This is no werewolf. How could a werewolf pick up a loaded pistol and walk off with it? Or light a torch in the forest? We'll find your Sergey Okol with a whole hide where that torch is. Come on."

  The Cossacks pushed on through the firs, up a rise that overlooked the wooded ravine and the shore. But no light was visible.

  "It was near here," Kalyan pondered. "Ay, it—Listen!"

  Nothing moved near them. In the stillness of the snow-muffled shore, they heard a faint cry, a woman's voice. It came from the direction of the choutar.

  Kalyan swore under his breath and plunged back down the slope. Coming into the yard, he headed straight through the door, heedless of what might be awaiting him in the darkness. Once inside he stopped dead, listening.

  He heard Arky come in cautiously. The big Cossack went toward his saddlebags and in a moment began to strike sparks against tinder, carrying the flame to a lantern and lighting it.

  "There, kunak," he grunted, surveying the room, "you see. He isn't here!"

  The rug was empty, but the door behind it stood open. Taking the lantern, Kalyan examined the small sleeping room. The only trace of Sana was the impress of her body on the bed, and the painted doll lying askew.

  "He's been here," Kalyan said.

  The Cossacks tried the other door, which led into a storeroom where dried meat hung with herbs. While Kalyan threw the light behind sacks of grain and casks, Arky examined the liquor kegs with interest, sniffing at them and trying their weight. "It's no use, kunak," he grunted, "the man was a wolf, and now the girl's gone. This place is evil. Now after sunup the powers of darkness will cease, and we—" he shook a small keg close to his ear inquisitively, hearing the soft chink of metal that was not iron. "Hi, look at this!"

  But Kalyan had gone from the storeroom, leaving the lantern. Outside the house, the sky was turning gray as he hastened to the stable. A horse whinnied behind him, and his piebald pony trotted up, its halter dragging. The two other horses were gone. The saddles, however, were on their pegs. Evidently Sergey Okol had not waited to saddle two mounts.

  And he would not go far or fast, riding bareback through fresh snow. Kalyan could see the tracks of the missing horses clearly, in the growing light. To his surprise, they led through a break in the palisade, down toward the river.

  "Hi, Kalyan—look!" Arky came shambling up, carrying the small keg. He had pried off the top, and he thrust it under his mate's nose gleefully. It was half full of coins, gleaming softly.

  "Gold," Arky whispered. "Ducats, byzants, Arab miskals! Ay, and turquoise and silver bits. Tfu—all that didn't come from Moscow. It came over the river, from the east."

  Kalyan hefted the keg thoughtfully. If these were Moslem coins, they had come from the Tatars, and surely Serley Okol had not sold furs to the hunters of furs.

  "That wolf-soul was rich as a sultan," Arky whispered. "He hid it all in a brandy cask—that's how I found it. Where are the horses, Kalyan?"

  Kalyan nodded at the tracks and stepped outside the palisade. In the east an orange streak was spreading, lighting the white channel of the river beneath them.

  And out on the river a dozen riders waited, beyond the last firs.

  "Tatars!" exclaimed Arky. "Ghirei Khan's men."

  Evidently the riders of the horde had not observed the two Cossacks. They seemed to be intent on the wood. After a moment they moved closer together.

  Out from the trees two other riders appeared, going toward the Tatars. One a tall man wrapped in black furs, the other a woman.

  "Sergey Okol," said Kalyan, "hasn't turned up his toes. There he goes."

  "On my horse," groaned Arky, "the son of a dog."

  The Muscovite and the girl headed straight across the river. After they had passed, the Tatars fell in behind them—as if expecting them. Another moment, and the riders had climbed the far bank and disappeared.

  "Ta virty, bratik," Arky exclaimed, "believe me, brother, he's a wolf. Look how the Kalmuks follow him, like a pack." He rattled the keg, lovingly. "Don't they pay him gold? They'd cut us out of our skins. Well, he's left us alive in our hides, Kalyan, and now the sun's up. Saddle your nag, and we'll go back. Eh, Kalyan?"

  The young Cossack struck his clenched hands against his head. He had been blind. He, a hunter born on the steppe, had walked unknowing into a baited trap.

  "The sledge was the bait upon the road," he muttered. "Ay, the candle was lighted to guide us to the open gate and the open door. And the girl bade us share bread and salt while that wolf-soul watched, to know what manner of men we were. And if we had been merchants of Moscow, new come to the steppe, we would be sold to the Tatars this dawn, with our gear and goods. Like the souls who came hither with Sana. And those others who vanished."

  He nodded slowly. "But we were Cossacks, we fools. When Sergey Okol went to signal to the Kalmuks, we didn't sleep like hedgehogs. We slew the wolf and searched for him, and it may be that he felt fear in his heart. Ay, he feared that the girl would betray his secret then. So he bore her off with him—"

  Sana had warned him. Her voice had warned him against going out into the darkness.

  The hot blood darkened his lean head as he turned on Arky. "Saddle my horse."

  This Arky was willing enough to do. He thought Kalyan was coming to his senses, and would go back quietly now to Sarai, with enough gold to let them celebrate all Winter. He was buckling the pony's headstall when Kalyan came striding back from the house. The young Cossack had the doll in one hand and a filled saddlebag in the other.

  "Brother," Arky asked, with misgivings, "what have you got there?"

  Kalyan swung himself into the saddle and laughed. "Sergey Okol's life."

  Catching the bag, Arky loosed the thong and peered into it. His jaw dropped, and he choked. In the bag was the head of the wolf he had slain.

  Ghirei Khan, son of Ilbars Khan, Lord of the Little Kalmuk Horde, rocked gently on his heels on the white horse skin at the entrance of his tent. Impassively, he considered how much he would pay for the ghiaur—the infidel maid.

  For Ghirei Khan had wealth beneath his hand. Uncounted oxen wandered between his gray yurts; his sheep herds stretched as far as his eye could see. Around him stood his chieftains and mirzas. They had gold in the hilts of their scimitars. It was profitable to sell as slaves the captives the Wolf sent out on the river ice, with Ulugh as a guide, on the mornings after the Wolf made signal with his torch. They had paid Ulugh the price of the captives.

  Now they kept their distance from the Wolf, never having beheld him in human form before. They had heard him howl of nights when hunger gnawed him, over the river. Ulugh the fisher had told them how he went about in the form of a gray wolf dragging a long chain, when he crept out of his human body.

  "She has cold blood in her," Ghirei Khan observed to the attentive Ulugh. "A Gypsy would be better."

  "It is because her skin is soft," Ulugh urged, "that her blood is cold, as the Lord hath said."

  Sergey Okol moved impatiently where he sat on the edge of the horse skin. He wanted to get this business done with. The singing girl, he thought, was not lucky for him. She had managed to stir the suspicions of the Cossacks in spite of all the brandy he had given them.

  And for the first time he had had to leave the shelter of his ravine to face these gnome-like Tatars in their encampment. He could not tell what they were thinking, and he had to trust to Ulugh to interpret his words.

  "How much will he pay?" Sergey Okol demanded.

  "Ai, master," the fisher said, "he has many herds, many handfuls of gold. Do not hurry him. Do not be angry."

  Ulugh was afraid of this Muscovite who sold human souls. But more he feared Ghirei Khan, who might order the skin cut from his feet and hands if the fisherman displeased him.

  "Let him pay down the gold now," Sergey Okol insisted.

  Ulugh said nothing. The Tatars around the yurt turned their heads with guttural exclamations. Some of them caught up the lances they had thrust into
the snow. The circle of fur-clad heads broke, and through the opening an enemy of the Kalmuks paced his horse, a ghiaur Cossack. He was alone, he held a doll and a saddlebag in his hands, and his sword was sheathed at his hip.

  "W’allah!" exclaimed Ghirei Khan, surprised, "what is this?"

  The Cossack himself answered, swinging down from his saddle: "A gift for the son of Ilbars, khan of the Kalmuks. A mighty gift."

  Curiosity kept the Tatars motionless as Kalyan stopped a lance length from Sergey Okol. Loosening the thong of the saddlebag, he flung it down on the snow, and the massive gray head of a wolf rolled out.

  Ulugh cried out and drew himself away from it, and even the khan started to his feet.

  "Look!" cried Kalyan. "I have slain the spirit of the Wolf. In the hours of darkness I searched for him. For I have the spirit of a great devil in me. I followed the Wolf because he took from me this woman slave. He fled from me, and covered himself with iron—"

  The Tatars, drawing back, listened with amazement.

  "He sprang at me after he bound himself with iron," Kalyan shouted, "and I strove with him, overpowering him, and cutting off his head. W'allah! Still, he lived. He changed again into human form, and he fled from me, taking the woman with him. Like a serpent he tried to hide himself among the people of the khan. Look at him, how he draws his strength together, to save himself."

  Unable to understand, Sergey Okol was glaring about him, his fists clenched at his sides.

  "Wah!" cried Ghirei Khan, putting his hand to his mouth.

  "But he has lost his power," Kalyan went on. "His spirit is dead. And now he has no place to flee."

  Whipping out his saber, he turned on the Muscovite. "The wolf was braver than you. Will you die like a pig?"

  The hand that Sergey Okol had thrust inside his coat came out clutching the long pistol. Powder flashed and roared, and the Tatars heard the dull sound of a bullet striking. Kalyan felt a blow against his side. Steadying himself, he leaped forward.

  Scrambling to his feet, Sergey Okol snatched at the scimitar hilt in the girdle of the nearest Kalmuk. He flung up the blade, snarling, as Kalyan slashed at his head.

  "Hai!" the Cossack shouted, "he feels his death."

  Their boots thudded in the hard-packed snow as the two whirled together— Kalyan circling, his blade making rings of steel about the head of the Muscovite.

  "True," muttered Ghirei Khan, "now he feels the end of his power."

  Lightly the Cossack's blade slid past the other. The curved edge cut deep into the Muscovite's throat, and Sergey Okol moaned, the strength going from his hand. As he staggered, Kalyan slashed down savagely. Sergey Okol's head fell into the snow.

  The eyes of the khan gleamed green at this marvelous sight. He bent over the two heads. "Allah ’im barabat yik caftir," he murmured. "God is just and merciful."

  Kalyan strode toward the girl, who had hid her face in her arm. Seizing her black hair, he pulled her close to him. "Don't speak," he whispered. Aloud he shouted triumphantly, "The strength of a great devil is in me. Ye have seen! Now am I angered, and my anger will break hard rock asunder and turn aside rushing water—"

  Held by his voice, the throng of Tatars moved uneasily, grunting like cattle. For this youth possessed by a spirit spoke words they understood. Moreover, they had heard a bullet strike him, yet he did not bleed like an ordinary soul.

  "This maiden is mine," Kalyan roared. "She is no woman of white bones and blood. I made her, for my slave. Aya, I fashioned first a doll of silk—" stooping swiftly, he picked up the doll and tossed it to the feet of Ghirei Khan, "then I breathed upon the doll, and gave life to this elf-maid. The wolf-man carried her off upon his back, leaping over the treetops in the hours of darkness—"

  "Kai!" exclaimed Ghirei Khan, stepping back from the doll with the painted cheeks.

  "—and if you lay hand on her, a blight will fall on your oxen, and blindness upon your sheep—"

  "By Allah," exclaimed the Tatar, "I do not want her. Take her away quickly!"

  Kalyan swung her upon the saddle of Arky's sorrel and took the rein of the choutar pony, as he mounted his own horse. Lashing the beasts into a gallop he sped away from the staring Tatars toward the river. He did not look back or rein in until he came to the river bank.

  Then he relaxed and his words were awkward, shy. "Forgive me, little Sana, that I hauled you about like a slave. I was playing a game with the Kalmuks. I know their minds—like children's. But Sergey Okol didn't, the fool."

  Sana's gray eyes were wet with tears. "Nay, he was a hard man, and shrewd. He tried to make you afraid, so that you would steal and fly away; then he could go to Sarai and make complaint to the starosta—"

  "Ay," said Kalyan gently. His side ached where the Muscovite's bullet had scraped a rib. But his dark eyes glowed as he looked up and down the white frozen river. "He did not know the steppe." Timidly his hand caressed the girl's dark hair—for Kalyan was afraid of her. So white and beautiful she was like an elf-maid, with tears like pearls upon her cheeks.

  Suddenly Sana caught his hand, pressing it against her lips. And her lips were warm as those of any flesh-and-blood girl . . .

  Ulugh, the fisher, saw them ride away—watching from the dead tree behind his hut. The choutar pony was harnessed to the sledge. On the sledge load, upon a Persian carpet, rested a brandy keg. And on this sat the longlegged Arky, swaying, and shouting a song. Behind the sledge rode Kalyan and the girl, their heads close together, their hands clasped.

  Ulugh watched them out of sight. Then, with a grunt of relief, he climbed down to his hut, to build up his fire again, and sort out his nets.

  The Moon of Shawwul

  On the first night of the moon of Shawwul there was calamity, and fire in the city, and a man afflicted of Allah raged near the golden gate with a sword. Many believers died before the first light. But the cause of all this is not known.

  From the Annals of the Othmanli Turks of Constantinople

  The koshevoi, the chief of all the Cossacks, rose from his seat against the wall of the hut and faced the old men who still sat moodily on the floor, smoking their pipes.

  "You have heard the letter—you have listened to the Jew. Now, sir companions, is anything to be done?"

  The koshevoi was a tall man with a scar that ran from his eye to his jaw. He was a daring leader in battle, but otherwise slow to think and speak. Across his high shoulders was flung a miniver cloak, stained and dusty, and when he faced the elder men his right hand opened and shut as if clasping a sword hilt.

  And the veteran Cossacks stroked down their gray mustaches, frowning in silence because it was not customary to speak at once. Few were they—since few Cossacks of the siech, the war encampment of the southern steppes, lived to see their hair turn white—in this year of trouble late in the seventeenth century.

  "It is true, sir brothers," said one, lifting his head. "And why is it true? Because the Jew who brought the letter is a son of a dog who cannot read Turkish, and his tale is the same as the letter. And he has brought back to us the baton of a Cossack ataman."

  The koshevoi took up from the table a short ivory staff with a cross carved upon one end, the baton of a colonel of a Cossack regiment.

  "Aye," said the older men, "that was Kirdyaga's."

  By their silence the others assented. Kirdyaga, their companion of the Kuban barracks, had been captured by the Turks when he raided too far beyond the frontier. He was in prison within Constantinople, the city of the sultan, and he had been condemned to die upon the first night of the moon of Shawwul by the Moslem calendar. The worst of it was that the Turks announced that they would torture him by setting him on a stake and letting him wriggle out his life.

  Unless—so said the letter—ransom should be paid for the life of Kirdy-aga before that night. The ransom must be three thousand gold sequins, or an equivalent in precious stones, and must be paid in Constantinople. As a token the Turks had sent with the letter this baton. And they had sent let
ter and staff by no worthier hand than that of the ferret-faced Jew in the tall woolen cap and ragged shuba who stood shivering by the door, palpably afraid to linger and afraid to beg leave to go.

  "Kirdyaga has not asked us to aid him," said the koshevoi slowly. "He knows that the Turks are faithless as village dogs."

  "Impossible not to aid him," muttered another, taking the pipe from his lips. "To die by steel, that is well enough, but it is another matter to be planted on a stake for slaves and women to pluck at."

  "True," assented one whose slant eyes had more than once watched such torture. "By God, that is well said."

  "We can gather the gold together."

  "Aye, the gold," assented the koshevoi, "but how can we send it?"

  Again silence followed his words. They could not send the ransom money back by the Jew. Even if Shamoval—he answered to that name— did not make off with it himself, he would be stripped and plundered by Moslem soldiery long before he had covered the two hundred leagues to Constantinople. Nor could the Cossacks entrust the gold to a Turkish officer along the frontier. In that case it would go no farther than the pockets of the officer.

  Still, the money must be sent, or the Turks would mock the Cossacks, saying that they cared more for gold than the Cossack colonel who was to be tortured. So in the koshevoi's hut there was silence, until the koshevoi himself strode to the open door and looked out.

  The only thing that seemed to him possible was to muster the regiments and invade the frontier with fire and sword, to revenge the death of Kirdyaga.

  While he pondered he looked up and down the encampment that was called the siech, or gathering place. Native-born Cossacks called it their mother, and not untruthfully, because they had given their lives to the siech, leaving behind them their villages and families in the steppes.

  Long-limbed warriors, sun-darkened, clad each after his own fancy, sat smoking by the barrack walls or gathered in circles about musicians or casks of brandy. The barracks were long huts of wattle and dried clay, and in them were piled blankets and saddles, weapons—lances and Persian scimitars and long, crooked knives called kindjhals, the curved yataghans, embossed Turkish pistols, German muskets—for the Cossacks had few arms that they did not take from their enemies. Kegs of powder and cannon were stored in the arsenal by the log church. Only a few horses were to be seen, for the herds of the siech were out at pasture under guards.