Swords of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  "Ai-a, their talk was of the jewels. They think thee a besotted hillman, who served the foes of Islam."

  "And thou?"

  "Ohai, Charnomar, I know well thou art not of my people. Thy speech, thy way of sitting, the mission that brought thee. I think the janissaries were hunting thee that first night with cause. Thou art an enemy of Islam and thy life is forfeit, if I choose."

  The Cossack took up his bowl of coffee and drank it slowly, with loud sips. His fingers on the hot bowl were steady, and when he set it down, he had made a decision.

  "True, little Ilga—thou hast spoken the truth."

  He heard the catch of her breath, and was aware that her head turned toward him swiftly, and he was grateful for the obscurity in which they sat.

  "Did the master of the stirrup free thy—thy brother in arms?" she asked after a little silence.

  "I gave them," he explained, "the missive that was sent to the Cossacks. And the sum of the ransom in jewels. Many men came in to question me, and to ask each for more payment. I gave them the last of the jewels, but did not show any gold. I promised that more gold would be given after the Cossack colonel was freed. So, in the end, the master of the stirrup made out a paper to release the captive."

  "And thou, O fool?"

  "They told me to go to the courtyard of the cage tomorrow morning and the Cossack would be given to me. That was the order in the paper. I have it here."

  "Hast thou read the writing?"

  "Nay, how could I? But it has a seal."

  "And wilt thou go to the cage with it?"

  For a moment the Cossack was silent. Ilga knew his secret, but she had shared bread and salt with him and, beyond that, instinct whispered that she would not betray him. And Charnomar had found that the boldest action was often the safest.

  "Aye," he said, "but not tomorrow. I shall go this evening. The men of the master of the stirrup are too fond of gold to keep faith altogether."

  "And yet thou knowest not what is written in the paper!"

  "No help for it, little Ilga. At least it bears a seal. I have two horses and I shall say that the Cossack colonel is sold to me. A little more gold—" he grinned—"they may hand him over. If not, we may cut a way out with swords."

  She shook her head quietly.

  "Can the trapped panther free himself from the cage with his teeth? Do not go."

  "Didst thou not go to sit by thy brother who was hanging on the hooks?"

  "Aye—"

  "I came to Stamboul to free the Cossack colonel from torture. Shall I turn back now, saying to the Cossacks that I became afraid of a paper and a woman's word?"

  "Nothing will change thy mind?"

  Charnomar made no response, but the singing girl understood his silence. She rose, gathering her dolman about her slender shoulders, shaking back the mass of tawny hair.

  "Then come with me. I know an Armenian who can read the paper. Nay—wilt thou go blindly into the trap?"

  Again she called to him to follow her, and the men in the place looked up curiously. Charnomar strode after her to the curtains in the rear, and through a passage that opened into an alley deep in shadow where the dogs snarled among piles of refuse. Ilga hastened on, past courtyard walls to a narrow stair that led to a balcony.

  The Cossack lengthened his stride to keep up with her, but the swiftfooted girl disappeared within the arch of the balcony a moment before him, and he took his time in making certain that no men loitered in the alley before he followed her, bending his head to pass under the smoke-blackened beams.

  On a worn carpet an old man in a skullcap sat, with a book resting upon a frame before him. The level sunlight gleamed on his white beard and thin, pallid hands. Ilga's eyes blazed as she held out her hand for the missive, and Charnomar drew the rolled paper from his girdle.

  The Armenian glanced at the seal and fingered his beard.

  "Eh, chelabim," he muttered, reading over a second time the few lines of writing. "It is like the Turks, this."

  "What says it?" demanded Ilga.

  "It is an order from Hassan Bey, the master of the stirrup, to the officer of the cage. It says that the officer should seize the bearer and put him to death at once."

  "O blind fool!" Ilga whispered.

  Charnomar stretched out his hand for the order, and replaced it in his sash.

  "I had thought the Turks meant to trick me, by sending the prisoner to the stake this evening," he said grimly, "and giving me no more than his body tomorrow. Now that Hassan Bey has been paid, he wishes to do away also with the man who paid him. I had not thought of that."

  "What wilt thou do?" demanded the singing girl anxiously.

  "I must take two horses to the gate of the serai."

  "And then? V’allah!" She shivered a little, as if the cold wind from the strait had come into the balcony. "Nay, I know. Thou wilt try to aid thy brother with the sword. I am afraid!"

  "Why?" Charnomar smiled, because he could not understand her moods. "What harm to thee?"

  "At first," she said swiftly, "I would have let thee die, to harm Kara Mustafa. I planned that when I first saw thee. I led thee to my place to persuade thee. But the next day, when I woke and found thee gone, my mind was otherwise."

  Suddenly she came close to him, resting her cheek against his shoulder.

  "May Allah shield thee—I am afraid. The serai is an evil place, and I— I would like to go with thee from this city. I love thee. May God have pity upon me! Let us take the horses and go back to my people of the hills."

  Slowly the Cossack shook his head.

  "Nay," he responded, placing his hand on the tawny head. "Do thou stay with this man of learning."

  But Ilga sprang away from him, her eyes gleaming with tears.

  "Shall I not go to the cage with the man I love—I, who have seen my brother die? I will wait at the gate."

  "May Allah shield thee, then," cried Charnomar impatiently. "Come, if thou wilt."

  He strode away and Ilga followed. The man in the skullcap watched them pass from the alley and push into the throngs outside. Down by the sea a cannon boomed.

  The Armenian sighed, shook his head, and turned a page of the book on the stand beside him.

  The sun had gone down in the mist, and one by one the minarets of the serai were outlined in light against the gray twilight, as lanterns were hung in the galleries. The throng that had gathered in front of the main gate of the palace pressed closer, to watch the lights and await the coming of the prisoner who was to be led through the streets to the stake.

  By the courtyard wall a mountebank was setting up a puppet show, and cloaked figures had already seated themselves expectantly before the curtain. The jingling of a tambourine chimed in the hum of voices that swelled and sank as Turkish officers appeared and passed through the gate.

  Some of the officers stopped at a table under an awning hung with colored lanterns. The table was set with rolls of tobacco, boxes of mastic and ambergris. Behind the table appeared a thin head under a long cloth cap that flapped from side to side. The head hovered anxiously as a bird over its nest, sometimes smiling, sometimes exclaiming, and always bowing profoundly before the Turks. Shamoval, the Jew of Stamboul, had returned to set up shop at the beginning of the festival.

  "Great, mighty lords," he cried, "here are ribbons and sweets, and bracelets for the pretty girls—and at such prices!"

  While he cried out his small eyes pierced the throng like lances. Sham-oval, as well as the others, had come to see the torture of the Cossack colonel. But unlike the others, he had money at stake on the issue. He hoped earnestly that Charnomar had left Stamboul before now.

  And so, when he saw two Circassians ride up to the gate on their shaggy horses, he uttered an exclamation of fear and anguish. In spite of the beauty of the girl who rode unveiled among these Moslems, he had eyes only for Charnomar, who dismounted some distance from the gate and led his two horses forward.

  Shamoval saw the Circassian girl slip from the
saddle and go out of the crowd to the entrance of an alley. Here she stood where she could look through the open gate, and Shamoval muttered to himself, shaking his head, because he distrusted all singing girls.

  "Ai!" he cried, clutching at the sleeve of an officer who was sniffing at a box of mastic to learn whether there was opium in it. "Look, noble lord!" He lowered his voice. "This mountain jigit with the horses—he is—"

  Something caught in Shamoval's throat and he could not go on. He would be rewarded if he pointed out a Cossack. But he could not bring himself to say the words. And then perhaps Charnomar had only come here by chance, and would not run any mad risk.

  "He is bringing the horse to mount the dog of a Cossack, who will be taken to the stake," grunted the Turk, evidently in good humor.

  "Holy Saints!"

  Shamoval's mouth dropped open and he trembled. Again he started to speak, and only groaned.

  Taking the two horses by the reins, Charnomar advanced to the soldiers at the open gate, spoke to them briefly and passed on, into the palace grounds, where Shamoval could no longer see him.

  The Cossack knotted the reins of the two ponies and made fast a loop to the low-hanging branch of an elm some distance to the side of the road and a stone's throw from the prison church. He took his time about this, because he wanted to make certain where the Turkish soldiers were. Seven at the outer gate, ten or twelve at the portico of the church: an occasional officer with servants riding out of the grounds. Over there, in the gloom under the high walls of the cavalry barrack, perhaps a score of sipahis sitting and lying about a fountain.

  He was glad that no mounted sipahis were about. If he could get Kirdy-aga into the saddle of a horse . . .

  "That's the only way out," he thought.

  The master of the stirrup had tricked him, and it was useless now to show the order that had been given him. Only one thing was possible— to try to cut a way out of the city. A guard would be sent to escort Kirdy-aga to the stake. It would be dark by then. And if the guard were janissaries on foot, Charnomar could bring his horse close to Kirdyaga, in the streets, let the captive know what he meant to do, and whip up the horses suddenly. After that, he did not know. The gates were locked. But Kirdy-aga would be in the saddle of a horse, with a sword in his hand, and he would not go to the stake.

  "What is this?" growled a voice. "Thou hast brought horses instead of the mule that was ordered."

  The Albanian had left his comrades of the watch and come to meet the Cossack in no gentle mood.

  "Nay," Charnomar made answer, "they are my horses. I do not ride mules through the streets."

  "May Allah not prosper thee! O dog without wit, didst thou think to ride like a lord among the sipahis who are to take the Cossack to the stake?"

  "What sipahis?"

  "Mas’allah! The twenty and the officer who will have charge of the captive. It is past the time of their coming." The broad face of the swordsman glowered under the massive white turban.

  Charnomar knew that there would be no chance to cut Kirdyaga free from a score of lancers. That way, also, was closed.

  "Where are the sequins that were promised?" demanded the soldier.

  Feeling in his wallet the Cossack drew out a single gold piece and gave it to the Albanian who peered at it and spat.

  "One! May jackals tear thee—"

  "No more, until I have seen the cage."

  Charnomar's voice was low and unhurried, but the Albanian saw fit not to argue. He stowed away the coin and led the way to the portico.

  On the steps the Cossack glanced over his shoulder. The road through the garden was deserted; he heard no hoofs. Twilight had closed in upon the white walls of the serai. The hooks overhead were no longer visible. In the minarets the lanterns glowed, tracing spears of light against the purple sky. One of the soldiers was tuning a flute, and Charnomar hummed under his breath as he waited for the Albanian, who had disappeared into the church.

  At any time the sipahis might come up and after that Kirdyaga was doomed. The only remaining chance was that the Turks might let Char-nomar go down to the prisoners with only a single guard, or two. A slight chance. But the thought of it was like wine to the big Cossack and he waited cheerfully for the least bit of luck.

  A lantern came swinging between the pillars and was lifted high. A gaunt man, beardless, in a black robe, peered out and asked sullenly—

  "Where is the one who would smell of death?"

  Charnomar ascended the steps and almost laughed as he did so.

  "Here, O thou father of vultures."

  The lantern was thrust close to his eyes, then the keeper of the church grunted and turned, signing for him to follow. They passed under a door-less arch, into the cold gloom of the stone nave.

  Nothing within looked like a church. The swinging lantern flickered over rows of swords on the walls, the steel blades tarnished and dull. Char-nomar saw costly shields heaped in the corners and long Indian matchlocks stacked here and there. The statues and mosaic work had been knocked out by the Turks and the altar, dimly seen under the dome, dismantled.

  The air was heavy with tobacco smoke and an odor less pleasing. The flapping of their slippers on the slabs echoed overhead, swiftly, because the keeper hurried, looking over his shoulder to see that Charnomar did not try to snatch up any of the weapons.

  Four men seated around a brazier on the raised chancel looked up at Char-nomar, stared at his sword hilts and the wallet in his girdle. One had a beard stained red in the Persian fashion.

  "What is this?" he asked.

  "The mule driver who comes to take the Cossack," responded the keeper. "It is time."

  He of the red beard yawned and spat and stretched out a muscular hand for the lantern. The others rolled off their haunches and stood up. One, who looked like an Italian renegade, had a long pistol in his belt, but all carried swords. The keeper saw fit to say nothing more, and Charnomar hoped that the four would not go down together to the vaults.

  But the four filed off, opening a door at the side of the chancel. Char-nomar heard them descending steps.

  "Go, if thou wilt," the keeper muttered. "It is down there—the cage."

  Charnomar gained the head of the stairs and kicked off his slippers. There was light enough to see the last of the four passing around a turn in the stairs. The air in the passage was close and foul with stale filth. What good to go down there, with four armed men? Two he could cut down, but not four.

  He slipped down the steps and around the turning. One more flight of steps. The Turks tramped off into the shadows of the vault. Charnomar moved after them, his big body swinging soundlessly over the stone flagging. He stopped in the shadow of a heavy pillar.

  Holding the lantern high, the man with the red beard was peering through a line of rusty iron bars. In the center of the vault these bars had been set in the flooring and the ceiling, making an enclosure some ten paces long and three broad. And in this space without so much as a quilt or a mattress a score of men were crowded. Outstretched on remnants of sheepskins, or on the stones greasy from the contact of their bodies and darkened with stains, some lay blinking at the lantern. Others squatted against the bars, shielding their eyes from the light. Charnomar noticed one who wore a silk khalat and embroidered sash.

  By their heavy breathing and restless movements, some must have been ill. The coughing as the guards approached the gate in the bars sounded like the subdued barking of dogs. They were housed worse than dogs— these doomed men of the cage.

  Evidently they had shown their teeth in the past, because two of the Turks drew their swords, while a third fumbled with a heavy key in the lock. The gate, a square of smaller bars, rasped open, and the red beard spat through it.

  "May God be with ye!" he mocked them. "Send forth the Cossack unbeliever."

  The coughing ceased while the listeners hung upon the words.

  "He will go to the spit," remarked the man with the pistol, "now that he has been roasted enough."


  Charnomar understood the words when the Cossack emerged from the gate. The hair had grown upon his shaven scalp, so the long lock looked like a plume hanging from a tuft. But around the brow the hair had been burned and the skin seared with hot irons.

  This torture had taken the sight from one eye, because he turned his gray head from side to side to see his way. He was bare to the belt and through the hair of his chest a great cross had been burned, so that the cracked red flesh showed clear. Only a spark of vitality remained in Kirdy-aga's shattered body, but he held his head up and he stood before the Turks not as a slave but as a foeman unarmed.

  At sight of him Charnomar strode toward the five men.

  "O brothers," he inquired, "is this the unbeliever?"

  "And thou, son of a mule—who summoned thee?" demanded the leader of the guards, he of the red beard.

  Charnomar's gray eyes surveyed him grimly. "It was written I should come—to bid thee hasten. Verily there is little life in the accursed unbeliever."

  Yellow teeth shone through the red beard.

  "Verily and indeed, as thou sayest. Look!" The Turk thrust his foot against Kirdyaga's hip and pointed at deep swollen gashes under the captive's shoulder blades.

  "Thus he hung from the hooks."

  "Aye, he tasted of hell!" Charnomar nodded understanding and pressed closer to stare at Kirdyaga's wounds. "Ho, he will whine, at the stake, like a ripped cat."

  "Nay, he does not cry out."

  Kirdyaga, standing passive as a wearied horse, waited for the talk to cease. And Charnomar knew that the old Cossack was so maimed that he wished for death more than anything else.

  "Look how he eyes the swords," he grinned. "Allah, he would like to have one in his hand again! Hai—" he drew a scimitar and balanced it in both hands out of Kirdyaga's reach—"the old eagle lifts his head." He spat into Kirdyaga's face and the two Turks who had stepped past him to close the gate turned to watch the mocking of the captive. "There is life in him yet. Eh, Kirdyaga!"

  "What didst thou call him?" demanded the red beard, who thought he had missed a jest.

  "Kirdyaga, ataman!"

  The good eye of the tormented man turned full upon Charnomar, gleaming strangely.