Swords of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  "The tale delighted me," he continued, "and my happiness was full when, with the war treasure on the river, we captured the proud beauty Mirovna"—he broke off to run his hand over the girl's slender shoulders in spite of her shrinking—"and my good smith whom I had sworn to chastise. I persuaded the Tartars to let me have the two of you for slaves, and they agreed willingly, being full of the gold hoard. So instead of having the task of breaking into Ruvno, which is resisting our attack with surprising strength, I came to claim my two slaves. Does not my story interest you, Mirovna?"

  "It is a recital of villainy," retorted the girl, her heart beating as she followed the stirring of the sail behind Ostalim. To keep his attention fixed upon her, she hurried on:

  "You would have me for a slave, Stepan Vertivitch? Truly, an unwilling slave is a bad bargain, for rather than have you for master I would follow the most barbarous of the Tartar horde. You would get little good of your prize—for I would have my Tartar stick a knife into your back, knowing that you betrayed my father. Still, for a price, I would be a willing slave."

  "And the price?" demanded Stepan, his face flushing.

  "The release of Ostalim. Not later, but now—at once. When he is freed of his bonds and set loose in the brush, I shall go with you, and not make resistance. You have broken my heart already with the loss of my father; loss of the daughter is not so great, after that. But Ostalim is the son of a true Cossack, and he will be the leader the Ruvno people in the future. His freedom is the price of my consent."

  "No, Mirovna," cried Ostalim angrily; "that cannot be. My life is not to be bought at such a price-"

  A glance from the girl, a quick, warning signal, silenced him.

  "You pledge your word that this will be so?" asked Stepan thoughtfully.

  "My word, and it will not be broken," replied Mirovna, smiling.

  "Why are you so eager to win the freedom of this fellow?"

  "He has risked his life to defend me."

  "That is not the only reason?"

  "He is the son of a Koshevoi Ataman, a wolf leader of the wolfhounds."

  "Bah! The real reason?"

  Mirovna's dark head lifted proudly, and her eyes sought Ostalim's. One hand stretched out to him anxiously. "Because I love him," she said, in a low voice, "and the Cossack race is true to its love. The love of the wolf is not to be set aside."

  "Ha, there we have the truth!" snarled Stepan, drawing his sword; "there the woman spoke truly. Think you I would tear the wolf breed apart, and have my life forfeited by the vengeance of a Cossack? Rather, he shall die at once!"

  Heedless of the girl's wild cry, Vertivitch stepped past her and bent over Ostalim, his bare sword lying loosely against the captive's chest, a deadly anger blazing in his eyes. Ostalim's gaze did not meet his, but sought Mirovna eagerly. It was useless for him to resist, for he was helpless to move. He strained to meet the girl's eyes, when he gave a quick cry of astonishment. At the same instant, Vertivitch wheeled, sword in hand.

  Chapter VIII Face to Face

  Beside Mirovna stood the figure of the old rower. With his hair matted with blood about his face, and his scarred, half-naked body, he presented a fierce aspect. One hand supported him on his weak legs by clutching the mast; the other was stretched out toward Vertivitch. His teeth were bared in a snarl that rumbled in his throat like a growl.

  "Spawn of the devil!" he hissed at Vertivitch; "hyena of the wolf breed! Traitor to breed and faith, bought over by gold to betray your comrades and the siech! I had thought you dead at the hands of the Tartars in brave fight. If any man had said to me that this was true, he would have paid for it with his life. Yet I have heard it from your lips."

  Anger strangled the old man as he lurched forward and gripped the dumfounded Stepan by the shoulders.

  The Cossack gave a broken cry as he caught sight of the other's face. "My father!" he whispered, staring into the face that was so near his own.

  "Nay, traitor!" roared the enraged ataman; "no father of yours. Have I not heard from your lips how you plotted with our enemies to betray the Cossacks, while I lay under the sail where I fell when the Tartars boarded us. Such a tale of villainy has not come to my ears in ten years of slavery at Tartar hands. Worse than the scum of Turks is a traitor to the siech."

  A Cossack father is judge and priest to his son. He may punish as he sees fit for any wrongdoing, and the son is powerless in his hands. The old ataman was crippled, while Stepan was strong and with a sword in his hand. Yet the memory of his childhood flooded back on him, and he trembled before the rage of the father whom he had thought dead.

  "For ten years," went on old Vertivitch, "I toiled at the galley oars and thought of the time when my son would have strength in his arm to avenge me. When I heard from Mirovna that you had defended yourself well against the Tartars, my heart leaped, even though you had been taken captive. Bah! Doubtless the Tartars whirled their creeses about your head and smiled, knowing you were bought over to their side."

  "If you had not been taken from me-" began Stepan faintly.

  "Aye, say you so? Look at Ostalim whose father died at my side. Is he a renegade? Is Mirovna less courageous because her father is lost? No more words after what you have said when you thought yourself master here——"

  "We are masters," snarled Stepan, shaking off the spell of fear of his father; "the Cossacks are miles away, except those shut up in Ruvno, and the war treasure is ours. The Tartars and Poles are victors, and my sword is with the victors."

  "Be not so sure, traitor. The Koshevoi Ataman is not to be caught asleep. Matters here have gone too smoothly, methinks, for the heathen. They have not felt the full measure of Cossack strength. It is no easy matter to catch the wolf unawares."

  "The wolf is trapped, old man," retorted Vertivitch, with a laugh, "and I have seen the trap close on him. When your famous ten thousand return from their chase, they will be ambushed like Cherevaty and his men, and their fate will be the same!"

  This was more than the ataman could endure. He seized Stepan's sword arm with one knotted hand. With the other he felt for his son's throat, snarling like an angry dog. In an effort to free his arm Stepan brought the sword down heavily on the ship's rail and the blade was snapped in two.

  Old Vertivitch had the strength of two men in his arms and shoulders and he crushed down the other's resistance in a hug that lifted him clear of his feet. With a crash the pair came down on the thwarts of the boat struggling in desperate silence.

  With a wrench Stepan tore his father's hand from his throat and gasped: "On the shore—the Tartars-"

  "He lies!" cried Mirovna, who was following the struggle with burning eyes.

  Too late old Vertivitch saw that she spoke the truth. In the instant that he relaxed his taut muscles to look toward the shore, Stepan tore himself free. Before the iron clutch of the Cossack could descend upon him, he was over the side of the ship, to the shore.

  "Treacherous spawn!" growled the ataman, crossing his arms over his panting chest. "You are free now; go for your friends, the Tartars; tell them where true Cossacks can be found."

  Stepan ran to his horse, staggering from exhaustion; but as he leaped to his seat, the gay smile returned to his lips, and he adjusted his kaftan which had been disarranged in the fight. Wheeling his impatient horse, he darted up the slope to a ridge where he could command a view of the steppe.

  The ataman lost no time in hastening to Ostalim and undoing the bonds which kept the young Cossack helpless. Then Mirovna was released, and Ostalim turned, his arm about the girl, to face the shore and what might come therefrom.

  Stepan had wheeled about and was galloping down to the river again, the feathers in his helmet dancing in the wind, straight for the boat. Shouts echoed after him from the plain. Ostalim's arm tightened about Mirovna as he made out a number of horsemen speeding after the flying renegade. To his surprise, instead of drawing up at the boat, Stepan dashed into the water, and headed his horse across the river, where the two
were soon swimming. The kaftan was flung from his shoulders and floated on the water near them.

  "What means this?" cried the girl, wondering.

  Ostalim had been watching the approaching riders, and now he gave a shout of joy. "It means," he said, laughing, "that we are safe from Stepan Vertivitch, for a time, at least. Look, Mirovna, is not that stout figure known to you?"

  "Cossacks!" she cried; "and there is Rashov, and the one in the lead

  One of the riders spurred up to them and whirled his horse on the shore by the boat. "The Koshevoi Ataman comes," he cried; "whither went the Tartar we saw on the ridge?"

  As Ostalim pointed out the swimming Stepan, already safe from pursuit, the erect figure of the gray-mustached war chief of the siech appeared beside the boat, scanning the occupants swiftly. His gaze lingered on the old Vertivitch who stood silently by the mast, his arms crossed, his head hanging in shame.

  "Who is this man?" he demanded. "I know his face."

  "It is Ataman Vertivitch, honorable sir," said Rashov; "he has escaped from the Tartars."

  "Vertivitch!" exclaimed the war chief, pressing to the side of the boat. "The bogatyr of Ruvno. Happy is this day for Cossackdom, by the light of my faith!" he swore.

  "Ha!" growled the old ataman, his face lighting up; "it is good that the Koshevoi Ataman is not tricked by the Tartars and scheming Poles. I have said that he would fall in no trap, and my words are proved true. But how comes it that you are here, honorable sir, without the ten thousand?"

  "The ten thousand are here with me, honorable sir," answered the war chief respectfully, pulling at his gray mustache. "At dawn this morning we fell upon half the Tartar strength across the river and drove them in flight. Then, for we knew of the trap, we hastened back to the river and caught the boats with the treasure. Already Ruvno is freed from the invaders who are defeated on every hand."

  "By my faith, but this is welcome news," swore Vertivitch. "Glad am I that I have lived to see this day. But how-"

  "Your pardon, sir," broke in the war chief, wheeling his horse. Summoning his followers together he rode back to the plain where the battle was still raging. Only Rashov remained, grinning with pleasure to see his friends again.

  "That is a Koshevoi Ataman for you," said Vertivitch admiringly. Then his head drooped and he folded his arms in sorrow, remembering his son.

  Ostalim motioned to Rashov. "Unravel this mystery for us, good Rashov," he cried. "Are my eyes turned liars, or did I see you struck down by the treacherous Poles?"

  "Comfort yourself, Paul," returned Rashov; "your good sense remains to you as I can see by what you are doing with your arm-" Mirovna freed herself, blushing. "In truth I did but sham dead, as the foe were too many for me. Some good brandy has quite restored me. And as to our being here—did you think that the old wolf of the siech was to be trapped like a jackal? The secret is bare in two words. The Koshevoi Ataman had an eye in Kiev that was wide open, and watched the movements of the Poles, with our friend Vertivitch. This eye came to Ruvno with Vertiv-itch," he went on, "and brought the news to the Koshevoi Ataman, who, like the wise wolf he is, planned to enter the trap set for him, and turn upon his enemies. Hence he had you tied to the stocks in the camp, although he saw to it that no man laid a club upon you. He had to do so, to quiet the suspicions of our friends, the Poles, until he got across the river. He also saw to it that Ruvno was well defended, to engage the interest of the Tartars here until the ten thousand could get back from their feast across the river and settle the reckoning as it should be settled. At midday I saw the ten thousand swim their horses across the river, and I came to look for you. The rest you know."

  "And my father," cried Mirovna appealingly.

  Rashov stretched his arm toward Ruvno. "It will go hard, lady," he said cheerily, "if we find him not before nightfall."

  "But this eye of the war chief at Kiev?" inquired Ostalim.

  "Rashov; none other," said Rashov, twirling his mustache, well satisfied. "He sent you to the siech with the tidings already known to the war chief, because, by the devil, he wanted you to show your mettle. And you have done so. The Koshevoi Ataman thinks well of you. Why not smile, old man," he turned to the ataman, "when everything goes so well?"

  "Not when I have lost my son, a traitor," replied Vertivitch. "I am alone in the world."

  "Not so," said Ostalim gently, "for I have no father except you, and you will accept me as your son."

  "Aye," said the old man slowly; "you are truly the son I should have chosen. I shall find comfort in you, the son of my friend."

  "Not only comfort, by the looks of it," added Rashov, with a twinkle in his eye, "but a daughter as well. And grandchildren, many of them. Devil take me, if I don't go for the batko* this minute to make the wedlock fast. A few minutes and I shall be back."

  *"Priest."

  Ostalim half put out his hand to check his hasty friend. Then, with a glance at Mirovna, he drew it back again. The girl had made no objection In fact, sitting demurely by his side, like all the maidens who approached the threshold of marriage since the world began, she was anxiously arranging the disordered mass of her hair with the water for a mirror, the ten fingers of her white hands for a comb.

  Appendix

  Adventure magazine, where many of the tales in this volume first appeared, maintained a letter column titled "The Camp-fire." As a descriptor, "letter column" does not quite do this regular feature justice. Adventure was published two and sometimes three times a month, and as a result of this frequency and the interchange of ideas it fostered "The Camp-Fire" was really more like an Internet bulletin board of today than a letter column found in today's quarterly or even monthly magazines. It featured letters from readers, editorial notes, and essays from writers. If a reader had a question or even a quibble with a story he could write in and the odds were that the letter would not only be printed but that the story's author would draft a response.

  Harold Lamb and other contributors frequently wrote lengthy letters that further explained some of the historical details that appeared in their stories. The letters about the stories included in this volume, with introductory comments by Adventure editor Arthur Sullivan Hoffman, follow, and appear in order of publication. The date of the issue of Adventure is indicated, along with the title of the Lamb story that appeared in the issue. Lamb did not write a letter about every story.

  August 20, 1922: "Sangar"

  Something from Harold Lamb concerning the Tungusi who figure in his story in this issue:

  Any one who meddles with them is likely to be out of luck. More than three hundred years ago the Imperial Russian Government made this discovery when it tried to subject the Tungusi.

  The Tungusi were nomad Tartar tribes who wandered over the most fertile part of the Mongolian steppe, where the river Yenesai drains from the Syansk mountains. Russian explorers reported that there were Steppe, Forest and Fisher Tungusi, and all were sangars—men who worked white magic.

  This was probably because the Tungusi lived to themselves and kept the customs of the time of Genghis Khan, which rather mystified the first white men who visited them. Then provincial officials looked them over from afar, saw that they kept animals, and named them Horse, Reindeer and Dog Tungusi, admitting that the Tungusi could not be made to pay taxes.

  This was because the Tungusi riders liked fighting with the bow, so that no one cared to face them with a musket until the musket became a rifle that could be loaded as fast as the Tungusi could deliver themselves of arrows. Also, the man who closed with the Tungusi, thinking that the tribesmen disliked cold steel, was out of luck.

  Lastly, the Imperial Russian Government classified the Tungusi as Wandering, Nomadic and Sedentary—the last one alone paying taxes. It is a matter of record that the Sedentary Tungusi number less than one percent of the whole. Also that the most incorrigible are the Wandering (alias Steppe and Reindeer) Tungusi.

  The Chinese called them the Chih-mao-tze, the Red Haired People, and let i
t go at that, being careful not to meddle with the clansmen or their animals.

  On the other hand the Cossacks, the ancient and honorable foe of the Tatars, were ordered to meddle with the Tungusi. It was the Cossacks who called them sangars, white magicians, nearly three hundred years ago.

  Such things as talking to horses and summoning reindeer from a thousand miles away are not so easily explained by any administrative bureau. But strangers riding through the Tungusi steppe are careful not to do any injury to the private reindeer of the natives. It is one game preserve where no liberties are taken.

  No laws have ever been written about the reindeer of the Tungusi. It is a case, one might say, of unwritten law.

  November 20, 1925: "Mark of Astrakhan"

  Something from Harold Lamb in connection with his novelette in this issue. And, following his talk to Camp-fire, part of a personal letter he wrote me that covers a bit of the same ground but is interesting nevertheless:

  Stenka Razin was the Robin Hood of the Cossacks. In the course of the last three centuries many legends have gathered around his name; popular superstition, mellowed with time, has credited him with supernatural powers.

  If you were to travel by any chance on the great Volga through the southern steppe, the river-men would entertain you endlessly—if they happened to be Cossacks—with stories about Stenka Razin's exploits.

  But his revolt, his expeditions, and the brief and colorful kingdom he established are recorded in history. For a while he was a thorn in the frontiers of two kingdoms—Muscovy and Persia.

  As for Mark—he existed. I have his own account of the taking of Astrakhan, corroborated by the adventurer Jean Sturys, the Hollander. From Astrakhan to the Volga mouths, and the execution at the Kremyl, the main incidents of the story actually happened.