by Harold Lamb
On his part Khlit scanned the frank face of the hunter, his simple attire, and noted the boldness of his bearing. Being armed, he had Gurd at his mercy. Silently he waited for the other to speak.
“I have come unarmed,” began Gurd in his deep voice, “to take you to Changa Nor. There is one at Changa Nor who must see the
Kha Khan of the Jun-gar. Your men have hunted me through the Dead World. Yet I have come unarmed to bear you this message.” Khlit's mustache twitched in a hard smile.
“Does a wolf put his head into the noose of a trap, hunter?” “No harm will come to you, Khlit. Would I risk my life to speak to you if the need were not great? Nay, if you do not come, your sorrow will be greater than that of one who has killed his father by mischance, or broken his sword in dishonor.”
“Hey, that is strange!” Khlit regarded his companion curiously. “Who is the one who sent you?”
Gurd hesitated.
“The master of Changa Nor, O Kha Khan. By the token around your neck, he said that you would come.”
Khlit put his hand to his throat. Under the svitza he felt the outline of the gold cross he always wore. Was this the token? There were few who knew Khlit was a Christian. Who was the master of Changa Nor? He was eager to know, and to see the inside of the lonely castle.
“Lead on, rider of stags,” he laughed lightly. “To the devil himself——”
VII
At one of the embrasures of Changa Nor stood a young girl. She was slender and straight, with round, strong arms and twin braids of red-gold hair bound at her forehead by a fillet of pearl. Her dark eyes were fixed on the shore. Her skin was olive, deepened by the sun's touch.
She leaned anxiously against the heavy stones of the embrasure, her delicate face thrust into the opening, peering out to the pines. At times she turned and glanced with a pretty, impatient frown at the sand clock in the chamber. Once a high voice from another room startled her. She listened a moment, and then, as if satisfied, returned to her watch.
The shadows were long from the pines on the shore when she made out two dark figures that rode down to the shore. Dismounting, the two men advanced out on the ice toward the castle. Pausing a moment to make sure that she was not mistaken in them, she left the embrasure and turned to the wall of the chamber.
Her fingers feeling deftly over the stone of the wall moved two sturdy iron bars from their rest with the ease of habit. These she laid aside. Clutching an iron lever that projected from the stone, she hung the weight of her slender body on this, moving it downward. At once two stone blocks to the height of a man swung inward, leaving space for a person to enter with difficulty.
The opening was blocked by a human form and in another moment Gurd the hunter stood within the chamber. He looked at her quickly and nodded as if in answer to an unspoken question. She flushed with pleasure and watched the tall figure of Khlit enter the room.
The Cossack glanced about him curiously, his hand on his sword. He looked only casually at the girl in spite of her beauty. She turned away at once, readjusted the stone blocks. The heavy bars, however, she did not replace, in her hurry to follow the men.
The three, led by Gurd, went from the chamber which acted as an anteroom into the long hall of the castle. An old servant in a faded leather jerkin bowed before them.
“Tell Atagon,” commanded Gurd of the man, “that the Kha Khan is here.”
Khlit glanced at the empty hall, with its faded tapestries and heavy furniture. The place had an air of antiquity, heightened by its silence. The hall stretched the entire length of the castle, and was lighted only by the narrow embrasures under which a gallery ran, as if for archers to stand, by the openings. The Cossack knew that the castle dated from many generations ago.
“A lonely place!” he grunted. “Where are the demons who tipped hell-fire on my men?”
Gurd smiled and pointed after the old servant.
“There is one of the demons, Gutchluk, the ancient,” he said, “and here is the other—Chinsi, the granddaughter of Atagon.
When I am away from Changa Nor these two guard the castle, as you have seen.”
Khlit glanced from Gurd to the slender, golden-haired girl.
“Devil take the place!” he swore. “A bed-ridden slave and a half-weaned girl! Nay, that cannot be.”
“It is so, lord,” the girl's musical voice made answer. “Gurd has taught us to prepare and cast the Chinese fire from the window slits. Atagon brought the fire here for our protection, but he is too old—”
Gurd held up his hand for silence. He stepped to the side of the hall and drew back the tapestry that concealed another chamber.
“Here, O Kha Khan,” he said slowly, “you shall learn the secret of Changa Nor. Truly, the secret belongs to you, as well as to us. Come.”
Curiously, Khlit glanced from Gurd to Chinsi. The hunter's face was impassive, but the girl's eyes were alight with eagerness, and a kind of fear. Without hesitation Khlit stepped under the tapestry. He halted abruptly within the chamber.
It was a narrow room, scarcely illumined by the embrasure. A long table ran across the chamber in front of him. A single candle and a parchment were on the table.
By the candle Khlit saw the figure of an old man, in a long robe of white camel's-hair. The hood of the robe was thrown back, and he had a full view of the face of the man. He saw a high forehead, fringed with snowy hair, a pair of steadfast eyes, and a pale, lined countenance. A long beard, pure white in color, fell over the robe to the black girdle around the waist.
A rush of memory took Khlit back to the Cossack camp he had quitted many years ago. He had seen men like these, at the monastery of the Holy Spirit.
For a long moment the eyes of the Kha Khan and the man in the white robe challenged each other. The fierce gaze of the Cossack was fairly met by the mild light in Atagon's deep-set eyes.
“Welcome, Christian warrior—” Atagon raised a withered hand in greeting—“Changa Nor. Long has Atagon, of Changa, been waiting your coming. God, through his servant Gurd, has led you to our gate, in the time of our need.”
Incredulity and belief struggled in Khlit's mind. Atagon had spoken as a priest, haltingly as if using a language long unfamiliar. And Khlit had not revealed the fact that he was a Christian. But his gesture was that of a batko, a father-priest of the Orthodox Church.
“I am Atagon,” the calm voice of the priest went on, “and so the Christians of my little flock call me. But I was baptized under the name of John, and I am presbyter of the church.”
The two words stirred anew Khlit's memory. Presbyter John. Where had he heard that phrase before? The answer to his question came to him in a flash.
“Presbyter John!” he cried. “Prester John, of Asia. The king who was sought by missionaries! The guardian of hidden treasure, and the keeper of strange beasts—”
He had remembered the name of the king he had forgotten. The story of Prester John and the treasure had spread through Europe centuries ago. But the mythical king had never been seen. Was the aged Atagon the true descendant of Prester John? The monarch of the hidden treasure?
Atagon shook his head solemnly.
“Not Prester John, my son. But Presbyter. Your words are strange. I know nothing of treasure, or of beasts. I am the guardian of the Christian shrine of Cathay, beside the Sea of Sand.”
Again Khlit was stirred. The Sea of Sand! Chepe Buga had mentioned that. And the Lake of Stones, which must be Changa Nor. Here was the place that the legend had named. Surely Atagon was Prester John!
“I see you are troubled with doubt, my son,” smiled the patriarch. “Come, I will show you proof. You speak of treasure. There is no pagan gold on Changa Nor, but a treasure more precious. See.”
Getting to his feet Atagon took up a staff which was fashioned like a shepherd's crook. He walked slowly to another door of the chamber which he pushed open, motioning for Khlit to follow. A light from the interior shone on his majestic face.
Khlit stepped bes
ide the patriarch, and caught his breath in amazement. He stood in a shrine of the Christian church. In front of him candles glowed before an icon, a painting of Christ and the Virgin Mary; myriad gems sparkled from the frame of the icon. Below the painting stood a small cross. Khlit saw that it was a single stone, an emerald which shone with a soft light. He thought of the emerald scepter that the Tatars had said was in Changa Nor.
On a table in front of the icon were several jeweled caskets of lapis lazuli set with rubies. The candlesticks were gold, with jade blocks for their bases. Silk vestments hung from the walls, embroidered with gold and silver thread. Also a girdle with a clasp brilliant with diamonds.
The patriarch crossed himself. Khlit, in obedience to an old impulse, removed his fur cap.
“The treasure of the Gur-Khan,” he muttered. “Aye, the legend was true.”
VIII
A quick frown crossed Atagon's tranquil features.
“Nay, my son,” he corrected, “the shrine of God in a pagan land. These riches are the offerings of the Gur-Khan to God, and their contents are the true treasures. The painting comes from Constantinople. The caskets shelter a portion of the garment of St. Paul, the wanderer, and a finger with a lock of hair of the blessed St. Thomas.”
He motioned for Khlit to approach the shrine. The Cossack did so fearlessly. At the same time, his heart was heavy. Here was indeed a treasure, such as the khans were seeking. But it was a treasure of the church. And Khlit was a Christian.
“Harken, Kha Khan,” spoke Gurd from the doorway, “said I not you must come to Changa Nor? The Tatars have wind of these riches and they plan to despoil the shrine of Atagon. They are pagans and care naught for the sacred relics, or for the holy cross. That was why I sought you, at the hunt. You can protect Changa Nor.”
Khlit was silent, under the eyes of the three Christians. He had promised his men the treasure of Changa Nor. Khlit's life as a Cossack was past. He was now the leader of the khans. They had fought with him. His word was law in the horde. And he had promised them the riches of Changa Nor.
“Tell me,” he said slowly, “is this truly the treasure of the Gur-Khan?”
Chinsi stepped forward.
“Father Atagon,” she said, “knows the story of the treasure. But he does not know what the Tatars say of the legend. Gurd has told me. The Tatars say that centuries ago a Gur-Khan hid his treasure where it could not be found, by a sea of sand and a river of stones. They say it is guarded by fierce beasts.”
“Aye,” assented Khlit grimly, “that is what they told me.”
The patriarch bowed his head in thought, stroking his beard gently.
“I will give you the answer you seek to your questions, my children,” he observed at length. “Truly, I have heard the story of the beasts. The first presbyter told it to his successor. Considering it in the light of the holy word, I think it means that the beasts of the forest might, by the power of God, seek to guard the chosen ones of the true faith. Was it not so with Daniel and the lions?
“As to the story of the Gur-Khan,” he went on, “it is true. The first Gur-Khan was converted by a presbyter from Europe— Olopan, who came from Judea. Obeying the mandates of a higher will, he turned his pagan treasures into offerings to God—as you see.” He waved a white hand at the shrine and the table. “And so the treasure became hidden from the evil ones who sought it. The Gur-Khan was killed, and his empire broken up, in battle. But his daughter, who was a Christian, survived and hid in the castle of Changa Nor, with the treasure of the church, accompanied by the presbyter and a few knights. Before the presbyter died, he ordained the most worthy of the knights to be his successor. And that patriarch in turn selected one to succeed him.”
Atagon took the hand of the girl fondly.
“Behold, Kha Khan, the last princess of the line of the Gur-Khan, Chinsi, the golden-haired. And I, Atagon, am the last of the patriarchs. Truly my flock is small. For save Gurd, who ministers to our needs, there are only a few wandering Nestorians from Hsi'en-fu, in Shensi, who visit Changa Nor. It is they who spread the story of a treasure.”
“Aye, Father,” grunted Khlit, “your fame is great, although you know it not. For you are the one men have sought by the name of Prester John. But the Tatars of the Jun-gar do not bow to the name of God. Their shamans say that Gurd is a hunter guided by an evil spirit; and that Changa Nor is a refuge of the devil himself, with all his brimstone.”
“Nay, Kha Khan,” Gurd showed his white teeth in a smile. “That is because I fetch mamut tusks from the Dead World, where Tatar hunters go not. And the shamans call this a haunt of the devil, for they have tried for many years to take our treasure. Lhon Otai's palms itch for these jewels.”
“That is not all, O Kha Khan,” cried the girl defiantly. “Gurd, who brings us candles and firewood with food and drink, has fought for his life against the shamans more than once. He brought you here at peril of death, for the Tatar warriors have been told he is a son of the werewolves, an evil spirit.”
“No matter, Chinsi,” laughed Gurd lightly, “now that I have brought you a better protector. Khlit, the Kha Khan, will guard us, for he is also a Christian.”
The eyes of the patriarch sought Khlit shrewdly. Pride was in his glance, and hope, but also uncertainty. Khlit raised his head. “Harken,” he said; his keen ears had caught a sound without the castle.
Footsteps pattered to the door of the shrine. Gutchluk appeared. “Riders are coming over the lake, Father,” he cried. “They are coming very swiftly.”
Chinsi gave a startled cry. Atagon and Gurd turned to her in surprise.
“The door!” she whispered. “I forgot to put up the bars. It can be opened from without.”
Gurd sprang to the door. Then he halted. The sound of many boots echoed on the stone floor of the hall. The hunter glared at Khlit.
“What is this? You knew—”
“I know not,” growled Khlit.
As he spoke he remembered that his companions must have followed in his tracks, seeking the end of the hunt. The footsteps grew louder without. A shout rang through the castle. Atagon took up his staff and stepped to the door. Gurd drew his knife and placed himself before the priest.
“Fool!” hissed Gurd to the trembling Gutchluk. “Why did you not see to the door? Hush! They may not find the entrance under the tapestry.”
“I left it open, lord,” muttered the servant. “How could men enter Changa Nor?”
A cry announced that the men without had found the opening into the adjoining chamber. There was a quick tread of feet. Khlit's hand went to his sword. Then it fell to his side.
In the entrance to the shrine appeared the giant form of a man in armor. Chagan the sword-bearer entered, dragging back with all his strength at the leash which held the two straining leopards. Behind the hunting beasts appeared Chepe Buga's swarthy countenance. A shaman and a half-dozen warriors blocked the door behind the khan.
Chepe Buga threw a keen glance at the group in the shrine.
“Ha, Khlit, lord,” he growled, “we followed the leopards which were by the horses at the edge of the lake to the wall of Changa. When we pushed against the stones where they smelt, the wall gave in, by cursed witchcraft. Glad am I to see you alive. We thought the devils of Changa had borne you off to Satan's bonfire.”
Chagan gave a cry and pointed to the treasures of the shrine. Chepe Buga's eye lighted gleefully.
“By the mighty beard of Afrasiab!” he swore. “Here is a pretty sight. Nay, the Wolf has led us as he promised without bloodshed to the treasure of Changa Nor.”
His glance fell on Gurd and Chinsi, and he gave a hearty laugh. “What! Here is the devil-hunter, ripe for the torture, and a maid, for our sport. By Satan's cloven hoof, that was well done, Khlit, lord!”
Their eyes aflame with greed, the Tatars echoed their khan's words with a shout that rang through the castle of Changa, and caused the leopards to snarl.
IX
A poisonous vine hanging up
on a strong cedar—such is a traitor at the gate of a king.
Chinese proverb
Gurd had been reared in the forest, among animals quick to slay. He had had all men for his enemies, save the few at Changa Nor. So, while he possessed the patience of the animals he hunted, he had also their fierce anger. Chepe Buga's mocking words brought a flush to his brown cheeks, and before any one could move he had drawn the knife at his girdle.
The Tatar khan had no time to lift his sword. Gurd was upon him with gleaming knife, when Atagon, who had anticipated the hunter's movement, thrust his staff against the latter's chest. Held away from his enemy, Gurd glared at Chepe Buga with blazing eyes. The Tatar returned his gaze with cool insolence. Atagon placed his hand on his companion's shoulder.
“Peace, my son,” he said quietly. “It is not fitting that blood should flow because of a hasty word. We must not quarrel in the shrine of God. Let me speak to this man.”
Chepe Buga eyed the patriarch in astonishment, which deepened into disgust. The proud words of the priest had no effect on him. “Who are you, Graybeard?” he growled. “And who is the girl?”
Khlit spoke for the first time. “This is Atagon,” he said, “master of Changa Nor. And the woman is Chinsi, daughter of a Gur-Khan.”
Chepe Buga stared at the girl's delicate face and ruddy hair in open approval. Gurd ground his teeth as he caught the glance, but the hand of Atagon restrained him.
“Aye, she bears herself like a princess, Khlit, lord,” assented the Tatar carelessly. “She is worthy of a better master than this thin-blooded priest, or yon scowling hunter. I will give up my share of the jewels for her. Hey, there is a pretty emerald!”
He walked to the cross and balanced it tentatively in his hand. Atagon lifted his hand in protest.
“Take the caskets,” cried the shaman from the door; “they are priceless!”
“Nay,” cried Atagon, “touch them not. They hold sacred relics.” Some of the Tatars drew back from the door at this. But Chepe Buga did not move.
