Warriors of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  “Lord, I, all unworthy, have a word for your ear."

  Khlit looked up swiftly, sensing a new development. He saw a withered, bent frame of a man with a singularly light complexion and sharp eyes. He wore a skull-cap, and his frail figure was enveloped in a white cloak, a garment of rich texture, with bracelets of pearls at the wrists.

  “Speak, Bember Hakim—waste no words."

  The ameer glanced at the newcomer half-scornfully.

  “Lord, I spake with one who was sentry at the foot of this path. He said that when the moon was very bright there came two who stood on the hill above him and looked toward the camp. One wore the turban of an Afghan, the other was yonder graybeard.

  “They watched, lord. For what? Perchance for the coming of one in haste from the camp."

  The ameer glanced at Khlit, fingering his sword. The wanderer met his gaze squarely.

  “This one remained at the ford," continued Bember Hakim shrewdly. “Wherefore if not to turn us aside from the fleeing rider? It is written that the evil-doers shall trip in their own snare. Why should the man we seek take the lower turn, which leads but to villages? Nay, we shall find him riding into the hills—"

  “By the beard of the Prophet!"

  The ameer's dark face twisted in a snarl. He signed to his men. “Seize me this traitor and squeeze his gullet until blood or the truth come from his lips."

  Khlit saw that others rode past him to the farther side of the ford to hem him in. His horse stood behind him, but he was surrounded save for the stream.

  He did not move as two warriors approached, looking up instead at Bember Hakim.

  “You be men of the Mogul's," he said slowly. “Know you Jahangir has promised me safeguard? Aye, his safeguard to Khlit. I have his oath."

  The soldiers hesitated, but the ameer scanned Khlit sharply and bared his teeth in a grim smile.

  “A favorite of Jahangir? In common garments? Nay, you be no Muslim."

  “Nevertheless it is the truth. I give you warning."

  “A woman has been taken from the imperial seraglio," broke in the Arab. “This man is a caphar, an unbeliever, by dress and speech. What matters a safeguard if he be a traitor?"

  Khlit rose and faced the two.

  “Take me then to Jahangir," he ventured. “He will remember the one who befriended Nur-Jahan."

  “Spawn of an unbeliever!"

  The ameer gripped his sword.

  “Nay, I waste not words with such. Speak us the truth and you may save your life. Jahangir's memory is short."

  “I have spoken."

  Khlit noted that the ring of men pressed closer, and he saw a smile creep upon the thin face of the hakim. In a calmer mood perhaps the horsemen would not have dealt so harshly with him; yet it was a vital matter—since favor at court rested with the outcome—that they should find Kera and Rao Singh. Moreover the nobles of Jahangir were scarcely tolerant.

  “We waste time!"

  The ameer reined his horse forward.

  “Bind me this wretch—"

  “And the word of Jahangir?"

  “Is a thing that is past. If you have aided the misdeed this night you will be given to the elephants to trample."

  Khlit had been thinking while he talked. In fact he had played with words while he considered the situation. To his ability to weigh chances and to act swiftly in the face of danger he owed his long life.

  If the ameer's men had realized the character of the wanderer they would not have given him the chance to mount his horse. Khlit's enemies frequently underestimated his strength, and still more frequently his intelligence.

  “Stay!"

  Khlit grasped the reins of the leader's horse, forcing the beast back on its haunches.

  “Behold what lies underfoot!"

  Before this the newcomers had not observed the body in the deep pool where the current had washed it. The body of the Persian. They were startled, and their eyes were drawn to it for a brief second.

  Time enough for Khlit to spring bodily into the saddle of his horse and plunge spurs into flank. Perfect rider as he was, trained in the Cossack school, it was no difficult feat to avoid the other horses and gallop up the bed of the stream.

  A pistol echoed behind him. He bent low, avoiding the sweep of the branches overhead. The others were after him at once. But his course had surprised them, and the footing was of the poorest.

  Khlit had chosen his present horse with care, and by keeping well in to the bank he drew ahead of his pursuers, who were on spent beasts. Their pistol-shots went wide.

  Only one kept close to him. After an interval Khlit looked behind.

  He saw the little Arab galloping through the brush by the stream, and he put spurs again to the black horse.

  The stream turned into an open glade. Once this was passed, and the thicket on the farther side, Khlit reined in sharply. He drew a pistol from his belt and awaited the approach of the hakim, satisfied that the others had been left in the rear.

  The Arab came into view and the rider slowed to a walk as he neared the Cossack. He seemed to be unarmed, wherefore Khlit did not fire his weapon but waited alertly.

  The little man in the cloak surveyed him shrewdly and held up an open hand.

  “Peace!" he cried.

  He sighed, glancing back the way he had come.

  “Aie—you can slay me if you will. By the holy names of Allah, I am a doomed man."

  He faced Khlit with the calm of a fatalist and smiled. The Cossack lowered his weapon, frowning.

  “By the delay," explained Bember Hakim, “the rider and the maiden will win free, and you also are safe—although you had best ride farther. But I am doomed."

  “Wherefore?"

  “Eh—you know not the Mogul. The girl is lost. And I was the physician, chosen last night to minister to the ills of the women. By the will of Allah I spoke blindfolded with Kera of Kargan. This will come to the ears of Jahangir, and I—"

  He drew a lean finger across his throat and sighed.

  “Caphar," he added reflectively, “I would have accomplished your death. That is a thing like to writing on the sand when the wind has passed. Will you grant me the hand of friendship? We be both branded men."

  Khlit surveyed him with some surprise. Verily Bember Hakim was a strange philosopher. Then he laughed. The offer appealed to his fancy.

  “Come then, if you will," he said gruffly and wheeled his horse into the brush.

  The physician trotted after moodily on his small horse.

  Thus did Khlit leave the camp of the Mogul and lose the favor of Jahangir. But as he put the miles between himself and the imperial pavilions his contentment grew, so that he laughed. Whereupon Bember Hakim looked at him curiously, not knowing Khlit was glad to be his own master again with a horse between his knees and open spaces ahead.

  IV

  In the lake waters glimmer the snow-crests of the mountain peaks. In a mirror a woman looks upon her beauty and smiles.

  Within a mirage over the desert are caravans that leave no trace, and wells that are barren of water.

  But how shall we see the faces of the gods?

  Hindu saying

  The Wular lake was very old, older than the floating island and older than the pillared halls of Jhilam. Older than the first myths of the Hindus—than the ancient story of the Ramayana.

  It was high in the mountains north of the pastureland of Kashmir. Yet it was below the Summer snow-line—low enough in altitude to escape freezing in Winter. It was a sheet of turquoise-blue water fed by cascades descending from the snow-line.

  The southern end of the lake was occupied by the castle of Jhilam with its gardens and the native village. At this point of the lake was the floating island on which Shaista Mirza had built his pleasure pavilion. Around Jhilam were the rice-fields, the beehives—famous in Kashmir—and the fruit-groves that had once belonged to the natives and now were the property of the Persian lord.

  At the northern tip of the Wular rose
the mountains which formed the foothills of the Himalayas—pine-clad and rocky, yet richly verdant. Of late years many of the Hindus of the Jhilam village, as told by Ahmad Rumi, had forsaken their huts to flee from the ruinous taxes of their overlord and to take refuge in the pine forest, where game was moderately plentiful.

  So it happened that the village of Jhilam came to be overrun by slaves of the Persian and in the castle proper were only adherents of Shaista Mirza—soldiers, Khorassanis, a few Pathans, Hazaras and the Persians. And as Jhilam was the fortress of northern Kashmir, all the province from the lowlands to the boundary of Kargan Khan's territory had come under the Persian's sway.

  It was a clear morning in early Winter with a hint of snow in the air when a man in armor on an exhausted horse rode up the avenue of aspens through the gardens and dismounted hastily at the castle gate.

  He was recognized by the guards and passed into the main hall by a gigantic Turk, Jaffar, sword-bearer of Shaista Mirza.

  “The master!" cried the rider. “The master! I bear ill news."

  Jaffar grunted as he parted the satin hangings over the portal of Shaista Mirza. The soldier, dust-stained and streaked with sweat, prostrated himself.

  “Lord," he cried, “may your shadow ever be over us. Lord, I bring word from the Jhilam road."

  Jaffar eyed him eagerly, but Shaista Mirza did not look up from his study of the chess-board. He sat on his heels on the tiled floor by the ivory chessmen—a lean man, wasted by illness, pockmarked and pallid with the expressionless gaze that is sometimes seen in animals.

  Shaista Mirza was neither Muslim nor sun-worshiper. Some said that he was a survivor of the Refik, a follower of the Assassins, the secret order that had held power in northern Persia during the twelfth century. Shaista Mirza never admitted this, and those who knew him best—among them the astrologer Nureddin—said that the Mirza liked the title of Assassin yet did not belong to the order.

  He was a man who chose to inspire fear among his followers and his enemies. He did this in a number of ways—availing himself sometimes of the arts of Nureddin, who was skilled in the magic of the time, and maintaining a network of spies among the Kashmir hills as well as in the Mogul court. He had chosen Jaffar with this end in view, and Jaffar's congenital cruelty fitted well with the needs of his master.

  Such was Shaista Mirza's shrewdness that Jahangir saw fit to conciliate the Persian, fearing him more than a little and allowing him to accomplish his own ends in Kashmir. This was what the Mirza sought, and he sent the Mogul a small yearly tribute from the rich fief of Jhilam.

  Beside the chessboard burned a brazier, tended by Nureddin, giving out the scent of sandal-paste and aloes. The Persian's gaze shifted from the mimic warriors of the board to the smoke of the brazier—a fixed, cold stare that resembled the unblinking scrutiny of a snake.

  Beyond the brazier stood a small mirror, and in this mirror Shaista Mirza could watch the prostrate soldier.

  “You have no weapon," he said slowly, and the man squirmed, for the mirza—so he thought—had not glanced at him.

  How then was he to know that of which he spoke?

  “Akh!" he cried. “Lord of Exalted Mercy and River of Forgiveness, my sword was taken from me by a demon on a black horse. Verily it was a demon, for it slew Bairam with one stroke and my comrade with another. In the time it takes to draw breath it slew the twain. Verily it was a demon."

  Jaffar grunted at this, and Nureddin glanced up fleetingly. The astrologer was a handsome man, ruddy of cheeks, with black beard curled and scented—a man of manifest vitality. Some who stood in awe of Shaista Mirza whispered that the wasted master of Jhilam sucked blood and strength from the strong body of Nureddin.

  Shaista Mirza did not look up, but toyed with the links of a gold chain about his lean throat.

  “Akh," protested the soldier volubly, “the demon warrior flung a black cloak of darkness about him—and how was I to see where to strike? By the ashes of death, I struck, and fire darted from the nostrils of the black horse and turned the blade, which fell into the stream."

  Jaffar scowled, but the expression of the pale Persian did not change.

  “Verily—" the soldier plucked courage from the silence, “a troop of accursed spirits were abroad in the night. At one stroke was Bairam slain—his head hanging to his shoulder by the windpipe. I rode without stopping for drink or meat until I should bear the news to my lord."

  Shaista Mirza signed to the Turk.

  “This man thirsts," he whispered. “See that he has drink. Wine he may not drink because of his faith, but water; ah, water, Jaffar. Bind a rope about his ankles and tie the rope to a branch of a tree overhanging the lake in the pear-garden. Thus may his head hang in the water, and he will drink—much."

  A wail from the suppliant was interrupted by the sword-bearer, who jerked the soldier to his haunches. Jaffar had learned to obey Shaista Mirza swiftly—hence he was alive and in favor.

  Fear lent the soldier brief courage.

  “Lord," he cried, “Lord of Rudbar—I have further news. Grant me release from this punishment and you shall hear it."

  Shaista Mirza lifted an ivory castle delicately from the board and set it down on another square.

  “Wretched one," he said softly, “you and the twain were sent to slay me the stripling Rao Singh. Yet did you attack another man. The twain have atoned for their mistake. Shall you fare better?"

  “Lord, I have rare news."

  The Persian glanced at him fleetingly and the man shivered. “Speak!"

  “Lord, will your exalted mercy pledge me life—"

  “Speak!"

  “Give tongue, dog."

  Jaffar struck his prisoner with a heavy fist.

  “My lord of Jhilam loves not to wait."

  “This is the word, master," the man exclaimed, his eyes rolling from one to another of the group in feverish supplication. “In the third watch of last night Rao Singh did seize the woman Kera of Kargan from the imperial tents and bear her away."

  Nureddin sucked in his breath with sudden interest and was silent, watching his master.

  “He escaped?" demanded Shaista Mirza.

  “Aye, lord."

  “How heard you this?"

  “From certain eunuchs who rode in pursuit."

  “Whither went Rao Singh?"

  “North into the hills, they knew not where."

  “How large a following?"

  “Lord, they knew not. A wild figure clung to his stirrup. Perhaps others went also. Allah alone knows the truth."

  “Darkness doubles numbers—if they be enemies," smiled Nureddin, speaking his limpid mother-tongue. “Also—creates demons, my lord."

  Shaista Mirza turned to Jaffar.

  “Strip this scion of purgatory and bind him upon an ass with his face to the tail. Then summon the archers to feather him thick as a falcon is feathered with their shafts. Let the body be led through the village as a warning."

  “Akh! My life was pledged—"

  “Fool and nameless one," pointed out Nureddin coolly, “Shaista Mirza did but grant your prayer that the punishment be altered."

  When Jaffar and his prisoner had gone—the man silent with the hopelessness of the fatalist—Nureddin lowered his voice.

  “'Tis well, my lord. Wisdom teaches that a broken arrow should not be kept in the quiver. Rao Singh has scant friends, yet it were not well to have knowledge of your attempt on his life get abroad."

  Shaista Mirza made no reply, whereupon Nureddin glanced at him appraisingly and bent over the chessboard.

  Not until the last move had been made and the mirza's king had been mated beyond all doubt—it was significant of the relations between the two men that the Persian would have flown into a rage had Nureddin not played his utmost, oblivious of the result—that Shaista Mirza leaned back on his cushions and allowed his mind to wander from the game.

  “Aye," he mused, “the stripling lacks favor at Jahangir's court. Eh, at one stroke he has
flown from his gilded cage and taken a mate. What think you of that?"

  Nureddin smiled, stroking his beard.

  “Never, my lord," he responded slowly, “will you occupy Jhilam in peace until the last of the brood of Sattar Singh has been laid in death. And now Kera of Kargan is one of the brood.

  “The blood of youth is traitor to its own cause, lord. Rao Singh has stepped to the brink of a deadly cliff, whence by good fortune and some small arts of ours he shall doubtless tumble to his death."

  Shaista Mirza was silent for a space. Then:

  “Jahangir will give much for his punishment. Yet the Mogul departs with his following for the plains of Hindustan. It is my thought that Rao Singh will escape capture—by the Mogul's men."

  Nureddin bowed assent, thrusting his hands—now that the game was ended—in his wide sleeves, as etiquette prescribed.

  “The essence of truth, my lord. Yet perchance he will not escape us."

  Shaista Mirza tapped his chain meditatively.

  “Nor will Kera of Kargan. Verily the fool has dug a pit in which he shall be caught. Know you Kargan Khan?"

  “Aye, being sharer of the wisdom of the Lord of Rudbar. A brainless hill chief blind in one eye because of a spear-thrust and likewise blind in his brain. Kin to his own clumsy yaks, my lord, he has room but for one thought at a time."

  “And that thought?"

  “To rend the man who has carried off his child. Kargan has love for his daughter."

  Shaista Mirza made no response. Love was a feeling he had never possessed. Wasting sickness had stripped him of vitality, leaving a burning sense of injury—a craving to overmaster the happiness and the lives of others. Ambition and cruelty were the twin forces that gripped the Persian's keen brain.

  Yet he was shrewd enough to make allowance for such feelings —in others. He had studied the human emotions, aided by Nured-din's knowledge of the sciences, of Avicenna's Law, and Galen's, and even Aristotle.

  “Nureddin, you boast the foreknowledge of the stars. Can you answer me this: Where will a fox flee when pursued?"

  “Nay," smiled the astrologer, “no divination is needed to speak you that. To his burrow."