Warriors of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  They dismounted only to run beside their horses and stir the heat of their bodies. They ate sparingly of dried horseflesh and frozen mare's milk.

  Kargan Khan, who led the troop, had said that they would not rest until they reached the davan where his daughter was buried.

  And during that interval Khlit sat by his horse in the snowstorm, having raised one side of the sheepskin shelter so that it partly covered the black stallion. His food was nearly exhausted but he did not venture abroad for more, having decided that the next day was the one in which he would seek out Shaista Mirza.

  During the last week Khlit had formulated a plan. He had pondered it carefully and was content. It was a bold venture, depending for success upon the speed of his horse. Yet in his plan Khlit had been unaware of one thing—the consummate cleverness of the Persian, and the craft of his servants.

  Khlit had faced many enemies and had lived while they had died by virtue of his shrewd brain. In Shaista Mirza, however, he had a foe who was no less shrewd, who planned as carefully, and who was master of many swords.

  Yet Khlit did not intend to trust to his sword. Rather he put his trust in his horse, and in a thing that Shaista Mirza would have scorned—the faith of another man.

  VIII

  When the dead are placed in the earth or upon the burial-fire, they are not. Then is the burial-place a place of shadows. The caravan will pass by and see not the shadows. The singer will strike upon the guitar, and heed them not. The women will bear jars to the nearby well and know them not.

  Yet there is one who will heed the shadows. Aye, the slayer of the dead!

  Kirghiz proverb

  The snow ceased not long after dawn, leaving its carpet over the breast of the Jhilam hills and its tracery upon the laden branches of the pines. With the clearing of the weather, Shaista Mirza ordered the kettledrums of the fortress to sound the muster of his forces.

  The riders assembled in the snow-covered gardens—Persians in elaborate armor, Pathan mercenaries in cloak and hood, lean Hazaras in quilted corselets with quivers slung at the saddles.

  The mirza inspected his men with care to see that they were well-armed and mounted. It was well, he thought, to make a good showing of force before Kargan Khan.

  He was mounted on a beautiful Arab, his thin body wrapped in furs that covered all but his sharp face. Nureddin accompanied him, a handsome figure with jeweled saddle-peak and sword-belt.

  Only a small force was left with the slaves in the fortress. Shaista Mirza completed his muster. He selected a group of heavily armed Persians—among them a few musket-men—as bodyguard for himself. Others he told off under Nureddin to escort Rao Singh and the master of physics, who was muffled in his soiled white cloak because of his recent malady.

  The Pathan mercenaries Shaista Mirza placed in the vanguard, and he threw out two flanking parties of Hazara archers. In this manner they set out along the Jhilam road around the lake, leaving only slaves, servants, and a few soldiers under a Persian captain to guard the castle. On that day the mirza's riders numbered twenty-five score.

  They rode through the village, flinging gibes at the few emaciated women who with children clinging to their shawls came to look impassively at the cavalcade. The men of the village were not to be seen.

  Along the lakeshore the huts of the fishermen were empty; so noted the sharp-eyed vizier whose duty was to assess the taxes. Here the road wound into the pines.

  The sun was high by now, giving out a cheering warmth. The riders, now that the early-morning chill had been shaken from their limbs, laughed and sang snatches of ballads, restraining their fresh horses with difficulty. Shaista Mirza smiled and plucked at his cheeks. He was treading the path of his destiny, and his plans were well laid.

  Rao Singh, his arms bound behind him, rode with head downcast, saying nothing and only looking up at intervals to stare at the thickets that bordered the road. He paid no heed to the witticisms of Nureddin, who was in a high good humor.

  Then Khlit rode into the path ahead of the vanguard.

  A shout went up from the Hazaras, a shout which was repeated back until it reached Shaista Mirza.

  “Let the archers pursue!" he cried shrilly. “Yet not more than a ten—all others keep to their files."

  The black horse wheeled under spur as the nearest Hazaras urged their mounts forward. Khlit waved his arm as if making a sign to someone hidden from view. He bent low in the saddle, for the archers had sped a few haphazard shafts, and gave the black horse its head.

  Rao Singh had raised his head dully at the shout, but seemed not to grasp its meaning.

  “Eh, the wolf is seen by the pack, Bember Hakim," chuckled the astrologer. “The stars are kind to Shaista Mirza."

  “Nay, 'tis a shrewd wolf," muttered the other, “and Jaffar sleeps with the fish for bedfellows."

  Nureddin shrugged his plump shoulders, yawned, and glanced appraisingly at Rao Singh. “Gave you the youth opium?" he whispered.

  “He is made ready for what is to come. See, where he reels in his saddle."

  Khlit rode well ahead of the pursuers, keeping beyond bowshot. His horse was fresh and had the legs of the others. Little by little he increased his lead, turning easily in the saddle to measure the distance.

  He had lost sight of the main body of his enemies. He rose in his stirrups, plucking his curved sword from its scabbard and swinging it around his head, feeling the exhilaration of being again in the saddle and tasting the keen delight of peril.

  Yet as he did so—obeying one of the instincts that were his heritage from his Cossack forebears—he sheathed his weapon and crouched forward watchfully. In the snow before him he had seen the tracks of many horses.

  Into the broad trail left by these riders he urged his own mount, and a cry went back from the speeding archers to the men around Shaista Mirza.

  “The outcast has turned into the Wular davan."

  The Persian laughed, then scowled and snapped an order angrily. “Summon back the archers! Form in close files."

  He was wary of riding haphazard into the valley where the men of Kargan Khan were waiting. And he knew that Khlit once in the davan was between his own men and the Kirghiz and could not escape without leaving his horse and climbing the slope—a course of action that would leave him afoot and consequently an easy prey.

  Shaista Mirza was willing to believe that sheer good fortune had thrown the Cossack before his men. Yet his suspicions were sharp and he had heard how Khlit had once led two bands of soldiers into conflict with each other by just such a trick. He knew his own strength and the weapons he could employ to sway the mind of Kargan, and he could afford to be cautious.

  “Perchance the outcast thought to bait a trap," he muttered to the leader of his musket-men. “If so he must be without hope, for he has ridden ahead of us into the davan."

  It occurred to Shaista Mirza that Khlit might have hoped that Rao Singh could escape in the excitement that arose on his appearance. But the Hindu was in his place, leaning heavily on the peak of his saddle.

  “If we find the Cossack in the davan," he called to Nureddin, “make no move to seize him until I command."

  Whereupon he set his men in motion in orderly ranks, close-knit now that they ascended the slope that led from the lakeshore to the davan.

  Meanwhile Khlit had not slackened the pace of his horse. The way was familiar, and those who had gone before him had trampled the snow crust into a compact footing.

  He passed two sentinels—bearded men mounted on shaggy steppe ponies—without pause, only shouting the name of Kargan Khan. The two, seeing that he was alone, permitted him to ride on.

  Now he saw slender blue spirals of smoke rising from the head of the valley and caught the stamp of horses' hoofs and the jangle of bits. Rounding the turn where he had once passed the form of Cheker Ghar, he came full upon the Kirghiz.

  They filled the valley-head from cliff to cliff, squatting in circles around the fires, yet with their horses' bridles
near at hand and their weapons across their knees—stalwart men roughly clad in furs and horsehide boots, their broad faces set with slant eyes that turned inquiringly upon Khlit.

  The Kirghiz had come in peace to the Wular; still the tribesmen had no love for the mercenaries of Jhilam and they trusted no man's word—save only Kargan Khan's.

  And Khlit reined in sharply, beholding one who sat upon a stone and watched him under shaggy brows. It was a man whose heavy head seemed sunk into massive shoulders, whose bent and mightily thewed frame was enclosed in a supple corselet of Turkish mail without the customary khalat.

  A bronzed and hairy hand gripped each knee of the sitter, and Khlit saw that one eye was closed beneath a vivid scar that ran from chin to brow. By this Khlit knew that he faced Kargan, chief of the Baramula horde.

  But already he had seen where the rocks over the grave had been rolled aside and the earth upturned. The khalat of the khan lay on the snow before him, and under the khalat the outline of a slender figure.

  Thus did Khlit ride to meet Kargan Khan on the day that gave to the Wular valley the name of Kizil Yar, or Red Pass, in the tongue of the Kirghiz.

  He lifted his right hand to show that he held no weapon and walked his horse forward slowly. The warriors on either side of the khan observed him intently but made no hostile move. “Dismount!" cried one gruffly.

  Khlit made no move to do so.

  “Shall a kha khan dismount before a khan, even the chief of a horde?" he asked, speaking directly to Kargan. “I am Khlit, called by some the Curved Saber, and once the yak-tail standard of the Jungar horde followed me."

  A murmur went through the assembled warriors at this. The southern Kirghiz had never seen Khlit, but his name was known by hearsay. Many tales concerning the Cossack had been repeated throughout the nomad tribes.

  Kargan Khan's harsh face showed no indication of his thoughts. “What seek you, Khlit?"

  “I ride to Kargan Khan with a message. Behind me, in the space milk takes to boil, will come the slayer of Kera."

  The muscles under the jaw of the Kirghiz tightened and the skin of his face darkened.

  “It is well," he rumbled, the words rolling from his thick chest—the only sign of his emotion. “For I have come in the pursuit of blood. I have looked upon the dead body of Kera."

  Shaista Mirza took in the scene at the valley-head with a swift glance. He sought out Khlit, noting his position a few yards from and slightly back of Kargan Khan.

  He saw that the Kirghiz had mounted but were not formed in any order. They sat silently on their wearied ponies, staring at the gaudily attired Persians. Shaista Mirza reflected smilingly that they resembled a pack of wolves.

  Whether Khlit was Kargan's prisoner or not Shaista Mirza could not guess. He considered it a stroke of rare good fortune that Khlit should have walked into the trap. Perhaps, he reasoned swiftly, the Cossack planned to denounce him—Shaista Mirza.

  For this Shaista Mirza was prepared. Hidden among his followers, he reflected, were Rao Singh and Bember Hakim, whose testimony united to his own would overbear anything the solitary outcast might say.

  So Shaista Mirza smiled and bent his head slightly in greeting to the khan.

  “Hail, Kargan Khan," he began smoothly, “master of the Bara-mula and lord of the Kara Kirghiz. Auspicious is the day we can meet in friendship. Favorable are the omens for this day, and fain would Jahangir himself have been present to greet the chieftain he holds in honor."

  He paused for a response, but Kargan Khan spoke not. The single eye of the Kirghiz roved over the Persian ranks as if seeking that which he found not.

  “Happy am I, Kargan Khan, to bid you and your followers welcome to Jhilam, and to the castle."

  Shaista Mirza's courteous words thinly veiled the scorn in which he held the clumsy figure on the rock. His glance wandered to the khalat and the form beneath it, and wavered. Then he summoned a ready smile.

  “Think not, Kargan Khan, because I sent a single man to your encampment that I am unmindful of the honor due the Lord of the Baramula. Nay, Bember Hakim is the trusted servant of the Mogul himself, and a worthy messenger."

  The Kirghiz lifted his shaggy head impatiently. “Aye," he responded, “the hakim swore that when I rode to this spot I would set hand on the slayer of my child. Name the man!"

  The last words echoed forth as if torn from the muscles of the warrior's chest.

  Shaista Mirza bent his head and glanced sidelong at Khlit. The Cossack sat his horse impassively, apparently indifferent to what was said. He also was scanning the Persian ranks.

  In spite of himself the mirza wondered at the outcast's calm. He reflected that Khlit must be in truth dull of wit and not as the tales had painted him. Once Kargan Khan heard Shaista Mirza speak the name of Khlit, the Cossack would die as swiftly and mercilessly as a cornered roe deer is torn by dogs.

  Wherefore Shaista Mirza smiled—a smile that ended in a sneer. He liked well to play with a victim, to tie slowly the knot of death upon the condemned.

  Truly, he would have preferred to see a woman die rather than the gray-haired warrior. He regretted that he had not seen Jaffar deal with Kera. It would have been a dainty sight.

  “My heart is heavy with your sorrow, O khan," he lisped. “And I have come prepared to see vengeance done. Aye, to see the end of the pursuit of blood. Yet you are a chief and a judge.

  “Behold then, I would have the matter clear and purged of the cloud of doubt, so that none may whisper Kargan Khan slew wrongly."

  He turned in his saddle.

  “Nureddin!"

  The astrologer pushed forward.

  “Fetch Rao Singh and Bember Hakim."

  Softly he added—“You have made certain the stripling is heavy with opium?"

  “Aye, my lord. These past six hours has Bember Hakim been plying him with noxious physics and nostrums, so that he knows not his right hand from his left."

  Satisfied, Shaista Mirza watched his two witnesses dismount and advance until they stood beside the khalat. Rao Singh, whose arms had been freed, stumbled, and was supported by the other. Khlit was watching not Rao Singh but the face of Kargan.

  By now the sun was well down behind the mountain peaks and the shadows were gathering under the pines. Sometimes the shadows shifted as if wind had moved the pine-branches. But there was no wind.

  From a cleft in the rock—the same as that by which Bember Hakim had made his escape—yellow rays of the sun shot across the ravine, falling athwart the figure of Rao Singh.

  Kargan Khan had gripped his weapon spasmodically as the boy stood before him, wondering if the Hindu who had carried Kera from the seraglio was the one he sought.

  Rao Singh looked up, and father and lover of Kera stared long into each other's eyes. Then the boy's drooping figure straightened and he flung back his head, crossing his arms on his chest.

  Nureddin frowned, for he could see that a change had come over the face of Rao Singh. The lips had drawn firmly together. Suffering had wiped out the lines of youthful indolence. The eyes were level and purposeful.

  Into the face of Rao Singh had come the stamp of grief and the strength that changes boy to man. Nureddin moved uneasily and would have spoken, but Rao Singh was before him.

  “Kargan Khan," he said slowly, “the Flower of the Hills was my bride. Aye, she was the rose that made fragrant the garden of my heart. And she called me lord."

  In the dark eyes of the Hindu shone a steadfast purpose. Kar-gan Khan stared at him with fierce intentness, his savage anger challenging the pride of the Hindu.

  Shaista Mirza had not thought to find Rao Singh master of his senses and would have spoken, but the Kirghiz motioned him aside without taking his gaze from the Hindu.

  “You feared to ride to me—Kargan—with Kera upon your saddle-peak."

  “Nay," retorted the Hindu proudly, “that I could not do until Kera was mistress of Jhilam as was Rani Begum, my mother."

  Long and steadily the Kirghiz m
easured Rao Singh, and a new gleam crept into his single eye.

  “By the gods—name me the slayer of my child!" he roared, whipping out his sword.

  Shaista Mirza put out his hands, then licked his dry lips softly, studying his prisoner craftily—as a man who scans the dice he is about to cast.

  Rao Singh wheeled and pointed.

  “Shaista Mirza," he said.

  A rising mutter of anger from the ranks of the Kirghiz, a quick flash of weapons; ponies capered under the spur, an exclamation from the Persians, and Kargan Khan sprang to his feet. Then Shaista Mirza lifted his hand. Except for a quick spasm his face showed nothing of the rage he felt.

  “Stay," he cried harshly, his high voice rising over the tumult. “Would you listen to one who speaks in the stupor of opium? Rao Singh has partaken of the drug. He knows not what he is saying."

  The Persian would have urged his horse upon Rao Singh, but the Hindu leaped back and the Kirghiz interposed his bulk between them. The sword that the chief held was a heavy blade, but it trembled with the force of his anger and the strength that held the anger in check.

  Khlit had not moved. Nor did he seem surprised by the speech of the boy.

  “Nay, Kargan Khan," pursued Shaista Mirza swiftly, “is not Rao Singh my foe? Did he not seize your child? His false lips frame lies."

  He clutched the khan's massive shoulder and whispered:

  “Yonder sits the scoundrel. Aye, Khlit—he of the Curved Saber—is the man you seek!"

  The Kirghiz shook his head angrily like the buffalo that Shaista Mirza was fond of calling him.

  “Death of the gods!" he cried. “Would the slayer of Kera ride alone into my array?"

  Then for the first time Shaista Mirza felt the chill of doubt, and paled. His voice broke as he called for Bember Hakim.

  “Aye," said Khlit.

  This was the only time he spoke during the judgment in the Wular davan.

  “Let us hear Bember Hakim."