Warriors of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  When Abdul Dost was wounded, he had himself conveyed to the summit of the remaining tower, and Sir Ralph took over the command of his men. Iskander Khan, the graybeard of the Koh-i-Baba, had died of an arrow the second day. The royal ameers presented little better appearance than the tattered soldiery.

  It was then that Jani Beg, believing that the citadel was doomed, ordered the last assault. It is written in the annals of Afghanistan that he led this himself.

  The wave of Uzbeks broke through the new breach made by the Persian cannon and swept around the tower whence Abdul Dost watched silently.

  Then from the base of the tower issued a strange throng— graybeards and boys bearing arms that they had picked up from the slain.

  “Shirzad el kadr!”

  They shrilled the war-cry of their dead lord and plunged into the ranks of the northern swordsmen. They were singled out and slain, one by one, for the name of mercy had been forgotten in the struggle around Khanjut.

  Sir Ralph, who had drawn aside to gather his strength, saw Jani Beg pushing toward the tower, and went to meet him with grim intentness.

  The attackers had been driven back to the breach by the Khan-jut townspeople. And it was here that the Englishman took his stand between two piles of stones.

  “Come, Jani Beg,” he called. “This is the way into Khanjut!”

  He was weary and reckless with the ceaseless strife. The Uzbek hesitated. But his men had heard, and turned toward him. Seeing this, Jani Beg knew that he could not afford to draw back.

  “Eh, Ferang,” he growled, “your body will not stay me!”

  He leaped forward, scimitar swinging overhead. His curved blade met the Englishman's long sword. Sir Ralph thrust strongly, using his point against the other's edge. And as he thrust he forced back Jani Beg.

  Both men were tired, and their weapons, which had clashed sharply at first, moved more slowly. Once Sir Ralph's point struck and bent against the mail armor of the Uzbek's broad chest. His gaze held the other's furious stare steadily.

  It seemed to him that the noise of battle about them dwindled as they fought. He was very tired.

  The Uzbek fenced cunningly, guarding his vulnerable throat above the mail. His scimitar bit into the leather vest of the Englishman and drew blood. He drew back farther, smiling as Sir Ralph came on steadily.

  Sir Ralph's long sword weighed heavily in his hand, and a blur passed across his sight. The cut in his shoulder troubled him. And still Jani Beg stepped back until he was close to his own followers.

  A thrust of the long sword, a parry of the scimitar—and Jani Beg leaped clear of the Englishman's reach. Sir Ralph swayed, his knees quivering with fatigue. Jani Beg laughed, brushing the foam from his mouth.

  “Slay him!” he panted to his men, who had watched irresolutely. “The Ferang is wearied and there are none to defend his back. Strike and slay—”

  The Uzbeks stepped forward while Sir Ralph lifted his blade weakly. Jani Beg watched sneeringly. Then his great frame stiffened and his arms thrust out with a stifled screech.

  The feathered end of an arrow projected under his chin. The Uzbek clawed at it wildly. He sank to his knees, gripping the shaft, blood running from his mouth.

  “'Twas a goodly shot,” said a voice calmly.

  Glancing up at the sound, Sir Ralph saw Abdul Dost leaning against the battlement of the tower directly overhead. A bow was in his hand.

  “Harken!”

  The mansabdar raised his hand. Then Sir Ralph knew that a silence had indeed fallen over Khanjut and the men that stood within it.

  In the distance below the citadel he heard a shout.

  “Ho—nila ghora ki aswar!”

  The Uzbeks heard and straightaway turned to run from the breach. Sir Ralph leaned on his weapon, wondering, for his senses were dulled with the conflict.

  “The Rajput war-cry,” he said.

  “Aye,” nodded Abdul Dost. “The Rajputs. In the plain their cavalry has deployed from the passes of the Koh-i-Baba. Their standards are those of the army of the Dekkan.”

  Sir Ralph was slow to comprehend this.

  “I have been watching them for the space milk takes to boil— while you were engaged with the carrion that was Jani Beg.”

  The Englishman straightened with a laugh.

  “What of the Persians?” he asked.

  Abdul Dost cast an indifferent scrutiny over the plain.

  “The Persians draw rein for Persia,” he said grimly. “I think Shah Abbas leads them. He has the best horse.”

  It was not long after this that Sir Ralph said farewell to Krishna Taya in the hill gardens of Kabul, at the festival attending Jahangir's departure for the court at Delhi. His tent was near to that of Raja Man Singh, and here he found Krishna Taya waiting when he returned from his leave-taking at the Mogul's pavilion.

  It was in the afternoon when few people were stirring, and the garden was quiet. This was the first time that the Englishman had seen the Rajput girl alone since the night of her ride to the Dekkan army.

  “It is a fair day,” she said softly, “when I see a smile upon the face of my lord. Jahangir is liberal with those who have won his favor. It is said that you have earned his good will—”

  “For a time, Krishna Taya,” he nodded, “my enemies are silenced. But I cannot afford to overstay my time.”

  “The slaves said today,” the girl resumed wistfully, “that you received rich presents. They talked of high rank bestowed upon you, and treasure, and a jagir on the Guzurat coast, not far from Marwar—”

  “Nay, I took it not. Instead I asked Jahangir for this.”

  Sir Ralph drew a folded paper from his tunic.

  “It is the firman, Krishna Taya,” he explained as she looked to him for an answer. “The trade concession for my country from the Mogul.”

  She turned her dark head aside.

  “Then—you will not take the title and land of Guzurat, my lord?”

  “Nay.”

  “It was said also that you might leave Hindustan.”

  “Aye. My work takes me to England, and those who sent me.” She sighed, resting her slender chin on clasped hands. She looked at him curiously.

  “You still wear the ram rukhi, Sir Ralph. Has it served you— brought you happiness? The gods have smiled upon you since you took it.”

  He removed the silk bangle from his wrist cheerfully and handed it to the girl.

  “My thanks, Krishna Taya. It has been a boon to me. Without it, I might not have gained the firman.”

  With that Sir Ralph stooped and raised her hand to his lips. The girl quivered under his touch, and her eyes closed. Her lips framed a word she did not speak.

  “You are content, my lord?”

  “Aye, Krishna Taya.”

  He stared at her in some surprise. Surely the girl was changed from the willful mistress of the Rajputs who had made him prisoner some months ago. She was very lovely, after her fashion, and he owed her much. She bent her dark head so that he could not look into her eyes.

  “Your country and mine, Krishna Taya,” he said, seeking to break the silence, “will no longer be apart.”

  “But you will not come back, Sir Ralph?”

  “Another ameer of the sea will come.”

  He looked around at the rose-garden, now bare of flowers, and even to his blunt senses the place held a witchery that caused him some vague regret.

  “I have seen much of India, and I have learned much of her people, Krishna Taya. I have known the loyalty of the Rajputs.” Krishna Taya smiled ever so slightly and stroked the silk bracelet on her wrist.

  “So much, my lord? I—I also have known—much.”

  At loss for further words Sir Ralph bent again and kissed her hand. Then he strode away past the tent, while she looked after him wistfully.

  Seeing that he would not come back, she rose and went into the garden. There against a stone gate of a well she sat, chin on hand, while the sunlight dwindled to the twilight.

>   Came long-striding Raja Man Singh, swaggering after his wont, in elegant attire, his beard new-trimmed and redolent of musk.

  “Ho, Krishna Taya,” he cried carelessly, “I have seen your bracelet brother leave with the caravan that goes overland to the northern sea. He was a brave man and I have thought that the ram rukhi was not ill bestowed upon him.”

  “Aye, my lord,” she said.

  “And you, little Krishna Taya,” he added, for he was in high good humor with the events of recent days, “what think you?” “The ram rukhi was well given.”

  Whereupon the raja departed about his business, leaving Krishna Taya staring wistfully out over the darkened garden, and holding close to her breast the hand that wore the bracelet.

  Law of Fire

  In the city of the silent lie those who are dead. Their blood is like to dried dust; over their faces the rose bush blows.

  Even thus do they lie.

  Between the hills of the Mustagh Ata the camels pass—one by one like shadows passing into the night. The riders of the camels lift not their veils; they look not upon the right hand or the left.

  They stoop not to the rose bush; nor do they eat when it is time. For they are the dead who have not died . . .

  Even thus do they ride.

  It was a fair day in the early Spring of the year of 1609 of the Christian era. And it was in the hills of northern Kashmir, on the outskirts of the empire of the Mogul, a day's fast ride from Srinaggar, the City of the Sun.

  Khlit had gone from his yurt to water his horse at the spring that lay in the valley through which ran the caravan track from Leh.

  The site of his yurt had been carefully selected, being halfway up the mountain slope within the forest line. It enabled him to see down the caravan route and to observe who came and went from Srinaggar to Leh.

  And not to be seen himself—a matter of some moment for one who was outlawed by Jahangir, the Lord of Lords, and King of Kings, the Shadow of God on Earth, his Majesty, the emperor of Hindustan.

  The edict of Jahangir did not greatly trouble Khlit, who was accustomed to choose his own path in life and to ride alone. In this manner he had passed from the Cossack steppe to the Tatar steppe; from there to the mountains of Kashmir.

  Yet a recent exchange of sword strokes with sundry Persians and Pathans had made the name of Khlit notorious about Srinag-gar. Some called him the Wanderer, others the Curved Saber—in reference to the Cossack blade that was his favorite weapon.

  Khlit's hair was gray and his tall figure spare with age. Of recent years he had trusted more to shrewdness than to the sword— which he still wielded, however, with a master hand—to preserve his life from the enemies who beset the hills and caravan paths of Central Asia during the era of the Mogul.

  In his felt yurt Khlit had had a companion other than his horse. It was the spirit of loneliness, bred of days of watching by the fire and nights of scanning the majestic slopes that thrust their splintered ice crests into the moonlight.

  Even as the spirit of the sword had risen beside Khlit when a boy and driven him to saddle and to the open steppe, the pang of loneliness irked him.

  Not that Khlit was eager for the companionship of the Kashmiris of Srinaggar. He had visited the court of Hindustan, and the ways of the Hindus were not his ways. He longed for sight of the men of the northern hills, who rode where they willed and slept under the stars.

  It was a great hunger, this hunger that had come upon Khlit. It came of years of riding knee to knee and bridle to bridle with men of his own kind, who had no master, paid no tribute and owned no slaves. And it would not be denied.

  Perhaps the season had something to do with it. The snow by Khlit's yurt was melting and the freshets were breaking from the ice barrier. The sun shone warmly into the entrance of the felt shelter and the mountain ash and poplar were breaking into leaf. It was the season when the Cossacks were wont to be afoot with their comrades.

  Khlit had been meditating and had walked slowly down through the pines, drawing his horse after him. As he came out upon the spring he halted abruptly.

  A group of men were squatted on carpets by the spring, watering a score of horses. Khlit stared at them thoughtfully. He had taken pains to observe—as was his custom—that no caravan was in view when he started down to the spring.

  These men must have come down the valley swiftly if they had reached the watering place before him. Moreover, it was not a caravan.

  Khlit wondered if they were horse thieves. But if the horses had been stolen they were going in the wrong direction for safety— being headed for Srinaggar.

  Only a half-dozen of the animals were laden, and these with light packs. He noticed that the horses were Arabs and Turkoman beasts, of excellent breed. Then his own horse neighed before he could prevent, and the group at the spring glanced up hastily, leaping to their feet and laying hand to weapon.

  Whereupon Khlit walked forward, having no mind to turn his back on the watchers. They eyed him in silence as he reached the spring, which was already muddied by the hoofs of the other beasts. Seeing this, Khlit hauled at a bridle of one, making room for his own thirsty horse to drink.

  “Bismillah! Dog and gully jackal! Would you take what belongs to others?”

  The words were Turki, and sharply spoken. The speaker was a wiry Arab enveloped in a voluminous brown cloak, girded by a shawl in which were stuck an array of weapons, ranging from silver-chased Turkish pistols to a pair of Damascus scimitars— upon the jeweled hilt of one the Arab's lean hand trembled.

  Khlit gnawed at his mustache calmly, making no move to withdraw his horse.

  “Back, dog of a caphar. Wretched son of many fathers, and eater of filth—back!”

  The man stepped closer, his dark face flushed with anger.

  “Your horse had finished,” remarked Khlit, speaking broken Turki. “And the clear spring was becoming muddied, even as this soil is defiled by your presence, O maker-of-lies.”

  With a grunt the Arab snatched at a pistol—only to have it struck from his grip by a swift slash of Khlit's sword. The master of the curved saber had learned by experience never to draw without striking, and always to be the first to strike. Moreover he had acquired a trick of thrusting with the same movement that drew his blade from scabbard.

  The pistol had fallen into the pool, and the angered Muslim snatched at a sword. Khlit's blade flashed before his face and touched his turban, severing the folds over his forehead. The ends, dangling down, blinded the Arab, who stepped back.

  “Peace!” said a harsh voice. “Peace, swallower of flames, and seeker after blood. Stay, Nasir Beg! The graybeard is your master.”

  Nasir Beg fumbled at his weapon uncertainly, his thin lips drawn back in a snarl. Khlit glanced at the speaker and saw a little man huddled in fur robes, over which two alert black eyes peered at him.

  “Am I one, Pir Kasim, to suffer a blow like a dog?” muttered Nasir Beg.

  “Peace!” cried the little man again impatiently, and Khlit sheathed his weapon, seeing that Pir Kasim was master of the Arab.

  Nevertheless, he did not cease to watch Nasir Beg, who was assuaging his injured feelings by muttered curses.

  By his dirty turban, on which were strung valuable pearls, Khlit guessed Pir Kasim to be an Uzbek—probably a merchant and a man of some importance. The third of the group was a stout eunuch, richly garbed in silk. The two others who sat apart and watched were servants.

  Khlit considered them without apparent interest yet with some curiosity. They were the first men he had spoken with in several moons. Moreover, Pir Kasim, who was undoubtedly a merchant, was traveling without goods, while the fat Ethiopian, who was a eunuch, had no women to guard.

  In his days at the Mogul court Khlit had seen many strange assemblages, yet never before an Uzbek allied with an Arab and an Ethiopian.

  Pir Kasim seemed to be owner of the horses, but these were not the kind ordinarily bought and sold in Kashmir, nor did the Uzbek appear to be a selle
r of horses.

  Who were they? Whither were they bound? And what manner of goods did Pir Kasim have for sale?

  Khlit's horse had quenched its thirst by now, and he swung himself into the saddle Cossack fashion without touching stirrup. Whereupon Pir Kasim combed at his thin beard and frowned.

  Backing his horse slowly from the pool, Khlit eyed the merchant, and presently, as he had anticipated, the Uzbek lifted a crooked forefinger and spoke.

  “A fair horse that, noble sir. You have him well to hand.” “Aye,” grunted Khlit, “I have trained him. Ho, merchant, I would have a fellow to him. Sell me one of yonder beasts—I have gold mohars.”

  “Nay—” Pir Kasim did not shift his scrutiny—“I now have need of them. We be desert men, by the face of the Prophet, and when did such sell their horses for gold?”

  He traced patterns in the dust beside the carpet as if meditating. “Nay. What name bear you, and whence come you?”

  “I have drawn my reins from the Mogul court,” responded Khlit grimly. “As for a name—is there not writing on my sword? Aye, for him who can read.”

  Pir Kasim's shrewd eyes blinked. Wrapped in his robes, from which his yellow face and claw-like hand protruded, he resembled a hawk meditating upon its nest.

  “Your sword, noble sir? You use it well, as Nasir Beg can bear witness. Whither ride you?”

  “Where goes the wind from the hill gorge?”

  “Out upon the plain. Harken, warrior—” Pir Kasim, being somewhat at a loss as to Khlit's race and rank, was cautious— “the thought has come to me, nay, it is but an idle thought, you may desire to draw your reins to the border. Away, perchance—

  Allah is my witness that 'tis but an idle thought—from the tents and riders of the Mogul. Will you join us?”

  Khlit considered, leaning on the peak of his saddle.

  “Devil take it!” He growled. “Plain speech is best! You ride to Srinaggar, not to the border land.”

  Pir Kasim rubbed his lean hands together and stretched them out to the sun as if to a fire. He smiled craftily.