Warriors of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  “A strange folk,” meditated the Muslim, “low-born Hindus, doubtless.”

  “Nay,” Ram Gholab spoke sharply, “they are followers of the Prophet for the most part. Their ancestors were laborers behind bullocks and such dishonorable pursuits.”

  “That is surely a lie.” Abdul Dost's religious pride was aroused. “For it is forbidden in the law to slay murderously.”

  “The thags believe that they keep the law. They say that their victims are marked for death by fate. Thus the thags do naught but carry out what is already ordained. If they did not slay—and it is a sin in their evil minds if they do not—the victims would die otherwise.”

  “Still the guilt of blood is on their souls.”

  “Are not you also a slayer?”

  “In battle. Arm to arm and eye to eye, in a just quarrel. Never have I slain save in open fight.”

  “Death is death.” Ram Gholab closed his blind eyes. “Thus I heard the father of this boy say—for he was once a scout-thag, but repented swiftly.”

  He ceased abruptly, fearing that Kehru had heard. Abdul Dost looked at him sharply.

  “So—the thag—slayers believe that I and the Curved Saber are fated to die?”

  “Assuredly.”

  “Hm. They will watch for our coming with the gold.”

  “But,” pointed out Ram Gholab, “Taleb Khan has devised a means of leaving the tower. A panshway—a river boat—lies nearby on the Jumna bank below the tower. This will bear you back to the ameer.”

  “A boat!” grumbled Khlit when this was told to him. “Nay, rather will we ride where we may choose our going.”

  A shadow crossed the thin face of the Hindu. He had had his instructions. Ram Gholab was a faithful man and worthy of trust. Moreover, he had the single-mindedness of the aged, whose sole task had been the care of a trust.

  The treasure of Ghar Tower had been the somber delight of his lonely life. His pride was at stake—for the safety of the gold. His hand trembled slightly as he answered:

  “Ameer Taleb Khan spoke with me and said that thus should the gold be taken from the tower—and in no other manner. There is a roof over the deck of the panshway and under it you may lie hid, with horses. The current will bear you downstream. The long end of the rudder can be handled, so said the ameer, from within.”

  “It is well said,” mused Abdul Dost who liked to take the other side of an argument from the taciturn Khlit. “But if the thags see us enter the boat—”

  “Tomorrow night you must embark. They will not see for they have not eyes of an owl. Aye, the boat is best. For the thags have spies, so I have heard, along the Ghar Pass. They will see you ride down the trail.”

  “We bear swords,” grunted Khlit who had no love of a ship of any sort. “Our horses are swift—”

  “But not so swift as an arrow,” pointed out Abdul Dost, yawning. “Nor can we ride for three days and nights without watering the horses. The slayers will be watching the trail. They will not look for us within the boat.”

  Khlit was silent.

  “Where lies this gold?” he asked presently.

  When Abdul Dost had translated his request, Ram Gholab rose. Kehru lighted a torch from the embers of the fire. But the master of the snakes needed no light to find his way into the shrine.

  It was a bare chamber of stone, perhaps ten feet square, great fissures showing between the slabs. Khlit, peering keenly at the walls and floor, saw no sign of an opening which might serve as a hiding place. The only object in the shrine was a square block of jade, placed against the wall, wherein was carved the image of Vishnu with the hood of the seven snakes above the figure of the god.

  Ram Gholab squatted on the floor.

  “Be silent,” he whispered, “and move not. The servants of Nag are quick to strike, and their touch is death.”

  Abdul Dost, guessing vaguely what was to come, glanced back at the doorway uncertainly; but as Khlit stood his ground so did the Muslim. Ram Gholab's pipe began its soft note. His turbaned head moved slightly, almost in the fashion of the hood of one of his snakes. Kehru was like a brown figure turned to stone.

  The voice of the pipe rose shriller. The flickering light from the torch faded then grew greater. Ram Gholab nodded his head and Kehru stepped toward the jade slab. Abdul Dost glanced from side to side uneasily. He was not at all comfortable. His religious scruples did not favor his presence in a Hindu shrine, especially that of Nag—even though deserted. Besides he felt a distinct sense of danger.

  Kehru thrust the unburned end of his torch into the crack of the stone directly over the jade. He pried vigorously and the slab turned as if revolving on a hidden axis. When an opening about a foot in width had been made the boy stepped back alertly.

  The hooded head and tiny eyes of a giant cobra were visible in the black hole. Khlit heard a sound like that of steam passing through a narrow hole. The snake darted its head forward and the glistening coils followed.

  It was a magnificent specimen, the spectacle mark clear and shining, the long, beautiful body nearly the length of a man. A second cobra followed the first.

  “Come, beloved of the god, guardian of Door-ga—master of Ghar. Come. We are calling thus. Do not harm us. We also are servants of Nag.”

  So chanted Ram Gholab, removing the pipe from his lips. The cobras which had turned aside, running their heads along the wall, moved toward him, their hoods lifted.

  Abdul Dost felt his brow strangely warm. He had heard no sound, but Khlit had drawn his sword and held it poised in his hand. Meanwhile the boy slipped to the opening in the wall. He drew out an ebony box of some size.

  The snakes seemed to pay no heed to him. Kehru gently walked from the shrine, bearing the box and his torch. For a moment the place was in half darkness. The pipe of Ram Gholab continued its soothing note.

  Then Kehru returned, and light flooded the chamber.

  “B’illah!”

  It was a full-voiced oath, torn from the throat of Abdul Dost. One of the snakes of the shrine had moved its coils toward him with dreadful grace and silence, and the torch showed that its coils were passing over his foot. Its head waved not a yard from his hand.

  And at his voice the coils of the snake on the floor contracted instantly. A cobra does not draw back its head to strike, such is the strength of its lean body. But this one struck simultaneously as it moved.

  Khlit's action was involuntary. He had seen vicious tensity leap into the snake. He had not waited for the head to strike.

  Even so, his blade moved with deadly swiftness. The snake had darted its fangs at Abdul Dost, but midway the sword met it and the splendid hood fell to the stone floor, cleanly severed from the writhing trunk.

  Kehru gave a cry of dismay and dropped the torch. The chamber dwindled into gloom. Abdul Dost and the Cossack both ran from the shrine into the tower at the same second.

  They paused by the fire with drawn weapons. The Muslim's teeth were chattering as if from a chill. But he mastered his emotion quickly.

  “Well did you serve me!” he cried. “I was near to death.”

  Kehru stood beside them, staring affrightedly at the shrine. Khlit took a step forward and hesitated. Ram Gholab must be in peril. But it would be vain to return to the stone chamber without a light. Then an angry voice came from the darkness.

  “Death! It is near to you now. O fool! O blunderer! O accursed of the gods! An evil deed.”

  The old Hindu advanced into the light, his blind eyes rolling fruitlessly. And Khlit swore. The second cobra was held on the arm of the snake-charmer, its coils about his waist and leg.

  Although the giant snake was plainly agitated, its hood erect and venomously swelled, it made no effort to strike its friend. Both warriors recoiled hastily.

  “Well for you,” said Ram Gholab bitterly, “that I seized upon the second servant of Nag. O well for you that I am blind and my senses are keen in the dark. If I had not seized him, he would have struck once—twice—as you fled. Fools, to th
ink that your clumsy feet could outstrip the dart of the cobra. Half am I minded to release him upon you.”

  His teeth glimmered through his beard. The blue veins stood out in his forehead. His voice was like the angry breath of the serpent he held. Then his head drooped.

  “Nay,” he murmured. “You are but the dull slaves of a master who is also my master. You shall go free. But the shrine of Nag is profaned. Take the gold of the Mogul. I shall abide in the shrine. Kehru, build up the fire. The servant of Nag must be burned upon the pyre or evil will descend upon your head and you—aye, though a child—will be accursed.”

  Throwing back his head he laughed. The giant snake twisted in his arm. “Verily,” he cried, “have you said that the slayers have marked you. Now will you not escape uncaught from Ghar. Now it is assured. The shadow of death will close upon you. No sword will guard you this time. Ohe—my work is done, but your fate you may not escape.”

  Abdul Dost felt a cold pulse stir in his back. Khlit stared curiously at the Hindu, wondering why the life of a snake should be so valued.

  To Abdul Dost, however, the words rang with an ominous portent. The Muslim, as well as Ram Gholab, was a believer in fate.

  The form of Ram Gholab slipped back into the darkness of the shrine, bearing the snake, and the glimmer of his white turban was lost in the shadow. Whereupon the boy raised the lid of the ebony box.

  Within gleamed the soft luster of gray pearls, the rainbow glitter of diamonds, the wine-hued sparkle of rubies. Beneath the gems were sacks of gold.

  Abdul Dost fingered a diamond curiously, turning it in his lean hand so as best to catch the light.

  “A rich nest,” he grunted, “with rare eggs therein. I have a thought, Khlit, that our path back to Pawundur will be set with the thorns of trouble.”

  “Close the casket,” advised the Cossack, “and bear it with you to your couch above. We must sleep, but first I will see to the horses.”

  At a sign from him Kehru produced a fresh torch and lighted it, following Khlit's tall figure to the thicket behind the tower where the four horses were picketed. It was a mild night and the trees sheltered the beasts from the heavy dews.

  Having satisfied himself that the horses were fed and secured, Khlit undid the saddle-girths and laid the furniture on the ground. Then he paused to watch the boy.

  Kehru had stuck his torch in the earth and approached one of the Cossack's shaggy Turkoman ponies. Caressingly his hand went behind the horse's ears, and he crooned softly. He fetched dried ferns and spread them for a bed under the animal.

  Whereupon the pony nuzzled Kehru, lipping his hand and sniffing, well content. The boy of Ghar was at home with animals. They were, indeed, the only friends of his life, except for the blind guardian.

  Wistfully his dark eyes dwelt on the pony. Khlit grunted.

  “ Oho, little warrior! Did not Abdul Dost say when he was well fed that you desired a horse and had none? Aye, the pony will not be too large for your small legs.”

  Kehru looked at him inquiringly. On an impulse Khlit placed the halter of the beast in the boy's hand, resting the other hand on the pony's neck.

  “Scarce will there be space for four horses in the boat,” he mused. He nodded. “Yours,” he explained in broken Hindustani.

  Kehru started with surprise and excitement. His white teeth shone from his brown face in a wide grin. He had understood, but hardly credited his good fortune. Khlit nodded again and walked away carelessly.

  Straightway his hand was seized in a warm clasp. Kehru knelt before him and pressed the scarred hand of the warrior to his brow. Then he bent his dark head to the ground and touched Khlit's boots reverently.

  Impatiently the Cossack drew away and swaggered off to his sleep. He knew it not, but his generosity had stirred a tumult in the boy's mind. Long after Khlit was asleep the boy lingered proudly by his new possession. In his soul was arising a great doubt.

  While he felt the back of the horse for saddle sores and examined teeth and legs in the dark, he was debating a most important matter. For the first time in his life he must decide upon the conduct of a warrior.

  He glanced at the dark shrine where muffled sounds indicated that Ram Gholab still labored. Then he undid the halter from the tree trunk and sprang upon the pony's back. Swiftly he guided his mount from the tower, using only the halter cord and his bare heels.

  Beyond the tower he struck into the Ghar trail and quickened to a gallop.

  All was silent now about Ghar Tower, save for the grieving prayers of Ram Gholab, who squatted above a fresh mound in the earth between the stones, and the nightly tumult of insects—the strident hum where the dwellings of men are few and the forest is moist.

  IV

  On the broad plain by the Jumna, just below the Ghar Pass, the camp of the Pawundur thags spread, like a brown anthill resting upon green sward. The six days of prayer had passed without further ill omen, and Dhurum Khan, the jemadar, was easier in spirit, although he still felt vague misgivings at the death of the woman.

  He was walking restlessly along the high road near the encampment, accompanied by the guru, Bhawani Bukta, whose bent figure was alert with new eagerness now that the time was drawing near for the band to march again.

  “According to the custom of thaggi,” he told Dhurum Khan, “we have waited at the crossroads, lifting hand against none, while the six days have dawned and ceased. Rather, we have aided and given comfort to passing traders, as well as entertainment in the tents, owing to the advice of the one to whom we came in our trouble.”

  “Well did the one counsel,” admitted the leader, “for by our quietude none suspect that we be slayers. Nay, not the riders of the ameer himself, who have stopped in our tents.”

  “Blind slaves!” The water-carrier grimaced. “Our time is come and we will act. Look!”

  Where the roads crossed were strange marks in the sand, as if men had turned to the right, toward the river, dragging their feet and leaving small piles of dirt at intervals. This was a well-known signal.

  “The scouts bid us hasten,” interpreted Dhurum Khan, “to the Jumna.”

  They quickened their pace, plying their staffs vigorously, looking to those who might chance to watch like wandering tradesmen. Presently they emerged upon the sand flat through which the tranquil Jumna threaded, its sacred waters a deepest blue in color. For the Jumna, although taking its source from the snow ravines, retains its clear color, unlike the Ganges.

  At the ghat, the river landing place, a small skiff was tied to a pole in the sand. In the skiff were two men.

  “O Jemadar,” reported one, “as you commanded we have rowed until our backs are blistered with the sun and sore with a great soreness. We have made our eyes like to the eyes of vultures and we have seen them enter a panshway—even as our spies among the fisher folk foretold. Behold, protector of the poor, our poverty is like to a ragged garment.”

  “Two lengths of cloth you shall have.”

  “Our hands are raw.”

  “An ounce of silver each.”

  “O generous master!” The scout-thag bent his head. “Another word have I. When we rowed hither a raven called twice. Is not the omen good?”

  Both Dhurum Khan and the guru gave an exclamation of pleasure. Bhawani Bukta stroked the outlines of his noosed cord under his dirty tunic.

  “Areyou assured it is they?” demanded the jemadar. “We have waited long for news of their coming to the river.”

  “Their faces were hid,” responded the man in the skiff. “And they loosened the boat at night. But we followed, where we were not seen, and harkened to their talk. We are not mistaken. Within a day, or perhaps two, they plan to land near this spot.”

  Dhurum Khan nodded, reflecting. He glanced along the ghat and saw one or two river craft tied up nearby, their crews asleep under the awnings that kept off the hot sun. He lowered his voice earnestly.

  “Harken,” he whispered. “This day the band will move. We will leave the one who cou
nseled us wisely. The omens are good. But the skiff is too little for a crew. Do you, Bhawani Bukta, and these two, assume the manner of weavers who are seeking cloth to buy. In one of the vessels in the bight there are sellers of cloth— so they told us when they rested in our tents and refreshed their spirits with the magic of a song. O, the one is wise!”

  “Aye,” responded the three, “it is the truth.”

  “Then,” continued Dhurum Khan, “will I retrace my steps and give the order for one-half the band to break camp. Some boys under my son, Jaim Ali, will I send hither in advance of the rest. The boys will drive mules without burdens and pretend that the mules have broken loose.”

  “Aye,” they nodded expectantly.

  “When the boys and the mules come, you will be upon yonder panshway, bartering with the owners. Ask permission to cook your rice at their fire under the roof of the boat.”

  “We will slay those who sit about the fire,” hazarded Bhawani Bukta.

  “Aye, thus you will do. Bhawani Bukta will give the jhirni— the signal for murder—which is three raps upon the deck, on a boat. He will watch and see that no men on the other craft take alarm.”

  “But what of the men sleeping on the upper deck?” asked the guru. “Shall I stab them quietly as they sleep?”

  “Unworthy!” Dhurum Khan frowned, for he had grown careful since the murder of the woman. “Kick them awake and say that one of their comrades by the fire has been taken with a fit of vomiting.”

  “Nay,” broke in the quick-witted water-carrier, “I will say that he writhes with torment of worms in his body and barks like a dog. Thus they will have a fear lest he become mad and go hastily.”

  “So that these two clever thags may strangle them. Then, when all of the five men on the panshway have become offerings to Kali, make a hole in the side of the boat away from the other craft and let the bodies fall into the water.”

  Bhawani Bukta bent his gray head in assent smilingly.

  “You spoke of boys and mules, Jemadar. What is their mission?”

  “To make a loud noise and outcry upon shore, to drown a cry if one of the men on the boat struggles against the noose. Thus will the crews of the other vessels have eyes and ears only for the mules and the running boys.”