Warriors of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  Muhammad Asad with uncanny perspicacity seemed to follow the trend of his visitor's thoughts.

  “The time I heard your voice, Abdul Dost,” he meditated aloud, “you helped to save a child from the path of charging buffalo. Behold, the child is grown to half-boyhood and he honors your name. He it is who tends my fire and who is now gone to the village. Have the drugs and wine and the flung gold of the Mogul changed your spirit? Are you no longer a true Afghan?” Abdul Dost looked up with smoldering intensity but said nothing.

  “Dreams, Abdul Dost,” continued the blind priest, “are the visions of the soul in flight without the body. In the first of this moon I dreamed that one who was skilled in war, whose name is a talisman in Badakshan, who had the noble stamp of the ancient race of Sulieman in his features, came to the oppressed people of Badakshan and placed upon his strong shoulders the cloak of faith, and took within his hand the staff of leadership.”

  Again he nodded with the assurance of the aged.

  “And, behold, Abdul Dost, you came to my fireside and the first portion of my dream was true. Yet because you cherished the rank of mansab, in the pay of the money-gleaner Jahangir, I would not share bread and salt with you until I knew whether you were true Afghan or—” and his mild voice strengthened in righteous wrath—“a dog that feeds at the table of the Mongol who has forgotten his birth, his faith, and the two laws—the law of the Koran and the law of Genghis Khan, who was the first and greatest Mongol.”

  The subtle oratory of the ardent-spirited mullah worked profoundly on the simpler emotions of the soldier. But to Abdul Dost truth was self-evident: his mind was shaped for action, yet before acting it was not his nature to ponder at length.

  “Bismillah!” He flung out an eloquent hand. “O kwajah, hither I came to drink at the refreshing well of your wisdom. What avails it to reproach me for that I have been a warrior of the Mogul. It is no shame. Were more of our heedless and quarrelsome men obedient to authority, the balm of peace would heal the sores of past wars that afflict Badakshan. In a just ruler lies the solution of our unrest.”

  “Not so, Abdul Dost. Can a tiger be prisoned within bars? Is an eagle fashioned by God to fly with clipped wings? Jahangir has proclaimed himself lord of Badakshan. It is the heritage of the Afghans to have no rulers except themselves!”

  His low voice rang with conviction. Abdul Dost stretched an appealing hand toward the mullah as if beseeching relief from his own trouble.

  “Then would you have Badakshan rebel against the Mogul?”

  As he said this, footsteps sounded outside the cave. The mansabdar moved on his knees and his hand went to his sword-hilt, but the kwajah smiled, saying, “It is the boy.”

  The stripling, panting from a hard run, salaamed respectfully to Abdul Dost and burst into pent-up speech.

  He had been to the village and had come with news warm on his lips. Chan, the minstrel, the master of artful song, had entered the village with the body of a young woman across his saddle. Chan had shown the knife of Alacha fast in the throat of the woman. He had shown the body to the headmen of the village.

  “The Slayer has crossed the barrier of the harem,” cried the boy. “So said the elders. And Chan asks that the price of blood be paid.”

  Muhammad Asad turned to Abdul Dost, his fragile countenance dark with religious zeal.

  “Allah has ordained it thus, Abdul Dost. Here is the answer to your question. A woman has been slain, and Alacha must pay the price. When a freshet from the snow-line rises and rushes downward, who can stay its course?”

  The mansabdar, concealing his deep anxiety before the boy, stared into the fire. He knew that this murder of a woman, unlike the previous slaughter of tribesmen and peasants under the thin guise of justice, meant war in Afghan territory.

  “No man can stay the working of fate,” cried Muhammad Asad. “The will of God will come to pass, even thus. And I prophesy! Ai—the spirit that has come into my soul calls for speech.”

  He rose, extending emaciated arms to the roof of the cave, against which the smoke rose, blackening the rock. His sightless eyes turned skyward.

  “Ai—hear these, my words. I, Muhammad Asad, humblest of the servants of God, foretell what will come to pass. In my soul it is clear. I know—I have long known. Blood will cover the mountains; bones will whiten in the valleys. The hand of Death will strike upon Badakshan!”

  Abdul Dost and the boy watched the aged man with mingled feelings in which awe predominated. Often had the blind mullah foretold events of importance, perhaps purely from keen judgment arising from his close knowledge of affairs in the hills, perhaps from premonition sharpened by deep meditation, the fruit of long fasting and inward thought.

  “There will be a battle in the valley,” he cried. “The cannon and the elephants of the World-Gripper array themselves against the horsemen of the hills—and others.

  “I see clouds of riders coming, dense as the flight of arrows from the passes where no riders are. I see bright swords drawn from scabbards that are now rusted. I see these horsemen, who once rode through Afghanistan, Kwaresan, Iran and Khorassan, but are not now in the land—”

  He resumed his seat on the ground by Abdul Dost, his eyes closed. For a space there was silence, save for the deep breathing of the boy.

  “What riders mean you?” asked Abdul Dost at length, for the words had puzzled him.

  “How should I know, Afghan? But this thing you will see, for it is written.”

  His delicate, strained features became all at once very gentle.

  “Aye, Abdul Dost, there will be war, and the terrors of war. But out of the fighting peace may come. Will you take up the reins of leadership?”

  Hereupon the boy gazed avidly at the veteran warrior, the light of hero-worship strong in his brown eyes.

  “I have a bow, O great Abdul Dost,” he ventured, “and I can shoot crows very skillfully. Will you grant me the honor of riding behind your left side?”

  The mind of the warrior was upon other things.

  “Too much strife and taking of life have I seen, O kwajah, lightly to draw the sword of conflict. War? I know not. I must think. A leader?”

  He turned at this to look at his sleeping companion, who had wakened alertly at the priest's outburst but now reposed again, his harsh face lined with fatigue.

  “Hai—a leader, say you! Here is one who is a father of battles. At his side I have learned much of the art of war.”

  The boy looked his disbelief that Abdul Dost had aught to learn, and the mullah, hearing, became immersed in meditation.

  “Verily is this man a master of battles,” went on Abdul Dost. “He has led the caphar Kazaks who wield curved swords, like that at his side. And his voice has commanded the hordes of Tartary. The wiles of the Turk he knows, likewise the Rajput charge, and the battle-plan of the Mogul generals.”

  “Then his infidel sword is for sale?” Muhammad Asad spoke bitterly. “The Afghans lack gold, while the Mogul scatters diamonds from the back of his gold-quilted elephant—”

  Abdul Dost shook his head with a laugh.

  “You cannot see, O kwajah, that this old warrior wears a torn sheepskin coat and his belt is worn leather, while his horsehide boots are stained with usage. His weapon is a curved sword, very heavy, but without jewels.

  “Much wealth, perhaps, has he been given, but I have seen him fling it among hungry villagers. I have seen him go hungry to pay for fodder for his horse—”

  “So he will aid—”

  “Kwajah, my companion does not seek war. He rides where he wills. I know not what is in his mind. His aid to us is worth three times a thousand fine horsemen. Yet he will not draw sword for pay or for what we Afghans cherish—renown in our history.”

  At this Abdul Dost lay back on his blanket, resting his head on his arm.

  “This man is Khlit, who is called the Curved Saber,” he said finally. “He—and I also—seek not war. Tomorrow we will ride to Alacha and hold council, seeking to adjust
the wrongs of Badak-shan.”

  Almost immediately Abdul Dost slept. The priest sat passively, drawing nearer to the embers as the heat of the fire dwindled. The boy fidgeted with tiny bow and arrows until the healthy drowsiness of childhood claimed him. The light of the fire had vanished and the cave was in darkness.

  But in the village a fire had been kindled that grew and spread to other villages as Chan the minstrel rode through the valley, calling upon the tribes to see the body of the fair woman, his dead mistress, carried upon the saddle of his pony.

  III

  The Slayer Speaks

  In the satin tent of Alacha, jagirdar of Badakshan, slaves set forth the morning meal. A scarlet canopy embroidered with images of birds and beasts worked in sewn pearls shaded the entrance, inside which a white cloth had been laid. Scent had been thrown into the air by the experienced servitors.

  Alacha himself reclined on cushions by the cloth. A slender man with olive face and dark, neatly dressed hair, wearing the undress silk tunic and white cotton trousers of the Mogul court. His black eyes were restless and insolent. One jeweled hand cherished a falcon on an adjacent perch.

  Barely did he taste the dishes of rice, minced fowl, jellies, sugar candies and rose-water. His full-lipped mouth smiled as he stroked the bird, but he was engrossed in meditation. Waving away the dishes, he clapped his hands for the guard that stood without the tent.

  “The horsemen who were on post at the Shyr,” he commanded briefly.

  Alacha was ever sparing of words and was a master of cutting irony. It was characteristic of the jagirdar that, unlike the ordinary ameer of the court, he disliked to have courtiers and lieutenants attend him.

  Attentively he surveyed the two warriors, who bowed nine times—the imperial salaam—before the tent entrance. He spoke in a very clear, high-pitched voice.

  “So you passed into Badakshan him whom I ordered to be brought to me?”

  “May your forgiveness anoint us, unworthy! Abdul Dost gave rank and showed signet ring of mansabdar. So we passed him, not knowing his name. And his companion we passed, for he is the warrior that you in your wisdom sought—Khlit, of Tatar blood.”

  Not a flicker of the full eyes nor a movement of the jeweled hands showed that Alacha was surprised. He studied the two men inscrutably and dismissed them with a nod. They salaamed and departed, thankful to escape punishment.

  Alacha reached into a silver casket by his side and drew out a rolled paper. Attentively he scanned this, noting the seal of the imperial vizier. Then he lay back with closed eyes while a stolid slave slowly waved a plumed fan of peacock feathers back and forth over his head.

  But the Slayer was not asleep. When a sentinel appeared to announce that two riders sought speech with him, he scarcely stirred.

  “Admit them.”

  Only once as Abdul Dost and Khlit rode their horses into the enclosure before the satin tent did the jagirdar glance at them, marking faces, bearing, and clothing. When the two visitors stood before him, Alacha was stroking the feathers of his pet, seemingly indifferent to their presence.

  This irked Abdul Dost, who was ever straightforward.

  “I have a message for your ear alone, Alacha, landholder of the Mogul,” he said directly. “Dismiss your men.” For some Turkoman guards had lingered near at hand.

  Alacha turned his head enough to make certain that the untouched dishes of the morning meal remained on the cloth for the entertainment of guests.

  “Sit, distinguished mansabdar,” he murmured, “and partake of my humble bounty. Alas, these savage hills offer little that is dainty in food.”

  Abdul Dost remained grimly erect.

  “Until I have spoken my message and received an answer I will not break my fast, Alacha, and then not at your cloth.” “Know you not the courtesy of the court, worthy warrior?” responded Alacha. “Why have you come, bearing arms, to the tent of your superior?”

  With a short laugh Abdul Dost tapped the hilt of his scimitar. “This weapon, Alacha, has served the Mogul more than once; and as for my companion, because of aid he once rendered to Nur-Jahan, who is to be Jahangir's queen-bride, his right to wear sword is unquestioned.”

  Alacha did not press his point, yet signed to his men to remain where they were. So the three faced one another, Khlit watching quietly, only half-catching what was said, Abdul Dost impatient and more than a little surprised at the almost effeminate aspect of the man who had brought terror into the hills of his people. The Slayer noted every move of his visitors and every change of expression without seeming to do so, but for the most part his attention was devoted to Khlit.

  He heard immovably Abdul Dost's recital of the oppression that had come upon Badakshan, of the hunger of the villages, the anger at the hunting and the spoil taken by the agents of the jagirdar.

  “There is no merchant but seeks to leave Badakshan because when by hard labor and thrift he increases his property, the bakhshi who is your treasurer levies upon him the sum of his profits. No peasant can keep his herds, for the animals are driven off by your soldiers. Weapons are seized wherever found—and how is an Afghan to live, weaponless?”

  Carefully Alacha adjusted the silk hood over his pet.

  “Those who had gold or silver—and they are few in this land,” went on the mansabdar bitterly, “have buried it, so now none is to be had, save what you seize. One-third of the young men of the tribes are called upon for military service, and their sisters have been carried off by your men in raids, which you have not sought to punish. Badakshan bleeds, and your hand holds the knife. That is my message.”

  The hood tied to his satisfaction, Alacha turned his attention to a dish of sweetmeats and selected a sugared pomegranate with care.

  “When sickness afflicts a human body, worthy mansabdar, does not a skilled physician bleed the patient?”

  “Nay—if death is the result of the bloodletting. Allah alone decides the life and death of men.”

  “Of men, verily. Yet these scum of the hills be but low-born beggars, and their fathers before them were thieves. Who shall treat a jackal like a hunting-dog, or a miscreant like a man of honor?”

  Alacha's black eyes snapped as he glanced swiftly up at Abdul Dost.

  “Soldier, who sent you?”

  Under his mustache the mansabdar smiled.

  “Am I one to carry another's words? Alacha, it is the truth I speak. What will you answer?”

  “You have been in the villages?”

  The Turkoman's keen eyes seemed to probe out the information he sought.

  “Bah—the bazaars will have their tale, and dogs will growl. Perchance the threadbare mullahs have poured the poison of their anger into your ears. Muhammad Asad, perchance?”

  Abdul Dost's scarred face gave him the secret he angled for.

  “By the beard of the Prophet! It was Muhammad Asad.” “Alacha, you have the blood of a woman on your hands. You know the law. Men will gather in pursuit of blood—”

  “So they talk thus? Nay. The wanton of the village who was enamoured of a wandering minstrel slew herself.”

  Abdul Dost shook his head grimly. Always a man of meager speech, anxiety weighed upon him. Much depended upon the reply of Alacha.

  “Your answer?” he asked again.

  “To the men of Badakshan—nothing. To you, Abdul Dost, who are in the service of the Mogul, this.”

  The Turkoman spoke softly, almost idly.

  “You complain of money exacted. It is to pay the price of my jagir to the treasurer of the Mogul, who bestowed it upon me. You speak of men slain and other hardships. Consider the maxim of the Koran that ill-doers shall taste the fruits of their evil. The Afghans are lawless; the hand that governs them must be stern.” At this Abdul Dost stroked his beard gravely.

  “Then you will not hear the council of the headmen, nor make amends for the misdeeds of your men?”

  “Nay.”

  “Then, Alacha, give heed to what also is written in the book of our faith.
An eye shall be given for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life—”

  Swiftly the noble rose, drawing back the flap of the tent. Standing almost breast to breast against Abdul Dost, he pointed to the embroidered banner that hung at the enclosure entrance.

  “Behold the standard of the Mogul, soldier,” he said calmly. “It is the standard you have followed in battle. By this sign may you know I am master of Badakshan.”

  Before Abdul Dost could reply Alacha turned quickly to Khlit and spoke in the steppe dialect of Turki.

  “Warrior, my heart is opened like a flower at sight of your face. The Master of the World has sent for you. Too long your sword has been absent from his court.”

  Khlit, hands thrust into his belt, booted feet wide apart, and sheepskin hat thrust carelessly askew on his gray hair, looked at the Slayer curiously. Alacha stooped to draw the parchment firman from his silver chest. Before exhibiting it to Khlit he asked quickly:

  “You have skill to read? You also, Abdul Dost?”

  “Not I,” responded the old warrior indifferently. “Such scrawls are for priests and dogs of councilors who live by words.”

  Abdul Dost shook his head, moody at the reception accorded his message.

  “This is from the hand of Jahangir, the Sun of Benevolence, Monarch of Hindustan.”

  Alacha exhibited the imperial seal.

  “It is a summons to the court which now holds festival at Lahore, not six days' ride from the southern passes of Badakshan. There welcome awaits you, gifts that Jahangir alone can bestow, a robe of honor, a horse from the pick of the imperial stable, and rank in the army of India.”

  Khlit took the missive in his gaunt hand curiously and passed it back to the jagirdar silently.

  “Do not fail to obey the request of the emperor,” pressed Alacha. “The imperial favor shines upon few. Nur-Jahan, it is said, is your friend, and the Light of the World sways our prince with a single word. High honor is yours for the taking; rest and wealth for your old age.”

  “I would like a good horse,” observed Khlit.