The Harold Lamb Megapack

by Harold Lamb

  Outriders informed the Tatar captain that the Russians were pressing forward rapidly from the north.

  “It is a race for the rocks of the Ukim, my young kinglet,” he confided to Alashan. “Aye, the power of the gods of the high places must aid us. If the Cossacks and the armored ladies reach the Ukim first they can hold the gorge until tribes hostile to us come up the Torgai from the south and reinforce them from behind. Aye, the Muscovite regiments are marching after us with cannon and can join battle within a week if we do not force the pass.”

  “Then we will be the first,” shouted the boy. “Come, we must ride during this night.”

  “And kill our camels?” grumbled the captain. “Do you want your father, the Khan, to come up and find us standing like trees in the snow? Tchu, my foolish bearlet, he would have me flayed alive on a wooden ass for that, I assure you.”

  Nevertheless, the Tatar set such a pace that Alashan was stiff from exhaustion and cold by the breaking of the fifth day, when they sighted the heights of the Ukim against the gate of the rising sun.

  By then they had lost all touch with Zebek Dortshi, who seemed to have vanished into the hollows of the steppe. Alashan fretted himself by trying to make his beast race ahead of the others, and a dozen times he fingered over the priming of the heavy pistol he had at his belt.

  His young eyes were keen, and before noon he made out that mounted men were moving within the black sides of the gorge. He saw that the Ukim Pass was like the neck of a squat bottle. Only at the summit of the pass were the sides of the gorge precipitous; along the main slope, a wilderness of rock, shot through with outcroppings of pillar hike basalt, stood on either hand amid a scum of bare tamarisks.

  Alashan’s first thought was that Zebek Dortshi had beaten him in the race to the Ukim, and he gritted his teeth. The cavalry on the slope below the pass were mounted on camels and seemed to be awaiting their approach.

  “The gods are kind!” he cried suddenly. “It was well I made gifts of gold and Russian money to the priest Loosang. Those are the Poles. I see the sun on their breast pieces and their long lances.”

  The Tatar chewed his mustache and squinted. Four—six hundred men in the pass, he reckoned. Why, by the white horse of Kaidu, had they not gone higher where they would have the cliff on either flank?

  “Their beasts are tired. Aye, some Cossacks on horses are with them. The Cossack cavalry must be close at hand, and these fellows ahead have counted us. They wait on the slope instead of the gorge because they expect aid before the sun is much higher.”

  A murmur of assent from the Tatars close by greeted these words. Their own mounts were stumbling and groaning; they did not relish facing the heavy sabers of the Cossacks. Out of the corners of their bleared eyes they looked at Alashan. What would the son of the Khan do?

  “Come, my brothers of the tents,” shrilled Alashan. “We will strike the ranks of our foes like a thunderbolt; they will fall beneath our swordstrokes. Their camels have gone farther than ours this day—they barely can stand. Let us ride them down!”

  Instinctively he exhorted his men. His brain was in a whirl. Never had Alashan ridden into the shock of battle; his limbs quivered, and his lips twitched. His eyes were glued on the horsemen above and ahead of him who sat waiting in ranks like sitting wolves.

  The Tatar captain glanced around hoping to make out some trace of Zebek Dortshi’s command. There were no other tracks to be seen in the snow; but his keen eye caught a light in the weather-hardened faces of his men. Fatigue had vanished.

  “Let us ride after the boy,” they said, one to another. “He is a falcon of the eagle’s line. He is not afraid of the Cossacks. They are many—we will go from this spot up into the gate in the sky, over the mountains of Natagai where the tengeri ride on the wind. That is good.”

  Only the eyes of the captain were troubled. When the opposing groups halted, at the distance of a bowshot, to revile each other and pick out an opening for attack, Alashan’s blood began to hum in his ears.

  If only the thing would begin! The sweat was running down his legs; he feared every moment his camel would bolt, or he would disgrace himself in some way.

  His men were shouting guttural challenges at the splendid-looking Poles, calling them hired women and blood-sucking insects, and steel-bedizened jezebels. The round-faced Poles did not understand, but the Cossacks flung back fitting answers.

  “Ho, gutter-bred thieves—mud-puppies—sneaking sons of dogs—turn-coat infidels who run from a good, Christian sword—”

  Crash! A burst of musketry from the Russian ranks emptied some of the Tatar mounts and sent the hot blood into Alashan’s burning eyes. He did not notice that the answering volley of his men went wild for the most part, that the Tatars followed their noyon up the slope in scattered formation, while the disciplined Poles kept well together.

  He felt his teeth chatter together, saw his companion, the old captain, shoot an arrow into the beard of a short Cossack, only to be struck from his horse by a back-handed blow from a huge soldier whose open coat trailed after him like a cloak as he cast himself into the Tatars, hewing forward and back and roaring even after arrows stuck out from his ribs and arms.

  The giant was finally brought down by the fall of his pony, and sat down in the snow with his head bent while his shaking hands fumbled for the ikon under his shirt.

  The snapping of pistols sounded far off. Alashan came out of his stupor with a jerk, and was mad with rage on the instant. Tugging at the nose cord of his beast, he almost ran into a boyish-looking Pole who cast a lance at him. Alashan pulled the trigger of his pistol and saw the other’s surprized face staring at him out of a cloud of smoke.

  Without waiting to see if the Pole fell off his camel, the son of the Khan sprang down and secured a more agile mount, a riderless pony. The red mist was still before his eyes as he dashed here and there, striking and parrying.

  Meanwhile the fight had dissolved into group combats, in which the Tatars were outnumbered and cut down rapidly, being unable to inflict serious damage on the armored Poles. Only the natural agility of the steppe riders and the deadly use they made of their short bows kept up the semblance of a struggle.

  Half of them had their wish, and went to the land of Natagai, which is in the sky, behind the flaming gate of the northern lights.

  Alashan halted, perforce, seeing no foes before him. He had come through the ranks of the Russians. A louder crackling of muskets caused him to stare to either side.

  From behind boulders and tamarisk thickets Tatars were firing down on the Russians. They were advancing coolly down the slopes of the gorge on foot, kneeling to fire.

  Alashan blinked and wondered if he were dreaming. Then he made out the brilliant figure of Zebek Dortshi sitting his horse on a summit nearby. When he shouted orders to his lieutenants, the noyon took a pipe from between his lips. Presently he raised his voice to call to the remnant of Alashan’s men, bidding them withdraw a short distance and form again. The red cleared from Alashan’s eyes. He felt the sweat, now cold on his limbs. Another was giving orders to his men.

  The death of the Tatar captain had left Alashan in command of the camel corps, or what remained of it. He knew Zebek Dortshi must have seen him, and yet the noyon paid no attention to the boy, who was cut off from his own following.

  Anger quickened Alashan’s pulse; and he wheeled his horse, heading back toward his men. He went for them direct, on a course that took him through the scattered groups of Poles and Cossacks, who had been thrown into confusion by the fire of the Tatars in their rear.

  This uncertainty saved Alashan his life. While some Russians were turning, to try to gallop up into the safety of the gorge, between the lines of Zebek Dortshi’s musket men, others were still facing the Tatars below them.

  Alashan cut off the head of a Polish lance, aimed at his ribs, and broke his sword in the man’s back as he passed. Dodging here and there, he edged through the Cossacks, who would have given more heed to the unarmed
boy if they had known that here was the son of the Khan.

  Reaching his followers, who greeted him with an exultant shout, Alashan led them up the slope again. But the fight at the mouth of the Ukim was about over. The camels of the Russians were giving out, and stretched themselves groaning on the frozen earth while their riders were cut down by Zebek Dortshi’s men, now mounted again. The Cossacks tried to rush the rock nests and the tamarisk, and most of them were picked off by bullets and arrows.

  Seeing that only a handful of Poles remained, standing back to back using their light lances as spears, Alashan left these and rode up to Zebek Dortshi triumphantly. The Persian Tatar was still on the summit, looking out over the plain. Alashan noticed by the tracks in the snow that the noyon had brought up his men quietly, on foot, into the thickets, coming in from either flank. The camels had been herded some distance in the rear of the rocks until it was time to mount.

  A suspicion came to Alashan that the noyon had been among the thickets for some time, that Zebek Dortshi had been the first on the scene, arriving from the south, his approach concealed by the foothills of the Ukim.

  “Where were you, ahatou—brother?” observed Zebek Dortshi indifferently. “I could not see you at first. Why, in the name of a thousand devils, did you try to ride through the whole Muscovite strength? If it had not been for the fire of my men you would have been hunted like a hare!”

  It occurred to Alashan if Zebek Dortshi had noticed his feat, the noyon must have caught sight of him before then. If so why had not Zebek Dortshi called to him, or sent men to protect the son of the Khan? But Alashan was too pleased with his first battle to wonder about things. He had reined his horse through four hundred foes! He had killed his man more than once and broken his sword into the bargain!

  Moreover he was sure blood was mingling with the cold sweat on one shoulder, and a piece had been slashed out of his boot. He gazed at that boot proudly. Then he gave a cry.

  “There are men on the plain. They are fighting.”

  Zebek Dortshi looked at him sidewise and rubbed the gold-inlaid hilt of his sword.

  “Chu, my gamecock, did you not see that the main force of the Cossacks had come up below us, and the heavy cavalry of the Khan, your father, close on their heels?”

  He considered Alashan for a moment.

  “Here, take my horse. It is a Turkoman and fresh. Bear the tidings to your father that I hold the gate of the Ukim. You will see more fighting down there—”

  Waiting for no more, Alashan was off like the wind on a lean pony whose silver inlaid saddle was covered with a fine silk cloth. In this way did Zebek Dortshi gain credit for giving the son of the Khan his horse during a battle. And the noyon remained alone in possession of the coveted gorge of the Ukim.

  Alashan passed groups of Tatars moving slowly over the plain, binding up their wounds and looking at weapons they had captured. These were the horsemen of the Bear clan, heavily armed and wearing chain mail over their leather tunics. Their heads were covered with pointed steel caps and their black faces were scarred. They were the heavy cavalry of the Horde, the pride of Ubaka Khan.

  From one of them, a commander of a hundred who was known to him, Alashan learned that they had come up in time to engage Mitrassof before the Russians could reach the shelter of the Ukim.

  Mitrassof’s need of haste had brought his men up in scattered detachments; the weight of the Polish dragoons had exhausted their horses.

  “They fell like ripe wheat,” grunted the Tatar. “The Cossacks were a sword of another edge. They were too few. You see some of their bodies here. The heads of others who were late in coming we cut off back there.”

  Listening, Alashan heard firing off to his right, to the north. Edging over that way, he found the lighter regiments of the Khan riding down the fragments of Mitrassof’s command. More riders were coming up from the Horde constantly.

  “Hai,” laughed the boy, “they did not live long to boast about the Yaik.”

  The battle on the plain was about over. But some distance off he heard the clashing of weapons. A vibrant voice floated out, seemingly from the steppe itself. Alashan reined his horse toward the sound. He arrived at the edge of a gully where the stony, dried riverbed was littered with corpses. Several blue tops of Cossack hats were to be seen in the center of a ring of mounted Tatars who pressed them back toward the bank of the ravine.

  Alashan heard the voice again, wild and exultant.

  “Shen, shen, shivagen,

  Swing the steel, swing again!

  Ride, ride, to our play,

  Slay, slay!”

  Shadows, gathering in the gully, concealed the outlines of the fighters, but Alashan watched the flicker of swords, heard the moans of men who had fallen underfoot and listened to the deep voice of Mitrassof making mock of his enemies. The Tatars drew back at last, and some one called for a bow.

  Mitrassof was alone, half-standing, half lying against the snow on the bank, his hat fallen off, his big head lowering on his shoulders. Alashan spurred down the slope of the ravine. A bow twanged, and after a moment the Tatars rushed in to seize spoil from the body.

  “Peace, dogs,” cried the boy. “This is the Starshim, the chief of the Cossacks. Let him have honor.”

  Unheeding, they tore away belt, sword, gold-chased scabbard, rings and the gold chain from which hung the ikon. Alashan lashed them with words, and, as they were moving away, one turned back and laid the chain with its cross on the body of the Cossack.

  Then the others stopped, and presently all the spoil was returned to the body, which at Alashan’s direction was picked up to be carried before Ubaka Khan.

  The Khan was not found until his tent was pitched that night and he rode in, during a tumult of nakers and trumpets, to throw off his steel cap and sit by the fire. Alashan waited until Ubaka had inspected silently the body of his enemy.

  After that Ubaka called for food, and the boy stood until his father had eased his hunger. The Khan had not eaten for two days. Alashan was quivering with desire to pour out his story of the fight at the gorge. He wanted, too, to point out that Zebek Dortshi had been first at the Ukim but had waited until Alashan attacked before entering the battle.

  Ubaka sat gazing into the fire, his knotted hands resting on his massive knees. He lifted his head and looked at his son.

  “I have been to the gorge of the Ukim. I have heard the tale of the skirmish. Zebek Dortshi, who is a leader among a thousand, I have rewarded with fox skins and inlaid daggers, with pieces of red leather and saddles sewn with pearls that we took from the Cossack camp. He did well.”

  Alashan’s heart sank, and he waited for a word concerning himself. Ubaka was pleased with the daring exhibited by the boy, but his hoarse voice was gruff with displeasure.

  “My son, a soldier can be reckless and as foolish as a kulan, a wild ass. But a leader of men must think wisely when the sword strokes begin. You are not yet a man arrived at man’s estate.”

  Alashan, too, began to study the fire.

  “The time is not, when my noyons will lift their hands to their eyes and say that you are a true son of the Khan—a falcon of the eagle line. I have spoken. Go!”

  In the tent of Norbo, Nadesha came to Billings bringing the news of Mitrassof’s death, and the capture of the Ukim. With the words of the girl went the last hope of rescue for the Englishman.

  Billings thought this over far into the night, and fell to work on his map with new vigor, noting in the location of the Ukim.

  CHAPTER IV

  The Wood Ashes That Turned Into a Tree

  It was an evening early in Spring and the odor of wet marshland was in the air when Nadesha slipped past the tents of the wolf clan and made her way toward the one spot of the camp that was forbidden her. This was the yurt of Loosang.

  Ever since she had been a child—not so long ago—the girl of Norbo had longed to see inside this solitary wagon tent that was fashioned of purple cloth instead of the usual felt or hides and stood
on a brightly painted cart. From its depths she often had watched the lama emerge clad some times in yellow, sometimes in purple with a scarlet scarf and the cube-like black hat that stretched his naturally great stature to more than the length of two Tatar spears. She had listened with awe to the note of the lama’s trumpet that could be heard half an hour’s ride away. Sometimes she fancied the eyes of the priest had dwelt on her.

  But this night Nadesha planned to gain entrance to the yurt. She would match her wits against the lama’s, and try to learn what the servant of the Dalai Lama had in store for the Horde. For now the Torguts had left behind the part of the steppe known to them and were nearing the edge of the unknown spaces where Loosang must guide. In a bag she held the last of the heavy Russian money, copper and silver, that still remained in their household. Now that the ground was soft under foot, at the edge of the high steppe of the Kangar, all superfluous weight was being cast from the loads of the Horde.

  And Loosang had declared that this money, useless now to the Tatars, was welcome in his yurt, useful in his ceremonial. He pointed out that by the favor of Bon and the gods of which he was priest, the Tatars had overthrown the Cossacks at the Ukim and passed the terrible Torgai safely on a floating bridge of bundles of giant reeds.

  On her way to the lama’s wagon, Nadesha wheedled more copper coins here and there in the groups that clustered together on the wet ground.

  The yurt of Loosang stood alone at the end of a red clay gully, and within fifty paces of it Nadesha was set upon by savage dogs that ripped her skirt and would have tasted her blood if a huge voice had not called them back from the tent.

  Nadesha advanced, laid her bundle on the wooden platform and kneeled against the wagon tongue until from the corners of her eyes she saw that the bundle had disappeared. Still she waited.

  “What do you wish, daughter of Norbo?”

  “I am cold, chutuktu, and there is a fire within. I have brought you a great deal of money.”