They brought the litter into Timour’s presence, weary, dull-eyed men, with raw wounds tied up with blood-crusted rags, their garments and mail in tatters. They flung before the Amir’s feet the golden-scaled corselets of chiefs, and chests of jewels and robes of silk and silver braid; the loot of Ordushar where men had starved among riches. And they set the litter down before Timour.
The Amir looked at the form of Donald. The Highlander was pale, but his sinister face showed no hint of weakness in that wild spirit, his cold eyes gleamed unquenched.
“The road to Cathay is clear,” said Donald, speaking with difficulty. “Ordushar lies in smoking ruins. I have carried out your last command.”
Timour nodded, his eyes seeming to gaze through and beyond the Highlander. What was a dying man on a litter to the Amir, who had seen so many die? His mind was on the road to Cathay and the purple kingdoms beyond. The javelin had shattered at last, but its final cast had opened the imperial path. Timour’s dark eyes burned with strange depths and leaping shadows, as the old fire stole through his blood. Conquest! Outside the winds howled, as if trumpeting the roar of nakars, the clash of cymbals, the deep-throated chant of victory.
“Send Zuleika to me,” the dying man muttered. Timour did not reply; he scarcely heard, sitting lost in thunderous visions. He had already forgotten Zuleika and her fate. What was one death in the awesome and terrible scheme of empire.
“Zuleika, where is Zuleika?” the Gael repeated, moving restlessly on his litter. Timour shook himself slightly and lifted his head, remembering.
“I had her put to death,” he answered quietly. “It was necessary.”
“Necessary!” Donald strove to rear upright, his eyes terrible, but fell back, gagging, and spat out a mouthful of crimson. “You bloody dog, she was mine!”
“Yours or another’s,” Timour rejoined absently, his mind far away. “What is a woman in the plan of imperial destinies?”
For answer Donald plucked a pistol from among his robes and fired point-blank. Timour started and swayed on his throne, and the courtiers cried out, paralyzed with horror. Through the drifting smoke they saw that Donald lay dead on the litter, his thin lips frozen in a grim smile. Timour sat crumpled on his throne, one hand gripping his breast; through those fingers blood oozed darkly. With his free hand he waved back his nobles.
“Enough; it is finished. To every man comes the end of the road. Let Pir Muhammad reign in my stead, and let him strengthen the lines of the empire I have reared with my hands.”
A rack of agony twisted his features. “Allah, that this should be the end of empire!” It was a fierce cry of anguish from his inmost soul. “That I, who have trodden upon kingdoms and humbled sultans, come to my doom because of a cringing trull and a Caphar renegade!” His helpless chiefs saw his mighty hands clench like iron as he held death at bay by the sheer power of his unconquered will. The fatalism of his accepted creed had never found resting-place in his instinctively pagan soul; he was a fighter to the red end.
“Let not my people know that Timour died by the hand of a Caphar,” he spoke with growing difficulty. “Let not the chronicles of the ages blazon the name of a wolf that slew an emperor. Ah God, that a bit of dust and metal can dash the Conqueror of the World into the dark! Write, scribe, that this day, by the hand of no man, but by the will of Allah, died Timour, Servant of God.”
The chiefs stood about in dazed silence, while the pallid scribe took up parchment and wrote with a shaking hand. Timour’s somber eyes were fixed on Donald’s still features that seemed to give back his stare, as the dead on the litter faced the dying on the throne. And before the scratching of the quill had ceased, Timour’s lion head had sunk upon his mighty chest. And without the wind howled a dirge, drifting the snow higher and higher about the walls of Otrar, even as the sands of oblivion drifted already about the crumbling empire of Timour, the Last Conqueror, Lord of the World.
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside.
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride.
Were’t not a Shame — were’t not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
’Tis but a Tent where takes his one day’s rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
— Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.
THE SOWERS OF THE THUNDER
First published in Oriental Stories, Winter 1932
Iron winds and ruin and flame,
And a Horseman shaking with giant mirth;
Over the corpse-strewn, blackened earth
Death, stalking naked, came
Like a storm-cloud shattering the ships;
Yet the Rider seated high.
Paled at the smile on a dead king’s lips.
As the tall white horse went by.
— The Ballad of Baibars
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 1
THE IDLERS in the tavern glanced up at the figure framed in the doorway. It was a tall broad man who stood there, with the torch-lit shadows and the clamor of the bazaars at his back. His garments were simple tunic, and short breeches of leather; a camel’s-hair mantle hung from his broad shoulders and sandals were on his feet. But belying the garb of the peaceful traveler, a short straight stabbing sword hung at his girdle. One massive arm, ridged with muscles, was outstretched, the brawny hand gripping a pilgrim’s staff, as the man stood, powerful legs wide braced, in the doorway. His bare legs were hairy, knotted like tree trunks. His coarse red locks were confined by a single band of blue cloth, and from his square dark face, his strange blue eyes blazed with a kind of reckless and wayward mirth, reflected by the half-smile that curved his thin lips.
His glance passed over the hawk-faced seafarers and ragged loungers who brewed tea and squabbled endlessly, to rest on a man who sat apart at a rough- hewn table, with a wine pitcher. Such a man the watcher in the door had never seen — tall, deep chested, broad shouldered, built with the dangerous suppleness of a panther. His eyes were as cold as blue ice, set off by a mane of golden hair tinted with red; so to the man in the doorway that hair seemed like burning gold. The man at the table wore a light shirt of silvered mail, a long lean sword hung at his hip, and on the bench beside him lay a kite-shaped shield and a light helmet.
The man in the guise of a traveler strode purposefully forward and halted, hands resting on the table across which he smiled mockingly at the other, and spoke in a tongue strange to the seated man, newly come to the East.
The one turned to an idler and asked in Norman French: “What does the infidel say?”
“I said,” replied the traveler in the same tongue, “that a man can not even enter an Egyptian inn these days without finding some dog of a Christian under his feet.”
As the traveler had spoken the other had risen, and now the speaker dropped his hand to his sword. Scintillant lights flickered in the other’s eyes and he moved like a flash of summer lightning. His left hand darted out to lock in the breast of the traveler’s tunic, and in his right hand the long sword flashed out. The traveler was caught flat-footed, his sword half clear of its sheath. But the faint smile did not leave his lips and he stared almost childishly at the blade that flickered before his eyes, as if fascinated by its dazzling.
“Heathen dog,” snarled the swordsman, and his voice was like the slash of a blade through fabric, “I’ll send you to Hell unshriven!”
“What panther whelped you that you move as a cat strikes?” responded the other curiously, as calmly as if his life were not weighing in the balance. “But you took me by surprize. I did not know that a Frank dare draw sword in Damietta.”
The Frank glared at him moodily; the wine he had drunk showed in the dangerous gleams th
at played in his eyes where lights and shadows continuously danced and shifted.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“Haroum the Traveler,” the other grinned. “Put up your steel. I crave pardon for my gibing words. It seems there are Franks of the old breed yet.”
With a change of mood the Frank thrust his sword back into its sheath with an impatient clash. Turning back to his bench he indicated table and wine pitcher with a sweeping gesture.
“Sit and refresh yourself; if you are a traveler, you have a tale to tell.”
Haroun did not at once comply. His gaze swept the inn and he beckoned the innkeeper, who came grudgingly forward. As he approached the Traveler, the innkeeper suddenly shrank back with a low half-stifled cry. Haroun’s eyes went suddenly merciless and he said, “What then, host, do you see in me a man you have known aforetime, perchance?”
His voice was like the purr of a hunting tiger and the wretched innkeeper shivered as with an ague, his dilated eyes fixed on the broad, corded hand that stroked the hilt of the stabbing-sword.
“No, no, master,” he mouthed. “By Allah, I know you not — I never saw you before — and Allah grant I never see you again,” he added mentally.
“Then tell me what does this Frank here, in mail and wearing a sword,” ordered Haroun bruskly, in Turki. “The dog-Venetians are allowed to trade in Damietta as in Alexandria, but they pay for the privilege in humility and insult, and none dares gird on a blade here — much less lift it against a Believer.”
“He is no Venetian, good Haroun,” answered the innkeeper. “Yesterday he came ashore from a Venetian trading-galley, but he consorts not with the traders or the crew of the infidels. He strides boldly through the streets, wearing steel openly and ruffling against all who would cross him. He says he is going to Jerusalem and could not find a ship bound for any port in Palestine, so came here, intending to travel the rest of the way by land. The Believers have said he is mad, and none molests him.”
“Truly, the mad are touched by Allah and given His protection,” mused Haroun. “Yet this man is not altogether mad, I think. Bring wine, dog!”
The innkeeper ducked in a deep salaam and hastened off to do the Traveler’s bidding. The Prophet’s command against strong drink was among other orthodox precepts disobeyed in Damietta where many nations foregathered and Turk rubbed shoulders with Copt, Arab with Sudani.
Haroun seated himself opposite the Frank and took the wine goblet proffered by a servant.
“You sit in the midst of your enemies like a shah of the East, my lord,” he grinned. “By Allah, you have the bearing of a king.”
“I am a king, infidel,” growled the other; the wine he had drunk had touched him with a reckless and mocking madness.
“And where lies your kingdom, malik?” The question was not asked in mockery. Haroun had seen many broken kings drifting among the debris that floated Eastward.
“On the dark side of the moon,” answered the Frank with a wild and bitter laugh. “Among the ruins of all the unborn or forgotten empires which etch the twilight of the lost ages. Cahal Ruadh O’Donnel, king of Ireland — the name means naught to you, Haroun of the East, and naught to the land which was my birthright. They who were my foes sit in the high seats of power, they who were my vassals lie cold and still, the bats haunt my shattered castles, and already the name of Red Cahal is dim in the memories of men. So — fill up my goblet, slave!”
“You have the soul of a warrior, malik. Was it treachery overcame you?”
“Aye, treachery,” swore Cahal, “and the wiles of a woman who coiled about my soul until I was as one blind — to be cast out at the end like a broken pawn. Aye, the Lady Elinor de Courcey, with her black hair like midnight shadows on Lough Derg, and the gray eyes of her, like—” he started suddenly, like a man waking from a trance, and his wayward eyes blazed.
“Saints and devils!” he roared. “Who are you that I should spill out my soul to? The wine has betrayed me and loosened my tongue, but I—” He reached for his sword but Haroun laughed.
“I’ve done you no harm, malik. Turn this murderous spirit of yours into another channel. By Erlik, I’ll give you a test to cool your blood!”
Rising, he caught up a javelin lying beside a drunken soldier, and striding around the table, his eyes recklessly alight, he extended his massive arm, gripping the shaft close to the middle, point upward.
“Grip the shaft, malik,” he laughed. “In all my days I have met no one who was man enough to twist a stave out of my hand.”
Cahal rose and gripped the shaft so that his clenched fingers almost touched those of Haroun. Then, legs braced wide, arms bent at the elbow, each man exerted his full strength against the other. They were well matched; Cahal was a trifle taller, Haroun thicker of body. It was bear opposed to tiger. Like two statues they stood straining, neither yielding an inch, the javelin almost motionless under the equal forces. Then, with a sudden rending snap, the tough wood gave way and each man staggered, holding half the shaft, which had parted under the terrific strain.
“Hai!” shouted Haroun, his eyes sparkling; then they dulled with sudden doubt.
“By Allah, malik,” said he, “this is an ill thing! Of two men, one should be master of the other, lest both come to a bad end. Yet this signifies that neither of us will ever yield to the other, and in the end, each will work the other ill.”
“Sit down and drink,” answered the Gael, tossing aside the broken shaft and reaching for the wine goblet, his dreams of lost grandeur and his anger both apparently forgotten. “I have not been long in the East, but I knew not there were such as you among the paynim. Surely you are not one with the Egyptians, Arabs and Turks I have seen.”
“I was born far to the east, among the tents of the Golden Horde, on the steppes of High Asia,” said Haroun, his mood changing back to joviality as he flung himself down on his bench. “Ha! I was almost a man grown before I heard of Muhammad — on whom peace! Hai, bogatyr, I have been many things! Once I was a princeling of the Tatars — son of the lord Subotai who was right hand to Genghis Khan. Once I was a slave — when the Turkomans drove a raid east and carried off youths and girls from the Horde. In the slave markets of El Kahira I was sold for three pieces of silver, by Allah, and my master gave me to the Bahairiz — the slave-soldiers — because he feared I’d strangle him. Ha! Now I am Haroun the Traveler, making pilgrimage to the holy place. But once, only a few days agone, I was man to Baibars — whom the devil fly away with!”
“Men say in the streets that this Baibars is the real ruler of Cairo,” said Cahal curiously; new to the East though he was, he had heard that name oft- repeated.
“Men lie,” responded Haroun. “The sultan rules Egypt and Shadjar ad Darr rules the sultan. Baibars is only the general of the Bahairiz — the great oaf!
“I was his man!” he shouted suddenly, with a great laugh, “to come and go at his bidding — to put him to bed — to rise with him — to sit down at meat with him — aye, and to put food and drink into his fool’s-mouth. But I have escaped him! Allah, by Allah and by Allah, I have naught to do with this great fool Baibars tonight! I am a free man and the devil may fly away with him and with the sultan, and Shadjar ad Darr and all Saladin’s empire! But I am my own man tonight!”
He pulsed with an energy that would not let him be still or silent; he seemed vibrant and joyously mad with the sheer exuberance of life and the huge mirth of living. With gargantuan laughter he smote the table thunderously with his open hand and roared: “By Allah, malik, you shall help me celebrate my escape from the great oaf Baibars — whom the devil fly away with! Away with this slop, dogs! Bring kumiss! The Nazarene lord and I intend to hold such a drinking bout as Damietta’s inns have not seen in a hundred years!”
“But my master has already emptied a full wine pitcher and is more than half drunk!” clamored the nondescript servant Cahal had picked up on the wharves — not that he cared, but whomever he served, he wished to have the best of any contest
, and besides it was his Oriental instinct to intrude his say.
“So!” roared Haroun, catching up a full wine pitcher. “I will not take advantage of any man! See — I quaff this thimbleful that we may start on even terms!” And drinking deeply, he flung down the pitcher empty.
The servants of the inn brought kumiss — fermented mare’s milk, in leathern skins, bound and sealed — illegal drink, brought down by the caravans from the lands of the Turkomans, to tempt the sated palates of nobles, and to satisfy the craving of the steppesmen among the mercenaries and the Bahairiz.
Then, goblet for goblet with Haroun, Cahal quaffed the unfamiliar, whitish, acid stuff, and never had the exiled Irish prince seen such a cup- companion as this wanderer. For between enormous drafts, Haroun shook the smoke- stained rafters with giant laughter, and shouted over spicy tales that breathed the very scents of Cairo’s merry obscenity and high comedy. He sang Arab love songs that sighed with the whisper of palm leaves and the swish of silken veils, and he roared riding songs in a tongue none in the tavern understood, but which vibrated with the drum of Mongol hoofs and the clashing of swords.
The moon had set and even the clamor of Damietta had ebbed in the darkness before dawn, when Haroun staggered up and clutched reeling at the table for support. A single weary slave stood by, to pour wine. Keeper, servants and guests snored on the floor or had slipped away long before. Haroun shouted a thick-tongued war cry and yelled aloud with the sheer riotousness of his mirth. Sweat stood in beads on his face and the veins of his temples swelled and throbbed from his excesses. His wild wayward eyes danced with joyous deviltry.
“Would you were not a king, malik!” he roared, catching up a stout bludgeon. “I would show you cudgel-play! Aye, my blood is racing like a Turkoman stallion and in good sport I would fain deal strong blows on somebody’s pate, by Allah!”
“Then grip your stick, man,” answered Cahal reeling up. “Men call me fool, but no man has ever said I was backward where blows were going, be they of steel or wood!”
Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four) Page 339
