Swords From the East (23 page)

A simpleton, thought the watchers-nay, a madman-to curb Temujin when he was angry. But the man of the reindeer people kept his grip on his master until, perforce, Temujin relaxed his arm.

"The knife is yours!" he snarled at Mingan.

And Mingan saw that it was the one he had lost when he fell outside the tent. The Turk must have picked it up or it had been given to the wrestler to use on Temujin.

"Aye," he admitted. "I dropped it within the hour, but the wrestler was no man of mine."

"For all of that," put in Subotai, who seemed to have no sense of ceremony in the presence of his superiors, "there is a fine pile of weapons outside, and the fat brown man could have taken his pick. Wait until the sun rises on the morrow, 0 Khan, and then slice up your palladin if you want to-it is all one to me. But now your eyes are red, and if you slay him, you will grieve-like me."

Sheer surprise had kept Temujin passive. Now, thoughtfully, he put the knife in his belt, stirred the dead body of the Turk with his foot to see if the man were beyond telling the secret that had been his, and signed to Chepe Noyon to bring his mantle and robe.

"Master," whispered the young Tiger, as he put the garments over Temujin, "Mingan is not a traitor-a man's eyes cannot lie, though his tongue be crooked as a ram's horn. The Cathayan was right. There is one in this assemblage who is wiser than you, and all but contrived that you should slay your friend. Wait until the morrow."

"Aye, be it so." Temujin nodded. "Subotai, guard Mingan, the orkhon -keep him ever under your eyes. Podu, the feast is at an end. Let no man leave the pavilion until the Mongols pass out."

His glance swept the lines of the watchers, probing and warning. Then, followed by the three palladins, he strode out, leaving the khans staring at the broken body of the giant wrestler.

In this fashion did the friendship of the three heroes begin, for that night they were together in the same tent, and that night was a memorable one in the annals of the Gobi.

VI

The Tiger Goes A-wooing

"Quick," said Mingan, when Chepe Noyon came in from mounting the guard, and the tent flap fell behind him, leaving the three alone, "go to Temujin, tell him to rouse his captains and arm his men. Danger stands near us and there is little time."

"Little time, indeed, Mingan for you to abide among the living-if I disturb the khan now and bring you into his thoughts again. He is like a bear with a thorn in his paw. Let him sleep." He threw himself down on his sleeping furs. "Is danger something new, that you mew about it like a cat with a cup of sour milk?"

Mingan sighed and related his experience among the Gipsy wagon yurts. He repeated the words of the man in the mask, that Temujin, if he left the pavilion in safety, was to be attacked in his tent.

"A bearskin?" Chepe Noyon frowned. "That is the mask worn by the leader of the Kerait warriors-Wang Khan's commander." He yawned. "You are always dreaming about something or other, Mingan. Now you should be thinking of your plight. It is said Temujin never forgets a friend, but, by Kotwan, he never fails to remember an enemy. As for the Keraits, they are all in Tangut."

Mingan stepped to the tent entrance to look out, but felt the hand of the Buffalo on his shoulder.

"'Bide where I can see you, Cathayan. The story-tellers relate that all your folk are magicians, and I do not wish you to vanish."

Without turning, Mingan said softly: "Burta lies bound and gagged in the tent of Podu's women, beside the wagon of the Gipsy chief. Does that mean nothing to you, 0 Tiger?"

"Now-the take me-how can you see that from where you stand?"

"My eyes can see at night-if the moon is bright enough. But do you go quietly, Chepe Noyon, and seek word with her, prevail on Podu's sentries to let you pass. But first visit the picket lines and have the three best ponies saddled and brought here."

Hereat the Tiger grumbled, but yawned no more. Presently his eye fell upon Mingan's lute and he brightened. Unobserved by his two companions he picked up the instrument and put it under his cloak, and went out, with a word of assent. He noticed that the light was still burning in Temujin's tent and pondered whether he should tell the Khan of Mingan's fears. Remembering the lute he was carrying, he decided to go to the horse lines instead.

He took his time about ordering the three ponies from the horse tenders and carefully tested saddle-girths and stirrups of the gray pony, the Arab, and his mare. When he was satisfied that the camp had quieted down to sleep, he swung into the saddle of the mare and took the reins of the two others, leading them after him at a foot pace. Their hoofs made no sound in the sand, and Chepe Noyon passed unchallenged into the dark lanes of the Gipsy wagons. From time to time men looked out at him, but the sight of a rider leading his ponies about at all hours in the camp was common enough, when the day's gaming had ended and wagers won and lost made new masters of horses.

Sighting the lofty summit of the feasting pavilion, the Tiger counted the tents behind it. Nearing the third one in the line, he tethered the ponies to a cart wheel, unshipped his lute, and advanced, keeping to the shadow, a little surprised that he had not been stopped. But the guards of Podu seemed to be slumbering with the rest of the camp and Chepe Noyon squatted down under the side of the women's yurt.

He cleared his throat and touched the lute's strings with a gentle finger. As nothing happened to disturb him he began to sing, under his breath, his favorite chant, the "Lament of the Doleful Hero."

Cocking his head, the Tiger listened for stealthy footsteps, for the scrape of an arrow shaft against the wood of the bow, for the slick of steel-sword drawn from scabbard. Almost beside his head the silk wall of the tent quivered and was still. Emboldened, he sang on, more softly:

The Tiger stilled his song and listened with all his ears. Near at hand he was aware of a tiny sound, monotonous as the drip-drip of water from a leaking bucket. He peered around him and noticed that from the wagon shaft of the yurt opposite something was dropping regularly into the sand.

This wagon should be Podu's, and Chepe Noyon was not minded to risk an arrow sent in his direction if anyone were astir. Squinting into the shadow that covered the front of the yurt, he fancied that a man was crouching over the wagon-tongue. After a quarter of an hour he was sure of it. But the man did not move.

Instead, the silk near his ear shook again, violently as if to convey to his understanding an urgent message. He heard the drowsy voice of an old woman mutter within the tent.

"Be still, Burta. After dawn you will be released, so Podu said. Are we to have no sleep, because of your fidgets?"

Still the figure opposite him did not stir, and the Tiger was puzzled, also his patience was exhausted. He could hear the ponies beginning to toss their heads and paw at the sand. So he rose, his hand on his sword hilt. As he did so he flung a handful of sand into the face of the watcher.

Now that he was erect, he could make out a wide, dark stain in the ground where the moonlight touched the tip of the wagon-shaft. With a glance around, he strode across to the silent yurt and stooped to feel of the figure, finding it to be the body of a man, warm to his touch. But in the throat of the man was a hunting knife, and from this trickled a sluggish current that moistened the wooden shaft and dripped into the sand.

No longer wondering that the rear of the tent was unguarded, Chepe Noyon was about to withdraw as swiftly as might be when he glanced into Podu's tent. The moonlight on the thin, silk wall of the back cast a faint glow over the floor of the wagon, and here, too, was a form prone on the sleeping skins. The Tiger entered and felt of it.

By the heavy earrings and the jeweled belt, he knew it to be Podu, but a dead Podu, slain by an arrow that had pierced his brain.

Now Chepe Noyon cursed under his breath, and fell silent, harkening to a new sound some distance away, like the buzzing of bees. He had heard its like before, and knew that the buzzing was made up of the trampling of hoofs, the creaking of saddle leather, the low voices of men.

Whereupon, abandoning Mingan's lute, the Tiger leaped to the ground, circled the yurt, and gained the spot where he had left his horses, hardly checking his stride as he jerked the reins free and mounted the mare.

Drawing the others with him he sped like a drifting shadow past the dark pavilion, out into the central lane of the camp at the end of the race course, and shouted aloud in anger and surprise.

Torches flickered and smoked down the race course; groups of horsemen cantered up, to disappear among the tents of the Mongols. Here and there steel flashed, as Temujin's men ran out of their shelters to stand against the riders. The twanging of bowstrings and the groans of the injured mingled with the screams of wounded ponies and the splintering of tent poles.

The Mongols had been surprised. Chepe Noyon cursed his folly in going to the camp of Podu, who was dead and could in no wise come to the defense of his erstwhile guests.

He saw the captain of the Mongol guard struck down by a raider in front of the yak-tail standard; a young brother of Temujin, a boy armed with a toy bow, stepped out of his tent and discharged a shaft pluckily. As a horseman sighted him and flourished a javelin, the youngster cast down his shield and bow, knowing the uselessness of flight. As the Tiger watched, the raider passed a spear-point into the youth's chest and cantered on.

Temujin's tent was surrounded by attackers, so that a ring of torches was formed, and in the bright glow Chepe Noyon made out that the riders were riddling the tent with arrows, piercing it in a hundred places so that nothing above ground might survive. The light still burned in the tent.

All this the Tiger perceived in the minute it took him to gallop up to his tent before which stood Subotai, wielding his ax, and Mingan a sword, back to back. A half-dozen men circled around them, warily, for two of the raiders lay outstretched in the sand.

Through this ring of horsemen Chepe Noyon dashed, striking a man from his saddle as he passed by, the two ponies rearing and kicking under his hand what with the lights and clamor that filled the night.

"Mount!" cried the Tiger to his friends.

The rush of the three ponies afforded the hard-pressed warriors a halfmoment's respite, which Chepe Noyon used to advantage. Wheeling the quick-footed mare, he faced one of the assailants and feinted at the strange warrior's head. With a turn of the wrist he altered the direction of the blow, slicing the leather buckler from his foeman's arm.

"Jackal!" he snarled, his teeth flashing in his dark face. "Who is your master?"

It struck him suddenly that the raiders were fighting in silence, uttering no war cry, and apparently leaderless. The man in front of him responded by striking at the Tiger's throat-a blow that slid off the agile scimitar of the swordsman harmlessly, while Chepe Noyon's return stroke severed the warrior's right wrist and set him swaying in the saddle. By now, Subotai and Mingan reined up on either side of him, and the four remaining horsemen hung back.

In the pause that followed, Chepe Noyon was aware of two things: first, that the riders had finished their shooting to pieces of Temujin's tent, and, flinging their torches at it, had galloped off, not wishing, it seemed, to be seen in the vicinity; second, the leader of the horsemen, with another at his elbow, had sighted the two orkhons and Subotai together nearby and had trotted over to their assailants, and it was clearly to be seen that he wore the mask of a bear's head.

"Arrows!" the enemy chief ordered.

And arrows he had, though not from the hands of his own men. Chepe Noyon trotted up with Mingan and the Buffalo guarding his back with drawn weapons, and uttered a question under his breath.

"Dog!" The Tiger said. "You are no Kerait. Take off the mask!"

His left hand shot forward, clutching at the bearskin. The chief swung over in the saddle, whereupon Chepe Noyon raised his scimitar to smite, and urged the mare forward at the same instant. The other's pony, taken unaware and hampered by the weight of its rider hanging on the off-side, stumbled in the soft sand and threw the chief.