Swords From the East (5 page)

But the panic that gripped him was from the man who floated after him, the man who walked forward against gunshots, who smiled at the weapon in Petrovan's hand and whom the deadly cold of the river could not hurt.

Petrovan clutched wildly at the antlers of a reindeer swimming by, missed, and was struck again by a hoof. His arms moved weakly now, and his head went under.

Maak, numbed and helpless from submergence in the water, could only cling to the antlers of the white buck. As impotent to aid Petrovan as to harm him, the reindeer keeper was drawn into shoal water and to the shore.

Turning here, he saw Petrovan's bare head an instant at the edge of the shore ice. Then the trader went down. Maak grunted and glanced at the Mongol, his hand moving toward the knife in his belt.

But the erstwhile servant of Petrovan was building a fire on the ashes of the old campfire. The Mongol, who was trembling a little, motioned for Maak to draw near and warm himself. Then he pointed out the pack animals, saying that they were Maak's and that he-the Mongol-had never had aught but peace in his heart toward a khada-ulan-obokhod.

Not until Maak had dried himself and eaten a little of the bread and tea of the other did he respond. Then he said that the packs and the ponies could go with the Mongol. Maak did not want them. He had his herd again.

"It was a strong ijin-magic spell-that you made on the mountain heights. It bewitched the guns and slew the Russian pig without a blow. Is not that the truth?"

So spoke the Mongol.

ay.

Maak shook his head.

"I went to the mountain top to see the camp of the thieves when the snow ceased. Otherwise I could not have seen it."

The Mongol was silent. He was in no mood to contradict his guest. But later among the Buriats he voiced the thought in his mind.

"Maak has looked into the spirit gate. When he sat on the mountain looking for his enemies the gate in the sky was open. He talked with the Qoren Vairgin and his spirit ancestors."

And the Mongol spoke truth, though not in the way he thought. The urge to do battle for the herd that was dearer to Maak than his own life was a heritage of forgotten ancestors.

Maak had looked through the gate in the sky.

Chapter I

Aruk and the Krit

Bouragut, the great golden eagle, was flying high over the snows and rocks of the Altai Mountains. It was a brisk day in spring, that year 166o-an eventful year for Central Asia. Six feet from wing to wing, the golden eagle soared, alone and calmly bent on his own business.

Rarely indeed was Bouragut to be tamed, to be hooded and shackled into a falcon, used by men to strike down prey. He went as he pleased, for he feared no one. Alone of the feathered folk he would sweep down, to attack with talons and curved beak foxes and even wolves. For that he was called the Wolf-Chaser, and men were proud to have him at their call.

Unlike the vulture, the golden eagle did not wait for others to make his kill. His telescope-like eyes sought for game on the mountain slope, peering down between the cloud-flocks.

He was Bouragut, the Wolf-Chaser; his brown, black-and-white-flecked coat of feathers glistened; his wings, moving lazily, supported him in the vastness where he had his kingdom by right.

Yet it was not a king but an old falconer, a native Mongol and Christian, who had made himself master of Bouragut.

From a thicket by the snow of the Urkhogaitu Pass, Aruk the hunter looked up, recognized the golden eagle, and waved cheerfully. He was a young Tatar with alert eyes. His hut was in the thicket, nearly two miles above the verdant plains of Tartary, to the north, because he was the keeper of the gate. It was his duty to watch for enemies coming over the pass from the south, where was the land of the Kalmuck and the Turk.

Just now he was stringing his bow with fresh gut, in an excellent hu mor. That morning the omens on the mountainside had been good. A rainbow had come after dawn. Now the eagles were on the wing, and-yes; he cocked his head attentively-his horse neighed.

All at once Aruk was on his feet, his bow strung. Up the pass another horse had neighed. Now the snow in the pass was still unbroken, for no riders had come over the Urkhogaitu-the Gate of the Winds-that winter, owing to the severe cold and the storms that swept the gorge between the rocky peaks of the Altai.

Still, a horse had neighed, and where there was a horse in the Urkhogaitu, there was a rider. In a moment Aruk had mounted his shaggy pony-a Mongol of the plains will not move afoot if he can ride-and had drawn an arrow from the quiver at his saddle-peak.

When he broke from a fringe of firs into the trail Aruk found himself facing a tall horseman. In fact, the horse-the Tatar's eye made swift note of this-was massive and long-bodied-a bay stallion. Aruk had never seen such a beast nor such a rider.

The man who came down the pass had deep-set eyes under shaggy brows, eyes that held a fire of their own. Aruk's bow was lifted, the shaft taut on the string. A slight easing of the fingers would have sent the arrow into the throat of the stranger, above the fur-tipped cloak that covered his long body.

The rider halted when he reached Aruk, but apparently for the purpose of looking out from the pass over the wide plain of Tartary, visible here for the first time from the pass-the plain speckled with brown herds and adorned with the deep blue of lakes, like jewels upon green cloth.

Here and there below him were the tiny lines of animals that barely seemed to move, camels of the caravans that came from China to Muscovy.

Under a close-trimmed mustache the thin lips of the stranger smiled, as if he made out a curious jest in the aspect of the sparkling plain.

He looked at Aruk, and the hunter lowered his bow.

"This one is a falcon," thought Aruk, taking counsel with himself. "May the -eat me though if he isn't a Frank."*

In the minute just passed Aruk had seen that another Frank, one of the two servants who rode after the leader, had drawn a long pistol and pointed it at him. The hunter had no great respect for Turkish pistols, but it oc curred to him that the rider in front of him must be a personage of importance if others would fight to see that his path was cleared.

Surely the Frank was a chieftain from the west, from the lands of the Christians that lay beyond Muscovy-so Aruk had heard. Being keeper of the pass, many tales came to his ears.

"Are you a khan-a chief?" he growled.

The tall stranger seemed to find food for mirth in this. He half-smiled, and when he did so his thin, dark face with its down-curving nose was likable.

"I am not a khan," he made response tolerantly, and-to Aruk's surprise-in fair Tatar speech.

Yet his manner was that of one who was accustomed to pass sentries without being challenged, even to having honor shown him.

The stranger was a man in ripe middle age. His heavy boots were of finest morocco and well cleaned. The doublet under the torn cloak was rich blue velvet, and, above all, the hilt of the curiously thin, straight sword was chased with gold.

"Then you are an envoy from God."

"I?" The Frank raised his brows. "No!"

Now the last traveler from the lands of the Franks, the only one who, to Aruk's knowledge, had come over the Urkhogaitu Pass, had been a priest. Those few among the Tatars that had been baptized by the priest called him an envoy from God. The lives of envoys were inviolate. So the priest had not been slain. Something in the face of the tall Frank reminded Aruk of the priest.

"If you are not an envoy or a chief, what is your business in Tartary, Sir Frank?"

"'Tis the Devil's affair, not yours."

Aruk blinked reflectively. The stranger might be speaking the truth. There was an eagle's feather in his hunting -cap. And the lords of Galdan Khan, chief of the Kalmucks, who were deadly enemies of the Tatars, wore such feathers. Moreover, there were Franks among the Turks and Kalmucks of Galdan Khan, mercenaries from Genoa and Greece. This might be one of them, sent as a spy to gather news before a raid on the part of Galdan Khan.

That would be the Devil's business, surely. And that was why Aruk had all but shot down the stranger with his bow.

Yet Aruk, whose life hung on his wit, could read the faces of men. He knew that no spy from the Turks would come to the fair fields of Tartary wearing one of the feathers of Galdan Khan. Nor would he come boldly in daylight with blunt words on his lips and a contempt for the keeper of the pass.

Seeing that the stranger was paying no further attention to him, Aruk drew aside and spoke under his breath to the dog-faced Mongol who was the second servant.

The Mongol, a scowling, sheepskin-clad Dungan, answered Aruk's questions briefly: "He was a paladin of the Franks. But now he has no tribe to follow him. Still, there is gold in his girdle and costly garments in the packs on the horses. I will tell Cheke Noyon, the khan of the Altai, in the city of Kob, to let out his life, so I will have some of the gold-"

"Hai," Aruk grunted, "where are you from, dog -face?"

The Mongol's eyes shifted.

"I was a captive of the Christian Poles. This warrior was fighting under their banner. He freed me, telling me to guide him to Tartary. When I first saw him he lived in a castle with servants. Now he has only one dog to follow him. As he makes his bed, he shall lie in it."

Aruk's lined face twisted reflectively.

"You are a jackal, and the skies will spew out your soul when it leaves your body. Kai. It is so."

"Nay," the servant grinned surlily, "I will tell my tale to the baksa, the witch-doctors, and they will make a sacrifice for me to the spirits. They have no love for the Krits*
who come here and say that they can work wonders. It is so."

"What is the name of the Frank?"

"He calls himself Hu-go."

Impatiently the archer moved to the side of the Frank as the latter gathered up his reins.

"An hour's ride, Sir Hu-go, will bring you to the hut of Ostrim, the falconer. He is a Krit, like you, and he will not steal. Beware of the baksa, for they will strip you of wealth and skin."

When the three riders had vanished around a bend in the gorge, Aruk settled himself in his saddle to watch the Urkhogaitu. He wanted to be very sure that no Kalmucks were coming, behind the stranger called Hugo.

Although the spot was exposed to the icy winds that made a channel of the pass, the archer did not move for hours. He watched the golden eagle circling over the network of forest, muttering the while a song that was half a prayer chant:

A slight sound on the mountainside behind him caused Aruk at length to wheel and ride swiftly down in the trail left by the three travelers. Other ears might have caught it, as an echo, but Aruk was sure that a shot had been fired near the hut of Ostrim the falconer.

The reason for his haste was soon apparent. Halfway down the mountainside, where the snow lay only in patches in the gullies and the larch thickets, Aruk came upon a brown-faced maiden no larger than he.

From a clump of larches she was peering, bow in hand, her slant eyes intent on the trail, teeth gleaming between full, red lips.