The Wolf Master/Chapter 13
The Cossack rides in the night—there is no one to cry after him.
BUT not for long hours did Kirdy see the face of Tevakel Khan. The Tatar horsemen went swiftly south, keeping him in the center of their formation and he made no effort to escape because he knew there were eyes close at hand that could see him when he could not make out the head of his horse—and because from their talk he gathered that another captive had been taken a few days before. When he thought of Nada he whipped on his horse, and the Tatars growled at him, asking whether he burned to kiss a stake or be torn by horses.
Once they were challenged by a wailing cry from unseen heights, and again, in a lull of the storm, Kirdy saw a ring of fire moving toward them. This proved to be a pine knot, swung in the hand of a rider, who spoke to his captors and galloped off. Then, though the rain shut them in, he heard other bodies of horsemen moving in the same direction.
They circled around restless herds of cattle, and above the bellowing of weary beasts Kirdy caught the long-drawn cry of distant horse herders, and the barking of excited dogs.
Because even Tatars do not ride like fiends through a storm, or leave immense herds without shelter on the steppe, he knew that something unwonted was taking place on the steppe.
They passed through the outer tents of a yurta, and slowed to a more reasonable pace. Coming to what appeared to be a massive wagon, they bade Kirdy dismount and enter it, assuring him grimly that his horses would be cared for—if he ever claimed them again. The wagon materialized into a wide cart with solid wooden wheels, the whole of it taken up by a round leather dome that smoked at the summit.
Aware that he was being watched and that hesitation would avail him nothing, Kirdy lifted the scabbard in his left hand and raised the flap of the kibitka—the nomad wagon-tent.
A fire of camel dung glowed in the center of the floor on its clay bed. The space around it was carpeted, the sides filled with bulky leather sacks that looked like headless giants huddled together and smelled both sour and pungent. From the far side of the fire a figure rolled out of a rug.
“By the Ninety and Nine Holy Names! By the beard of Ali, from whom I am descended on the right side—my heart rejoices and my spirit is uplifted at sight of the prince of swordsmen, the White Falcon!”
It was Al-Tâbir, the interpreter of dreams, and there was no doubt of his joy at beholding the Cossack. He drew off the youth's soggy fur mantle and flung his arms around him.
“Now may Allah grant thee increase of joy. I wasted, in sorrow—the blossom of hope was killed by the frost of calamity—”
“Enough. What seek ye here, Al-Tâbir?”
“Seek? I am sought. I am the leaf that drifts down the river of happenings. Happenings! I have fed upon disaster—”
“Is there aught to eat in this yurta?”
“Aye, and to drink.”
Al-Tâbir made a wry grimace, and Kirdy saw that his broad, pale cheeks were indeed wasted, and his cherished beard, that ran from under his chin to his ears, ill-kept.
“Behold, O youthful Kai Kosru!”
He took up a lacquer bowl and slipped the thong from the vent of one of the great sacks with a skill that hinted at considerable practise.
“Mare's milk, sour and fermented.”
Kirdy gulped down the warm and heady liquid, which he knew was food as well as drink, and Al-Tâbir, after a mournful allusion to the vintages of Shiraz, followed his example.
“It brings oblivion,” he said, with a sigh, “if you drink enough.”
“Where is Nada?” demanded Kirdy, who had no sympathy with oblivion.
“Where? Nay, she is lost; she is no longer at my side. Ai-a, an ocean of the nectar of beauty, a rose-heart—”
“Hast thou seen her—dead?”
Something in the quiet voice of the young warrior made the Persian roll his eyes around, and he noticed that Kirdy gripped the ivory hilt of the curved sword until his arm trembled. Taking this as a warning, the interpreter of dreams hastened to explain.
“Nay, I rode with her to this place. Then she bade farewell, and now the false Shah is at her side.”
“Who?”
Al-Tâbir glanced fleetingly at Kirdy's sword-hand, and struggled inwardly.
“The lord who is called Otri-pief.”
Seated on the rug nearest the fire, moistening his throat ever and anon with the draft that was not a vintage of Shiraz but brought oblivion, the interpreter of dreams told Kirdy all that had passed since they left the Wolky Gorlo.
“Now when I drew my reins from the dogs-without-eyelashes[1] I pressed on swiftly, desiring to come up with the woman who had gone before me. Solitude is evil and solitude upon this northern plain is worse. By favor of the All-Compassionate and by the fleetness of my gray Arab, I did overtake the woman called Nada when she had lost thy trail and was searching hither and yon—”
“She followed me?” asked the Cossack quickly.
“As a brown-winged falcon a hare. But thy trail was no more to be seen. Nada's brow grew dark as a storm-cloud, and she sought until the light also had gone.”
Kirdy groaned and beat clenched fists on his knees. He had suspected that the Nogais might decide to turn back after him, and had been at some pains to hide his tracks in a network of pools that first day.
“Nada was clad as a Kazak youth,” went on the interpreter of dreams with a sympathetic glance at the warrior, “and she was beautiful as a Circassian boy; she also had food, and that yataghan that hung upon the wall of her father's house. She was angry, but she took compassion on me and shared bread and salt. Then she said that since thy trail was lost she would turn to Otri-pief, because it would come to pass that by companying with the Muscovite lord she would see thy face again—”
“Let no more than one lie escape thy lips, Al-Tâbir, and thou shalt taste steel in thy throat.”
“By the beard of Ali, by the Ka'aba, and my father's grave, I swear that these words be truth! Lo, for many days I followed the young woman. Ai-ee, my body ached from the rubbing of the saddle. We went from aul to aul of the plains-dwellers, Nada showing them the picture of the old man and the wolf that hung at her throat.”
Kirdy remembered the ikon painting of Saint Ulass and the wolf that the girl cherished—and the fear the Nogais had of the great wolf pack.
“The plains devils became afraid when they saw the picture—being image woshippers, no doubt. When we reached a broad river they led us to the tents of Otri-pief on the near bank. The Muscovite lord looked twice at Nada, and laughed. It is in my mind that he knew at once she was a woman, for he pulled off her hat, and beheld her hair, like gold. The five companions of the lord who were drinking red wine, raised their cups to her, and asked of me if I had been to Pèristan, that I rode thither with such a fair-faced houri at my side. They did not laugh when Nada spoke to them, naming them fools.”
Al-Tâbir shook his head and sighed, his hand moving out toward the leather cup.
“Otri-pief said, 'Nay, all begotten men are fools, and the wise are they that know it!' Nada looked at him and took back her cap, pointing across the river. She declared to the Muscovites that if they rode to the Golden Horde they would never find the way across the plain; and at the end of the plain they would in any case be slain by the guardians of the Mountains of the Eagles.
“Then the Lord Otri-pief questioned her as to how she knew of such matters. Whereupon Nada swore to him that once when she was a child, she had journeyed with her father as far as the Mountains of the Eagles, and there they had been obliged to turn back by the watchers who dwelt on the way to the city of the Golden Horde.
“The Muscovite lord asked what manner of city this might be, and she laughed at him, saying that a leader of men should not need to ask concerning the end of his road. She said the dwellers in this city had learned the secret of riches and happiness and all delights of existence. Then did Otri-pief swear that she should lead them to the city, and he would turn back for no power of earth, though—so said he—no delight could be imagined greater than the joy her beauty yielded to his eyes.
“And when the cup-companions of this lord saw that he desired the woman above all things, they did not molest her, but entreated her in courteous-wise, and she did in truth beguile them with song and story and quip—with the tricks of her horse, and her merry ways.
“But when Otri-pief would have caressed her, she showed him the sword girdled to her waist and said that if he would take her hand in his he must first overcome her at sword-play, and one or the other might die therefrom. Now the fate of men is in the hand of Allah, and Otri-pief's pride was a great pride. It may be he was tempted to overcome her with his sword, because he fenced with his companions before her eyes. When he did so, she made light of him, saying that not long since she had held fellowship with a warrior who was his master at sword-strokes. And it is in my mind, O White Falcon, that her thought did then dwell upon thee.
“So the pride of Otri-pief was stirred, and he boasted, saying that he would make himself master of the city of the Golden Horde and would rule even as a king. Then he swore he would claim her as his. And to this she made response that if in deed Otripief became king of the city of the Golden Horde, she would be his.
“With that the lord was content, because he ever had a mind to mighty accomplishments, and Nada led him verily across the dry lands toward the place where the sun rises. And to me she said it was a merry hunt—fools pursuing folly, and at the end of the road only God knew what. Yet I believe that she knew.”
The fermented milk and the solace of companionship cheered Al-Tâbir, and he only wished he could make out the thoughts of the brown-faced warrior who sat across the glowing bed of dung.
“How came Otrèpiev to hear of the Golden Horde?” Kirdy asked, rousing from his silence.
The interpreter of dreams ceased to feel warm and comfortable. He rubbed his hands together and spread out lean fingers gracefully.
“I beguiled him with the tale at the sarai of the Muscovites.”
“Thou?” Kirdy looked up in swift surprize that was not reassuring and Al-Tâbir made haste to justify himself.
“Only hear me, prince of swordsmen. Forbear to cast the flame of wrath on the carpet of companionship. When the Muscovites commanded me to tell tales, I obeyed. Why not? It may be that a small matter of a lie or two escaped my tongue. But I told Otri-pief of the Altyn Juz, and it pleased him—”
“What tale was this?”
“The tale of Abou Ishak, of Samarkand, who was a great traveler, almost as great a one as I. Long ago a sultan sent him forth to seek for the Earth Girdle. Surely our wise men have said that the earth is girdled about by mountains—by a great rampart that holds in the water of the seas and the soil of the land. Now, behind this rampart in the west the sun sinks at the end of the day and from the eastern rampart the sun rises at dawn. How could it be otherwise? Nay, do not frown, my Lord. The earth is like a shield and the rampart is like a rope stretched taut about the circuit of the shield. The rampart is called Caf, in my speech, but among the northern folk it is called the Mountain of the Eagles.”
Kirdy thought of the snow range he had seen the previous dawn and held his peace. Al-Tâbir refreshed himself and went on.
“Now this Abou Ishak—a man of some note in his day, and a writer of a book or so, though there was little faith in him—this Abou Ishak cried out with a loud voice that he did find the mountain Caf where the sun rises—a mountain rampart that may not be climbed by men, for near the summits only birds of prey live. And beyond the rampart he heard tell that certain spirits were penned.
“All this did I repeat to Otri-pief. Then he asked of me if it was the Golden Horde that dwelt beyond the rampart—for into Muscovy had come tales of the Golden Horde that wanders near the place where the sun rises.
“Is not wine the better for spice—a tale for a little touch of fancy? I embroidered the garment of truth with the gold thread of imagination. I said it was so—the Golden Horde dwelt in a city beyond the rampart.
“Then surely madness smote this lord of the Muscovites, for he said to his companions that he would some day journey to the Mountain of the Eagles.” The young Cossack stared into the crimson eye of the fire and thought that Otrèpiev was not mad. The false Tsar had foreseen the necessity of flight, and had come to a place where the Muscovites could not reach him with vengeance.
“And yet,” he muttered, “the girl Nada is not a lying Persian. She told Otrèpiev of a city to be found beyond the mountains.”
“Aye,” the Persian smiled, no whit cast down by the Cossack's opinion of his people. “Yet she is a flower, a lily from the garden of paradise. Who would weigh her words for the dross of truth?”
Kirdy wondered if Nada had acutally journeyed with her father to this place before now. A search of his memory revealed that Nada had said in Moscow that she had come from the country of the Golden Horde—certainly she spoke the language of these riders of the steppe.
“Hearken, Al-Tâbir,” he remarked. “One thing is certain, beyond doubt. We are prisoners in the camp of Tevakel, Khan of the Golden Horde.”
The soft mouth of the Persian fell open, and he peered over his shoulders into the shadows of the kibitka.
“All things are possible with Allah,” he murmured, and then, his brown eyes sparkling, “By the breath of Ah, by the everlasting Imamet—what a tale I shall tell in the courtyards of Fars and Ispahan!”
But the Cossack cared not at all for wonders. He wanted to find out where he was, where Otrèpiev and Nada were, and what their plans might be.
What Al-Tâbir had related simmered down to this: the Golden Horde was the race of tribes that wandered on this side the distant range. The mountains themselves might be called anything, and anything might lie beyond them. Nada had led Otrèpiev on with the tale of a city. Where was she now?
“For what reason,” he asked Al-Tâbir abruptly, “didst thou forsake the chambul of Otrèpiev?”
“I?” The interpreter of dreams roused reluctantly from imagination that painted him a greater man than Abou Ishak. “I was frightened. A week ago I had gone apart to look for forage. When I turned back to the camp I saw that a strong band of Turkomans had come up and dismounted.”
“Turkomans? Here?”
“It is true—may Allah requite me if it is not true! I saw even the brands on their horses, their sheepskin hats. They rode off with my companions and I whipped my horse to the north, away from them.”
Only a few years ago Kirdy had been in some bitter fighting against the Turkoman marauders, and he knew that these tribes were justly feared. But their homeland should lie well to the south along the great Syr-Darya.
“Why?” he wondered.
“May they die without offspring! May their bones wither, and their eyes cease to see! The Turkoman dogs be Sunnites—may they bellow in their graves!”
A light dawned on the Cossack, who knew that Sunnite and Shiite—although both zealous Muhammadans—love each other as a wildcat loves a wolf. In the eyes of an orthodox Sunnite, a Persian Shiite is more to be scorned than a giour, an unbeliever.
“Within two days, when I wandered without food these un-eyelashed Tatars rode up and seized me, putting me to many indignities—”
“Enough! Sleep—hold thy tongue!”
Kirdy sprang up and seized his fur mantle. When he strode to the door, Al-Tâbir wailed and scrambled forward to clutch his girdle.
“Nay, what dost thou seek? I tell thee, these Tatars are all sons of devils! They look in and poke at me with spears—Their eyes are like cats'—”
Kirdy thrust him aside and threw back the flap, to listen.
“Hearken, Al-Tâbir,” he said grimly, “dost thou yearn for Turkomans—a whole horde of Turkomans? Then abide with thy milk and prayers. I must go to Tevakel Khan. Dost thou hear the drums? They are horse drums, and the song they sing is of war.”
- ↑ The Nogais.