Wolf of the Steppes Page 2

  Harold Lamb is perhaps the most famous writer of Oriental adventure of the period, with Talbot Mundy a close second. Unlike almost any of his competitors, Lamb was also a serious historian, and he wrote a biography of Genghis Khan along with much other nonfiction.

  For his fiction he plundered the gorgeous East as thoroughly as any of his heroes. One of the most intriguing of those was Khlit the Cossack, a member of the Zaporoghian Siech, the wildest and most daring of the freebooter republics.

  Khlit was something unusual for a pulp hero. For a start, he is old when he first strides onto the stage, already white-haired, though still able to swing the curved saber that gives him one of his nicknames—the other being “The Wolf.” He has little interest in women or plunder and only a moderate one in the corn vodka that was the Cossack's delight. (Their saying was that they would both drink and fight na umor—to the death!). And Lamb's deep knowledge of the place and the period are obvious on every page, though never obtrusive. This is a standard most pulp writers hardly even tried to reach; Khlit and his friends and enemies are genuinely, intriguingly alien to us.

  Another unusual feature of Khlit is that he has a certain sympathy for the Tartars with whom he fights and intrigues; in fact, it turns out that he himself is a descendant of Genghis Khan! His adventures take him from the Siech itself out into the boundless wilderness, the grasslands and deserts and mountains. There he wanders and fights against the assassins of the Old Man of the Mountain, and the wandering tribes, until at last he reaches the Mongol homeland and finds himself a nomad khan of the type he'd spent his youth fighting, struggling against the Chinese empire's attempts to pacify the steppe. Along the way he meets fierce enemies, cunning sorcerers, beautiful women, and the terrible cold of the Dead Lands north of Lop Nor. Not the least of his weapons is the way his enemies underestimate the old Cossack's wits—a fatal lapse, and one they should have avoided by considering how few of his people survived even to middle age.

  The Cossack frontier and the steppe were an inspired choice for an adventure series, and the sixteenth century the perfect period for it. Empires were dying and a-borning, and in that chaos a single man could make his own destiny, carving it out of the wreck with a saber. Christian and Muslim, Buddhist and shaman-ist, hunter and herder, and farmer and city man met and connived and struggled over half a world. Khlit, neither young nor handsome nor particularly charismatic, nonetheless fascinates.

  I personally met Khlit in a used bookstore in, of all places, Nairobi, Kenya, in the 1960s, where a copy of the collection titled The Mighty Manslayer fell into my hands. I've relished each fresh discovery ever since, for this is one of the wells from which writers of adventure and far-off lands with strange-sounding names have been drawing ever since. The collection of Lamb's Khlit stories is a worthy accomplishment and an opportunity for which I envy readers fresh to these wonderful and colorful tales.

  Wolf of the Steppes

  Khlit

  When the noonday sun struck through clouds and fell upon the saber on his knee, Khlit made up his mind it was time to eat. Putting aside the sheepskin rag with which he had been wiping specks of rust from his weapon, Khlit drew from the pocket of his coat several hard barley cakes. These he broke over the silver heel of his boot and munched. Thus did Khlit satisfy his noonday hunger.

  All the forenoon, seated beside one of the streets of the Za-porogian Siech, as the Cossacks of the sixteenth and well into the seventeenth century called their isolated war encampment—an island midway between the Russian and the Tatar banks of the great river Dnieper—Khlit had been polishing his cherished saber, a curved Turkish blade of Damascus forging. That morning, when he had awakened after a night of wine-guzzling, Khlit had heard rumors of war bandied about the kurens, or barracks, and like the scent of game to a wolfhound, the tidings had set the warrior to nursing his sword.

  Peering out under shaggy brows, the keen eyes of the Cossack, which every now and then sought the river, noticed a stirring among the kurens. Knights of the siech were gathering in groups to learn if there was truth in the rumors. As the hammering on blacksmith forges became louder, young Cossacks sprang to horse.

  Khlit sat still, sheepskin hat on the back of his sunburned head, bald save for the long scalp lock that trailed over his shoulders. His gray sheepskin coat was flung back under the rays of a midday sun, a broad leather belt making it fast at the waist. The warrior's costly nankeen breeches of brilliant red were tucked in his heavy boots. A short pipe stuck out from under his long gray mustaches.

  In Khlit's mind the matter was clear enough. He could not understand why comrades bickered and bayed like dogs about war when all the Koshevoi Ataman, their leader, needed to do was to say the word and forth the Zaporogian Siech would fare, thousands in number, the flower of the world's knighthood, ready to take the field against Turk, Tatar, Pole, or other foe of the Orthodox Church.

  Why, wondered Khlit, was there any hesitation, when their godfather, the czar himself, had appointed them watchdogs of the Ukraine and the Russian land? Watchdogs of stout heart and good red blood did not lie in kennels and stuff their carcasses with food. Nor did they wait for an adversary to come to the kennel door and poke a stick at them before they sallied forth. Why then, the Cossack asked himself, did the flower of the Ukraine linger on the island encampment in the middle of the wide Dnieper and waste the strength and sinews of the young men in mimic battles suited to the entertainment of women, not full-grown men?

  In a people where few grow old before cut down by an enemy sword, Khlit had been fortunate to survive many wars. The old knight had marched into Poland and he had laid waste the territory of the khans hundreds of versts away across the Volga. In his cottage in the village of Rusk he kept treasures of these campaigns, weapons wrested from the unbelievers, ransoms gleaned from wealthy Turks, and pillage from sacked towns. But the eyes of Khlit did not turn toward the cottage. They searched the distant banks of the Dnieper where foes might be found. If his thoughts wandered to home, it was to the young Cossacks who were coming to the siech from the village that day, and especially to Menelitza, his foster son who would join him before sundown.

  A shout from a nearby group attracted his attention. Several Cossacks were crouched over dice, and a burly warrior who seemed to have met with bad fortune stood up with a curse. Hesitating a second, he tore off his heavy coat and boots and threw them on the ground. His sword had been claimed by his adversary as payment for all debts, and he signified that he would wager his coat and shoes against the sword, which he was loath to relinquish.

  Those in the ring about them peered at the dice casually as the big Cossack threw, and one clapped him on the back with a loud laugh as the result was known. He had won.

  Next the Cossack wagered his coat and shoes against some gold sequins of his adversary, a thin, hook-nosed warrior with a scarred cheek. He lost.

  Refusing all offers of further wagers, the Cossack thrust his sword in his belt and marched off up the street, swaying a little from the effects of drink. Coming abreast of Khlit he halted irresolutely.

  “A health to you, noble sir,” he muttered, raising a huge hand in drink-solemn greeting. “You are of the Rusk kuren? I know you among many, Khlit, bogatyr. That son of a devil's dog, Taravitch, diced me out of coat and shoes. And with the young Cossack brood coming from Rusk to our kuren tonight.”

  “Have you other boots, or money to buy them? There is talk of war,” said Khlit after a moment's inspection of the other, whose face he now recognized.

  “Hey—money?” The giant shook his head and grinned. “I gave the silver in my heels to the Jews for corn brandy last night. I have not the smell of a sequin.”

  “Then say to the hetman of our kuren,” replied Khlit, “that I bid him give you boots and whatever you may need. There will be war, and the siech will march.”

  “Hey—that is good,” chuckled the Cossack. “I shall swagger before the striplings tonight.”

  “You can thank your sword
for it, offspring of swine,” explained Khlit, “for you would not lose that. A Cossack and his sword are one until death.”

  The giant shook his head, as though he did not grasp this piece of wisdom. Staggering, he went on his way, but no more wine was to pass his bearded lips. The magic word “war” was a talisman that brought the light of anticipation to his bloodshot eyes and purpose to his heavy steps. When the siech went to war no drunkards were tolerated.

  Khlit looked up a second time to find Taravitch, the successful gambler, watching him. Khlit mistrusted Taravitch, for the hooknosed Cossack was a person rare among the folk of the siech, a shrewd getter of money. To the open-handed warriors money was only a means to wine and weapons, to cherish it for itself was a symptom of the malady that afflicted the Jewish camp followers. Taravitch was known to be a winner at dice or other games, a hard bargainer, and a heartless creditor. Many of the Cossacks had been poor and worse than poor for years at a stretch for owing Taravitch money.

  On the other hand Taravitch had no love for Khlit, whose name was coupled with much spoil and riches, and who was forever urging the men of the Ukraine to war, when the camp proved more profitable to Taravitch. If the truth were known, Khlit wasted no words of ceremony in speaking of the gambler, and some of these remarks had come to the ears of the other.

  Several of the Cossacks who had been watching the dice stood beside Taravitch and contemplated Khlit as the latter, his meal ended long since, wiped at his saber with the sheepskin cloth. Finally Taravitch was moved to speak.

  “Hail to you, Khlit,” he said, mouthing his words and watching the other the while. “Do you polish your saber to show the young men who come to the Rusk kuren at sundown today? Or are you ready to give it to a better warrior and return to your cottage with the women?”

  There was a laugh at this from the watchers, but Khlit did not even look up.

  “I have heard,” continued Taravitch, “that the young men from Rusk are not as fine a lot as when we smoked our pipes in the ruins of Anatolian churches. Devil take them! None of the lot will come to camp as we did; like a good knight, with a brave display.”

  As it is the first test of his knighthood, the manner of a stripling's coming to the siech for the first time, when he is of age, is taken as a measure of his bravery. If he comes gaily appareled and well mounted with a crowd of companions and makes his horse go through feats before the hetmans, he is well received. If he enters camp timidly, or shows any fear, he is held in dishonor by the Cossacks.

  “Health to you, Taravitch,” responded Khlit carelessly. “Do you watch when the son of Menelitza, my foster son, comes to the siech. It will be a sight to brighten your heart. He is the offspring of a bogatyr—bred from a stock that excelled in courage all in our Russian land.”

  “Nay, Khlit,” said Taravitch, his eyes narrowing as when he seized an advantage at dice. “The young Cossacks are weaklings. They are schooled in books and weaned by women. There are none in these days to leap their horse over the palisade about the siech, breaking both their necks as Borodagy did once, or to come bearing a whole cask of wine on their shoulder for the Koshevoi Ataman and the hetmans.”

  “We will see, Taravitch,” said Khlit.

  “It will be poor sport,” replied the gambler in scorn. “Perchance your Menelitza will have courage enough to ride a horse and make the beast stand on three legs before us. A woman's feat!”

  “The son of Menelitza,” said Khlit slowly, “will come to the siech as no other before him has come. You will see—”

  “Hey!” Taravitch swung round on the spectators, but his glance still measured the old Cossack. “What nonsense are you mouthing? Do you think we are children, to believe that? Your precious Menelitza will come with a crowd, and none can tell him from the others!”

  “The father of Menelitza ran his horse through a Tatar camp to fetch me from the grasp of the khan,” said Khlit, unmoved, “and Menelitza will show you a feat of daring that will warm the hearts of the old men.”

  “A wager,” cried Taravitch, “that Menelitza, who comes to the siech at sundown, will not surpass all others in a feat of daring! My Arab stallion against a hundred sequins of gold. Ha, old fox, where is your valor?”

  “No man has asked that upon the battlefield, Taravitch,” replied Khlit, “but you shall have your wager. Only it will be a man's wager, not a child's plaything.”

  He paused and looked up calmly at the circle that pressed about them.

  “In my house at Rusk,” he went on, “are fifty goblets of silver and gold taken from the enemies of the siech, Persian carpets several in number, rare swords from Turkey, four horses of the finest blood. Also Polish trophies and gold-chased armor, with a thousand sequins of gold. All this will I wager against your coin of five thousand sequins and your Arab horses. Come now, are you a staunch wold, Taravitch, or a rabbit that dives into his burrow when he sees a man?”

  Taravitch gazed at the Cossack as if fascinated. His eyes narrowed as he wet his lips. The riches Khlit had mentioned, he knew to be in the cottage at Rusk. Also, if Khlit pledged his word before witnesses the promise was good. Yet never had the gambler staked the bulk of his wealth on any one throw. The prospect dazzled him.

  “Menelitza comes today, Khlit?” he asked, weighing his words.

  “He has promised me,” assented the old man.

  “Then it is a wager.” Taravitch turned to the watchers, who gaped at him. “You have heard the terms,” he cried, “and the wager—that Menelitza comes today to the siech as none other has come before him. The wager is offered and accepted.”

  II

  The sun, which had been high, was nearing the Russian bank of the Dnieper when the burly Cossack who had been befriended by old Khlit returned to the spot and found his benefactor seated where he had been before. The bright saber still reflected sun's rays. Khlit glanced up as he approached. The Cossack was again without coat and boots.

  “Devil take you,” Khlit said affectionately. “Can't you keep a coat upon your fat back? But tell me, is there any news of the approach of men from Rusk? It draws near sundown.”

  “Hey, old sword-eater,” growled the Cossack, “I have heard of the wager you made. News of it has got from one end of the camp to the other. The noble knights are all watching to see the result. Nay, I gave your coat and boots away to one who needed them.” “Have the men from Rusk been sighted?”

  “Hey? I don't know. Taravitch was talking about it to the knight who has charge of the ferry and the good man said he'd be flogged with a saber if the Dnieper wasn't rising and jumping about with the wind so much that it were a perilous task to take out the boat from shore. Besides, the oars are lost. So the fine fellow who pilots the boat told me.”

  “Lost!” Khlit's glance flickered over the Cossack. “Devil take the rascal, has he but the one boat? Where are the others?” “Away up the river, Khlit,” responded the big warrior with a hearty laugh at the discomfiture of his friend, “and old Father Dnieper is growling to himself and gnashing his white teeth at the wind. Did Menelitza swear he would be in camp this day?” “He swore it on a holy image, Waggle-Tongue,” Khlit made reply, inspecting his sword. “And Menelitza does not waste his words for love of hearing himself bray. He will come at sundown.” The Cossack gazed at Khlit's shiny black boots admiringly.

  “So you say, Khlit, bogatyr,” he mused, “and the noble sirs maintain that good sharp sword, or well-loaded pistol. Still, how can the son of your comrade arrive here when the ferryman has drunk two dozen glasses of corn brandy with that slimy lizard of a Taravitch, and Father Dnieper is shaking his hair in anger?” “Did Taravitch make the ferryman drunk?” demanded Khlit thoughtfully.

  “Aye, with corn brandy. And the oars are not to be found—” “Did Taravitch hide them?”

  “Hey? Most like. If a warrior will do one mischief he will not hold his hand at two. He has you by the scalp lock, Khlit, and your riches are as good as in his pocket.”

  “It is not su
ndown.”

  “Nay, but the sun kisses his bed behind the mountains. Already the crowd of noble sirs who have gathered in the center of the siech to watch for the fulfillment of your wager say that you have lost. Talk turns to the rumors of a Tatar khan seen near Rusk. Hey, but that is good news.”

  “Then we will hear it,” declared Khlit.

  Sheathing his sword, he tightened his belt and strode along by the giant, his gray eyes almost hidden under shaggy brows, his hands thrust idly in his pockets. As he went, Cossacks turned to look after him, for tidings of the great wager had stirred the interest of the siech. Groups gathered in the center square of the siech made way for him until the pair stood within arm's reach of the Koshevoi Ataman and the hetmans who were discussing the appearance of the Tatars in the Ukraine.

  “The khan has spread his wings near Rusk, Khlit,” said one of the hetmans. “The Tatar dogs took a batko of the Orthodox Church and burned him for the village to see. That was an ill deed. They have also burned our churches. The Zaporogian Siech girds itself for war.”

  Khlit tugged at his mustache with pleasure.

  “That is a good word in my ears, noble sir,” he grinned. “Are all the worthy knights in favor of setting out?”

  “Nay, Khlit,” the hetman shook his shaggy head, “there are many who say the burning of one batko is not enough to make the siech set out. Methinks they are the dogs who like to lie in the sun and scratch. They say the messenger who brought the tidings lies, and that it is a plot of those who want war.”

  “Who is the messenger?” demanded Khlit, frowning.

  “Yon fellow in the big cloak and new boots. He came to the camp in sore plight. He swears the Khan is near Rusk.”