Riders of the Steppes Read online

  Sayanski went white, and felt with one hand along the mantel against which he stood. I saw a long pistol gleam in the firelight, and cried a warning to Ayub.

  "'Ware of Sayanski!"

  To this day I know not if it was an accident or not, but the flying tip of Ayub's blade caught the face of the landowner, under the nose. Say-anski cried out and dropped the pistol. Most of his upper lip and some of his teeth had been cut out by the sweep of the heavy blade. Pressing both hands to his mouth, he commenced to walk up and down, staggering against the chairs.

  Varslan was not a coward. His mouth set and his eyes gleamed under beads of sweat. He was a match for Ayub in skill, but he had seen the Cossack's sword slice through flesh and bone and gristle as if through the tallow of a candle, and he gave ground continually, biding his time to strike inside the swinging blade of Ayub.

  It so happened that he backed against the hearth, and felt the pistol strike against his foot. After a swift thrust, he reached down with his left hand and raised the weapon. His hand held it out in front of him for the time that a man could count five slowly. Then Varslan's body toppled over on the hearth.

  His head had been slashed from his shoulders.

  In our village of Rusk the good people tell wayfarers of the bewitched sword of Ayub, and how the servants of Sayanski, coming up from church after the midnight mass, found two men dead in the dining chamber, one with his body cut in twain, the other with no head to his body, and Say-anski voiceless.

  Surely, our people will say, the sword was enchanted that did this. And they look at me askance, sometimes, because I ride the pony of Ayub— the one he had used for a pack animal—that the Cossack gave me when he rode away to the wars that same night.

  Sayanski himself never uttered a word concerning what happened at the manor house, because he left Rusk to live in Moscow—going off in a closed carriage. And it is true that our village is the gainer by his leaving.

  Only once did my uncle speak of the sword. This was one noon, when we were sitting on the stools that had been Ayub's and Ima's, in the days when the Cossack was one of us and the girl had brought us all a bite at midday.

  "Gregory," he said, "the sword that Sayanski gave to Ayub was not bewitched. But it was accursed of an evil mind. The stem of the blade, the part that fitted into the long hilt, had been filed almost through where the flaw could not be seen. A blow would have broken it off."

  I thought of the dismay of the three men who had watched the fight in the manor house, when Varslan's first stroke failed to take effect: yet I thought, too, of the great cuts that had killed two of the men.

  "The ways of Providence are past finding out," my uncle went on meditatively. "Ayub was angered, and he was one of the strongest of men. As for the weapon he used—he suspected that the sword given him was not right, and brought it to me the night before the fight. I discovered the flaw, and fitted a new blade upon the old hilt—a blade tempered and edged to the taste of a Christian warrior."

  The Baiting of the Warriors

  Ayub was angered. Aye, though at his side hung a sword made for him by the master smith at Rusk, and between his knees was the black stallion that had not its match on the frontier—two things to make a Cossack well content with life in the troublous years of the seventeenth century of Our Lord.

  Even though it was a fair, fresh morning on the great steppe, Ayub's brow was dark. His horse, moving smoothly in a long stride, was following the faint path that ran north along the river Dnieper. The ends of the high grass on either side the trail flicked against the body of the Cossack, bare to the waist.

  On his right hand glinted the surface of the river—Father Dnieper, the Cossacks called it—the river that was the frontier of the Ukraine. Across the Dnieper were the tribes of Asia, the nomads, and especially the Tatars, the hereditary foes of the Cossacks.

  But Ayub rode without thought for Tatars that might have crossed the river, and had no joy of the ride that, on another day, would have set the blood leaping in the veins of a warrior. He was disgusted because he had no comrade at his side. His kuren—his company of Cossacks—had gone from the war encampment of the Zaporogian1 Siech, leaving him behind.

  Worse, his comrades had departed three days ago in quest of Gerai Khan, a noted Tatar raider on the far side of the Dnieper. Gerai Khan had been plundering the settlements north of the war encampment, letting loose the red cock-fire—and the devil generally whenever he struck a Christian hamlet.

  Worse still, Ayub alone had been left behind, for a good reason. He was suffering from chills and fever, and his captain had pointed out that if Ayub should go with the company, the Tatars would hear him at night a day's ride away. His teeth were chattering like the silver heels of the warriors beating out the hopak and trepak of the dance.

  So his captain advised him to mount his horse and ride as if a vampire were sitting behind him, until he was exhausted and sweated out. Then he should open a vein in his horse, drink some blood, and sleep until the attack had passed.

  "We also ride north, on the far bank," the veteran Zaporogian had added thoughtfully. "So do you gather up a hundred ponies from the settlements. Await us at the hamlet of Nitek. We'll cross over there, and change to the fresh ponies, for Satan himself couldn't catch Gerai Khan on a tired horse. You must not fail us with the fresh ponies. If you do," he had promised grimly, "we'll put a bit between your teeth and issue you rations of hay!"

  Hay! To him, Ayub, who had a bear's strength in his arm, and could break the sword of any warrior in the kuren with a stroke of his heavy blade! Ayub was angered.

  Doubly so because he had failed to get a single pony from the villages behind him. The brief harvest season of the Ukraine was ending and with it the favorite time for Tatars to raid across the river was passing. The settlers were thrifty folk, almost as suspicious of the Cossacks as they were of the dreaded Tatar tribesmen; they did not want to lend any horses to be ridden on a wild goose chase on the Asian side of the river and on one pretext or another they put Ayub off.

  Ayub's broad head, shaven except for the scalp lock that whipped behind him in the wind, had room only for one idea at a time. His comrades would need fresh horses to run Gerai Khan to earth. Only a single village remained to be visited, but this was Nitek itself, the largest on the southern Dnieper, and the richest.

  At Nitek Ayub must get all of his hundred ponies.

  Then, from a clump of willows by the river's edge, a horseman appeared, holding up his hand as a warning to Ayub to stop.

  A glance showed Ayub that the newcomer was a young Cossack, but not one of his comrades, the Zaporogians. Indeed the stranger resembled no Cossack that Ayub had seen on the Dnieper. The high kalpak, the hat of the Cossack warriors, was white ermine; his black scalp lock hung down on the shoulders of a shirt of fine Turkish mail.

  Like Ayub, he carried no weapon except a sword—a long scimitar girdled high on his left side.

  "Stop," he said, as Ayub drove past.

  "Can't stop, comrade—can't possibly do it!" bellowed the Zaporogian. "If I draw rein now I'll be standing before Saint Peter at the heavenly gates in a flash. U-ha-Hai-ah! Speed, you son of perdition!"—this last to the flying stallion.

  The stranger, evidently unversed in the method that Ayub was using to cure chills and fever, cast a searching glance at the high grass from which the black horse had emerged. Seeing no signs of immediate pursuit, he spurred after Ayub.

  It was no easy matter to overtake the stallion, but the stranger's pony, a sturdy sorrel, was fresh. After a few moments Ayub heard the thudding of hoofs close behind, and a quiet voice observed in his ear.

  "Have the Tatars taken away your clothes and beaten you with their slippers that you sweat in fear of them?"

  Now matters had gone wrong with Ayub for two days, and his mood was black indeed. He had not stopped because he did not wish to contract another chill before he could lie down for his long sleep at the end of the ride. The stranger's remark would make any Z
aporogian crawl out of an open grave.

  Ayub threw all his weight on the reins, gripped the stallion with his knees, and jerked to a halt. Dismounting, he faced the other Cossack who had slipped from the saddle of the galloping sorrel.

  "I'll hew off your head, mud-puppy," Ayub growled, "for that benediction. Draw your pagan scimitar and dress your Moslem shield. So—"

  The long saber slithered out of its scabbard, but before Ayub struck the young Cossack tossed aside the round, bull's hide target that he carried. His scimitar flashed out, clanged against Ayub's heavy blade. Then the stranger bent his knees swiftly.

  Had he not done so his skull would have been shattered by the second stroke of the long saber. As it was, his tall ermine cap flew from his head, cut half through. His eyes narrowed and he shifted ground as Ayub rushed.

  The steel blades grated together, parted, and swung about the bare heads of the two swordsmen. They glittered in the sun, quivering when they struck like the heads of angered snakes.

  Try as he would, Ayub could gain no other opening for a cut. The slender scimitar clung to his blade near the hilt, and never released touch. The stranger, too, stood close in, smiling a little.

  Fever flared up in Ayub's veins and he lashed out with all the strength of his massive shoulders. But the scimitar met his blade at a tangent and turned it off. Before he could recover the stranger struck in—with the hilt of his weapon. Three tiny red marks appeared on the Zaporogian's broad chest where the jewels of the inlaid pommel had pierced his skin.

  With a bellow of rage, Ayub rushed in again, hewing and cutting until all power left his weakened frame. Then he stood swaying on his feet, sweat streaming down into his eyes, helpless.

  The stranger, breathing a little quickly, flourished the scimitar in a brief salute and sheathed it.

  "Hide of the-!" panted Ayub. "What man are you?"

  "Demid."

  "Where from? What doing, you young jackal?"

  "The Don," answered Demid laconically. "On watch."

  Ayub sheathed his saber with some difficulty and wiped his brow. He was an experienced swordsman, one of the best in the siech, the war encampment of the Dnieper Cossacks. He was ill, of course, and weak, but he knew that the younger warrior was more than his match.

  "Come along with me, Demid, to Nitek. I'm Ayub, from the siech, a hundred versts below here. In my time I've smoked my pipe in the mosques across the Black Sea where the Turks are thicker than ants on a dunghill; I've dressed the holy images in our church of the siech in silk and cloth-of-gold garments taken from the palaces of Constantinople. I've stolen horses from the tribal herd of Gerai Khan himself, the steppe fox across the Dnieper.-take me if I haven't!"

  Here Ayub flung back his shoulders with something of his natural swagger. The clear, gray eyes of the young Cossack glowed, as if from an inward fire, at this recital. Although more slender, he was nearly as tall as Ayub who topped six feet six. His skin was dark as saddle leather, and a black beard was curling on his long chin. Now that his hat was gone—Ayub watched him kick the ruined kalpak aside as he picked up his shield— his shaven skull gleamed, save where the scalp lock fell, like a plume, from the ridge of his head.

  "A swordsman!" Ayub muttered to himself. "Good spread of shoulders. Fire in his heart, I'll warrant. And yet—"

  He turned toward his horse.

  "So you're a village dog, Demid!"

  The young Cossack whirled, his lips drawing back from his teeth. But Ayub was tightening the girth on the black stallion. After all, Demid was, in the eyes of the free Cossacks of the siech, a village dog. At least he was enlisted in the Watch and Post Service.

  This was a river patrol, formed by the boyars, the nobles who owned most of the land in the villages along the Dnieper. Cossacks who had not yet joined the siech or who had been rejected by the veteran warriors of the war encampment were hired to watch the river. Especially during the harvest season when Tatars frequently raided across.

  Ayub could not understand why Demid was a village dog. The stranger was from the river Don, where the Cossacks were wild folk living hard lives in the forests beyond the frontier. They were kin to the Gypsies and Tatars; it was said that the blood of princes ran in their veins. Certainly Demid, in wandering to the Dnieper, seemed to have gathered unto himself rare spoil from the tribes—a good sword, and Turkish mail.

  "Have you heard the name of Gerai Khan?" Ayub asked thoughtfully.

  "Aye, he vowed to give me a pair of red boots."

  "Why?"

  Demid, who never used two words when one would do, or spoke at all when a sign would answer, pointed to his trophies, the scimitar and shield.

  "His brother's."

  Ayub pulled at his mustache and grunted with pleasure. To be given a pair of red boots by the Tatars meant that a Christian prisoner would have the soles of his feet cut off. Then he would be left to walk home, dying, in all odds, on the way. The threat showed that Demid was feared by the tribesmen.

  "Look here, Demid. Why do you squat here like an old woman making barley cakes? I'll take you to my comrades, and we'll make you a free knight of the siech."

  Again the eyes of the youth flashed. But, after a moment's thought, he shook his head.

  "Well then," the Zaporogian growled, "come with me to Nitek. When I've sweated out this demon of sickness and slept it off, I'll cross swords with you again. By the Father and Son—I can't let a village dog overmaster me with a sword!"

  Enlightenment came to Demid. He knew now the reason for Ayub's haste—his shaking hands and flushed face.

  "Sleep here," he advised briefly, indicating the deerskin coat strapped to his saddle. "This will cover you."

  Ayub explained that it was necessary for him to go to the village to requisition a hundred ponies, to be held in readiness, as remounts for his company which had gone across the border.

  Leaning against his horse, Demid took out a long clay pipe and a pouch of Turkish tobacco. Then he produced flint and steel and tinder. Striking a spark, he ignited the tinder in the tobacco.

  "Nitek won't give you any horses, Ayub."

  "How—not give me any."

  Between puffs of smoke, Demid explained.

  "Last month some Cossack bandits stripped a traders' caravan near Nitek—nailed a sow's ear on the trader's skull—made off with a lot of goods convoyed to Nitek—and the villagers have sworn vengeance against Cossacks—warm your hide for you, if you go."

  Nothing that Demid could have said would have made Ayub climb into his saddle and start off to Nitek as swiftly as this.

  Demid, smiling a little at the haste of the Zaporogian, spurred the sorrel pony after him. The two riders disappeared into the tall grass, leaving a broad swathe behind them.

  For a moment the level sea of green and gold—the breast of the vast steppe afire with the glory of Midsummer—was without sign of life, although life was never absent from it. A marmot raced out of the path of a wandering boar; the clamor of swans rose from the reeds of the river. Overhead, almost motionless, hovered a trio of hawks.

  Death, too, was present.

  From the thicket that Demid had left emerged a head, round and black and expressionless. Out trotted a small, shaggy pony, its squat rider stooping below the crests of the high grass until he came to where the two Cossacks had fought. In one hand he gripped a bow, ready strung. Another was slung over his deerskin tunic.

  The restless eyes of the Tatar scanned the tracks in the soft earth-sighted the ruined kalpak. Bending down, he picked it up. His thin lips drew back from his pointed teeth, and he grunted as if pleased at his find.

  Then, silently as he had come, he trotted back into the willows, down by the river. Again the clamor of waterfowl broke out.

  The hawks circled lower.

  Nitek was a village of some five hundred souls, serfs and freemen. The serfs and the land of the village were all the property of one boyar—one person of gentle blood who had come out with gold from Moscow not three Summers
ago. The fertile soil had yielded fine crops, ripening and falling to the reaper's hook almost in a day, so swiftly did the Summer pass on the steppe.

  That day was the first of a week's feasting. The harvest was in. The grain was in the ricks; tall stacks of hay stood up from the bare fields around the hamlet like watchtowers.

  Although the sun was not yet high, the peasants were gathering in the square in front of the church and tavern. Wandering hucksters had set up stalls under the platform whereon stood the wooden stocks that served as a gaol. A troupe of ragged Gypsies had quartered their wagon on the river trail that led to the bank of the Dnieper, some two miles away.

  On the bench in front of the tavern a captain of German musketeers caressed the first tankard of the day. From within the dram-shop came a preliminary thrumming of a balalaika.

  The village priest, warming himself in the sun, was reflecting pleasantly that his prayers had averted raids of the tribesmen for three seasons. While the peasants had been scattered through the fields, then had been the danger time. Now they were all within the mud wall of the hamlet, and the priest crossed himself in sudden alarm.

  With a shout Ayub and Demid leaped their horses over the low wall and reined them in, in the square. Sight of the sweat-darkened horses and the naked giant from the war encampment sent an impulse of alarm through all the watchers. The Gypsies, swift to scent danger, came scampering in.

  But the tidings that Ayub was after horses for the Zaporogians and had seen no Tatars sent the villagers about their affairs, very briskly, in fact. The village assessor explained to the Cossack that most of their horses had been selected for sale. Anyway, they had few, very few—barely two hundred.

  "Five hundred, you liar," growled Ayub, pointing out at the pastures.

  "Not at all, good sir. And see how lean they are!"

  "Fat as squirrels in Autumn, you son of a pig. Where is this boyar of yours?"

  He was fast losing patience. Instead of the noble, the mayor of Nitek emerged from the tavern—a red-faced Russian in a soiled neck-cloth. He stared at Demid, frowned at Ayub and fingered his belt, pursing his lips.