Swords From the East (6 page)

"Ohai, Yulga, daughter of Ostrim," he hailed her, slowing his pony at once in an effort to appear unconcerned, "was the Devil firing off his popgun down here, or did a boulder crash from the cliff? I heard-"

"A splendid protector, you," the girl mocked him, unstringing her bow.

The sight of the hunter had relieved her fear, and now she teased him.

"You come nimbly after the fight is finished, like a jackal instead of a wolf. Our heads might have been hanging to the saddle-peak of the robber band who just passed this way, for all the aid we had from you!"

Aruk grew red and muttered beneath his breath. Under Yulga's laughter the hunter always waxed clumsy as a bear cub. He despaired of ever gathering together the horses and furs necessary to buy Yulga for his wife from the old Ostrim. In like degree he had small hope that the fair child of the falconer would ever look upon him and smile without mockery.

"Perhaps," pursued Yulga, tossing her long black hair back from her eyes, "it is because you are so tiny that you dare sit up yonder to watch the pass. You think that anybody will take you for a ferret, or a fox looking out of its hole-"

"Peace little woodpecker," growled the hunter.

His lined cheeks grew red, for he was acutely conscious of his small figure. Although no man might belie Aruk's boldness, or hope to outdo his ready tongue, he was at a loss for words before Yulga.

"Did the Frank draw sword on Ostrim?" he demanded. "I will let the life out of him for that-"

"Ohai!"

Yulga threw back her head and laughed delightedly.

"The big Frank would swallow you, pony and arrows, and only swear that his gullet tickled him," she cried. "Nay, the robbers were black-boned Mongols with faces like dogs. Here they are-"

They had come to a clearing where a thatched hut stood among the larches. At the door sat a white-haired Tatar, a small bouragut perched on his shoulder. On the rooftree of the dwelling a hawk screamed gutturally, flapping its wings so that the bells on its throat jangled.

On the grass of the clearing lay five bodies, distorted and sprawling. Aruk went from one to another, turning them over with his foot.

"Dead," he commented. "Hai-here is that dog-brother who led the Frank. Well, the evil spirits from below will be the gainer by a dung picker. No one need kill a horse for him to ride in the other world. He turned his back to the scimitar, it is clear. Hum-this black beetle was shot in the face."

"By the servant of the Frank."

Ostrim lifted his venerable head and spoke quietly.

"The robbers were four. They sought to pick my poor hearth. As they came up the party of the Frank rode into the clearing. So the black-souled ones scented gold and attacked with their swords, slaying the follower and striking down the old servant who had no more strength than a sick woman."

"And the Frank-he let out the lives of three?"

"With the point of his sword that is long as a spear. He warded their cuts and thrust, once each time. The Frank wiped his sword in the grass and picked up the servant, who was cut in the belly, and rode off, saying that he sought a hut for the sick man and a doctor to close up his wound."

"He is an old buck, that one," admitted Aruk grimly. "He has a horned soul in him. Three dead with three thrusts! I could do no more with my arrows."

"Aye," responded Yulga, hanging up her bow; "you might do that, Aruk, among the suckling litter of boars up in the larches-if the old sow were away."

"By the mane of my sire!"

Aruk bared his white teeth. He caught the girl by the luxuriant coils of hair that hung down her breast. Her round face he held close to his, while his anger melted.

"Ho, I will bind your tongue for you yet. Now bring me kumiss to drink, for I ride to Koh with news. This dawn there were beneficent omens in the pass."

Curiously enough, his sudden act quieted the girl, who looked at him long and withdrew for the mare's milk he sought.

Aruk emptied the bowl Yulga brought him at a gulp and wiped his mustaches.

"Ho, it would have been better for the tall warrior if he had left his body and that of his servant in your keeping. The baksa will make short work of him in Kobdo. They like not these Krits who come from the other end of the earth and oppose the baksa."

"The other Krit was a holy man."

A light came into the mild eyes of the Christian falconer.

"He was an envoy from God. And this one is like him, in face."

"The other had dove's eyes; this one is a falcon," Aruk retorted.

Aruk jumped into his saddle, pretending not to look at Yulga.

"He has a horned soul in him. Tfu! The killing of him would be worth seeing."

Chapter II

The Candles on the Altar

The man called Hugo did not ride far with his wounded servant. The shattered body he supported easily in his arms, for he had a strength that matched his great stature. The bay horse bore them both easily.

But the life of the old servant was flickering out. Too many times had Hugo witnessed this passing of nature on the battlefield to mistake it now. So he turned the bay aside from the road into a faint path that ran among the pines.

It brought him to a hut of logs. Hugo carried the servant to the door, kicking it open with his heavy boot. As the windows were only slits in the logs, Hugo could make out the interior of the cabin only vaguely. Noticing that it was empty, he laid the old man on what appeared to be a long bench and covered his limbs with his own cloak.

He went out and presently returned with his leather cap full of fresh, cold water, taken from a nearby stream.

"A sorry bed, Pierre," he observed in French, "and a poor drink to speed you on your way. Now a goblet of good Burgundy-"

"Ah, monsieur le comte, no."

Pierre lifted his thin head wistfully.

"If there were but a priest in this wilderness! Or-or a holy spot where the sign of the cross is to be seen."

Hugo Arnauld, Count of Hainault, castellan of Grav, once captain of musketeers at the court of Paris, then colonel in the border armies of the King of France-the man who now called himself Hugo-tugged at the small tuft of his beard and raised one shaggy eyebrow without answering.

Having no good to say of priests or the houses of priests, he held his peace before the dying man. Seldom indeed had he failed to speak boldly to priest or minister, wherefore was he now an exile from France, publicly proclaimed an intriguer.

It did not make much difference to Hugo. It rather amused him that the worthy ministers should now be hoarding the revenues from Hainault which he had squandered so royally when he was young. Doubtless, he reflected, the very intelligent courtesans who were great ladies were drawing their tithes from the ministers.

"Ali, monsieur," breathed Pierre again, his thought returning with the habit of a lifetime to his master, "there will now be no one to-to brush your cloaks, to set out your linen and clean your swords."

Hugo laughed. Facing the gleam of sunlight in the door, now that his hunting-cap was off, gray was to be seen in his black hair. His dark countenance, on which the skin stretched taut over the bones, bore the stamp of pride; his wide mouth under the trim mustache was hard, his long chin stubborn. Women in other days had looked twice at the man who was Count of Hainault.

"One forgets, my Pierre," he remarked gruffly, "that here there exists no need to wear fresh linen or draped cloak over a scabbard. Judging by the manners of the habitants, we have arrived at last in the land of Gog and Magog, so inscribed in the charts of the geographers. My faith, the end of the world-Tartaria. I have made good my promise."

Pierre coughed and lay back weakly. Monsieur le comte had always been such a stickler for the niceties of dress. Even now, with the habit of a soldier, his coat and shirt were clean. The promises of monsieur le comte were always kept.

It had been at Zbaraj. They had wandered, exiled, from France to the court of the Commonwealth of Poland. Here honest Pierre had taken heart again, seeing cathedrals and the retinue of great nobles. But his master had declared that the nobles reeked of fish, and the mead soiled his mouth after the red wine of Burgundy.

So, hearing that the Cossacks and Crimea Tatars were making war on Prince Yeremi, the champion of the Commonwealth, on the southern marches of Poland, they had enlisted under the banner of the prince, had marched for years through blazing forests and over the steppe that was like a sea of grass.

When Zbaraj, the stronghold of the Poles, had been besieged, Hainault, as castellan, had been called the lion of Zbaraj. Pierre remembered that one night when they had been eating horseflesh, the warrior-priest, Yaskolski, had made the round of the walls in the procession of the holy sacrament.

Candles borne before the tall figure of the priest had shone upon gilded monstrance and swinging censers, even while cannonballs plunged through the air overhead.

Pierre had fallen to his knees as the procession passed, and bared his head. Hugo, the doubter, rose from his seat in a trench, but kept his steel cap in place. Yaskolski had looked at him just as a flight of balls drove overhead with the scream of a thousand hawks.

"Those cannoneers should be herding cattle," the burly priest had said to Hugo. "They cannot aim."

Hugo had looked after the calm figure of the priest curiously.

"That priest is a man: He has smelled powder before."

When the war was over Hugo had waxed restless, as always. He had been offered a county by Yeremi himself, with an income sufficient to support a noble of his rank, if he would swear allegiance to the Diet.

"Be under the orders of swine who stink of ale? Pfagh!"

In view of his services, Hugo's insolence was overlooked, but thereafter he drank alone in Zbaraj, until Pierre brought to his chamber the warrior-priest, Yaskolski, who offered the exile the colonelcy of a regiment of armored cavalry.

Hugo had hesitated. He respected Yaskolski. Unfortunately, he had been in his cups.

"So, you would buy a man's sword-the sword of a Hainault. Well, you are another breed from the shaven polls who prune their souls and nourish their bellies with tithes from the peasantry. But-death of my life-I will not do business with you."

Then he smiled.

"Your words, Sir Monk, are an echo of my brother, who is likewise a priest. Doubtless he is still praying for my soul. I have not seen him for a dozen years. They tell me he has gone, probably with others of his cloth, to the particular demesne of the Devil on earth. That is Tartary. Well, I have a whim to go and see how Paul and his brethren relish the Devil's demesne."

These words had been like wine to the faithful Pierre, who had yearned for a sight of the young son of Hugo's brother. Paul had promised Pierre that he and Hugo would yet sleep in the same bed. And Hugo's cynicism hid anxiety for the welfare of the priest, Paul.

Yaskolski raised his great hands.

"What, Sir Count? In Tartary are hordes of savages, and werewolves. That is a land beyond the domain of God. No man would go there, for he would be skinned alive and roasted by pagans."

"Permit me to correct you. I would go there. These burghers and butchers are but tedious society. The domain of the Devil would at least be entertaining."

In these words, Pierre knew, monsieur le comte had declined a colonelcy to go to search for his brother. And from place to place as far as the Urkhogaitu they had had news of Paul, for few Franks passed over the caravan route that led from Moscow to Tartary.

Pierre came out of his stupor with a rattle in his throat. He caught his master's hand.

"You will be-alone, monsieur le comte," he whispered. "There will be no one to laugh at your jests. If Monsieur Paul, your brother, had not left you-"

"The conversation of Monsieur Paul ceased to interest me years ago. These savages are, at the worst, originals. I learned somewhat of their speech in the Polish campaigns, and more from the dog who led us on our way."

On their way hither! Pierre groaned at memory of the endless steppe where wild Cossack bands attacked them, cutting down the rest of their followers, of the gaunt mountains that led to a desert of sand and clay, and then the snow of the Altai. All at once his eyes started, and he pointed toward the interior of the hut.

"A cross! I see the cross of the Redeemer hanging on yonder wall."

He closed his eyes and clasped his frail hands.

"Monsieur-a holy spot to which we-have come."

As his master continued to stare idly at the sunlight in the door at Pierre's back, a sudden anxiety clouded the pallid face of the old servant.

"Look, monsieur, and tell me if it is not true-what I see. There, in the shadows, over your shoulder. It is so dark I did not see the blessed cross before. And, look, Monsieur Hugo, there is the figure of the Mother of Christ and the silver candlesticks-on the altar. See-"

The count turned his head casually. He felt that the fever-ridden old man must be the victim of a hallucination.

And actually his eyes, dimmed by the sunlight at which he had been staring, saw nothing in the shadows.

"There is-"

He was on the point of saying there was nothing to be seen. But the cold hand of the dying man was on his wrist. Again Hugo shrugged and made up his mind anew.

"There is the cross indeed," he responded. "And the altar, as you have said."

So Hugo, to his own mind, deceived Pierre. It would make the dying man rest easier.

"Ah, monsieur, you have never lied," the servant muttered. "Now I can believe the miracle."

He began a litany under his breath. When his voice ceased his lips moved. Presently Hugo glanced at him, reached over, and closed the eyes of the dead man. He freed his wrist from the grip of the clay that had been Pierre.

After drawing the cloak over the other's face he rose to seek some tool with which to dig a grave. A gleam of metal came from the interior of the cabin, and he strode toward it. He saw for the first time two silver candlesticks standing on a rude altar of wood.

"Peste!" was his thought. "Pierre has cast a spell over me, that is all."