Warriors of the Steppes by Harold Lamb

Author:Harold Lamb [Harold Lamb]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Central, Action & Adventure, Fantasy, Steppes - Asia, Cossacks, Steppes, Asia, General, Science Fiction, Adventure Fiction, Historical Fiction, Central - History - 16th Century, Fiction, Short Stories
ISBN: 9780803280496
Publisher: Bison Books
Published: 2006-06-30T22:00:00+00:00

Save in the wind . . .

The song swelled forth with the full power of the girl's throat. And it seemed to mock the men, as if Yasmi sang with the lilt of laughter. At the same time there was a murmur as if the women were stirring.

“Bismillah!” swore Pir Kasim. “Has the caravaneer taken leave of his wits that he lets Yasmi sing? Mustafa, go you and choke the song in the vixen's throat! Fail not, for there must be silence at the ford.”

The eunuch needed no second bidding. Clutching his dagger, he stole off up to the gully where the women were.

Pir Kasim scowled at Khlit, wondering if the Cossack had had a hand in the girl's singing. Yasmi, he reflected suspiciously, might have intended to warn their pursuers of the ambush.

But Khlit sat passively gazing at his feet and stroking his weapon. Perhaps a trace of a smile twitched at his gray mustache.

Presently Yasmi's voice faltered in the midst of a word. Silence followed, broken by a faint murmur of voices in their rear. Pir Kasim peered across the ford and noted with satisfaction that the three riders were not yet in view.

“Mustafa has stilled the songbird,” he whispered to Nasir Beg, “and doubtless bound and gagged her as she deserved—”

He broke off in sheer surprise. Yasmi had resumed her song at the point where she had ceased. Even louder than before, the girl's voice floated down from the rocks above them.

“By the ninety-nine holy names of Allah!” swore the Arab. “Will you let the wanton betray our abiding place?”

Khlit alone of the men at the ford seemed not surprised at the song of Yasmi. He pulled his sheepskin hat over one ear and glanced up solemnly at the sun.

Pir Kasim fidgeted in an agony of impatience. Their enemies, he knew, might even then be within hearing.

Yasmi must be silenced. He looked once more across the ford, and at Khlit basking his tall frame in the sun; then he stole off to the rear toward the women.

Nasir Beg looked after him, scowling. What had become of Mustafa and the guard, that they let Yasmi sing? He did not understand.

There was something uncanny in the note of the song. And Yasmi—“The Muslim girl is an evil enchantress,” he growled to Khlit. “Bismillah! She has laid a spell with her song on the caravaneer and Mustafa.”

Khlit responded quietly, leaning closer to the Arab.

“Aye, a spell, Nasir Beg. A spell of steel and powder. Yasmi has one of my brace of Turkish pistols. The mate to the weapon is in the hand of a Hindu woman—the same Mustafa struck in the ford.”

“Ha!”

Nasir Beg looked up keenly and rose to his feet.

“A potent spell, Nasir Beg. Doubtless it has rendered the car-avaneer and the dog of a eunuch powerless, each in turn, while the women bound them. And—doubtless—Pir Kasim has come under the spell. Did not Yasmi sing that he might hear?”

The two caravaneers gaped. Nasir Beg fingered his weapon. Khlit had neither moved nor looked at him.

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