Riders of the Steppes by Harold Lamb

Author:Harold Lamb [Harold Lamb]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Central, Action & Adventure, Fantasy, Steppes - Asia, Cossacks, Steppes, Asia, General, Adventure Fiction, Historical Fiction, Central - History - 16th Century, Fiction, Short Stories, Historical
ISBN: 9780803280502
Publisher: Bison Books
Published: 2007-05-31T22:00:00+00:00

III

Distance tries the horse’s strength—Time the strength of man.

Kirghiz proverb

The cry echoed in Ayub's ears until he roused himself, certain that Tatars were rushing on him. Instead, he beheld Kirdy squatting beside him, the rein of a piebald pony over his arm. It was the hour before dawn and the whole eastern sky was alight. "The Tatars—"

"I am the Tatar. It was the only way to wake you, Uncle Ayub. I tried everything. Now you must listen to me because I have far to ride."

The high grass, waving under the fresh breeze that comes with sunrise, hemmed them in. The young minstrel's face was flushed, and his coat and kalpak glistened with dew. Ayub saw that his eyes were coal black and slanted at the corners—the eyes of a man with Mongol blood in him.

Another thing he noticed was that the glow in the sky flickered, and shot up as if the reeds by the river were afire.

"Did you sing the prince to sleep?" he yawned.

"Vladimir did not sleep last night. The Tatars came."

Ayub's jaws clicked together, and his drowsiness vanished. "-burn

this Muscovite drink! Then there was a fight—"

"Nay, there was only a little fight."

Getting up to his knees Ayub beheld dark clouds of smoke rising over the trees where the hamlet of Sirog was—or had been. The glare of flames beat into his eyes, and he heard now a far-off crackling that he had taken to be the wind in the reeds.

"We were near the river gate of the castle," went on the minstrel, "when a chambul of Tatars swept on us. They speared the boyar and three men, but Durak broke through with his ax and gained the gate. We heard other Tatars at work in the village—"

"And you—what were you doing?" growled the warrior.

Kirdy smiled and shook his dark head.

"I tried to carry off the maiden, when the Muscovites were cut down. What availed it? A lance raked my ribs and my sword blade snapped. They bore her off and I ran to seek my horse."

His green sharivar were stained with blood, but Ayub drew a long breath when he looked at the boy's side. A leather scabbard had been thrust through the black sash, a scabbard stamped with strange lettering and strengthened with bronze. From it projected a hilt, not of horn or of iron, but ivory inlaid with gold. It curved, Moslem-fashion. Such a weapon might be worn by the khan of the Golden Horde.1

Without a word the Cossack reached out and drew the sword from the scabbard. The blade was whole—an arc of blue steel, unstained and sharpened to a razor edge. The flicker of the distant flames ran along its length, illumining a line of writing, worked in gold. This writing was not Turkish, nor was it any Christian tongue.

Ayub thought that it was an uncommon youth who could take his horse from the stables and ride out of a Tatar raid.

"Your sword was—broken," he said slowly.

"This—" Kirdy hesitated a little—"was given me."

"Hmm. Who was the Tatar?"

"Gerai Khan, of the Nogais, made the raid.

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