The Grand Cham (Lamb, Adventure magazine)/Chapter 9

HERE is a subtle intoxicant of fear in the hurry of many persons to be the first to reach a point of safety. The trot of the horses broke at times into a gallop. Some of the stores fell from the packs. Soranzi alternately cried upon God to witness the loss of valuable goods and prayed for greater haste.

The sun was obscured, a thin mist veiled the pine-thickets and the stretches of sandy ground on either hand. The heat wilted their strength. Rudolfo turned many times, apparently thinking to throw pursuers off their track, but the track of a score of horses could not be concealed, Michael knew.

As evening closed in they were threading through gorges that hastened the coming of darkness. Often they looked back in the failing light. No one desired to be last. And then Rudolfo, in the lead, halted abruptly.

Before them in the twilight stood a great mound of human skulls.

“’Tis the Sign o' the Skull,” muttered Bembo, “where we will sleep the night.” The jester voiced the fear that had come upon the party with the evening. Clavijo had ordered a huge fire to be lighted near the mound of human bones, and the ruddy glare of the flames shone upon a hundred grinning masks that had been men. Nor was it any chance collection of skeletons piled together on a battle-field. The pyramid of skulls was regular in shape and no body-bones were visible.

The lighting of the fire brought night upon them with a rush, down the black bulk of the mountain-slopes and the mouths of the rock gullies that opened into the gorge on either side. Instinctively the men kept close to the blaze and they ate little dinner although they had fasted since morning. Michael sat apart under guard of a sentry and without food. By Rudolfo's orders he had been bound hand and foot and only the unexpected sight of the monument of skulls had delayed the torture that was preparing at Gian's hands.

Sight of the pyramid told Michael something unknown to the others and only guessed by Rudolfo. The condottiere had lost his way.

During the panicky run of the afternoon when the sun was invisible behind clouds, Rudolfo unwittingly had doubled again on his course. Whereas Clavijo had started them north that morning; since then they had been circling blindly to the south and east.

And they had penetrated to the terra incognita—the gateway of the unknown land about which Clavijo had babbled. And to the place that Michael had known as the Gate of Shadows, where the five Christians had been buried.

It was a rare jest, thought Michael. Rudolfo was entering the place he had tried to shun, whither Michael had intended to lead him—and Clavijo, the liar, had beheld reality.

He heard a footfall behind him in the gloom and turned his head cautiously, for it was not the sentry's step. The soldier had moved off a score of paces toward the fire and stood leaning on a spear, his back toward Michael.

A foot from his eyes Michael made out the glimmer of steel in the faint light, and stiffened. A cloaked form took shape behind the dagger—a figure bent and stealthy. The knife was thrust forward even as Michael saw it, and its edge sliced away the bonds at his wrists.

Next, food on a wooden platter was placed in his cramped hands.

“Eat, for love of San Marco,” breathed a trembling voice. “Brave Master Bearn, worthy captain, harken but do not turn your head. I have given to the sentry—a murrain on his greed—a whole purse of good silver dinari, that he be blind and deaf for a short moment.”

It was Soranzi and a terrified Soranzi. Michael, as he munched the meat, reflected that Rudolfo's men were capable of taking a leaf from their master's book in selling their services.

“Pietro Rudolfo has dropped his mask with me,” began the Venetian swiftly. “Alack! You spoke the truth this noon. I am ruined—beggared! He holds me captive and will take my goods—aye, every packet and bale. Every soldi's worth.” He wrung his hands and plucked at his thin beard viciously.

“Once in Trebizond again, under the weak rule of the Comneni, Rudolfo claims all my store and the fine presents for the Cham as his, as payment for saving our lives, he said. O body of San Marco, O blessed head of the Pope! He will hold me for ransom—a prince's ransom—” Soranzi sighed, whereat his meager teeth fell to chattering.

“Do you not see the rest, Master Bearn? The varlets, save his bravi, are dead or will be. Clavijo can not impeach him, for dread of the retribution of the council. You he will first try to bribe, believing that you, like himself, are bent on spoil. If you refuse his offer Gian will handle you till you reveal the way by which we may return to Trebizond.”

“This is no news,” said Michael shortly. “It means merely that Rudolfo knows that be has lost his way and is losing patience.” “But you will never see the walls of Trebizond. You will be left in a grave at Cabasica. Nay, more. Rudolfo, see you, with my goods and person in his hand, will attack and overpower the small Venetian outpost in the city. He will sell his spoils and perchance his sword to Genoa, which will pay a rare price. It was for this he sailed with us. Oh, we are lost! Yet the wise astrologer of my house in Venice predicted sight of extraordinary profits for me on this venture--the like of which I had never handled before.”

Soranzi crept closer and clutched Michael's shoulder in a sweating hand.

“Good Master Bearn, you know this country. You are intimate with the pagan Moors and other infidels. I will pay well for a quick hand to aid me. Is it true you can lead us back from this accursed spot?”

Until now the Breton had been surveying the changing shadows on the black mountain walls that seemed to press down toward the fire.

“It is the Gate of Shadows,“ he said. “The tengeri darband. The Turks say that the spirits of a thousand dead, slain by this sword, walk in the valley of nights. It is the site of a massacre a generation ago. They shun it. Aye, it is a pass in the Ectag Mountains, through which Fra Odoric made his way out of the unknown land that lies beyond.”

Even in his panic the merchant was struck by his companion's tone. “You were here before? How may I know it?” Inbred suspicion struggled with his new desire to propitiate Michael.

“Behind the tower of skulls, in the sand of the gorge between two rocks that have the semblance of men's faces, you will find a grave with a cross, Soranzi.”

“I have seen it.”

“Five men are buried there. They were my mates, Christian slaves taken from a French caravel off the Anatolian shore.” “In the name of, why did you return hither?”

Michael stretched his stiff arm and laughed.

“To see the face of the king who did not fear the Turk.” The merchant's fears were thronging upon him.

“Harken, Master Bearn. I see Rudolfo talking with Gian. You are a man of your word; I never doubted it. If I free your feet with this dagger—the knots be over-strong for fingers—and give you the weapon, will you stab Rudolfo when he comes hither? He will think you bound. The sentry is my man. He and I will set upon Gian, until you can join us. Money and their own fears will deliver the other two soldiers to us”

“And if I will not?”

“Gian's knife in your ear. You want a larger bounty? Name it.”

By now Rudolfo and his lieutenant were moving toward them slowly. Soranzi fairly capered in anxiety, holding the dagger just beyond Michael's reach.

“Swear!” he whispered. “Five hundred gold bezants—nay, seven hundred of Venetian weight and measure” “A pox on your mouthing,” grunted Michael. “Be still!”

He was studying the surrounding darkness with interest. A stone had rolled from the mouth of a near-by gorge. From the plain outside the ravine he could make out the soft click-click where a horse's hoof struck upon rock.

Riders were closing in on the men by the fire. Michael had expected them for some time. Rudolfo, after carelessly letting the Tatar slip away, had left a trail broad enough for a blind man to follow.

Then, as if this were not enough, the Venetians had made a bonfire in the ravine that would indicate the exact position of their camp. The question in Michael's mind was—were the newcomers Tatars or Turks? Evidently the former, since the Ottoman bands shunned the gorge that they had named the Gate of Shadows.

AS HE reached this conclusion Michael made out the figure of a horseman at the edge of the circle of firelight. It was a Tatar and the same Tatar that Michael had captured that noon.

One of the men-at-arms beheld the new-comer at the same moment and gave a startled cry. The cry was echoed by Michael's shout.

“Cast down your weapons, fools!” He knew the danger of resistance if men of the Tatar horde had surrounded them. The dozen Christians, afoot and framed against the fire, would not be a match for half their number of mounted warriors, armed with bows.

Too startled to heed the warning, or believing that Michael meant to betray them to the riders who were emerging out of the shadows, the man-at-arms who had given the alarm cast his spear at the foremost rider.

Michael rose, felt the hindrance of the cords on his ankles, caught the knife from the petrified Soranzi, slashed himself free of bonds and thrust the weapon back into the merchant's hand.

Soranzi was clawing at him.

“Guard me! I will pay what you ask.” A score of horsemen rode into the firelight. The Venetian who had cast the spear was cut down by the Tatar who had dodged the missile easily.

Again Michael shouted to his party:

“Stand back! Sheath your swords if you do not love death. Ah, the cattle—” as the men ran about, seeking their weapons and sending a hasty arrow or two at the riders who swept over them with a quick rush of snorting horses and a red flash of swords in the firelight.

Gian ran close to the fire and wheeled, to cast a javelin at a gnome-like rider. The man went down, but a second Tatar caught the lieutenant's sword-thrust on his small round shield and split Gian's steel cap with a sweep of a heavy curved sword.

With a clash of armor Gian fell prone. The sentry who had been standing by Michael as if paralyzed now turned to flee into the dark, crying:

“The fiends of hell are loose! God have mercy upon our souls.”

Michael reflected even as he ran toward the fire, avoiding the rush of a horseman, that men who fled from sword-strokes and cried on God for help merited little mercy.

The sentry's shout of fear turned to a moan as the Tatar who had passed Michael overtook him in the outer rocks. Soranzi had fallen to his knees and being patently unarmed—the knife had dropped from his trembling hands—was spared for the moment.

Michael saw that Rudolfo had taken a stand between the fire and the tower of skulls, his sword gleaming, his thin lips writhing.

A rider spurred upon the condottiere—Michael noticed that the Tatar horses seemed trained to go anywhere, even near flames—and a squat black body swung from the saddle. The Tatar leader leaped at Rudolfo's head, taking the thrust of the Venetian's sword on his shield.

The weight of the flying body broke the blade like glass and the two men grappled on the ground.

“My left arm for a moment's truce!” thought Michael, turning to face the riders who were trotting up to him. The last of the men-at-arms had been struck down.

“Pax. Oh verily pax! Peace, my gentle dogs. If you are men, bethink you, there has been enough of slaying; if hellions, begone to purgatory, I conjure you--avaunt!”

With the exception of the warrior who was locked in Rudolfo's arms the Tatars reined in and looked up with exclamations of wonder. They saw Bembo.

The grotesquely striped and bedraggled figure of the fool squatted mid-way up the pyramid of skulls. His teeth were chattering and his long arms shot out from his body in frenzied exhortation.

Bembo had seized the first vantage-point to hand. Now he gazed hopefully and imploringly at Michael. “Conjure the demons, Brother Michael; weave the spell you told us of”

The half-moment of quiet was what Michael sought. He lifted his empty left hand and shouted one word in Turki.

“Ambassadors!”

One or two of the riders looked at him in surprize. Michael had learned in Bayezid's camp that in the Tatar country envoys to the khans or chiefs were inviolate. Ordinarily merciless, the Tatar war-chiefs took pride in the number of emissaries from other lands that came to them with tribute.

And in several instances the Tatars kept faith better than the monarchs of Europe. They respected an envoy and were bitter in their rage against enemies who slew Tatar emissaries.

“Ambassadors are here,“ repeated Michael. “Are you dogs, to worry the stranger who comes with gifts?“

Those who understood his words repeated them to the others. The leader heard and rose from Rudolfo to stride to Michael.

His men joined him. They were short, brawny warriors, wearing furs and leather over their mail, and with bronze helmets bearing pointed guards that came down over brow and nose. Scarcely less black than their lamb's-wool kaftans were their faces, with slant, hard eyes and thin mustaches.

Their short swords were broader at the end than the hilt, and each had a target of bull's hide on his left arm. Michael saw that the empty saddles bore quivers and bows.

“Well conjured, Brother Michael,” chattered Bembo. “The charm was a mighty charm. I will aid you.”

He started to scramble down from his mount when one of the warriors seized his leg and jerked him to earth, staring at him with ox-like curiosity. Bembo's zeal dwindled.

He skipped away. The Tatar, no taller than the hunchback, made after him with the rolling gait of one better accustomed to a horse's back than the earth.

“I am Gutchluk, a noyan of the White Horde,” growled the leader to Michael. “I heard your bellow. Whom seek you?”

Michael hesitated, for he did not know the name of the monarch of Tatary.

“The sultan?” queried Gutchluk. “Say so and we will sit you in the fire for the sultan has made prisoner some of the lords of Tatary and our Horde is angered.”

“Nay,“ said Michael promptly.

“At Cabasica your men said they were merchants.”

“I am not a merchant. I seek the khan.” At this Gutchluk's expression changed.

“Tamerlane the Great,” he cried. “You go to the Lord of the World?” “Tamerlane the Great,” repeated Michael.

The warriors who had been pawing over the stores now desisted and came over to the fire, bringing with them Rudolfo, who was watchful and alert in spite of his bruises.

Gutchluk stared at his captives for a space, grunting under his breath as an animal does when disturbed.

“So be it,” he made decision. “We will take you and your gifts to the Mighty One and you can spit out your speeches to him.”

With that the Tatars fell to ransacking the half-empty pots and sacks of food, gorging themselves enormously. Soranzi, who crept from hiding in the rocks, marveled at this and at the callous way in which the men of the Horde stepped on bodies of the slain. He sought Michael and found him talking to Clavijo.

“Now, my lord the liar,” the Breton was saying; “here must you serve yourself. Lie roundly and mightily at Tamerlane's court or you are lost.”

He withdrew to talk long with Bembo, while Rudolfo slept in company with the Tatars who were not on watch by the fire and where the horses were picketed.

Before an hour had passed Soranzi, who had been intent on binding up his goods again, saw that Bembo sat alone. Michael was not to be seen.

THE Breton had seized a moment when the sentries were away from the fire to move back into the darkness of the outer gorge. He had marked the position of the outpost Gutchluk had placed and circled this with care for he had a healthy respect for the keen senses of the Tatar watchers.

Nor did he make the mistake of attempting to take a horse from the pickets. Instead he felt his way patiently out of the ravine at the place where they had entered it. He found the grave he had dug, and its cross. Then he crossed the plateau to the woods on the western side.

The first glimmer of dawn showed him one of the horses belonging to the Venetians that had strayed out to the grass during the fight. This he mounted and rode back along the trail Rudolfo had taken. Once he paused to dismount and search in the thicket for something. He emerged with the sword he had taken from Gutchluk twenty-four hours ago.

Thrusting this through his belt, he continued on to the west.

Michael had not left the camp because he feared retribution by Gutchluk for his attack upon the Tatar leader at this spot. Gutchluk had been following the Venetians and Michael had surprized him and overcome him fairly. This would raise rather than lower him in the other's esteem.

But Michael was aware that emissaries to a Central Asian monarch were always detained for a long space before given an audience. The more important the ambassadors, the longer the delay. It would be weeks before Clavijo and his companions could hold speech with Tamerlane.

Meanwhile Gutchluk had said that the sultan and the khan were at the point of war. Michael, if he was to have a hand in events, could not afford to be kept idle in the Tatar camp. Moreover the foolish resistance of Rudolfo's men had lowered the status of the Venetians.

If Tamerlane was the man Michael thought him, it would take more than trade-goods wrung from the captives to gain his ear. So Michael must bring to Tamerlane more than that.

Gutchluk had said that Bayezid and all his power was at Angora.

Was not this a good omen? Michael smiled, reflecting that he had sworn to the sultan that he would return to his court.

Now as he rode he kept swinging his right arm stiffly at his side. The blood was beginning to run through thinned veins and before long he would be able to use his crippled arm.