The Snow Driver/Chapter 16

RYRGER, flat on his belly in the snow, wriggled uneasily. They had been too far away for Thorne to hear what was said between the two outlanders, but Shatong's shrill voice was distinct enough in the thin air. Kyrger knew that the shaman was trying to draw Thorne to the Ostiaks, although the white man was clearly waiting for darkness before he made any move.

More logs were thrown on the fire, and as dusk fell the figure of the shaman was covered with a ruddy tinge. On one knee he bent over the drum, chanting his discordant song. Then he rose to his toes and spread out his arms, moving toward Durforth.

Kyrger knew by this that the kam, the spirit of the wizard, had become separated from his body and was flying through the air. Shatong, therefore, meant to journey to the cold underground region where Erlik ruled the spirit world.

“The dead souls say,” chanted the wizard, “I must cut myself. I will cut myself with your knife.”

Durforth handed the savage his dirk and Shatong crept nearer the girl. Thorne rose to his knees, taking the crossbow from Kyrger, but uttered a stifled exclamation of astonishment. Shatong had thrust the weapon under his own gaunt ribs. Or so it seemed. His two hands gripped the hilt and blood ran down upon his apron. The blade of the dirk had disappeared.

Presently the shaman drew it forth, stained with blood, and screamed. Joan hid her face in her hands.

Durforth, chin on hand, seemed unmoved; but his eyes were intent. Meanwhile Shatong took up his journey to the presence of Erlik. He went through the motions of leaping over mountains and staggering through the sands of a desert; then he walked forward gingerly swaying from side to side.

Kyrger knew that the spirit of the wizard was moving over the single hair that bridges the abyss between the land of the living and the abode of the dead souls.

He watched Shatong cringe back as if at the gate of Erlik's domain—heard the snarling chorus of welcome from the dogs of the underworld—saw Shatong driven back by a gust of wind, then approach fearfully the seat of Erlik, represented by the fire.

The chorus of animal cries grew louder, though Shatong's lips did not move. Invisible wings beat overhead, and Kyrger's skin grew cold. He knew what would follow.

Shatong lifted his hands to his lips as if drinking the welcoming cup, and fell down in a huddle on the trampled snow. His dark skin glistened with sweat. At this moment his kam was listening to the words of Erlik.

He bounded to his feet and pointed toward the trees where Thorne and Kyrger were hidden.

“Winged creatures can not fly hither; things with bones can not come; how have you made your way to my abode?”

Staggering, he laid his hand on his chest.

“I have ridden far, my strength fails; I have faced great terrors, and I am hungry.”

So saying, he advanced on Joan who drew back, half faint with fear. Grasping the fur surcoat at her throat, he jerked it away and bared a white shoulder with his claw. His teeth snapped and his lips writhed as he drew nearer the girl's arm.

Kyrger sat up on his haunches with a grunt of dismay. Shatong, he saw, had prevailed, because now, without any effort to draw back his companion, the white man, was running toward his enemies.

HORNE at first had taken up the crossbow; but the wavering fire light and the numbness in his fingers made the risk too great for a shot. Moreover, to kill Shatong would not free Joan. As he plodded forward through the snow she saw him and cried out clearly:

“Get you hence, Master Ralph. They lie in wait for you.”

At this the shaman released her and turned to his men, saying something in a low voice. To Durforth he added triumphantly:

“Lili khel mkholas—my soul looked into the hiding place of this enemy. My soul summoned him forth from the hiding place.”

Durforth, who did not know that the sharp eyes of the wizard had picked out the armiger on the ridge, was more than a little startled. Whether or no Shatong had planned his ritual of the drum and the spirit visit to hearten himself or to bring the outlander forth would be difficult to say.

Because his limbs were stiff with cold Thorne moved slowly, and Durforth at first did not recognize the gaunt figure in the wolfskin hood and jacket. And the newcomer, instead of putting hand to sword or approaching Joan, went to the fire and stretched out his hands, first taking the mittens off, to warm them at the blaze.

“I give you greetings, Master Durforth,” he said quietly.

The voice and the smile that accompanied it banished the last doubt in the mind of Philip's agent.

“Slay me this man,” he said to Shatong, after a long breath of hesitation. “I will give the price of five deerskins to the one who takes his life with the first arrow,” he added when the shaman made no response.

But Shatong was squatting again on his white horsehide mumbling to himself. And the six natives had eyes only for the wizard. If Thorne had rushed at them, or shouted or drawn his weapon they would have stretched him in the snow at once. Meanwhile Shatong had arrived at a decision; his slits of eyes glimmered at the white men and he gabbled at Durforth.

“I am very weary with the long journey to the Erlik-hall. My ears are filled with the beating of spreading wings. Lo, one of the wings veils the moon; the other hides the sun. I have flown with the mother of eagles over Yaik. I can not hear your words, outlander.”

Placing his hand before his eyes he turned his back on Durforth, who repeated his order to the others, increasing the bounty he offered for the visitor's life. But the Ostiaks continued to gaze at him with wooden features, and he understood that they would do nothing for the moment. Shatong, after throwing wood on the fire to make it brighter, would do nothing at all.

He had been watching the strange white man. He saw that Thorne's motions were assured and purposeful. Shatong had felt the other's sword rasp his ribs, and the skin of his face still stung from the powder that had belched from the cannon.

This young outlander might cause a second explosion at any moment, he reasoned. Evidently the other's kam, his tutelary diety [sic] was powerful, and unfriendly to Shatong's kam. Durforth's power, too, was doubtful. So Shatong waited to see what would happen.

“These be men of power. No hoofed beast can protect itself against them, creatures with claws flee away. There is a thusind, a pursuit of blood between them. Let us see what they will accomplish.”

Durforth rose and advanced to the fire with hand outstretched.

“'Od's life, Master Thorne, I greet you well! In this pagan land we can not afford to nourish our late quarrel. We must abet one another. So, let us cry a truce.”

He had no means of knowing that the armiger had caught the gist of his command to Shatong, and he thought to silence Joan with a warning glance. This had quite another effect on the girl.

“Do not put faith in him,” she said instantly, “for he will not keep faith with you.”

Thorne motioned her to be silent.

“Yield ye,” he said to Durforth. “Throw down your weapons if you are bent on life.”

The man in the fox skins still held out his hand, but he was thinking. And Philip had not chosen an agent for a dull wit.

Durforth said slowly:

“Bethink you, Master Thorne, Edward hath breathed his last by now. The odds are, Mary is queen, and so is England joined to Spain. What will it profit you to meddle with me?”

“Because we are here in the hands of savages I offer you a fair surrender. We have this maid to bear to safety, and you know the way. Yield and I will do what in me lies to bring you to England. For the rest, I care not. Yield your sword or draw it.”

“You are bold, young sir, and foolhardy.” He paused. “Why do you press this quarrel when it mars both our fortunes?”

“Because,” quoth the armiger, “I have looked upon the bodies of a hundred honest men, marred by your treachery. Come”

Durforth started and looked beyond him at the shadows of the forest, open mouthed. Thorne, noticing the quick dread in the other's face, turned to see what had caused it. In the thicket he perceived that something moved, something white and massive. Then he sprang to one side.

In the second when he had taken his gaze from the merchant, Durforth had stooped to pick up from the snow the dagger left there by the shaman. No sooner had his fingers closed upon it than he lunged at Thorne's back. The sudden movement in so big a man had aroused the armiger, who stepped wide of the thrust, drawing his sword as he did so.

“Ha, stand to your guard, rogue. No one will come between us this time.”

Durforth recovered his balance and his composure at once. He had acted before he thought; the blood stained knife had caught his eyes as Thorne turned away. Taking off his surcoat, he stood in doublet and boots, smiling a little. In drawing his sword he whipped it through a salute.

“A pity, my hotspur, that you gave your allegiance to the wrong prince. Had you cast your lot with Mary and Spain we twain might have gone far.”

HILE Joan sat upon her log, her eyes glued to the flicker of the two rapiers that gleamed ruddy in the fire light, the Ostiaks followed with absorbing interest the struggle between the two outlanders.

In the treacherous footing of the trodden snow they moved warily. Durforth, who had the dirk in his left hand, sought to come to close quarters; failing that, he circled to get the fire at his back and drive Thorne out into the deeper snow. Red light played up and down the bright blades, and the slithering click of steel punctuated the quick breathing of the men.

Shatong saw that Durforth's face had changed, it had darkened, the beard jutting out, the forehead creased. The lips were drawn back, and Shatong saw in this face the likeness of a wolf. So, he reasoned, the taller outlander served the wolf spirit.

The other, whose yellow mane gleamed in the firelight, who fought with closed lips, he fancied served the quoren vairgin, the reindeer spirit. And it was well known that the wolf-clan was powerful enough to tear to pieces a member of the reindeer clan. And, certainly, the clan of ermecin, the great white bear, would prevail over either. So Shatong reasoned, while he crawled around the fire to watch the struggle of the white men.

Durforth pressed the attack now, following thrust with thrust. Both men, the shaman thought, were tiring, and Thorne was staggering. It was clear to the Ostiak that Durforth's kam was the stronger, and he began to breath quickly in anticipation of the end.

He saw Thorne stumble in a drift over a fallen tree and go down on one knee. Durforth sprang in, cutting down his adversary's blade, and struck with the knife. Thorne had not tried to rise, but gathered his strength and lunged as Durforth came down on him.

Shatong saw a point of steel through Durforth's back; saw the big man rise to his toes and fall forward, soundlessly, into the drift.

Freeing his blade, Thorne turned about in time to face the rush of the Ostiaks led by Shatong. The shaman had not expected to see Durforth go down, but now he knew that the other outlander must be exhausted. The three sled loads of goods from the ships would be his in another moment.

Something whirred past the shaman and thudded into the back of the foremost Ostiak. It was a crossbow bolt and it knocked the man from his feet. The others turned to stare at the forest and yelled in shrill and astonished fear.

Two figures were advancing on them from the trees, Kyrger running in advance, fitting an arrow to his small bow. Behind him, grasping the crossbow that he had picked up when the Samoyed let it fall, was Peter. Peter with the skin of the polar bear wrapped around him, the muzzle over his head, his face almost invisible between the gaping jaws.

Some hours since the shipman had awakened from the stupor into which he had fallen after the blow on the head dealt him by Shatong. His heavy leather cap and stout skull had brought him off none the worse except for a mighty braise over one ear. Kyrger had roused him by thrusting the end of the crossbow into his ribs.

By frantic signs the Samoyed had made it clear to Peter that trouble was brewing near at hand, and the shipman had lumbered off without delaying to rid himself of the bearskin. Heaving into sight of the fire, he was in time to see Durforth go down and the Ostiaks rise from their haunches and rush at Thorne.

“Stand to quarters, lad!” he bellowed. “Lay them by the board!”

Shrewd Shatong saw what effect this apparition of the burly man in the white fell had upon his followers. They had not known that another outlander was present, so intent had they been upon the duel. And the skin of the white bear filled them with superstitious dread.

“Ermecin!” they cried.

No Ostiak had ever slain a white bear. And while they hung back, gripped alike by fear and the blood lust, Shatong ran at Peter from the side, swinging his club.

Out of the corner of his eyes the shipman saw him, and swung the crossbow down and outward in a powerful hand. The steel bow, and the iron-tipped head struck the shaman on the temple.

Without a cry Shatong's body dropped upon the earth, seeming to shrink into its grotesque garb of leather and jangling iron, its long hair covering the shattered skull and the gap where his eyes had been.

A shout from Kyrger, who had beheld what was in his estimation a miracle, brought home to the Ostiaks the fact that they were dealing with men, not spirits. One of the eight sent an arrow through the little hunter.

Others swarmed upon Peter, screaming and stabbing. It was Thorne's sword that checked their rush. The armiger, thrusting and warding, strengthened by the brief rest, put down two of his assailants, and drove another back on the huddle around Peter.

In this hand to hand struggle the Easterlings could not use their bows; but Peter, dropping the crossbow, used his fists. He knocked one man headlong, and Thorne, bruised by a thrown club, ran another through the heart. The deadly play of the rapier was more than the rest could stomach and they fled beyond the circle of firelight, vanishing into the gloom under the trees.

“Faith,” muttered Peter, glancing around, “we were sore beset, but we cleared the deck. Where lie the ships?”

He was astonished past belief when he understood that they were twenty leagues from the coast and Sir Hugh's vessels.

HILE Peter and Joan washed Kyrger's hurt and made him comfortable on some cloths from the goods on the sleds, Thorne put more wood on the fire and—when Joan told him all that had passed between her and Durforth—look the letters from the pouch of the Burgundian. Carefully he read them through after breaking the seals, and when he had done, placed them in his belt.

“In these missives,” he said to the expectant girl, “lieth the true way to Cathay.”

“Is it far?” she wondered. “Could we adventure there?”

He smiled at her wish.

“Nay, Joan. There is no passage by sea; but the way by land hath been discovered already by the Muscovites. The silks and spices, aye, the ivory and carpets of Cathay and the Indies are borne each year through Tatary to the emperor of the Muscovites, Ivan, called the 'Terrible,' and entitled in these missives emperor of Astrakhan and lord of the forests and the Sibir Desert.”

“Now marry and amen!” cried Peter who had come up, and had been fingering Durforth's chain longingly. “Here is that same lord Ivan or John of the land of gold and silver. The dons were wiser than we. What more, lad?”

“Why, simply this: The Spaniards desired Ivan to make a compact with them, so that the trade of the Indies could be borne overland, which is shorter by much than the sea route to the Indies, to them. They would have the great Emperor Ivan know that they are masters of all Christiandom, save England which will soon be under their hand.”

“Then,” cried Joan angrily, “we must bear these missives to the lords of England, and rouse them to their peril.”

“Faith, Joan—” the armiger laughed outright—“are you Puss-in-Boots, to girdle the earth, east or west? We will do what we can, but if we are to live we must gain the borders of Muscovy.”

“What says the other missive?” pressed the boatswain, who had great faith in letters.

“Cornelius Durforth, the Burgundian, was a trusted councilor of Spain.” He glanced down thoughtfully at the body of his enemy: “Peter, 'tis my thought that the Fox is dead.”

“How?” quoth the shipman, scratching his head. “Messems we left my lord Renard on his feet.”

“It is evident,” said Thorne, “that Renard was Durforth's man. And Durforth was Philip's spy called by us the Fox. While we watched Renard, the Fox came and went. D'Alaber served him and came against me while Durforth waited. When there is a killing to be managed, 'tis the servant who handles the knife while the lord waits the result.”

“Your father!” cried Joan and fell silent.

“Aye, Durforth desired his end, and Renard saw that it was done. The spy's work in Burgundy was finished long since; his task in England done, and but for one thing he would have gained to the court of Ivan.”

“Your sword, it was,” said Joan proudly.

“Nay, greed. Durforth was petty in craving gold. He stopped to snatch it where he could. He went back to plunder the ships when Sir Hugh and his brave company died.”

Peter put his hands behind him and looked away from the Burgundian's sword hilt and gold chain.

“The black rogue!”

“Nay—” Thorne shook his head—“rogue he may have been, but brave he was. Now that he is sped it is not honorable in us to miscall him.”