# The Wolf Master/Chapter 16

pp. 66–68.
ARSLAN the ax-man sat on the saddle atop the treasure wagon of the vanished wizard and related over and over again the tale of what he had seen. This he did to establish his own worth and importance, but also to keep intact the contents of the wagon.
It had been placed upon him as a duty to preserve this spoil for the Cossack, and being no more than one man Arslan knew that guile must come to the aid of his ax, if he was to ward greedy hands from the bundles and chests that he sat on.
With the gold-embroidered kontash of the dead Pole wrapped around him, and the body of the Pole to point to, in evidence of his tale, he held forth:
“Hai—in this fashion it was. We had slain many of the Turkoman wolves—the Kazak Fanga and I. We twain rode up this bogh, to where the standard was to be seen. In this place as you may see, I slew the Frank, splitting his skull. Then out of the darkness appeared the woman dressed as a man and the Kazak bade me wipe clean a light sword and bestow it upon her. It was a good sword, though light. Then the twain rode to look at this wagon which contains the magic of the Fanga nialma.
“No sooner had they touched the kibitka than the Fanga nialma came toward us, with a white pelt swinging from his shoulders and his horse snorting fire. The Kazak Fanga shouted and reined at him, swinging the enchanted sword that cuts through iron or leather. If there were not magic in the sword, how else would it cut as it does?
“Then, behold, the Fanga nialma fled for his life. But he cried out to the spirits of the upper air, and rain came, to be a veil in covering his flight. He vanished like a rat in a wheat field, and the Kazak also vanished; but by the gods of the high places, my brothers, it is not well to touch this kibitka. I, who have permission, may sit in this saddle thus. Now, my brothers, bring me mare's milk and the fat tail of a sheep from a full pot.”
After a time came Tevakel Khan with two sons, to look at the wizard's wagon. Though they yearned to investigate, after hearing Arslan's tale they decided not to do so until all the rest of the spoil of the Turkoman camp was safely garnered.
The Turkoman wolves had been slashed and driven. The fighting eddied over the plain, as scattered wind gusts follow a hurricane. And the Tatars pursued like ferrets—for this was the kind of fighting they relished.
The Horde had been thinned under the dreaded swords of the invaders, but the greater part of the Turkomans lay headless in the high, wet grass. Their heads were piled into pyramids, about which vultures and crows flapped and stalked. The men of the Golden Horde cared not for slaves, and they had seen their women hung by the feet and burned the night before.
The younger warriors were still in the saddle, harrying the groups of the flying, when, at mid-afternoon, Kirdy and Nada rode in on lame horses, and Arslan gave up his charge.
No sooner had the Cossack dismounted than word of his arrival was carried to Tevakel Khan. A carpet was placed near the wagon and upon this the old chieftain knelt, while his surviving sons gathered behind him. Gravely he acknowledged Kirdy's salute, and without expression, he stared at Nada, evidently believing her a captive.
“The fate of man is in God's hands,” he intoned, and added: “Hast thou slain the wizard of Ilbars Sultan?”
“Nay—he has escaped to the east.”
“Doubtless taking the form of a serpent or a rat,” nodded the khan, who was familiar with the evasiveness of wizards. “Yet this, his kibitka, is in thy hands. Thou hast, too, his woman. But let us see what is in the sacks.”
Many and varied were the tales that had sprung up among the Horde of the splendor and the daring of the departed wizard, and—though he gave no sign of it—Tevakel Khan was afflicted with all the curiosity of a child.
First the saddle was brought to the chieftain for inspection, then kegs of powder, which he recognized and distrusted. He believed that firelocks were uncanny, and since the firelocks of the Turkomans had done them little good, he decided to sprinkle the powder on the earth, where it could do no harm.
A pair of flutes pleased him immensely, and rich garments and jars of rum and brandy likewise. But when Kirdy broke open a small chest and showed him strings of pearls, the notorious gold apple, the gold staff with jeweled tip, and rubies and diamonds of great size and luster, he fell into meditation.
“Aforetime,” Kirdy reminded him, “I made pledge that from the spoil of this camp a gift should be found for thee—a fitting gift. Take then, these precious stones, for they are part of a royal treasure.”
Again the old man scrutinized each flaming ruby—torn from more massive settings—and the blue and yellow diamonds that must have come from Persia.
“Allah!” he grunted. “Of what worth are these? The garments I shall wear, and the wines shall be drunk from the skull-cup of Ilbars Sultan. But these will not keep out the cold or warm the blood.”
“They are thine. Do with them as thou wilt.”
“They brought no good to the Fanga nialma. Such things work evil. I have seen it. I have goods enough. From the earth they came, and I shall have them buried, and a horse slain upon the spot as an offering to the spirits of the high places.”
Kirdy glanced at Nada, who was fingering the stones, curiously.
“The khan will bury them,” he said. “Will you not keep some?”
The girl smiled, and then shook her head.
“Nay, White Falcon—they were stolen, and what would they avail us, here?”
Now the jewels were the last of the things of the false Tsar—and Kirdy thought that he must have carried them from the palace the day before his flight from Moscow, sending them ahead in the sledge. Such articles as these might have been carried out under one of the immense coats of the Muscovites, and Otrèpiev had counted on changing them into money when his journey had ended. And Kirdy wondered, while he waited for the khan to acknowledge his gift, whether Otrèpiev had turned back through the shambles of the camp to seek Nada or these precious stones.
“Eh,” said Tevakel Khan, “now come ye to my yurta and make choice of whatever thing thou desirest.”
A Tatar is avaricious where presents are concerned, but it is a matter of personal honor with him that the giver be rewarded. So he was surprized and not too well pleased when the Cossack said he would take only fresh horses and a man to show him the way.
“Whither?”
“Only the eagles know. I go upon the trail of my enemy, the Fanga nialma.”
Considering this, the khan shook his head moodily.
“Thou art bold, O Kazak. Thou art terrible in battle, as a man should be. Thou hast a golden-haired slave, and here in the Horde there is a place for thee, at the right of the fire. What more will a journey bring thee?”
“Vengeance.”
“For death?”
“For the deaths of ten thousand, and the broken promise of a traitor.”
The old chieftain made a gesture as of casting a stick upon a fire.
“With the slayer of his kin a man may not sleep under the same sky. Bind thy wounds, that they do not open—choose from my herd what pleases thee, and go. Yet if thy rein is drawn again to the Altyn Juz, the place on the white horseskin of my yurta is open. I have said it, and my word is not smoke.”
Aware that this was a favorable moment to leave, and that the good nature of the old man might not last, Kirdy placed his hand to his forehead and lips.
“And the woman!” Tevakel Khan observed suddenly. “What is to be done with her?”
“She desires to go with me.”
“Then thy peace will be troubled, because she came from the camp of thine enemy. It would be better to slay her with thy sword—thus!”
He moved the simitar that lay across his knees significantly.
“Nay, she is a Kazak, and her father is the master of the wolves, thy friend.”
“Allah!”
Tevakel Khan considered Nada, and thought that here was a matter of wonder. It seemed to him that this feud was no ordinary pursuit of blood, but a struggle of wizardry. He chose rather to hear the ending of it than to have a share in it himself, and he gave Kirdy leave to go.
When the wounded Cossack and the young girl walked away through the charred camp, the sun was near setting, and the red light brought to the mind of Tevakel Khan another matter, most vital. His faded eyes gleamed, the wrinkles in his broad face deepened, and he bade his sons bring to him the Uighur scholar who did his writing.
When the native was seated at his feet, thin brush and paper roll in hand, the master of the Goden Horde began speaking.
“Write thus! To Arap Muhammad Khan of Khiva, lord of dead wolves and king of grave-jackals, greeting from his foe Tevakel Khan of the Altyn Juz!
“Understand that upon this day, the fifth of the month of the Ox, I mounted and rode against thy camp and thy son Ilbars Sultan and thy warriors, sword in hand.
“Thou couldst not see the flames devour thy tents, thy heroes overthrown and trampled, their heads piled into heaps.
“Thou couldst not see thy wise men and wizards fleeing like sheep, brother parting from brother—thy horses taken by my grandchildren, thy weapons cast before my tent pole, thy standard the plaything of girl-children—nor the skull of thy son Ilbars Sultan that was, a drinking cup ready to my hand.
“Since all these things thou couldst not see, and since not a man of thine hath escaped to bear thee the tale, I, Tevakel Khan—I tell it thee!”
This was the Tatar's valedictory to the hated Turkoman, and when he had satisfied himself that Al-Tâbir did not understand the Uighur script, Tevakel Khan gave the writing to the interpreter of dreams to bear to Khiva, instructing several of his warriors to accompany the Persian as far as the first outposts of the Turkomans.