The Grand Cham. Harold Lamb

fire.

      “Keep back,” he hissed at the others, “for this is my fight.”

      They mumbled and straightway fell to staring in fear as a burly form strode through the entrance of the aul and came around the diminishing blaze of the fire.

      “Who called?” growled El-Arjuk, glancing at Michael and the one sentry swiftly.

      He was flushed from drinking, although his step was steady. In feasting he had laid aside his armor, but held a small target of bull’s hide and a scimitar. Noticing the absence of the other Janissary and the strange quietude of the one sentry, he started.

      “Blood of Sheitan——”

      “I summoned you,” said Michael grimly. “To your reckoning. Guard yourself!”

      With that he leaped, swinging his haft of the battle-ax. With one motion El-Arjuk flung up his shield and slashed forward under it with his sword.

      The blade met nothing but air. Michael’s jump had carried him over the low sweep of the Turk’s scimitar, while the hastily raised target momentarily obstructed the vision of his adversary.

      The Breton’s broad chest struck the shield, bearing it down, and his shortened ax fell once, the full weight of his powerful body behind it. El-Arjuk had started to cry for aid when the blade of the ax crashed into his forehead and the cry ended in a quavering groan. Michael fell to the sand with his enemy, but he rose alone, listening intently.

      From somewhere outside the aul a question was shouted idly, for the thud of the two bodies and the moan of the master of the slaves had been heard.

      “Reply,” snarled Michael at the staring Janissary who was going through the motions of ablution, kneeling in the sand. The Moslem wished to die with this rite performed. “Reply with the words I put into your mouth or we will fill your throat with the unclean flesh of the dead.”

      The warrior hesitated, then bowed his head.

      “It is naught,” he called back over the stone wall as Michael prompted him, “but the death of a dog, upon whom be the curse of Allah for his sins.”

      A satisfied laugh from the listeners without, who believed that a Christian slave had been killed, came to the ears of the captives. Wasting no time, Michael had green tamarisk branches cast on the fire causing smoke to fill the aul entrance.

      Behind this makeshift curtain he ordered El-Arjuk stripped of his brilliant yellow coat and insignia and instructed the nervous captives how to rewind the white turban so as to conceal the blotches of blood.

      This done, the Portuguese who was like the master of the slaves in build was clad in the garments and given the shield and scimitar. Meanwhile the excited men would have slain the stolid sentry had not Michael intervened.

      “I made a pledge,” he said coldly. “You want blood, methinks, and you will find plenty before long.”

      So the surprised sentry was bound and wrapped around with the clothing of the Portuguese until he was helpless either to move or cry out. Then, with the two bodies, he was laid in a corner of the enclosure and covered with sheepskin robes.

      “Say to Bayezid,” smiled Michael, “that I bid him not farewell—for I shall seek him again.”

      When the fire died down presently and passing soldiers glanced idly into the aul, a group of men issued forth without torches. At their head was the familiar uniform of the master of the slaves, and their feet were bound with leather thongs, permitting them to walk only slowly.

      It was entirely natural that El-Arjuk should have work for the caphar slaves to do that night, so the revelers paid scant heed to the group. It was whispered, moreover, that one of the infidels had been slain, so it was entirely to be expected that the others would be used to dig a grave.

      At the outskirts of the tents where darkness concealed them Michael called a halt. Passing near the fires, the garments of El-Arjuk had been their safeguard; in the dark they would be challenged at once by the mounted riders who patrolled the camp.

      So Michael waited, kneeling on the ground in order to raise passing figures on the sky-line. He ordered his comrades to cut off with the weapons they had concealed under their clothes their bonds and to carry the cords until they could be concealed at a distance from the camp. Not until he was satisfied that a patrol of horsemen had passed the ridge in front of him did he give the word to advance.

      An hour later they were beyond the outer guards and running due east, under the stars that guided them, toward the Gate of Shadows.

      ON THE second night they took their ease. Michael had gone among the hill villages at twilight. He had worn the dress of El-Arjuk and when he returned to the men waiting in the thicket up the mountain-slope he said:

      “The Darband-i-Ghil, the Spirit Gate, lies six hours’ march above us. Come.”

      The six had run before now—too swiftly at first for long endurance—by the north shore of Van. Michael had steadied them to a slow trot and had taken pains to pass through such rocky ravines as offered, in order to wipe out traces of their passage. They had seen no pursuers, even after leaving the lake.

      “Nay,” growled a Genoese. “Par Dex, our bones ache and our feet bleed. We must sleep.”

      “Sleep!” cried Michael. “With Mamelukes riding in our tracks who have orders not to return alive without us. I’m thinking that Bayezid made short work of the Janissary guard whose life we spared. Will his horsemen yearn for a like fate?”

      He himself was near the point of exhaustion, for his arm was scarcely knit and fever had weakened him. But the men would not move from the spot where they had been watching the lights of the Kurd village and talking among themselves.

      Realizing that they must rest, Michael sat down against a tree for a brief sleep. The half-light of dawn was flooding the thicket and the sky over the black hills to the east was crimson when he woke at the sound of approaching footsteps.

      It was his own band and they were coming up from the village. Some of them were reeling, though not from fatigue, and their breath was heavy with olives and wine. They looked back over their shoulders and grinned uneasily when they met his eye.

      “We’ve taken the Moors’ food,” boasted one fellow. “It’s their own law, methinks. An eye for an eye. They’ll remember us.”

      Michael glared. These were common men, very different from the belted knights who had sometimes visited his mother’s home in Brittany. She had hoped that he would be a knight. Instead, he had led a rough life and had toiled against hardships until—this.

      “——, what fools! That was a Kurdish village, and the men have good eyes and horseflesh. Well, I must bide with you, for you have named me leader. Come.”

      They ran sturdily through the dawn. Months of trotting beside the nobles of the Osmanli had schooled them to this. By midday they were above the fields in a place of gray rocks and red clay. In front of them a half-dozen bowshots away a great gully between mountain-shoulders showed the blue of the sky.

      “The Gate of Shadows,” they cried.

      And with the words riders came out of the woods behind them.

      Michael measured the distance to the gully, glanced back at the shouting Mamelukes, and shook his head. He pointed to a mound of rocks nearby and led his five men there.

      “ ’Tis the gate of heaven you will see,” he grunted. “No other, and not that, if you can not die like Christians.”

      And the five, to give them their due, fought desperately, using the few weapons they had carried from the Turkish camp, and eking these out with stones.

      The Mamelukes, reinforced by Kurds from the hill village, tried at first to make them yield themselves prisoners. But the captives knew what manner of death awaited them at Bayezid’s tent and hurled their stones. The big Portuguese went down with an arrow in his