When they had gone I mounted and rode until I came upon the Petchenegs’ tracks. At a swift canter I rode their back trail, and coming to a rise, I turned in my saddle. In the distance was the flat plain over which we had crossed with the caravan.
Riding a short distance along the rise, I found where a large body of horsemen had stopped for some time, facing the river.
They had seen us then, but how far away was their main body?
The day was warm; a slight breeze stirred the few leaves remaining and rattled skeleton fingers among the bare trees. A heron flew up from a sphagnum bog, and I followed the back trail of the Petchenegs. Topping a rise, I saw their camp lay before me, and my heart lay heavy within me, for the black tents spread wide upon the plain.
How many tents? How many horses?
Five thousand men? Ten thousand? I looked at the horse herd, and even allowing for three or four horses per man as was often the case with the Petchenegs, it was a great number. If they came against us, we would be swept up like leaves in the wind. We would be destroyed, trampled into bloody dust.
Flight, swift, driving flight, was our only recourse. The Hansgraf would suspect, when Johannes reached him, that the party we had seen were not alone. By now our company would be moving, flying toward the sea, but their scouting party would be riding in, and their army would mount.
Could I stop them? Slow them, even a little?
Far off, a party of horsemen were riding toward the Petcheneg camp, and the man riding that magnificent gray horse, surely two such horses did not exist, that man I knew, even at the distance.
It was Prince Yury.
They were some distance away, and the idea came as naturally as such an idea can come. The attack on the convoy must be delayed, and the Petchenegs kept in their camp, and there was nothing, or so I had heard, they liked better than to witness a good fight.
Prince Yury’s presence could mean but one thing: that he had come to enlist their services against us if he had not done so already. Therefore, Prince Yury was my enemy.
Deliberately, I rode my horse into the bright sunlight, removing my tunic so the sun could strike my bright-polished armor. I wanted them to see me; they must see me.
“All right, Ayesha, let us hope you do not have a fool for a master and that his blade cuts sharply this day!”
Touching her lightly with a heel, I rode my mare down the gentle slope toward the camp of my enemies. I sat very straight in the saddle. I rode at an easy canter. Perhaps I rode to my death, but at whatever the cost there must be delay for the caravan and my friends. Without it they would have no chance.
Nor would Suzanne.
39
The people of the camp saw me coming from a distance, but I came as a visitor comes, and they had respect for visitors. My route brought me into their camp at the opposite end from that of Prince Yury, as I intended. Immediately, I asked for the Khan.
They understood that word and no doubt believed I came as an ambassador or expected guest. They recognized my Arab armor, and there was murmuring among them as they looked at Ayesha.
Four horsemen fell in around me, and we came to a larger tent. There was Prince Yury, staring at me in blank astonishment, swiftly giving way to triumph.
“Seize that man! He is from the caravan!”
Knowing nothing of their tongue, I trusted to Arabic, which many of them would understand. “I have come to your camp of my own will. I have been told of the hospitality of the people of the Black Tents.”
Their Khan was a square, powerful old man with bowed legs and a grim expression. “Why come you here?” he demanded.
“In Kiev it was said you were followers of Prince Yury,” I lied cheerfully, to put my enemy on the defense, “but I do not believe the Khan of the Black Tents follows any man.”
Ayesha stepped about a bit, and when she quieted, I said, “I have come here, trusting to your hospitality as well as your nobility, to challenge Prince Yury to combat.
“You are noted men of the sword and respect those who fight. I do not ask your friendship, although to be your friend would make me proud; I ask only fair treatment, which I know you will give. The blood upon your swords has never been the blood of cowardice.”
“You come here, in the camp of his friends, to challenge Prince Yury?” The old Khan’s eyes glinted, and I felt I had won his respect where nothing else would have done so. These were men who loved daring. “Why do you seek him?”
“Because he tries to get other men to fight his battles, and because he is a knave, a coward, and a mongrel, fit only to be fed the meat of dogs!”
Prince Yury drew his sword. “By the gods! For this I shall have your blood!”
“Why fill thy belly on the east wind and give utterance to vain and foolish words?” I said contemptuously. “Will you meet me on foot or horseback?”
By now hundreds of the Khan’s followers had gathered about, eager for the fight. Yet all that I could think of now were ways to make the fight last. The scouting party I had seen had not yet come in. Could I hold them when they did come? Every minute gained would bring my people closer to the sea, and the boats that should be waiting.
Suddenly, there were shouts and a band of horsemen charged into camp. Men rushed to them for their report. It was the scouting party. I was too late.
Amid the confusion, Prince Yury stared at me with hatred. He pointed at me. “Kill him! His coming was a ruse to distract your attention.”
“There speaks a coward,” I sneered, “who would have his killing done by others.”
“He has challenged you, Prince Yury,” a voice said. “His challenge deserves respect. Do you fear him, that you shrink from battle?”
That voice! Where had I heard it before?
“He is our enemy,” Yury replied coldly. “His coming is but to gain time.”
“How much time do we of the Black Tents require?” The speaker was behind me. “He has come to our camp as a guest, of his own will, and he shall leave it when he wishes.”
“Who says?” Yury demanded, his voice hard with anger.
“I say!” He walked forward and stood beside me. “I, Abaka Khan!”
A moment I stared, then remembrance. “Abaka Khan! The man for whom I bought a drink in Cadiz, so long ago!”
Prince Yury hesitated, and I could gauge Abaka Khan’s importance by that hesitation. Yury was suddenly uncertain of his ground.
“Do you speak for this enemy?” Yury demanded.
“Whose enemy? They have not attacked us. You say they are enemies.”
“There is loot among them.”
“And a woman,” I said, “whom he hopes to take.” Deliberately, I thickened my tone with contempt. “This dog cannot seize her for himself. He must have the Black Tents to win his woman!”
“Is this so?” The old Khan turned to Prince Yury. “You spoke of a woman when you told us of the caravan.”
“The woman is important. It is a matter of politics.”
Aside to those nearest me, I said, “What manner of mouse is this? That he claims politics as an excuse for taking a woman? Is he a man or a eunuch?”
Prince Yury heard my remark and took a step toward me, and the crowd opened to let him come, eager for the fight.
“A proper duel? Or do I spank you with my blade upon your bare bottom?”
“A duel it is,” Abaka Khan said sternly, “and we will see it properly done. Come, Prince Yury? Will it be foot or horse?”
“Horseback,” Yury said angrily, “and no quarter. A fight to the death!”
“Agreed.” I spoke carelessly, and drawing my blade, I rode Ayesha fifty yards down the course, walking her slowly, for we needed time, then turning to face Yury.
How long since Lolyngton and Johannes reached the caravan? How much time had I won? Was it twenty minutes? A half hour? An hour could mean five miles for the caravan, perhaps six at top speed. It was not much, but the sea was not far away. The Hansgraf would know how to use the time.
What I feared most was that the caravan might be caught crossing the Chicheklaya. Once across the river there would be nothing between them and the sea, less than fifty miles away.