Khan?”
And a Mongol behind the khan held up a ghastly, grinning head. Godric cursed: “Liar, traitor and coward though he was, he was yet a king. Come in and make an ending. I swear to you that before you ride over this wall, your horses will tread fetlock-deep in a carpet of your dead.”
Still Genghis sat his horse and pondered. Subotai came up to him, and grinning broadly, spoke in his ear. The Khan nodded.
“Swear to serve me and I will spare the lives of your men; I will take Black Cathay unharmed into my empire.”
Godric turned to his men. “You heard – I would rather die here on a heap of Mongol dead – but it is for you to say.”
They answered with a shout: “The emperor is dead! Why should we die, if Genghis Khan will grant us peace? Give us Gurgaslan for ruler and we will serve you.”
Genghis raised his hand. “So be it!”
Godric shook the blood and sweat out of his eyes and snarled a bitter laugh.
“A puppet king on a tinsel throne, to dance on your string, Mongol?
Genghis scowled and suddenly swore. “By the yellow face of Erlik! I have already made more concessions today than I ever made in my life before! What want ye, Gurgaslan – shall I give you my scepter for a war-club?”
“If he wishes it you may as well give it to him,” grinned Subotai, who was no more awed by his khan than if Genghis had been a horse-boy. “These Franks are built of iron without and within. Reason with him, Genghis!”
The khan glared at his general for a moment as if he were of a mind to brain him, then grinned suddenly. These men of the steppes were a frank, open race greatly different from the devious-minded peoples of Asia Minor.
“To have you and your warriors fighting beside me,” said Genghis calmly, “I will do that which I never expected to do. You are fit to tread the crimson road of empire. Take Black Cathay and rule it as you will; I ask only that you aid me in my wars, as an equal ally. We will be two kings, reigning side by side and aiding each other against all enemies.”
Godric’s thin lips smiled. “It is fair enough.”
The Mongols sent up a thunderous roar and the bloody Jahadurans swarmed over the barricades to kiss the hands of their new ruler. He did not hear Genghis say to the warrior who bore the grisly severed head of Chamu Khan: “See that the skull is prepared and sheathed in silver, and set among the rest that were khans of tribes; when I fall I would wish my own skull treated with the same respect.”
Godric felt a firm grasp on his hand and looked into the steady eyes of Subotai, feeling a rush of friendship for the man that equaled his former rage.
“Erlik, what a man!” growled the chief. “We should be good comrades, Gurgaslan! Here – by the gods, man, you are sorely wounded! He swoons – get off his armor and see to his hurts, you thick-headed fools, do you want him to die?”
“Scant chance,” grinned Chepe Noyon, feeling his head tenderly. “Such men as he are not made to die from steel. Wait, you big buffalo, you’ll kill him with your clumsiness. I’ll bring one more fitted to attend him – one that was found being forcibly escorted out of Jahadur by the palace eunuchs. I saw her only five minutes agone and I am almost ready to cut your throat for her, Gurgaslan. Genghis, will you bid them bring the girl?”
Again Godric saw, as in a closing mist, two great dark eyes bend over him – he felt soft arms go about his neck and heard a sobbing in his ear.
“Well, Yulita,” he said as in a dream, “I went to Genghis Khan after all!”
“You saved Black Cathay, my king,” she sobbed, pressing her lips against his. Then while his dull head swam those soft lips were withdrawn and a goblet took their place, filled with a stinging wine that jerked him back into consciousness.
Genghis was standing over him.
“You have already found your queen, eh?” he smiled. “Well – rest of your wounds; I will not need your aid for some months yet. Marry your queen, organize your kingdom – there is a great army drawn up on the western border ready to your hand now that there is to be no invasion of your kingdom. It may be the western Turks will dispute your liegeship – you have but to send the word and I will send you as many riders as you need. When the desert grass deepens for spring, we ride into Greater Cathay.”
The khan turned on his heel and strode away and Godric gathered the slim form of Yulita into his weary arms.
“Wang Yin will wait long for his bride,” said he, and the laughter of Yulita was like the tinkle of the silvery fountains in the cherry blossom courts of Jahadur. And so the dream that had haunted Godric de Villehard of an Eastern empire woke to life.
Iron winds and ruin and flame, And a Horseman shaking with giant mirth; Over the corpse-strewn, blackened earth Death, stalking naked, came Like a storm-cloud shattering the ships; Yet the Rider seated high, Paled at the smile on a dead king’s lips, As the tall white horse went by.
I
The idlers in the tavern glanced up at the figure framed in the doorway. It was a tall broad man who stood there, with the torch-lit shadows and the clamor of the bazaars at his back. His garments were a simple tunic, and short breeches of leather; a camel’s-hair mantle hung from his broad shoulders and sandals were on his feet. But belying the garb of the peaceful traveller, a short straight stabbing sword hung at his girdle. One massive arm, ridged with muscles, was outstretched, the brawny hand gripping a pilgrim’s staff, as the man stood, powerful legs wide-braced, in the doorway. His bare legs were hairy, knotted like tree-trunks. His coarse red locks were confined by a single band of blue cloth, and from his square dark face, his strange blue eyes blazed with a kind of reckless and wayward mirth, reflected by the half-smile that curved his thin lips.
His glance passed over the hawk-faced seafarers and ragged loungers who brewed tea and squabbled endlessly, to rest on a man who sat apart at a rough-hewn table, with a wine pitcher. Such a man the watcher in the door had never seen – tall, deep-chested, broad-shouldered, built with the dangerous suppleness of a panther. His eyes were as cold as blue ice, set off by a mane of golden hair tinted with red; so to the man in the doorway that hair seemed like burning gold. The man at the table wore a light shirt of silvered mail, a long lean sword hung at his hip, and on the bench beside him lay a kite-shaped shield and a light helmet.
The man in the guise of a traveller strode purposefully forward and halted, hands resting on the table across which he smiled mockingly at the other, and spoke in a tongue strange to the seated man, newly come to the East.
This one turned to an idler and asked in Norman French: “What does the infidel say?”
“I said,” replied the traveller in the same tongue, “that a man can not even enter an Egyptian inn these days without finding some dog of a Christian under his feet.”
As the traveller had spoken the other had risen, and now the speaker dropped his hand to his sword. Scintillant lights flickered in the other’s eyes and he moved like a flash of summer lightning. His left hand darted out to lock in
