Older than the five sons of Alan Toa; older than the god Nata gai or the sword of the hero Afrasiab is the hunting-ground of the Dead World.

Skillful must the hunter be—wary, and mindful of the guiding star—or he will not come back from the Dead World.

Aye, he will join the thing that he hunts. And the game he seeks has been dead for ten thousand moons.

When the rising sun shone on the blue waters of Changa Nor, in the Year of Our Lord sixteen hundred and seven, Gurd the hunter set forth on his Summer hunt. He left the castle of Changa in a small boat which took him to the shore of the lake. On the shore he found his reindeer waiting.

By Gurd’s reckoning it was the Year of the Lion according to the Tatar calendar. Although the summits of the Khantai Khan mountains around Lake Nor were capped with snow, the sun still held its Midsummer warmth, and Gurd knew that the way to the Dead World, above Lake Baikal, was open.

Gurd was clean-limbed and massive of shoulder. He had the black hair, high cheekbones and sparkling black eyes of the Siberian Buriate Tatar. His head was shaved in front, allowing a long tress to fall back over one shoulder. His clear eyes, some-what slant, and white teeth bespoke youth.

He wore a reindeer jerkin, girded about the waist, with a quiver at his side. His baggy trousers of nankeen were tucked into horsehide boots. Although Gurd was young he looked to the saddling of his reindeer with the skill of an old hunter. His hands, veined and corded, revealed great physical strength. With-out these two qualities Gurd could not have gone as he had done

for the past five years into the northern hunting-ground and returned alive.

Gurd was not a hunter of sables or ermine. Nor did he follow the reindeer herds of the Baikal region. He was one of the few hardy spirits that went after the treasure of the Dead World, up the bank of the Lena to the Frozen Sea.

Taking a firm grasp on his staff, the brown-faced Tatar sprang nimbly into the saddle on the shoulders of one of the reindeer. At once the beast was in motion, the pack-reindeer following. The cloven hoofs of the animals made a clattering sound as they trotted with their peculiar swinging motion over the hard ground up the trail into the mountains.

When he had reached the pass where he had a last view of Changa and the lake, Gurd halted his mount and looked back. He caught the white flutter of a scarf waving from the battlements. A soft light came into his shrewd black eyes as he lifted his hand in answer before taking up his journey.

Gurd did not delay. He knew that he was late in starting on his hunt. The barriers of frost and snow would descend on the entrance to the Dead World within two months, and before that time he must be on his way home. By the time the sun had climbed the mountain summits he had vanished into the passes leading to the North.

But if he could have looked back at Changa he would have seen the white scarf still waving at intervals to speed him on his way.

II

The setting sun that day lighted the encampment of the Jun-gar Tatars by the Tula River, not far from Lake Baikal. Sunset was the signal for gathering the kurultai council. But no nacars were needed to summon the khans. For the encampment was small, and the council consisted of a scant half-dozen of the lords of Tatary—a remnant of the warriors who had held dominion over China, Tibet, Sogdiana, and Persia for centuries.

The council assembled in the pavilion of the Kha Khan, or White Khan, of the Jun-gar. This was a felt-covered tent erected on a large wagon. As the warriors entered they seated themselves, after greeting the Kha Khan, on bearskins ranged around the fire. Behind them the walls of the pavilion were hung with weapons and trophies of their recent victory—the last of its kind—over the Chinese at Shankiang.

Opposite the entrance to the tent sat the Kha Khan, a white-haired Cossack, keen-eyed and scarred of face, known to his enemies as the Wolf. Over Khlit’s knees lay the curved sword of Kaidu which had earned him his right to leadership of the khans.

On Khlit’s left sat Chepé Buga, a swarthy veteran of fifty battles, and a man quick of wit with tongue or sword.

On the right of the Kha Khan was Berang, the young khan of the Ordu horde. The khans of the Hoshot and Torgot tribes completed the circle. Opposite Khlit sat Lhon Otai, a shaman and leader of the priest-conjurers. By the entrance lounged the giant figure of Chagan, sword-bearer of the Kha Khan.

Grim men they were, hard riders and fighters. With the Kallmarks, their powerful neighbors, they formed the last of the race of Genghis Khan, conqueror of Asia. But today their faces were sullen and downcast. Chepé Buga puffed silently at his pipe, while Berang fumbled uneasily with his sword.

“We are like a herd of horned cattle, Khlit, lord,” spoke Chepé Buga at length, twisting his mustache, “with flocks of sheep pressing in on our pasture on all sides. Hey, soon there will not be room on the Tatar steppe for our horses’ dung!”

“Aye, that is true,” nodded Berang. “The tidings we have received today are that the Kallmarks are driving their herds over our southwest boundaries, near Khamil. And there are many horsemen in the Kallmark horde. Now they are quarrelsome, being more numerous than we are.”

“The Mings and Manchus,” added another khan, “have driven us from the dorok graves of our fathers by the great desert of Gobi,

to the river Kerulon and the Khantai Khan Mountains. They have killed many of us.”

“We can go no further north, Khlit, lord,” agreed Chepé Buga moodily, “for the frozen rivers of Baikal are near us, and the cattle cannot graze in the snow.”

Khlit smoked his black pipe silently, scanning the faces of his companions shrewdly. He understood their anger. The Tatar of the steppe must have freedom to rove, without tie of home or god; no intruder can take their lands. They looked to him for protection of their boundaries. He had aided them twice to defeat Chinese invaders of the steppe. But since then the strength of the khans had been diminished by the loss of the powerful Kallmark horde.

“Our lands,” he said slowly, “the lands of the Jun-gar which stretch from the desert of Gobi to Muscovy and from the white regions of the North to the Thian Shan Mountains, are the richest in the world for grazing and for hunting. I know, for I have seen the steppe of Russia, the fertile valleys of Persia, and the hinterland of Cathay. So long as we keep these lands we shall have large herds and plenty of food.”

“That may be, Khlit, lord,” spoke Berang respectfully. “But how shall we keep them, when the Keraits are driving their sheep over our boundary to the south, and the Muscovy soldiers and traders are at Tomsk? By the god Meik who watches over the forests we must give these Kallmark men a taste of sharp swords.”

“Aye,” growled another khan approvingly, “we will take their herds that have come over the boundary, and their widows will seek new husbands.”

“Our swords grow rusty, O Kha Khan,” broke in the mighty Chagan from the door. “Come, let us whet them up a bit with bones and blood.”

Khlit made no answer. He knew better than his companions the strength of the Kallmarks, whose territory was the heart of Asia. Furthermore they were allied to the men of Muscovy who were as numerous as the sands of the great desert. War with the

Kallmarks must be avoided at all cost. But how was he to keep the lands of the Jun-gar from invasion?

To gain time to think, he addressed Lhon Otai, the shaman, who had not yet spoken.

“What is your word, Lhon Otai?” he asked. “Do you also counsel war?”

The shaman’s shrewd eyes swept the circle. He was an old man and stout. The khans declared that he had the craft to coax a fish from a river. He was a leader of the shamans who played the double role of physician and priest to the tribes of central Asia.

“A shaman does not counsel war or peace, Khlit, lord,” he responded with a bow. “Truly we can heal the sick, or drive out unclean spirits by the aid of the god Natagai, as our fathers have done, or prophesy events that will come to pass—”

“Prophesy then, Lhon Otai,” demanded Chepé Buga, who was lacking in reverence, “how we may be rid of this plague of invaders. Come, give us a good prophecy!”

The khans muttered agreement. A frown passed swiftly over the shaman’s smooth brow. He stood up by the fire in his long fur robe ornamented with rabbits’ ears and walrus teeth.

“A prophecy!” chorused the khans, with the exception of Khlit. “Read us the future, O wise shepherd of the spirits.”

Lhon Otai made no response. He doffed his fur coat. Advancing to the half-circle of chiefs, he drew a long cord from his girdle. One end of this he gave to a khan. Then he passed the cord in a loop around his neck under the chin.

For a moment Lhon Otai stared mutely at the ridgepole of the tent. While the khans watched intently, he lay down full length on the ground. The remaining end of the cord, which was still around his neck, he tossed to Chagan, who took it gingerly. Lhon Otai now lay on his back, both arms extended wide.

Berang, who had witnessed many manifestations of the shaman, took the fur coat and laid it over the prostrate figure, which was now concealed except for the extended hands. The khans fell

silent. The heavy breathing of Lhon Otai raised and lowered the coat. The exposed hands clenched as if in suffering.

“See,” whispered Berang to Khlit, “the shaman is visiting the forest of Meik in spirit, where he learns wisdom of the king of the ravens. That is why his face is hidden—that we may not read his thoughts, whether good or ill. The ancient raven knows all that has happened, or will happen.”

The hands of Lhon Otai dug themselves into the rugs on the floor of the tent, and the shaman groaned. Chepé Buga watched the proceedings with a half-smile hidden under his black mustache, but the smile faded at a groan from the conjurer.

“That is the signal!” cried Berang. “Pull on the cord.”

Chagan and the khan who held the other end both tugged quickly on the cord. The rope appeared from under the coat, taut and whole. A sigh of amazement came from Berang, for the hands of the conjurer had not been lost to sight. The young khan rose and drew off the fur coat. Lhon Otai lay as if asleep, and his yellow face was pale.

“Presently,” whispered Berang again, “he will return from the spirit forest and will tell us the wisdom he has learned. Truly, he must have been among the spirits in the radiance of Begli the moon, for the cord cut through his neck.”

Khlit made no response and before long Lhon Otai sat erect, his eyes half closed.

“I have heard the words of the raven,” he chanted, “by the pine trees of Meik. The raven that has talked with Genghis Khan, of the Golden Horde, and with the five sons of Alan Goa. I have heard the sacred magpie fluttering in the trees by the tomb of Genghis Khan, the conqueror of the world. I bring a wisdom from the spirit world of Begli to the living paladins of Tatary. This is the wisdom.”

Lhon Otai paused, while the khans bent closer, and Chagan stared from the shaman to the cord.

“The land of the khans,” resumed Lhon Otai, “has been entered by strangers. But there is a way to drive them from the land of the Jun-gar. A day’s ride to the south from Lake Baikal, from

the three gods of Dianda, is the lake of Changa Nor. In the castle which stands in the middle of the lake there is a treasure. The khans must seize the castle, with its treasure. Then they can pay the Kallmarks to leave the land of the bowmen, and their boundaries shall be as before.”

Silence greeted the words of the shaman, broken by Berang.

“Aye, Lhon Otai,” he said respectfully, “there is a ruined castle that stands on some rocks in the waters of Changa Nor. I have heard it belongs to an ivory hunter. But I heard nothing of a treasure therein.”

“That may be,” broke in Chepé Buga, “for I have heard a similar tale. My father told it. There was a powerful kingdom to the south, ruled by a rich Gur-Khan in the time of Genghis Khan. The Gur-Khan was slain in a battle. But his treasure was not found. He had kept it in one of the castles. Speak, O gossiper with magpies and ravens, is this the treasure you would have us seek?”

Lhon Otai scowled, for Chepé Buga, who was one of the most powerful of the Tatars, treated him with scant reverence.

“You have seen, Chepé Buga, how true are the words of wisdom. Aye, this is the hoard of the Gur-Khan, watched over by a hunter named Gurd who is a solitary fellow of dark pursuits. He has gone on a hunt to the North and Changa castle may be easily seized. But the wisdom told me that it was guarded by evil spirits.”

“No doubt,” retorted Chepé Buga grimly, “it is well guarded or you would have had your claws in it before now.”

Lhon Otai pulled his fur robe about him and rose to his feet. The khans drew back at the dark glance he threw Chepé Buga. He bowed before Khlit.

“Go to Changa Nor, O Kha Khan,” he said firmly. “There you will find the aid you seek.”

Khlit, who was stroking the sword on his knees, did not look up.

“They are evil folk, I hear,” put in Berang. Unbuckling his gold-chased girdle, the khan tossed it to Lhon Otai. “Take this,

Shaman. There will be other rewards, of jewels when we find the treasure.”

“Aye,” muttered Chepé Buga, rising and stretching like a dog, “and there will be split bamboos for the soles of your fat feet if we do not find it, Shaman.”

With that the kurultai broke up. But Khlit remained in his tent in thought. The words of the shaman had touched a chord of memory. In his Cossack days he had heard of a kingdom like that of the Gur-Khan and a treasure. There had been tales of a rich monarch in Asia whose wealth had escaped search. But he could recall neither name nor place.

Khlit dismissed the matter from his mind with a grunt, re-solved that Changa Nor should tell him the truth, if there were truth, in the tale.

III

The second sun was high when Khlit, followed by Chagan and the khans with two hundred picked horsemen from the encampment, reached the summit of the hills around Changa Nor. Lhon Otai, at Chepé Buga’s request, had accompanied them.

They saw a blue lake, a scant half-mile in width, with a castle a short distance from the opposite shore. The castle, a square, massive structure, stood upon a stone foundation which rose a few feet above the surface of the lake sheer with the walls. There was no sign of a gateway, although narrow slits pierced the walls and the single tower.

A small boat was moored beside the castle, showing how the occupants gained the shore. But there was no sign of life about the place. The battlements of the keep and tower were in ruins, although the walls seemed solid enough.

“Hey, here is a fair stronghold to which you have brought us, Lhon Otai,” growled Chepé Buga. “Methinks it would take an army of sea serpents to seize it, or a regiment of harpies. Did the ancient raven croak to you how we were to take it, if perchance its people refuse surrender?”

“Nay, that is your business, not mine,” muttered the shaman. “Said I not, it was guarded by evil spirits?”

As the riders surveyed the scene its desolation impressed them. The snow-capped mountains in the background cast their reflection into the still waters of the lake. The shores were a wooded wilderness. The boat was the only indication of human beings about the place.

“It will take more than spirits, evil or otherwise,” retorted the Tatar, “to keep me out, if I choose to enter. By the same token, only a devil’s brood would infest such a place, where there are no horses or pastures.”

When they had gained the shore nearest the castle Khlit directed Berang to swim his horse out the short distance to the castle and demand that the place be opened to them and the boat sent ashore.

The young khan carried out his orders eagerly. He spurred his mount into the water and steered him toward the black bulk of the castle. The watchers saw him linger under the walls for a moment, his face turned up to the openings overhead. Then Berang slid from his saddle and swam alongside his horse back to shore.

The khan swaggered up to the group of horsemen, happy in the display he had made of his mount.

“Strange folk are those, Khlit, lord,” he made report. “I told them your word, but they answered that the castle would not yield. Then I swore that we would storm it, and the voice within cried that many who had tried to do that had died.”

“We have warned them,” said Khlit, “now we will take the castle.”

Berang cast a doubtful glance at the lake. He had seen no foothold in the smooth walls, slippery with moss, nor any door. Cannon would batter the place into submission, but the khans had no cannon. The walls were within long bow-shot. Yet there were no defenders visible to shoot at.

Khlit, however, soon showed how he meant to set about the attack. Under his direction the Tatars were divided into two par-ties. One, commanded by Chepé Buga, set about cutting down large pine trees with the axes they always carried at their saddles. The other party trimmed the fallen trees and rolled them to the water’s edge.

In a short time a sufficient number of pine trunks were assembled to bind together with strong vines and fibers into a raft, twenty paces square.

Not content with this, Khlit saw to it that certain trunks, tall and slender, were fastened in pairs and laid on the raft. The sun was low by the time this was done, so the Cossack ordered his followers to make camp for the night.

The men were veterans at warfare and lost no time in picketing their horses for the night. Fires were lighted and the warriors were soon toasting pieces of meat they had brought in their saddle bags at the flames, and sampling arak in high good humor at the prospect of an engagement on the morrow. Khlit meanwhile took Chepé Buga and Berang aside and gave them instructions.

Seventy picked men, he said, were to go on the raft at dawn and paddle to the castle, using branches as oars. The trimmed pines on the raft they were to raise against the battlements after the manner of storming ladders. Berang would have command of the raft.

The best archers under Chepé Buga were to line the heights along the shore and direct a flight of arrows against the battlements while the makeshift ladders were raised and the attackers swarmed up them.

The plan promised well, and fell in with the Tatars’ mood. They were awake before daybreak, armed and ready for the onset. The walls of the castle showed dark. Even when the raft was pushed out from shore and steered toward the castle there were no signs of life among the defenders.

Silently the raft was propelled nearer its object. It reached the rock foundation of the castle. Still there had been no sound from the walls. Khlit with his bowmen on the shore scanned the dark

bulk of the keep against the crimson of sunrise but saw nothing at which to direct their arrows. For the first time Khlit felt a pang of foreboding; he would have been better pleased if the walls had been manned with defenders.

Khlit was a Christian after the manner of the Cossacks and he had not been inclined to credit the shaman’s talk of evil spirits, or the warning from the castle of Changa. But he frowned as he watched the raft come to rest under the menacing walls, and the tree trunks raised against the battlements. Another moment and the Tatars would have been swarming up the improvised ladders. And then he saw a glint of light in one of the slits in the walls.

At the same instant a shout came from the men on the raft. The point of light grew to a strange flare. The watchers on the shore saw a weird thing. From the slit in the wall a curtain of fire descended on the raft. Flame and smoke cascaded down the raised tree trunks and ran along the surface of the raft.

The shout changed to a wild yell of pain. Khlit saw figures of men leaping from the raft into the water, and the tree trunks falling back into the lake. In a moment the raft was empty, save for the flickering flames and curling smoke.

At Khlit’s command a volley of arrows sped against the castle, only to rattle from the wall harmlessly. The flame torrent from the slit ceased, and he saw his men swimming toward shore. Using the tree trunks to keep them afloat, they were making their way slowly toward him. The walls of Changa showed dark and silent as before.

“Nay, Khlit, lord,” Berang stood before him, armor and clothing drenched, “it was death to stay on the raft. The flames caught even on green wood and leather garment. By the white falcon of Kaidu, we were near death! Some were burned but saved their lives by leaping in the lake. If it had not been for the tree trunks, we in armor would not have lived.”

“You did right to come back, Berang,” said Khlit, seeing the young khan’s shame at his retreat. “You could not guard against flames.”

Lhon Otai, the shaman, approached them with a triumphant smile.

“Said I not the place was infested with evil spirits, Khlit, lord?” he bowed. “The words of the raven were true.”

“Nay, Lhon Otai,” growled Chepé Buga, who had been watching the proceedings closely, “that was not demon-work, but fire. The stuff is made by Chinese fire-makers. I have seen it used before, in siege work.”

“Nevertheless,” retorted the shaman, “my prophecy was true. And you have not yet taken Changa Nor, in spite of your loud-tongued boasting.”

“Peace!” growled Khlit, seeing Chepé Buga flush dangerously. “Before we act further, we must know if there be truly a treasure in this hold.”

Chepé Buga stroked his mustache thoughtfully.

“Last night, O Kha Khan,” he said gruffly, “the old fellows among my men told me more of the tale of the Gur-Khan. When they heard we were to attack Changa Nor they were eager for the onset, because of the story of treasure. Many minstrels have sung of the Gur-Khan on their dom bras—the Gur-Khan who was the friend of Genghis Khan.”

Berang and his dripping warriors crowded close about the khans as Chepé Buga spoke, forgetful of their wet garments.

“The Gur-Khan,” resumed the veteran chief, “was a follower of a strange faith. He did not pour libations to Natagai or Meik of the forest, nor did he pray in the temple of Fo. So runs the tale. His daughter, who was also of his faith, married a strong warrior who kept the treasure safe. This treasure they cherished because it belonged to their god.”

“An evil demon,” amended Lhon Otai.

“Evil or not, the treasure was great. The grandfather of one of my minstrels has seen robes set with jewels of Persia, pearls and sapphires. And crowns of heavy gold with rubies. And the tale tells of a scepter of pure emeralds as large as a small sword. The

empire of the Gur-Khan has been scattered as the dust before the wind. But the treasure has been kept by his children.”

“The grandfather of my minstrel,” continued Chepé Buga carelessly, “swears that the treasure was last seen in the hands of the sixth in descent from the Gur-Khan, at a place which is called the Lake of Stones, by the Sea of Sand, north of the Thian Shan Mountains.”

“There is the lake!” cried Berang, pointing to the blue waters of Changa.

“And the Sea of Sand must be the great desert which lies not far from here,” added another warrior eagerly.

“It may be,” nodded Chepé Buga. “The minstrels tell of strange animals belonging to the Gur-Khan, of tame stags and gyrfalcons that needed no training to bring down herons for their masters. Also of beasts of the forest that once guarded the treasure.

“I care not for such tales; but here is wind of a goodly treasure. Moreover, there is Gurd, the hunter who brings sledloads of costly ivory to trade at Irkutsk, on Lake Baikal. Gurd lives at Changa Nor. Where does he get the ivory? Aye, by Afrasiab’s sword, I have a mind to see the vaults of Chang! I scent plunder here.”

“Nay, we have great need of such treasure,” put in Berang seriously. “For we must ransom our lands from the Kallmarks, with their Kerait and Muscovy rascals. We must take Changa Nor.”

“A hard lair to crack open!” Chepé Buga stroked his scarred chin thoughtfully. “We must assemble not one but four rafts, light smoke fires against the walls to blind the defenders and attack with all our strength.”

Khlit shook his shaggy head.

“That would cost us many lives—needlessly,” he objected. “Changa Nor may be taken in another way.”

The khans watched him expectantly. They had seen Khlit overthrow two Chinese generals by strategy, and they had firm confidence in the craft of the veteran Cossack.

“In two months it will be the time of frost and snow,” explained Khlit. “And the waters of Changa will be frozen. When the ice is thick enough to bear our men we can attack unseen in the dark or in a snowstorm and take the castle by surprise. We have too few horsemen to waste lives.”

Berang and Chepé Buga nodded in understanding. Truly, Khlit was a wise leader.

“But the Kallmarks,” objected Berang. “They will be advancing into our choicest grazing lands.”

“We will send an envoy to them, asking them to go back to the boundaries in peace. If they refuse, we will assemble our horse-men from the Jun-gar hordes. We will meet—all of our tribes—by the shore of Baikal. Then we will march south, taking Changa by surprise on the way, for the lake will then be frozen.”

“Ha, a good word, O Kha Khan,” grunted Chepé Buga, tapping his sword. “And the treasure of Changa Nor—”

A shout of approval greeted this, in which Berang joined heartily. The two magic words of treasure and battle spread through the assembled ranks of horsemen and made them forget their mishap of the morning. Once again Khlit had wrought a change of heart through his leadership.

But Khlit did not smile. He had little hope that the powerful Kallmarks would accept his offer of peace.

For the second time the memory of the Gur-Khan story troubled him. In Russia he had heard the tale of a treasure guarded by animals, belonging to a monarch who was a priest. Almost he recalled the name of the king—the words “Prester John” rose in his mind. He felt, however, that Lhon Otai, who knew the secrets of central Asia from the widespread shaman cult, could supply him with the name he sought.

Lhon Otai pushed through the throng.

“Wisely have you spoken, O Kha Khan,” he bowed, a smile on his thick lips. “But would it not be well to capture the hunter Gurd? He knows the secret of Changa Nor. Two days ago I have heard he left here for the North. He must pass through Irkutsk,

and he may be followed from there to the Dead World where he can be traced in the snow.”

“I will go after him,” ventured Berang quickly.

“Nay, Berang,” Khlit looked fondly on his youngest khan. “You must assemble the men of the Ordus for me.”

“Then I will bring you the demon hunter,” offered Chepé Buga, “bound and trussed to the reindeer they say he rides, like a sack of meal to a camel.”

A chorus of voices announced the willingness of the other horsemen to go in quest of the hunter who had a dark name in Tatary. But Khlit waved them aside.

“I have heard,” he said grimly, “that the hunter Gurd is in league with the powers of evil. You and I, men of the Jun-gar, do not fear the Rakchas or the demons of the icy caves of the dead. But we will send after Gurd a man who can meet his wiles with enchantments. This man shall pick a score of fleet horsemen. Lhon Otai will go.”

The shaman started and the glance he threw at Khlit was far from kindly. He protested that he was not a warrior, that his bulk would break the back of a horse. Berang and some of the Tatars objected that the shaman must remain with them. But Khlit was not to be moved. Lhon Otai and no other, he declared, must go after Gurd.

Chepé Buga, who was well pleased with the plight of the revered shaman, added his word to that of Khlit. So, when the khans left the shore of Changa Nor, they went in two parties. One returned to their encampment; the other, headed by Lhon Otai, wound into the passes leading to the North, in the tracks of Gurd, the hunter.

But as they entered the mountains one of the riders selected by Lhon Otai turned off, unseen by the others, to the south.

IV

For the second time in one day Gurd the hunter was puzzled. Halting his little cavalcade of reindeer at the summit of a pass,

he looked back the way he had come. He saw no one, heard no one. The rocky waste of the tundras of the Dead World lay behind him and on all sides. Barren hills thrust their summits through the scarred plain. But a mile behind him some rooks were circling over the pass he had taken. Not so long before, he had startled the rooks into flight. They had settled down again in the firs after his departure. Now they were again in flight.

There was nothing unusual in the flight of rooks. Save early that morning Gurd had looked back and seen some mountain goats bounding from their rocks an hour after he had passed. It was not likely that other hunters were passing that way, for it was near the bank of the Lena where few sables and lynxes were to be found.

Gurd cast a speculative glance at the tracks his reindeer made. The splay-footed beasts left clear prints in the moss and dirt. A clever hunter might easily follow such tracks. But why should anyone follow him?

A week before Gurd had left the three Dianda rocks on Lake Baikal and struck into the tundras which would lead him to the Lena. Already the silence and chill of the Dead World had closed around him. Until today he had thought he was alone in the nearby tundras. He urged on his reindeer thoughtfully. From time to time he stopped to change his saddle to another beast, to make better speed. And as he did so, he looked back. He saw nothing save the fir clumps and moss valleys of the waste land. By night-fall he was convinced that he had been mistaken in thinking others were near him.

Gurd was afoot an hour before sunrise. The sky to the north was aflicker with the reflection of the Northern Lights, the sparks from the anvil of the Cheooki gods, as the Yakut fur hunters had told him.

The cold stirred Gurd’s appetite but he contented himself with chewing a handful of cheese and drawn beef which he drew from his saddlebags. For the cold reminded him that he was still two days’ travel from his hunting-ground and Autumn with its heavy

snowfall was at hand. Already the messengers of frost were in the air.

Before noon that day the waters of the Lena appeared before him. Without hesitation Gurd drove the reindeer into the icy river, steeling himself against the chill of the water which came to his waist. Some seals which were sporting about the film of ice on the further bank dived into the water at his approach.

“Live well, brothers,” Gurd called to them gaily as he left the river. “It is not your pelts I seek.”

Humming to himself he sought the farther edge of the firs. Before plunging into the tundras again he looked back. He drew in his breath sharply.

Swimming the Lena at the point where he had crossed he saw a score of horsemen. From their caps he made out that they were Tatars, not Yakuts. He waited to see if they would attempt to kill the tempting seals which were swimming near. They paid no attention to the animals.

Gurd’s keen black eyes scanned them as they disappeared into the firs. Here were Tatars who had not the bearing of hunters. Moreover they seemed to be following in his tracks.

After a moment’s deliberation, Gurd turned the head of his reindeer aside into the firs and took up another course. His impassive olive face betrayed no surprise at what he had seen. A life of battling with cold and hunger, with the relentless forces of the Dead World, and with the hatred of men had steeled him to hardship and tempered his courage.

On the summit of a hillock some distance on, he looked back. The riders had come to the point where he turned aside. After a moment’s delay, he saw them take the course he had followed. He knew now that they were after him.

Gurd wasted no time in wondering why he was pursued. All his life the hand of other Tatars had been against him. Against him and the others of Changa Nor.

He urged his reindeer to greater speed, at the same time realizing how hard it would be to outdistance the horsemen. The

reindeer could go no faster than their swinging trot, and the pack animals must be whipped on continually.

At the edge of a clearing he looked back and saw that his pursuers were a scant half-mile behind. Moreover they had sighted him now, and were heading straight for him. But Gurd saw that the shadows were lengthening and the Northern night was at hand.

He drew his reindeer farther into the firs where the ground showed tracks less easily and where he was lost to sight. He could hear the horsemen crashing through the underbrush and guessed that they had divided in seeking him.

Gurd was now in his own hunting-ground, which was familiar to him, and he was able to dodge the riders until twilight had veiled his tracks. The sound of pursuit lessened and he guessed that the others had assembled. He led the reindeer a short distance further to avoid the chance of being found by accident in the night, and tied them fast. Then he sat down and made a hearty meal—not before he had seen that his beasts were fed and their packs removed. With a grunt of satisfaction he caught sight of a gleam of fire back in the woods.

When the Northern Lights began flickering in the sky Gurd left his reindeer and advanced cautiously in the direction of the fire. Slipping from fir to fir silently he soon arrived outside the circle of firelight.

Here he crouched and watched. He saw a dozen Tatars stretched out asleep in their cloaks. Others were sitting by the blaze drinking arak and tossing dice. Apart from the rest was a fat man in a costly fur robe adorned with bears’ claws. Him Gurd scanned thoughtfully.

The Tatars paid no heed to him, and he could have shot arrows into the group from the bow at his back with impunity. But such was not Gurd’s plan. He waited until others of the men had dropped off to sleep.

Placing his hands to his mouth Gurd made a peculiar croaking sound. A second time he did this. One of the men raised his head sleepily.

“Go yonder, Lhon Otai,” the Tatar chuckled, “your brother the raven calls you into the forest. Perhaps he will tell you where the rascal Gurd is hiding.”

The shaman made no response. But again came the croaking summons from the forest. Lhon Otai turned his heavy head and scanned the trees from slant eyes. He saw nothing. At a third summons, he got to his feet with a sigh and made his way into the wood.

Gurd watched his coming intently. Drawing a heavy knife from his girdle he crept into the path of the shaman and waited. Lhon Otai halted and he repeated the raven’s croak very softly. Lhon Otai stepped forward.

As he did so a dark figure rose up before him. He felt himself gripped by the shoulders and something cold pressed against his sleek throat under the chin. His squeal of alarm ended in a gurgle.

“Be silent, Shaman,” a voice hissed in his ear, “and come with me. If you make a sound, my brothers the wolves will feast well from your carcass.”

The shaman shivered. He threw a longing glance in the direction of the fire. Then, impelled by whisper and dagger’s prick, he stepped forward, feeling his way slowly through the pines in the direction Gurd indicated.

When they came to the reindeer, the hunter released Lhon Otai for a moment. He returned with a stout cord. With this he bound the shaman to a tree trunk.

“Harken, Shaman,” he whispered, “you came to find a raven and you found a man who has no love for you or your kind. You are afraid of me now. Presently you shall fear more. Watch.”

Gurd crouched beside his prisoner. Placing his hands to his mouth he uttered a shrill wail. He repeated the call and waited.

Lhon Otai watched him as well as he could by the flickering lights in the sky. Then Lhon Otai grunted with terror.

A pair of green eyes gleamed from the darkness in front of him. The eyes stared at him, unblinkingly. He heard the reindeer scuffling in fright. Gurd laughed.

“That is my cousin, the lynx, Lhon Otai,” he whispered. “He has learned to come to me for meat. He would find rare picking in your fat carcass.”

The shaman shivered, and strained against his bonds. But Gurd laughed softly and tossed a piece of meat from his bags toward the eyes. There was a soft pad-pad of feet in the darkness and the lynx disappeared.

“You are crafty, Lhon Otai,” cautioned the hunter, “but loosen not your cords. Or my cousin yonder will be upon your back.” The shaman needed no further warning to remain passive, even after Gurd had vanished in the shadows. He did not doubt that Gurd held power over the beasts of the tundras. He had heard tales of the hunter of the Dead World, who rode upon reindeer. He cursed the drunkenness of his men, and Khlit, who had sent him on this quest.

It was near daybreak when Gurd returned. Lhon Otai heard the trampling of a large beast accompanying the hunter and he shivered anew. But Gurd’s speech relieved him.

“Here is a horse for you to ride, Shaman,” he grunted. “You would break the back of my reindeer. I will tie you to the saddle. Hey, if you try to flee I will bury the feathers of an arrow in your kidneys. Come!”

When the shaman was mounted and the hunter had loosened his reindeer the two set off in the half-light of dawn through the forest. Lhon Otai cast a vengeful glance in the direction of the Tatar encampment.

“Your fellows will not follow us, Shaman,” laughed Gurd, who had caught the glance. “For their horses are well on the way to the Lena, and they cannot catch us afoot. I have seen to it.”

Lhon Otai smothered a curse. Truly this hunter was in league with the evil spirits of the forest, if not with Meik himself. For, single-handed and armed only with a bow and knife, he had out-witted a score of horsemen of the khans.

V

“And now, Lhon Otai—if that be your name—you can tell me whence you and your men come, and why you follow me into the Dead World.”

As Gurd spoke, his clear black eyes scanned the shaman thoughtfully. They were camped for the night well beyond reach of the dismounted Tatars, in a grotto by a small stream in the waste country. Around them reared a nest of rocky hillocks, barren even of firs. The cold wind of the North searched the ravine where they were and fanned the fire Gurd had lighted. The hunter, however, seemed to know his way. He had led them with-out hesitation to the grotto. Lhon Otai bethought him swiftly.

“We came, I and my men,” he explained, “from the khans of the Jun-gar. Khlit, the Kha Khan, ordered that you be brought to him. He has heard tales of your hunting.”

Gurd, busy toasting meat on a wooden spit, made no response.

“I did as the Kha Khan bade me,” went on Lhon Otai. “We learned the course you had taken from the hamlet of Irkutsk. Then hunters told us you had been seen heading for the Lena. Before long my men found the trail of your reindeer.”

Still Gurd was silent.

“We heard you had left Changa Nor,” the shaman said uneasily. “But we meant not to harm you.”

Gurd bared his teeth, but he did not laugh.

“My cousin the lynx, O Shaman,” he said softly, “has followed us, unseen by you. He is near by, in the rocks, sniffing at the roasting meat. Shall I call him? Or will you tell me truth instead of lies? In a month I would return to Irkutsk with ivory. The Kha Khan could have found me then. Why did he send after me to the North? What were you doing near Changa Nor?”

The shaman threw a fearful look at the rocks behind him.

“What do I know of the will of the khans?” he whined. “Did I come willingly to the North? Nay, Khlit has a mind to Changa Nor and what it hides. He has been there with his horsemen—”

A change came over the impassive face of the hunter. His eyes narrowed in anger, and his heavy hand clutched the spit.

“Who brought the khans to Changa Nor?” he cried. “Come, speak—”

“They attacked the castle, Gurd,” ventured Lhon Otai shrewdly, “and because of the accursed fires that drove them away, Khlit set a price on your head. Aye, and he bade me seek you, thinking that I might die thereby.”

“The fires,” quoth Gurd with a laugh, “guard well Changa castle and what is within. Truly then, this Khlit loves you not, Lhon Otai?”

The shaman’s thick lips twisted in a snarl. Memory of the long feud between himself and the Cossack rankled. In his anger he spoke what he had long kept secret. Yet he spoke not unknowingly, for he was shrewd and Gurd might serve him.

“Aye,” he responded, “the Kha Khan is my foe. Once I saw the gold cross he carried on a chain about his neck. The khans know it not, but he is a caphar, a Christian. He is hated of the god Natagai whose priest I am.”

“A Christian?” Gurd surveyed his companion thoughtfully. “You know it?”

“Aye. But so great is Khlit’s skill in war that the blind fools of the Jun-gar hold him in awe.”

Gurd turned his spit slowly, while Lhon Otai watched.

“Men have told me, Lhon Otai, that Khlit is a paladin among warriors. Yet he did not come to Changa Nor to sport with fire. Why, therefore?”

The shaman leaned closer.

“Khlit has wind of the treasure of Changa Nor, Gurd—such a treasure as Tatary knows not. He has heard the old tale of the Gur-Khan. I, too, have heard the tale, through my priests. Harken,

hunter. You know what truth there is in the story. Tell me what you know. I can reward you.”

Gurd’s level brow darkened, and he ceased turning the spit.

“Open the door of Changa castle to me,” pursued Lhon Otai, “when I come with my friends, and you will not lack for jewels, hunter. It is better that I should have the treasure than the caphar, Khlit.”

“So you have friends, Lhon Otai?” Gurd asked softly. “Berang and Chepé Buga? The khan of the dark face is second to Khlit in power.”

“Nay, Chepé Buga’s wit lies in his sword. He is an honest dolt—”

The shaman broke off. Gurd had shown no liking for his words. He strove in vain to read the expressionless face of the hunter. But Gurd kept silence while they ate. Afterward, he bound Lhon Otai.

“Tomorrow, Lhon Otai,” the hunter said, “you will see a hunt in the Dead World.”

Again, Lhon Otai wondered. What manner of hunt was this, in the waste of tundras? He slept little that night. When he looked beyond the circle of fire he saw green eyes staring at him unblinkingly and remembered that Gurd’s cousin had had no meat that night.

Gurd set out early the next day afoot, leading the three pack-reindeer. Lhon Otai followed him curiously. The hunter had his bow slung over his back, and he walked carelessly, looking about him as if seeking for landmarks. Never had Lhon Otai seen a hunt begin as this one.

The place, too, was barren of game. A keen-eyed falcon could not have spied a rabbit or wild mountain sheep. It was desolate of vegetation, save for stunted larches and the dry moss that the reindeer fed upon. Lhon Otai panted as he stumbled over the rocks, but Gurd walked swiftly ahead, casting anxious glances at the overcast sky which foretold snowfall.

As they advanced Lhon Otai became aware of a peculiar odor. Dry and stringent, it resembled the smell of dead things. Gurd paid no heed to it, but pressed on. The odor grew, and Lhon Otai shivered, for he liked it not.

At the side of a nest of rocks Gurd paused and tied the reindeer. He pointed beyond the rocks.

“Here is the hunting-ground of the Dead World, Lhon Otai,” he said grimly. “And the game of ten thousand moons.”

Urged by his curiosity the shaman advanced beyond the rocks. Then he halted in amazement.

Before him stretched a plain. It was void of vegetation. But in the ground were heaps of white bones. And the bones were gigantic. He made out skulls measuring the height of a man in width.

The strange odor assailed him more strongly. It went up his nostrils to his brain, and Lhon Otai shivered. For the bones he saw were not those of ordinary animals. They were many times the size of a horse. A single jawbone at his feet was too heavy for him to lift. Tusks projected from the half-buried skulls to twice the height of a man.

“The bones of elephants!” he cried to Gurd, who was watching him.

The hunter shook his head.

“Nay, saw you elephants with tusks like those? These beasts belong to another time. I heard the story in Irkutsk of giant tusks along the frozen rivers and years ago I found this spot. Here is ivory without end. It is yellow with age. But it is choice, and more valuable than that of the Asia elephants. See.”

He advanced to a nearby skeleton. With the heavy hatchet he carried he cut at the socket of one of the tusks. A few moments’ wielding of the ax loosened the tusk, and Gurd brought it back to the shaman. It was seared with age, but of massive ivory, and weighty.

“These are the mamuts, Lhon Otai,” said Gurd gravely. “The beasts that lived before the time of Genghis Khan, or the Chris-

tian prophets. A herd of them must have died here, perhaps frozen to death in the ice.”

Lhon Otai touched the tusk gingerly, muttering a charm as he did so against evil spirits. He knew now where Gurd got his ivory that he sold at Irkutsk. But his fear of the hunter was not diminished. Here was a man who entered unafraid the burial-place of the past and held communion with beasts of the forest. Surely he must be guided by evil spirits, or he would be afraid.

Gurd wasted no more time in talk. By hard work he had enough of the tusks to load the three pack-reindeer by noon. A cold wind had sprung up and scattering flakes of snow were falling. Knowing the danger of being caught in these regions by the Autumn snow, Lhon Otai helped the hunter break camp and take up the journey to the south. More than once, however, he cast uneasy glances at the giant tusks which he held to be things of ill omen and hateful to Meik, the deity of the forests.

The next day they were well on their way back to the Lena’s bank. The first snowfall had whitened the ground, but the day was clear. So clear that Lhon Otai made out a score of dark figures crossing a plain in front of them, heading not toward the south, but west. These, he knew, were his late companions, now seeking their way homeward afoot.

Gurd halted his reindeer when he sighted them.

“They have lost their way,” cried Lhon Otai, with a swift glance at Gurd. “If they follow their course they will go further into the Dead World and perish at the hands of the Cheooki gods. Warn them to turn south.”

“How may that be done?” Gurd’s black eyes held no sympathy. “They would send an arrow through my jerkin if I came near enough to speak to them. And the sun will guide them.”

“Nay, Gurd,” objected Lhon Otai, “the sun is veiled by the clouds. The cold grows daily. The wolf packs will begin to hunt soon. They will die if you do not warn them to go back and follow the river south.”

Gurd hesitated.

“You will be safe on the reindeer,” urged the shaman. “And they will not dare to shoot at you for fear of hitting me.”

Gurd set the reindeer in motion toward the men reluctantly. The Tatars had seen them, and halted.

Ta tar song.

Unnoticed by Gurd the shaman drew his horse behind the mount of the hunter. The men were coming toward them eagerly. Gurd could see their faces, drawn with hunger. He halted a good distance away.

“This will do,” he said. “Do you call to them, and waste no breath.”

The shaman waved his hand to attract the attention of the men, whom Gurd was watching keenly for signs of an arrow fitted to bow. Apparently without intent the shaman urged his horse beside the hunter.

Then, seizing a moment when Gurd was not watching him, Lhon Otai flung his great bulk from his horse upon Gurd. The weight of the shaman and Gurd’s sudden twist in the saddle as he turned too late to avoid the other sent the reindeer stumbling to its knees. Hunter and shaman rolled to the snow.

A shout went up from the Tatars, who broke into a run when they saw what had happened. They were still some two hundred paces away, but Gurd was helpless under the weight of his foe. His bow had slipped from his back in the fall, and he was unable to reach his knife.

Abruptly, Lhon Otai felt Gurd go limp in his grasp. A shrill wail echoed from the hunter’s lips. Lhon Otai had heard such a call before and in sudden alarm he glanced over his shoulder.

From some rocks a few feet away bounded the gray form of a lean lynx. Gurd’s friend of the tundras had heard the call which meant food to him, and he had not eaten for three days. Lhon Otai shivered with terror, for the Tatars were still too far away to aid him. Loosening his grip of the hunter he sprang to his feet, grasping at the stirrup of his horse, which was dancing in terror.

At once Gurd was on his feet. A swift glance at the approaching men warned him of his peril. He leaped into the saddle of the reindeer which had recovered its balance while the two men were on the ground.

“That was an ill deed, Lhon Otai,” he growled, “and I will not forget.”

Wheeling his mount he bent low to avoid the arrows which the Tatars sped after him. The reindeer trotted swiftly out of range, but the pack animals, which tried to follow, fell under the arrows. The gray lynx hesitated, snarling. Then it bounded after Gurd, and in a moment hunter, reindeer and lynx were lost to sight in the firs.

VI

What is the measure of a warrior?

Is it the strong sword, with finely jeweled hilt; or the well-balanced spear with gleaming point that can shear through silvered mail? Is it the war horse that spurns the earth and pants in eagerness for battle?

Is it the chased armor, spoils from slain enemies, renowned in minstrel’s song? Or the crafty brain, quick to devise stratagems of war?

Nay, it is the heart beneath the mail! Tartar song

Khlit, the Kha Khan, surnamed the Wolf, followed far the chase over the snow-covered ground. A pair of leopards with dragging leash sped before him, their black noses close over the tracks of a deer. Khlit had left the other horsemen behind and galloped close after the leopards, through the pine forest of Khantai Khan, near Changa Nor.

But the eyes of the Cossack were not on the trained leopards. The reins hung loose on the neck of his horse, which followed the beasts from habit. He paid no heed to an unhooded falcon which clutched the glove on his wrist and flapped encouragement to the leopards.

Khlit’s mind was heavy with care. Nearly two months had passed since he had left Changa Nor after the unsuccessful assault. His envoy had returned from the invading Kallmarks with

the reply he expected—an insolent refusal to leave the lands of the Jun-gar.

Chepé Buga and Berang had been exerting every effort to gather the fighting men of the hordes together. But they had been strangely unsuccessful. The warriors told them that the Winter season was at hand, when their flocks and herds must be guarded against the wandering wolf packs that came south in the track of the reindeer herds. The men of the Ordus and Chakars seemed to have lost heart for fighting. Khlit had never known them to hold back before when a battle was in the wind. Vainly his shrewd mind sought for the cause.

The encampment at Lake Baikal numbered fewer fighting men than in the Summer. And the Kallmarks were advancing, driving their herds and taking possession of the stores of hay and grain the Jun-gar Tatars had laid up for the Winter.

The shamans who held great power among the Tatars were loath to help Khlit assemble his regiments because he had sent Lhon Otai to the North, whence the leader of the con jurers had not yet returned.

Although the ice was forming over Changa Lake, Khlit had not dared to venture the assault of the castle until he had more men under his command. The few who had been held together by Chepé Buga, Berang, and the mighty Chagan had been filled with stories of the treasure they were to seize at Changa Nor. Khlit dared not fail of taking the castle. He dreaded to think that it might not hold the wealth they suspected. Yet evidence had been flowing in from all quarters of the treasure. Fishermen on Changa Lake had heard of it. Old men had seen caskets carried there.

Khlit was aroused from his reverie by a whimper of eagerness from the leopards. The lithe beasts had swung into a fast run that pressed his horse to keep up. Khlit, searching the tracks they were following, thought that he noticed a difference in them. The next moment he reined in his horse sharply.

From behind the trunks of two giant trees in front of him, a rider had stepped out. Khlit saw a tall man, closely wrapped in a malitza of lynx skin, with the hood drawn over his head. The face was veiled by the hood, but Khlit saw a firm mouth and a pair of steady, dark eyes. He noted that the man carried no weapon save a large hunting knife, and that he appeared careless of the leopards which had drawn back, snarling when they scented the man.

The stranger was mounted on a reindeer, and Khlit guessed swiftly that the leopards had been following the latter, having changed from the tracks of the deer to fresher scent. He uttered a sharp word of command to the crouching beasts, and walked his horse forward slowly, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The brown-faced man raised a mittened hand, the fringe of his glove ornamented with reindeer ears. Khlit waited.

“My name is Gurd, the hunter,” the stranger spoke in a deep voice.

“I am Khlit, called by my enemies the Wolf,” answered the Kha Khan at once.

“Aye,” said Gurd, “I saw you lead the hunt and crossed the tracks of your quarry, for you were alone.”

Khlit’s shrewd glance swept the near-forest for signs of a possible ambush and rested, reassured, on the hunter. The two men measured each other with frank curiosity. Gurd marked the rich sable cloak of the Kha Khan, the copper and silver chasing of his saddle, and his deep-set eyes under tufted brows. He appreciated the ease with which the old Cossack sat his horse, the smooth play of his broad shoulders.

On his part Khlit scanned the frank face of the hunter, his simple attire, and noted the boldness of his bearing. Being armed, he had Gurd at his mercy. Silently he waited for the other to speak.

“I have come unarmed,” began Gurd in his deep voice, “to take you to Changa Nor. There is one at Changa Nor who must see the

Kha Khan of the Jun-gar. Your men have hunted me through the Dead World. Yet I have come unarmed to bear you this message.” Khlit’s mustache twitched in a hard smile.

“Does a wolf put his head into the noose of a trap, hunter?”

“No harm will come to you, Khlit. Would I risk my life to speak to you if the need were not great? Nay, if you do not come, your sorrow will be greater than that of one who has killed his father by mischance, or broken his sword in dishonor.”

“Hey, that is strange!” Khlit regarded his companion curiously. “Who is the one who sent you?”

Gurd hesitated.

“The master of Changa Nor, O Kha Khan. By the token around your neck, he said that you would come.”

Khlit put his hand to his throat. Under the svitza he felt the outline of the gold cross he always wore. Was this the token? There were few who knew Khlit was a Christian. Who was the master of Changa Nor? He was eager to know, and to see the inside of the lonely castle.

“Lead on, rider of stags,” he laughed lightly. “To the devil himself——”

VII

At one of the embrasures of Changa Nor stood a young girl. She was slender and straight, with round, strong arms and twin braids of red-gold hair bound at her forehead by a fillet of pearl. Her dark eyes were fixed on the shore. Her skin was olive, deepened by the sun’s touch.

She leaned anxiously against the heavy stones of the embrasure, her delicate face thrust into the opening, peering out to the pines. At times she turned and glanced with a pretty, impatient frown at the sand clock in the chamber. Once a high voice from another room startled her. She listened a moment, and then, as if satisfied, returned to her watch.

The shadows were long from the pines on the shore when she made out two dark figures that rode down to the shore. Dismounting, the two men advanced out on the ice toward the cas-

tle. Pausing a moment to make sure that she was not mistaken in them, she left the embrasure and turned to the wall of the chamber.

Her fingers feeling deftly over the stone of the wall moved two sturdy iron bars from their rest with the ease of habit. These she laid aside. Clutching an iron lever that projected from the stone, she hung the weight of her slender body on this, moving it downward. At once two stone blocks to the height of a man swung inward, leaving space for a person to enter with difficulty.

The opening was blocked by a human form and in another moment Gurd the hunter stood within the chamber. He looked at her quickly and nodded as if in answer to an unspoken question. She flushed with pleasure and watched the tall figure of Khlit enter the room.

The Cossack glanced about him curiously, his hand on his sword. He looked only casually at the girl in spite of her beauty. She turned away at once, readjusted the stone blocks. The heavy bars, however, she did not replace, in her hurry to follow the men.

The three, led by Gurd, went from the chamber which acted as an anteroom into the long hall of the castle. An old servant in a faded leather jerkin bowed before them.

“Tell Atagon,” commanded Gurd of the man, “that the Kha Khan is here.”

Khlit glanced at the empty hall, with its faded tapestries and heavy furniture. The place had an air of antiquity, heightened by its silence. The hall stretched the entire length of the castle, and was lighted only by the narrow embrasures under which a gallery ran, as if for archers to stand, by the openings. The Cossack knew that the castle dated from many generations ago.

“A lonely place!” he grunted. “Where are the demons who tipped hell-fire on my men?”

Gurd smiled and pointed after the old servant.

“There is one of the demons, Gutchluk, the ancient,” he said, “and here is the other—Chinsi, the granddaughter of Atagon.

When I am away from Changa Nor these two guard the castle, as you have seen.”

Khlit glanced from Gurd to the slender, golden-haired girl. “Devil take the place!” he swore. “A bed-ridden slave and a half-weaned girl! Nay, that cannot be.”

“It is so, lord,” the girl’s musical voice made answer. “Gurd has taught us to prepare and cast the Chinese fire from the window slits. Atagon brought the fire here for our protection, but he is too old—”

Gurd held up his hand for silence. He stepped to the side of the hall and drew back the tapestry that concealed another chamber.

“Here, O Kha Khan,” he said slowly, “you shall learn the secret of Changa Nor. Truly, the secret belongs to you, as well as to us. Come.”

Curiously, Khlit glanced from Gurd to Chinsi. The hunter’s face was impassive, but the girl’s eyes were alight with eagerness, and a kind of fear. Without hesitation Khlit stepped under the tapestry. He halted abruptly within the chamber.

It was a narrow room, scarcely illumined by the embrasure. A long table ran across the chamber in front of him. A single candle and a parchment were on the table.

By the candle Khlit saw the figure of an old man, in a long robe of white camel’s-hair. The hood of the robe was thrown back, and he had a full view of the face of the man. He saw a high forehead, fringed with snowy hair, a pair of steadfast eyes, and a pale, lined countenance. A long beard, pure white in color, fell over the robe to the black girdle around the waist.

A rush of memory took Khlit back to the Cossack camp he had quitted many years ago. He had seen men like these, at the monastery of the Holy Spirit.

For a long moment the eyes of the Kha Khan and the man in the white robe challenged each other. The fierce gaze of the Cossack was fairly met by the mild light in Atagon’s deep-set eyes.

“Welcome, Christian warrior—” Atagon raised a withered hand in greeting—“Changa Nor. Long has Atagon, of Changa,

been waiting your coming. God, through his servant Gurd, has led you to our gate, in the time of our need.”

Incredulity and belief struggled in Khlit’s mind. Atagon had spoken as a priest, haltingly as if using a language long unfamiliar. And Khlit had not revealed the fact that he was a Christian. But his gesture was that of a batko, a father-priest of the Orthodox Church.

“I am Atagon,” the calm voice of the priest went on, “and so the Christians of my little flock call me. But I was baptized under the name of John, and I am presbyter of the church.”

The two words stirred anew Khlit’s memory. Presbyter John. Where had he heard that phrase before? The answer to his question came to him in a flash.

“Presbyter John!” he cried. “Prester John, of Asia. The king who was sought by missionaries! The guardian of hidden treasure, and the keeper of strange beasts—”

He had remembered the name of the king he had forgotten. The story of Prester John and the treasure had spread through Europe centuries ago. But the mythical king had never been seen. Was the aged Atagon the true descendant of Prester John? The monarch of the hidden treasure?

Atagon shook his head solemnly.

“Not Prester John, my son. But Presbyter. Your words are strange. I know nothing of treasure, or of beasts. I am the guardian of the Christian shrine of Cathay, beside the Sea of Sand.”

Again Khlit was stirred. The Sea of Sand! Chepé Buga had mentioned that. And the Lake of Stones, which must be Changa Nor. Here was the place that the legend had named. Surely Atagon was Prester John!

“I see you are troubled with doubt, my son,” smiled the patriarch. “Come, I will show you proof. You speak of treasure. There is no pagan gold on Changa Nor, but a treasure more precious. See.”

Getting to his feet Atagon took up a staff which was fashioned like a shepherd’s crook. He walked slowly to another door of the

chamber which he pushed open, motioning for Khlit to follow. A light from the interior shone on his majestic face.

Khlit stepped beside the patriarch, and caught his breath in amazement. He stood in a shrine of the Christian church. In front of him candles glowed before an icon, a painting of Christ and the Virgin Mary; myriad gems sparkled from the frame of the icon. Below the painting stood a small cross. Khlit saw that it was a single stone, an emerald which shone with a soft light. He thought of the emerald scepter that the Tatars had said was in Changa Nor.

On a table in front of the icon were several jeweled caskets of lapis lazuli set with rubies. The candlesticks were gold, with jade blocks for their bases. Silk vestments hung from the walls, embroidered with gold and silver thread. Also a girdle with a clasp brilliant with diamonds.

The patriarch crossed himself. Khlit, in obedience to an old impulse, removed his fur cap.

“The treasure of the Gur-Khan,” he muttered. “Aye, the legend was true.”

VIII

A quick frown crossed Atagon’s tranquil features.

“Nay, my son,” he corrected, “the shrine of God in a pagan land. These riches are the offerings of the Gur-Khan to God, and their contents are the true treasures. The painting comes from Constantinople. The caskets shelter a portion of the garment of St. Paul, the wanderer, and a finger with a lock of hair of the blessed St. Thomas.”

He motioned for Khlit to approach the shrine. The Cossack did so fearlessly. At the same time, his heart was heavy. Here was indeed a treasure, such as the khans were seeking. But it was a treasure of the church. And Khlit was a Christian.

“Harken, Kha Khan,” spoke Gurd from the doorway, “said I not you must come to Changa Nor? The Tatars have wind of these riches and they plan to despoil the shrine of Atagon. They are pagans and care naught for the sacred relics, or for the holy

cross. That was why I sought you, at the hunt. You can protect Changa Nor.”

Khlit was silent, under the eyes of the three Christians. He had promised his men the treasure of Changa Nor. Khlit’s life as a Cossack was past. He was now the leader of the khans. They had fought with him. His word was law in the horde. And he had promised them the riches of Changa Nor.

“Tell me,” he said slowly, “is this truly the treasure of the Gur-Khan?”

Chinsi stepped forward.

“Father Atagon,” she said, “knows the story of the treasure. But he does not know what the Tatars say of the legend. Gurd has told me. The Tatars say that centuries ago a Gur-Khan hid his treasure where it could not be found, by a sea of sand and a river of stones. They say it is guarded by fierce beasts.”

“Aye,” assented Khlit grimly, “that is what they told me.”

The patriarch bowed his head in thought, stroking his beard gently.

“I will give you the answer you seek to your questions, my children,” he observed at length. “Truly, I have heard the story of the beasts. The first presbyter told it to his successor. Considering it in the light of the holy word, I think it means that the beasts of the forest might, by the power of God, seek to guard the chosen ones of the true faith. Was it not so with Daniel and the lions?

“As to the story of the Gur-Khan,” he went on, “it is true. The first Gur-Khan was converted by a presbyter from Europe— Olopan, who came from Judea. Obeying the mandates of a higher will, he turned his pagan treasures into offerings to God—as you see.” He waved a white hand at the shrine and the table. “And so the treasure became hidden from the evil ones who sought it. The Gur-Khan was killed, and his empire broken up, in battle. But his daughter, who was a Christian, survived and hid in the castle of Changa Nor, with the treasure of the church, accompanied by the presbyter and a few knights. Before the presbyter died, he

ordained the most worthy of the knights to be his successor. And that patriarch in turn selected one to succeed him.”

Atagon took the hand of the girl fondly.

“Behold, Kha Khan, the last princess of the line of the Gur-Khan, Chinsi, the golden-haired. And I, Atagon, am the last of the patriarchs. Truly my flock is small. For save Gurd, who ministers to our needs, there are only a few wandering Nestorians from Hsi’en-fu, in Shensi, who visit Changa Nor. It is they who spread the story of a treasure.”

“Aye, Father,” grunted Khlit, “your fame is great, although you know it not. For you are the one men have sought by the name of Prester John. But the Tatars of the Jun-gar do not bow to the name of God. Their shamans say that Gurd is a hunter guided by an evil spirit; and that Changa Nor is a refuge of the devil himself, with all his brimstone.”

“Nay, Kha Khan,” Gurd showed his white teeth in a smile. “That is because I fetch mamut tusks from the Dead World, where Tatar hunters go not. And the shamans call this a haunt of the devil, for they have tried for many years to take our treasure. Lhon Otai’s palms itch for these jewels.”

“That is not all, O Kha Khan,” cried the girl defiantly. “Gurd, who brings us candles and firewood with food and drink, has fought for his life against the shamans more than once. He brought you here at peril of death, for the Tatar warriors have been told he is a son of the werewolves, an evil spirit.”

“No matter, Chinsi,” laughed Gurd lightly, “now that I have brought you a better protector. Khlit, the Kha Khan, will guard us, for he is also a Christian.”

The eyes of the patriarch sought Khlit shrewdly. Pride was in his glance, and hope, but also uncertainty. Khlit raised his head. “Harken,” he said; his keen ears had caught a sound without the castle.

Footsteps pattered to the door of the shrine. Gutchluk appeared. “Riders are coming over the lake, Father,” he cried. “They are coming very swiftly.”

Chinsi gave a startled cry. Atagon and Gurd turned to her in surprise.

“The door!” she whispered. “I forgot to put up the bars. It can be opened from without.”

Gurd sprang to the door. Then he halted. The sound of many boots echoed on the stone floor of the hall. The hunter glared at Khlit.

“What is this? You knew—”

“I know not,” growled Khlit.

As he spoke he remembered that his companions must have followed in his tracks, seeking the end of the hunt. The footsteps grew louder without. A shout rang through the castle. Atagon took up his staff and stepped to the door. Gurd drew his knife and placed himself before the priest.

“Fool!” hissed Gurd to the trembling Gutchluk. “Why did you not see to the door? Hush! They may not find the entrance under the tapestry.”

“I left it open, lord,” muttered the servant. “How could men enter Changa Nor?”

A cry announced that the men without had found the opening into the adjoining chamber. There was a quick tread of feet. Khlit’s hand went to his sword. Then it fell to his side.

In the entrance to the shrine appeared the giant form of a man in armor. Chagan the sword-bearer entered, dragging back with all his strength at the leash which held the two straining leopards. Behind the hunting beasts appeared Chepé Buga’s swarthy countenance. A shaman and a half-dozen warriors blocked the door behind the khan.

Chepé Buga threw a keen glance at the group in the shrine.

“Ha, Khlit, lord,” he growled, “we followed the leopards which were by the horses at the edge of the lake to the wall of Changa. When we pushed against the stones where they smelt, the wall gave in, by cursed witchcraft. Glad am I to see you alive. We thought the devils of Changa had borne you off to Satan’s bon-fire.”

Chagan gave a cry and pointed to the treasures of the shrine. Chepé Buga’s eye lighted gleefully.

“By the mighty beard of Afrasiab!” he swore. “Here is a pretty sight. Nay, the Wolf has led us as he promised without bloodshed to the treasure of Changa Nor.”

His glance fell on Gurd and Chinsi, and he gave a hearty laugh. “What! Here is the devil-hunter, ripe for the torture, and a maid, for our sport. By Satan’s cloven hoof, that was well done, Khlit, lord!”

Their eyes aflame with greed, the Tatars echoed their khan’s words with a shout that rang through the castle of Changa, and caused the leopards to snarl.

IX

A poisonous vine hanging upon a strong cedar—such is a traitor

at the gate ofaking. Chinese proverb

Gurd had been reared in the forest, among animals quick to slay. He had had all men for his enemies, save the few at Changa Nor. So, while he possessed the patience of the animals he hunted, he had also their fierce anger. Chepé Buga’s mocking words brought a flush to his brown cheeks, and before any one could move he had drawn the knife at his girdle.

The Tatar khan had no time to lift his sword. Gurd was upon him with gleaming knife, when Atagon, who had anticipated the hunter’s movement, thrust his staff against the latter’s chest. Held away from his enemy, Gurd glared at Chepé Buga with blazing eyes. The Tatar returned his gaze with cool insolence. Atagon placed his hand on his companion’s shoulder.

“Peace, my son,” he said quietly. “It is not fitting that blood should flow because of a hasty word. We must not quarrel in the shrine of God. Let me speak to this man.”

Chepé Buga eyed the patriarch in astonishment, which deepened into disgust. The proud words of the priest had no effect on him. “Who are you, Graybeard?” he growled. “And who is the girl?”

Khlit spoke for the first time. “This is Atagon,” he said, “master of Changa Nor. And the woman is Chinsi, daughter of a Gur-Khan.”

Chepé Buga stared at the girl’s delicate face and ruddy hair in open approval. Gurd ground his teeth as he caught the glance, but the hand of Atagon restrained him.

“Aye, she bears herself like a princess, Khlit, lord,” assented the Tatar carelessly. “She is worthy of a better master than this thin-blooded priest, or yon scowling hunter. I will give up my share of the jewels for her. Hey, there is a pretty emerald!”

He walked to the cross and balanced it tentatively in his hand. Atagon lifted his hand in protest.

“Take the caskets,” cried the shaman from the door; “they are priceless!”

“Nay,” cried Atagon, “touch them not. They hold sacred relics.” Some of the Tatars drew back from the door at this. But Chepé Buga did not move.

“A curse upon your quaverings, dogs,” he growled. “String the old man up by his thumbs, and take the knife from the hunter. He is overquick to use it.”

“Nay,” Atagon responded at once. “There is no charm, save the wrath of God upon the despoiler. But have a care what you do, Tatar. There is one whom you may offend.”

“Where?” The khan glanced idly about the chamber. “I see him not, unless you mean yon Gurd of the scowling brow. He will make good eating for the leopards, Chagan.”

“Not he,” responded Atagon. The patriarch pointed to Khlit who was watching moodily. “The Kha Khan has not said that you may take these things. They belong not to me, but to God. Have a fear what you do, Khan, for your master knows the name of God.”

All eyes were fixed on Khlit. Gurd folded his arms and glanced at the intruders blackly. He had not forgotten it was his doing that they came here, in Khlit’s tracks. The girl clasped her hands in silent appeal.

Chepé Buga’s face bore a look of sincere astonishment. He cared nothing for the deities of the shamans, or for others. It had not occurred to him that Khlit would hesitate to seize the treasure. Had the Kha Khan not promised he would do so?

“Speak, Khlit, lord,” he cried, “and bid us close the mouth of this long-robed conjurer with a sword. Then he will trouble us no more.”

But Khlit was silent. It had been long since he had seen a cross other than the one he wore around his neck, or the candles burning before an icon. He had been a wanderer, far from the Church. Yet he knew that his faith was alive in his heart. To refuse Chepé Buga and his companions permission to take the treasure of Changa Nor would mean protest, discontent, a weakening of the small force of Tatars which was still at his command. It would be hard, even dangerous. He had given his word that the treasure of Changa Nor would be theirs before he knew its nature. How was he to do otherwise?

“Remember your promise, O Kha Khan,” the voice of the shaman cried from the group at the door.

Khlit whipped out his sword on the instant. “Bring me that knave!” he cried.

The Tatar warriors turned, but the shaman had slipped away into the shadows of the outer chamber. They returned empty-handed after a hurried search through the castle.

“Such words are spoken by cowards,” said Khlit grimly. “I love not to be told to keep my word. Did I not keep my promise when I led the khans against Hang-Hi at Altai Haiten? Was not my word true when I brought you to the army of Li Jusong? Speak!”

“Aye, lord,” cried Chagan’s deep voice. “It was true.”

“What I have sworn,” said Khlit, “I will carry out.”

He sheathed his sword. Stepping to Chepé Buga’s side he re-placed the emerald cross on the altar of the shrine. The Tatars watched him in silence. Atagon closed his eyes as if in prayer. Khlit faced his men, his back to the shrine. His shaggy brows were close knitted in thought.

“Harken, warriors of the Jun-gar,” he growled. “What did I say to you by the shore of Changa Lake? I promised that the castle should be taken without bloodshed. Have we not done so? I said it would be ours when the lake was coated with ice. Is it not covered with ice today?”

“Aye, but you promised us the treasure, Khlit, lord,” spoke one of the men respectfully.

Khlit’s keen eye flashed, and he tapped his sword angrily.

“And is not the treasure ours?” he asked. Gurd made an angry movement, but Atagon motioned him back. “We have it in our hands. Nay, I will tell you more. It was decided in the kurultai that we would use the money to buy back our lands from the Kallmark invaders. That would not be wise. I thought so at the time, and now I will speak my reason. Who would buy back what is theirs—save a whipped slave? If we pay the treasure to the Kallmarks, they will be back next Summer for more.”

“Aye, that is well said,” nodded Chepé Buga.

“But what of the Kallmarks?” objected Chagan. “Riders have come to us in the last few days who say that the Kallmarks are riding north with two thousand men.”

Khlit stroked the curved scabbard at his side thoughtfully. He knew as well as Chagan the numbers and strength of the Kallmarks who were bent on the destruction of the horde of the Jun-gar.

“Have the hearts of the Jun-gar turned weak as women?” he made reply. “Nay, it is the Kallmarks who will pay for their invasion. We will keep the treasure of Changa Nor.”

“Then let us take it to the camp by Lake Baikal,” broke in Chepé Buga, “where it will be in our hands.”

“Is not the Kha Khan, Chepé Buga,” growled Khlit, “the one to say what we will do with the treasure? Nay, where is there a better place or one more secure than Changa Nor?”

“We got into here,” protested the khan stubbornly, “by good hap, and the scent of our leopards. It is a hard nut to crack, this castle. Who knows whether we can get in again?”

Khlit stroked his mustache and frowned. His purpose to safe-guard the treasure of Atagon was hard to carry out.

“We will leave a guard here over the treasure, Chepé Buga,” he said at length. “Chagan will stay. Gurd will come with us, so that the sword-bearer will have no foe within the castle. Then, when we return, we may decide about the treasure.”

“And the pay for our horsemen?” cried one of the Tatars. “The money for powder and new weapons?”

“We will take spoil from the Kallmarks.”

Chagan nodded heavily.

“But how may we turn them back? They are many, and strong!”

“With this.” Khlit drew his sword with a quick motion and laid it on the table. “Aye, by the sword of Kaidu, the hero and guardian of the Jun-gar, we will drive back the Kallmarks, and take their herds.”

The words and the act appealed to the war-like feelings of the Tatar throng. With one voice they gave a ringing shout of approval. Khlit smiled grimly. Without earning the ill will of the khans he had achieved what he wanted—time, and the safety of the shrine of Changa Nor.

As he was about to pick up his sword, the group by the door parted. In strode the portly figure of the shaman, Lhon Otai, accompanied by the man who had fled a few minutes before.

X

The slant eyes of Lhon Otai glinted shrewdly as he surveyed the men in the shrine. His words came smoothly and softly from his thick lips.

“Where are your wits, men of the Jun-gar?” he cried. “The evil spirits of Changa Nor have cast a spell over you. You are blinded by an unclean charm. It is well I came to save you from the dangers of this place.”

The Tatars glanced uneasily at each other. The chief of the shamans knew well his power over them. He pointed angrily to Khlit.

“Aye, the evil priest of the caphars has bewitched you. Know you not this man who calls himself the Kha Khan is a Christian? He will not give you the treasure. He has deceived you with lying words.”

Chagan stared at Khlit blankly.

“Nay, lord,” he protested, “tell them this is not so. How can a Kha Khan of the Jun-gar be a Christian?”

A murmur of assent came from the warriors. Lhon Otai crossed his stout arms with a triumphant smile. His glance swept from Gurd to Khlit and back again.

“It is so,” he said. “Your chief is a caphar, a brother in faith to yon dark hunter who is allied to evil spirits. The place here is accursed. I have come from the North, where I saw this hunter Gurd talk to a lynx of the forest as his brother, and summon ivory bones from the ground by a dark spell. By my power I overcame him and took the ivory. Then I hurried here to safeguard you against the caphars.”

Gurd smiled scornfully, but the Tatars had eyes for no one but Khlit.

“Speak, lord,” said Chagan again, “and tell us this is not true.”

Khlit surveyed his followers moodily. He knew that they were superstitious, and under the influence of the shamans. He had only to deny his faith, and all would be well. Lhon Otai would be silenced.

The shaman had long been Khlit’s enemy, for he was jealous of the Cossack’s power. Khlit wondered if Lhon Otai had seen the gold cross he carried under his svitza. The conjurer and his followers had spies everywhere and there was little in central Asia that they did not know.

And Lhon Otai had chosen the moment well. Khlit had al-ready risked his popularity with the khans by holding back the treasure of Changa Nor from their hands. Probably the shamans who accompanied Lhon Otai had told the latter what had passed in the shrine of Atagon. Khlit decided to make one more bid for favor with his followers.

“Nay, Chagan,” he said slowly, “do you tell me this. Have I failed in my duty to the khans? Have the Jun-gar ever gone to defeat under my leadership? Let the kurultai of the Jun-gar decide. I will abide by their word. If they say that I have done ill, I will give over my command to Chepé Buga.”

“He speaks with a double tongue!” cried Lhon Otai, seizing his advantage cleverly. “For he has kept the treasure of Changa Nor for himself and the caphar priest. This treasure would buy your lands from the Kallmarks. He sent me to the Dead World, where the hunter Gurd tried to slay me—”

“A lie!” cried Gurd. “I knew not the Kha Khan. It was Lhon Otai who followed me, and slew my reindeer by treachery.”

“Nay, then,” put in the other shaman swiftly, “if Khlit knew you not, how comes he here, with the caphars, unknown to the khans?”

Chepé Buga waved his heavy hand for silence. “Say one word, Khlit, lord,” he bellowed, “and we will boil this conjurer’s tongue in oil.”

Khlit glanced wearily from under shaggy brows at his comrade in arms. His pride was great, and he had no fear for himself, de-spite the hostility of Lhon Otai. But he feared for the shrine of Atagon.

“Nay, Chepé Buga,” he said, “I am a Christian.”

A stunned silence greeted this. A proud light shone in the eyes of Atagon. Lhon Otai was not slow to seize his advantage. His cunning was a match for Khlit’s craft.

“Come!” he cried, raising both arms. “You have heard. This is a place of evil. We will drive out the dark spirits in the manner of our fathers and their fathers before them. Come! A sword dance. We will purge the place.”

He ran from the chamber, followed by the Tatar warriors and the other shaman. Chagan was next to go, dragging the two leopards with him. At a sign from Atagon, Gurd and the girl Chinsi accompanied the priest without. Khlit and Chepé Buga remained. The Cossack stretched out his hand to Chepé Buga.

“Speak, anda, brother in arms,” he said gruffly, “what matters my faith to you? We have fought together and shared the same bed. Will you leave me for the fat conjurer?”

The Tatar’s handsome face twisted in vexation.

“I swore to follow you, O Kha Khan,” he said slowly, “to be at the front in every battle, to bring the horses and spoil we captured to you, to beat the wild beasts for your hunting, to give you to eat of the game I took in hunting, and to guard you from danger with my sword. Christian or not, I remember my oath. Yet, we have need of the treasure of Changa Nor. Bid us take the treasure, that we may know your heart is with us.”

Khlit turned away from the appeal in his friend’s eyes. He made as if to speak; then his head dropped on his chest. He was silent. He heard the Tatar leave the shrine.

When he looked up he saw that he was alone with the icon and the flickering candles on the altar.

XI

In the hall of Changa Nor, Lhon Otai mustered the Tatars for the sword dance. Two tall candles gave the only light in the long chamber, for it had grown dark outside the castle. When Khlit entered the hall, he saw that Atagon and the Christians had taken their places in the balcony. The Tatars, who had drawn their swords, occupied the floor. Lhon Otai faced them at the farther end.

Even Chagan had taken his place with Chepé Buga in the ranks of the warriors, after tying his leopards fast to a pillar. The Tatars watched eagerly while Lhon Otai took from the pouch at his girdle a human skull fashioned into a drinking cup. Then he summoned the trembling Gutchluk to bring him wine. With this he filled the cup.

Lhon Otai bent nine times in homage to the west, where the sun had set. The Tatars lifted their swords with a single shout. “Heigh!”

The shaman’s heavy face was alight with triumph. He placed his girdle across his shoulders and poured out a little wine from the cup to the floor.

“Precious wine I pour to Natagai,” he chanted, “I give the tarasun to the god Natagai.”

The warriors swung their swords overhead.

“Heigh!”

Lhon Otai tipped the cup again.

“An offering I pour to Meik,” he sang, “to Meik, guardian of the forest.”

“Heigh!” cried the Tatars.

They bent their bodies, lowering their swords. Then they came erect, swinging their shining blades above their heads. Khlit knew the fascination the sword dance held for them. Already they were breathing more quickly.

“Wine I pour to the Cheooki gods, to the Cheooki gods of the North who light the sky with their fire.”

“Heigh!”

An echo of music sounded in the hall. The other shaman had drawn a dom bra from under his cloak, and was striking upon it. As the sword dance, led by Lhon Otai, continued, the Tatars became more excited. They bent their bodies and circled three times. Then they raised their blades with a shout.

“Heigh!”

Lhon Otai now stood erect, his face raised to the rafters, his eyes closed. When the Tatars saw this their shout changed.

“A wisdom!” they cried. “Our shaman sees the raven in the rafters. He is listening to the words of wisdom!”

At this they ran to the sides of the hall, and returned, raising their swords in concert. To the strains of the dom bra they circled, making their blades play about their heads. Sweat shone on their brows. Their teeth gleamed through their mustaches.

Khlit watched impassively. He saw that Lhon Otai was working the warriors to a pitch of excitement. It would be useless for

him to interrupt the sword dance. Yet his fear was not so much for himself as for the group watching silently from the balcony.

Then Lhon Otai raised his arms. The sound of the dom bra ceased. The Tatars lowered their swords and waited, panting from their exertions.

“A wisdom!” cried Lhon Otai in a high voice, his eyes still closed.

“A wisdom!” echoed the warriors.

“Tell us the word of the raven.” The shaman crossed his arms over his chest.

“Danger is near the horde of the Jun-gar,” he chanted. “The soul of Genghis Khan mutters in his tomb, and the sun is darkened in night. The treasure of Changa Nor must be our safeguard. With it we will buy our homes and our pastures from the Kallmarks. We will send riders to the camp of the khan Berang by Lake Baikal and bid him disband the horde. Thus will the Kallmark chieftains know we mean friendship.”

Khlit made a gesture of protest unheeded by the Tatars who were hanging on the words of the shaman.

“Evil omens are afoot,” went on Lhon Otai. “Dead fish infest the ice of Baikal under the three Diandas. The great wolf pack of the North is hunting for its prey. Evil is the plight of the Jun-gar, owing to the false words of a Christian. Bind the arms of the Christian Kha Khan with stout ropes, that he may not harm us again. Him we must leave in Changa Nor. The shamans with the khan Chepé Buga and the sword-bearer Chagan must watch over the treasure until the army at the Baikal camp can be disbanded.”

Khlit thrust out his arms in grim silence, to be bound, while Chepé Buga watched. The khan glanced at him uneasily while they tied his hands but avoided meeting Khlit’s eye. Only once Khlit spoke.

“These hands carried the standard of Genghis Khan,” he growled. “Who will lead the Jun-gar if I am bound? Yon fat toad?”

Lhon Otai’s broad face twisted in anger, and his eyes flew open. At a sign from him the shaman bound Khlit’s arms close to his side.

“Harken, Tatars!”

The words, in a clear voice from the gallery made them look up. Gurd was leaning on the stone railing, his heavy hands clutching the barrier. His dark face was bent down. His eyes were glowing.

“You know the legend of Changa Nor, Lhon Otai,” went on Gurd. “How is it that for ten lifetimes the treasure of Changa Nor has not been touched? Others have tried to take it. And they have died. No pagan has lived who put hand to the sanctuary of God, in Changa Nor. Nay, not one. Yet we have no swordsmen or archers here to defend the treasure. They have died from another cause.”

“The Chinese fire!” cried the shaman contemptuously. “We can deal with such sorcery.”

“Nay, it is not the fire, Lhon Otai. You know the legend. Changa Nor is guarded by a power greater than your swords. Death awaits you in the shadows of the castle. Tempt it not. I give you this warning. There is a curse upon the foe of Changa Nor, and upon his children and his herds. I have seen men die from this curse. Brave men.”

“Kill me that rascal!” cried Lhon Otai to his followers.

With the exception of Chepé Buga and Chagan the Tatars rushed for the stairway leading to the gallery.

“I have seen you touch the treasure of the shrine,” Gurd called to Chepé Buga. Pointing at Lhon Otai he added, heedless of the rush of his enemies, “And I can see the mark of death on your forehead.”

Chepé Buga laughed lightly, while the shaman glared at Gurd vindictively. The Tatar warriors had gained the gallery. They cut down the old Gutchluk who stood in their way and rushed toward Gurd.

As their swords were lifted to strike him, the hunter sprang over the railing. Hanging by his hands an instant from the bal-

cony, he leaped to the stone floor below. He landed lightly, for all his great size.

Chagan drew his two-handed sword and stepped toward Gurd. The latter crouched and dodged the sweep of the sword. Grappling with the mighty sword-bearer he flung Chagan headlong to the floor. The Tatars were returning down the stairs, unwilling to take Gurd’s daring leap from the gallery.

The hunter darted swiftly toward the chamber where the door opened to the lake. His pursuers were after him in a moment, but he had vanished in the darkness. Chagan stumbled to his feet.

“Back, fools!” he roared. “We will deal with the hunter as he deserves. He is unarmed. Watch.”

While speaking, he loosed the two leopards. The beasts were infuriated by the excitement, and at Chagan’s bidding they bounded after the man whom they had trailed earlier in the afternoon. The men in the hall listened, but no sound came from the lake without, where the trained leopards were already on Gurd’s tracks.

“They will feed well tonight,” laughed the sword-bearer. “May Satan roast me, if yon caphar will live to curse you more, Lhon Otai.”

“He spoke words like the point of a sharp sword,” said Chepé Buga grimly, with a sidelong glance at where Chinsi crouched by Atagon in the gallery. “Nay, Lhon Otai, if the curse comes true I shall have good company. You and I will dance together in Satan’s court. But until then, bethink yourself well, Conjurer, for I too am master here. Chagan obeys me.”

As Lhon Otai was about to answer, his mouth fell open in sheer astonishment. His eyes widened, and he pointed to the door of the chamber whence Gurd had fled.

Four spots of green light showed where the leopards were re-turning in the gloom. The animals issued into the hall. But they came slowly, crawling along the floor, their bellies dragging on the stone, and their tails limp underfoot. Every movement of their lithe bodies bespoke fear.

When the Tatars had recovered from their surprise at the return of the leopards they searched the lake and the surrounding shore. They followed Gurd’s tracks up one of the hills. But there tracks and hunter alike disappeared. Curd had gone into the mountains, and with him he had taken his entire herd of reindeer.

XII

From the summit of the tower of Changa Nor Chinsi and Khlit looked out over the frozen lake and the snow-clad hills. A cold wind nipped at their cheeks and stirred the girl’s gold plaits of hair. Khlit watched her curiously as she stared at the hills, her smooth chin resting pensively on a strong, round hand.

Two days they had been prisoners in Changa. All the Tatars except Chepé Buga and Chagan had left for the Baikal encampment, under Lhon Otai’s orders. The shaman himself remained at Changa. The treasure, thanks to the vigilance of Chepé Buga and Chagan, was untouched.

Chinsi and Atagon had not been further molested. Since Gutchluk’s death, Chagan had attended to their wants after a fashion. The patriarch, however, had kept himself shut up in the shrine where he passed most of the time in prayer. Chepé Buga roamed restlessly over the castle, inspecting the apparatus for defense and visiting the treasure where he spent hours in fingering the jewels, which he took good care Lhon Otai did not disturb.

Khlit touched the girl on the sleeve of her reindeer-skin parka. “Tell me, little sparrow,” he observed, “what is this curse Gurd called down upon Lhon Otai?”

Chinsi glanced around to see if they were alone. It was some time before she answered.

“The curse is part of the legend of Prester John, father. The legend runs that there were beasts that watched over the treasure long ago. It must be merely a fable; for how could that be true? Yet one thing I have seen. It was when I was a child. A band of robbers came to Changa when the lake was frozen over. It was in the night. We would not let them in. They tried to climb over

the walls. Presently I heard them screaming. They were crying out, as if in pain.”

“The Chinese fire, Chinsi,” suggested Khlit.

“Nay, we had not used the fire. Gurd was in the castle when they came. Then he left. In the morning I saw their bodies. The men were horribly torn and mangled. The snow was red with their blood. They lay as if they had fallen while running from the castle. But I saw other tracks in the snow.”

“They might have been horses, little sparrow,” grunted Khlit.

“Nay, they were not horses’ tracks. I was too young to know what they were. Gurd would not tell me. He has always watched over the castle.”

Khlit puffed at his pipe in silence for a while.

“Gurd is a brave man,” he said, “although he does not carry a sword as a warrior should. But I fear he cannot avail against the men who hold Changa Nor today. Lhon Otai is shrewd.”

“Aye,” said the girl, tossing her curls proudly, “but Gurd is feared through all the Khantai Khan Mountains. Because his enemies cannot kill him, they say he is allied to the beasts.”

“Your tongue betrays its secret, Chinsi,” smiled Khlit. “Devil take me, if you want not this stout fellow Gurd for a husband.” The girl flushed and lowered her gaze.

“It is Atagon’s will,” she said simply.

“Aye, and yours too,” chuckled Khlit.

The girl made haste to speak of another subject.

“You spoke the name of Lhon Otai, father,” she said quickly. “Before he leaped from the gallery, Gurd whispered something to me. He bade me tell you to beware of the shaman. Not until now have I had a chance to tell you.”

“Nay, I need no warning, little sparrow. Lhon Otai held power in the Jun-gar until I came. He has hated me since the day I joined the ranks of the khans. Not until now could he break my power in the Jun-gar. Yet Chepé Buga remains, who loves him not. Where-fore, I wonder that Lhon Otai bade the khan stay at Changa Nor. Nay, I fear not the conjuring dog. But your peril, little Chinsi, is greater.”

“You were brave, father,” said the girl softly, “to speak your faith as you did. Atagon has mentioned you in his prayers to God.”

“Let him pray for himself,” growled Khlit who was impatient of praise. “The batko stands near to death. I can do little more for him.”

The girl was silent at this. Woman-like, she realized Khlit’s rugged nature, that scorned weakness. At the same time she knew that the Cossack would defend the priest of his faith to the death. He craved no sympathy, and rebuked the advances of Atagon. He did not like to speak of his sacrifice for the patriarch. At the same time, she had seen him hold up his gold cross to be blessed by Atagon.

“That is not all Gurd told me,” resumed the girl. “In the North-ern forest when Lhon Otai was hunting him, he heard the shaman talk of his plans to the other Tatars. Lhon Otai said that they had sent one man south—”

A step sounded behind the girl, and she broke off. At Khlit’s exclamation, she put her finger to her lips.

“Later, I will tell you, Khlit, father.”

The lithe form of Chepé Buga appeared beside them. The khan, who had polished the metal ornaments of his costume and combed his black hair into sleek submission, stared at the slender girl with bold admiration.

“By the mighty beard of Afrasiab,” he swore, “you are as hard to find as a live heron on a falcon’s roost, Chinsi. The old priest guards you as he would his own life. May the devil mate with me but you are a likely girl!”

Chinsi stamped her booted foot angrily.

“Aye, I have heard you prowling through the castle, like a dog that fears to be seen. And Lhon Otai has stood and mocked Atagon at his prayer.”

“Atagon has not much longer to pray, Chinsi,” responded the khan idly. “Lhon Otai has told me that when his men come to

the castle there will be another sword dance and the blood of the old priest will be shed as an offering to Natagai.”

The girl shivered. At this Chepé Buga stepped close to her, his dark eyes glowing. He caught her chin in a stalwart hand.

“Nay, Chinsi, I would taste of your golden sweetness. Come, a kiss!”

Khlit looked up. But at sight of the girl the Cossack paused. Chinsi’s dark eyes were blazing with anger and her cheeks were scarlet.

“Dog!” she whispered. “You are brave when Gurd is not here.”

Sheer astonishment showed in the khan’s handsome face, and his hand dropped as if he had touched a burning brand.

“That swordless hunter!” He bared his teeth in a hard smile. “If your hero comes back to Changa I will tear out his throat for him with my hands—since he carries no weapon. Nay, Khlit, these be strange folk—never have I taken captives who were so stubborn. The old Atagon watches jealously when Lhon Otai fingers the jewels in the treasure chamber, although the shaman cherishes them like a mare with her first colt. And now the girl prates to me of the hunter who rides reindeer and tames wolves.”

He shrugged his shoulders in chagrin.

“I had forgotten the reason I sought you, Chinsi. I looked by chance into the arms chest where you kept the Chinese fire, and the iron flagons for preparing it. The chest was empty. Nay, you are beautiful as a Spring sunrise on the Kerulon, Chinsi, but I have no liking for a baptism of fire from your pretty hands some night when I walk under the gallery. Where have you put the contrivance?”

Khlit glanced at the girl quickly. But she returned their look frankly.

“I have not been near the chest,” she said coldly.

Chepé Buga eyed her meditatively. “Your words have the ring of truth. And I searched your sleeping chamber before coming here. But Atagon?”

“He knows or cares nothing about the fire.”

Chepé Buga glanced instinctively at Khlit. Then he looked away in shame.

“I meant not to doubt you, Khlit, lord,” he said gravely. “Come, let me cut away those ropes. It is not fitting that the Kha Khan be bound.”

“Nay, Khan,” responded Khlit, “your shaman would put them back again. He has made us enemies, you and I, who fought together.”

Before Chepé Buga could reply, a faint sound came to them over the hills.

“The howl of wolves,” said Khlit.

“It is well we are behind walls,” assented the khan. “I have seen some dark forms yonder in the pines, whether wolves or not.”

The sound was heard by Chagan the sword-bearer, seated in the hall of the castle. He raised his head hastily. As he did so he caught sight of a figure moving along the wall toward the chamber of Atagon.

Chagan half rose to his feet. Then he saw that it was Lhon Otai. The shaman paused when he perceived Chagan’s glance on him, and retraced his steps, away from Atagon’s door.

Chagan caught a gleam of steel in the other’s hand. But he shook his shoulders indifferently. It was none of his affair what Lhon Otai did.

Again the howl of a wolf echoed through the castle. This time Lhon Otai turned toward the gallery. He looked long from a casement, over the hills. Then he slipped the dagger he carried back in his girdle. And Chagan wondered, for a smile wreathed the broad cheeks of the shaman.

XIII

If a warrior dies, how may his friend aid him?

A man’s life goes out like a candle in the wind. His limbs are empty as the branches of a dead birch tree. But his friend may carry the body from the field of battle. Aye, so it may not be eaten by beasts.

Tatar saying

From the window of her sleeping chamber Chinsi the golden-haired looked out over the snow, where Gurd had disappeared. It was the night after her talk with Khlit on the tower, and she had been crying. She still wore the reindeer coat for there were few fires in the castle of Changa, and at present a keen wind was sweeping through the rooms.

Chinsi drew her parka close over her shoulders, wondering where the air could have entered the castle. The arrow slits were too small to create a draft. But what she saw without the window held her attention.

In the shadow of the pines on the shore of the lake she observed a movement. A dark body passed from one tree trunk to another. She saw another body follow it and another.

Her first thought was of Gurd. The hunter had been gone nearly three days. There had been no sign of his presence around the lake, although Chinsi had watched with the persistent hope of those who are in danger. She wondered if the moving forms could be the hunter’s reindeer. Then she thought with a shudder of the wolf pack which passed that way from the North in the early Winter. Gurd had taught her to watch for the beasts which were ferocious from hunger and bold by reason of the numbers of the huge pack.

What she saw among the pines made her press close to the window. She saw a man’s figure, outlined against the snow, going from the castle toward the shore. Presently the man disappeared under the pines.

So intent was she that she did not hear a stealthy step in the chamber, as Chepé Buga entered, closing the door noiselessly be-hind him. Before she had realized that another was in the room the Tatar had gained her side and thrown his arms around her. The girl’s slender form stiffened in fright. A startled cry was cut short by Chepé Buga’s hand over her lips.

“The old Atagon is at his prayers, Chinsi, of the golden hair,” the Tatar whispered. “You would not like to disturb him. Nay, I have taken the songbird in her nest.”

The girl twisted and turned in a vain struggle. The Tatar’s powerful arms held her easily. He pressed his face against the sweet tangle of her hair.

Chinsi’s heart was beating heavily. She remembered Chepé Buga’s admiring glances and the persistency with which the khan had followed her about the castle. She realized that it was hope-less to try to free herself from his hold.

A sudden thought came to her, and she ceased her struggles. Chepé Buga cautiously lifted his hand from her mouth. Seeing that she was silent he laughed.

“I am weary of waiting to slay your lover Gurd,” he said. “You are the fairest woman of the Khantai Khan Mountains—nay, of Tatary.”

His hand passed over her hair eagerly, but he did not give up his grasp of her shoulders. The blood rushed to the girl’s face under his touch. Although she was passive, her mind worked quickly.

“You are fair as the pine flowers in Summer, Chinsi,” his voice was deep with passion. “You have quickened my blood with love.”

His hand grasped her chin. But this time the girl tore herself free.

“Look, Tatar,” she cried, “there are wolves around the castle. I have seen them from the window.”

Chepé Buga laughed softly.

“You are as full of words as the magpie of Lhon Otai, Chinsi. And as wayward as an unbroken horse. Nay—”

“Fool!” stormed the girl. “Am I so witless as to try to deceive you? While you are prating of love, the castle may be in danger. I saw a man run from Changa to the shore. Who it was, I know not. Look, and you can see for yourself.”

Doubtfully, Chepé Buga dragged her to the arrow slit. He looked long and keenly at the shore and the dark figures outlined in the snow.

“Ha! Little Chinsi,” he whispered, “these may be wolves, but they have two legs and those two legs are wrapped around the barrels of horses.”

He released the girl, without taking his eyes from the scene outside. What he saw roused his warrior’s instincts. The dark forms under the pines were in motion now and moving toward the castle. Already they were out on the lake.

“They do not bear themselves like true men,” meditated Chepé Buga aloud. “Unless my eyes deceive me yon strangers mean evil.”

A cold breath of air touched the girl’s shoulders where the parka had been loosened by her struggles. She recalled that the wind was blowing strangely through the castle. On a sudden impulse she turned toward the door of her chamber.

“The wind!” she cried in quick alarm. “The outer door must be open.”

Without waiting for Chepé Buga’s response she darted from the room into the hall. A glance into the entrance chamber showed her that the door to the lake was open. A pale square of snow showed without.

Chinsi knew that the dark figures she had seen on the lake could not be Gurd or his allies. The sight of the open door, which she had seen closed and barred earlier in the day by Chagan, filled her with sudden terror.

She sprang to the wall and swung the heavy mass of stone back on its massive iron supports. Tugging with all her strength at the lever, she moved it slowly into place. Chepé Buga was beside her, fumbling in the dark for the iron bars.

As Chinsi drew the lever up to its full length, the Tatar dropped the bars into place. As the iron fell into its sockets with a clang a heavy blow resounded on the door. They heard a muffled clamor on the surface of the lake.

Chepé Buga sprang to the arrow slit. He stepped back immediately and Chinsi heard the clang of a steel weapon against the stone of the opening. A light appeared in the chamber behind

them. Chagan stood in the room, bearing a torch in one hand and his sword in the other.

“We are attacked, Chagan,” shouted the khan, above the tumult. “Come into the hall. The light betrays us here!”

In the hall they found Khlit. In a few words Chepé Buga told his leader what had happened.

“Are you sure it is not Berang with his men?” demanded Khlit, his keen eyes searching the three before him. “Who opened the door?”

“Nay, Khlit, lord,” said Chepé Buga grimly, “would Berang give me a love pat with a spear point through the embrasure? We found the door open. Had Chinsi not been as quick as a fox to close it, we should have been taken like sheep in pasture.”

“Father,” spoke Chinsi, “I saw a man not long since run from the gate to the shore—”

“Where is Lhon Otai?” questioned Khlit.

“Asleep among the jewels of the treasure chamber, without doubt,” grunted the khan. “Nay, I wonder if that fellow Gurd has not been at work here.”

“If he had come I would have known it,” cried the girl angrily. “It was not Gurd.”

“Then it must have been Satan himself or the long-bearded priest. Come, Khlit, lord, we will search the castle. Yon thick stones will keep out our visitors, I fancy. I suspect they knew something of Changa castle, for they came straight to the door, as a dog to his kennel.”

“Lhon Otai is not in the treasure chamber, lords,” growled Chagan, who had left the group to investigate.

“I will go to his room.” Chepé Buga ran to the stairs. “Do you waken the old priest, Khlit, if he is still here.”

A moment served to show Khlit that Atagon was praying in his sleeping chamber, ignorant or careless of what had happened. Chepé Buga, however, returned with more important news.

“The shaman is gone from his lair,” he informed them grimly. “There is not so much as a smell of him in the castle. That is

not all. Under his pallet where I thought the fat master of mysteries might have betaken himself in fright I found the remains of Chinsi’s fire device. The instruments were broken, and the powder, by the traces, cast from the window. My nose tells me the shaman has been working us ill.”

“Ill!” Khlit’s brows knit in thought. “Then it was Lhon Otai that Chinsi saw. But then he must be with the men without, whether prisoner or not. Did he know of their coming?”

“Aye, lord,” said Chagan suddenly, “I saw him listening at the embrasures.”

“Yet he has not taken one of the jewels,” put in Chepé Buga. “Hey, it is not like the fat toad to leave them untouched. He must think to gain them another way. I marked his eyes gleam upon them—”

“Pardon, sirs,” Chinsi’s musical voice broke in on them. The girl’s eyes were bright and her breath came quickly. “On the tower, Father Khlit, I tried to tell you what I knew, but Chepé Buga came. Gurd warned me of what he heard during the hunt to the North. When he had Lhon Otai prisoner the shaman whispered to him that he should open the gate of Changa castle to the conjurers, not knowing that Gurd was a Christian. Nay more— before that, Gurd overheard Lhon Otai talking to his men by the fire at night where he thought he was safe from listeners in the woods. The shaman plans to leave the Kha Khan and Chepé Buga with the treasure of Changa Nor. But only so that he can take the two khans, who are his enemies, at the same time he seizes the treasure.”

The Tatars exchanged glances. Chagan scowled blankly; but understanding dawned on Chepé Buga.

“By its coiling track a serpent is known,” he said softly. “Lhon Otai saw to it that my horsemen who came here with me were sent to Baikal. And that the horde under Berang was dispersed. He has left us here with the gate open, like trussed fowls.”

Khlit held out his bound hands in grim silence. In the excitement of the talk the others had not thought to cut loose the cords.

“Aye,” he growled, “trussed. An evil day when the Jun-gar exchanged leaders. Being disowned I have not spoken what was in my mind. Nay, it was Lhon Otai who bound you also in his toils. He it was who destroyed the fire device that might guard Changa. And left open the gate tonight. Harken!”

Muffled blows resounded on the stones of the door. Chepé Buga flushed. Whipping out his sword he deftly severed the cords around Khlit’s wrists.

“Such was not my doing, Khlit, lord,” he muttered. “I have sworn an oath to guard you with my sword from danger. So be it. By the winged steed to Kaidu, it warms my blood that we are to fight together! We are your men, O Kha Khan, Chagan and I.”

“Aye,” roared the sword-bearer, “I scent a battle.”

Khlit’s somber eyes lighted as he studied his comrades. Their scarred countenances were cast in shamed appeal.

“Say that we are one again, Khlit, lord,” begged Chepé Buga.” A reckless smile twitched the Cossack’s gray mustache. He placed his hands on the sword hilts of the Tatars.

“We are three men, O brothers in arms, but our enemies will find we are one.”

“That is a good word, lord,” growled Chagan triumphantly.

Chepé Buga’s eyes were eloquent of satisfaction. He cleared his throat gruffly. Lacking words, he caught Khlit’s hand in a binding clasp.

“Nay,” cried Chinsi, “Lhon Otai and the men with him will suffer, because they have lifted their hands against the altar of God, in Changa Nor.”

The assurance of her speech made the warriors smile. They were men of direct thought and took little stock in the legend. As the three Tatars glanced at each other, each knew that one idea was in the minds of his companions.

It was Khlit who voiced this thought when the three stood on the tower of the castle at sunrise. The light showed them that the shores of the lake were filled with horsemen. Tents darkened the snow of the pine forests. Even beyond the forests, on the summits

of the hills, the Tatars could see herds, and the wagon-yurts of a horde. Oxen and horses were tethered thickly throughout the encampment.

It was an army of hundreds, with their herds. And it made the circuit of Changa Lake.

“Lhon Otai,” said Khlit, when he had surveyed the scene, “has brought the Kallmarks to Changa. Aye, his messenger, whom he sent to the south, has brought them. And with the treasure, he has trapped the khans of the Jun-gar.”

XIV

That same sunrise showed the inhabitants of the Khantai Khan Mountains to the west a strange sight.

By the headwaters of the Tunguska River, far from Changa Nor, the men of Khantai Khan saw a herd of reindeer passing through the forest at a swinging trot. The beasts were lean with hunger, yet they did not stop to browse on patches of moss or on birch tips.

In the middle of the herd, mounted on a buck was the figure of a man. He was a tall man, wrapped in furs, with a dark face. As he rode he looked neither to right nor left. But the reindeer sniffed the wind as they paced along. Their muzzles were flecked with foam. Their eyes were starting from their sockets.

And the men of Khantai Khan wondered. For they knew it was fear that drove the reindeer past them without stopping.

XV

The morning brought a parley from the Kallmarks around Changa Nor. Several of their khans rode up to the castle with Lhon Otai. They offered to spare the lives of those in Changa Nor, if the castle and the treasure were given up.

Khlit’s answer was brief.

“How can we trust one who has already betrayed us?”

To Chepé Buga and Chagan Khlit proposed that they take ad-vantage of the Kallmarks’ offer to gain safety. He would remain

with Atagon to defend the Christian altar. Both Tatars replied with one voice that they would not leave him.

“Let the dogs come,” growled Chagan, balancing his two-handed weapon, “they hunt in a large pack, but the killing will be easier for us. They will have a taste of our swords. Would that Berang knew of this!”

“Lhon Otai has taken good care that he does not,” retorted Chepé Buga.

Khlit occupied the morning in making a survey of the defenses of the castle. What they saw encouraged them. Changa castle had been built long before the days of cannon, and its stone walls were two yards in thickness. Save for the concealed door there was no entrance in the walls.

There was no opening in the roof of the castle proper. In the round tower, at one corner of the structure, a small postern gave access to the roof. By gaining the roof, therefore, the Kallmarks would have no means of winning their way into the castle until they had forced the tower door.

The summit of the tower was too high to be reached by ladders, and it commanded the roof of the castle proper. Arrow embrasures in the tower would permit the defenders to make things warm for any of their foes who climbed to the roof. The stone door to the lake was stout.

Under Khlit’s direction the Tatars, assisted by Chinsi, brought chests, heavy furniture, and logs of firewood to the entrance chamber. These they arranged to form a barricade in a half-circle around the door. This done, they ransacked the place for arms.

The girl brought them many weapons which had belonged to old defenders of the castle. Sturdy bows, with sheaves of arrows, stiff but powerful; several long spears, rusted with age, one of which Chagan promptly appropriated. Khlit ordered the other spears left at the barricade behind the lake door. The arrows they carried to the tower summit.

Chagan disappeared and presently returned, grinning, clad in a suit of linked Turkish mail that had belonged to the old Gutch-

luk. Chinsi brought Khlit a similar coat of mail left in the castle by Gurd. These were welcome, for the khans had arrived at Changa in hunting costume, unarmed save for their swords.

Their preparations were nearly complete when they were startled by a footstep behind them. They saw the figure of a man in complete armor, hauberk, breastplate and greaves, engraved with costly gold. It was Atagon, his white beard hanging down over his mailed chest, and a light, triangular shield on which a cross was inscrolled, on his left arm. In his right he bore a long bow.

The sudden appearance of the patriarch in his costume of a century ago startled the khans. Chagan gaped as if he had seen a spirit, while Khlit crossed himself with an oath.

“I heard what has passed, my children,” said the patriarch’s calm voice, “and my prayers are ended. It is our custom when a battle is on, for the presbyter to be with his knights. Our arms shall be strengthened by God.”

“Ha!” laughed Chepé Buga. “There is a priest to my liking. Harken, old man, if you see the fat Lhon Otai in the throng, speed an arrow into his gizzard for me. If the curse of Changa Nor on its spoilers rings true, the arrow will go straight.”

A sudden tumult on the ice outside drew the defenders to the tower top. They found that the expected attack was under way. Khlit had taken all his small force with him, leaving Chinsi to watch the door and warn them if it showed signs of giving way.

A single glance showed the experienced warriors, veterans of fifty battles, the plan of their enemy. The tower was too high, and too far removed from the hills at the shore of the lake for effective arrow fire from that quarter. The dark-faced warriors of the Kallmarks tried a few shafts that rattled harmlessly against the stones, and gave it up.

While a few score men advanced on foot against the lake door, bearing the stripped trunk of a giant pine, a hundred others circled the castle on horseback, discharging arrows at the tower top.

This fire, however, was handicapped by the slippery footing of the snow-covered ice which caused the horses to flounder, and by

the height of the tower. A few pistol shots, directed against the tower, went wide of the mark. Protected by the battlements, the defenders made good play with arrows. Atagon proved himself a master of the long bow, while Chepé Buga and Chagan shot more rapidly, although scarce less surely, with their short Tatar weapons.

Especially when the ranks of Kallmarks around the pine trunk reached the door the defenders did murderous execution. The tower was nearly over the door, and the arrows, speeding from a height, went through furs, leather, and armor with ease. The space around the door was soon black with bodies.

As fast as men fell, however, others took their places. Spurred on by trumpets on the shore, and by the multitude of watching Kallmarks, the attackers wielded the heavy trunk against the stones.

“Look, lord!” cried Chagan. “Here come more of the dogs.”

Kallmark warriors were appearing over the side of the castle furthest from the tower. Unseen and unmolested by the defenders, they had placed tree trunks against the walls, and now they easily gained the roof of the castle.

Khlit and Chagan at once turned their bows on the newcomers, who were a bare twenty feet below them. The Kallmarks threw themselves vainly against the tower postern, while the arrows made play among them.

“They will soon find their new nest well feathered,” chuckled Khlit, as he struck down a brown-coated spearman.

The Kallmarks, finding that there was no direct entrance from the roof into the castle, beat a retreat to their ladders, leaving a score of dead and wounded on the summit of Changa.

Khlit turned to find Chagan busily wielding one of the heavy spears against the battlements of the tower. Using the massive iron point as a crowbar, the sword-bearer was prying loose one of the stone blocks. Khlit lent his aid to the task, and in a moment Chagan had freed the stone enough to lift it from its resting place.

Exerting all his strength, the giant sword-bearer raised the heavy block over his head. A warning cry went up from below, but the stone hurtled down, crushing three of the men about the pine trunk to the ice.

With a cry of triumph Chagan looked around for another missile. His ambition was heightened by his success, and this time he sprang to the battlement where a solid block of granite, three yards square, formed a base for some ancient engine of war. Probably in past generations a ballista had cast its stone from the foundation of the granite. The spear was helpless to budge this weight, but Chagan disappeared down the tower stairs, presently returning with a heavy log of firewood, twice his own height, and one of the andirons from the hall grate.

Working furiously, he wedged the haft of the andiron under the nearer side of the granite block, which was about a foot in thickness. Little by little he raised the massive block sufficiently to insert the end of the log under it. The granite flag stood on masonry which elevated it almost to the height of the battlement.

Putting his shoulder under the log, Chagan dropped to his knees. Rising slowly, the powerful sword-bearer lifted the lever with him, his muscles bulging and quivering under the strain. Another second, and, with a grunt, he pushed granite and log over the battlement.

The Kallmarks sprang back as it flew down on them. But the stone achieved a result as unexpected to Chagan as it was to the attackers. As it crashed upon the ice there was an ominous crackle.

A series of sharp cracks followed and the men on the tower saw a section of the ice before the door give way, and vanish into dark water. Other sections caved in, once the surface of the lake had been broken, and the Kallmarks about the door, with their pine trunk, were soon floundering in icy water. Those in mail were pulled under by the weight of their clothing.

Others on the outskirts of the breaking ice scrambled to safety, numbed and stunned by their plunge. The horsemen drew back

on all sides, giving the castle a clear berth, for the break in the ice had weakened the whole surface.

Chagan’s stones had proved too much for the ice coating, al-ready severely tried by the crowd of men bearing the heavy pine trunk.

The sword-bearer eyed the destruction he had wrought with a surprised eye.

“Now by Meik and the winged steed of Kaidu!” he swore. “That was a mighty blow. No less than fifty are dead, at one stroke. Would that Berang and our comrades could have seen it.”

The brown-coated horsemen now drew beyond bow-shot of Changa. The first attack on Changa had failed. But Khlit’s face was grave. A careful inspection of the lake door had shown him that the hinges had fallen and the iron bars had been nearly wrenched from their sockets. A few more blows from the pine trunk and it must have fallen in. And their stock of arrows had been diminished by half.

XVI

Throughout the night Chinsi took her turn at watching and sleeping by the fire in the hall with the warriors. Chagan was in high spirits, because of the breaking of the ice. But Chepé Buga and Khlit were silent. Atagon was as calm as ever.

“You fought with the might of a Christian hero,” said the patriarch to Chepé Buga, “and God is watching over his shrine, from the clouds of heaven.”

“Nay, Priest,” muttered the handsome khan scornfully, “say rather that you fought like a paladin of Tatary. I saw two arrows strike that helmet of yours but you heeded them not.”

“The helmet has been worn by Christian knights,” responded the patriarch. “Except for Chagan’s wound where an arrow has slit his cheek, we are still whole. But before long the evil minds of the pagans will think to carry their ladders to the roof, where they can lay them against the tower.”

“By Satan’s cloven hoof,” swore Chepé Buga, “a shrewd thought, that!”

Khlit glanced at Atagon curiously. The words as well as the at-tire of the old man were those of many years ago. Atagon seemed to be without fear. The Cossack felt that this was because Atagon believed in the legend of Changa Nor. But how could the castle be held? So far they had done so, yet they could not hope to much longer, against the numbers of their foe.

If they still cherished hope that the Jun-gar horde of Berang would learn of their danger and bring aid from Baikal, they soon saw their error. And they had new proof of the cunning of Lhon Otai. The next morning the Kallmarks came for a new parley. Khlit took their message from the tower and when he came to the hall his face was serious.

“Lhon Otai has tricked us again,” he said grimly. “He sent one of his shamans to Lake Baikal with a message to Berang to hurry here alone. Not suspecting, the khan has done so. He is bound hand and foot, in the camp of the Kallmarks. They showed me his sword, as proof.”

A gloomy silence greeted this. With the young Berang a prisoner their last hope of aid from the Jun-gar horde had vanished. A sally from the castle under cover of night was not to be thought of. Even if the Kallmark horde had not surrounded the lake, the snow outlined the castle too clearly for them to hope to escape the keen eyes of the watchers.

Late that afternoon Atagon, who had been watching in the tower, came down to the hall.

“The pagans are in motion on the shore,” he said.

Khlit and his followers made their way to the tower. They saw that several of the wagon-yurts of the encampment were being drawn down to the shore of the lake by oxen. In puzzled silence they watched while the wheeled tents were dragged out on the ice. The yurts came halfway to the castle, within easy bow-shot, and then halted.

Kallmark horsemen drove the oxen back, leaving the heavy wagons on the ice. No signs of life were to be observed about the yurts. The mystery was solved in a moment, however. A flight of arrows sped from openings in the heavy tents toward the tower. The defenders ducked hastily as the missiles whistled past them.

Atagon drew his long bow and sent a shaft whizzing at the tents. It stuck fast in the covering. The Kallmarks had cleverly placed strong hides over the felt of the tents. The loose hides formed an effectual protection against anything short of a pistol shot. Through openings in the covering the Kallmark archers could shoot at the tower with safety.

In this way they overcame the handicap of the slippery ice, and the uneven balance of their horses’ backs. Realizing that it was useless to return the fire of the yurts, Khlit bade his companions lie under the shelter of the battlements, while Chinsi brought them fur robes as protection against the growing cold of evening. Atagon, who was shielded by his helmet, kept watch over the ramparts for signs of a renewal of the attack.

It came in the period of twilight between sunset and the be-ginning of the Northern Lights.

They heard a confused murmur on the farther side of the castle. Watching cautiously from the tower they saw dark forms moving along the battlements of the roof below them. The Kallmarks had placed their ladders again against the further side and had gained the roof.

They could see their foemen advancing slowly among the dead bodies, bearing what seemed to be the trunk of a tree. The Kallmarks as well as Atagon had seen the advantage of storming the tower from the summit of the castle, and they relied on darkness to cover their movements, after their costly repulse of yesterday.

Khlit rose to his feet, bow in hand. Instantly his shoulder stung sharply under the mail and he dropped to his knees. The arrows of the Kallmarks in the yurts were still flying over the tower which they could see after a fashion outlined against the sky.

Atagon stood erect, plying his arrows heedless of the peril, but Khlit drew Chagan to his knees.

“Their arrows will harm us here,” he whispered. “Go you down the stairs leading up the tower. Beside the postern door I marked an embrasure giving on the castle roof. Take your spear —”

The experienced sword-bearer needed no further advice. Taking up his heavy weapon he trundled down the stairs. Abreast the postern he peered from the embrasure. He was now on a level with the Kallmarks on the roof, and he could see their forms vaguely, as they raised the tree trunks they had fashioned into rough ladders against the tower.

Silently Chagan inserted the point of his spear in the opening and waited.

On the tower top Khlit heard the ladder scraping against the stone. Atagon had reeled back, struck by an arrow which clanged wickedly against his armor. The next moment the helmeted head of a Kallmark appeared cautiously over the battlements. Khlit and Chepé Buga rose to their feet gripping their swords. Then an angry shout rang out from below.

The men on the tower heard a groan. The head of the Kallmark disappeared. Looking over the side Khlit made out the dim bulk of the ladder falling sidewise. A cry of terror from the men clinging to it, and it crashed over the side of the castle to the ice below.

“That was Chagan’s spear,” grunted Khlit, “the sword-bearer has toppled over their ladder.”

The remaining invaders had left the roof. The arrows from the yurts had ceased. Quiet reigned once more around Changa, while the Northern Lights began their play in the sky. But Atagon lay unconscious where he had fallen on the tower.

Chepé Buga lifted the patriarch on his back and made his way past Chagan on the tower steps. He bore his burden to the hall, where Chinsi was waiting anxiously by the fire.

“The old hero has stopped one arrow too many, Chinsi,” he muttered. “Nay, he is not dead. Help me take off his armor.”

The girl, with the Tatar’s assistance, removed Atagon’s helmet and body armor and unstrapped the shield from his arm. The arrow had struck in a joint of the armor at the priest’s throat. Chinsi withdrew it tenderly and bound the wound with a strip of her undergarment.

There was little bleeding but the stern face of the patriarch was pale. He had been sorely hurt.

Chepé Buga warmed himself at the fire, watching Chinsi as she tended the priest.

XVII

“The curse of Changa Nor upon its spoilers is slow in coming to pass, Chinsi of the golden hair,” the khan observed. “I still live and Lhon Otai still is snug in his fat carcass. Your lover Gurd has disappeared, methinks.”

The girl looked up from the priest. There was a line of weariness under her eyes, but the eyes were clear and fearless.

“Nay,” she said, “Gurd will come. And we will be saved from our enemies.”

“Satan himself could not get through the Kallmark camp. There is no man living who can aid us now.”

“No man, perhaps, Chepé Buga,” she said strangely, and was silent.

The khan’s eyes dwelt lingeringly on her slender form. He was loath to think Chinsi would fall into the hands of the Kallmarks. Better that he should end the girl’s life with his own sword. The next attack would be the end of them. He put scant trust in the legend of Changa Nor.

“Do you still hate me, little Chinsi?” questioned the khan. “My arrows have sped faster because of you. If we must die, say that you hate me not.”

The girl returned his glance steadily.

“You are a bold man, Chepé Buga,” she said slowly. “Nay, because you have carried Atagon from danger, I forgive you the evil you would have done me.”

A sudden clamor over their heads startled both into silence. Chepé Buga leaped to his feet.

“They are attacking the tower,” he cried. “Stay here, Chinsi, and I will come for you if things go ill. Aye—”

He broke off as the girl put her finger to her lips. Another sound came to their ears, a dull knocking. The pounding continued, nearly drowned by the tumult on the roof. Then came a loud crash. It was close to them, so close that it must be in one of the nearby rooms.

“The lake door!” cried Chepé Buga.

“Aye,” Chinsi sprang to her feet in quick alarm, “the lake must have frozen over again during the night. The Kallmarks have beaten down the gate.”

But Chepé Buga was already in the next chamber, where the barricade had been erected around the door. He saw dark figures blocking the open gate. Spears were thrusting down the barrier. With a shout he leaped to the barricade, swinging his blade over his head. The sword struck against a body and a groan echoed through the chamber.

There was scant light, yet the khan guessed that few of the Kallmarks had squeezed through the door. Protected by the bulwark of logs he swung his sword into the dark in front of him. He heard men cry out, and felt an arrow whiz past him.

Chepé Buga was a skilled swordsman, and he had the advantage of position. He leaped back and forth behind the barrier, slashing at his enemies, who were penned in the space between the gate and the barricade.

Another moment and he felt that he had cleared the space of the invaders. But others were coming through the door. He stumbled over the spear which Khlit had laid on the floor in readiness. Seizing it he thrust at the opening. A groan rewarded his effort.

He heard Chinsi beside him, and called over his shoulder. “Go for Chagan. There are many more without.”

The girl sped away and Chepé Buga devoted himself anew to his spear work. For a space the door was cleared. Then Chepé

Buga felt his spear caught and held. He released the shaft and took up his sword.

Stepping quietly to one side of the opening, he struck down the first man who entered. As he did so he felt a sharp pain in the side of his head. One of the wounded who lay below had struck him. Dazed by the blow, the khan shifted his position.

He lost precious time by this movement. Two men had entered and his sword crashed against their weapons. In the darkness none of the three could see to strike surely. Chepé Buga sought for an opening cautiously, wearied by his efforts and the loss of blood. He listened anxiously for the coming of Chagan.

The next instant he reeled back. A spear had entered his armor, at the side. As he thrust weakly at his foe he caught the flash of a sword beside him. A groan came from one of his foemen. “Ha, Chagan!” he panted.

The last of the invaders fell before a thrust of the sword that gleamed beside him in the light from the fire behind them. The chamber was now empty of foemen, and the door was blocked with bodies. Quiet was restored.

Weakly Chepé Buga staggered out into the hall. His companion closed the door behind him. Then the khan sank down beside Atagon. For the first time he saw his companion by the firelight. Even to his dimmed eyes the figure did not seem like Chagan’s bulk. The firelight gleamed on the small shield of Atagon which the other carried.

Above the shield was a white, anxious face and a tangle of gold hair.

“Chinsi!” he gasped. “How—”

“Chagan could not leave the tower,” she said softly, “they are hard beset. I took Atagon’s sword and shield, to help you if I could.” The girl laid down her shield and knelt beside him.

“They have gone from the door,” she said eagerly, “I heard them.”

Her glance fell on the dark stain that covered the khan’s mail, and she gave a cry of dismay.

Chepé Buga shook his head in mute protest as she tried to draw off his heavy mail.

“The spear,” he whispered, “went deep. Your sword killed the man that did it. Brave Chinsi, the golden-haired!”

Chepé Buga’s dark head sank back on the floor, and his sword fell from his fingers. The watching girl saw a gray hue steal into his stern face. Chepé Buga, she knew, was dying.

“Harken,” she whispered, pointing to Atagon who lay beside them, conscious. “Let the presbyter bless you, Chepé Buga. The priest will save your soul, for heaven.”

The Tatar moved his head weakly until he could see Atagon. Something like a smile touched his drawn lips. The girl bent her head close to his to hear what he was trying to say.

“Nay, Chinsi. Do you bless me. Heaven is—where you are.”

Raising one hand, Chepé Buga caught a strand of the girl’s hair which lay across his face. The girl, who had stretched out her hand to Atagon, sighed regretfully. Yet she did not move her head away.

Chepé Buga’s hand was still fast in her hair. But its weight hung upon the strand, and the Tatar’s eyes were closed when Khlit and Chagan ran from the tower stairs into the hall a moment later.

The two halted beside the form of Chepé Buga. A single glance told Khlit that the khan was dead. He placed his hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“Harken, Chinsi,” he said, “what do you hear?”

The girl strained her ears, but she could hear nothing. The hall was silent save for the heavy breathing of the two warriors. Yet the silence was ominous after the storm of the assault.

“What is it?” asked the girl, her heart beating heavily.

“It is the curse of Changa Nor,” said Khlit grimly. “It has fallen on the Kallmarks.”

The girl rose to her feet with a startled cry.

“Aye,” said Chagan, leaning wearily on his bloodied spear, “it must be the curse, for Chepé Buga is dead.”

XVIII

“Go to the tower, and you can see what has happened,” Khlit directed. “Take Chagan with you, Chinsi, for some of the Kallmarks might think to take shelter in Changa castle. I will stay with Chepé Buga.”

Khlit took his seat beside Atagon and the body of his comrade. The girl sought the tower, followed more slowly by the sword-bearer. As she climbed the steps she became conscious of a noise outside the castle. It was a distant tumult, unlike the clamor of the assault.

As she gained the summit of the tower it grew to a roar that echoed between the walls of the tower and the hills.

The darkness was pierced by the Northern Lights. When Chinsi’s eyes had become accustomed to the gloom she beheld a strange scene.

Across the surface of the lake horsemen were darting. In the camp itself on shore all was confusion. She heard the shrill neighing of horses, the bellowing of cattle in fear. The shouts of the Kallmarks resounded through the confusion. Fires had sprung up in a wide arc through the pine forest. She saw the dark bulk of the yurts hurrying along the shore of the lake.

Her first thought was that the forest was on fire. This could not be, however, in the snow. The fires were separate. And she could see men throwing branches on them. Above the tumult of the beasts and the crackling of fire she caught a hideous snarling and snapping. Then she saw for the first time that the woods beyond the camp were filled with masses of dark forms. In front of these masses riders were wheeling, swinging their swords. By the fires she saw animals trotting through the pines.

“Wolves!” she cried.

“Aye,” assented Chagan, who had come up. “The great wolf pack of the North is yonder. It came on the Kallmarks when they were attacking the castle. They had no sentries out in the hills. The pack got among the herds before they knew it.”

“The fires will keep the wolves away from the camp,” cried Chinsi.

“Nay, they were built too late. The pack has tasted blood. The wolves are mingled in the herds now. The beasts are mad with fear. Harken!”

The shrill scream of a horse in pain came to the ears of the girl and she shuddered. She saw that the herds of cattle which had been placed in the hills beyond the camp were now mingled in the camp itself. In spite of the efforts of the horsemen, the animals were stampeding along the shore, rushing from one point to another. The fires excited them further. Even the oxen yoked to the wagon-yurts had caught the fever of fear. The contagion had spread to the horses, which were becoming unmanageable.

“If it were not for the animals, the plight of our friends yon-der would not be so bad,” continued Chagan, who was watching events intently. “By lighting more fires, they might save them-selves. But the herds are in the grip of fear. And the pack is among them, having tasted blood. Ha!”

He pointed to the further shore, where there were fewer fires. From this place groups of cattle and oxen were moving in the direction of the lake. Horsemen rode among them, powerless to check them because their mounts were beyond control. The tide of beasts swept down to the lake. By the lights in the sky Chinsi could see whips lifted, and the blades of swords flashing. Here and there a rider went down under the mass.

A group of Kallmarks had mustered at the edge of the lake and were endeavoring to turn the frantic animals to each side, along the shore. But the snarling of the wolves echoed in the rear of the herd and masses of the cattle ventured out on the frozen lake. A number of yurts drawn by oxen were in their midst. To the girl it seemed as if an invisible hand were driving the beasts to destruction. On the nearer side of the lake where the main body of Kallmarks was, the men were making headway in their fight against the wolves.

“They are out on the lake,” she cried. “Oh—”

With a rending crackle whole surfaces of the ice gave way under the weight of the animals and the yurts. Horsemen, beasts, and tents disappeared into the black water. The flickering glow of the sky showed her the horns of cattle swimming in the water. A frantic rumble sounded from the doomed beasts.

This catastrophe was fatal to the Kallmarks. The parts of the herd that had gone along the shore became panic-stricken and broke into a run. They merged with the horses, mad with the double fear of the wolves and the breaking ice. In a moment the whole mass was in motion in one direction. The leading beasts hesitated as they reached the fires and the men tending them, and then drove on, urged by the multitude behind.

Chinsi saw the men by the fires leap into passing yurts or on the backs of horses. By now the mass was flowing out into the woods, past the fires. On either side ran the wolf pack, pulling down beasts from the herd.

The Kallmarks were powerless to halt their animals. The horses went with the cattle, and the men went perforce with the horses, or crowded in the yurts.

By dawn the main body of the Kallmarks had passed from the lake. Isolated groups of horsemen rode after them, escorted by wolves. The fires in the forest were dying down. About fallen beasts the wolves gathered, snarling. In the path of the riders lay overturned yurts, and dark forms invisible under a slavering press of wolves.

XIX

When he had recovered from his wound, Atagon, the aged presbyter of Changa Nor who was sometimes called by visiting Christians the last descendant of Prester John, prayed reverently be-fore his shrine. In his prayers he gave heartfelt thanks to God for saving the altar of Changa Nor from the pagans. Surely, thought Atagon, it was the hand of God; for Lhon Otai, the shaman who desecrated the shrine, was found dead, mangled by the wolves; and since that night Kallmarks and Jun-gar alike respected Changa castle.

True, Atagon did not know that it was the command of Khlit, called the Wolf, that the shrine be unmolested by the Tatars. For Khlit’s position as Kha Khan was unquestioned after the death of Lhon Otai and the retreat of the Kallmarks to the border, following upon the defeat of their plans and the slaughter at Changa Nor.

And hearing the prayers of Atagon, Gurd, the hunter, did not find it in his heart to tell the presbyter the truth of what had happened. Only to Chinsi, as is the way of lovers, did Gurd re-veal that, knowing the treachery of Lhon Otai and the coming of the Kallmarks, he had taken the desperate chance to drive the besiegers from Changa Nor. He had led his reindeer herd across the course of the great wolf pack of the North, which was on its annual migration southward along the shore of Lake Baikal. Then he had fled for the Kallmark camp, with the pack at his heels, striking down his reindeer until all but one had fallen to the wolves.

And so Chinsi laughed softly to herself when she heard the khan Berang tell how, from the door of a wagon-yurt, he had seen a man clad in the furs of animals and mounted on a stag lead the wolves into the Kallmark herds that night.

For Berang’s face bore the look of one who has seen a miracle as great as the dance of the Rakchas by the three Diandas, or even the flaming anvils of the Cheooki gods in the skies.