They dismounted from their shaggy little ponies, and horn reflex bows in hand, stalked the area, two dark men, short and muscular, wary and savage as any two wild animals. It was a poor enough place: a few patches of spindly wheat, one bony cow, a few chickens, and a sod hut for the family of three.
The Tartars cautiously skirted the farm on all sides, found no neighbors to worry about, and made their plans accordingly, being experienced scouts. The farmer, a burly Slav, was working in the field with a boy of perhaps twelve, no doubt his son. They were unarmed except for their crude hoes; obviously, this region had known peace of late. Certainly, no Horde had come this way for some years.
The woman, gaunt and juiceless, was plucking a scrawny hen while her baby, still too young to walk, played in the dirt at her feet, softly prattling.
The two barbarians exchanged several cryptic grunts. As expert raiders they had developed a simple, effective routine, requiring only a few basic signals. They fitted arrows to their short but immensely powerful bows, and struck. Neither the farmer nor his son, the only possible fighters in the family, could have been aware of what was happening to them. At that short range, from solid ground instead of galloping ponies, the two Tartars could have split wands. The whistling arrows drove deep into the victims’ bodies, and they died where they stood, uncomprehending and almost instantaneously. With uncouth cries of exultation, the scouts moved in on the terrified woman, frozen in place.
They were well aware that they must not burden themselves with captives, no matter how desirable as slaves: mobility and distance covered were the watchwords of this operation. Tugai Bey dashed the baby’s brains out against a rock; his nephew, grinning savagely at this welcome opportunity to indulge himself, strangled the mother, too traumatized by the fate of her infant to struggle, or, perhaps, even to care.
After that, they butchered the cow and gorged on burnt gobbets of meat, for they had long subsisted on grain, supplemented by a few ounces of warm blood from the veins of their mounts. Burlai Khan would have torched the wheat, but his uncle, wiser in war, restrained him. Why alert other settlers farther away by making a lot of smoke? The leaders of the Horde couldn’t object to their scouts’ enjoyment of a brief, murderous diversion here but would strongly resent their warning the whole countryside that the barbarians were on the move. There was thought to be a sizable walled town ahead, replete with gold and women; it would be a fine place to invest and plunder. So let the grain stand for now.
It was late in the afternoon before they found a second farm. This one was even smaller and less prosperous than the first, since it was a one-man operation. There were only a few square yards under cultivation and no livestock; and the hut was a tiny, rickety lean-to. Their reconnoitering revealed only one inhabitant, a feeble old man, pulling up weeds with twisted, arthritic fingers. His posture, skinny rear towards the barbarians, was very inviting, suggesting the brutal sort of practical joke that delighted them. Tugai Bey, grinning and nodding towards his nephew, had already drawn an arrow to its head, intending to feather it squarely in the farmer’s backside, when the younger man gave a little gasp and clutched his uncle’s shoulder. Irritably Tugai Bey gently relaxed the bowstring and, weapon dangling from one chunky hand, peered in the direction his nephew indicated. He, too, sucked in his breath at the sight. A large snow leopard, one of the rarest of the big cats, the gorgeous fur of which was highly prized, was stalking the old man. It was seldom that these solitary predators came down from the mountains; only in times of famine, when game was scarce, were they found under a height of ten thousand fee.
They watched it with profound interest and anticipation, wondering about its presence here, in the flatlands. But in any case, whatever the reason, this promised to be far more fun than transfixing the farmer with a barbed shaft. And after the old man was torn apart, their arrows would skewer the leopard. The magnificent pelt of silver grey with brown rosettes, apparently in prime condition, thick and fluffy, would be a splendid trophy.
They could hear the farmer muttering to himself as he worked, occasionally chanting in a cracked voice, oblivious to the dangerous animal behind him. The two Tartars crouched, full of malicious glee, as the bushy-tailed cat, stretched full length on the brown soil, glided nearer to its intended prey. They saw it pause, gather its powerful hind legs under its body, and prepare to pounce, every flat, sinuous muscle tense. The dark claws worked in the white sheaths of its big paws as if anticipating the rending to come.
Then, to their amazement, the farmer whirled, showed yellow, broken teeth in a grin, and waved one hand in mock reproof. The snow leopard, seeming oddly abashed, relaxed, rolled upon its back, and purred so loudly they could hear it even from their position many yards away. The old man went to the cat, rubbed its belly, tugged playfully at the fluffy tail, and returned to his weeding.
Completely awed, the scouts stared at each other. Surely this was magic. Never in all their wanderings had they seen anything like it. There were ponies with the Horde, of course, the product of many generations of association, and a few dogs, but who ever heard of a snow leopard subservient to a man? Yes, this old man must be a mighty wizard, perhaps his true shape that of a fearsome goblin. Tugai Bey shuddered as he thought of the shaft he had almost loosed at this sorcerer, and was glad that his nephew had intervened in time. Why, by now the pseudo-farmer in his wrath might have turned them both into rocks or even lumps of horse dung. To nomads that was a dreadful fate, since it meant, other matters aside, an end to the mobility they cherished.
But now his nephew gave a little grunt of surprise. It was incredible enough that the old man had tamed and enslaved a ferocious predator, but what was this? Around the lean-to came a small dog, a black, shaggy mongrel with intelligent, humorous eyes. It ran up to the leopard, barked brightly, and crouched, tail wagging, obviously unafraid of the big cat.
The farmer looked at them, and when the leopard seemed reluctant to respond, said, “Very well, my dear children — play. But you, Winter, be very careful. I know you love Blackberry, and would never wish to hurt him, but you have been careless lately, and those paws of yours are strong. So be extra gentle or I may have to stop the game. Now you may romp,” and he pointed one authoritative finger at the odd pair.
The concealed Tartars, familiar with many Slavic dialects, understood the gist of his words, and their wonder grew. The sorcerer talked to the beasts; they seemed to know what his commands were, and obeyed them. Obviously, the leopard had waited for permission before daring to play with the little dog. A natural predator, fierce and untamable, taking orders from a frail old man; this was magic of a high sort, and undoubtedly the farmer was not what he seemed but a powerful demon in disguise — but why the feeble body, unless it was to trap observers into rush action which could be met with terrible consequences for the sorcerer’s amusement?
Right now the two animals were frolicking like puppies. The mongrel would charge the leopard, barking in mock ferocity; the big cat, back humped, whiskers bristling, spat and snarled as if actually intimidated. Then one broad paw, its claws carefully retracted, shot out in a streaking motion too fast for most of its prey to counter. The little dog was gently flattened into helplessness. For a moment the snow leopard pressed its captive against the ground, unable to move; then Blackberry whimpered his submission and rather reluctantly was freed. Immediately the game began again, with variations.
The scouts continued to watch, their astonishment growing. It was well known to all that a leopard’s favorite food was dog. Many of the camp’s mongrels had been taken whenever the Horde passed near the higher ranges. Yet here were mortal enemies playing together; only sorcery could account for it, and their fear of the pseudo-farmer increased.