Durandal

by Harold Lamb

  “Ay,” said the reflective voice, “it is well done. And yet—will not the Franks turn back when they find they are not supported by my companies?”

  “Turn back they will not. They are like unleashed hunting hounds at scent of a stag. Their champion may be smitten down, their standards reft from them, and still they that breathe will fight on. It is the nature of the barbarian.”

  Another voice was heard, modulated and unctuous as a flute attuned to the ear of a musician:

  “May I, the Cæsar2 of your Grandeur, speak and live? When the imperial host advances upon the broken Saracens, a remnant of the barbarians may yet stand in arms. Imperator Maximus, it were well that none should outlive this day.”

  “Ay, great Lord,” put in Mavrozomes eagerly, “the barbarians have blunt tongues and scurrilous. Not an hour agone they did blaspheme thy Majesty—”

  “Thy mission is accomplished, Mavrozomes,” the cryptic voice of the Emperor broke in. “Take care to guard thy tongue!”

  Not once had the armorer looked up into the lean and pallid face of Theodore Lascaris. He did not see the tawny eyes pucker thoughtfully, or the down-curving lips tighten. Yet he heard the unmistakable clink of gold coins.

  Theodore, weighing within his fingers a small purse that lay in an ivory casket at his side, was considering how greatly he need reward the armorer. And Mavrozomes, from the corners of his eyes, was watching the hand of the Emperor.

  CHAPTER II -THE FRANKS

  WHEN the sun was high, the last files of the crusaders emerged from the ravine and formed on the sandy plain. Close at hand upon the left, the river Meander wound through dense rushes where water fowl clamored and swooped The ground in front sloped gently down to a dry bed of a stream and ascended gradually to a line of hillocks a quarter mile away.

  On this ridge the host of Kai-Kosru awaited them.

  The Saracens seemed to be drawn up in no particular formation. Groups of horsemen were visible moving through the gullies between the hillocks, and the heights were held in strength.

  This continual motion of the Saracens and the heat haze that clung to the valley bed concealed the true numbers of the Sultan, and the little group of leaders that surveyed the field from in advance of the crusaders’ ranks watched it all in silence.

  “I like it not,” quoth the gray Norman, brushing the sweat from his eyes.

  “What is their strength?” wondered Marcabrun, who had put aside his gittern and was drawing taut the lacing of his coif.

  “Three—five times our own,” answered Rinaldo impatiently. “Come, messers, let us advance out of this hell-hole and try them with sword strokes.”

  “More lie hidden beyond the upland,” insisted the Norman, “and it seems to me that here we have the full power of Seljuk and Turkoman under the banner of Kai-Kosru.”

  “Let it be so!” cried Rinaldo. “We may not now draw back. If, indeed, twenty thousand paynim lurk on yonder height, we should do ill to abide their charge. Forward, say I.”

  “Ay!” acclaimed the impetuous Provençal. “What says Sir Hugh?”

  “The Emperor tarries,” mused the young knight, without turning his head. “When the Greeks come forth from the ravine there will be confusion in their array. At that moment well might the Saracens charge and do us harm.”

  The silence of the older nobles showed their assent and understanding.

  “The Emperor tarries,” went on Sir Hugh quietly, “and so must we go forward to clear his path. Mark ye, messers, that the Saracens hold broken ground. They have left us the heavy sands to cross, the height to climb. Their real strength lies beyond our sight.”

  “And so,” quoth the dour Norman, “it were well to abide the coming of the Greeks.”

  “Not so!” Sir Hugh shook his helmeted head. “If the foe be in such strength, they can pass around us and climb to the sides of the ravine, trapping the Emperor and his followers.”

  And the youth in the imperial armor tightened his rein, trotting along the line of knights and men-at-arms, standing full armed by their chargers. Behind him three Normans bore the standard of Theodore, a purple banner surmounted by golden eagles.

  Now when he wheeled at the end of the line, a low murmur grew to a joyful muttering. Not a man in the ranks but knew the bay horse he rode, and they who first perceived that this was not Theodore but their comrade-in-arms passed the word back to others, until the groups of archers, leaning on their short halberds, were aware that Sir Hugh was in command.

  Silence was broken by a roaring shout as men got them to saddle and took lances in hand. Sir Hugh wheeled his bay charger and paced slowly down the slope. No need to race the horses through the sands.

  The short line of mailed riders extended no farther than the center of Kai-Kosru’s forces. Sir Hugh knew well the danger of thinning his array to try to meet the wide-flung wings of the Moslems. His lances were in the first rank, the axes and swords in the second, and, walking beside the horses, the hooded archers, with strung bows, arrow in hand.

  They descended to the rock-strewn bed of the stream and picked their way across before the Moslem riders moved.

  At once a shrill clamor of kettledrums and cymbals arose from musicians hidden in the gullies, and clouds of light-armed bowmen galloped down, to wheel and dart around the Franks. Arrows whirred into the mailed ranks. But the archers of Sir Hugh made such response with their long shafts that the skirmishers kept their distance.

  Then, with a roaring ululation and a thunder of hoofs, a flood of Moslem swordsmen swept over the crest of the ridge and made at the foremost knights.

  “Forward—the lances!”

  Sir Hugh turned in his saddle to shout, and, lowering his heavy spear, put spur to the bay charger. The horses of the crusaders broke into a trot that quickened to a plunging gallop before the wave of Moslems struck them.

  His feet thrust deep into the stirrups, his body rigid behind close gripped shield, Sir Hugh glimpsed faces that swooped down and passed him. His spear drove back against his shoulder, and he freed the point from the body of a man, swinging it fairly into the pound shield of a bearded son of Islam who was galloping down on him.

  The long steel point picked the rider from the saddle, and the horse careened against the iron-plated chest of the bay charger. Dropping his spear, Sir Hugh whipped his sword free and glanced from side to side.

  The wave of Moslems had broken upon the line of spears and—except where single riders wielded scimitar against sword or mace—had scattered into fragments that drifted away under the sting of the long shafts that flew from the bows of the veteran archers.

  “Ha—messers!” Sir Hugh laughed, rising in his stirrups. “Pass forward and strike!”

  He broke through a fringe of dry tamarisk and galloped out upon the crest of the ridge, seeing in that instant the full power of Kai-Kosru.

  Before him stretched a wide level where two battalions that had been reining in impatient steeds now launched against the Franks—two masses of horsemen, mailed from knee to throat, and splendidly mounted. He saw that one of these groups were Turkomans, lean men in white and black khalats—the other, the Sultan’s Seljuks, glittering in peaked helmets and inlaid mail, poising javelins as they advanced.

  Swinging up his shield, he parried and cut with his sword, aware of men behind him who thrust with spear and blade, and of the joyous shout of battle:

  “For Christ and the Sepulchre!”

  The mass of agile riders hemmed him in, and he was struck upon the helm and shoulder. Blood from his forehead dripped into his eyebrows, and he shook his head to clear his sight. The Moslems were pressing against the standard and the man they had singled out as the Emperor.

  But Sir Hugh, putting forth the utmost of his strength, advanced through them, his long sword lashing aside up-flung shield and battle ax. And the Normans, on rearing, screaming horses at his heels, kept pace with him. No rush of the lighter Moslem horse could stem that steady advance of the close-drawn ranks on level ground.


  “Brave blows!” cried Marcabrun, at his side. “They stand not. Let us go on, to where the Sultan abides.”

  “Stay!” ordered Sir Hugh. “Archers to the center. Rein back your men, Sir Clevis! Stand here!”

  The masses of Moslems that had drawn off sullenly were joined by others that emerged from the gullies and advanced on the crusaders. On a distant knoll Sir Hugh beheld the green banner of the Sultan, Kai-Kosru, surrounded by warriors who had not been in the fight as yet.

  “The Greeks come to the valley!” Marcabrun pointed across the bed of gray sand, at the ravine behind them where some scores of the Emperor’s spearmen were visible. Sir Hugh watched them for a moment, searching in vain for the helmets of Theodore’s nobles. If the Emperor’s host advanced promptly, it could join the Franks and occupy the ridge. The crossbowmen of the Greeks could clear the gullies and the Sultan’s center could be broken by a timely charge. The Moslems were wavering.

  This was so clear to Sir Hugh that his heart burned with impatience, and he caught up the orifan, the long, curved horn that could send a blast across the tumult of battle. Once and again he sounded the rallying note that the Greeks must hear. The men about him, with souls intent on the work in hand, heard the horn and shouted gleefully:

  “Strike, sir brothers! The field is ours.”

  But above the clashing of steel, the neighing of horses, and the splintering of wood were heard the drone of the hidden drums, the clangor of the cymbals.

  At first the crusaders had broken up the rushes of the Saracens by counter charges. For the most part, their spears had been broken, and they fought with sword and mace. Most of them were bruised and bleeding, and all of them suffered from the burning heat that made the steel upon their limbs a torment, and sapped the might of their sinews.

  Kai-Kosru’s Turkomans had crept up the ridge on all sides, taking advantage of boulders and cross gullies that protected them from the onset of the dreaded horsemen. With their powerful bows they picked off the horses of the Franks, and the shafts of Sir Hugh’s few archers did not avail to drive them back.

  By mid-afternoon the crusaders ceased sallying forth and contented themselves with holding the high ground in the center of the ridge.

  “Verily,” quoth Rinaldo, pulling off his helmet to cool his forehead for an instant, “Satan spews forth these companies of paynim. The cursed fellows rise out of the earth. Hark to their music! Ho, they come again. Make way!”

  He thrust forward, urging on his men, until his horse was killed under him by an arrow, and he fought on foot. Sir Hugh noticed him, and reined aside to get between him and the Moslems. The reckless giant had let fall his helmet, and before Sir Hugh could reach him, a Turkoman had leaned down, an arrow quivering in his fingers.

  The shaft struck Rinaldo between the eyes, and the bowman’s horse knocked him to earth. One of the Franks slew the Moslem, and Sir Hugh took his stand by the fallen chieftain, bidding those who were nearest carry the body back to the standard.

  He looked around, seeking the Norman baron in vain. Marcabrun was casting away the stem of a broken sword, and calling for a new one. Now that Rinaldo and the Norman were gone, no one remained to give wise counsel to the young chieftain.

  The sun was sinking toward a line of purple hills, and the hot breath of the sandy gullies rose into the faces of the surviving Franks. More than half of them lay outstretched on the hard, shelterless earth, dead, or sorely wounded. The sun was in his eyes when he looked back at the ravine from which he had come that morning, and he could not tell whether the Greeks were moving at last to his aid or not. But Sir Hugh no longer hoped for succor from the Emperor.

  A glance down the ridge showed him that the Saracens had lost three and four men to his one; but so great were their numbers that their force seemed unimpaired by four hours of battle.

  And now the Sultan Kai-Kosru took matters into his own hand. His green banner was seen advancing toward the remnant of the Franks, and in that clear, level light of late afternoon the Sultan himself was visible, mounted on a white Arab courser, bearing a target ringed in black and gold—a slender, bearded man who looked ever steadfastly toward the height upon which stood the wearied bay charger of Sir Hugh.

  Around Kai-Kosru trotted his bodyguard, two thousand Seljuks, still unwearied, and more than eager to end by a single charge the long affray wherein such losses had been inflicted on their fellows.

  Beholding this, Sir Hugh knew that two alternatives remained to him. He could close up ranks and try to cut his way through to the ravine where the Greeks stood, or he could risk everything in one advance upon the Sultan.

  Swiftly he took account of the numbers of the enemy and decided that it was vain indeed to draw back now. His little company, harried and beset, would never survive the long march to their allies—and to turn about would discourage his men and hearten the Saracens. Not a hundred horses remained fit to carry riders.

  So thinking, he bade an archer cut the lashings of his helm, and sighed with relief when the hot steel had been cast aside. Shaking back the mail hood from his head, he held up his sword arm and called to his comrades in the brief moment of quiet when they became aware of the oncoming mass of riders and looked to him for an order.

  “My brothers, well have you sped this day. You have struck good blows. If we turn back, some few may win through; yet, if we turn again upon the Saracen, we shall break the Sultan’s last array or die with our faces toward the tomb of the Lord Christ.”

  “Yea, we will go with you, Sir Hugh!” cried the nearest, and even the wounded raised a faint shout of approval.

  There was no flinching, no glancing back toward the valley. The men on foot closed in among the horses, and they who limped and panted caught at stirrups to steady them. Tortured by thirst, silent, and afire with grim determination, they moved down the eastern ridge.

  So the watchers on knoll and cliff beheld a dark cluster of Franks move onward into the rush of Kai-Kosru’s guards. And, as the waters of a torrent sweep around immovable rocks, swirling and breaking into foam, the Saracen horsemen engulfed the remnant of the Franks.

  The bay charger flung up its head, stumbled, and sank beneath Sir Hugh, who freed his feet from the stirrups and fell clear, staggering on aching legs. There was a haze of dust about him, and he felt men lurch against him, until a hand pressed his shoulder heavily, and he looked up into the bloodless face of the Provençal minstrel.

  Marcabrun swayed in the saddle, leaning upon his young comrade. His eyes were sunk in his head, and his cracked and bleeding lips mumbled words:

  “A horse for thee, Sir Hugh—God shield thee! I go—-—” He coughed and gripped the charger’s mane with bloodstained fingers. “Mea culpa—”

  It was a groan rather than a prayer. The broken shaft of a javelin was embedded in one of the rents of his hauberk, beneath the straining chest.

  Sir Hugh caught the body of his friend as it slid from the saddle. Marcabrun’s songs were at an end, and he had spoken his last brave word. But Sir Hugh never mounted to the minstrel’s saddle. A group of foemen burst through the ring of men-at-arms around him, and as he let fall Marcabrun’s body he beheld the white courser of the Sultan Kai-Kosru rearing, and black hoofs lashing out at his head.

  Kai-Kosru was crouching in the saddle, a heavy scimitar upflung in his right hand, which was toward Sir Hugh.

  There was not a moment between sight and the blow that flashed down at his bare head, but in that instant of time the young chieftain was aware of the gold chain that linked the sword to the Sultan’s wrist—of precious stones that flared and sparkled in the Moslem’s turban knot—and of exulting brown eyes that were fixed avidly upon him.

  Then he flung up his shield. Kai-Kosru’s blow, descending with the full force of arm and body, and the impetus of the dropping horse, struck fairly upon the shield, cracking it asunder and knocking Sir Hugh to the earth. But as he fell the crusader cut upward with his long blade, slashing the Sultan’s knee and the t
endon in the courser’s off foreleg.

  His left arm hampered by the fragments of the shield, and his bruised shoulder numb, Sir Hugh rolled over and found himself prone beside Kai-Kosru. The Moslem chieftain had fallen from the saddle when his horse sank under him, and, maddened, by pain, lay on the earth.

  “Yield thee, paynim!” cried Sir Hugh, catching the Sultan’s sword arm in his left hand.

  Kai-Kosru spat savagely into the youth’s bleeding face and let fall his scimitar to pull a long-hilted dagger from his girdle. With this he stabbed several times at Sir Hugh’s throat, only to have the slender blade thrust aside by the right hand of his foe, protected by its chain mitten.

  Writhing back, and freeing himself from Sir Hugh’s grasp, the agile Moslem gripped again his scimitar hilt, bound to his wrist by its chain. Uprising on one knee, he whirled the curved blade about his head.

  But in this second of respite Sir Hugh struck his adversary between the eyes with his mailed fist. Mighty sinews were behind the blow, and the slender Moslem sank back with a groan.

  Sir Hugh slipped the loops of his broken shield, and grasped his sword again, striking swiftly. The blade passed under the beard of Kai-Kosru and bit through his neck into the ground.

  In another moment—before the Moslems, who had drawn back and reined in their horses for fear of harming their sultan, could do more than cry out in horror—Sir Hugh grasped the severed head by the beard and hurled it among his enemies with a wrathful cry:

  “Dead is Kai-Kosru!”

  A horse, darting upon him from behind, struck him with its armored shoulder, driving the breath from his lungs and the sight from his eyes. He staggered and fell on one knee, powerless to rise or behold what passed above him.

  Then, leaping through the rearing horses came a figure panting and yelling, and in semblance more demoniac than human. Its bristling head was red as the blood that ran from its fingers and loins, and in the deep glow of sunset its whole grotesque and powerful body was dyed crimson.