Durandal

by Harold Lamb

  And with knotted, hairy arms this figure laid about it, dealing blows with a seven-foot staff of iron bound upon wood, shattering the steel blades and the leather targets of the infuriated Moslems until they drew back, crying:

  “Div—div! A demon—a demon!”

  Then was heard the blast of a hundred trumpets of the Emperor Theodore, who was leading forward his companies of nobles and slaves, of Tatar bowmen, and Bulgar axmen, and the cavalry of the Greeks.

  Stunned by the death of their sultan, and wearied by the long combat with the Franks, the host of Kai-Kosru, scattered among the ravines by the river, made little resistance to the Greek attack. They separated into groups, each seeking its way from the field, some swimming the river, some galloping back to Antioch, leaderless.

  Thereupon came Theodore, to ride over the field with his captains and councilors, and to look at the chivalry of the Franks, the dead men that lay from the bed of the valley to the ridge and from the ridge to the small ravine where Marcabrun’s body was found, scarred by hoofs.

  But the body of Kai-Kosru was not found, because the Turkomans had carried it off with them. And, though Theodore, the shrewd and far-seeing, promised rich reward to the man who should bring him the body of the mock Emperor, no trace of Sir Hugh was discovered other than his dead charger and the imperial helmet he had cast away in his last advance.

  CHAPTER III - A WARRIOR’S BROTHER

  The man who stands beside a warrior in battle shall be in all things his friend, and no quarrel may arise between them; the man who carries a wounded warrior from the field shall be his brother, and thereafter neither hatred nor evil word shall come between them.—THE YASSA OR CODE OF GENGHIS KHAN.

  WHEN Sir Hugh’s sight cleared, and the blood left his throbbing temples, he was aware of silence and of shadows. The sun had set, and though the sky overhead was a shimmering blue, the defile was in semi-darkness.

  A score of bodies lay near him, but the headless corpse of Kai-Kosru was not to be seen. Only one living man was in the gully, an ungainly form seated on a boulder, a long staff across its bare knees.

  Striding toward the stranger, the youth halted to stare at his clumsy armor of iron plates lashed together, the half of them sliced from his shoulders, and at his restless, gleaming eyes.

  “What man are you?” he demanded.

  “Donn Dera.”

  “Where are my followers?”

  “Raven meat, and so they will lie. There is no help for that.”

  Leaning on his sword, Sir Hugh bent his head. It seemed impossible that all the Franks could have perished; in the desperation of the last struggle he had been able to see only what happened within arm’s reach. Where were the Saracens? He asked Donn Dera this, and the strange warrior looked up craftily at the sky. His voice was husky, and Sir Hugh thought he had heard it before.

  “The war bands have taken to fleeing,” said Donn Dera. “They are fleeing before the incoming of the Greeks. There has been a destruction of many men.”

  “The Greeks! Has Theodore come upon the field?”

  “Yea,” responded the stranger, “he has taken up the standard that you let fall.”

  Again the youth’s temples grew hot, and he drew a long breath. Turning away, he strode unsteadily down the defile, until Donn Dera’s heavy hand on his shoulder checked him.

  “What now?”

  The stranger shook his head.

  “It is clear that you are going to confront the Emperor himself, and there will be ill words and an end of the matter. You are a fool, though you do not lack courage. Being wise, the Greek will slay you with poison or in other fashion, that no ancient men or minstrels may say he did not keep faith this day.”

  “Eight hundred men died this day!” cried the youth, beside himself. “He—he is the one to answer for it.”

  “In his own fashion he fought,” responded Donn Dera grimly. “And surely, now, it was you who led your followers into their destruction.”

  The blood drained from Hugh’s cheeks, and his hands clenched the leatherbound hilt of his long sword. Donn Dera shook his shaggy head moodily.

  “Yea, overyoung you are to be a chieftain. Another time it will fare worse with your foes, better with your followers. Come, we must hide.”

  Hugh could only look upon him silently. His wearied brain ached.

  “Messer Donn Dera,” he said thoughtfully, “it is in my mind that you shielded me when I was on my knee among the horses. So may you say to me what would bring harm upon another.”

  The stranger raised one shoulder.

  “What is done is done, and the black shame upon Theodore. Now, a while agone I was spying and peering and saw the Greek spearmen going about the field putting their weapons into the wounded Franks.”

  At this Hugh tried to shake himself free of the man and make his way toward the Emperor’s men, but the hand on his shoulder was not to be put aside.

  “Come,” whispered Donn Dera again.

  “Whither?” Hugh laughed hoarsely. “To the Arabs?”

  “Better than the Greeks,” nodded the stranger. “The river is best. We must drink.”

  Hugh suffered the warrior to lead him back through the gully. Donn Dera seemed to have a dog’s sense of direction, or a nose for water. Presently the young knight looked down at the ungainly figure, and at the ironbound staff.

  “What is your lineage, and whence are ye, Donn Dera?” he asked.

  “I am a man of weapons, and I follow the war bands and the hosts. Yea, I am quick at rapine and plunder.”

  “Whose son are ye?”

  “The son of Etil, son of Tara.”

  Although Hugh had never heard these names before, and although he wondered from what land the stranger came, he put forth his hand and said frankly:

  “I am beholden to you, Donn Dera, for my life, and while I live this shall not be forgotten.”

  The man of weapons merely grunted, yet he did not look displeased. The hand that closed around Sir Hugh’s was like an iron claw. In silence they pushed through the dense willow growth until they descended a steep slope and dropped among the rushes of the Meander’s bank. Then they drank greedily from cupped hands and plunged steaming heads into the muddied water.

  Abruptly Donn Dera clucked and raised his hand. Above them horses were crashing through the underbrush at a mad pace. The man of weapons glanced around, and motioned his young companion to squat down where the tall rushes grew thickly.

  Instead of turning aside along the upper bank, the horses came directly toward the river, and in a moment more a score of them slid down the declivity and plunged about in the slippery footing.

  Hugh saw that these were Moslems who wore pointed helmets from which hung linen hoods that hid everything except their eyes. They were armed with light spears, slung upon their backs, and scimitars. Black cloaks enveloped their slender bodies, and he thought they were neither Turkomans nor Seljuks. Their steeds were nimble-footed and splendid, and these men he had not seen in the battle. They were trotting straight upon him.

  Flight was useless, and concealment hopeless. The light along the river was stronger than in the defile above, and he stood up, grasping his sword with both hands.

  “Back to back, Donn Dera!”

  He moved to where the ground was a little higher and firmer, so that the water came no more than to his knees, and his companion followed him.

  The leading Moslems reined aside in surprise. Then, seeing that only two Franks stood in the rushes, they drew forward their spears and rode in upon the twain.

  Hugh felt the rugged shoulders of Donn Dera making play behind him and heard the snapping of spear shafts. A man cried out, and horses reared and plunged. For his part, he cut and parried with instinctive skill. He was overweary, but so great were his strength and quickness of eye and hand that no spear touched a vital part in him. Glancing steel points slashed him across thighs and arms, and his blood ran down into the muddied water.

  “Mash’allah!” c
ried one of his assailants.

  The riders drew their swords and exchanged swift words, preparing to rush upon him with their blades. At this moment three other horses crashed down the slope and trotted into the group about Hugh.

  One of the newcomers took matters in hand at once. Flinging a question at his companions, he advanced close to Hugh and peered down at him. This was a man lean almost to emaciation. He bestrode a splendid gray Arab, sitting the high saddle with the thoughtless grace of one bred to horses. The trappings of the saddle were cloth-of-gold. Above the black veil that hung from his helm, deep-set, sparkling eyes surveyed the youth.

  “Yield thee!” exclaimed the stranger in fair French. And to his companions he added as he noticed Hugh’s armor, “Padishah roumi—the Emperor of the Greeks!”

  The Arabs exchanged glances and lowered their weapons.

  “I yield me to no paynim!” cried the young knight defiantly.

  Donn Dera edged closer to him. The man of weapons had been fighting warily, and without the sheer berserk rage that had gripped him during the battle. He, too, was tired. Frowning, he weighed chances, and before Hugh could move he had lifted his heavy ironbound staff and whirled it down on the flat of the crusader’s sword.

  The blow, quick and savage, did not strike the weapon from Hugh’s hand, but the steel blade snapped, and the point shot from it into the water.

  “Take him—thou,” croaked Donn Dera to the chieftain of the Arabs. “There is no help for it.”

  And he cast away his staff into the rushes. The rider of the gray horse scanned him curiously.

  “What man art thou?”

  Donn Dera folded bleeding arms across his heaving chest.

  “I am a son of a king. Yea, of Etil, son of Tara, overlord of Erin and the grandest monarch of the earth.”

  The Arab signed to the men who waited behind Hugh, and when the crusader raised his broken stem of a sword, they leaned forward, gripping his wrist. Weakened by loss of blood, he tried to twist free, and then stood quiet, knowing that further effort was useless.

  Thereupon the chieftain dismounted from his gray courser and led forward through the mud and broken rushes two riderless horses, ready saddled.

  “Khoudsama!” He held out one rein to Hugh. “My lord, I am Khalil, the Bedouin. Verily, we are here three princes, and—there has been enough of slaying this day. Come with me!”

  Hugh looked into the dark eyes, and in silence gave up the broken sword. The Arabs helped him into the saddle, while Donn Dera mounted. Surrounded by Khalil’s men, they swam the midcurrent of the Meander and climbed the far bank, unseen by the sentries of the Emperor Theodore because the sudden darkness of the southern plains had covered the river.

  The droning of flies and the swish-swash of something moving over his head woke Hugh of Taranto from feverish sleep. He opened his eyes and saw that the moving thing was a fan of heron’s feathers, held by a slim hand. The hand emerged from a loose black sleeve, and the sleeve was part of a fragile girl who knelt by his side.

  A loose veil, running from her ears to the bridge of her nose, concealed all of her face except two very tranquil and dark eyes and a smooth white forehead.

  Hugh stretched out his hand toward an earthen water jar that stood beside him, and the girl raised it to his lips and held it until he was satisfied. Then, with a half-friendly, half-curious glance, she rose and left his sight. An Arab warrior came and squatted down in her place.

  Hugh lay back and began to think. He was in a small tent of dark wool, supported by a single pole and by the shafts of spears. Under him was a mat of dried rushes. His mail and leather gambeson had been removed, and a sleeveless tunic of fine white linen, beautifully embroidered, and a coarse brown cloak covered him.

  He was alone in the tent with the squatting Arab and the water jar, but he heard camels grunting and smelled horses. Through the open flap of the tent he saw high, tufted grass, and naked children playing with goats.

  Suddenly he groaned aloud, and the warrior looked at him in surprise. But the knight was not feeling the ache of his open wounds; he had remembered the battle of the Meander, and that his comrades Marcabrun and Rinaldo and all the Norman chivalry were being eaten by crows and wolves. He did not think that the Greeks, who had slain the wounded, would give them fitting burial in consecrated ground. And this thought brought the blood to his forehead.

  “Khalil!” he said to the warrior. “Take me to Khalil.”

  Although the Bedouin had not understood the words of the knight, he recognized the name of his chieftain. Nor did he try to restrain the wounded youth. If the Frank wished to go and speak to Khalil, that was his affair. He did bring Hugh the stained and wrinkled leather jacket, and the sword belt, adorned with silver plates, from which the empty leather scabbard still hung. This Hugh girded on and went forth, moving slowly because he was in pain and weak. It had been three days since they had crossed the Meander, and all the first day they had kept the saddle.

  Hugh thought they had come twenty leagues, south from the battlefield. He did not remember seeing this village, because they had come in at night, and he had been asleep.

  The village was really an encampment where women and children tended the goats and camels. It was near the hour of sunset, and Arabs were rising from the evening prayer and talking in groups. They were thin men, who moved with the grace of animals.

  Hugh noticed that the camp itself was in a grassy hollow, by a rushing stream, and only the wooded summits of distant mountains were visible against the sky. The air, too, was cool, and he thought that these Arabs had chosen a place of concealment far up a mountain side. In the horse herd were more than a hundred beasts, and the saddles standing between the tents were of Turkoman and Greek make as well as the narrow Bedouin saddle.

  Khalil, the chieftain, separated from a throng of warriors and advanced toward him.

  “Honor and greeting to the Emperor of the Christians!” he said courteously. “Has the fever left thee? Are thy wounds closed?”

  Then Hugh remembered that Khalil had taken him for the Emperor Theodore, and that their swift flight from the river must have kept from the Bedouin the knowledge that the real Theodore was with his victorious host.

  “No sultan am I,” he made answer in the lingua franca. “I have no rank other than knighthood, and I am Hugh of Taranto.”

  Khalil’s impassive face was touched by inward amusement.

  “The lord Emperor, who is my guest, sees fit to hide his name and high position. Wherefore?”

  “It is the truth.”

  “In the battle of the Christians and the Seljuks,” smiled the Arab, “thou wert surely the Emperor. Now it is not otherwise, though a sword is lacking, and thou art the rafik, the guest of the black tents.”

  “My companion, the elder warrior, will tell thee the truth, even as I have said.”

  “Thy comrade hath said it—thou art indeed the Emperor.”

  Hugh frowned angrily. It seemed as if Donn Dera always did what was least expected of him. He had not forgiven the wanderer for striking the sword from his hand.

  “V’allah!” said Khalil seriously. “Mine eyes beheld thee among the infidel weapon men, ay, in the red heart of the slaying. Thy hand slew the Sultan Kai-Kosru when a hundred Seljuks hemmed thee in. By the names of Omar and Ali, thou art worthy! I say it-—I, Khalil, of al-Yaman, of the Ibna.”

  Hugh raised his hand impatiently.

  “Nay, and again nay! Release me, O Khalil—give me a horse, and the man Donn Dera to attend me. I must hasten to the court of Theodore at Antioch and accuse him before all men. I shall cast my glove at his feet—let him pick it up who will!”

  Although Khalil could speak the lingua franca, having wandered, like many of his race, from Fez to Saragossa, and even to Venice and Constantinople, he was none too sure what the young knight meant by his words. In all the swift forays of the Bedouins who came up from the desert lands, he had never encountered a chieftain who allowed another to wear his
garments and armor in battle.

  So it seemed to Khalil—a master of deception himself—that the captive was trying to conceal his true rank and making a clumsy job of it. Only one thing puzzled the Arab, who was a judge of character—this royal youth spoke willfully and with the appearance of truth.

  “Nay, and again nay,” the Bedouin made response. “In the battle thou didst bear thyself as a prince—as one, even, of the Three Hundred of Badr. That is truth. Yet, having taken captive the chieftain of the Christians, I may not give him a horse and release him with only one follower, as if he were a common man.”

  “What then?” demanded Hugh.

  Khalil considered. He had been guessing at profit for the last three days. Being a fatalist, he had wasted no thought on his extraordinary fortune in carrying off an emperor. God had given it, and moreover the chieftains of the Nazarenes were not like Moslems. They were accustomed to rush into peril unguarded, to fling off helmets when the sun boiled the blood in them, and to venture into all sorts of places.

  “V’allah! I shall hold thee for ransom at four thousand miskals of gold. That is little enough, for the Greek lords are rich beyond belief. I have seen.”

  It was Hugh’s turn to ponder. He and Donn Dera alone had survived the slaughter on the Meander, and Theodore, having betrayed the Franks, would risk much to silence their tongues—if his men had put to death wounded crusaders on the battlefield.

  If Sir Hugh should survive and reach Constantinople, and tell his tale to Henry of Flanders, commander of the French and English crusaders, he would be believed, against the oaths of eight thousand Greeks. Theodore would find it no very easy matter, in any case, to explain to the Count of Flanders the loss of his eight hundred crusaders. And if the truth were known in Constantinople, the host of the Crosses would harry Theodore through all Asia.

  “Send to the Greek camp,” Hugh said slowly, “trusted men, a few. Bid them look about and ask if the Emperor be not in the camp. Ay, they will see him there. Thus it will be manifest that I am no more than a Frankish knight and my ransom no more than one gold piece.” But to Khalil, experienced in wiles, this appeared no more than a simple trick to lessen the ransom that was his due, and he said so at once. He even laughed—a rare thing in an Arab—not to mock his captive but to show his appreciation of the trick.