Durandal

by Harold Lamb

  “Shall I sell to the Greeks their emperor at their price and not at mine? May God forbid! If thou wert captive to the Seljuks who hold Antioch, they would ask three cities, and twenty camel loads of silver, and a sworn truce, with other matters. Give praise to thy saints that I ask no more than two horse loads of gold!”

  A sudden thought struck the youth.

  “Tell me, Khalil. Am I—a Frank surely—the man to be named Emperor by the Greeks?”

  For some time the Bedouin had mused upon this very question and had arrived at an answer that was quite satisfactory.

  “By the beard and the breath of Ali, thou art stubborn as a she camel with unslit lip! Have I not heard that the Greeks chose thee Emperor before the battle?” He glanced around his little camp and added good-naturedly:

  “It was written that I should fall in with the Seljuk Turks as they were mounting for battle. I rode with them to the river and watched events. My men gained a few horses, good and bad, and some saddles and gear.”

  “Khalil!” cried the youth. “Give me no more than one horse and a week of liberty. I pledge thee the word of a belted knight that I shall return to this place, alone, and become again thy captive.”

  Among the crusaders such a pledge, no matter under what conditions, would have been accepted. Hugh of Taranto was a youth who had kept his word inviolate.

  But it did not enter Khalil’s mind to let four thousand miskals of gold out of his hand for a week. He had experienced the treachery of the Greeks.

  Considering the anxious gray eyes and the flushed forehead of the youth, it seemed to him that his captive’s fever must have gripped the brain.

  “Nay,” said a voice behind them, “not in a week or in a week of ages would you return from the Greek camp.”

  Donn Dera was leaning on a knotted staff that he had cut with his knife, and his narrow, bony face was wistful as he looked at his youthful companion.

  “That would not be good,” said the wanderer again, and turned to Khalil. “Give us to eat, O chieftain!”

  CHAPTER IV - THE CUNNING OF DONN DERA

  THIS was a matter of pride with the Bedouin, that his captives should be entertained and made comfortable. He had the hind quarters of a sheep broiling, for them alone, and since his men could not be expected to serve meat to the Franks, he bade the young girl who had attended upon Hugh fetch them milk that might have been goats’ or camels’.

  “Eh, Lord,” Donn Dera grinned, “wash, wipe, sit, eat, wash, and then talk. But not before. A drawn belly breeds ill talk.”

  And he ate a whole quarter of the sheep, to Khalil’s subdued amazement.

  “Yah Khawand,” the chieftain exclaimed, “what manner of man is this that gorges as a tiger, and drinks as a horse, and sings so that the children gather round him?”

  “I know not,” responded the crusader under his breath, “save that he comes from a land called Erin by some, Ireland by others—”

  “Erin,” put in Donn Dera, wiping his broad hands on a passing dog. He seemed to have the ears of a cat.

  “He calls himself a king’s son and a man of weapons,” added Hugh coldly in a tone Donn Dera could hear readily enough.

  “Ay,” nodded the wanderer, “in all the world there is no weapon that fits my hand. Sword handles I have broken—ax shafts I have split. From yew wood and iron I fashioned a club, and now that too is gone from my hand.”

  “I did not know you were so strong,” said the youth curiously.

  Donn Dera glanced at him sidewise, but saw that the crusader had not meant to mock him. After a moment he stretched out his right hand in which the new cudgel was grasped.

  The knotted muscles of shoulder and forearm swelled suddenly, and sinews cracked. Between his quivering fingers the wood of the cudgel creaked and then snapped.

  Khalil watched with interest and picked up the short staff when the warrior dropped it. The bark had been squeezed away from the wood, and it was broken.

  “Ai,” he acknowledged, “no man of mine could do that, nor could I. But edged steel is another matter.”

  “True,” put in Hugh at once, “yet in the fighting at the river Donn Dera stood over me when I fell, though mounted Seljuks hemmed him in. How he lives, I know not.”

  “There was a fury in me,” explained the wanderer quietly. “At such moments my hand wreaks chaos and woe, for my father was a man of the elf mounds, and in him a power of spells and magic.”

  They were sitting by then at the fire that had been made for the chieftains by the girl, who fetched woolen mantles against the chill of the night that Hugh and Donn Dera heeded not. After a silence, Khalil nodded understanding.

  “Such a man we call djinn-possessed. Surely thy strength is uncommon.”

  Donn Dera, chin on hand, looked into the fire. Hugh, leaning back against the tent, was moody in spirit.

  It seemed to the young knight as if this craggy fellow was indeed a companion of evil beings. Donn Dera had broken the good sword in his hand—had lied to the Arab concerning his name—and now boasted openly and with a loud voice. Anger against Donn Dera was bitter in the youth.

  “There is one weapon that will fit my hand,” the soft voice of the wanderer went on. “It is a sword, and the sword of the great champion Roland, the knight of Charlemagne.”

  Idle, such words, Hugh mused. Durandal, the unbroken sword of the matchless Roland, was buried with the hero in some cathedral. Long since—four centuries ago—it had passed from the sight of Christian men.

  “Of Roland I have heard,” assented the Arab courteously. “My ancestors went against him in Frankistan.”

  “Men say,” went on Donn Dera, “the shining sword of Roland is of such weight that no warrior of today may deal a cut with it or raise it from the ground, save with two hands.”

  “That also my ancestors said.”

  The voice of the wanderer took on a lilting note, and his eyes half closed.

  “It was in Nicea, in a hostel, that an ancient man of more fell than flesh sat with me the night. He announced to me that he had been to the Holy Land where the feet of the Lord Christ trod, and there was in his wallet a silver flask and in the flask a hair of Simon Peter, and he swears to me by the relic itself that he had word of Durandal, the shining brand, the sword of Roland.”

  Donn Dera sighed.

  “And so this pilgrim tells of the sword, how it lies in the land of the Saracen folk, hanging in the hall of the Sultan Kai-Kosru. And this hall is in the castle, and the castle is in Antioch. Now in me there is a longing and a desire to have the grasp of Durandal, and that is why I joined the company of the Emperor that was making a raid upon Antioch.”

  “That cannot be,” said Hugh bluntly. “Durandal never left the hand of Roland. Often have I heard Marcabrun—may God grant him eternal rest—relate the song of it. Hark ye, Donn Dera.”

  He reflected a moment, and repeated the verses of Roland’s death:

  “ ‘Roland feeleth his eyesight reft,

  Yet he stands erect with what strength is left.

  That none reproach him, his horn he clasped,

  His other hand Durandal grasped;

  Before him a massive rock uprose—

  He smote upon it ten grievous blows.

  Grated the steel as it struck the flint,

  Yet it brake not, nor dulled its edge one dint.

  “ ‘ “Mary, Mother, be thou mine aid!

  Durandal, my masterless blade,

  I may no longer thy guardian be,

  Though battle-fields I won with thee!

  Never shalt thou possessor know

  Who would turn from face of mortal foe—” ’ ”

  The resonant words of the song rang forth in the clear voice of the youth, and when he had ended he turned to Donn Dera.

  “So, it was. The hero could not break the blade against the stone, so he placed it beneath him and lay down, that his soul could pass from his body.”

  Donn Dera wrinkled heavy brows.

&n
bsp; “All that may be; but I also have heard Marcabrun, the minstrel. Surely this Roland was a champion and a good man with his weapon. Yet after he died he could not lift hand against a foe, and the Saracens may well have taken such a sword from under his body.” After a moment he added, “Was there not a bit in the song about a Saracen who coveted the blade, and took it with him to Arabia?”

  “He was slain!”

  “Was it an elf or a ghost, then, that dealt with this Saracen? Surely the song relates that all the Franks lay dead about Roland.”

  At this Khalil, who had been listening attentively, lifted his head.

  “Ay, Lord King, that is truth. I knew not the name of the sword, but among my people there is a legend that the blade of Roland, the Frank, was carried from the field under the Pyrenees, to Saragossa, and thence by sea to the land that was once under the yoke of my people and was just now the kingdom of Kai-Kosru.”

  Hugh flushed and said quietly:

  “It is not good to mock captives, O Bedouin.”

  Khalil’s deep eyes gleamed.

  “Harken, ye Franks—the matter may be adjudged in another way. Years ago I passed through Antioch, and at the palace of the Sultan I was shown somewhat of his treasure.”

  He paused a moment to reflect.

  “Kai-Kosru was ever wary of his gold, but he showed me a strange sword. It was long, it was heavy, and it was not made in a Moslem land. The blade was broad as thy hand, of blue steel. The hand guard was a cross, inlaid with silver, the pommel a ball of gold from which the precious stomps had been taken. It hung upon the wall behind the carpet where the Sultan sat. No single man could lift it down from its place. And the Sultan said it was the blade of a Christian warrior long since dead. Is this thy Durandal?”

  “So was the sword of Roland!” Hugh responded promptly. “Oh, that we had known this thing!”

  “It waits the man who will not turn his face from any foe,” cried Donn Dera. “By the cunning in me I will possess the sword.”

  Now it seemed to Khalil that both his captives were out of their minds with fever. But when Donn Dera spoke again Khalil looked upon them with greater amazement.

  “And thou, Moslem,” observed Donn Dera, “thou art consumed by one thought—to take Antioch!”

  Veiling surprise with pretended scorn, the Bedouin asked how, with eighty men, he was to think of mastering a mountain citadel held by several hundred Seljuks and just now besieged by a host of Greeks.

  Closing his eyes, Donn Dera rocked his ungainly body in the smoke above the fire, his lips moving.

  “There is a way unknown to the Greeks. A way through the stone of the mountain, into the palace.”

  This time the self-control of the Arab failed him.

  “Art kin to the djinn-folk? That was a secret well-guarded by Kai-Kosru. It was his way of escape if an enemy pressed him too hard.”

  The wanderer wagged his shaggy head.

  “It was in thy mind, Moslem, to lead thy men through the stone of the mountain into the stronghold, when Kai-Kosru had achieved victory over the Franks. It fell out otherwise, for the Seljuks fled like wolves while thy men were picking up horses. Now a scattering of Seljuks hold the wall of Antioch.”

  “Say on,” demanded Khalil.

  “Ochune! Easy to say! Now there is doubt in thee. Thy men are few, and, besides, here is the Emperor, to be ransomed. Doubt is in thee.”

  “True—by the beard and the breath of Ali!”

  Donn Dera opened his eyes, and Hugh cried out impatiently:

  “Mad art thou! I am not the lord Emperor!”

  “Easy to say!” Donn Dera grinned. “What dost thou desire above all things? To ride in among the Greeks, ay, to the royal tent, and say thy say.”

  “That is true,” acknowledged Hugh moodily.

  “And what do I seek? Faith, naught but the sword, Durandal. Well, let us go and accomplish what we wish.”

  “How?” insisted Khalil.

  His raid into the Taurus mountains had been inspired by sheer love of risk and spoil. As the man from Erin said, he had learned of the two armies that were bound to meet at the river, and he had left the women concealed in this spot, riding to the heights from which he watched the battle.

  His plan had been to strike boldly at Antioch, which would be left almost unguarded if Kai-Kosru drove off the Franks. Stirred by the brave stand of Hugh’s followers, he had drawn nearer the river, until his men had taken to driving off horses, and he had seen the Greeks overwhelm the shattered Seljuks. Then Hugh had fallen into his hands and before doing anything else he meant to win a royal ransom.

  It seemed to Khalil that the red-haired captive had indeed the gift of seeing hidden things. This being so, he might profit by the gift.

  “How—O my guest?” he urged.

  “Easy to say. Going alone with thy men against the city, even though the mountain, would bring no good to thee. Fighting within the city would bring the Greeks over the walls.”

  “Well, what?”

  “Make a pact and truce with us. Give us good weapons, and we will make thee master of the castle.”

  “Ye are but two!”

  “Two,” admitted Donn Dera modestly, “yet such men as we are not found elsewhere in the lands of the earth. We shall wreak a destruction upon the Seljuks, even as at the river.”

  “Why should I trust thee with weapons?”

  “Trust him!” The wanderer nodded at Hugh who listened in frank amazement. “As for me, how could I turn upon thee, Khalil? Would the Seljuks embrace me as a brother? They would not, and that is easily understood.”

  Khalil thought this over. It seemed to him now, beyond any doubt, that the strange captive had looked into his mind. He yearned to loot Antioch—he had glimpsed a little of the treasure Kai-Kosru had hoarded so jealously. To be master of that palace on the crest of the marble mountain, for a night! To root out its corners! To bear off weapons, ivory, and shining jewels!

  “It were folly,” he mused aloud, with an eye on Donn Dera, “to risk lives on such a blind path when I can have three horse loads of gold as ransom for this lord of the Greeks.”

  “Oho!” Donn Dera hesitated an instant, without the Bedouin’s perceiving it. “The Greeks have not so much gold or silver among them.”

  “That, at least, is true!” cried Hugh angrily. “Save for the trappings and gear of the nobles, there is little precious metal in their coffers.”

  “But if they take Antioch?” Khalil mused again.

  “They will,” quoth Donn Dera readily, “unless we do. The Seljuks are losing heart.” He grinned at the fire. “Khalil, we will storm the city for thee. Let this royal youth go among thy men, and when we have finished with the Turks, do thou talk of ransom to the Greeks—from the towers.”

  Khalil was silent a long space, while the girl came and cast more wood on the embers and the flames crackled cheerily again. To loot Antioch—to compel a Greek army to send to Constantinople to ransom their emperor! The thought filled the desert chieftain with delight. He no longer doubted, because he saw how he could do this in his own way.

  “What sayest thou to this?” he asked Hugh suddenly.

  The young knight lifted his head and smiled.

  “To go against several hundred with eighty is no easy matter. Give me three days’ rest and a fair weapon, and I will go with thee.”

  “Wilt thou swear, on the honor of a prince, not to try to escape from my men?”

  “I give thee the word of a knight that I will not escape.”

  Looking at the youth, Khalil decided that he would keep his word, but still the Arab was a little puzzled that Hugh should speak of himself as a knight.

  “Swear!” he cried, scenting evasion.

  “Then fetch me something in the form of a cross—the hilt of my broken brand.”

  Khalil struck his hands together, spoke to the warrior who lounged out of the shadows into the firelight, and waited until the stem of Hugh’s sword with its valuable hand guard w
as brought. Holding this in his left hand, while the Arabs watched with curiosity, the crusader placed his right hand upon the hilt.

  “I swear upon this cross that I will not lift weapon against thy men or thyself during the truce between us, and that I will not forsake thee. Moreover, in God’s sight, I swear that I will not go from this land until I have faced the Emperor Theodore, and cast his treachery in his teeth.”

  His eyes half closed, and his wide lips drew down at the corners, and Khalil thought there was in this young warrior something of the falcon or wolf. Surely the lord Frank meant what he said, although it was nothing less than madness to swear an oath against himself.

  “All things are possible in the sight of Allah,” he meditated aloud. “Be thou at ease, my lord. Another moon will not grow to the full before the Greeks ransom thee.”

  “Of all things,” answered Hugh, “I desire that least.”

  Donn Dera chuckled under his breath, but the Arab flung up his hands.

  “Thou art weary, and the fever—go to thy tent and sleep.”

  Hugh wished to talk with Donn Dera apart, but his limbs ached, and his veins were hot. He suffered himself to be led away by Khalil’s attendant, and while he waited for Donn Dera to come to his tent, sank into deep sleep. Khalil, too, left the fire, and the man from Erin remained alone with Youssouf, the warrior who had brought the broken sword.

  Donn Dera, apparently, never slept. Looking through the smoke at the motionless Arab, he said softly, as if giving tongue to his thoughts:

  “Yea, the day comes, and there will be a rare feeding of ravens and whetting of sword edges—there will be sorrow and blood that the wolves will drink.”