Durandal

by Harold Lamb

  “Akh! A wandering chieftain who cannot find the trail to his tribe’s grazing ground.”

  “He has shoulders like a bear.”

  “True. He is strong.” Arslan wiped greasy hands on his sheepskin and squatted nearer the embers. “And yet, O my brothers, he cannot eat without sitting down, as ye have seen. Nor can he sleep without stretching out—thus, instead of gripping the saddle as a man should. When he rises up, he splashes in cold water like a buffalo in a watercourse on a hot day.”

  “Hai!” exclaimed the listeners:

  “One merit he has,” Arslan went on, mindful of his own importance. “Alone among the men of the Horde he knows the face of the Shah whom we seek.”

  They nodded understanding.

  “He who rides down the Shah will be honored greatly—he will be given rare horses and the baton of a gur khan. From all punishment he will be free—even from the death punishment nine times. So the Eagle has promised.”

  Arslan assented, one eye on the stars and the treetops.

  “That is good. But it is better to carry the yamkh over the roads of the world.”

  CHAPTER XV - BEYOND THE RANGES

  THE next day Arslan’s bearing changed. He went on at a gallop as before—they had taken an extra horse from the station—but he bent to the side to study the ground he passed over. At times he reined in, to look closely at strange marks in the earth. After watching him for some time, Sir Hugh understood that they had left the highroad and were following the trail of the Horde. Certainly a multitude of horses had been over the ground before them.

  And the aspect of the country had changed. They had climbed steadily, and swirling mists shut out all view of the heights above them, the plain that lay behind them.

  They passed through dense timber—poplars at first, and bare gray beeches that gave place to dark masses of fir. At times the croaking of ravens was heard overhead, and the flutter of great wings. Arslan grinned under his leather hood.

  “Ai, Nazarene, this is the pass. The birds choose the lowest path through the mountains.”

  Although Sir Hugh saw them not, the young Mongol said that flights of duck and herons had swept over the forest. The wind rose as the short day merged into cloud-dimmed twilight and rain began to beat into their faces.

  “Where is the station?” the knight asked when it was utterly dark and the wearied horses began to lag.

  “Where is the moon?” retorted Arslan, irritated at their slow progress. “It is where it is, and we are hanging back like women bearing burdens.”

  He dismounted to feel the ground underfoot and the horses stood with lowered heads and heaving flanks. Presently he appeared beside Sir Hugh and shouted above the rush of wind in the forest mesh.

  “My lord, if we take thy three hours of sleep in this place, we will not come to fresh horses before daylight. Wilt thou go forward?”

  “Lead, then,” assented the crusader grimly.

  The rain had changed to sleet, and he drew the fur hood close about his throat, settling himself in the saddle and dropping the rein over the saddle horn. Better in such a storm to let the horse pick its own way.

  Snow whirled down on the two men and the three horses that plodded over a bare shoulder of the range, above the timber line. It was no longer dark, because the white surface of the ground revealed boulders and the occasional twisted shape of a stunted tree. The wind no longer sighed overhead; it screamed and tore at them and rushed off to howl through unseen gorges. And the horses went forward more slowly, with hanging heads.

  “They will not face the storm!” Arslan came to Sir Hugh’s stirrup and shouted above the blast of the wind. “This night the tengri, the demons of high and desolate places, are on the wing. Hark to them.”

  The rain had soaked through Sir Hugh’s leg wrappings, and the increasing cold numbed his feet.

  “Dismount!” Arslan barked impatiently. “Lead thy pony.”

  Stiffly the crusader swung down, stifling a grunt of agony as the blood started to course through his feet. Taking the rein over his arm he stumbled after the Mongol, who plunged, ahead, stooping over the snow as a hound quests for a scent.

  The ponies, sheltered somewhat by the bodies of the men, quickened their pace a little. Sir Hugh found that when his limbs were warmed he was able to keep pace with the warrior easily, in spite of the weight of the sword.

  They climbed interminably, and only the comparative evenness of the footing convinced the crusader that they were still on the trail made by the Horde. Then they began to descend, and the third pony suddenly galloped ahead.

  “Akh!” cried the courier. “He knows. There is something before us. Let us mount to the saddles, and the horses will find it.”

  For a while they dipped down, and the force of the wind increased. The snow seemed dryer—instead of large flakes it beat against them in hard particles that smarted on cheek and forehead.

  But the wind had cleared long stretches of snow, and here Sir Hugh made out huddled forms of horses and men. On the far side of these bodies the snow was piled, and it seemed to him as if a caravan caught by the blizzard had lain down to sleep. Only the bodies were twisted and sprawled sometimes one upon the other. Arslan paused to examine them and said they had not been plundered and so must be Muhammadans slain by the Horde in passing.

  Then one of the horses neighed, and the other turned sharply to the right. In the driving snow a cluster of Mongol dome tents took shape, behind them a black huddle of horses crowded together, tails to the storm.

  Arslan lashed the felt covering of a yurta with his whip, shouting shrilly.

  “Out, ye squint-eyed devils—out, sons of a dog tribe! The post to Subotai Bahadur waits!”

  He reinforced his whip with kicks that threatened to topple over the wicker frame of the tent, until dim figures crawled out of the entrance flap, and a torch flamed dazzlingly in the glitter of the snow. Sir Hugh noticed that smoke curled from the tops of the domes, and he thought that the guards of the post station had been snug enough.

  While fresh horses were being saddled Arslan came to his side and bowed, touching his hands to his forehead.

  “Three hours of sleep was commanded, my lord, that is true. But thou canst sleep very easily in the saddle, if—”

  “And it was also in the command to bring me alive to the Horde,” laughed Sir Hugh. Strangely, he no longer felt any pain and did not want food. “Go forward, if thou wilt. I will not fall behind.”

  “Akh!”

  Arslan showed his white teeth in a hearty grin and hastened off to bully and lash the men of the station. He had food—barley cakes and warm milk—brought to his companion, and sheepskins to wrap around the knight’s legs and feet once Sir Hugh was installed in the saddle of a shaggy pony. The little steed grunted, feeling the weight of its rider, but made off nimbly after the others.

  A dozen Mongols accompanied them, at Arslan’s order, to point out the trail.

  “Eh, my lord,” he shouted in Sir Hugh’s ear, “the wolves of these mountains showed their teeth. The riders of the black hats attacked the rear of the Horde, to carry off horses.”

  “Where is the Horde?”

  “At the heels of Muhammad.”

  “And where is he?”

  Arslan glanced into the drift beyond the circle of leaping torchlight and shook his head.

  “Heaven knows.”

  The warmth of the dry sheepskins and the inner glow of food filled Sir Hugh with delicious drowsiness. He could still hear the creaking of saddles, the spluttering of the pine torches, but the wind ceased to beat against him, and he must have slept, because he roused suddenly, aching in every limb. His horse had stumbled and nearly thrown him.

  He opened his eyes and ceased to feel drowsy. He could see the black forms of the riders, the trampled snow of the trail. The blizzard had ceased, and dawn was breaking to his right. And beneath his right foot was an abyss, still veiled in darkness. From a thousand feet below him ascended the murmur of a rus
hing torrent.

  His horse had stumbled within a foot of the precipice.

  Thereafter, though Arslan slumbered tranquilly, propped in the high peaked saddle, Sir Hugh kept wide awake. They were rounding a ridge that seemed to be one of the high points of the pass—he could see the snow summits of the range stretching away to the right.

  From dull red to glowing crimson these peaks changed, and then to flaming gold as the sun’s rays struck them. Another moment, and the snow-covered slope shone with intolerable brightness.

  Arslan woke with a grunt, dismissed the escort, and whipped his pony to a trot.

  “The third day,” he cried, “and we are not up with the standard.”

  As he spoke he pointed below them and, shading his eyes, Sir Hugh made out hundreds of black dots moving northward. Here the precipice had yielded to a long slope, boulder strewn and carpeted thick with soft snow.

  The riders who had gone before them had followed a traverse down the slope, winding back and forth a weary way to the bottom, some five hundred feet below.

  Refreshed by sleep, Sir Hugh surveyed the sharp slope and dismounted.

  “We can lead the horses straight down.”

  Arslan’s nostrils expanded, and his slant eyes glimmered.

  “Akh!”

  He shook his head, but swung down as Sir Hugh went over the side, drawing the pony after him. Once started, the horse crowded down on the crusader. A hundred feet or so they made safely, then the man stepped on ice under the snow and lost his footing.

  He began to slide, turning over and over, kicked by the struggling animal, until he loosed the rein and shot downward. By degrees the snow, wedged in front of his body, slowed his progress, and he came to a stop among a mass of boulders. Rising and shaking himself, little harmed—for the mail hauberk and the wolfskin surcoat swathed him completely—he beheld Arslan shoot past, caught between the forelegs of his pony.

  The Mongol and his mount had gained considerable impetus, and their slide lasted nearly to the bottom of the slope where they brought up in some brush.

  Sir Hugh ran and slipped down, laughing heartily as he watched Arslan get up and shake himself and pull the snow from his neck. The courier glanced up at the trail they had left, felt of his wallet, and looked long at his companion. Arslan’s lips were bloody, and his pony limped.

  “What is thy name?” he demanded abruptly.

  “Hugh,” the crusader responded.

  “Hui,” the Mongol repeated, and grinned. “Hui-hui, the swooping hawk! They named thee well. Come, let us get fresh horses from these laggards.”

  The two had arrived at the tail of the horsemen who were escorting the few pack animals of the Horde. Without delaying to eat, the courier selected new mounts and set out at a gallop. They could make fast time now, because the trail was trodden down, and the descent through the forest was easier going. They began to pass masses of the heavy cavalry of the Horde, the warriors drawing out of the road at sound of the courier’s bells. Often, too, they came upon dead and exhausted horses and heard in the depths of the forest the howling of wolves.

  Sir Hugh drew rein with an exclamation of wonder. The forest had thinned out, and he had come to the edge of a plateau. Below him there was no snow, but fertile fields and vineyards, and beyond that miles of tall rushes, bending under the breath of a warm wind.

  And beyond the rushes there stretched to the skyline the gray waters of a mighty sea. He could hear the pounding of the distant swell, and the air in his nostrils was heavy with salt.

  “Come!” cried Arslan. “We have not found the standard.”

  “It is the sea!”

  “Ay, the sea. It will be there on the morrow.”

  Reluctantly—for he was feasting his eyes on the wide circle of the shore and the barrier of mountains that girdled it as far as the eyes could reach—Sir Hugh spurred after his escort.

  By noon they had passed other companies of Mongol archers, all trotting toward the shore. Here the sun was warm as in Rai, the grapevines still green. And about them—aroused by the multitude of horsemen—clamored all the birds of creation.

  In the marshes stalked flamingoes and gray herons. Overhead in the willow and poplar growths resounded the clatter of crows and magpies and cormorants—and upon the branches sat in somber silence brown eagles and ruffled vultures.

  “They will not go hungry this night,” laughed Arslan, lifting his tired, bloodshot eyes.

  Solitary among the flights of other birds, Sir Hugh observed slender falcons wheeling and dipping along the shore, and above these great swans that passed southward, long necks outstretched.

  Over the surf swooped and screamed white-breasted gulls. The crusader watched one dart down suddenly and come up fluttering upon the swell with a fish glistening in its claws.

  “It is the Sea of the Ravens!” he said under his breath. “God grant it lead me to a Christian land.”

  Arslan glanced at the shore indifferently.

  “It is vast and wide, but there are no sails upon it. The water is fit for fisherfolk, the land for warriors.”

  “No man of my people has set eyes upon this sea before.”

  The Mongol grunted.

  “Then, if thou live to tell of it in thy serais, the wise men and merchants of thy place will mock thee, saying, ‘Lo, this is an idle tale of a dog-born-dog!’ ” He nodded reflectively. “It is better,” he added philosophically, “to bring back gold and silver things, even ivory.”

  All at once, he lashed his horse with his whip and uttered a shrill cry. They had rounded a promontory on the shore, and ahead of them he saw some five hundred Mongols urging on their jaded beasts. Far in advance of them galloped an unmistakable figure, beside the standard bearer-—a stalwart warrior with flaming red hair.

  “Aside, ye men of the Horde!” growled Arslan. “Make way for the bearer of tidings from the great Khan Genghis.”

  But, as the Mongols made way for them, and they were able to see the road ahead, Sir Hugh’s gray eyes quickened with interest. The road swept out to the shore’s edge, and here on a point of land that stretched far into the sea stood a walled city, its domes and minarets rising against the cloud-flecked sky.

  CHAPTER XVI - THE END OF THE ROAD

  THAT morning the Shah-im-shah, the King of kings, had come to Istar, the westernmost stronghold of his empire, the very gate of Islam.

  Unheralded and almost unattended, he had entered the house of the governor and seated himself in the guest room—whispering to himself, his head swaying on shoulders that had once been heavy and strong, his eyes dulled with fever.

  Even the governor, who had seen Muhammad in Samarkand, did not recognize the wasted man in the mud-stained garments of a hadji, though Muhammad extended to him the emerald seal ring of Kharesmia. But Omar had proof of his master’s identity, and this proof he showed the Istarians, opening the seven chests that held the blue diamonds, the long ropes of pearls, the treasure of the Throne of Gold.

  “The Shah-im-shah hath need of a boat—a boat with sails,” he announced to the men of Istar, who were filled with wonder. “He goes upon a journey, out to sea.”

  It was Omar’s plan that his master should take ship at the port of Istar and find sanctuary upon one of the islands of the Sea of the Ravens. The Horde that had followed him through the great cities of Islam and across the salt desert, and had trailed them into the mountain ranges, would not be able to pursue upon the water.

  “Thou art safe beyond all mischance, my Sultan,” he said to the silent Muhammad. “I go to make ready a ship.”

  Restlessness gnawed at Muhammad, and he went to the roof of the dar, the governor’s house that overlooked the shore. Here the kadis and the grandees brought him wine and mastic and good things to eat, and he gorged them, sitting in the sun. It was pleasant in the sun, and the breath of the sea was cold.

  He thought that he would not go upon the boat for a while, though Omar sent a servant with word that all was ready. On the island w
ould be no terraced roofs like this, no such throng of courtiers, or people in the streets who had come to stare at the Lion of Islam.

  Muhammad looked back at the mountains that had caused him such suffering. The summits were hidden by clouds, but here the sun filled him with warmth, and the scent of the vineyards struck pleasantly into his nostrils.

  Then came Omar, urging that the sail had been hoisted on the boat—a single-masted fisherman’s skiff was the largest to be had—and his men were waiting to cast off. Muhammad was too tired to want to move. Perhaps he had a little fever.

  Surely Omar had sworn that he was safe. He would sleep for a while and then go to the hammam bath. The boat would still be there after another hour or two—

  It was late afternoon when Muhammad was roused from his stupor, and the throng on the roof had disappeared except for Omar, who was gazing steadily toward the shore.

  “My Sultan,” he cried, “the hour of our going is at hand.”

  He pointed toward the shore, and the first thing that Muhammad noticed was that the Istarians were all hastening through the streets in the same direction. The wall was crowded with men holding drawn scimitars, and the gates were closed.

  On three sides the wall of Istar ran down to the sea, but on the fourth a long neck of land stretched back into the hills. And the road that ran from the shore along the peninsula to the gates of Istar was covered with rising dust. Through the dust could be seen masses of horsemen, moving at a gallop, plying their whips. From the mass uprose the horned standard of the Mongols.

  Then did Muhammad know the fear of a hunted thing. His flushed forehead became damp, and a mist spread before his eyes, hiding the dust and the road. His heart quivered and leaped, and in his nostrils was the scent of death.

  “Come,” repeated the minister, pulling at his sleeve. “The way to safety lies open.”

  Subotai, the Orluk, did not draw rein as he galloped under the wall of Istar. He had cornered his quarry, but he had, no means of laying siege to the last town of the Kharesmians.