by Harold Lamb
And, having spoken, she was gone into the stair entrance, leaving the crusader astonished and the merchant thoughtful. In no more than a moment Messer Antonio altered his plans and approached his companion pleasantly.
“The wine, you say, is excellent, Sir Hugh, and—the moods of a young girl past understanding. In another hour her Highness will be of another mind. Meanwhile”—his keen eye followed the figures of a group of warriors down the ramp—“let us go to a tavern to sup and talk.”
Now, as they threaded the alleys that led to the tavern at the river’s side, the thoughts of both men were on Rusudan. Antonio della Trevisani reflected that Rusudan was no longer a child; she did unexpected and unlooked-for things. The Genoese was a keen observer, and he felt sure that Rusudan, who had formerly paid John the Constable the careless reverence of a young animal, now watched him and the strategos with puzzled eyes.
“Eh,” he said to himself, “our maid is growing up. She has wild blood in her, and it angers her now that others should give orders to her people.”
Rusudan smiled upon Choaspes often and led him to talk of the imperial court and the Golden Chersonese. But the shrewd Genoese did not think she had any love for the strategos.
“The maid learns to dissemble,” he meditated. “By the saints, that is nothing strange in a woman, but in a barbarian Georgian it is a miracle.”
And it seemed to Messer Antonio that Rusudan, who had just now stormed at the Frank, had bidden him first to go from her presence and then to stay, was fond of the tall stranger. Messer Antonio glanced up covertly at the dark profile of the crusader, framed in its tangle of yellow curls, at the clear gray eyes and firm-set lips.
“Eh,” he whispered under his breath, “either he is a very clever spy or he is telling the truth. And he is not clever, because he does not see that Rusudan makes much of him. Hmm.”
The crusader, Messer Antonio decided, would carry out a purpose doggedly, would not be swerved from his determination to go back to the pagans. And this was as unexpected as it was unwelcome to Messer Antonio.
So the Genoese quickened his steps, following with his eyes the tall figure of Rupen of Kag who was bound, no doubt, for his favorite tavern kept by a Bokharian near the street of the leather workers, where the din of the Kur drowned the curses and clatter of all too frequent broils. And Messer Antonio smiled, preparing to play a delightful little game, in which there was no slightest risk to himself and an almost sure profit in sight.
Striding beside him, Hugh hummed, deep-throated, a snatch he had heard Rusudan sing:
“ ‘Arg my falcon is quick to see
Quest and quarry, and swift to go
Beyond the clouds, and back to me—
Does he love me or not?
How do I know?’ ”
In the mind of the crusader was a warm delight. It was pleasant in this mountain hamlet; the gay surcoats and colored boots of the people struck his fancy. He stared at one of the jolly little priests in sugar-loaf hats and smiled at a ragged girl who was carrying a gilded candle toward the great church of the Malaki. And Rusudan—
He would be well content to abide in Tiflis for a few days. It would not be so pleasant riding back alone, as with that wayward Gypsy Rusudan, even in a storm.
“ ‘Arg my falcon is quick to see-’ ”
“Come!” Trevisani stooped under the lintel of a clay hut with horn windows, deep in the shadow of the hill. And the merchant shivered as if the breath of the river ice had touched him.
A score of hillmen and Circassians sat on the cushions by the stove against the wall, and no one made way for the twain from the castle. Rupen of Kag paused in the act of casting off his heavy burka and eyed them insolently. Then he threw himself into a chair at the head of the one table, and the men who sat by him greeted him volubly.
But there was silence when Trevisani and Hugh took the two empty chairs beside Rupen, who ordered a great beaker of Shiraz wine from the tavern keeper and lifted it with a stentorian “Hail!”
The Circassians began to whisper among themselves, and an Armenian lad who had been tuning a guitar laid it across his knees and stared at the men around the table. Rupen emptied his beaker, drew his sleeve across his mustache and looked both angry and ill at ease.
“My lord,” Trevisani whispered to him, “this is scant courtesy. My companion the Frank is a belted knight, and mighty are his deeds. ’Tis said no man can stand against him with the sword.”
“Hide of the devil! What is it to me?”
“True,” nodded the Genoese. “He hath the immunity of his mission. Still, his message was insolent.”
“Tfu! It was answered in the right way.” Rupen surveyed the unconscious crusader with grudged admiration. “Well, his courage is proof.”
He emptied his second beaker with a grunt of satisfaction.
“May we meet when the weapons are at play.”
“By the blessed body of San Marco, what a pity it is that this Frank should be set free to aid the pagans!” Rupen ran a calloused hand through the bristle of his hair.
“True, a pity!”
“Better to slay him with the others. Then the pagans would know beyond peradventure that the men of the Caucasus have no fear of them.”
“That is so, Messer Antonio. And yet the order of the constable—” Rupen slapped his broad belt—“bade me cut off the heads of the two in my charge and send them down the valley. Thus it was done. About this Frank nothing was said in the order.”
“Is it certain?” Trevisani’s eyes were fixed on the big mountaineer’s belt. “There may have been something said.”
“Nay, by Tamar! And yet a priest read it to me.”
“So? He may have mistaken a word.”
“A-ah!” Rupen pulled forth a scrap of soiled parchment and wrinkled his brow over it, though he could decipher not a word. “Here is the order sent by the constable.”
He watched eagerly while the merchant glanced over the missive.
“True,” murmured Trevisani. “The priest read aright. Surely the constable meant to deal with this traitor in his own way. And yet—”
“What?”
“The Frank is a mhendruli—a sword bearer of prowess—and Rusudan hath befriended him. Who would dare lift hand against him?”
“By the graves of Ani—I dare!”
The thin lips of the merchant puckered; he lingered the slip of parchment and eyed Hugh covertly as the crusader quaffed spiced wine with relish.
“Your companion envoys, my Lord Frank, were well entreated by Prince Rupen. He sent them back to the Horde.”
“Ay, so,” Hugh assented.
“He sent their heads in a basket strapped to a donkey’s back.”
And quietly Hugh set down his bowl of wine.
“They were slain?”
“Here is proof!” Messer Antonio held out the parchment as if it might be a shield to protect him against the grief and anger that smoldered in Hugh’s eyes.
“The Khan of Almalyk,” the crusader whispered, “lord of fifty thousand swords, and the other that bore a tiger tablet.”
“The third—the servant—escaped.”
Hugh turned the bowl slowly in his powerful hands. Arslan had fled. He would have stolen a horse from the herd and have gone to the Horde without pause for rest or food—he, the dispatch rider who had carried the post from Kambalu. Ere yesterday he would have reached Subotai’s yurta with the news. Hugh had been powerless to prevent the slaying of the envoys, but Arslan could not know that.
“It was easily done,” smiled Trevisani. “They knelt to the sword with empty hands; nor did they defend their lives.”
“By the Cross!” Hugh remembered the order he had given the Mongols, fearing a brawl between them and the Georgians. With two dead, and the manner of their death told to the Horde, his mission was at an end. And there was no slightest doubt that Subotai would require his life as retribution.
Nor could he go now in any case beyond Tiflis to the se
a, whither Rusudan—for an instant he wondered whether the princess had known of the slaying of the envoys, and had wished to send him away where safety lay. But no, the girl was heedless. It had been a whim.
Then he looked around the table and was aware that the warriors were staring at him, and Rupen sneering. His lips tightened and his brow cleared. His mission ended, an end there would be also of words. One blow he could strike to justify himself.
Thrusting back his chair, he drew a steel gauntlet from his belt and threw it at the feet of the Prince of Kag. His hand closed on Trevisani’s shoulder, and the merchant winced.
“Say to this lord,” Hugh bade him, “that he may have my head also—if he lives. Say that I will meet him within the lists afoot or horsed, with whatever weapon he chooses and upon whatever day. Upon his body will I requite a foul wrong and an unknightly deed.”
“God’s wounds!” roared the Georgian. “What care I for lists and barriers? Let him look to himself, the dog!” His right hand whipped free the heavy yataghan, and his left hand gripped the table’s edge. A heave and thrust, and the table went over, bearing with it a pair of hillmen who were tardy in getting out of the way.
“Stay!” cried Trevisani, dancing with anxiety, and with one eye on the crusader’s great broadsword. “Challenge the Frank with axes.”
“Now!” Rupen cried, heeding the advice. “Only let it be now, with axes and shields. Look—the ground is level and the snow is hard.”
“Ay, so,” said Hugh.
CHAPTER XXII - BLOOD IN THE SNOW
MESSER ANTONIO, who had seen Rupen wield an ax in the lists before now, was filled with satisfaction. He had little doubt of the outcome, in spite of the crusader’s strength, because he knew that the handling of the heavy battle-axes—short in the shaft and broad in the edge—was a different affair altogether than swordplay, and Hugh was a swordsman.
With the ax there was no parrying. Nor would the chain mail in which each warrior stood be proof against a full blow of the tempered axes.
Eager hands had brought two stout shields of polished steel from the street of the weapon makers.
Messer Antonio shivered under his velvet coat as he stepped out of the tavern door. No priest had been summoned to shrive the adversaries, or any herald to order the fight. It would be swift and terrible, that was sure.
But even in these few moments the tidings had spread from alley to wineshop, and a throng of abreks—mountain peasants—tramped through the snow to the cleared space by the river. They stood in a hollow square, the mist of their breathing rising into the air. From the river came the sound of ice grinding and churning in the rapids below them.
“This Frank,” muttered a bearded noble from one of the northern passes, “is not as others. There is power in him.”
“How power?” asked a blacksmith who had pushed into the front rank and stood arms on hips, his heavy shoulders covered with a bearskin.
“Strength to wield this sword,” explained the aznaur grimly. He had been given the mighty blade of Durandal in its leather sheath to hold, and he had been weighing it with amazement. “Take it in thy hand.”
“No, by the Cross of Ani! ’Tis said the sword hath a spell upon it, and certain it is that the blade was not made in these days. Well for the Lord of Kag that he does not face such a weapon. Look, he knows what he is about—treading the snow to test its firmness.”
The Georgian had examined his shield, which was triangular in shape and very little bowed. He settled the steel cap firmly over the mesh of his mail hood, so that the nasal and cheek pieces came well down. He glanced up at the sun and slipped the leather loop of his ax shaft around his wrist.
Hugh stood quietly at the other side of the square. All at once he lifted his shield.
“Because I am an envoy to this court,” he said, “blame might come to the Lord of Kag if I should fall. Hear me! I hold him blameless, for I was the challenger.”
“You will fall,” growled Rupen.
“As God wills,” cried Trevisani. “Begin, messers.”
A deep sigh that was half a shout ran through the spectators as Rupen of Kag paced forward quickly. He took short steps, planting his feet firmly. His shield was raised and tilted in front of his chest.
Twice Rupen struck Hugh’s shield—clashing blows that dented the steel. He edged forward and lashed out at Hugh’s head, only to check the sweep of the ax in midair, for the crusader had stepped back swiftly. To miss a blow with the ax was to invite a return cut that might lay him on the ground.
“See!” The smith nudged the bearded hillman. “The Frank gives back.”
But the warrior was too interested to answer. Hugh had begun to attack, and the strident clang of steel echoed in the river gorge. Always Rupen met the ax-edge with his shield, turning the face of it slightly, so that the crusader’s weapon never met it fairly. Once, as they passed through deep shadow, the smith saw sparks leap, and he swore softly.
Steam was rising from the mailed forms of the two men; they shook the sweat from their eyes when there was an instant’s pause in the play of the axes. And always Rupen invited Hugh to attack.
And a murmur swelled in the throng, a murmur that rose to a hoarse shout.
“Such blows were never seen!” roared the bearded Georgian, without taking his eyes from the axes that flashed now without cessation in the sunlight. “Ha—”
A corner of Rupen’s shield had cracked, and at the next blow it flew off. But the crusader’s shield was badly dented, and the arm that held it was growing numb from the sledge-like impacts.
And now the Georgian pressed the attack with the utmost of his strength. Only once had the crusader’s weapon met his shield fairly, but the shock of that blow had cracked the steel, and Rupen feared that another such blow would break the bones in his arm.
He had meant to tire his enemy and then smash in his guard. Now it seemed to him that the crusader would never tire. And never had Rupen faced a man who could strike such a blow. The muscles of his left shoulder were strained, and his whole side ached. If his shield were split it would be the end.
Both men were panting; they leaped forward and staggered back, and the clash-clang of the axes grew more deafening.
“Ha!” gasped the Georgian. “For Rusudan!”
He sprang against the crusader, shield meeting shield. He shortened his grasp on the ax and cut savagely at his foe’s head. The edge of the ax dented the steel cap, and blood flowed down over Hugh’s temple.
Again Rupen repeated the maneuver, and as Hugh gave back, the Georgian’s ax flashed down under shield and armpit. The edge smote the steel links over Hugh’s heart, driving them through the leather jacket and into the flesh. A bone cracked.
Rupen shouted hoarsely. He was weary; his veins seemed afire, and his knees quivered. But he saw the crusader’s face turn white under the blood when his ax smote the dented shield. Movement was agony to Hugh, and the shock of the blows made his head swim. His ears rang, and it seemed to him that the trampled snow had turned the hue of blood.
Still he did not cry out or groan. He was able to hold up the battered shield. The two men circled, the din of the axes unceasing, blood spattering from their limbs.
“A moment more,” the smith whispered under his breath. “No more than a moment.”
He had seen the crusader’s ax glance against Rupen’s right arm, and the steel chain mail break asunder.
Rupen’s bare arm flashed down and up—up and down. His eyes glared into the set face of the crusader. And it seemed to Rupen as if the gray eyes bored into his brain like points of steel. Since the first blow they had not swerved, nor did they change expression, save that—and Rupen growled, though the pulse was hammering in his throat—now the crusader’s lips smiled.
For the end was at hand, as the smith had said, for one or the other.
Sheer fury gripped the powerful Georgian. He sprang forward, his right arm quivering over his head. Midway in his leap he was stopped, his ears ringin
g with the impact of tortured steel. For the second time the crusader’s ax had struck squarely on the Georgian’s shield.
Though he felt no hurt, Rupen groaned, staggering back. He, the axman, the skilled fighter, knew that now there was no hope for him. The blow on the shield had numbed his left arm from fingers to shoulder, and he could no longer raise his shield.
Back he staggered, making no outcry save the hoarse groaning that welled out of his throat. He saw the crusader leap toward him, and he made an effort to parry with his ax the shining steel that swept down.
Rupen was struck where the throat meets the shoulder and, though the mesh of his Turkish mail held together, the bones of his shoulder were crushed in, the sinews torn apart. He was dashed to the ground, and lay motionless.
From the silent spectators Trevisani emerged and bent over the figure outstretched in the crimson snow.
“Eh,” he muttered, “if he lives he will never take weapon in hand again.”
Hugh cast away his ax and stepped toward his fallen adversary. Then his knees bent and he went down with a clash of steel, and lay with his hand pressed to his side.
The Georgians thronged around the two champions in silence. They had seen a duel with axes that would live always in their memory, a duel whose story would be told again in after years throughout the Caucasus.
Shotha Kupri, making his way through the almost deserted street of the silversmiths, was hailed by a thin figure that hastened through the trampled mud.
“Messer Antonio,” he growled, “what is this?”
“Madness!” cried the Genoese. “San Marco be my aid! The Frank hath slain Rupen in a duel with axes and lies close to purgatory himself. But he is mad; he is beside himself. He asks to be put in a horse litter and sent down the valley—”