Durandal

by Harold Lamb

“With axes!” Shotha Kupri’s shaggy brows lifted incredulously.

  “As God lives. Hasten, good my lord, hurry your steps. The abreks think he is dying, and besides, they are minded to humor him because he wielded his weapon like a devil. But he must not pass down the valley. He has seen too much in Tiflis.”

  “Humph!”

  Shotha Kupri wasted no breath in words, lengthening his stride until he pushed through the multitude by the river and came upon a sight that would have turned a weaker stomach.

  At once he ordered Rupen to be borne to the castle on his own burka. Then, after a glance at Hugh’s face, he knelt down and felt the crusader’s side, nodding grimly when the wounded man gritted his teeth.

  “My horse,” whispered Hugh.

  “Nay. Three days of riding in this case and you will greet the angels.”

  The shadow of a smile passed over the knight’s wan features.

  “Better to go now than be found here by the Horde. My Lord of Nakha, I must go upon the road.”

  Shotha Kupri shook his head and gave an order to several of the warriors, who brought forward a stout cloak and lifted Hugh upon it.

  “Cold binds the lower valley,” said the thawad bluntly. “And you, my lord, will not sit a saddle until your bones knit.”

  He signed to the warriors, who started off toward the castle, the man from the northern passes trudging behind with the great sword Durandal.

  The swaying and jolting as they climbed up the rough ramp brought the red mist again before Hugh’s eyes, and when he tried to raise his head it seemed to him as if he were plunging down a road that became darker and darker, until dazzling flames appeared on every side. The rumble of Shotha Kupri’s voice became a roar, and he came to rest in darkness and silence.

  After a while he was sure that this abyss was a place of torment, because iron fingers pressed and pulled at his injured side, and a wave of pain swept through him. Bones grated within him, and his skull felt as if it were split asunder.

  From a vast distance he heard Shotha Kupri’s voice.

  “By the saints, such scars have I never seen!”

  He was glad when the torturers ceased their labors and he could sleep. But he woke to feel his feet and hands benumbed with cold. This time he could open his eyes; he beheld a spluttering torch and smoke that swirled around the figure of a mild-looking Syrian and another form clad in black velvet. He was sure that these must be Rabban Simeon and Antonio della Trevisani. And he was angry because it seemed to him that they were the torturers of this place. He heard a woman’s clear laugh and raged inwardly because Rusudan mocked him.

  Cool hands touched his forehead, and the pulse that beat in his throat was like Rupen’s ax upon his battered shield. The hammer strokes grew louder, though he felt the relief of water in his throat.

  Rusudan was singing softly. He knew not the words of the song, but the melody was restful as the ripple of water over stones. Her voice called him without ceasing; still he might not see her or lay hand on her.

  “My lady!” he cried.

  And though his whisper was hoarse as a raven’s note, the song ceased. In darkness and silence Hugh sought for the maid, aware of the faint scent of jasmine that clung to her hair.

  The fever still raced through his veins, and he thought that a lamp had been lighted, only the torture place had changed its aspect and was quite certainly a vaulted room. And Rusudan was bending over him. No fingers stroked his forehead. Instead, cool lips pressed against his closed eyelids and his cheek.

  For a while Hugh lay quiet. Surely that was a light, and the torturers were gone. Someone lay beside him on the bed, because he could hear the even breathing of sleep and could see a figure covered with a linen robe.

  He moved his hand and felt heavy tresses of unbound hair. The form near him stirred, with swiftly indrawn breath. Then a little laugh that did not mock him.

  The light moved and vanished, and Hugh was left alone, the scent of jasmine still on the pillow and coverlet beside him.

  CHAPTER XXIII - THE EVE OF BATTLE

  THE fever had left the crusader after three days, and for the rest of the week he slept mightily, eating more and more heartily, until the Georgian youths who served him ushered in Shotha Kupri in full mail, a shield on his arm and snow still clinging to his fur burka. He stood by Hugh in silence, and then stripped off the bandages that bound the wounded man’s left arm to his side.

  Hugh saw that the flesh was bruised and lacerated from armpit to waist. Shotha Kupri grunted.

  “It is healing, by God’s will. I am no physician, but Rusudan would not let the Syrian Rabban lay hand on thee.”

  “She came here?”

  Shotha Kupri tugged at his bristling mustache.

  “Am I a tiring woman, to know the coming and going forth of my princess? Praise God that thy bones have knit.”

  “Was Rabban Simeon here?”

  “Ay, that he was. Like thee, he came hither from the Horde. With Messer Antonio he has taken horse for the Western trail.” The thawad stared at Hugh, shook his grizzled head, and fingered the ax in his belt. “A pity thou art friend to the pagans and unfriend to us. If aught befalls—mark me—if there be peril, thy gray stallion is in the stable by the north wall.”

  So saying, he strode from the chamber, leaving the crusader thoughtful. That evening Hugh asked one of the pages whether the Princess Rusudan was in the castle.

  “Nay, my lord, she rides with John the Constable. The mailed host hath moved from Tiflis now that the standards are lifted.”

  Hugh, bethinking him, remembered that for days he had heard unwonted bustle in the courtyard and the town below—the neighing of horses, the blare of trumpets and distant shouting. Even now he was aware of a creaking of carts, a jangling of trace chains that dwindled in the distance.

  That evening the bells rang out in chorus, the giant bell of the church near the castle adding its sonorous boom to the chiming. Hugh had been left to himself, but when he heard singing in the town below he rose and went to look out of the embrasure.

  The ice-chilled air of the mountains swept in, and he sniffed the odor of pines. A round moon peered through drifting clouds, outlining upon the snow the shadows of a procession moving up the hill toward the church.

  He searched the throng for Rusudan, but she was not there. Nor did he see any men except the patriarch and his priests.

  He knew that the women were going to the great church to pray for the mailed host of the warriors. The chiming of the bells ceased as they entered the arches of the Malaki, and Hugh heard a slight movement behind him. Turning, he beheld a slender figure in the doorway of the chamber.

  “Your Excellency,” said Hugh, “seeks me?”

  Choaspes glanced at him and nodded good-naturedly.

  “As you see. I come to felicitate the Jerusalem pilgrim that he is still numbered among the living.”

  “For such courtesy am I beholden to the noble strategos”

  The Greek inclined his head, lifting his right hand in a graceful gesture, his left hand pressing the folds of his scarlet cloak to his breast.

  “Do you indulge, Messer Frank, in the sport of kings—the pagan game of chess?”

  Hugh shook his head silently.

  “A pity—I vow to Saint Bacchus, it is a pity. Trevisani gone, the wild little Rusudan out in the snows, this court of barbarians becomes exceeding dull.”

  He sighed and glanced at the crusader idly. Yet with that glance he weighed Hugh in his mind. The strategos was neither lazy nor effeminate, though he looked both. The frontier officer of an empire must be able to judge men, and in this respect Choaspes was not a whit behind Trevisani.

  “By all the gods!” Choaspes leaned on the embrasure ledge, allowing Hugh to see that his left hand held no weapon. “A land as barren and hideous as its people. The women, however, are not always ugly.”

  “I have seen men less honorable.”

  “Ehu! I forgot, you are new come from the pagan land.”


  “I did not mean the men of Cathay.” Hugh frowned a little. “In their way they do not lack faith.”

  “You have lived among them, Sir Hugh. And that brings me to my point. At the court of Theodore, in the Golden Chersonese, there was a rare welcome for him who brings fresh tidings or a new tale. This Horde out of Cathay savors of the magical—of the powers of darkness. By Venus her girdle, I swear it is the host of Gog and Magog! The tale of it would divert the Emperor and win you favor.”

  “Ay, so.”

  “And perchance bring my name to the imperial remembrance.” Choaspes laughed good-naturedly. “ ’Tis my duty to forward the news of the Caucasus. Come, what say you to a purse for the road, a pair of my followers to serve you and, at the end of the road, the Golden Chersonese. Faith, I envy you.”

  Hugh looked out upon the moonlit valley. Trevisani, Rusudan, and now Choaspes had tried to persuade him to journey to the Emperor’s court.

  “No need, my lord. My road lies down the valley.”

  The dark eyes of the strategos dwelt an instant on the falcon tablet that gleamed at the knight’s throat.

  “That will avail you little, Sir Hugh, for Mongol envoys have been slain, and perchance your life is forfeit. I have talked with Rabban Simeon, who tells a tale—a strange tale, mark you—of a certain oath of brotherhood that passed between you and the pagan chieftain.”

  “The tale is truth.”

  “Ah.” The shapely fingers of the Greek wandered from the cross of glowing opals on his bare chest to the silver chain that held the dagger sheath to his girdle. “Well, Simeon and Trevisani are far away. And I—” he smiled—“I wish you well, Sir Hugh. A gallant spirit—mark me! Yet consider well, if it were bruited in Tiflis that you have sworn a secret oath to this lord of the pagans, and if the fortune of the field should go against the Georgians, why, they might tear you limb from limb or set you on a stake to wriggle out your life. A caitiff’s fate, unworthy a girdled knight. Bethink you, and seek sanctuary with the Emperor.”

  Hugh smiled. Save within the portals of the great church whence came the faint refrain of song, sanctuary for him there was none.

  “In the fiend’s name,” quoth Choaspes, “what will you do?”

  “Ride to the battle.” The scarred fingers of the crusader closed in his beard. “My lord, when steel clashes and the arrow flights whip the air, there is an end of doubt, and a man may know the will of the Seigneur God.”

  “My lord, you are in no case to back a horse.”

  Choaspes shrugged a shoulder; then turned at a sound behind him, his fingers slipping the slender dagger from its sheath.

  The other door had opened, though no one stood within it. Upon the stone floor, drawing himself toward them by use of one arm and by the thrust of a leg beneath him, Rupen crawled.

  His left shoulder and arm were bound with bloodied bandages, less white than his haggard countenance from which dull eyes turned slowly from the Greek to the crusader. When he moved he panted, and once as he lay prone he pointed a quivering finger at Hugh and spoke.

  “Rusudan.”

  The knight took up the lamp and, going in the other chamber, saw a pallet bed, the blankets fallen to the floor. Here behind the massive stone partition Rupen had lain.

  “Rusudan,” the wounded Georgian growled again.

  “The fevr is in him,” said Hugh. “Come, my lord Strategos, we will aid him to his couch. My strength avails not.”

  “Nor my inclination,” observed Choaspes. “ ’Tis a heavy animal, and means you no good.”

  He lingered a moment contemplating the two who had fought such a duel not many days ago, and then left the chamber. But Hugh shouted for the serving knaves, and the youthful squire appeared. With his help Rupen was drawn back to bed, but no sooner was he in the blankets than he gripped the squire and spoke, low-voiced. The boy flushed and crossed himself upon forehead and breast.

  “Lord Frank,” he said, “Rupen of Kag saith this, ‘The priest who came to shrive him brought word from the Malaki. The Horde hath crossed the Nakha ridge and rides up the valley of the Kur. John the Constable hath arrayed his standards in battle order, and before two nights the issue will be joined. And the Princess Rusudan is with the Constable.’ ”

  “In two days!” Hugh’s right hand caught the lad’s shoulder. “Go, you—order my horse saddled.”

  The crusader turned to Rupen. The ax-man had crawled from his bed in spite of pain and tormented pride to give this message to Hugh. For an instant the crusader wondered why Rupen had not made his appeal to the strategos. Did he trust the Greek?

  Rupen loved Rusudan with all the savage jealousy of the mountain breed. But he had crawled to the man who had worsted him in single combat—with his own weapon—thinking, perhaps, that Hugh of all men might be of aid to Rusudan.

  The bleared eyes of the wounded giant were fastened intently on his late antagonist, as if Rupen wished to make more clear to Hugh the necessity of safeguarding the princess. Scowling and mute, his very earnestness and the pain that wracked him made his message eloquent. His drawn lips parted and he uttered a single word:

  “Gaumerjuba!” And again: “Be victorious!”

  This was the salutation of the Georgians, and Hugh had heard it often.

  “May victory be with thee,” he responded gravely.

  Whatever the result of the battle, he must ride now, and ride swiftly to draw Rusudan out of the path of the Horde. Until this was done he could not rejoin the Mongols. He turned from the bed to seek sword and surcoat and found the Georgian squire still standing in the shadows behind him.

  “My horse!”

  “At once!” But the squire lingered, and spoke with flushed face, “My lord, some say you have fellowship with the magicians of Cathay, and others that the sword in your hand hath a power beyond human might. Alas, I know not. Yet when the fever was in you the high-born Rusudan tended your hurts. She cherished your life. My lord, protect her from the Horde.”

  As if frightened by his own daring or believing that Hugh might summon up some ally of the realm of darkness, the boy hurried off on his mission.

  The sunken and bleared eyes of Rupen echoed the pleading of the young Georgian. The axman would never lift weapon again in battle. He had felt the strength of the crusader’s arm, and in spite of pain and brooding he had no reproach for Hugh.

  Nor did any man of the castle try to stay the knight when he donned his furs and the squire girded upon him the sword Durandal. Except an old castellan and some men-at-arms, all Georgians had left the place.

  The gray stallion neighed at his approach, thrusting a soft muzzle into his neck and snorting. But when Hugh had climbed into the saddle, wincing a little, the powerful charger tossed his head and stood motionless, ears twitching.

  “Eh,” muttered the serf who had groomed the horse, “it cannot be true that this lord of Frankland is a fiend, because the stallion hath no fear of him.”

  “He is not like other lords,” replied the squire.

  They opened the barbican gate, and Hugh rode forth, pacing down the long ramp and through the darkened alleys of Tiflis. When he had left the outer hamlets behind he passed a grove of firs and beheld among the trees the moonlit tower of the chapel where the dead king lay, and beneath the tower the fleeting gleam of a candle.

  Throwing his weight upon his right stirrup and slinging the sword—that seemed to have gained weight since his illness—he loosened the rein and let the charger trot, setting his teeth at the first stab of pain.

  In the uneven road he could not push forward faster than at a trot, but after a while he was warmed through, and the stab in his side became an ache. Only he had to hold the reins in his right hand.

  Toward morning he began to pass lines of carts drawn up by the road, and then an outpost where warriors slept by a roaring fire. The sun rose unseen, and a gray murk filled the valley. He drew rein at a camp of stragglers where a bearded ruffian was wiping the inside of a pot with a fistful
of bread and munching the bread. He glanced up at the silver head-band of the knight’s horse and the gold inlay upon the hilt of his sword.

  “How far is the camp?” He rubbed his fingers on his surtout and pondered. “Eh, Lord, it is nearer than a day’s ride and more than half a day’s.”

  “Is the Horde in sight?”

  The prophet of war screwed up his eyes and fingered his beard.

  “Some of it is. By——, I have seen the Mongols fight before now! Ask the kites and the wolves where the rest of the Horde lies hid. But please to dismount, good my lord.”

  Hugh knew the breed of these men—the speaker was a Bokharian. Horse traders, outwardly, who waited behind the lines to glean spoil from the slain and the wounded. He gathered up his reins and went on.

  The Bokharian proved to be at least a sagacious prophet, because at noon Hugh came to the top of a ridge and saw before him the full array of the Georgians.

  CHAPTER XXIV - THE VALLEY OF THE KUR

  THE clans of the Caucasus stretched as far as the eye could see, from the bank of the frozen Kur to some low hills covered with pines. They were moving down the valley, away from Hugh, in masses of a thousand or more grouped around the standards and the banners of the princes. As they marched they sang and clashed axes and swords against their shields.

  All in the main battle were on foot, even the chieftains. But Hugh saw that the constable had kept apart in the rear of the warriors a body of horse—Circassians.

  These, too, were in motion, the ponies plunging into drifts and kicking up a smother of snow when they trotted. A bleak wind swept the valley and the gray sky hid the sun.

  Beyond the line of the Georgians Hugh could see the Horde clearly—the black patches that were masses of horsemen. The distance was too great to make out any standards, and Hugh counted the black patches. There were ten, and he knew that each numbered a thousand. They were advancing at a walk.

  Though he searched the whole valley, even the low banks of the icebound river and the timbered foothills on the far side, he could not discover any other Mongols. The ten thousand looked no larger than so many flocks of sheep in the vast basin between the ranges.