Durandal

by Harold Lamb

  Hugh urged on the tired horse, passing through the last camp of the Georgians, where slaves and peasants with their carts stood at gaze. Here were visible the thatched roofs of a hamlet, and when the crusader passed near by, stalwart mountaineers stared at him and shouted joyfully:

  “Eh, Lord Prince, make haste or the onset will be over. ’Tis said the steeds of the accursed Mongols are helpless in the snow.”

  “Their bowstrings will be damp! Satan is opening his gates for them.”

  So the varlets of the camp cried out, beholding the goodly charger of the stranger and the gold inlay of his sword. And Hugh, who could have answered that the Mongol ponies were accustomed to snow and even to digging beneath it for the scanty forage of dry grass, and that the Mongol bowstrings were silk or waxed cord, passed on in silence, heavy with misgiving. The somber sky was like a pall over the valley, and the bitter wind whispered of death.

  He had not reached the Circassians before sudden tumult resounded on his right. Toward the foothills patrols of the invaders were retiring before the steady advance of the hillmen. But the shouting and clash of steel meant a charge.

  Evidently the Mongol onset was repulsed, because Hugh, hastening on, saw presently the bodies of warriors outstretched and a few riderless ponies galloping off, while groups of Georgians clustered around the wounded, and the clamor dwindled to a hum of voices.

  No one paid him any attention, and he sought anxiously for the standard of the constable, or for sight of Rusudan or Shotha Kupri.

  Before seeking Subotai in the Horde he meant to warn Rusudan to leave the field—no easy task. She should never come into the mêlée.

  Here were only bands of hillmen, ax and spear on shoulder, striding forward through the snow that was often knee-deep, shouldering and pushing to win nearer the front ranks that had halted.

  The reason was clear in a moment. A roar of voices drowned all other sounds, and Hugh rose in his stirrups. The Mongol center was in motion—a long line of riders trotting toward the Georgians, followed by other lines that plied their bows from the saddle. Arrows whistled into the close-packed mass of Georgians, who answered with crossbows and, in a moment, with a flight of javelins.

  Stung by the flying steel, the shaggy ponies of the Mongols began to rear and plunge before the first line crashed against the spears and shields of the Georgians.

  Still the arrows whistled. Hugh heard the clash of armor when men dropped near him, heard the oaths of their comrades who pressed on, heedless of hurt, with the single thought of closing with the horsemen.

  They did not lack courage, these men of the Caucasus. Harried by shafts that tore through their leather shields and the chain mail beneath, they wielded their swords and heavy axes, and the line that had yielded at first, stood firm.

  The Mongol charge had been broken. The tumans were drawing away, scattering in groups without formation and apparently without leaders.

  Hugh, who had seen these same veteran divisions crash through the chivalry of Islam, could not believe them broken; but the impatient Circassians tossed scimitars and spears over their heads.

  And then Hugh saw the constable sitting a white horse with cloth-of-silver caparisoning, and beside him the Princess Rusudan, her cheeks aglow with excitement, crying to the mounted escort that hemmed her in—the youthful nobles, sons of the chieftains.

  Heads turned inquiringly toward the crusader in tarnished steel, upon a sweat-soaked charger flecked with foam. Rusudan saw him and cried out, started to draw her rein toward him, but checked her brown Arab and waited his approach.

  He raised his right hand and spoke:

  “Princess Rusudan, where is the aid promised by the Emperor? I saw none in the camp or the array of battle.”

  She smiled, pointing down the valley with a slender ivory baton tipped by a little crown of gold.

  “What need of them? Surely the eternal Emperor hath pledged us aid, but, alone, we have cast back the pagans.”

  “Ay, so.”

  Rusudan’s dark hair whipped across her eyes, and she tossed her head impatiently, her eyes dancing with the almost unbearable exhilaration of earth’s utmost game.

  “If God had spared my brother to see this day!” And she gazed up at Hugh earnestly. “Ai, your wound is not healed. Why are you in the saddle?”

  And the crusader, leaning on his saddle-horn, besought her with outstretched hand:

  “Ride hence. This is an ill place for a maid.”

  “Did you come to tell me that? So the Constable hath said, but I will not sit with the women.”

  “You have seen one charge. Stay for no more.”

  “I will not go.”

  “The real battle is not yet,” answered Hugh patiently. Rusudan beheld the pallor in his lined face, and hot scorn made harsh her clear voice.

  “Is this the paladin who bears Roland’s sword—who hewed his way to the Sepulchre of the Lord Christ? I cry you shame, Sir Hugh! Oh, you were quick to draw weapon in an alley brawl over the cups.”

  She had seen the truth, that Hugh of Taranto was afraid. But of what he could not say himself. A heavy foreboding lay upon him—the fear that the Horde would still ride over the clans of the Caucasus and the bright head of Rusudan would lie in trampled snow and blood.

  The nobles, urged by fresh excitement, were clamoring around her now, but she reined the Arab to the gray stallion.

  “Look up, Sir Craven. You will see that even a maid may strike a blow against pagans.”

  A horn resounded near the constable, who had been watching the retreat of the Mongols intently. A chieftain had come up to him, a bearded Circassian who checked his steed with a jangle of bit-chains and thudding of hoofs and pointed down the valley beseechingly. The wild horsemen, held in restraint, were growing resentful of inaction, and the Circassian cral had come to beg for leave to charge. With a nod, John the Constable gave the order.

  The Circassian wheeled away as a hawk skims from a thicket, and his men, guessing the command—or resolved to await no command—put their horses to a trot and a gallop that carried them in full career past the princess and through the clans of the main battle, who parted to let them by.

  “Forward with me!” Rusudan cried to the youths around her, and they shouted above the clamor of the Circassians. The nobles of Rusudan’s escort joined the mass of riders, but Hugh leaned over and gripped her rein.

  “Nay!” he cried, realizing her purpose.

  “Loose my horse. Back, I say!” Rusudan struggled to free her rein, then let it fall and snatched the light scimitar from the silver sheath at her side. In her anger she trembled, whispering so that he scarcely heard, “I will strike!”

  And the scimitar swept up, and down toward his throat, for he made no move to release her. The steel whistled in the air, and was checked in the mid-stroke by a mailed hand that held it firm.

  John the Constable had heard the rasp of the blade in its sheath and had come to Rusudan’s side. He forced the weapon from her hand, thrust it into its scabbard, glanced from the raging girl to the crusader.

  “Nay, little Rusudan,” he said smiling, “there will be blows enough struck this day. Nor will I permit you to go forward into peril. See, the pagans give way before our horse.”

  The onset of the Circassians—daring riders, loving well just such a charge as this—had carried them into the retreating squadrons of the Horde. Only Hugh noticed that no arrow flights greeted the constable’s cavalry, and that the Mongols scattered to the sides rather than fled ahead.

  The array of the Circassians began to divide, some turning after the Mongols toward the hills, some spurring at the bands withdrawing to the river. Before long the fighting had broken up into smaller groups and the Mongols were using their bows at last at close quarters.

  Seeing this, some of the clans began to run forward from the main array of the Georgians to aid the cavalry. The rest of the warriors on foot were stripping the enemy dead, and even building fires to warm themselves and to heat
wine.

  To the watchers it seemed that the battle was at an end, and John the Constable had taken the helmet from his head, when some of the men near him cried out. They were pointing at the river. From the forest on the far side long lines of Mongol horsemen were emerging.

  CHAPTER XXV - CHOASPES MOVES

  SUBOTAI THE EAGLE led these squadrons. He had summoned the best of the Horde, the mailed riders of the Merkit tribe and the black-clad Almalyk swordsmen—in all ten thousand—and had taken them at night into the forest, crossing the Kur unseen, fifty miles from the scene of the battle. He had followed gorges and cattle trails, sending scouts ahead to slay any herdsmen or villagers who might be in his path.

  So his first squadrons had come up that morning to the heights overlooking the Kur and had descended cautiously, screened by the thick pine growth until they were within a few bowshots of the river.

  The Georgians, who had seen the other portion of the Horde in front of them, had paid no attention to the far bank of the Kur where there was no road. Even when Subotai’s cavalry appeared they did not think the Mongols could cross the river ice.

  But there had been many days of bitter cold, and the nomads who had roamed yearly the bleak lakes and frozen rivers of the steppes knew well enough when ice would bear them and how it must be crossed. They deployed in long lines, a lance length between riders and an arrow’s flight between the ranks. They moved out upon the white surface of the river at a walk.

  Nor did they hasten when the Georgians of the left flank raced to the bank. But their arrows began to whip the mass of hillmen, and when the first rank reached solid ground the shafts of the second rank flew over their heads, wreaking destruction among the Georgians. And above and below the Georgians the cavalry gained a footing unmolested, because the hillmen could not reach the bank in time.

  Once across the Kur, the Mongols closed up into solid squadrons and trotted in upon the scattered clans. This time there was no withdrawing. When the arrow flight of a moving squadron swept a group of Georgians, men were cast down as if a blast of wind had struck them.

  Their left flank was cut to pieces by arrows and ridden down, and John the Constable, hastening toward the river, ordered the center of his clans to face about.

  “Form on the standards!” he cried as he galloped. “Hold your ground. Ax and shield!”

  He sent riders to bid the Circassians withdraw and form again. But the Circassian cavalry never reached him. Only a scattering of the tribesmen came back to the standards. The rest, their horses wearied by plunging through the snow, and cut off by the first division of the Mongols, fought desperately with scimitars and began to flee toward the hills.

  Of the young nobles who had surrounded Rusudan and who joined in the charge of the Circassians not one was seen alive again. The veteran Mongols, noticing the splendor of their kaftans and shining helms, slew them with arrows and lances.

  Nor did the constable return to the knoll where Rusudan sat her horse, with pallid cheeks and tense lips.

  The gray sky darkened, and the wind ceased. The mountain wall became a blur of shadow and mist. Twilight drew its veil over the scene. In this vast arena multitudes of shapes moved over the snow, and the hoarse roaring of men, the neighing of horses, and the clatter of steel stunned the girl.

  “The real battle begins,” said the crusader quietly.

  He had been peering into the shadows, following movements of men unseen by the overwrought maid. He knew that the main body of Georgians, nearly twenty thousand strong, was holding its ground in a half-circle on three sides of them. And he saw where Mongol lancers were pushing around the left of this half-circle, seeking the rear of the constable’s array.

  Somewhere in the mass of the Horde, Subotai Bahadur sat his horse—man and beast garbed in black lacquer—peering into the obscurity with eyes that seemed to pierce the darkness. Colored lanterns of horn and paper, as large as barrels, hung on the points of long spears, transmitted his orders to his men.

  When a lantern was raised or lowered or swung from side to side, a squadron leader somewhere in the groaning and shouting press of fighters commanded his drums to sound—and every rider of that squadron, hearing the roll of kettledrums, pushed forward or freed himself from his foes to gallop to his comrades. And always Subotai shifted his squadrons farther and farther around the Georgians’ flank—the dreaded tulughma or swoop that reached an enemy’s rear.

  “Come,” said Hugh.

  He reached out and took the girl’s rein in his good hand.

  It was the hour of darkness before moonrise, and the crusader, listening to the tumult around them, thought that the Mongols had drawn farther away toward the hills. Little fighting was going on near them. In the distance were heard the shouts of the hillmen and the mutter of the drums of the Horde.

  “Nay,” Rusudan stirred and drew a deep breath, “I will not forsake the mkhendruli—the warriors.”

  “Faith,” growled the crusader, “is there a man, save these few beside thee, that knows you are still on the field? Child, they would give their arms and heads to have you safe in Tiflis if they knew.”

  “I am not afraid.”

  “Come!” he said again quietly.

  She turned to peer into his eyes beneath the helmet. Then she spoke to the score of nobles and mounted squires who had remained at her side. They closed in around her with drawn weapons, and Hugh led Rusudan’s Arab into the darkness.

  Until now it would have been madness to try to escape toward the city, and, though the nearly frantic Georgians had urged her to fly to the hills behind them, she had not stirred. Now, there was no knowing what lay behind them. For an hour the valley of the Kur was like an arena with the lights turned down, the actors moving unseen.

  One of the escort urged Rusudan to try to find a strong body of the clans, but she shook her head.

  “Can they outpace such cavalry? Shall I burden them with fear? Nay, they might take us for pagans and loose javelins at us. I trust the Frank.”

  The horses, except Hugh’s gray stallion, were fresh, and his charger was still able to gallop. Before starting, Hugh had thrust Rusudan’s loose hair under her hood and had drawn the hood down about her eyes, so that the keen eyes of the Mongols might not recognize a woman—and for another reason.

  They passed by knots of fallen men, and here and there a figure dragged itself through the trampled snow, moaning or crying for aid as the riders swept past. Wounded Georgians, who would watch jackals tear at the bodies of their comrades in the hours of that night.

  Rusudan shivered, burying her face in her hands. Hugh, looking into the shadows ahead of them, swerved now to the right, now to the left. He could make out companies of Mongols who had dismounted to rest their ponies and wait until moonrise.

  Again they plunged past warriors afoot, who sprang aside with lifted sword or ax, shouting hoarse defiance. When the horses slowed their pace and the snow surface loomed unbroken, Hugh thought they had passed beyond the Mongols.

  Already the sky over the eastern ranges was filled with an orange glow; the moon would be shedding its light into the valley. The Georgians began to cast about for the road, whipping on their horses.

  “Where the ground is dark, the road will be,” said one of them to the princess. They stumbled into gullies and skirted thickets until they came to a ridge and what seemed a low growth of trees. But this dark blur was moving toward them.

  “Stop!” Hugh whispered, and Rusudan reined in, her followers doing likewise.

  From the dark patch came the creaking of saddles, the faint clicking of wooden bow cases, and the mutter of voices. Hugh felt that the girl was reaching for the scimitar at her side.

  The dark spot on the snow was a large party of Mongols, evidently a patrol, and they must have seen the Georgians.

  “Noyon!” Hugh called out. “Ordu orluk—an officer of the marshal’s regiment!”

  The rattling of bow cases ceased, and the patrol reined in.

  “Aha
tou noyon!” a deep voice made response.

  The Mongols moved away, merging into the shadows under the ridge, and Rusudan shivered. When they reached the top of the ridge, Hugh put his charger to a gallop. They were on the road, and in a few moments the haystacks, topped with white cones, of the hamlet appeared, and then the village itself, clear in the moonlight.

  In the road by the tavern that Hugh had passed in the morning stood a sleigh with four horses and a mounted escort. From the sleigh stepped a man in silvered mail, a scarlet cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He glanced at Hugh and started when he beheld Rusudan’s Arab.

  “The princess! A golden candle to the good Saints Sergius and Bacchus! Her Highness will be pleased to dismount and avail herself of my sleigh.”

  Choaspes had come down the valley to watch events, and had lingered at the inn, loath to leave warmth and wine for the bitter cold. And the tidings he had gleaned of the battle had not inspired him to go on. He had traveled slowly, and his horses were fresh. The Georgians urged Rusudan to follow his advice.

  “My Lord the Strategos!” she cried. “Have you word from—of—”

  Her voice was choked by something like a sob, and Choaspes swept his hand around the deserted hamlet gravely. Fugitives were pushing past them. All the huts were dark.

  But Rusudan would not move from the saddle until a Georgian officer galloped up on a staggering horse. He was without helmet or shield, and his reins hung over his saddle horn. He swayed from side to side as if drunk, and cursed when one of Choaspes’s Greeks checked his horse.

  “Woe to the sons of Karthlos! Woe! Broken are the clans—slain are the chieftains!”

  “What of the Constable?” cried Choaspes.

  The wounded officer, unheeding, lashed his horse and plunged on, shouting over his shoulder:

  “To Tiflis! Let him save himself who can.”

  And he was not lost to sight before warriors began to appear on the road and over the fields, lurching as they walked, their shoulders sagging—some pushing forward in silence, some shaking broken weapons at the cloudless sky. Beholding them, Choaspes took Rusudan’s stirrup in his hand: