Swords From the West

by Harold Lamb

  The rearing horses stirred up a cloud of dust that covered the mound. Into this cloud Michael strode, swinging his half-ax. The first rider that met him was dragged from the saddle and slain. Michael went down with a mameluke on top of him and neither rose, for Michael's left hand had sought and found the other's dagger in his girdle.

  When the last Christian had been shot down with arrows, the Turks dismounted and proceeded to pound the skulls and vital parts of the bodies of their victims with rocks. If any of the men of El-Arjuk had been in the party Michael would have suffered the fate of his comrades.

  But the mamelukes had neglected to give him the coup de grace owing to the body of their warrior that lay upon his. When they lifted up their dead they saw only a prostrate Frank besmeared with blood-not his own-and with a swollen, bruised right arm that looked as if it had been crushed with a stone.

  The senses had been battered out of Michael by the mace of the dead mameluke and it was a fortunate thing for him. Because by the time he crawled to his feet there were no Turks within view.

  Instead, black-winged birds casting a foul scent in the air hovered over his head. The vultures had been descending on the bodies of the five men when Michael Bearn stood up.

  Now they circled slowly in the air or perched on the rocks nearby patiently. Michael looked at them long, and then at the bodies of his comrades.

  The five had not been brave men, but they had died bravely.

  Michael walked slowly away from the knoll toward a rivulet issuing between rocks in the mountainside that rose mightily above him. He knelt and drank deeply. Then he dipped his head in the stream, wiping away the dried blood. The flapping wings of the vultures impelled him to look up.

  His glance penetrated straight down the ravine that was called the Gate of Shadows, and he studied thoughtfully the vista of brown plain that lay beyond. Once within the pass he knew that he would see no more of the Turks. The evening before he had been told when he visited the Kurd village that the rock plateau in front of the pass had been the scene of a massacre by the Turks.

  The skeletons of the dead were in the pass, and a superstition had arisen that the souls of the slain had not left the place. The voices of ghils had been heard in the darkness. So the Moslems considered the place not only unclean but accursed.

  "'Fore God," he sighed, "we were at the Gate, the very Gate. Well, here must they wait for me-my five mates that were."

  So saying, he went back to the knoll, driving away the birds, and dug with his battle-ax a broad shallow grave in the loose sand. Dragging the bodies into this with his one useful arm, he covered them up first with sand, then with large rocks that he rolled down with his bare feet from the knoll.

  From a wisp-like tamarisk thicket clinging between the boulders of the plateau, he cut two stout staffs with his ax. These he bound roughly together at the middle with a strip of leather cut from his jerkin. The longer staff of the two he imbedded in the sand at the head of the grave.

  He had fashioned a cross.

  "Rest ye," he said gravely and extended his left arm over his head. "Vin- dica eos, Domine."

  Now as he said this he glanced again at the ravine and the plain beyond, where he could find food and a tent among the Tatar villages. Then he turned to the northwest where beyond the hills lay the Mormaior, or Black Sea, and beyond there the great cities of Europe.

  To the northwest, if he could penetrate thither, were his countrymen, and theirs, he thought, was the power that might some day strike at the Thunderbolt.

  It was to the northwest that he began to walk, away from the grave and the Gate of Shadows. Greater than the will to live was the will to seek again the man who had crippled him.

  When darkness came and covered his movements he pressed forward more rapidly, swinging his short ax in his left hand. As he went he munched dates and olives that he had plucked from trees near the mountain villages. He found no men to accost him in these orchards, for the fields were scarred by hoofs of many horses and the huts were charred walls of clay.

  Bayezid's riders had been pillaging the villages of Lesser Armenia.

  Once, walking barefoot, he came upon a young wild sheep and killed it with his thrown ax. By now the villages had been left behind and below and the moon stared at him steadily from above the pillars of huge pines as he entered the forest belt.

  Another thought came to Michael. He remembered that, in the tower of ill-fitting stones on the sea cliffs of Brittany where the grass was short because of the ceaseless winds, a black-haired woman waited, sitting by her weaving. He had vowed that he would come back to sit at his mother's table and tell of the voyages to the East. And this, she would know, he would do. A lawless boy, with his father's hot blood in him, he always kept his word.

  From time to time he was forced to beat off the attacks of wild dogs with his ax as he worked through the passes of the Caucasian foothills. His bloodshot eyes closed to slits under the lash of the cold wind, and he swayed as his heavily thewed limbs carried him down toward the place where he had seen a glimmer of water in the distance.

  It was bodily weakness that drew his thoughts home to the tower and the coast where he had played as a child. For a space he forgot Bayezid and the torture. He had been hale and strong as a boy. Was he to go through life a cripple? Was that the will of God of which his mother had spoken, saying-

  "The ways of God are beyond our knowing."

  Thirst had been his invisible companion, and the watercourses that he crossed were dry. They led him down to a plain of gray rocks and white salt, where the salt particles in the air dried up the moisture in his throat and brought blood to his lips.

  The smell of water coming toward him from the wide shore fired him with longing. He went forward in a staggering run and knelt to dash up some of the water in his hand.

  It was thick with salt and dull green in color.

  "The Sarai Sea," he reflected, "the sea of salt. Eh, a rare jest to a thirsty man."

  He knew then that he had come out on the border of the sea now called the Caspian and not the Mormaior (Black) Sea. But, rising, he saw some dull-faced Karabagh fishermen staring at him from a skiff in an adjoining inlet and he laughed exultantly, lifting his hand to the sunset in the west.

  The skiff would fetch him to a Muscovite trading galley, and in time Astrakhan, then Constantinople. He had heard at the court of Bayezid that the Franks were mustering a crusade, to assemble at that city. The chivalry of Europe was taking up arms against the Turk.

  "There will be a battle," he whispered to himself, "and I shall have a share in it, God willing."

  Chapter II

  The River of Death

  Another sunset, and a war galleass was feeling its way with a double bank of oars against the sluggish current of a broad river. There was no wind and the heavy red pennon emblazoned with a winged lion hung nearly to the water between the steering oars of the high stern castle.

  The dark figures of men-at-arms pressed close to the rail of the benches that ran along each side of the waist of the vessel, above the moving gray shapes that were the rowers' backs.

  "Give way, to the shore," called a voice from the stern platform.

  As the heavy-timbered galleass drew in, fully manned for action, toward the rushes of the bank, the speaker cupped his left hand to his eyes and stared at the ruddy light of countless fires. His right arm hung stiffly at his side.

  A year had not availed to restore the use of his injured arm to the man who had been a Turk's slave. Now by infinite pains he could manage with his left. Unlike the men-at-arms and the mailed Venetian archers clustered upon the stern, he wore no weapon.

  Michael Bearn had reached the Venetian fleet in the Black Sea at an opportune moment. Experienced ship-masters were needed to take command of the new galleys that were to cooperate under the Venetian flag with the Christian army on the mainland.

  The body of the Venetian fleet lay off the mouth of the Danube, waiting to convey the victorious army o
f the Christian allies to Asia Minor and Jerusalem.

  It was a great array that had come against the Ottoman. Besides the Venetian war-craft, Sigismund of Hungary was up the river, and the cohorts of Slavs, Magyars, and the Serbs. With these were the pick of the chivalry of France, the forces of the Elector Palatine and the Knights of Saint John.

  They had struck down through the mountains of the Serbs and besieged Nicopolis, on the river. Warnings of the approach of the conqueror Bayezid had reached them, and the French knights who had brought shiploads of women and wine down the Danube had laughed, saying that if the sky were to fall, they would hold it up with their spears.

  Verily it was a goodly array of Christendom before Nicopolis-an army blessed by the Pope and dispatched against the Ottoman, who had swept over Arabia, Egypt, Asia Minor-far into Greece, now impotent, and the rugged mainland behind Constantinople.

  The Moslems held Gallipoli and a khadi held court beside the marble and gold palace of Paleologus. Bayezid the Conqueror, surnamed the Thunderbolt, had never met defeat.

  Bayezid had advanced to the relief of the Moslem governor of Nicopolis, and Emperor Sigismund and Count Nevers, commander of the French, had given battle.

  For days, hearing of the coming struggle, Michael Bearn had chafed upon the narrow afterdeck of his galleass. He had urged the Venetian commander to make his way up the river, to assist in the struggle if possible.

  Bearn had been told by the proveditore that the fleet of the Signory of Venice had promised to convey the army only to Asia Minor. It was not the policy of the Maritime Council to risk the loss of good ships-but Bearn was allowed to go, to bring news.

  It had been a dangerous path up the Danube, for small Turkish craft thronged the shore and bodies of janissaries were to be seen from time to time in openings in the dense forests.

  Now, conning the darkened galleass close to the bank, Michael Bearn strained his ears to read the meaning of the tumult on shore. He could see horsemen riding past the glow of burning huts, and the clash of weapons drifted out over the quiet waters.

  "Sigismund pursues the Saracen!" exulted a man among the archers on deck.

  Wild hope leaped into the heart of Michael Bearn. Was the issue of the battle so soon decided? Had the armed chivalry of France outmatched the power and skill of Bayezid? He yearned for the first glimpse of victorious French standards. Yet, knowing the discipline and power of the veteran Moslem army, he doubted the evidence of his eyes that the emperor and the French could have pursued their foe so far.

  "What ship is that?" cried a high voice, and the splash of hoofs sounded in the rushes as a man rode out toward the galleass.

  "Venetian," answered Michael promptly. "Is the battle won?"

  The men on the vessel held their breath as the rider, before answering, swam his horse out to them and, grasping at ropes lowered over the stern where the oar-banks permitted him to gain the side of the galleass, climbed heavily upon the deck.

  "If you area Venetian-fly!" he cried, staggering against Michael. "Never have the eyes of God seen such a defeat. Bayezid has sworn he will stable his horse in Saint Peter's. I am alone, of a company of knights who followed the Constable of France."

  Michael Bearn gripped the knight by the shoulder fiercely.

  "The Constable of France-defeated-"

  "Slain."

  The wounded man was too weary to be surprised at the fire in the eyes that burned into his. Michael drew a long breath. He was too late. And his countrymen had fallen before Bayezid.

  The knight was removing his mail hood with shaking hands.

  "We thought the Saracen was shattered," he said hopelessly. "Our camp was surprised, yet the French mounted and rode to the attack, through the skirmishers and the cavalry with white woolen hats-"

  "The janissaries," nodded Michael.

  "-and past them, into the ranks of the horse-guards that are called sipahis, of Bayezid. Our lances, forsooth, had broken them asunder. We had lost many and our ranks were ill-formed when we gained the summit of the hill where we found not a rabble of defeated soldiery, but a forest of forty thousand lances. Ali, Saint Denis!"

  "Bayezid ever keeps his best troops till the last."

  "He has ordered slain ten thousand Christian captives, sparing only the Count of Nevers and twenty knights. I escaped."

  "And the emperor?"

  "Floats down the river in a boat. He made a brave stand, 'tis said, until the Serbs joined the Moslems and struck his flank-"

  "'Tis done. Rest you and sleep." Michael spoke curtly, what with the hurt of the news. "There are wounded to be brought off from shore."

  Urging his vessel almost upon the shore, he formed his men-at-arms into lines to pass up what of the injured they could find, while he made his way inland to turn aside the fugitives he met into the galleass.

  He saw only haggard and dusty men, weaponless and exhausted. On mules and purloined horses camp followers dashed past along the highway, striking aside those who got in their path. Semblance of order or discipline there was none.

  Wounded foot soldiers who had cast aside their heavier armor limped into the light of the burning houses nearby, silent and grim-lipped. Mi chael was mustering a group of these at the water's edge when a mailed horseman spurred up and grasped at his shoulder.

  "For the love of -! Is't true there is a ship at hand?"

  Michael looked up under drawn brows and saw a handsome Italian cavalier, his velvet finery besmirched and his jeweled cap awry.

  "A hundred ducats, sailor, if you will take me on your ship at once," the horseman cried, fingering at a heavy purse with a quivering hand.

  "Spare your purse-strings and wait your turn," responded Michael shortly.

  But the cavalier, befuddled by fear, was pushing aside the watchful foot soldiers, to leap at the ropes that had been lowered from the vessel, when Michael's left arm, thrust across his chest, stayed him.

  "You are a captain, signor," he observed quietly. "Help me to get these wounded to safety."

  The Italian glanced back and saw that a fresh route of fugitives had come into the light at the shore. A tall bazaar trader with his servants was striking down those who sought to climb into a muddy cart drawn by nearly exhausted horses. Michael could read the fear in the red-bearded face of the trader. A woman, her skirt dragging about her knees, ran screaming into the path of the cart, holding out imploring arms.

  The servants, under the oaths of their bearded master, lashed the horses on and the woman, in all her sad finery, was cast to earth under the hoofs of the beasts. The cart disappeared into the darkness but she lay where she had fallen.

  "You see!" cried the Italian. "Death is upon us unless we fly. Out of my way, dogs-"

  Drawing back his arm, Michael struck the man, sending him headlong into the water. Heedless of the blow, the other rose and fought his way to the ropes that offered a way to safety.

  "Wo!" His cry came back to Michael. "Death is upon us. Fly!"

  "Fly!" echoed the wounded, struggling toward the ropes. "The Turks are at our heels."

  Those who could not stand unsupported were thrust down into the water. Men, striking at one another's heads and tearing at the surcoats which bore a crimson cross-the stronger among the fugitives, up to their necks in water, fought for the ropes.

  When Michael at last-seeing that the galleass was crowded to capacity-clambered up the gilded woodwork of the stern and gave the signal to get under weigh, the tumult on shore took on a fiercer note.

  Looking back, he could see the flash of scimitars among the huddle of the fleeing. Lean, turbaned horsemen wheeled and charged through the burning houses. A shrill shout pierced the wails of the injured.

  "Yah, Allah! Hai-Allah -hai!"

  Michael Bearn, hearing this familiar cry of triumph of the Moslems, saw again in his mind's eye the ruined villages of Armenia, the tortured slaves, and-most clearly of all-the grave in the sand before the Gate of Shadows.

  He looked at the two men be
side him, the sleeping French knight whose valor had been fruitless, and the sullen Italian officer who regarded him askance, fingering his bruised face.

  The army of crusaders that he had journeyed for a year to join was no more. And Bayezid, angered by the loss of so many of his men, had doomed ten thousand captives to death. Was there no power on earth that could match the Thunderbolt?

  "I wonder," thought Michael. He knew that of one place Bayezid was afraid, or at least that the Thunderbolt shunned that place.

  It was the Gate of Shadows.

  Chapter III

  The Blow in the Dark

  It was an hour after vespers and the lights of Saint Mark's were glowing softly against the vault of the sky over the great city of Venice. Along the narrow streets, however, and the winding canals, the square houses with their grilled doors and carved stonework showed only slits of light from barred windows.

  At that hour worthy citizens of the City of the Lagoons went abroad attended only by linkmen and with armed retainers to guard their backs. Those who were more cautious, or who had more powerful enemies, paid bra vi to watch the retainers.

  A stranger wandering from the lagoons and the main canals would soon have lost his way. In the poorer quarters where the high buildings seemed to lean together against the sky, men looked closely into the faces of those they met and turned the corners wide.

  Near the Piazza where the walled palaces of the nobles lined the canals the alleys were filled with refuse and ended more often than not in a blind wall. Servants stood whispering in the shadows of the postern doors and often a soft laugh came from an invisible balcony overhead.

  "A pox on these castles," said Michael Bearn heartily. "Is there never a place where a body can see before and behind him at the same time?"

  He glanced up, trying fruitlessly to guess his direction by the few stars visible between the buildings. All that he could make out was that he seemed to be standing in a space where two alleys crossed. Listening, he could hear the music of fiddles and flutes somewhere near at hand.