Swords From the West

by Harold Lamb

  What the chivalry of Europe could not do, the Lame Conqueror and his Horde had done. To Michael this was a strange thing. Where was then the power of God?

  Hunger and the nervous suspense of the last hours had made his mind clear and unnaturally alert. He found that he was dwelling upon some words of a woman who had taught him wisdom before he became a man.

  "The ways of God are past our knowing," his mother had said.

  He wondered if she were reading from the Book wherein she had found these words, and smiling as she did, alone in her room in the tower of the seacoast. She had smiled like that when his father's ships brought in word of new conquests of the Moslems on the borders of Europe.

  It did not seem to Michael to be a strange thing that the strongest faith should be in the hearts of women, who knew nothing of warfare.

  This had passed through his thoughts almost subconsciously while he watched the battle. Now the dust curtain thickened, cutting off his view. There was a pounding of hoofs and shapes that looked like birds crossed in front of Mirza Rustem and a man shouted something. Then they were gone, wheeling toward the Mongol right. Michael spoke to a Tatar squatted upon the ground sharpening his sword.

  "Beduins-our men," he announced to Bembo, a new note of eagerness in his voice. "Be of good cheer, cousin esquire. Five regiments of sipahis have been surrounded and are doomed in yonder melee. The janissaries are reforming. Presently will we, God willing, bear our hand to the fray."

  "I am well content here," rejoined Bembo sincerely. "San Marco-"

  Almost at his ear a hideous clamor of kettledrums and cymbals broke out. The jester clapped his hands to his head, only to see the standard of Mirza Rustem raised and the masses of Tatar horsemen move forward at a walk.

  Michael touched spurs to his pony and Bembo sighed deeply. He looked longingly toward the rear where the leopard had fled, only to see lines of broad grim faces advancing and shaggy horses swarming together like bees.

  The sound of the Tatar nacars throbbed over the plain of Angora, summoning the Mongols to attack.

  Whereupon every warrior of Tamerlane who could hold himself upon his feet ran or galloped forward. Some, who could not stand unaided, grasped the stirrups of the riders and struck out with their free arms.

  And it was upon the checked and disheartened array of the janissaries, ordered to charge a second time, that the Horde advanced. Defeated on both flanks, half his men slaughtered, and half of the rest staggering from wounds or thirst, the Thunderbolt ordered the flower of his veteran host to drive again at Tamerlane's center-only to be met by the picked horsemen of the Mongols, held in reserve until then under Mirza Rustem.

  The janissaries, shouting their war cry, met the oncoming tide, wavered and broke up into scattered squares that melted away into mounds of dying and dead.

  Michael, fighting beside the Chatagais, glimpsed the body of Gutchluk outstretched on the earth beside a mangled horse. The long hair of the Tatar was matted with blood and his black eyes stared up blindly at the passing riders.

  Then through the dust Michael made out the noyon who had been called a prince of Eblis by Bembo. The armor of the noble was cut and hacked away and one hand held together his nearly severed abdomen. He was seated on a heap of sprawling sipahis, and he was smiling. The dead lay thick about him, for the Sheik of Rum had penetrated here into the center of Tamerlane's host.

  The Chatagais were galloping now, enveloping and sweeping over detachments of white-capped janissaries. The remnants of a regiment of Turkomans, kin to the Tatars, threw down their arms and were spared.

  "Bayezid is in flight to Angora with his grandees," cried Mirza Rustem. "We must not return without him."

  The grandson of Tamerlane staggered in his saddle as an arrow embedded itself in his mailed chest. He dropped his shield to break off the end of the shaft. Michael slew the archer who had sent the arrow, and presently found himself riding alone through the dust clouds.

  There he turned aside to follow a horseman who had entered a rocky defile at a headlong pace. The aspect of the man was familiar.

  "Rudolfo!" he cried.

  He had known some hours before that the condottiere had escaped from the guard of Tatar boys, slaying one in his flight to the river. But Michael had not thought until informed by Mirza Rustem that Rudolfo had sought protection and reward from the sultan.

  Rudolf o, in fact, had been kept beside the retinue of Bayezid until there were no longer any to guard him. Then with Gian he had circled the remnants of the Turkish regiments to seek safety in flight.

  He knew that his life was forfeited to the Tatars. It seemed incomprehensible to him that Bayezid should be routed. It was part of the ill fortune that had dogged him since the Gate of Shadows.

  So panic-the panic that had seized him at Nicopolis-claimed him, and he turned into the first ravine that offered shelter.

  Michael's shout caused him to glance back swiftly.

  He saw that the Breton rode alone. In the fear that beset him, Rudolfo felt that his only chance of life lay in slaying Michael. The issue between the two had been long in coming to a head. Now, Rudolfo thought, it was at hand.

  The condottiere checked his horse and flung his javelin deftly. The spear missed the Breton but struck his mount, causing the beast to rear and plunge. Michael jumped to earth and hurled his mace.

  It crashed against Rudolfo's round shield of rhinoceros hide, and the man winced as he dropped the crushed target from an injured arm.

  He reached for his sword, but Michael was on him, had grasped him about the waist and hauled him from his saddle.

  "Now may we settle the issue of our duel," muttered Michael, stepping back and drawing his weapon.

  They had, in fact, strange weapons. Both had been deprived of the swords they had brought from Venice. The curved scimitars felt strange in their hands. Rudolfo hung back, shaking the sweat from his eyes and gazing sidelong at the rocky defile in which they stood.

  "Gian!" he cried. "To me!"

  Michael waited for no more but leaped forward, slashing at the other's head. Rudolfo parried skillfully, calling again for his follower.

  Out of the corner of his eye Michael saw the tall figure of the man-atarms on a panting horse. Gian had been following them.

  At this Michael set his back to a rock, warding off the counterthrust of Rudolfo, who pressed the attack, certain now of the presence of his ally. Gian plucked forth a long knife and held it by the tip, reining his horse nearer for an opportunity to cast his favorite weapon.

  Michael heard rapid hoofbeats approaching down the ravine. He caught the flash of the dagger as it flew toward him, only to rattle harmlessly off the rock at his back.

  Gian grunted and flung up both arms, reeled in the saddle and tumbled to the ground. But Michael had not seen the thing that struck him down.

  "Habet!" a shrill voice chanted. "Goliath is dead! Stand aside, Cousin Michael, and let the other devil have his due."

  By now Michael was aware of Bembo on his mule-ass, waving something about his head.

  "Nay," the Breton growled, "this is my affair."

  The fall of Gian had brought a scowl to Rudolfo's olive face. He pressed Michael desperately, cursing under his breath. The two scimitars clashed and the helmet was struck from the Breton's head. Rudolfo, panting, exerted every effort to follow up his success and reach his enemy's bare skull. Michael was taunting him softly.

  As Rudolfo's blow fell, Michael sprang forward, dropping his sword. The other's scimitar passed over his shoulder and Michael's powerful left hand caught the other's wrist, pinning it to his side.

  At this the Italian grinned maliciously, for, with his enemy's left hand occupied, he fancied that Michael was defenseless. So Rudolfo gripped Michael's throat, bending his head back viciously with his free hand.

  Somewhat he wondered at Michael's passivity, not knowing that the Breton's right hand, useful once more, thanks to long and patient practice, was feeling in his own girdle for the d
agger Rudolfo carried.

  Michael's searching fingers freed the dagger and plunged it into the other's throat, over the mail.

  Sword in hand, Rudolf o swayed on his feet, choked, and wheeled about as if to run. His knees sank under him and he blundered against a rock, falling heavily upon his back. Both his hands gripped the hilt of the dagger, strained at it and were still.

  Bembo, having dismounted, bent over the condottiere and ripped off the bulging pouch that was tied to the dead man's waist. Michael saw for the first time that the jester held a long sling, made of thin strips of leather, a stone ready in the pocket. Catching his glance, the jester laughed.

  "My weapon," he said proudly. "Gian's thick head was cracked like a hen's egg. Gian's thick purse was full of gold trinkets plundered, methinks, from the slain. So I would fain crack open his master's nest-egg-"

  From Rudolfo's pouch a stream of Turkish gold byzants poured forth.

  "Consummatum est," murmured Bembo. "It is finished. Gian's spoil will pay me for saving your life, coz. These belong to you."

  As Michael shook his head, the jester, nothing loath, poured the coins into his goatskin, after emptying out the remaining stones.

  Breathing deeply from his effort, Michael gazed around at the shadows of the ravine and listened in vain for the war cry of the Tatars.

  "You will not hear it, coz," remarked Bembo. "What is left of the grandees is flying toward Angora with worthy Mirza Rustem in hot pursuit. The victory is ours, as I prayed San Marco it should be."

  He tied up the sack and surveyed Rudolfo philosophically.

  "Cousin Michael," he declared thoughtfully, "you are a wise man. In Venice did you assert that a man follows his bent. And here is Rudolfo, a noble seller of himself, a condottiere to the king's taste. He sold himself to Genoa, then Venice, then back to himself again. Last night he traded him to the sultan, and now methinks he has gone to purgatory to sell his soul to the devil."

  Out on the plain of Angora the sun had set over the red mist and the red dust where the bodies of fifty thousand men lay motionless.

  It was night when Michael and his follower sought Mirza Rustem and Tamerlane in the town of Angora. They knew that where the khan was, the sultan would be. Men had told them that Bayezid had been taken before he could leave the field and that a hundred of his grandees had died around him before he could be taken.

  Torches borne by the Tatars and the glare of building tents revealed to Michael a strange sight. Tamerlane sat his horse at the entrance to the pleasure lake of the palace. Mirza Rustem in bloodied armor and the scarred, dust-coated noyons attended him.

  Huddled groups of women and slaves stared in a kind of fascination at what stood before the old Tatar. Pushing past the onlookers to the side of Mirza Rustem, Michael saw the great bulk of Bayezid kneeling in front of Tamerlane's horse.

  The sultan wore his embroidered cap with the blood-colored ruby, and his tunic of cloth-of-gold. His head swayed on his shoulders and his eyes were half closed. His glance went from one to another of the noyons and finally rested on Michael.

  The black eyes of the defeated monarch widened as he recognized the Christian who had been his slave. His lips twisted as he half-made a gesture of appeal, and then drew back before the passionless scrutiny of the Tatars.

  Michael folded his arms and waited, to hear Tamerlane's word that would speak the fate of the man who was called the Thunderbolt.

  "Live-if you can," said the old Conqueror gruffly.

  He signed to a group of his followers who brought out a cage that had held one of Tamerlane's leopards.

  In this cage Bayezid was placed and the door locked. He could no longer look into the eyes of the watchers as he was picked up, with his prison, and carried through the flame-ridden streets of Angora.

  Somewhere in the huddle of captives a woman screamed and the other Moslems took up the wail of lament.

  News of what had come to pass in Asia spread to the world of Christendom. The wave of Ottoman invasion had been broken. In his marble palace standing over the dark waters of the Golden Gate, the Byzantine emperor held revelry to celebrate the delivery of Constantinople.

  The crusaders of Saint John took new heart; the pilgrim galleys that sailed from Venice were filled with new voyagers to the Holy Land. Te Deum was sung in the cathedrals of France. But no mention reached France of the share in the victory of Angora that belonged to an obscure voyager of Brittany. Nor did the mother of Michael Bearn hear the name of her son in the mouths of pilgrims.

  The Maritime Council of Venice planned new inroads into the field of Oriental trade, and wrote off the moneys advanced to Signor Clavijo and his party as a total loss. In fact it was recorded in the annals of the council that Clavijo and all those with him were lost.

  This, however, was not the case. Clavijo lived-outside the knowledge of the council that he dreaded-in Spain and wrote a book of his travels that was filled with most marvelous tales.

  And Tamerlane rewarded Michael Bearn. The Tatar monarch bestowed on him a khanate in northern Persia-Fars, with its palace and riches.

  But Michael did not accept it for himself, giving it, instead, to a friend. He turned his back on the East to seek a galley bound for the Brittany he had not seen for ten years and the castle where his mother waited.

  So it happened that the bailios of Contarini and the Maritime Council of the Signory of Venice reported a curious thing.

  In the heart of Tatary, they said, sometimes called the land of Gog and Magog, not far from the Salt Sea, there was a fine palace in fair groves of date and cypress trees.

  The ruler of this palace of Fars was a weird man, with emerald rings on his toes and cloth-of-gold on his broken body. He called himself sometimes the Grand Cham or Khan and sometimes Bembo the First.

  When he saw the first stars over mountains, Mark pulled in his racing horse and laughed. It was dark and he was safe. "Faith," he said to the roan mare, "we are still alive in our skins." But he spoke between his teeth; he made little sound.

  Even though he now felt himself to be safe from the danger that followed his heels, he kept moving along the path. Mark, late Sieur de Kerak, believed in taking no chances. He reined his horse to the side of the roadway where he could not be seen under the pines. His long body was covered with mesh, darkened so that it did not gleam and oiled so that it did not grate when he moved. Over this he pulled the black mantle that he had picked up when he began his long ride, months before. No ponderous helm of steel showed the outline of his head; he wore only a round steel cap. No long unwieldy sword clanked at his hip. Mark had left the family swords behind him.

  Instead he carried, loosely thrust into his belt, the most deadly and efficient of weapons, a morning star. This morning star had a two-foot shaft of wood, strengthened by iron, with three slender chains hanging from it and, at the ends of the chains, three spiked metal balls. A swinging blow from this morning star-as Mark's arm swung it-could crush in the armor or the head of a man.

  Mark knew weapons as well as he knew war. His hard body had scars in it that ached when he felt the night's cold. Only a sure instinct had kept him alive, and Mark trusted his instinct more than any talisman or prayer.

  Now that instinct told him to keep on going. Behind him, witless people were dying each day by the thousand under the hoofs of that strange horde emerging from the steppes of Asia. It was like a whirlwind, that tide of horsemen.

  Mark listened, as he rode, to the heaving breaths of his horse and the stir of the wind in the forest mesh. He put his hand into the small sack of barley tied carefully to the saddle horn. Beneath the barley, his fingers touched objects like sharp stones; only these were precious stones, carefully selected-pigeonblood rubies, emeralds of Ind, and glorious amethysts, a treasure of them, enough to ransom a king.

  His father, the first lord of Kerak, had voyaged out of England with the heedless Richard the Lionheart, and his father had left his bones in Kerak overlooking the barren ridges beyond the Dead S
ea. Mark, born in that waste borderland, had wrested wealth from it and he meant to return to England with that wealth; to make the acquaintance of the homeland he had never seen. He had grown very tired of his castle above the greenishblue of the Dead Sea, and its sour wine and olive trees.

  "The crusades," he told himself, "are running out, like the sands of an hourglass. Aye, they are done!"

  Suddenly he checked his horse. A gleam of light showed above the trees. So high up, it must come from a tower. A tower, by the same token, meant a good large seigniory, and that meant food. He ached with hunger, and the mare would be the better for an hour's rest.

  Seeking along the edge of the trees he found the break that marked a road going up, and up this he made his way, alert for a challenge. It came when he saw the loom of a wall and the light overhead.

  "SloY! "

  "Slava bohu!" he shouted. "Glory to God!"

  A torch flickered in a doorway, and three bearded men looked him over, jabbering a speech he did not know. The one with the torch took him by the hand and led him into the hall, where logs blazed in a huge fire hearth. Mark took in the place with a glance-the heads of stag and buffalo fastened to the walls, the flax hanging from the rafters, the crude swords and huge embroidered coats of the score of armed men who filled the benches by a long table, the yellow-haired maids carrying wine jugs, the spinning wheels stowed away in the corners. "The hall of a small nobleman," he thought, "who likes hunting. But where is he and what is he?"

  There was a high seat, empty, at the table near the fire. There were gold dishes and a white cloth at that place; behind it, a shield of arms bearing something like a dragon, obscured by smoke.

  It surprised him that these people seemed to be getting ready to dine, rather than flee the place. One of the men bowed to Mark and pointed behind him. Mark did not turn around. He preferred to face these strangers and he chose to keep the sack of barley slung over his arm.

  "Panna Marya!" growled the bearded man.

  "I hear you, brother," said Mark to himself, "but the devil himself couldn't make me turn my back to twenty swords."