CHAPTER VII
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 sword-play, 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 lined with sables 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 wine shop, 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 bear-skin.
“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 mid-air, 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 arm-pit. 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 ringing 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 ax-man, 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 al ways in their memory, a duel whose story would be told again in after years through out the Khaukesh.
SHOTHA KUPRI, making his way through the almost deserted street of the silversmiths, was hailed by a thin figure in a flying cloak and long cloth shoes that hastened through the trampled mud.
“Messer Antonio,” he growled, “what is this?”
“Madness!” cried the Genoese. “St. 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—”
“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 Tphilis.”
“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 Lord Frank,” he said, “at Nakha you gave life to me when the Mongol arrows were drawn against me. I have not forgotten. Ask what you will of Shotha Kupri.”
“My horse,” whispered Hugh. “My sword bound to the saddle—”
“But not that. Three days of riding in this case and you will find yourself greeting 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!”
Then Hugh was certain that he was being tortured, and the memory of his old wounds—of simitar cuts and bones splintered by maces and the searing stab of javelin points in his limbs—burned him like flame.
He was glad when the torturers ceased their labors and he could sleep. But the abyss was chilled by an icy wind, and 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 ir. 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.
“Avaunt ye, fiends!” he shouted. “Brewers of perdition—unhorned devils!”
He grew more angry because his shout dwindled to a whisper, and the torch began to vanish. He heard a woman's clear laugh and raged inwardly because Rusudan mocked him.
The pit of darkness now became intolerably hot. He cursed his servitors who would not bring him wine or water. 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, and after a while he knew that he had left the pit behind, and he grew very cunning. He kept silence so that no one would discover that he had escaped from the place of torture. A blinding sun troubled him, because he could not open his eyes and his head pained him.
Still, he was satisfied. He had escaped to the desert by Antioch, and a battle raged around him, while men panted in the heat and he cried commands to his followers to order their line and refrain from casting off their helms.
So Hugh fought again the battle of Antioch where his comrades had perished and the Greek emperor had betrayed him.
Only it seemed to him that he was dead, because his voice made no sound and somewhere Rusudan was singing softly. He knew not the words of the song, but the melody was restful as the chiming of little golden bells or the ripple of water over stones.
Hugh no longer felt the heat and clamor of the battle. A longing came upon him to seek Rusudan. 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 of Tphilis, 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 in the pit, 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. Some one 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.