For The White Christ Part 37

"Wedge, men! wedge!" shouted Roland, as he sprang out in the lead. But the dismounted hors.e.m.e.n, unused to the movement, were slow in forming.

Before their ranks could lock s.h.i.+elds, the Saracens charged upon them.

Line after line, the Moslem horse came leaping along the gorge in close order, three hundred swift coursers, three hundred turbaned riders shrieking their war-cries.

Before the fierce attack the half-formed line of Franks wavered, and more than one warrior glanced about at the wall. But Roland clashed Ironbiter against his s.h.i.+eld and cried cheerily: "Stand fast, my Rhine wolves,--stand, and strike for Christ and king!"

"Christ aid! Christ and king! _Heu_! _heu_!" came back the deep roar of the Franks.

No longer did any look about at the barrier. All bent forward in their places, and as the flying ma.s.s of Saracens crashed upon their half-formed wedge, they met the enemy with mighty blows of axe and sword and war-hammer. Down went the foremost line of horses, and their riders fell slain with them; down went the second line, the third. Yet relentlessly the Moslems thrust forward, trampling over the bodies of their fallen leaders, to hurl themselves against the Frankish s.h.i.+eldwall.

Soon the Northern warriors began to give ground before the incessant shocks. Arrows and darts whirred into their midst from the Saracen rear, and many fell, pierced in throat or face. Others were crushed by the plunging horses, or thrust with lances through the joints of their rude armor; but most of all met their fate under the keen-edged scimetars.

The first impetus of the Saracen charge was quickly lost; but the dark riders gave the hated Afranj not a moment's time to gain breath. Their ma.s.sed ranks closed up against the Franks, and overbore them with the sheer weight of the horses.

In vain Roland fought with a strength and skill such as no other Frank than Karl himself might have equalled; in vain Olvir, his face white to the lips and rigid with cold fury, spurred his courser forward into the ma.s.s of the Saracens, and struck down warriors to right and left with his lightning stabs.

Had there been room for retreat, the foremost Moslems would have shrunk away from the attack of the sword-brothers; but they had no choice.

Penned between the cliffs, they were forced on by their fellows behind, without hope of escape other than in victory. In their rear rode Kasim Ibn Yusuf and a score of chosen men, threatening with instant death any who should turn. So, yelling with desperate rage, the Moslems continued to fling themselves upon the Afranj, each fiercely striving to cut down at least one unbeliever before he himself fell beneath the trampling hoofs.

At last the blows of the Franks began to lessen in force. Wearied by the furious struggle, and spent by wounds and blood-loss, increasing numbers sank beneath the steadily advancing hoofs. Only with the utmost effort could those who were left close the many gaps in their thinning ranks.

"The end draws near, brother!" cried Roland; and he drew back with his men, undaunted, but so wearied that he could hardly swing Ironbiter.

"Oh, for two score of my sea-wolves, with Floki at their head!" called back Olvir, bitterly. "We should soon rend our path through the midst of these swart hounds. Thor! Yonder rides the poisoner! I 'll cut my way to him, or die!"

But as the Northman sought to spur his horse farther into the dense jam of Saracens, Roland's voice rang out in a despairing cry: "Brother--brother! Farewell!"

Then berserk rage seized upon the Northman. He wrenched his horse about, and turned straight across the fore of the Saracens, his eyes glaring and the froth dripping from his lips. For the moment he was a madman, and had all the madman's strength. Al-hatif no longer thrust out, but glittered in wide strokes that slashed through the firmest mail. The viking's attack was so terrible that the bravest of the Moslems sought to avoid him; and though he fought utterly heedless of guard, fear so weakened their arms that their blows fell without harm on his helmet and mail-serk.

Striking down all in his path, Olvir cut his way without check to the spot where Roland, s.h.i.+eldless and utterly spent, reeled back under the blows of the enemy. Warned by the shrieks of their fellows, the count's a.s.sailants turned to meet the raving Northman. But already Olvir was upon them, and Al-hatif whistled in vengeful strokes.

Then the blood-mist cleared from the Northman's eyes, and he wheeled his horse around beside Roland.

"Close, men! close!" he cried. "One more rally, and we die together!

Ho, brother; I come! stand back!"

But the dying Frank glared past his sword-brother. With a terrible cry he swung up Ironbiter and hurled the blade into the midst of the Saracens. It was the last deed of the hero. As the great sword whirled from his grasp, he reeled and would have fallen, had not Olvir bent to catch him.

Putting out all his strength, the Northman drew the great Frank up before him on the saddle. Then the black courser leaped with his double burden to the barrier, while behind him the bare score of Franks yet standing formed in s.h.i.+eldburg to guard their dying count.

Tenderly Olvir laid his friend on the crest of the wall, and drew the broken helmet from the tawny hair, already clotted with blood. The hero's eyes were fast dimming; but his cold hand closed on Olvir's fingers, and he murmured brokenly: "Ha, brother--Christ and king!--We 've fought--a good fight!"

"We have fought!" cried Olvir. "Now we die. Wait here for me, brother; I will soon join you!"

But Roland clutched at the turning Northman, and his voice rang out clear and strong above the Saracen yells and the clash of weapons: "Stay, Olvir! Not death to you, but life,--life and vengeance! To the king, brother! You alone may scale the cliff!"

"Go--go, lord count!" shouted the hors.e.m.e.n. "We die; but the king shall avenge! Go, tell him of the traitors!"

"While my brother breathes I will not leave him," replied Olvir, and he bent from the saddle to embrace the count. Then sudden grief fell upon him. The blue eyes were glazed, the n.o.ble face ghastly with the death-pallor. Olvir stared down upon the torn and b.l.o.o.d.y corpse, his heart wrung with bitter grief.

But it was no time for mourning. Thicker than ever, the arrows came whistling overhead and upon the barrier, and one struck the black courser through the neck. Roused by the beast's wild bound, Olvir sat up and gazed alertly about him. Already the Saracens were thrusting back the Frankish s.h.i.+eldwall.

"_Ai_, my fleet one!" cried Olvir. "Even you are stricken. But you have yet to save your rider. Bear me over the wall and back through the death-gorge."

Though quivering with pain, the black courser heeded instantly the voice and touch of his master. Lightly as a gazelle he bounded up and over the barrier, and fled along the b.l.o.o.d.y gorge at racing speed.

Though the way was heaped with rocks and logs and the bodies of men and horses, the black courser raced on unchecked until, swinging around a sharp bend, he all but ran upon a Frankish horse coming up the gorge.

"Anselm!" shouted Olvir--"you live? Thor! We shall both go free! Turn back! Yonder's a cranny in the cliff--turn back!"

"No, Olvir; I could not climb!" gasped the count, and he pointed to the splintered shaft of a javelin, fast in his side.

"You 're wounded, friend!"

"Where's Roland?"

"Slain,--slain by the swart dogs! His body lies on the wall crest.

Before it fall the last of the hors.e.m.e.n. I alone have fled."

"And I alone come from the Vascon hail. I alone live; and now-- But you, hero; you 're yet unharmed; hasten up out of the b.l.o.o.d.y pit. To the king--to the king!"

"I have fled once. I stay here till you die."

"No, Holy Mother, no! Fly, hero! You alone may bear the evil word.

The Vascons turn to loot the slain,--I hear yells behind you. Fly!"

"Let them come. Fenir tear me if I leave you, living!"

"Then shall your stay be brief!" cried Anselm.

With one hand he tore loose the clasps of his hauberk; with the other he grasped his dagger. Before Olvir could cry out or grasp his arm, he had struck himself to the heart.

A groan burst from Olvir's lips as he sprang off to catch the body of the count. Gently he drew it from the saddle and stooped to the ground.

But as he bent, the horses snorted in terror. Loosening his hold of the Frank, Olvir rose up just as a boulder, hurtling from the cliff, shattered upon an outjutting ledge and flew about him in a hundred fragments. He heard his courser scream, and felt himself hurled back as though struck by the axe of Otkar Jotuntop.

In a moment he was up again, the blood spurting from a terrible wound just below the collar of his mail-serk. The sharp point of a whirling rock had torn through his threefold mail, snapped the bone beneath, and laid open his chest. But for the thick strand of Rothada's hair, he would never again have risen. Though severed by the sharp-edged stone, the strand had helped to break its blow. As he rose, the loosened plait came slipping down his breast, and, half dazed, he thrust it in through the rent in his mail.

Then his eye fell upon the black courser, standing in dumb anguish.

Other fragments of the fatal rock had struck down Anselm's horse and broken the Arab's foreleg. Forgetful of his own wound, Olvir sprang to the faithful beast and kissed his white-starred forehead.

"Farewell, fleet one! You have served me true. May we meet again in Paradise!" he said, and then, swift and sure, the point of Al-hatif pierced the courser's heart.

A burst of triumphant yells re-echoed down the gorge. The last Frank had fallen. At the warning, Olvir thrust the scarlet blade back in its sheath and ran swiftly across the gorge.

"Now do all lie slain," he muttered; "and I--I go to bear the tidings, if so the Norns will. Here is a cleft,--I can yet climb; but if the feeblest of foes lies in wait on the crest, he may cast me down."

Thrusting the corner of his cloak in upon his wound, Olvir sprang up the cliff foot and began the ascent of its all but perpendicular face.

Though every movement of his injured shoulder cost him terrible agony, he climbed with the utmost haste; for on the one side he could see advancing parties of the plunder-laden Vascons, while on the other, Moslem yells of victory rang near around the turn. So swiftly did he scale the cliff that he had gained a side ledge which sloped up to its crest before the Saracens raced into view.

Overcome by exertion and the anguish of his wound, he paused for a time at the top of the cranny, too faint and giddy to attempt the narrow ledge. But the pursuers, far below in the gorge bottom, never thought to look up for their quarry where all along was sheer precipice. For a little they circled about the bodies of the black courser and the Frank count, like hounds which have over-shot the scent; then they raced on through the gorge. Not until they came upon the advancing Vascons and learned that the fugitive had not pa.s.sed that way, did they turn back to scan the cliffs. But they saw no warrior clinging to the dizzy ledges.