ESSER 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.