We have fought; if we die to-day,
If we die to-morrow, there is little
To choose. No man may speak
When once the Norns have spoken.
LAY OF HAMDIR.
But not all the Frankish host perished by the Vascon missiles. As Roland
and his hundred horsemen charged after Olvir upon the wall which barred
the gorge, the fiery Moslems answered the Northern battle-shouts with
shrill yells, and the foremost among them leaped their coursers over the
barrier, to rush upon the Franks. A hundred or more had crossed the
wall before the slower Frankish horses could meet them; and the
treacherous Vascons above, only too willing that their allies should win
more of wounds than plunder, hastened away to share in the looting of
the baggage-train. Of all the riders who had turned to follow their
count, two only were slain by Vascon arrows. The others, stung to
desperate fury by the shrieks of those behind them in the gorge,
thundered after their leader with brandished blades.
"On, men! on!" cried Roland. "The dogs leap to meet us! On, and strike
them down!"
"_Heu_! _heu_! Christ and king! Down with the pagans!" roared back the
Franks, and they crashed at full gallop into the mass of charging
Saracens. The shock was frightful. Hurled back by the massive strength
of the Frankish horses, the graceful desert coursers were either
overthrown and trampled underfoot with their riders, or crushed back
upon the barrier.
In a twinkling Franks and Saracens were mingled in the death-grapple,--a
furious hand-to-hand struggle, where all the vantage lay with the
heavy-armed Northerners. Only the closeness of the jam kept the Franks
from at once shattering the whole Saracen band. Vengeance lent double
force to their blows.
Side by side on their black Arabs, the foster-brothers thrust in among
the yelling Moslems. Roland, high in his stirrups, was wielding his
ponderous Norse sword in both hands. Where Ironbiter fell, shields and
iron casques were shattered like glass, and their bearers hurled down as
though struck by a sledge. The Frank's blue eyes flamed with white
fire, his face was flushed, and his powerful frame quivered with rage.
As he struck, he ground his teeth savagely.
But Olvir's fury was of another kind. In his black eyes was the bright,
cold glitter of the striking snake's. Unlike the Frank count, he
crouched low in the saddle; and from beneath his little steel shield
Al-hatif darted out incessantly, like the beak of a heron. The Frank's
sword-play was more appalling to the eye, but the Northman's was the
deadlier. So swift and fatal was Al-hatif's thrust that many were slain
before they were aware of the danger.
Close on the sword-brothers came the Frankish horsemen, hewing and
slashing with sword and double-bladed axe. Twice the number of the
Saracens could not have withstood such an attack. The slender-limbed
Arabs and Berbers were fairly crushed by their big foes. Less than a
score in the rear managed to free themselves from the jam and escape the
slaughter by leaping back over the barrier.
The Franks, recking little of their own loss, trampled forward over the
slain, in hot pursuit of the fugitives. The rout drew from them a roar
of triumph, and they rushed forward, only to recoil in rage and despair.
The barrier was far too high for their heavy horses to leap, and its
timbers had been too firmly knit together to be easily torn apart. But
the main body of the Saracens, hindered by their retreating fellows of
the van, had not yet closed upon the farther side of the wall. Olvir
was quick to see the vantage.
"Ho, Franks!" he called. "Your horses cannot leap; afoot and follow me!
Behind pours the Vascon hail; before lies the sword-path. Let us die
like men!"
"Lead on!" roared the horsemen, and they sprang from their saddles to
rush upon the barrier.
Olvir turned to Roland, his look strangely soft.
"Farewell for a little while, brother," he said. "We are fated; the
valkyries call us."
But Roland smiled grimly, and reined back his black stallion for the
leap.
"Saint Michael!" he cried. "Life, not death, is before us! We 'll cut
our way through the midst of the pagans. _Heu_! _heu_! Christ and
king! Follow me, men!"
Already Olvir's courser was leaping the barrier, clean and light as a
gazehound. No less gallantly the stallion sprang forward and leaped in
turn. But the feat was beyond his power. Borne down by the weight of
his rider, he failed to clear the wall. His forelegs struck against the
crest, and he fell headlong on the farther side. Roland, though hurled
violently to the ground, sprang up at once; but the stallion lay where
he fell.
[Illustration: "'Love!' she cried, half hissing the word. 'You speak of
love,--you, the heathen outlander!'" (Page 163)]
Olvir wheeled his horse before the count, to shield him from the flights
of Saracen darts and arrows which came whistling about them.
"Forward, men! forward, and wedge!" he cried; and the Franks, with a
wild shout, came swarming over the wall.
"Wedge, men! wedge!" shouted Roland, as he sprang out in the lead. But
the dismounted horsemen, unused to the movement, were slow in forming.
Before their ranks could lock shields, 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 shield 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 mass 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
shieldwall.
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
massed 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
mass 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, shieldless and utterly spent, reeled back under the
blows of the enemy. Warned by the shrieks of their fellows, the count's
assailants 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 shieldburg 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 horsemen. "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 noble face ghastly with the
death-pallor. Olvir stared down upon the torn and bloody 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 shieldwall.
"_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 bloody 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 horsemen. 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 bloody 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 passed that way, did they turn back to
scan the cliffs. But they saw no warrior clinging to the dizzy ledges.
Urged on by the peril of discovery, Olvir had crept sideways up the
ledge, even as the Saracens galloped away. The rock, as he slipped along
its face, seemed to reel and thrust out against him, so that at each
slow step he thought to hurl down into the chasm. It was well for him
that in his boyhood he had climbed for the nests of sea-fowl on cliffs
yet dizzier. The rock was swaying before his darkened gaze.
Instinctively he drew himself upward. At last he was bending over the
cliff's edge. Then darkness fell upon him, and he sank forward in a
death-like swoon.
But life lay strong in the breast of the sea-king. In a little he
sighed and half turned. His opening eyes gazed sideways along the
cliff's edge. A hundred paces or so distant, over a projection of the
rock, he saw the tops of a pair of turbans. Stung to instant action by
the sight, he drew himself up from the brink of the cliff, and crept
over the rocks toward a little fir wood on the slope above. Within a
spear's length the heads and shoulders of the two Saracens came into
view; but both men were leaning over the brink of the precipice, staring
down at the wild scene in the gorge bottom.
"Odin blind the Asiamen!" he muttered, and he glided like a wounded
weasel over the bare space which lay between him and safety.
At last he gained the first tree. He was safe from the swart watchers.
But then something stirred in the midst of the young firs, a few feet
before him. A groan rose to his lips. He sank down, only to grip his
sword-hilt and rise again, the bared blade ready to strike. His lips
pressed together in a smile of grim despair, and he crept forward again.
Something showed through the fir twigs. He peered under the branches
into a tiny glade. There, within half-a-dozen steps, stood Zora his red
mare, tethered beside two other coursers, and no man was in sight.