CHAPTER 1 – OLIVER AND FIERABRAS
alan, the Admiral of Spain, had a son named Fierabras who was the most marvelous giant in all the world. He was perfectly formed in every way, with skin as dark as the sea at night, eyes that glittered like stars; and features so even and well shaped that angels might have sighed with delight.
His huge stallion was the choice of two continents: twice the size of a normal charger, blacker than darkest night, and trained in such a manner that he was deadlier to a man on foot than even his master.
Both knight and charger wore black armor the same shade as the giant’s skin. This was made from thousands of adamantine scales, each gilded at the edge and inscribed with a prayer to his god Mahon that made them harder than the finest steel. The saddle and harness were likewise black, as was all his other gear save the helm, which glittered with precious gems, and the silver hilts of his three swords, which shone like miniature suns.
One sword, called Plourance, hung at his side while the other two he kept by his saddle. All three swords came from the hand of Agnisiax the Smith, whose two brothers made Durandal, which Roland wore, Joyeuse, the King’s sword, Cortana, which was Ogier’s, and Oliver’s famous Hautclere. The giant’s shield was also marvelously strong. It was made of steel, banded with iron, and weighed more than 30 pounds, though he bore it as lightly as a feather. A painting of his god Apollo adorned its face. Withal, he seemed more like a figure from a story than a real man.
It was this figure of daunting perfection – with arms the size of most mens’ thighs and thighs the size of chests – that rode alone toward the army of Charles the Great.
“Where is the ‘Emperor of Rome?’” he cried. “Where is this ‘Charles’? Let him come forth and face me, or return to Paris and crawl on the floor with the beasts and brats of his Court! Or let him send a champion: Roland, Oliver or Ogier the Dane. Or six champions! I will slay them all, or take them back to my father as captives. Tell him that the Admiral of Spain greets him with defiance.”
He glared at the French a moment longer, then turned his back and rode off to one of the solitary trees that dotted the plain. Once in the shade, he stripped off his armor and to all appearances relaxed to a casual nap.
King Charles motioned to a herald. “Who is this knight that makes so bold a challenge?”
“Sire, that is Fierabras, son of the Admiral of Spain and a mighty ruler in his own right. He has slain ten different kings in single combat and taken from each their lands and possessions. By this means he now rules Russia, Alexandria, Arabia and all the lands to the East. He also holds Jerusalem, the land of the Holy Sepulcher, and it was he who led the sack of Rome, slew the Pope, and spat down his headless neck.
“Truly, he is one of the most mightiest knights alive.”
The King nodded slowly, then turned to the man at his right. “Dear nephew, prithee go slay me this heathen.”
Roland struck a theatrical pose with his hand to his chest. “Surely you can’t mean me, Sire. Don’t you recall your words of last night?
“The heathen had ambushed us with 50,000 men in the afternoon, and we younger knights bore the brunt until you could arrive with the rest of the army. They wounded Oliver nigh unto death – even now he lies sick abed – but you decided to celebrate nevertheless.
Then, later on, you declared from your cups – loud and for all to hear – that your older knights would have borne themselves better than we ‘youngsters’ had done.
“Very well! This seems the perfect chance to prove your point. Let one of your older knights go to face the giant – for here is one youngster who won’t.”
The King waxed wroth at this defiance, and slapped the knight across the face. The blood flew from Roland’s nose, and his famous sword, Durandal, leapt instantly to his hand. The point held steady between him and the King. Men rushed to keep them apart.
“Sire!” said Ganelon. “Drawing steel on your King merits death!”
“Death indeed!” said Charles, “to draw on not only King, but Uncle as well. Seize him!”
“Nay, touch me not!” cried Roland. “He that tries, I will cleave in twain.”
Everyone froze in place.
The moment stretched out until Ogier the Dane finally stepped forth, his hands empty and open. “Roland. This is ill done. To bare steel against your lord and uncle?”
There was a pause, then Roland answered, “Aye, you’re right. I was sore provoked – but I do repent me of the deed.”
He sheathed his sword and marched to his tent. No one moved until the flap had shut.
“This is an evil day,” said the King. “First my champion threatens me, and still no one can be found to face this Saracen.”
“Rest easy, Sire,” said the wise Duke Naymon. “Another will surely appear.”
But the King would not be comforted, and no one else stepped forth.
Oliver stirred in his sickbed at the various cries outside. “What causes so great a commotion?” The answer left him horrified. “And no one has taken up the gauntlet? That will be fixed soon enough. Fetch my armor and sword.” He rose from the bed and began to stretch.
“But you mustn’t,” said his oldest squire. “Look! Your wounds have opened even from this.”
“So? Bind them up and then go get my armor.”
He spoke so masterfully that the boys could not resist. One squire brought lengths of clean linen while the others scurried off for arms and horse. The oozing stopped just as the armor arrived.
When the weight of the heavy mail sent a wave of tremors over the knight, the boys protested again. “My lord, you must not do this!”
Oliver glared about impartially and turned to mount his horse alone. The effort surpassed his strength. “Help me here,” he said.
Again they had no choice, and after a few sharp winces and a quickly stifled groan, they managed to raise him up to the saddle. He settled in with a satisfied sigh, like a man coming home, and prodded his mount toward the still-raging King.
“Sire,” he interrupted, “I beg a boon.”
Charles spun about with wonder and joy. “Oliver! Most beloved of Earls, they said you’d be sick abed for at least a week. Name the boon and it’s yours. There’s not a castle or county in all my realm I wouldn’t give you freely.”
“Sire . . . that’s not exactly the sort of boon I meant. I wish to face this Saracen.”
“Oliver, no! You are too ill. We all know how close you came to dying yesterday; how many savage wounds you received. And now you’d ride to an even greater danger? If you love me you will not ask this.”
Oliver merely sat; poised, waiting and quietly insistent.
Ganelon stepped forward. “Sire,” he said, “it is not the custom of France to deny a boon once promised. If this is what Count Oliver wants, it must be allowed. All we can do is pray for his triumph.”
“This is evil counsel!” said the King. “What is come of the world when the law ordains that which lacks of honor? I swear by my troth that if this good knight should die or be taken, you and your line shall bear the sin.”
“I will trust in God to keep me,” said Ganelon. ‘And pray that Oliver never returns,’ he added to himself.
Fuming and full of regret, the King finally bowed his head. He hesitated a moment longer, then tossed his glove to Oliver. “May God and his angels keep you safe.”
No sooner had the words been said than Duke Reyner, Oliver’s father, arrived. “Sir King, have mercy! Take pity on my son and forbid this adventure!”
“It isn’t mine to forbid, Reyner, though I have tried. The boon was asked and granted. There’s nothing else to be said.”
“Please, Sire,” said the Duke, dropping to his knees. “His are the words of presumptuous youth, driven by a desire to ever be over-courteous. Youth gives slight regard to perils and pains. It rests on we who are older and wiser to restrain it from hazarding its own destruction. Oliver took sore wounds but yesterday. Just look at him! Even now he pales from the loss of blood. You know how such a thing saps the stamina. You can’t let him go. Not in this condition.”
“Reyner, I may not gainsay that which I’ve granted. Oliver bears my glove, and seems well content with it. Direct your pleas to his ears, not mine.”
The Duke covered his face and wept.
“Sir King,” said Oliver from the saddle, “and all you barons. I beseech of you a gift. If I have in word or deed committed any sin against you, forgive me now and let me go with your pardon.” He turned his horse in the echoing silence and trotted off to the west. Many were the tears that followed.
The King called for Bishop Turpin and knelt to pray. His hands pressed together so hard that the knuckles showed white, and his eyes never left the Paladin’s dwindling form.
* * *
Oliver found the giant Fierabras a long mile from the assembled French, lying on his back beneath a tree. His hands were laced behind his head and he wore no armor, just a loose shirt that lay flat in the windless day. He smiled at the sight of an opponent and boomed out in a low, rumbling voice, “I wanted to fight a man, not some breast-high boy. Go back and send a real knight.”
This he could say without jest, for Oliver would have barely reached that high had the giant been standing.
“You asked for a combat. I have come to provide one. If you find it too large to handle, I suppose I could find you a child with a wooden horse and a stick. Would that be more to your liking?”
He continued, “Who are you that comes here with such arrogance?”
The giant chuckled. “You answer well! I am Fierabras of Alexandria, richest man in all the world and son of the Admiral of Spain. ‘Twas I who sacked the city of Rome, who slew your Pope, and bore away the treasures for which you take such pains. Jerusalem is also mine, and all the lands where your God was slain and buried long ago.
“Who are you that speaks so proudly?” he asked in turn.
“If but half of what you say is true, Pagan, you are an unhappy soul indeed. Take up your arms and defend yourself.”
“First I would have your name and lineage; only then will you see me armed.”
“You will have my name before the sun is set, that is sure. For now, be content to know that Charles, my King, has sent me to bear you these words: Give up Mahon and your other heathen idols, bow to the One True God, and be baptized. If you do, he will welcome you as a friend with open arms. If you fail, you must do battle with me. One or the other, the choice is yours, but you must give your answer now.”
Fierabras gazed up at his foe with wonder. “Whoever you are, I marvel at your presumption – you may pay a dear price for it, by and by. Mighty kings have trembled to see me armed, and here you invite it! But first I would know more. This Charlemagne of yours, so renowned in many countries – what manner of man is he? Tell me too of Roland, Oliver, Ogier the Dane and all those other famous knights.”
“You prattle on for no reason! But since you demand it, I will tell you that the Emperor Charles is of such great majesty that no man in all the world may compare to him in wealth, wisdom, or might. His nephew Roland is without peer; Oliver a little less than he; and as for the other Frenchmen, they are without doubt the most valiant people that ever was. But these words have no place here! Get up and arm yourself, or by God I will strike you where you lay.”
A shadow crossed Fierabras’ face. “I would strike you for such words but for the dishonor it would bring me.”
“Strike ahead; I ask no more. Just get thee up and armed!”
“Do not worry,” the giant said, “I can tell you’re out of sorts and will not hold such words against you. “Prithee, tell me now your name and line.”
Oliver grit his jaw and answered tightly, “Very well. You may call me Garin. I was born to a humble man of Atri and have only that rank granted by the King, whom I serve for glory, love and hope of advancement. For which reason I insist that you take up your weapons, and rise to give me battle!”
Fierabras was outraged. “Where are Roland and Oliver? Where are Ogier, Thierry and all the other famous knights of the King? Why haven’t they come to face me?”
“They did not deem you worthy. I am here instead and it is I you must fight – If you are hardy enough to meet me. But I swear by Saint Peter,” Oliver finished, breathing heavily, “that if you do not arm yourself soon, I will run you through where you sit!”
Fierabras shook his head with regret. “Garin, I can not. Since being dubbed a knight I have never jousted with any man less than a King, an Earl, or a Baron of great valor. You come from a house too low for me to meet you in arms. It would be no honor to slay you. Besides, you seem a nice enough fellow.
“Let us do this instead. I shall let you strike me and will fall to the earth. When that happens, you can take my horse and shield to King Charles, and tell him that you vanquished me. You will thus gain your fame and riches, and I will be spared the need to kill you.”
Oliver was furious. “I have another idea. Why don’t I sever your head where you sit and then take your horse and shield to the King?”
“I want nothing of you, Garin,” said Fierabras, “but that you return and send to me Roland, Thierry, or one of the other knights of the King’s high table. If none of them be hardy enough to come alone, send two or three at once; I care not and shall not refuse them.” So saying, Fierabras lay back down against the tree and closed his eyes.
Oliver bit back a scream of frustration. Instead, he twisted in the saddle and struck his fist against the tree. Green leaves fell like rain from the shock. “Do you want to be slain thus?”
The exertion opened some of the knight’s wounds, which began to ooze through his mail. Fierabras pointed to the blood dripping down Oliver’s knee. “What’s this? Your leg is hurt!”
“No it isn’t,” Oliver answered, kneeing his horse to move backward. “That’s just chicken blood from my lunch.”
“This is absurd. You’re no match for me hale and sound – to slay you when you’re wounded would only double the disgrace. Look you: hanging on the saddle of my horse are two flasks of potion from the Holy Land, the same with which your God was embalmed when he was taken down from the cross and laid in his grave. Go and drink one of the flasks. A single swallow will heal your wounds, both seen and hidden. Then you may defend yourself without danger.”
“I’ll do no such thing! I came here as foe, not guest.”
“You are a fool without reason!” said Fierabras. “One day you’ll come to regret it.” Then he lay down and closed his eyes again. The sound of Oliver’s grinding teeth filled the air.
* * *
Some minutes passed before the giant spoke once more. “Tell me the truth, Garin. What manner of men are Roland, Oliver and the rest who have earned such fame and fear among the pagan folk?”
Oliver, having collected himself, answered in an even voice. “Roland, he is a little smaller than I, but only in stature. His courage is so great, his hand so heavy, and his heart so strong that he has no equal. No man alive can he face and fail to vanquish. As for Oliver, I judge that he is much like me in form and no better in greatness. The others vary as men will do, but all are valiant in their turn.”
Fierabras’ eyes shined eagerly. “By the faith I owe to Apollo and Termagent, I would not fear to face four such as you describe, nor would I leave the field until I’d slain them with my own sword.”
At these words Oliver’s patience finally snapped. He drew his sword and made ready to strike the giant where he lay.
“Will you have no pity on yourself?” asked Fierabras. “If I rise as you ask and take my horse, not Charles or all your gods would save you from instant death. Were you but to see me standing, you’d be a brave man indeed not to tremble with fear.”
“You have boasted too long of that which you never saw,” Oliver said tightly. “It would suit you better to measure your speech. Too many lies may bring a man to mischief.”
The giant’s dark face twisted with anger and he rose to his feet in a single bound. He could look down at Oliver even though the knight was still mounted.
“In truth, I pity you, Garin, for the noblesse of courage I see you bear. I give you this final chance to leave: go and send me Roland, or Oliver, or Ogier, or Gerard of Montdidier. I charge you expressly to say that I will abide here until they are ready to face me, and will not leave until I have conquered them, one and all.”
Oliver’s face whitened, then flushed, then whitened again. His fingers gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly that the metal seemed to groan beneath them. Had he not been the most honorable of knights, the giant would have perished there and then with a dozen wounds. But honorable he was, so he made no move to strike.
When Fierabras saw that he could not avoid the fight, he sighed. “Very well, be it on your own head. At least be so courteous as to come down and help me arm.”
“Can I trust you?” Oliver asked.
“You may. I swear and assure you that I have never been traitor to any man, nor ever will.”
Upon that promise, Oliver sheathed his sword, stepped lightly down to the ground, and held up the Saracen’s heavy coat of Cappadocian leather. After that came the coat of black steel plates and finally the giant helm, which was richly ornamented with precious stones that flickered in the sunlight like stars.
Fierabras thanked him, and the two knights moved to their horses. In an eerie echo of the other’s movements, each man took up a heavy lance of ash and steel, tossed it briefly for balance, then settled into the saddle. They seemed like two dancers hearing the same melody, or birds of the same flock that share an invisible tie. Fierabras hung the two vessels of holy balm on a rope about his neck.
“Garin, you are a right courteous knight, and gracious too. For the sake of the gentleness you have shown me, I offer one more chance to return without fighting. I am not without pity for such valiant courage.”
“Always you speak the greatest of follies,” Oliver answered. “I shall never depart a field merely for fear of death or dismemberment. Nor is it I that should be afraid, for by the help of God it will be you that yields or dies ere the day is done.”
Fierabras marveled again at the smaller man’s mettle. “Then one final thing, good sir.”
Oliver bit back a curse. “Speak it.”
“By the cross on which your God was slain, the font where you were baptized, and your loyalty to Charles, Roland and the other Peers of France – I require that you give me your true name.”
“You could adjure by no stronger things,” Oliver admitted. “Very well. Know that I am Oliver, son of Duke Reyner, Paladin of the King, and close comrade of Roland the Strong.”
“I knew that you could be no knight of little fame! Sir Oliver, it does me no honor to joust with a man half-dead already. Even now, I can see the blood dripping down your knee. Drink of this holy balm, or else retire to fight me when you are whole and sound. I will gladly wait on your convenience.”
Oliver answered with a lowered lance. With a sigh, Fierabras did likewise. They charged as one while the King hid his face in fear.
* * *
The knights struck each other’s shield with such great force that their steel spearheads bent and bowed, the wooden shafts shattered, and fire sprang out on all sides. Sundered bits flew in all directions.
Oliver’s horse dropped dead from the shock, while Fierabras’ giant stallion staggered sideways and spilled his rider in a boneless heap. Both men wandered on foot, stunned and barely aware, until they chanced to come face to face. At the sight of a foe, they reached for their swords as one. Fierabras drew Plourance, Oliver the shining Hautclere, and they attacked.
The fight that followed was so fierce that the watching French cringed from the thunderous shocks even though they came from more than a mile away. Oliver landed the first telling blow, a stroke that sent jewels flying from Fierabras’ helm like water shaken from a dog and then, still unspent, drove through the giant’s shoulder plates and into the thick band of leather beneath. Fierabras’ knees buckled and he staggered back, balancing with one hand on the ground. The French sighed to each other, “What a marvelous blow!”
Roland swore. “Would that it were me out there beneath Oliver’s shield! I’d end this fight soon enough.”
“Hah!” scoffed the King, “there speaks a felon coward. You make the offer now, but wasn’t it you who refused this bout just a short time past? You won’t forget that disgrace any time soon; not if I have anything to say about it.”
“His Majesty shall do as He pleases,” Roland answered coldly.
“Peace, both of you!” said Duke Naymon. “Let our prayers go forth in aid of Oliver, not against each other. The battle hasn’t ended yet.”
Naymon’s words were prophetic. A second later Fierabras sidestepped a thrust, raising his sword as he moved and dropping it when he stopped. The blow split the corner from Oliver’s iron shield, creased his helmet and still had enough force to spray links of mail in all directions.
The shock sent blood streaming from Oliver’s many wounds, quickly soaking through the bandages. His leg, in particular, sagged beneath him so badly that he sat abruptly, shaking his head to clear his vision.
“God preserve me,” he whispered, “what an evil stroke!”
Fierabras paused. “Now, at last, you know enough to fear. You are as brave a knight as I’ve ever met, Sir Oliver, but no one could fight with wounds like that. Go back; I would yet be content if you restored yourself before facing my full strength. You haven’t felt it yet, I must warn you – when my blood leaves my body it doubles my powers beyond all you have seen. But why continue at all? Charles cannot love you very much if he sends you forth in this condition. Why should you die in such a cause?”
Oliver’s breath rasped as he answered. “All this time, Pagan, you have boasted how you would bring on the end of my days. I defy you now as I’ve done before. Slay me first, then vaunt of it.”
He leaned on his sword and rose.
The knights rushed together again, smiting so furiously that buckles, rivets, plates, favors and precious stones were all hewn, broken and hurled to the ground. The two men disappeared in a fountain of metal bits, with sparks and fires that filled the air. The clamor made a deafening sound like a thousand smiths at the forge.
Across the field, King Charles looked away with tears in his eyes. “Oh Lord for whom we take such pains, preserve this good knight of mine and save him from death at the hand of this Pagan. If not, I swear by the soul of my father to leave not a church or altar or priest standing in all of France.”
Naymon reproved him again, but the King made no reply.
* * *
The two champions continued their battle with unequaled fierceness. Oliver pressed forward, raining down a flurry of blows that boomed on Fierabras’ shield like a giant drum. The Pagan reeled back for a moment, then straightened and began to match the Paladin stroke for stroke. A sigh went through the assembled French as wonder stole even their fear away.
The fight balanced on a thread until Fierabras finally took the upper hand with one huge stroke that sheared the visor from Oliver’s helmet, and then another that drove him face down to the earth. Oliver stood quickly, blood streaming down his ashen face, then dropped again as his injured leg gave way beneath him.
Fierabras stepped back from his fallen foe. “Sir Oliver, understand me. I have no wish to face you thus, with so great an advantage. Drink this flask of holy balm. It will make you whole and able to defend yourself properly.”
“I’d rather die,” Oliver gasped back. “I’ll have nothing from you save that which I take in true combat.”
He staggered to his feet and shakingly raised his guard.
“You are obstinate beyond all reason!” Fierabras cried.
The giant reached back and threw an angry blow that would have hurled the Paladin twenty feet if some miracle had prevented it from cutting through shield and body alike. Oliver saw it coming, however, and ducked beneath the deadly arc.
The force of the missed stroke pulled Fierabras off balance, creating the briefest of gaps in his guard. It was just enough. Hautclere thrust deep into the Saracen’s thigh, then sharply drew back. Blood burst forth and stained the grass red for five feet in every direction.
Fierabras’ eyes widened with shock and pain. He stumbled back against the tree, sagged a moment, then sat. He tugged urgently at the rope about his neck and raised a vessel to his lips.
Before the Frenchman’s startled eyes, the wound closed and was instantly healed. Oliver staggered at the sight, reeling as if from some mighty blow. His face, pale and wan already, turned even grayer. But then his teeth grit stubbornly and he moved in once again.
* * *
Fierabras met him stroke for stroke, but the Paladin’s will had set. From some hidden source he seemed to recover a bit of his normal strength, and suddenly became a difficult target to hit. Whenever Fierabras set himself, Oliver shifted forward or back, striking and leaving from angles where Fierabras couldn’t respond. When the giant spun to meet him, he darted across to another spot where he could strike but not be struck.
After a few minutes, though, his exhaustion showed in the sort of foolish mistake one might expect from a squire. His shoulder rolled forward with a thrust, overextending so that Hautclere snagged and caught on a bit of Fierabras’ torn armor.
The Saracen reacted automatically. As every knight was taught, he clamped his shield arm close, pinned the sword to his armored chest, and prepared a blow to finish the affair.
Oliver, who had planned the entire exchange, then committed an even more grievous martial sin. He dropped to his knees, yanked straight down to free the blade, and then leapt up with a hopeless thrust that that skidded across the giant’s mail and stabbed the air by his shoulder. All Fierabras had to do was turn his head aside, and now Oliver was not only pinned but helplessly off balance as well.
Again the giant did exactly as they’d all been trained. He threw his opponent sprawling to the ground.
At this point Fierabras would have normally stepped forward and either staked the Paladin to the earth or called for his surrender at sword point. Neither result occurred.
That foolish, hopeless thrust at the sky had not been meant as a blow. Instead, Oliver had used it to position Hautclere inside the rope around Fierabras’ neck. When the giant hurled him down, the blade’s keen edge severed the cord as cleanly as normal steel might cut through a piece of string. The last vessel of balm dropped and shattered at Fierabras’ feet.
The giant gaped, stricken, at the broken flask. “You evil man! That potion was worth more than your weight in gold, and I’d have shared it with you gladly. Now you’ll pay for it with your head!”
He hurtled forward, but Oliver, once again on his feet, met the charge squarely. He launched a flurry of cuts so fast that Hautclere vanished into a shining, silver blur. Stunned, the Saracen champion gave ground, first one step, then another, desperately trying to parry the attack.
It was Oliver’s wounds that finally had the triumph. By now his blood was flowing so freely that little drops sprayed off with every blow he threw. His hand grew slick with it, then numb from the constant impact. When his sword finally caught on the edge of Fierabras’ iron shield, he lacked the strength to hold on. Hautclere spun off across the field, leaving the Paladin weaponless.
More than ten thousand of the assembled French leapt for their arms, but the King forbade them to go any further. “It is for God and Oliver to arrange his maintenance. Let no man come between them.”
Their worried eyes fixed again on the terrible scene.
* * *
Fierabras stood before his helpless foe, his chest heaving and a stern, triumphant look on his face. “Now you must surrender. Without a sword you’ve no more strength than a woman.”
“Take me first, then make your boasts.”
“I tell you true, Sir Oliver, wounded as you are I have never met your peer. Your death would ill-please me. Let me do this instead. Abandon your God – you must see now that He won’t sustain you – and swear to Mahon instead. Do this and I will see you a King in your own right and married to my sister Floripas, than whom there is no fairer maid in all the world.”
“While I live, I will never yield.”
Little remained of Oliver’s shield but bent and battered pieces that curled around his arm. What there was, he moved in the path of the giant’s cut. The force of the blow threw him ten feet through the air.
Fierabras followed, swinging again. This stroke passed the knight’s defense and cut through the circle of his helm. It fell to the ground in two pieces, leaving Oliver bareheaded and bleeding from a gash on the brow.
“This is absurd,” Fierabras cried. “What honor do you gain from dying like this? Your God and your King have abandoned you. Join with me and you’ll live with the honor and wealth you deserve!”
“The day is not yet done, nor am I abandoned. Your words are naught but a folly.”
“Very well,” said Fierabras. “Let this be the test of our faiths. He that wins will prove his God the strongest, once and for all.”
He raised his sword and stalked forward again. The next blow cut down. Oliver rolled away and Plourance carved a foot-deep trench in the ground. A sweeping, side-to-side blow followed, which forced the knight to retreat, then another, quicker blow as Fierabras reversed his wrist and cut across the same line with a sudden lunge to close the distance.
Unable to back away, Oliver dove to the earth, tumbling desperately between the giant’s feet. He leapt up as fast as he could, and found himself eye to eye with the Saracen’s huge, black stallion. He blanched, but the horse merely stood – with a look of curiosity on his face and his master’s other blades hanging by the saddle. Oliver grasped the larger of the two with both hands and spun to face his attacker.
“Now, Oh King of Alexandria, we shall see the end of this!”
Like a hungry lion, Oliver leapt on his gigantic foe and smote with all his strength. Fierabras’ heavy shield cracked in two at the impact and the bottom half went skittering across the grass. The next blow sent the giant’s helm flying and left a deep cut that poured stinging blood into his eye.
These strokes made Fierabras sore afraid – all the more, as he knew well the sword’s history and lineage – but the King of Alexandria was a valiant knight. The shadow had barely crossed his eye before a look of hard determination took its place.
Oliver was astonished. ‘This is a fierce and noble man,’ he thought, ‘even if he is a Pagan. If only Charles had him in hand and could bring him to be baptized. Roland and I could be true friends to a knight such as this!’
