by Peter Telep
To Christopher’s left, a team of a dozen Saxon horsemen galloped after a pair of riders who fled the encampment. To his right, the rest of the army scrambled for their arms, cried out to each other, and lit torches to find their way in the moonless night. The cacophony grew louder as he neared his lord.
Who is this fighter? He must be a Celt, but who?
Garrett parried the Celt’s sword with a mace, but the Celt used his escutcheon to push Garrett back and unbalance him. Garrett was shieldless, and Christopher felt his heart drop as he saw how vulnerable his lord was. Garrett needed a shield-and a sword, and the first ones Christopher could find he would get into his master’s hands.
The old man Elgar came to Garrett’s aid, two handing a broadsword that he brought down on the Celt’s shoulder. The Celt spun around, his blue gem flashing, and in that movement he cut the -air horizontally and beheaded Elgar. The old man’s head rolled past his legs, and blood jetted from his neck, speckling Garrett and the attacking Celt. The head less body shook involuntarily, then collapsed.
Christopher kept his gaze off the dead form of Elgar and focused on the sword. He tried to cancel out the grief he felt for the altruistic old Saxon, but experienced it along with the nausea marching up from the back of his throat.
A pair of Saxons stared in·horror at the headless corpse as Christopher came upon it. He pried the broadsword from Elgar’s fingers and held up the weapon. He felt sick. But then he noticed it.
Something had worked in the universe that he had no control over, and if fate was its name, then it was alive and well and had harnessed the power of serendipity for Christopher.
The broadsword in his hand was the very one Baines had given him so long ago.
I thought I had lost this. Elgar, why didn’t you tell me you had found it? Why did you keep it from me? But did he even know it was mine?
Christopher ran behind the duel, and shouted to his lord. “Sword!”
Garrett found a moment to tum and Christopher tossed the blade into his lord’s hands. Garrett struck back hard with the broadsword, driving the Celt a few steps back, his power seemingly renewed with the blade. But Garrett still lacked an escutcheon. Christopher tore one from the hands of a startled infantryman who watched the fight.
He ducked under one of the sword swipes deliv ered by the Celt, fed Garrett the shield, then shot out of the melee unscathed.
As he stood panting, watching, it dawned on him how dangerous the maneuver had been: he had weaved himself into the fight, become a part of it for a second, then slipped out of its spokes before being snapped in half. But at the time, it was all reaction. It felt right. He hadn’t thought about what he had done, he had just acted.
Did you see that, Orvin?
He lifted his attention to the sky. Was it only the clouds and blue wash that told the future, or could stars speak of the morrow as well?
Garrett fell onto his back with a scream, and Christopher twisted his neck sharply at the sound.
“Mallory,” Garrett said, “you’re still a madman.”
Mallory answered the words with a combination of slashes that were followed by: “That is amusing, coming from you. I actually thought us very much alike. Daring. Vengeful. Though you lack the skills of a true leader. You have more men than you can handle.”
Garrett crawled a yard back, gave himself enough distance to get back on his feet. “And you have too few.” Garrett saw an opening, feinted left, then slammed his blade against Mallory’s plated ribs. Mallory flinched, then groaned.
He has a sore spot, lord. Go for that.
Christopher’s thoughts did not have to be read by Garrett. His lord complied out of his own experience, concentrating his blows on Mallory’s right side, but the Celt was able to deflect each and every one of the strikes.
By now, the pair of Saxons watching had become a throng rooting for Garrett. No one would interfere; the men around Christopher found it much more interesting to let the fight progress to its natural conclusion-their leader’s victory.
Mallory flung his shield away and two-handed his spatha. He hammered the blade onto Garrett’s sword, and finally Garrett’s grip faltered.
Christopher watched his sword fall from his lord’s hands.
Mallory thrust his blade forward. Garrett blocked the advance with his shield. Mallory made another attempt, this time jerking his blade around and over Garrett’s escutcheon; then he whipped it under, forcing Garrett’s shield arm to go away from his side and leave his chest open.
Christopher had logged four types of death in his mind.
There was the sight of death, after the fact, as in his parents or the knight Airell.
There was the causing of a death, as with the Saxon he axed when he was thirteen.
There was the presumption of death, as with Doyle and Bryan.
And then there was the act of death, the killing before his eyes, as with Baines or Hasdale or Sloan or Conway or Varney or Malcolm or Kier. For Christopher, it was the worst kind.
Mallory’s blade went flatwise into Garrett’s chest, cut past the hauberk and gambeson, parted its way into his skin, and nestled itself in his lung. Garrett coughed, then coughed again; blood mixed with saliva spewed from his mouth and splattered on his chin and neck. Mallory tightened his grip on his blade as Garrett fell back, effectively removing the sword from Garrett’s body. Garrett lay on his back, clinging to a final shard of life.
Christopher ran to his master’s side, his eyes hurt ing from the tears he fought back. All he could do was look at Garrett as the man died. No last words. Just a groan. A hush fell over the Saxons. The smell of human feces found its way to Christopher’s nose.
As memories do, one struck Christopher out of nowhere, ignited by something he couldn’t put his fingers on. Something Orvin had said about balanc ing heart and mind. He had tried to work it out with Brenna, but it applied here. His heart lay now with Garrett, but his mind was Celt. And though he hated Mallory for slaying his lord, the reason for it was per fectly clear. Garrett was considereda Saxon. Christopher’s loyalty to the Saxons died with Garrett. Reality blurred into a sequence of quick movements.
Mallory charged toward a gap between the tents. Christopher picked up his sword and followed. They emerged behind the tents, where Mallory’s courser was tied and waiting. Mallory straddled his horse.
Christopher ran beside the steed. “Please, lord,” he said, “take me with you. I am a Celt who has been held against my will by these Saxons.”
“Your tongue tells me that. Hop on, boy.”
Christopher climbed behind Mallory, and the Celt heeled his horse into a gallop.
The Celt’s ponytail blew into Christopher’s eyes, but it was a minor discomfort in comparison to his mental anguish. He could not help himself. He cried, at once for being among Celts again, at once for Garrett. He had grown to understand Garrett, and even learn more about the Saxons. Their farmlands had been spoiled and they sought new ground to till. Their quest was purely one of survival, but their means were admittedly questionable.
Garrett had taught him a lot. And along had come their world again in the form of another weapon that had taken another life away. Was life that cheap, that trivial? Was there not one fulgent quality of life that would bring warmth and happiness and prevent it from ending as abruptly-as unnaturally? Some said it was love. But where was love now?
He battled his pain, clutched his broadsword, and gazed at the stars as they rode.
13
Morning sunlight coruscated off the thawed lake around which they camped. Christopher squinted, waving a bit of smoke from the cookfire away from his face, then focused again on the water. There was a small family of ducks on its surface, mother, father, and three babies. They all swam in a neat little line that was abruptly broken by javelins thrown from the shoreline. Mallory’s men were poor shots, and though Christopher knew how tasty the birds would be, a part of him was glad the ducks would survive. They paddled fa
rther out into the middle of the lake, making themselves an even more difficult target.
Then Mallory’s biggest man picked up a longbow, and fwit! fwit! the parents of the ducklings were slain. The burly Celt stripped himself and swam out to retrieve his catch while the others commented on his marksmanship. One of the javelin throwers scoffed at the huge Celt, claiming there was no sport in using a longbow, that the true test of marksman ship would have been with the javelin. The longbow made the kill too easy.
Christopher watched he ducklings swim away from the heavy Celt as the banter continued, then fell back onto the thin, ragged blanket Mallory had given him to sleep on. The night had been bitterly cold, and Christopher had removed the tarpaulin from the sup ply cart for use as a cover. Two of the other Celts thought this a good idea and had shared the wide fab ric shield with him. Those men were up now, replacing the tarpaulin. He heard the thumping of boots on the hard ground behind him and craned his neck; his gaze leveled on Mallory’s knees, then rose to the man’s face. “We move shortly, Christopher. Eat something while there is still time.” “I will.”
Mallory got down on his haunches. “But before you do that, tell me for a moment about your service to Garrett.”
“It was terrible, my lord,” he lied, peppering his words with a tone that suggested the unspeakable hor ror of it. He would not tell Mallory about his relation ship with Garrett. He needed to gain Mallory’s trust and would not suffer through the same mental rigors he had to win Garrett’s. It would be far simpler this time.
“Go on,” Mallory urged.
Christopher rolled onto his stomach, then sat up, crossing his legs, one under the other. “They screamed at me with words I didn’t know. And they beat me and made me shovel dung.”
Mallory grabbed Christopher by his shirt collar, pulling the linen tightly around his neck. “I am curi ous, then, why you were so quick to supply Garrett with arms when I engaged him.”
Christopher struggled to swallow against Mallory’s grip. He hated being choked, more so since the night that Kenneth had tried to kill him. Mallory’s act brought back the ugly memory. “I was his squire, lord. I had to. He would have killed me.”
Mallory relaxed his grip and let go of Christopher’s shirt. “Why didn’t you try to escape?”
“I tried at least a score of times. But he had too many men … . Eventually I obeyed his orders. It was better than being tied.”
Mallory sighed. “Perhaps I would have done the same. It just angers me to see a strong young Celt like yourself serve a traitor so quickly and willingly.”
“Quickly, for fear of my life. Willingly, never,” Christopher answered.
Mallory stood. “Eat then. We must keep moving.” “Lord? I know we are moving south. My home is
Shores. I wish to return there.”
One of Mallory’s eyelids twitched. “That’s not possible.” “May I ask why, lord?”
Mallory fingered the blue doublet on his headband for what appeared to be no particular reason. “How long have you been away, boy?”
Christopher thought about it. “Twenty moons, I believe.”
“Arthur has given the castle of Shores to the sweet tongued Lord Devin of Bristol, a man who bears quite a hatred for me.” Mallory’s face flushed and his eyes went distant. His lips curved into a smile. “My men and I tried to ambush and murder him. We failed, but live to tell the sad tale.”
“Why did you want to kill him?”
Mallory turned his gaze to the sky. “I don’t quite remember. I never liked the man. Much too traditional for my tastes. I think he insulted me as well. No matter, since I am, as you now know, not welcome at Shores.”
“May I ride alone then?” Mallory shook his head, no.
Christopher felt a rope of panic wrap around his spine. “Lord, I must remind you that I am the son of a freeman. A leatherdresser. And it is against the law to hold me against my will.”
“Let me tell you something about laws. The laws are made by men who do not understand this realm, men who are not out on the land but holed up behind the walls of their chambers. Those laws are meaning less to the man of the land. In his heart, the man of the land knows what is right and what is wrong, and that is his guide-that is his law.”
Christopher wondered if challenging Mallory further would put him in an even worse position; it probably would. So now he was in the hands of a man who had once been a lord, but had somehow descended into a reality of his own making, a world where he decided the law. There was something extremely powerful and extremely dangerous about that.
“What do you wish of me then, lord?” Christopher asked, his voice weighted with resignation.
“We are a small-band. You will squire us, prepare meals, scrub blankets, shovel dung, and, you say you were the son of a leatherdresser?”
Christopher nodded.
“Then you know something of the craft?” There was no use in lying; he nodded again.
“Good. You will repair our saddles as well. You are quite a find, aren’t you?”
Christopher could not believe he sat with Celts, wishing he were back among Saxons. At least they had come to respect him as a human being. Mallory wanted him as squire and slave. He wondered if his life would go on like this, a series of escapes only to be “saved” by another group of captors, traveling from army to army, being treated like an animal, liv ing a long, hard, miserable life. He could run from Mallory, but where would he wind up next? Maybe he could go to the castle, but what kind of a man was Devin? And what now of Orvin and Brenna? Where were they? Moved on, more than likely. He was all alone, with a past he needed to find, but a present he was chained to. Could he learn to like Mallory? He didn’t know. Perhaps he would begin by tolerating the man. It was a first, arduous step.
Mallory squatted down and put both hands on Christopher’s shoulders, then looked directly into his eyes. “It’s not that bad. Soon, I’ll take other boys into my service and you will become one of my fighters. I crave the battlefield, as you will. Give me a chance.” Mallory stood, turned around, then walked back toward his tent, groaning softly as he rubbed his ribs with a palm.
“Lord?” Christopher called out.
Mallory stopped, looked over his shoulder. “Who is this Arthur you spoke of?”
Mallory smirked. “He calls himself king of all England.”
“By what right?”
“By the right of magic. Pay him no heed. He’ll fall like Uther before him. They all do. Uniting this land is only a dream. Protecting it from the invaders is the reality. That is my vision, but the others … ” Mallory let the discouraging notion trail off. He resumed his course toward the tent.
The big Celt who had shot the ducks ambled up to Christopher holding a couple of pasties filled with fruit and a tankard half-full with ale. “Call me Dallas. Call this food.” His voice was boomy and thick, and he smiled, enjoying his own feeble wit. He handed the pasties and ale to Christopher.
“Thank you.”
“The duck shall be ready momentarily.” “None for me,” Christopher said.
“Why not?” Dallas asked, mildly insulted. “This is enough.”
“But the meat is tender and sweet.”
Christopher took a bite of the cake. “The pasties are sweet.”
Dallas stepped away, confused. “‘The pasties are sweet.”’
Christopher had never seen back muscles as large as Dallas’s. He hadn’t seen the man in full armor, but guessed that it must be an incredible sight. He was envious for a moment, pictured himself as stocky and tall as Dallas, muscles like plates of armor bulging below his skin.
He sat apart from the group that circled the cook fire, finishing up the pasties. Mallory’s men ate quickly, but far more neatly than the Saxons. He had almost forgotten what a civilized meal looked like. They wiped their mouths and drank without slopping · up their faces. It was a little thing, but caught by his eyes. All fighters ate aggressively, but watching a Saxon ea
t for the first time would surely make you lose your own appetite.
Christopher swallowed the last bit of ale in his tankard, rose, and ambled toward the lake. He doffed his dirty breeches and wrinkled shirt, then tossed them in the water. He dived in next to them.
For a second, he thought the shock of hitting the icy water had stopped his heart. He came above the surface, shook his hair free of water, and let out a shivery cry.
There were no stones with which to scrub his soiled garments, so he just pulled them under the clear water as he trod back toward shore. Enough washing for today. Too cold.
Then he remembered they were leaving shortly. No time for his clothes to dry. You fool!
On shore, he called to Dallas and asked if he could borrow a shirt and breeches. Dallas fetched him the clothes, which hung off him like a robe. He balled up his own freezing garments and stowed them on the supply cart.
It was ungratefully colder as Mallory’s band mounted their horses, then rode away from the lake.
Christopher sat on the flatbed, and after a few long, bumpy moments down a narrow trail edged on one side by the wood, he felt his clothes. They had frozen into a stiff, hard ball.
A crossbow bolt needled through the air, stuck into Christopher’s clothes, pushed the ball away from his hand, then pinned it against the oak lip of the cart.
Another bolt found the nape of the Celt driving the cart, a one-legged man who had not uttered a single word to Christopher. The driver slouched.
Christopher finally set eyes on a pair of Saxon archers; their light horses and sparse armor gave them the flexibility they needed to fire their cross bows. They slipped from the wood as three other pairs of Saxons did likewise in a string ahead.