The Silver Horn Echoes

by Michael Eging

  After a moment, the driver tapped the oxen with his prod and continued into the camp.

  Roland walked the picket lines in the darkness, accompanied by Karim and Oliver. Between the guard posts, Oliver and Karim debated.

  “So you think Aristotle superior to even Plato?” Oliver asked.

  “In the house of wisdom, Aristotle has no peer,” Karim insisted.

  “And our esteemed Augustine?”

  “But a novice, my friend. A mere shadow of the original masters,” Karim replied with a knowing air.

  The grumble of wagon wheels on the track behind them caught Roland’s attention.

  “The last wagons already passed for the day, didn’t they?” he asked his comrades.

  The swaying wooden bulk of the wagon was just visible turning a corner toward the camp center.

  “We cleared a whole line of wagons before sunset,” Oliver replied.

  “I remember,” Roland agreed. “The guards better have a good reason for letting this one pass.”

  The wagon creaked toward a holding area where other shipments awaited inspection and disbursement through the rest of the camp. A guard stepped from the shadows to wave the driver down. When he got no response, he trotted to close with the wagon. There was no driver. He called out to his fellows, grabbing the dangling reins and pulling the beasts to a halt. Guards swarmed into the back of the wagon to find sealed barrels and crates. A squire was sent off for a crowbar.

  The king’s tent was quiet except for Aldatrude’s purring breath drifting across the plush carpets from where she slept in a trundle bed at the foot of Charles’s own grand canopied one, ornately carved by artisans in distant Francia as befitting the daughter of the king. In it she slept soundly, surrounded by an entire army—as soundly as if she remained in the great palace in Aachen.

  A distant alarm rose near the edge of camp. Shadows danced on the canvas walls when soldiers outside the tent rushed to answer the call. Only a few silhouettes lingered, painted against the canvas, dutiful men holding their posts around the king’s quarters. Then other shadows slipped in from the darkness and swallowed them up. One canvas panel went slack with a quiet twang as a tent peg was cut, and then a hand gripped the edge of the fabric and lifted. A shadow slipped inside, followed with nary a sound by four others.

  Charles tossed restlessly beneath his blanket while the intruders closed on him. Aldatrude stirred awake. One man quickly pounced, drawing a knife across her throat and opening up a line welling across her slender neck. Though her drowning cry was muffled, Charles awoke with a start.

  “What’s this?” Charles demanded, voice groggy. “Who are you?” Then his eyes lit upon Aldatrude’s body sprawled across her sheets, her limbs still twitching. “My daughter! Dear God!”

  He lunged toward her, but an assassin blocked his path, a blade in his hands.

  “Truly you are a great monarch, but you remain a threat to our people. Your deeds at Carcassonne destine you for hell. It is a great honor to send you there.”

  Roland, followed by Oliver and Karim, burst into the tent, tearing aside the canvas and crashing into furniture. The champion launched himself at the assassins, thrusting Durendal through one man’s back to sprout out his chest. Oliver threw his arms around another and grappled the man to the floor, repeatedly smashing Halteclare’s pommel into his face. Bones crunched, and the assassin’s eyes rolled back. Blood flooded from his nostrils. His blade slipped from his fingers.

  The lead assassin sprung for Charles, but the king grabbed his arm and deflected his strike. Then the man smashed the king across the face with his other fist. But Charles clung tenaciously to the man’s dagger hand and threw his weight across Aldatrude’s corpse, toppling the assassin over backward onto the carpeted floor. He punched the assassin in the throat. The man gasped for air, but Charles was relentless. He struck over and over again until bones and cartilage cracked under the assault, finally drawing a dagger from his own robes to thrust it into the man’s belly. The man’s eyes bulged, and then Charles gave the blade a wicked twist.

  “Never lecture a king!” he spat in the man’s face.

  Karim struggled beneath the assault of another skilled killer. Straining arm to arm, the assassin’s dagger scratched a line of red across his neck. Roland vaulted the bed and hit the assassin hard with Durendal’s hilt, sending him sprawling. His knuckles pummeled the man’s face.

  “Stay down!” Roland growled.

  Karim pulled himself to his feet and yanked back his attacker’s hood as the hawk-nosed man struggled to free an arm. Roland reached out to stop him but was too late. The assassin’s hand shot to his own shattered mouth, dropping in something that he quickly choked down with a chaser of blood. Karim tried forcing it back up, but the assassin only grimaced. Then a distant smile washed over his swollen face, a sigh rattled from his lips, and he too was dead.

  For a brief moment, all was silent. Then the tent broke into pandemonium again when Frank soldiers rushed through the canvas with weapons drawn. But they were too late.

  Oblivious to the disturbed chatter around him, Charles crawled to Aldatrude’s pale, bloodied form and cradled her in his arms. He tenderly brushed her hair from her face, leaned down closer, and the king of the Franks and emperor of the Romans wept.

  AOI

  A Frank courier rode low in the saddle atop a sweat-drenched mount that pounded along the dusty track from the north. He glanced over his shoulder half-expecting demons to overtake him at any moment. When he topped a rise and at last caught sight of Charles’s camp, he shouted with relief and raked his steed with his spurs. His mount blew hard, galloping for the Frank lines. Behind him rose a dust cloud obscuring the faint flash of arms—Saragossans racing to intercept him before he delivered his charge.

  At the camp’s boundary, the rider dragged the horse to a skidding halt. A sergeant strode across the defensive ditch that now extended from both sides of the road as part of growing earthworks threatening to surround the city. Recognizing the rider’s livery, he whistled. Soldiers tumbled to the road, planting spears in the dusty ground in a wicked and deadly hedge line against the approaching enemy cavalry. The emir’s troopers veered off through the dust and beat for the hills once more.

  The sergeant turned back to the messenger and held up a mail-covered fist in both greeting and command.

  “State your business,” he growled.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” the rider began. He spat dust through his teeth. “I’ve dispatches from Saxony—from Count Rene. My charge isn’t finished until they are in Charles’s hands!”

  At the sergeant’s nod, two guards mounted their horses to provide the courier with an escort through the camp.

  The sun relentlessly beat down on the canvas tarp stretched above the assembled nobles, providing only scant protection from the heat, dust, and flies. Sweat running down his creased brow, Charles stood at the head of his much-worn campaign table that remained, as always, covered in a jumble of maps and official documents. He raised his hands, signaling for quiet, and waited impatiently for the silence to ripple through his unruly nobles.

  “Lords,” he rumbled over them, his face stern. “I’ve grave news from Saxony. The enemy has routed our forces.”

  What subdued conversation that buzzed in the background was now completely quelled.

  Charles’s face was grimly set. “Even now they threaten to carve out the heart of Francia.” He bent over the maps, his hands wide on the tabletop while considering his next words. The events of the past few days weighed heavily on his face. He pursed his lips, drew a deep breath, and continued. “It seems to me that we have a choice. Stand and fight to bring the emir of Saragossa to heel—or negotiate peace and return to our homeland to drive the Saxons back across the Rhine. My lords, I must have your advice and counsel.”

  Whispers broke out once more. Many nobles fidgeted
, uncertainty rising in the stifling air. Whispers rose to babble, and fidgets became agitations.

  Roland alone stepped forward to Charles’s right hand.

  “My king,” he said, voice projecting to the rearmost fringes, “Saragossa lies within sight—within our grasp. If we leave now, eventually we will be forced to return. And on that day, we will bleed again to reach this same ground.”

  The nobles’ chatter dropped to a hush, some of them clearly agreeing with his assessment. For who among them had not buried their dead in shallow interments that now littered the path to this city?

  Ganelon, however, stood in a group of men who it seemed believed differently, for when he stepped forward, they urged their peers to silence so he could speak.

  “Truly,” he said, each word soaked with barely veiled venom, “on the battlefield, my stepson has no equal.”

  He gestured toward Alans and the other counts standing around him.

  “But this is a decision for rational men—yes, men of reason,” he continued. “We’ve stood with you, my king, we, your loyal counts of old. We’ve marched from the wilds of Saxony to the ruins of Rome! Hear us who love you! Rene’s army flees before the Saxon onslaught, while we who could reinforce him sit on our heels before Saragossa. Quieting the emir through diplomacy may prevent greater tragedy at home. For if we weaken our forces in a lengthy siege—fighting not just Saragossa but also disease and hunger—we will not have the strength to face the Saxons, no matter the resolve and courage of our champion. Return home, great king. Return home now with honor and deal with the more immediate threat.”

  This time whispers erupted into catcalls between opposing advocates, rising to heated exchanges, which quickly broke into physical jostling that threatened blood. Charles pounded his hand down on the table, scattering the documents.

  “Enough! Enough! Quiet, the lot of you!” The crowd settled into an uneasy calm. Charles pierced them with a critical eye. “Thank you, my lords,” he growled. “I’ll consider your counsel.”

  He turned and left the group without another word. Behind him, the peers of the realm trickled out of the shade, still arguing with one another in more quieted tones.

  His bald head beaded with sweat, Naimon sought after Ganelon among the Tournai men and took him by the arm.

  “A word with you, sir,” he huffed, squinting in the sunlight.

  “Of course,” Ganelon replied, breaking off his conversation with Guinemer.

  “I don’t know any other way to tell you this,” the king’s counselor began. “The dispatches included notifications of the dead.” He drew Ganelon to a halt. “Your son Gothard was among them.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause. Ganelon’s face became a mask, impenetrable as stone, securing whatever turmoil he felt beneath an iron will.

  “He did his duty, I am certain,” the count said gruffly after a time. “If you will excuse me.”

  Naimon nodded. “Yes, of course. My condolences—”

  But Ganelon had already turned his back and was stalking away.

  AOI

  Priests chanted a haunting Latin melody. Before them, knights clad in burnished mail and rich crimson-and-gold tabards carried the shrouded remains of Aldatrude to the grave that had been cut into the earth overlooking the city. Artisans had sweated and worked through the night to finish a monument befitting her noble heritage to stand at its head. There to keep her company in this distant land were rows of other more humble markers, remnants of other Frank dead who had fallen during the siege.

  Roland stood on the right hand of Charles, whose body was rigid, his regal features looking past the preparations. The king’s cheeks were wet from unacknowledged tears that strayed down his face to become lost in his wizened beard. Louis stood to the other side, face anguished by conflicting emotions.

  The warriors bearing the young woman’s body carefully lowered their burden into the hole while the faithful genuflected and bent their heads.

  Charles knelt and picked up a handful of dry earth, touching the soil to his lips before scattering it across the shrouded corpse. Then he stood, turned, and stalked away before the priests could conclude the ceremony, leaving mourners free to crowd the graveside and toss in handfuls of dirt of their own.

  Roland ran after the king. Upon catching him, the champion walked quietly at his elbow for a space. Charles stopped near his tent, looking past the canvas walls to the sky shimmering from the blistering heat.

  “Uncle,” Roland said. “I am sorry for the loss of Aldatrude.”

  His eyes moist, Charles glanced at his nephew. “She was my life, Roland. My joy.”

  “I know, Uncle. But please—and I am sorry to bring this up now, but—we must not abandon the campaign. We’ve paid too much precious blood for each step.”

  Charles narrowed his eyes, blinking the last tears dry. “Do not presume to lecture me on blood.” His voice was cold and sharp. “We’ve all paid in blood. But each step the Saxons take in Francia is paid in the same coin. As king, I must think of the entire realm. I must see through the fog of emotions, like … vengeance.”

  “Uncle, your daughter—” Roland started.

  “Enough!” Charles snapped. “Unless the caliph intervenes, Marsilion remains trapped. This—” he waved back at the grave without looking “—was the act of a desperate man.” He turned his gaze fully on Roland. “Nephew, what does your network of spies say of the caliph’s intent?”

  “Pirates have him bottled up in Cadiz, sire,” Roland reported. “Take Saragossa and you end this war.”

  Charles ran his fingers through the white locks of his beard. “Leaving Saragossa is a risk. But after the thrashing we’ve given him, it will be years before he can rebuild and cross the mountains. By then we’ll have dealt with the Saxons once and for all and be waiting for him.”

  “But we have the assets in place here—right now,” Roland urged. “We can end this! Please, Uncle, we cannot dishonor the fallen.”

  Charles’s eyes locked on Roland’s.

  “Burying Saragossa in ash won’t bring the dead rest or ease the pain. For you, or for me.” He placed a hand on Roland’s shoulder. “You will have my decision in the morning, Champion. But for now, leave me to my thoughts.”

  The following dawn broke in a rosy smudge over the great plain beyond Saragossa. In that early light, the Franks assembled at the edge of their camp. Amidst the sea of men, Naimon stood near the king, bearing in his hands the gloves and staff, the tokens of royal authority. Before Charles, the tall and straight figures of Counts Basan and Basile remained at attention, dressed in their finest armor, coats, and boots. These two veterans of the Italian campaign had bled many times at the side of their long-dead champion, William, and had continued that tradition with William’s son on the grinding campaign through Spain.

  As one, they bent their knees and bowed their heads before the king.

  “My dear Franks,” Charles called over the assembled men, his voice clarion and clear. “We’ve all suffered loss in this important endeavor. But by the grace of God, I am your king. And I must put aside my own feelings to do my duty, as must all of you.” He then spoke to Basan and Basile. “My lords, I hereby give you authority to speak in my name.”

  Naimon handed him the tokens. He presented Basan the staff and one glove and then gave the other glove to Basile.

  “Thank you, sire,” the men replied in unison.

  “If the emir negotiates,” Charles said, “then we end the siege. Dear God, I pray for your success.”

  “We shall not fail you,” said Basan, his voice even and confident.

  Charles rested a hand on his shoulder. “May Saint Michael grant you both a safe return.”

  The men rose, turned, and strode through the Franks to their saddled horses at the edge of the crowd. They mounted and, with a wave to their comrades, rode toward Saragoss
a.

  Oliver and Roland walked through the camp as men continued the work of the siege, but already the talk had turned to Francia and the Saxons.

  “Now isn’t the time to pull back,” Roland confided to Oliver. “Marsilion gains even though he’s beaten!”

  His friend smiled, eyes keen, for he too noticed the men’s shifting attentions. “And yet friends and family are open to attack if Rene can’t pull his forces together to halt the Saxon advance.”

  “True,” Roland admitted. “But we’ve laid men to rest, warriors all, to reach these walls.” He looked across the fields and suburbs at the city’s imposing fortifications. “If we leave, their sacrifice was for naught.”

  “But,” Oliver replied, “all that we have saved from Marsilion is now open to the Saxons for the taking.”

  A look of consternation crossed the champion’s face.

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Oliver continued. “There can be no perfect solution. And you’re correct—Marsilion will look at us suing for peace as a sign of weakness.”

  Battered and abused martial gear lay strewn all about the champion’s tent—coats of mail, helmets, daggers, and chipped shields bearing the crimson wolf. A squire tried to sort through the collection while Roland examined each piece with a careful eye, discarding equipment beyond repair and oiling and packing the salvage into travel chests. He paused at his helmet, which still bore angry blue marks from the Greek fire at Carcassonne. He buffed on it once more with his sleeve, though it would do little good, as the blemish was burned into the steel. He tossed it back to the squire.

  “Make sure there’s a nice layer of oil on all this. Not too much, but if we are to head north, I’ll not have my gear rusting.”

  The lad bowed and set to his task with a practiced purpose.

  Roland stretched and left the tent. Outside, men rushed past him toward the edge of the camp.

  “What’s this?” He picked up his pace in their wake.