by J. K. Swift
Thomas opened his mouth to shout a warning but his voice refused to obey. Sitting there in his saddle, his sword in hand and mouth hanging open, every muscle in Thomas’s body suddenly froze. The Battle Furies had taken him.
He had been warned of this in his training, time and time again. The stress of battle affected men differently. Some lost their minds, flying into an uncontrolled blood frenzy, sometimes attacking both friend and foe alike in blind rage. The spirits of the battlefield, the Furies, loved men such as these, for they fed off the misery and chaos they caused. The spirits would hover about the battle, stealing men’s thoughts and coaxing them into greater and greater acts of violence and mayhem until the warrior was utterly spent, or himself destroyed.
But there was also another type of Fury that preyed on mortals. These were the ancient ones, the Terror Furies, and they were much more dangerous. For they no longer received sustenance from the simple suffering of humans. A mortal’s death was the only thing that could curb their hunger. For a time. To this end, they would find a man in danger and steal his ability to move. Then, at the exact moment of death, the Fury would feed.
All this, and more, coursed through Thomas’s mind as he watched the Bedouin draw his bow. The arrow sprang forward, its gray feather fletchings sending it spiraling toward the unaware knight’s back. The archer misjudged the distance, for instead of taking Alain in the middle of his back, it floated upward to the high point of its trajectory and slammed into the top of the knight’s helmet. There was a loud metallic clang and Alain’s head slammed forward, but the curved surface of his helmet turned the projectile aside, and it glanced off into the woods.
The sound of the arrow hitting Alain’s helmet broke the Fury’s hold on Thomas. Breath rushed into his lungs and he flexed the muscles both in the hand holding his sword and the one holding his horse’s reins. He jammed his heels into his destrier’s side and a scream burst from his throat. He could move. And he knew, so long as he kept moving, the Terror Fury could not harm him. The lesser Furies could, perhaps, but that would not be a useless death.
The archer turned toward Thomas and nocked a new arrow. Thomas felt his mount spring into a gallop as the bowman raised his weapon and sighted down the shaft. Thomas hunched low in his saddle, his sword held before him pointed at his foe as had been drilled into him time and time again. He saw the bow limbs snap forward but he lost sight of the arrow. The next thing he knew he was going forward over his horse’s neck. He tried to grab a handful of mane as he flew by, but the stallion’s neck was bent so far forward and Thomas’s forward momentum so great, that the coarse hair was ripped from his grasp. He caught a glimpse of something black protruding from the horse’s chest, and as both he, and his mount, tumbled into the road, he saw the gray feathers splattered with blood. His horse screamed and Thomas knew he had to throw himself from his saddle or risk being crushed to death by the stallion, but there simply was not time. He saw the hard road, felt it tear at the skin under his leggings, saw his horse’s legs above him blocking out the sky, then the road again. He felt a crushing weight over one leg, a suffocating presence on his chest, the sky presented itself once again, then he was on one knee with nothing but blackness in front of him.
His sword arm was straight out in front, and it dawned on him then that his gloved hand still clutched his blade. The blackness took shape. Thomas looked up, his vision unhindered by the loss of his helmet, and a set of brown eyes wide with agony, stared back. The Bedouin fell first to his knees, then to his side, dragging Thomas’s blade out of his hand.
Remembering his earlier battle with the Terror Fury, Thomas told himself he must keep moving. He pivoted on his knee and looked in the direction of voices coming from behind him. Alain and Roderick were running toward him on foot. Behind them, near the wagons, the other sergeants were sitting calmly atop their destriers while a few fleeing riders made their escape through the woods. Thomas knew he should join the men at the wagons, but realized his sword was still in the form on the ground beside him. He turned back and reached down to retrieve it, but as soon as he placed his hand on the pommel, the Bedouin’s body bucked and a high-pitched moan escaped his lips. Thomas flinched and withdrew his hand. He looked at the man’s face. His covering had fallen away and Thomas stared into the clean-shaven face of a boy younger than himself. Surely no older than thirteen.
A boy. Mary, Mother of God.
Thomas looked again to his sword embedded up to the hilt in the boy’s stomach.
I must remove it. The boy will die…
As soon as he touched the handle, the boy cried out and squirmed in pain. He grabbed onto Thomas’s hand with a strength that belied both his size and age. He said something Thomas did not understand and shook his head. His eyes were wide and they would not let Thomas look away.
Thomas was dimly aware of voices behind him, and although he could hear the words, he could not comprehend their meaning, nor tear his eyes from the boy’s own.
“Lung shot from the air in the blood,” Roderick said.
“Afraid so. This one will not be seeing the stables again,” Alain said.
“You want me to put him out?”
Thomas did not know if Alain slit his stallion’s throat himself or if he had Roderick do it. But the horse let out one last cry before its suffering was over.
The boy, however, took much longer to die. Thomas sat, the boy’s hand clutching his own, until the end. He would not allow the Furies to feed on this one.
CHAPTER FOUR
Badru Hashim pulled his marble white mare to a halt alongside Yusuf and his own mount and let the reins hang loosely in his left hand. He eased his feet out of the stirrups and let his long legs dangle freely only a foot off the ground. After a graceful shake of her long, shapely head, Badru’s horse accepted her master’s permission to graze the scant foliage at the side of the forest road.
“He said he would be here by midday?” Yusuf asked.
“I expect him shortly. For a merchant he is exceptionally punctual and has never once failed to do what he promised.”
“People keep their promises better to some men than others,” Yusuf said.
Badru could not tell if Yusuf was being complimentary or impertinent. “People choose who they disappoint in life. I have had my share of disappointments, and I have learned that it is possible to limit a great deal of them with a small measure of forethought.”
Yusuf slid down from his saddle. As he allowed his animal to graze, he placed his hand idly on Badru’s knee and looked up at him from beneath his shadow.
“Why do I feel you speak of the present more than of the past?”
Badru could not help but look away from Yusuf’s handsome face. His fine features harbored not the slightest sign of guile or concealment. His questions always came at Badru like an arrow shot from the most powerful of horn bows, straight and unflinching.
Yusuf’s voice dropped in volume. “Am I one of those disappointments you speak of?”
Badru felt anger sweep through him. “Of course not! Why would you say such a thing?”
Yusuf shrugged. His hand dropped from Badru’s knee and the huge Mamluk was instantly conscious of the small spot of warmth that fled with it.
“Something is bothering you, Badru. You have claimed in the past it is only the responsibility you feel for keeping your men fed and fulfilled, but I have suspected for some time that it is more than that. Please. Do not deny it. That does neither of us any good.”
Another wave of anger flowed through him, and for a moment Badru considered reprimanding Yusuf for his audaciousness. But then the anger turned on itself and he was left with a knot of helplessness in his breast as he looked upon Yusuf’s guileless features. His face was bright with a hopeful patience. He was the one man in the world who dared speak to him in such a manner. He no doubt sensed the emotion coursing through Badru. Yet he did not press him and that fact gave Badru the courage to speak.
“You are right. As always, you are
right. If I only knew myself as well as you seem to know my thoughts…”
“Then what is it, Badru? Do we not have everything we always dreamed of? How many times did we lie on your pallet in that Frankish whore’s estate and fantasize about being anywhere but there? We would steal moments of our lives from her to be together. Moments of our own lives. And now that Allah has chosen to give us our lives back, what do we have to long for?”
Badru knew what Yusuf was trying to say. He had been a house slave, a servant of the privileged. Freedom had been his dream, not Badru’s. A Mamluk without a master was nothing more than a self-serving mercenary.
“I tire of these meaningless contracts,” Badru said. “We sell our ship and the lives of the men for silver. The silver of greedy men with no higher purpose in this life than to possess what others have. We take gold for killing rich men’s enemies, for bringing them young girls and boys to satiate their lust or to serve in their kitchens. Sometimes both. I do not think this was Allah’s plan for us.”
Yusuf was quiet for a moment. He let out a breath, considering Badru’s words. He would weigh them carefully, for it was rare that Badru offered up much of his inner thoughts.
“For the past eight years you have given your men a purpose. Over thirty men owe you their lives and well being. Is that worth so little to you?”
“Perhaps I only hold them back from the path Allah would have them walk.”
“You have given them their freedom, Badru. They are free to follow you or not, and every one of them has chosen.”
“A true Mamluk can never be free,” Badru said. He felt a familiar pain begin to build at the base of his skull. Instinctively, he closed his eyes and surrendered himself to the white rain until Yusuf’s voice pulled him back out.
“What is it you see when you do that, Badru? You go somewhere.”
Badru looked at Yusuf. His eyes were bright, shining with life, and his face held the half-smile that never failed to ease Badru’s mood, whatever the cause. That smile was a sign that all was right in Yusuf’s world. He could have asked Badru for all the terrifying creatures in the Mid-Earth Sea and Badru would have sought each and every one out without hesitation. For him.
“It is a silly thing,” Badru said. “You will laugh.”
“Tell me. Now I must know,” Yusuf said.
“It is one of my earliest memories. I do not know how old I was. Less than five though, for I had not yet begun my training in earnest at the tabaqa. Why do you laugh? I have told you nothing yet.”
“I can see you as a child. Need I say more?” Yusuf said, his eyes crinkled at the edges and Badru could tell he was doing his best to contain another outburst.
“All right. Enough of this. It is a foolish story.” Badru tried to nudge his horse forward but Yusuf wrapped both of his slender hands around his ankle.
“No, no. I am sorry! Please, continue. Or I swear, I will pester you until we are both older than the sands of the Sahara.”
Since Badru knew Yusuf was not exaggerating, he took a moment to collect his thoughts and continued.
“I was housed together with hundreds of other children. I was quiet, and big for my age, so I had trouble fitting in with the others. Perhaps I did not understand many of them, for they had come from many different lands. I remember often being alone.”
Yusuf was no longer laughing. The half-smile was gone and Badru regretted being coaxed into telling him this story. He began to speak faster, eager to be done with it.
“But there was a servant woman, a Georgian I think, who showed me much kindness in those times. She would come sit with me and tell me stories.”
“What was her name?” Yusuf asked.
Name? Badru shrugged and shook his head. “I have long since forgotten. But I remember her stories, or at least parts of them. She was the one who told me I had Norse blood, and in the land of the Norsemen, when it rained, the rain was white. The drops so white and thick that, when the wind blew, two people could hold hands, yet not see one another’s face.”
“Snow…” Yusuf said. “She spoke of snow. Have you ever seen it?”
Badru shook his head. “No. But some days she would come and sit with me. We would close our eyes and imagine we were surrounded by nothing but the cold, the wind, and the white rain. All the world would disappear. Everything but the warmth of her hands.”
“What happened to her?”
“All I remember is that once I entered the tabaqa proper, I never saw her again.”
“Why not?”
“I think she was a nursemaid, and since the beginning of our training marked the end of childhood, she would have no longer been allowed to see us. For we were men, then, and had no need of a nursemaid.”
Yusuf crossed his arms in front of his chest and his eyebrows arched. “Surely she could have sought you out, at least to visit.”
Badru shrugged, and looked off to the trees at the side of the road.
“How old were you the last time you saw her?” Yusuf asked.
“Seven. Perhaps eight.”
A silence fell between the two men and Badru avoided looking at Yusuf until he spoke again.
“Thank you,” Yusuf said.
“For what?”
“For sharing her story. And a part of yours.”
Badru was grateful when a sound not belonging to the forest drew their attention to the bend up ahead in the road. It grew steadily until they could clearly discern the sound of wood rattling against metal, and the squeal of an axle in dire need of a good greasing.
A small wagon drawn by two stocky ponies appeared. Its driver, a short man with a stature matching that of his beasts of burden, was the sole occupant. He raised a hand in greeting and continued his slow, clamorous approach.
Mehmet was a careful man. That was why Badru liked him. It was not easy to purchase supplies unnoticed for nearly thirty Mamluk warriors and the handful of followers they had picked up over the last few years. But Mehmet and Badru had agreed upon a system that worked for them both. Six years ago, Badru began taking on land-based contracts in addition to his usual sea jobs. This meant he needed to maintain a herd of horses for his men.
He frequently employed mercenaries for some of these jobs. For these rough men, virtually any mount would suffice, but for his Mamluks, their training and status demanded the finest war steeds. He could never hope to afford to buy so many horses on a regular basis, so at Yusuf’s suggestion, he purchased breeding stock and oversaw the rearing and training of his own small herd. He took to the new venture with a passion he did not know he possessed. He found himself spending weeks on end with his horses and was miserable when he had to set sail on the Wyvern.
This did not surprise him in any way, for he had always considered himself a child of the desert. If he had not been sold to a slave trader in Marseilles who happened to own one of the fastest galleys on the Mid-Earth Sea, he would have been content living his life without ever learning to sail. But duty demanded otherwise.
“He looks troubled,” Yusuf said.
“He always looks that way,” Badru said. “He is a miserable man at the best of times.”
As the wagon approached, Badru nudged his horse forward a few steps and Yusuf followed, leading his own on foot.
“Peace be with you,” Mehmet said. Beneath a light blue turban, the bottom half of his round face broke into a sudden smile, splitting his thick beard with yellowing teeth.
“You are late, Mehmet,” Badru said.
“And you brought company,” the merchant said, nodding down from his seat at Yusuf. “That is unlike you. Expecting trouble?” He pulled the brake handle on the wagon for the second time.
“You were a sack of flour short last time,” Yusuf said. “I am here to confirm the order before we release payment. Please untie the canvas so I may inspect the contents.”
Yusuf moved toward the cart and placed a hand on the nearest tie-down, but Mehmet leaned over and intercepted him by grabbing his wrist. Yusuf pulled
his wrist away and eyed the man warily.
“It will unknot easier if you know where to start, is all,” Mehmet said. “Give me a moment and I will have it off for you.”
His sudden movement was a reflex, an uncontrolled response to something he did not want to happen. Badru silently chided himself for not seeing the signs before today. He had become accustomed to Mehmet, perhaps even trusted him to a certain degree. For three years the man had brought foodstuffs in exchange for well-trained horses. It was not always easy for Badru to come up with enough coin to keep his men fed, but horses were another matter. Often the horses were worth far more than the goods Badru received in exchange, but he hoped by making the transaction worthwhile to Mehmet, it would stop him from asking too many questions. It was an arrangement that had benefited them both greatly, but unfortunately, the sheen of perspiration glistening across Mehmet’s forehead told Badru this mutually beneficial relationship had come to an end.
Mehmet climbed slowly down off the cart, his eyes looking everywhere except at the two men before him. “You know, it was not easy getting this shipment out of the gates. The guilds demand clear records of everything leaving the city. They want goods coming in, not going out…”
Badru shifted his weight in his saddle and his horse responded. She took three steps toward the wagon. Yusuf saw Badru approach and he backed away. Mehmet had his back to Badru and he continued to spout incessant chatter while his fingers fumbled with the knots holding the canvas covering in place.
“Merchant,” Badru said, looking down at the man’s back. He would no longer honor the man by using his name. “Merchant. Still your hands. We both know there is nothing under those tarps.”