The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1)

by Darrell Newton

Angelo

  Fortress of Malagón

  Local Date: 24 June 1212

  COMMANDER ANGELO walked down the street, glanced around, and slid between two buildings. He closed his eyes and thought of Lake Amara—nothing more than a mental nudge in just the right way. He pictured the clear waters of the lake near his childhood home, so crystal clear he could see the fish in the deep. His verisuit changed from the image of a knight into stealth mode, invisible and silent. He lifted himself up onto the wall and walked along it until he found a good vantage point to view Francisco. After seeing the boy was safe, he thought of Miyuki and activated the link.

  Miyuki here, she cast.

  It’s Angelo.

  I would recognize your thoughts anywhere, Commander.

  The boy has a fieldstone.

  He has Avar-Tek?

  Yes. When I get the chance to hold it, I would like to run a diagnostic. It may be one of the originals. One from Avar.

  So, you intend to stay with him?

  Francisco is the one, he cast. I am sure of it.

  Proof?

  Line six of the Ox Shalay prophecy: “The healer weeps for his enemy.”

  Everyone weeps.

  For their enemy?

  She hesitated, and then answered. It’s easy to have compassion when you have a fieldstone. If he is put in a position where he has no fieldstone, will he be as compassionate?

  According to the prophecy, Angelo cast, we may be with him for several months before we recruit him. He may yet be put into such a position.

  If I may be so bold as to point out to my master, you did not answer my question. Is his weeping a sign?

  Has your troubadour wept yet?

  No.

  You cannot argue with the Ox Shalay. What is line four?

  She hesitated. Ah, the stone holder, the rock hider. He hides the fieldstone?

  Yes. Who do you say is the one now? Angelo asked.

  Francisco is the One of Six.

  Without a doubt? Because your doubts will test you.

  Angelo felt resignation over the incom link that would best be described as a sigh. No doubts, she cast.

  Then come join me.

  As you wish, Commander.

  Chapter 23

  Francisco

  Fortress of Calatrava

  Summer, Year of our Lord 1212

  9 Days on the March

  UNDER THE SUN’S UNRELENTING HEAT, the army marched eight days south to the fortress of Calatrava. On the journey, Francisco asked Gombal if he knew anything about genies. “Genies are invisible to us,” Gombal told him, “and they see us as if we were in a fog.”

  Sancho added, “Genies are in the Koran, except they call them ‘jinn,’ I think. According to the texts my father translated, Allah made the jinn from smokeless fire as he made man from clay. They are not angels.”

  Francisco considered the similarities and differences between the jinn or genies and Sir Angelo and the old woman at the tavern. They didn’t seem like fire. I touched Sir Angelo’s hand, but both of them seemed to disappear when they wanted to.

  “I’ve been told,” Gombal added, “that they can travel great distances quickly, appear as animals or take on other forms to deceive and kill us. I’ve heard one Moor say genies—he did call them ‘jinn’—are in search of the philosopher’s stone.”

  “What’s that?” Francisco asked.

  “Ah, it be the stone that turns lead into gold and gives the holder eternal life. Pretty useful in battle, I say. Wish I had a stone like that.”

  Francisco and Sancho exchanged glances and looked down at the stone’s pouch, which dangled from Francisco’s belt. Is that what this is? he wondered. The philosopher’s stone? No, I’ve tried to feed it lead before and it didn’t change to gold. I would have known it.

  When they made it to Calatrava, they found their way blocked. The Almohad defenders had burned the bridge north of the fortress and set iron spikes in the river’s broad and swampy channel. Knights of the Order of Calatrava knew of a crossing to the east that could be forded with the least difficulty.

  The fortress of Calatrava sat on a hill overlooking the Guadiana River. It was the main fortress on the road to Cordoba, one they had to take, one King Alfonso VIII lost when he lost Alarcos, and one the knights of the Order of Calatrava were eager to recapture. A deep artificial moat surrounded it, fed by the Guadiana River. The hill was divided into two sections separated by a high wall: the fortress on the east side, and the city itself on the west, which occupied most of the hill. Calatrava’s long, high walls—too high for their mangonels to toss stones over—skirted the entire hill. At least forty stand-alone posting towers guarded the flanks and either side of the main gate. The posting towers, or albarrana32 as Gombal called them, stood separate from the fortress like sleeping giants, but they weren’t sleeping. They were manned by archers with deadly aim.

  Then the real work began: three straight days of siege. Alcalde Umberto assigned Francisco’s squad to load stone for the trebuchets, which were the largest siege engines they had. They hurled massive stones by using a sling on a pivoted wooden arm. Each trebuchet stood as tall as a juniper tree and every time it flung a stone, a heavy weight in back fell and set the device in motion.

  From dawn to dusk Francisco was bending, grabbing with fingers raw on rough stone, lifting, dropping, sometimes with fingers in the way. His healing stone healed all injury but left sore muscles untouched. Relief had come when it was time to drive the wagon back to the river to fetch new stone. Each time back meant he had to take the wagon further upriver to find new stone. The riverbed near the camp was nothing but mud, deep with wagon wheel ruts. Francisco had to stay out of the posting tower’s range when he drove the wagon.

  Gombal warned him to “keep an eye on flanking fire from the albarranas.”

  Francisco had been walking behind Esteve, another militiaman in their squad, when an arrow shot from an albarrana caught Esteve in the chest.

  Quickly, before anyone else got to him, Francisco pulled the arrow out, and pressed the healing stone to him. Esteve grimaced in pain, tears streaked from his eyes, but he refused to cry out. He didn’t look down at Francisco’s hands or the stone, but kept his eyes shut.

  Francisco glanced up and saw Gombal running up to them. “Oh Lord,” Francisco prayed, “how can I heal with everyone watching?” Francisco mentally urged the stone to hurry. By long practice, he knew it wouldn’t help, but he did it anyway. He wondered how he would be able to use the healing stone in combat if he had to keep looking over his shoulder in fear of being caught and asked questions. Before the crusade, he thought healing the wounded would be easy since there would be so many. He didn’t consider that people would take notice. By the time Gombal reached them, the healing was complete, and Francisco slipped the stone into his pouch.

  “Ah, you’re lucky, lad,” Gombal said. “It looks like he just nicked you. You’re a bleeder though, and there’s no doubt, but stop your whining. It won’t get you out of work.”

  By midafternoon of the first day, the Spanish Knights of Calatrava had taken seven of the posting towers, which were connected to the castle by wooden bridges. But as soon as the knights took them, the Moors dropped the bridges, letting them fall to the ground, and cutting the knights off from the fortress.

  13 Days on the March

  In the early morning, Francisco lay sleeping. In his dreams, he saw the bridge the Almohads had burned but it was still burning in a tangle of smoke and flame. Genies appeared on the flaming bridge as giants made of fire. One of the fire giants stepped off the bridge and came at Francisco. Its form was a swirling blaze of light, shifting and flowing with eyes as green as the northern hills in spring. The giant opened its mouth and said, “The fieldstone is old. Very old. Over ten thousand years old.” The giant held out a flaming hand. The intensity of its heat increased as it neared. “Give it to me and arise. Arise. Get up.”

  “Get up.”

  Francisco opened his eyes
.

  Sancho shook his shoulder. “Get up.”

  It was still dark. Dawn touched the horizon with a blue-violet line. Yesterday’s heat had turned cool overnight, and dew had settled on the grass next to his bedding. People were talking, already up and making too much noise. As soon as he moved, his muscles felt sore and stiff from days of siege-work.

  Lying on the ground with limbs that wouldn’t listen, Francisco had to roll over and push himself up with his arms. “I hate trebuchets,” Francisco said, his voice husky with sleep. “They are worse than cattle. They are stone giants, always hungry for more stone.” Francisco collapsed and pulled his blanket over his head. “You feed them, amigo.”

  “We have no need,” Sancho said.

  Francisco peeked out from under the blanket.

  “The rendition pact is signed,” Sancho explained, “and this time the ultramontanos didn’t kill everyone.”

  “There’s still time for those rogues to ruin it.”

  “No. The fortress is empty.”

  “Wha—” Francisco sat up, despite the pain. He blinked. Mateo, Goliath, Gombal, Greasy, and the others from their squad were already up and talking around the campfire, warming what smelled like oatmeal porridge in the kettle. They were all joined in a loud debate better suited for later hours. Several other campfires were lit around the encampment with dark figures bustling around them. Alcalde Umberto and his shorter, snarly-faced aide strolled through the camp on foot. The entire camp murmured with the news.

  “Calatrava is empty,” Sancho said. “Not a soul. They escaped in the night.”

  Francisco’s head, still not clear, was having a hard time understanding. He stood up, peered in the direction of the massive fortress, and where the gate stood closed for the last three days, he saw a black square in the darkness. There was no movement at the gate, on the walls, or in the posting towers.

  “So, what do you make of it, lad?” Francisco turned to see Gombal had stepped up beside him, his arms crossed and his one eye gazing toward the empty fortress. “Treachery?”

  Francisco recounted yesterday’s events. The envoys met under truce at midday, but after they returned an hour later, no word was given. The siege stopped, but the gates of Calatrava were still closed. The camp was rife with rumor late into the night. The call for supper came, and Vespers and Compline33 prayers both passed, yet the same: closed gate. Francisco shook his head. “I bet this was planned. Lucky didn’t want the rogues to rush another fortress, so he kept Calatrava locked up ‘til the rogues fell asleep.”

  “Aye,” Gombal grunted. “That be my guess.”

  To get a better look Francisco made his way through to the edge of camp and a little farther out of the light cast by the campfires. He walked onto the road that ran along the camp. Still fresh from sleep, his eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. It was true. The gates were wide open, no light could be seen within, and no archers moved on the battlements. Was this a ruse?

  Without warning, the ground shook and Francisco heard the rush of horses. From where? He strained into the darkness. Absolutely no movement. He looked to his right. Nothing. To his left, and there, under waving banners of the ultramontanos, rode fully armored knights. They headed directly toward him. Like a fool, he had wandered onto the road and they wouldn’t be able to see him well in the twilight. He hesitated. His indecision on whether to return to camp or move out toward the fortress ended in no movement at all. The lead knight must have seen him. He ordered the company to halt instead of riding around Francisco.

  In French, the lead knight asked, “Qui s’e tient dans la façon de l'armée du Seigneur?”

  Francisco blinked. It was way too early for French.

  The knight leaned forward, and said in accented Castilian, “Who stands in the way of God’s army?”

  Francisco stiffened. He glanced back toward his camp. Everyone was watching him. He puffed up his chest and, loud enough for the camp to hear him, announced his paternal lineage with grandiloquence and a lopsided, satirical grin. “He who stands before you is none other than Francisco de Toledo, son of Artal del Gado, son of Juan de Toledo, son of Dolcet de Burgos, son of Vidal de Burgos, son of Juan de Hortigüela, finder of lost treasures.”

  “These names are nothing. Nothing,” the noble said with a sneer. “You might as well fling mud on your shield. It is a heraldry of ... of dust.”

  “Ah, then good sir, truly I come from the noblest line, for Adam himself was drawn from dust.”

  The camp roared with laughter and cheers.

  “You may pass with my blessings,” Francisco said with a sweeping bow, but no one could hear him for the cheering, and Gombal had to pull him back before the knights trampled him.

  As they passed by, Greasy said, “They will be only the first of many. Soon all the ultramontanos will abandon the crusade.”

  “Why?” Goliath asked.

  “To them,” Francisco said, “mercy for the enemy betrays the crusade.”

  “Aye,” Gombal said, “but word has it that after their Albigensian Crusade they made a rule that they only have to serve forty days to get their indulgence.”

  “It hasn’t been forty days,” Sancho said. “Even you, Sergeant Gombal, a great man of numbers, can count the thirteen days we’ve been on the march.”

  “Ah, but brazen one,” Gombal said with a smirk, “even you know the campaign started not at muster but on the Octave of Pentecost. Keep an ear to the ground and your nose out of books. There’s been rumblings about them leaving since Malagón. Ain’t that right, Greasy?”

  “Nay. All of ‘em are lazy bastards that couldn’t get their way.” He spat on the ground near a passing knight. Fortunately for him and the rest of their squad, the knight didn’t take notice. “Complaining,” Greasy said, “that’s all I’ve heard from the likes of them. Bellyaching.”

  Goliath frowned. “If Lucky can’t hold onto the foreigners, is it the end of the crusade?”

  Sancho shook his head, “I, for one, am glad to see the ultramontanos go. They poison the campaign.”

  “That’s the truth,” Greasy said, “and there ain’t no doubt.”

  When the squad returned to the campfire, they found two ultramontano knights there. One knelt next to the fire. He scooped porridge from the kettle—from Gombal’s kettle. He scooped it out with a bowl and tasted it. The other knight stood, arms akimbo, and watched Gombal’s squad return. He was a shorter, snarly-faced man, with eyes that never left Francisco.

  In his deep command voice, Gombal yelled, “Hark! Who goes there?”

  The kneeling knight stood up. He wore the same gear as the snarly-faced knight next to him, a full chainmail suit covered with the crusader’s white mantle bearing a red cross. He was an older man by the look of his graying hair and beard, but seemed to rise with ease. When he turned, Francisco caught the glint of green eyes. It was the genie-knight Sir Angelo.

  Chapter 24

  Francisco

  Fortress of Calatrava

  Summer, Year of our Lord 1212

  13 Days on the March

  FRANCISCO HEARD HIS OWN sharp intake of breath. His stomach muscles tightened. How can I safely use the stone if I have evil genies on my back?

  Sergeant Gombal growled and lurched for the trespassing knights, but Francisco held his arm out and stopped him. Breathing again, Francisco said, “It’s a genie.”

  “Genies don’t eat,” Gombal said. He pushed Francisco’s arm aside and walked up to Sir Angelo, nose to nose.

  The knight held his ground. A slight smile touched the edge of his lips and his eyes.

  During their march from Malagón, when Gombal answered Francisco’s relentless questions about genies, Francisco never told him about Angelo. “Listen, you two,” Gombal addressed the knights, “this here is a militia camp - a Castilian militia camp under the protection of King Alfonso VIII.” He grabbed the bowl from the knight. “Now why don’t you run off with the rest of your kin?” He waved his hand as if shooing off
a fly.

  Francisco stepped up next to Gombal and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Careful what you say. He can crush—”

  Gombal shrugged it off. “I don’t give no mind to foreigners.”

  “But he’s the one who killed the two scouts, and—”

  Sir Angelo tilted his head to one side. “I did it to save you.”

  “He’s full of magic, Sergeant, black magic,” Francisco said. “Best not to trust him or anger him or make him crush you.” Francisco stepped back and watched Gombal. As the veteran pursed his lips, musing, Francisco found that he had been fiddling with the stone without realizing it. His fingers had been in the tiny pouch, rubbing it for comfort.

  Gombal squinted at the knights, regarding them from head to toe. The snarly one hadn’t moved, but his jaw clenched, his eyes flicked from man to man—a wolf ready to pounce. Two oddly curved swords hung from his side. Though they were sheathed, Francisco could tell they weren’t of Saracen make, not scimitars, and they weren’t anything he had seen at La Grande’s.

  At length, Gombal asked, “Where are you from?”

  “Toulouse,” Angelo said.

  Gombal sniffed. “What do two knights from Toulouse want with the likes of us? Your forty days are fulfilled. You earned your indulgence. Go. Leave this miserable land of mercy before we corrupt you.”

  “Our errand is not yet finished.” Sir Angelo looked at Francisco.

  Francisco took a step back, but kept his eyes on the knights.

  “We will continue to fight in King Alfonso VIII’s army until then.” Sir Angelo bowed. “I am Sir Angelo de Toulouse, and this is my companion Sir Mascaro de Olitz. I beg leave to join your squad.”

  Gombal laughed.

  Francisco shook his head. “I wouldn’t laugh if I were you.”

  Gombal said, “You can’t join our squad. The squad is militia.”

  Sir Angelo held up a finger. “Ah, but we have King Alfonso’s leave.”

  “I’ve been fighting in the Spains for far too long to believe that,” Gombal said. “First, no French knight would be caught dead speaking with a Castilian peon lest he had to.”