The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1)

by Darrell Newton

  Sir Angelo spread out his hands. “And yet here we are.”

  “And third of all—”

  Sancho interrupted, “That’s second, not third. Number two.”

  “Hush now,” Gombal said. “I know my numbers. Third of all, you two knowing Lucky enough that he gives you leave to bivouac with his militia? Bah. You mark my words. Satan himself would confess and take the holy sacraments before that would happen.” He paused and looked them up and down. “The King’s word or no, you need to prove yourself in combat first. I take on no strays that can’t take orders or handle a blade.”

  “Sergeant,” Greasy protested. “I think knights know how to—”

  “Very well,” Angelo said, rising to his feet. “Choose a campeador from among you to spar with me, sword and buckler. If he beats me, he may take my sword, and we will leave at daybreak. But if I beat him, we will join you.”

  They all wanted a piece of him. He was an old man. It would be too easy, they told themselves, not heeding Francisco’s warnings. Others from surrounding camps crowded around to see an ultramontano knight get his just due. In the end, the squad chose Goliath. He stepped forward, his wide grin showed the gap of his missing front teeth.

  “Why did you choose him?” Sir Angelo asked.

  Mateo yelled, “He can crush your skull bare handed.” The crowd cheered.

  Sir Angelo bowed. “Skull Crusher, it is an honor to cross blades with you.”

  Goliath laughed, hissing through the gap in his teeth. Both men used their own swords and wore padded chainmail jerkins, long leather gloves, and a round shield not much larger than a dinner plate—a buckler. Goliath wore the helmet La Grande gave him, fearful of his namesake’s bane—a stone to the head. Cheers for the large man rang out until they became a chant: “Go-li-ath. Go-li-ath,” but Francisco feared for his friend’s life.

  The sun had not yet risen, but cast barely enough light to see by without relying on the campfire. Gombal stepped between them, his arms outstretched. “All right, these are the rules. One: no blood. If’n you bleed your opponent, you lose. ‘Cept from the nose. Our friend Goliath here tends to spout blood from the lightest touch.” The crowd laughed. “Understand? No blood. Save it for the Saracens.” The circle of spectators was now two or three deep. Eager eyes peered over shoulders. The more that gathered, the more Gombal’s speech grew in vibrato. “Two: the first one to yield loses. And you got to say yield loud enough for these old ears to hear.” He pointed to his own ears and raised his voice. “And finally, three: no killin’ the spectators.” He raised his arms again. “Are you ready?” Both combatants nodded, lifted their swords in salute, eyes peering out from either side of the blades. “Begin!” Gombal dropped his arms and quickly stepped back into the crowd.

  Sir Angelo stood ready, sword up, left foot forward. Goliath swung his sword back and bellowed as he charged. He let loose a wide swing that swept half the arena with enough force to fell an oak. Francisco found new respect for Goliath’s strength. But just as Sir Angelo had done with the belligerent ultramontano at the synagogue, he evaded the attack. He met Goliath’s sword with his sword and buckler, pinching it and guiding it out of harm’s way. Not having met with resistance, the swing went wide, carrying the giant with it. Spectators backed away from his stumble.

  Goliath regained his composure, and approached Sir Angelo with a more measured gait. Sir Angelo held his sword and buckler out at arm’s length in front of him, as if targeting the giant at the tip of his blade. His feet moved more than his weapon, almost dancing round the makeshift arena.

  “Stand still,” Goliath grunted between breaths. In response, the knight added a little skip to his step as he continued the round-about dance. Then Sir Angelo held his sword up high over his own head, ready to strike.

  “Stand still!” Goliath insisted. Sir Angelo’s disobedience drew frustration and rage. Now closer, now a step out of range. Goliath feinted to the right, then left. But because of his heft, the misdirection was obvious, even comical.

  Sir Angelo, with his sword still held high behind his head, gave it a flick with his wrist. One. Two. And brought it to bear against Goliath’s buckler. Blade to blade, buckler to buckler, nose to nose, they jostled, a tangle of skill versus strength. Francisco expected Sir Angelo to do one of his magic heavy sword enchantments and drop Goliath to the ground. He must be holding back. Pausing in this stalemate, Goliath grinned and hissed and, without warning, head butted the knight. The blow of steel helmet to skull knocked Sir Angelo back: staggered, dazed, blinking. The crowd roared. Goliath smiled his open gapped grin and raised his hands. The roar grew. He turned, drinking it in. Shouts of warning. Too late. The blow of hilt behind the ear just under the rim of his helmet was loud enough to be heard over the cheers.

  Sir Angelo stepped back, giving the giant room to fall. He didn’t fall, but turned and looked down smiling upon the knight. A drop of blood trickled from his nose. He grunted, held his sword high, and brought it down as if chopping wood. Absolutely no skill. Pure strength. Sir Angelo stepped aside and then stepped down on the sword after it hit the ground. Goliath dropped his sword and buckler and grabbed Sir Angelo’s buckler and jerkin, his meaty fingers turning white on the tiny shield’s edge. With the practiced skill of one who tossed heavy bundles of tanned leather with ease, he lifted the knight, heaving him into the air.

  Gasps.

  Sir Angelo spun, flipped and landed with feline skill. Turning towards the giant on dancing feet, he let loose a flurry of swings with a step in, out, or to the side that confused and winded his opponent: blade to the right shoulder, left shoulder, cover to the right, swing overhead, lunge to chest, a crunch block below, and cover high. Steel clanking, wooden bucklers knocking, Goliath swung wildly, lost his sword, retrieved it, only to find the knight had knocked off his helmet. His hands went to his forehead in fear, dropping his sword.

  Sir Angelo kicked him squarely in the gut.

  Gasping, breathless, Goliath stumbled back, overcompensated, and flailed forward. For one eternally precarious moment, his mass teetered on one foot, wobbled, and plunged. The crowd gasped. Those close to him at the circle’s edge leaned over to listen for breath. Suddenly he inhaled and they cheered. Their campeador lay face down on the ground, heaving but alive. His great gasps blew dust and straw from the ground. “Yield,” he croaked. His eyes stared at nothing, as if he looked into a chasm of endless humiliation. Sancho, Greasy, and Mateo ran to his side to help him up. It took five others to heave him to the sidelines, where he hung his head in defeat, nose still bleeding.

  One-eyed Gombal held his hand out to the victor. A few in the crowd applauded.

  Sir Angelo walked to the center of the circle and sheathed his sword. “Why do you think the ultramontanos are given to wanton slaughter?” His eyes seemed to direct the question to Francisco, but his words were open to all.

  Francisco said loud enough for all to hear, “They think mercy for the enemy betrays the crusade.”

  “Should we not kill all the enemy?” Sir Angelo asked.

  “No!” Francisco said. “It is better to get the enemy to submit. If we can avoid bloodshed, it makes life easier after the war.”

  Sir Angelo grinned. “Impressive.” The creases around his green eyes deepening, he turned to his comrade and said, “Almost as if he had years of court training, don’t you think?”

  The snarly Sir Mascaro said, “I defer to your experienced wisdom.”

  Sir Angelo continued, looking again at Francisco. “My other comrades at arms waged war that troubled my soul. When I fight, how can I tell whom is friend or foe, whom to kill or heal?”

  “That’s easy,” Mateo said. “His colors, banners, flags.”

  “Allegiances change overnight,” Sir Angelo said. “Under your current philosophy, people are only good or only evil. There is no redemption for the enemy or a cruel uncle or, for that matter, any hope for you, if you fail.”

  A chill ran up Francisco’s spine when Sir Angelo
mentioned a cruel uncle. No redemption? You don’t know my Uncle Bernat. Francisco’s jaw clenched, but he held his tongue.

  Sir Angelo continued, not taking his eyes off Francisco. “Kings and kingdoms come and go with the weather. And although you serve your king, and rightly so, it is your conscience that you must live with for the rest of your life. You cannot stand before the throne of heaven and say that man here or that woman over there made me do it. Let your conscience be your guide, and pray for direction. Pray for it constantly.”

  Francisco showed no outward sign of agreement or disagreement. Inwardly he felt a little defensive. Who is this Sir Angelo who knows about the stone and my Uncle? Is he a genie, angel, or demon? His words make sense, but they could be deceptive. Why is he here now? If he’s so good, then why didn’t he show up and save my parents or help me help others on the streets?

  Sir Angelo turned and bowed to Sergeant Gombal. “Do I have leave now to join your squad?”

  “You proved yourself, but your grumpy friend there hasn’t.”

  Sir Mascaro stepped forward, bowed deeply, and said, “I await your second campeador.”

  Again, the squad argued over who had a better shot at him. Although they had a larger pool to choose from, now that the other squads had joined them, Gombal himself stepped forward.

  “You cannot fight my friend,” Sir Angelo protested. “You are the arbiter.”

  Greasy stepped forward and said, “I’m a better arbiter than ‘im. I got both my eyes.” He grinned.

  Sir Angelo shook his head. “You’re too old to fight.”

  Gombal stuck out his chest. “I’m younger than you.”

  Sir Angelo shrugged. “This much is true. If you win, then Sir Mascaro shall leave tomorrow morning, and you keep his blade.”

  “Is that wise?” Sir Mascaro asked. He studied Sir Angelo’s eyes, and submitted by bowing his head. “You know best, sensei.”

  Sir Angelo lowered his voice. “Do you actually believe he will win?” Turning to Gombal he continued, “If Sir Mascaro wins, we both stay. Agreed?”

  Gombal grunted his approval and pointed to Sir Mascaro. “If there’s to be any speeches afterward, I would rather listen to him. He don’t say much.” The crowd laughed. Gombal took Goliath’s buckler, stood at his place in the arena, and rocked his head from side to side, stretching.

  Sir Angelo handed Sir Mascaro the buckler, but he refused it.

  “You must wear it.”

  “It is not my way. You know that.”

  “It is their way,” Sir Angelo insisted, “and you must follow their customs. Wear it.”

  Sir Mascaro received it with both hands, bowed deeply, and tied the tiny shield to his waist with his belt, allowing it to dangle from his hip. Sir Mascaro took his place at the arena, sword drawn, facing his opponent with a deadly stare. The sword was indeed strange; it was slightly curved like a Saracen blade but longer and did not taper at the end. Sir Mascaro held it with two hands, pointed it down at the ground, and stood with his legs awkwardly apart, bent at the knees and right foot far forward.

  Greasy stepped forward, holding his hand out between the combatants, looking grim and more serious than Francisco had ever seen him. “Are you ready?”

  Sir Mascaro nodded.

  Gombal said, “Yes.”

  “Begin!” Greasy dropped his hand and hopped out of the arena.

  Sir Mascaro did not dance like Sir Angelo. He sheathed his sword. Francisco couldn’t believe it. Doesn’t the genie know the rules? What magic does he have, power over the wind and sky?

  Gombal stood, dumbfounded. He asked Sir Mascaro, “Do you forfeit?” He looked at Greasy. “Does he forfeit?”

  “You know the rules,” Greasy answered. “He has to say ‘yield.’”

  Gombal looked at Sir Mascaro. “Do you yield?”

  The knight shook his head.

  Gombal took a step forward and said, “I’m not one to trifle with. Draw your sword.”

  Sir Mascaro only stared back.

  “At least hold up your buckler. I don’t want to bleed you.”

  No response.

  “Fool!” Gombal raised his sword above his head and stepped forward. In a move so quick and fierce that Francisco almost missed it, Sir Mascaro stepped forward to the side and blocked the strike with one hand at the veteran’s wrist and another at the elbow. He grabbed Gombal’s hilt, forcing it down while pressing against his elbow. He must have locked the veteran’s wrist or something, because in the next instant he pushed Gombal back, retaining the sword. Disarmed, on his back, and peering around his shoulder at the tip of his own sword a hair’s width from his nose, Gombal reluctantly stammered, “Yield. I yield.”

  Genie magic, no doubt.

  Sir Mascaro placed Gombal’s sword on the ground beside him, took a step back, bowed, and offered the veteran a hand up.

  The crowd was too astonished to cheer, but Francisco heard a few murmurs of admiration. Sir Mascaro stepped out of the arena. Gombal recovered himself and said, “Very well, then. I’m a man of my word, I am. And though I’ve never been beaten like that, I’m man enough to admit it before the King and all the world. It will be good luck to have a couple of knights in our ranks. The good Lord knows what they’re feeding you Franks.” He handed the bowl back to Sir Angelo. “You’re welcome to breakfast with us, but you’ll need to do your share of the chores, and that means washing up.”

  The crowd started to disperse.

  Sir Angelo sat on a large rock facing the fire. His posture, erect and observant, showed a patient watchfulness. He inclined his head toward Francisco and smiled.

  His teeth are too perfect and white. He’s a genie, and there’s no denying it.

  Sir Mascaro bowed deeply to Gombal and knelt next to Sir Angelo in an odd manner that looked painful: resting back on his feet with toes still pointed to the ground. He didn’t eat but kept his hands palm-down on his thighs.

  Keeping an eye on the genie-knights, Francisco scooped out a little overcooked porridge and sat down next to Sancho. He slid his hand into the warm paste and shoveled it into his mouth.

  Greasy squinted at him. “Go easy there, boy. Oats is a curtailing treat. We may soon be eating shoe broth if they don’t find Miramamolin34 soon.” Francisco glanced at the veteran’s bowl. It contained a heap twice his own portion.

  As the crowd thinned, three Castilian knights escorting an elderly, unarmed nobleman rode up to Sir Angelo. Francisco had noticed them after Goliath’s fight, but thought they were just spectators. The knights helped the elderly noble dismount, handling him with respect and patience. As the nobleman stepped forward, wonderment filled his watery eyes. “Is that you, truly you, Sir Angelo?” He reached out a hand and touched the knight’s cheek. “Do you remember me?”

  Sir Angelo glanced around uneasily and answered quietly. It was the first time Francisco saw him nervous. “I assume,” he said, “his majesty sent you?”

  The moment of wonder slipped from the nobleman’s eyes. “You must be his grandson. That’s it. His grandson.” He cleared his throat. “Hem, yes. Follow me.”

  Francisco leaned over and whispered to Sancho, “He may be a good genie, or he may just be a knight, but he’s hiding something, and that’s never a good sign.”

  Sancho shook his head. “Enough with your scrutiny. The man has proven himself. I for one am glad he and Sir Mascaro are on our side.”

  “Are they?” Francisco asked.

  Sir Angelo mounted a fourth horse and followed the old noble to the command tent.

  Gombal stared after them in shock. He crossed himself. “Dear Mary and Saint Joseph. Sir Angelo does know our King.”

  Chapter 25

  Angelo

  Fortress of Calatrava

  Local Date: 2 July 1212

  THE CASTILIAN KNIGHTS and elderly nobleman escorted Angelo on horseback to the command tent towards the rear of the camp. It was early morning with the sun low, but it was already muggy with a layer of haze on the horiz
on. They passed Guillem de Cabestany, clothed in his black travel costume and playing a fiddle. Several militiamen, and seven knights of the military Order of Santiago, who were watching him play, glared at Angelo as he passed. Instinctively, sensing a threat, Angelo activated his froneesis implant, which gave him heightened analytical abilities. He chose not to use it or his gravity manipulating gravitas implant when he sparred with Goliath, although during the fight he almost had to switch it on; Goliath had earned his name. Angelo tried to rely on his natural abilities as much as possible. He needed to keep sharp. He was in the habit of telling his apprentices that, “One never knows when one will lose Avar-Tek abilities.”

  With his froneesis switched on, Angelo instantly knew the history of the Order of Santiago, the training tactics they used, who their commander was, and his disposition. He calculated only a 7.6 percent probability they would try to assault him. If it came, the assault would be weaponless and nonlethal, and the man nearest to him, man number one with the gray cowl, would lunge at him. It would be a feint. The attack would come from the two behind him. Two and three would pull him from his horse. Once down, two would wrap his arm around Angelo’s neck in a choke-hold, pulling him back. Number three would strike him in the gut. Number one: backhand to his face. Two would drop him to the ground, kick him. Name calling. Crowd laughing. These thoughts passed through Angelo’s mind in well under a second. The images and concepts came so quickly that time seemed to slow for Angelo. Each element of the attack had its own probability level and Angelo knew of several counter attacks for each. The thoughts were so intuitive and instinctual, they seemed to him as one fluid motion, like muscle-memory, an action so practiced it became second nature. If the knights did attack him, his response would be so swift that it would appear like an effortless dance.

  As he rode past the knights, the probability of attack quickly diminished. The crowd’s mood changed, cheering for Guillem. Probability of attack dropped to zero.

  His escort brought him to the command tent. Armed bishops stood on either side of the path, and most greeted him with stares of defiance and disgust. If Angelo were to put words behind their body language, they would be, “Tired of the heat and lack of bloodshed? Go home.” This bothered him, being despised by the people he was helping, in this, the land of his birth.