The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1)

by Darrell Newton

  “We shall buy her. You can name the price if you show the path to our king.”

  Martin’s eyes brightened. “Oh, then show me to your king.” He leaned into his cottage door and said, “I got a buyer. I’ll be back.”

  He fetched a torch, and Angelo and Miyuki led him back to the encampment. At the center of the camp at the top of a steep hill, the kings had established their command in a modest outpost with one meeting hall and two towers called Ferrel Castle. Angelo told Miyuki on the way there that the castle had been abandoned by the Almohads upon word of the army’s approach.

  As they walked up to the double doors of the outpost, Angelo greeted one of the guards. “This man here, a local shepherd, by the name of Martin Halaja has information concerning a pass through the mountains. His directions may aid his Majesty.”

  Martin, panting from the steep climb, bowed awkwardly, took off his cap, and fidgeted with it.

  The guard turned to Angelo and asked, “Your name?”

  “Sir Angelo.”

  “Ah. Very well, you may take him in.”

  “It may be better,” Angelo said, “if you took him.”

  The guard hesitated, but then nodded. “Lacking in the king’s favor of late? Very well, I shall take the honor.”

  Angelo and Miyuki followed the guard and the shepherd, but held back at the door to watch. The sparse furnishings in the simple castle were crafted with finer detail than the traditional heavy, thick Castilian style. A tapestry on the wall next to the stairs showed a repeating geometric pattern instead of a mythic or contemporary scene. Several men of rank stood around a large table with maps laid out under a many-candled lamp hung from the ceiling. The mood was grave. Arms were crossed, faces dour, and three men in the corner spoke in low, urgent tones as if a heated discussion had just ended. Contrary to this mood, Miyuki was excited that her efforts were now affecting royalty again. She thought she had given this up to become a Sittiri. She found her work as a Sittiri affected both the great and small in lands around the world.

  The guard announced, “Your Majesties, may I present, Martin Halaja, a local shepherd, who has information about a pass through the mountains that may aid our crusade.”

  Martin stepped forward as an unassuming midget among great men of arms.

  King Alfonso VIII glanced over to the door and caught Angelo’s eye. Barely suppressing a smile, the King inclined his head toward Angelo and Miyuki.

  Angelo bowed, followed by Miyuki, and they departed.

  Chapter 30

  Francisco

  Sierra Morena Mountains

  Summer, Year of our Lord 1212

  26 Days on the March

  IN THE EARLY HOURS AFTER MIDNIGHT, the Spanish army quietly descended the hidden pass pointed out by the shepherd and marked with cow skulls. Scouts had gone before and returned with the news that no enemy had been seen on the heights or lurking in the ravines below.

  “One torch for every six of you and keep three spares,” Gombal had told them after they packed. “I hear tell the way is treacherous with rocks and pits. Keep your eyes on your feet. Our scouts have cleared the path, so no need for watchful eyes on dark places. Fear not the enemies’ eyes. Their camp is hidden behind many summits and they expect us through the Pass of Losa.”

  Francisco’s militia had no dinner, wanting to save the remains of their rations for the day of battle. With the meager meals they had over the last few days, Francisco felt light-headed but fared better than the other militia who had not spent hungry nights on Toledo’s streets. Rumor had it that the kings bought the shepherd’s entire flock and were saving it for a victory feast. Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a little tender mutton right now.

  The narrow path down the mountain forced them to walk, at most, four abreast and the wagons made it slow going. At times, brush and trees hemmed them in or opened to a field over hills and down gullies. It seemed like they were always walking on an angle and never straight. After the first hour, Francisco had forgotten his hunger.

  Despite this, everyone was excited. Never on the crusade had there been secrecy like this. Never had they been so close to Miramamolin’s army. Never before had so many rumors spread so quickly in the ranks. Bishops, knights, sergeants, and peons reveled in new tales told by flickering torchlight. Even as Francisco shared this enthusiasm, he had an indescribable empty feeling, like a longing for the familiar that would soon be lost.

  Mateo who walked behind Francisco said, “Bishop Rodrigo Jiménez de Rada himself said the shepherd is an angel who leads God’s people to victory over the infidel.”

  “Nay,” Sancho said, “does he not know his own scriptures? You Christians say it was the angels that visited the shepherds by night, not the other way around.”

  “I hope it was an angel,” Goliath said, torch in hand and pointing at their path markers. Shadows from the passing torchlight made the empty eye sockets in the cow’s skull seem to move. “‘Cause these skulls vex me something terrible.”

  “It is said,” Mateo continued, “that Miramamolin, the Caliph himself, has red hair and blue eyes and is the son of a Christian concubine.”

  “Aye,” Gombal said, two rows back. “There be truth in that, and stranger things I’ve seen with my one eye than the lot of you have seen with two. I’ve witnessed a genie chopping a man’s head clean off with naught but her breath. And a big man at that. An innkeeper in Toledo. He had the misfortune of charging her too much for beer.” He laughed. “I tell that to every barmaid now, and pay half the price.”

  To their left, Francisco caught the glimmer of two glowing eyes. He pointed.

  “Ai,” Goliath squealed. The eyes disappeared.

  “Was that a deer?” Francisco asked.

  “Hope it ain’t boar,” Gombal said.

  “I hope it ain’t a demon,” Goliath said.

  They stopped. The wagon before them was stuck. They had come to a hill, and stones as large, flat, and sharp-edged as tables covered the slope before them. “Up, men,” Gombal ordered. “Lend a hand.” They put their shoulders and backs to the wagon, careful not to twist an ankle.

  As soon as the wagon made it over the last outcropping, Francisco paired up with Sancho a few paces behind the torch-bearing Goliath. He turned to Sancho. “Did you hear what Gombal said about the genie in the tavern? Think I’m crazy now?”

  “I saw Sir Mascaro vanish last night,” Sancho said quietly and looked over his shoulder.

  “You saw … when?”

  “Right after I gave the shield to you. He walked out into the darkness and was no more.”

  “Ha!” Francisco said. “We’re surrounded by genies!”

  “Not so loud. You spoke the truth. I confess that he and Sir Angelo are genies. I can trust them no longer.”

  “But they may be good genies. He did save you.”

  “After the scouts attacked us?” Sancho asked. “That could have been your magic.”

  “No. My stone didn’t have enough time.”

  “I now doubt the wisdom of joining the crusade.”

  “Sancho, have I not stayed by your side and healed you? Well, except for the scout thing, but haven’t I kept my vow?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, what vexes you? You have a chance to avenge your family’s death.”

  “Do you not understand?” Sancho stopped and turned to Francisco, his face tight with anger, his words strained. “I killed them. I am the reason they died. Their blood is on my hands!” He looked around. Everyone was gawking at him. He balled up his fists, gritted his teeth, growled, and walked on.

  “And it’s a good thing too,” Francisco said loudly to cover for his friend. “Those Saracens had it coming!” Militia behind them and Gombal and Mateo in front, who had been staring, turned and cheered. Francisco caught up with Sancho and said quietly, “You killed your family?”

  “Not by my own hands, but by my actions. I left the house unbidden one night and did not return until the next morning. My parents—they
always talked about Aaron.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Yes. ‘He knows his letters,’ they would say, ‘why not you? Oh, look, Moshe. Aaron gets to read in the synagogue. Oh, look, Moshe. Aaron has translated his first book.’ Meshugeh!” Tears slid from Sancho’s eyes. Francisco looked around to make sure no one noticed. This was not a good time. “When I was out that night,” Sancho continued, “the riot started. A visiting imam from Marrakesh had been stirring them up. The Muslims were enforcing their laws and cleaning the city. There were fires, screams, like the riot in Toledo but worse. I hid. All night long, I hid. When I came out the next morning and headed back home, the streets were empty—the quiet, the smell of smoke, and a few bodies. I found him.” He wiped his eyes. “There on the street, face down. I didn’t know it was him at first. Father. I couldn’t … I couldn’t feel anything, and I knew it was because of me—he came out looking for me and they found him.”

  “So, you left?”

  “No, I went back home. They had burned it. And I found Aaron and my mother.” He wiped his face on his mantle. “I couldn’t stay. I had to run.”

  “To Toledo?”

  “My path led me there over time.”

  “And you didn’t go see your people there.”

  Sancho grabbed Francisco’s arm. His grip dug in and hurt despite the chainmail. “Never. You don’t understand. The shame would be too great.”

  They walked in silence for a while.

  “Sancho, you did not kill your family any more than I killed mine.”

  Sancho didn’t reply.

  “All we can do now is our best in this fight, and when it’s over, you and I will go back to Toledo and talk to the rabbi there.”

  “Oy. A murderer and a Christian go to see a rabbi. It sounds like the start of one of Mateo’s stories.”

  They laughed.

  Francisco turned and looked Sancho in the eye, “I think of you as my brother.”

  “You’re a Christian.”

  “You are still my brother.” Francisco shrugged. “But if you want to become a Christian—”

  Sancho grunted.

  “I want you to go to heaven. I would miss you if you didn’t. I know you’re a Jew, but you should think about taking the sacraments.”

  “I thought about it.” Something over the next rise caught his eye. “Is that a brushfire?”

  “A brushfire?” Francisco asked. “We march all night to be trapped and killed by a fire?” He hadn’t noticed it before because Goliath’s torch was in the way, but now he could see it. The next rise was outlined by a slight orange-yellow glow as if a fire burned in the next ravine. When they got to the summit, there was no ravine. A large plain spread out before them and off to their left at the other end of the valley, they saw an encampment so large that its campfires—even this close to morning—still lit the night sky.

  “That’s no brushfire,” Sancho said, “but it may yet be our deaths.”

  Chapter 31

  Ceolwulf

  Cordoba

  Local Date: 6 Safar 609

  CEOLWULF SAT SLUMPED IN A CHAIR before Commander Eden and two of his bull-headed guards. He pretended to bend under the weight of the commander’s reprimand and feigned ignorance. Eden’s guards loomed over him, pressed against him by the confines of the tiny room. Usually such business would take place downstairs in the Key’ari regional headquarters.

  From the outside, the entry to the regional headquarters looked like any other shop in this souk of Cordoba, but its open front end of musical instruments drew few buyers. A boy in his early teens watched over the specialty shop of qitaras, ouds, rababs, and psalteries. The boy sat bored, ignored potential customers, and occasionally swished away flies with a horsehair fly swatter. It was in the back rooms of the shop and in the huge complex beneath ground that the real business took place.

  It was in this back room, painted a light blue, that Ceolwulf played the role of a dumb brute to buy time. A window behind him overlooked the street one level below, where boys kicked a makeshift ball up and down the alley. The stairs that lead to the headquarters complex descended to his left. A painting hung on the wall behind the guard to his right. It looked like a painting of a lone swordsman kneeling on a bloody battlefield filled with the bodies of his foes. Above him and to the left were written the words “Duty, Loyalty, Service, Valor, Obedience, Courage.” Below the swordsman was the Key’ari symbol, an eye surrounded by a snake eating its tale. The painting would have been unremarkable except these were the traits of the ever-present Key’ari motto; and the words were written in the Vantu script of Avar. Ceolwulf saw these same words and snake-eye symbol every day. They flashed on the side of his oc-lok display whenever he turned it on. He read them as subtext in the Key’ari news reports. He saw them modeled in the stories of Key’ari heroes. Anyone who knew of the Key’ari and walked into the back room and saw this image knew they stood in Key’ari territory. If the religious police ever saw this painting, they would have torn it down and arrested Eden for idolatry, but they never came back this far.

  “Why is Angelo still here?” Eden asked, a little too close for comfort.

  His sour breath made Ceolwulf wince. Oh, master of bad breath, Ceolwulf thought, why do you not cast your thoughts? Thoughts carry no odor. “Investigating?” Ceolwulf stammered. “Vacationing?”

  Eden glared at Ceolwulf and said, “Erik reported Avar-Tek signatures in the Spanish army. One of his scouts has seen Angelo in the King’s tent.” He scrutinized Ceolwulf’s reaction.

  Ceolwulf restrained his emotions. If he continued to play the fool, Eden wouldn’t suspect his intent.

  Eden looked out the window and said, “We killed the wrong man.”

  “Maybe Angelo has another assignment. The Troubadour was his first and he—”

  “This soon? This close?” Eden waved him off. “Ah, there is no more time to waste arguing with you. Angelo and another Sittiri are trailing a squad of militia.”

  “Erik’s scouts saw this?”

  “I have ordered Erik and his scouts into the battle so they can kill militiamen in Angelo’s company.” He chuckled. “It was so thoughtful for the natives to make war for us.” Eden stretched his neck by tilting his head slowly from side to side. “I will send you also. Alone. I am not reinstating you. You have no one under your command yet.”

  “And the Sittiri, capture them?”

  “Fool. Stay clear of Angelo.” He looked at Ceolwulf and rubbed his scarred chin. “This is your last chance. Do it right, and you have double your gold and your recruits back. Fail me, and you’ll spend a month in stocks as a trainee.”

  Ceolwulf stood up, acting like a whipped dog eager to please his master. Oh, he hated the ruse. Maybe this time Eden would give him a verisuit. “What should I wear?”

  “Armor.” Eden sneered. “This is war, you fool.”

  Chapter 32

  Miyuki

  Las Navas de Tolosa

  Local Date: 15 July 1212

  TOMORROW WE BATTLE, Miyuki cast.

  Angelo nodded. The Castilians have been holding mass and taking confessions since sunrise. I doubt they will charge now.

  Miyuki looked up into the sky. The sun was well past its zenith and bore down with nearly unbearable heat on steel armor. Banners flipped lazily in the still air. The sound of the polishing and sharpening arms mingled with the strains of religious service. The militiamen, after standing in formation most of the day, were losing their lust for battle. The deep thumping of Almohad kettledrums, called atabals,44 which at first terrified the troops, had become an incessant pounding that nearly drove some mad.

  We should recruit Francisco now, she cast. Waiting is too dangerous.

  And how do you suppose the eighth line of the prophecy will then have its fulfillment?

  ‘A warrior who falls in battle?’ You hit him and I trip him.

  Hmm. Angelo smirked. And then we say, ‘Greetings, want to become a genie?’

  Yes,
Miyuki cast. ‘Come join us, and we will show you how to chop off people’s heads.’

  Trainee Miyuki, I do believe this land is starting to corrupt your disciplined bushido ways. He looked at her. Or is it me?

  My people have humor. It is often too subtle for the uncivilized to appreciate.

  Angelo laughed. It would have appeared odd for anyone watching: a knight standing silently on the hill who suddenly laughed for no reason.

  Miyuki made a concerted effort to cast without using her hands. If Francisco is to fall in battle, does that mean he will fall down or that he will be killed? Should we be ready with fieldstones?

  We must protect Francisco from death, but allow him to fall in battle as the prophecy says. Employing fieldstones would be wise.

  Then we cannot ride, Miyuki cast.

  No. On foot, we can defend and heal him faster. Stay in stealth mode and avoid killing anyone. I can imagine the string of rifts if we don’t. We could kill someone whose descendant invents air travel. Listen to your onyo. You know how chaotic war is.

  But in stealth, the Key’ari can see us.

  There are no Key’ari. I made sure of it. We have only to deal with swords and arrows. He held his hands out before him, indicating the battle formations. Your assessment, Trainee?

  Miyuki took a deep breath and cast, Both king and caliph have established their camps on hilltops that offer the best terrain for their own approach to battle. Since the heavy Spanish knights gain advantage from momentum, the caliph has chosen a position that would force the knights on the wings to traverse uneven ground and thus slow their advance. Caliph Muhammad al-Nasir has taunted this army with his light cavalry to provoke King Alfonso VIII to take the field. It seemed all too familiar to her. She could see this same battlefield in her homeland - different armor and weapons, but similar tactics. Does this bring back memories?

  Angelo nodded. He looked at her and cast, I hate war. It may be necessary at times, but should be avoided until the last. War never comes alone, but is followed by famine and disease and gives birth.