The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1)

by Darrell Newton

  Confused, Miyuki looked at him.

  He returned her look with a raised eyebrow. By birth I mean, war creates more wars. It gives the next generation an excuse to do it all over again. Peace is our natural state. A long time ago, a friend of mine said, ‘In peace, sons bury their fathers. In war, fathers bury their sons.’

  Chapter 33

  Francisco

  Las Navas de Tolosa

  Summer, Year of our Lord 1212

  27 Days on the March

  IN THE SEMI-DARKNESS BEFORE DAWN, Francisco sat on his mat in the privacy of their tent and poured the last spoonsful of hungry-paste over the healing stone. Today, he thought, I finally take the stone into a pitched battle. He pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. He had a hard time sleeping. His fingers tingled and his stomach tightened with a fear that the owner of a healing stone should not have: fear of pain, of injury, and of dying. He rested his chin on his knees, and watched the paste slide off the stone. He inventoried the dwindling hungry-paste supplies.

  Charcoal: gone.

  Salt in water: gone, but easy to make.

  A rusty iron buckle: only pieces left.

  Granite: gone.

  Mispickel: gone three days ago.

  Copper ore: gone last week.

  Kaolinite: ran out yesterday.

  A bell clanged from the center of camp. Mass? Already?

  He crawled outside and saw Sancho and the rest of their squad sipping from bowls next to the campfire.

  Francisco nodded towards Sancho’s bowl. “Broth? Let me have some.”

  “Get your own bowl.”

  He whispered through gritted teeth. “It has hungry-paste in it.”

  Sancho handed him his half-filled bowl and whispered in his ear, “You are better served by eating the paste, my friend.”

  Gombal gave Francisco that you-better-not-make-us-late-again look and said, “Time to confess your sins, take the Eucharist, and get right with God.”

  “Again?” Francisco asked. “We just did that yesterday.”

  “Don’t question Archbishop Rodrigo,” Gombal snapped. “If he says you sinned at night, then you confess it.” He glanced at Francisco’s bare legs. “And for the love of the saints, lad, gird on your steel. We muster for battle after mass.”

  Francisco downed the thin broth in three gulps and quickly slipped on his chainmail.

  He patted his chest and looked around. “My gloves?”

  “In the tent,” everyone said.

  Francisco knelt and reached into the tent, put his gloves on, pulled the stone from the bowl, and slipped it into his left glove. He had cut a slit on the glove’s palm and fashioned a pouch for the stone underneath. The slit worked well by exposing enough of the rock to heal, and he wouldn’t likely drop the stone like he did when the Moorish scouts attacked.

  He fished in his bag and dragged out the item that weighed him down during the entire march. Wrapped in white linen, it clanked and scraped the ground as he pulled it to him: La Grande’s gift.

  The second bell rang.

  Amidst the taste of dust, the sound of heavy warhorses stamping, chainmail clinking, and the sight of spearheads glittering, Alcalde Umberto screeched out orders to form ranks. Francisco and Sancho fell into formation in the third row of Toledo’s militia, shoulder to shoulder, shield to shield with hundreds of other peons from his city. The sun had crept up over the horizon to light a dust-laden haze. Having plowed with his father, shoveled manure for his uncle, slept on the streets, and folded steel, Francisco knew the taste of dust. He knew its quality and texture, and this morning it had a new flavor. Kicked up by thousands of boots, seasoned with steel blade and warhorse manure, just a pinch of fear, and soon to be baked in an unforgiving summer sun, it had an aftertaste of death.

  Pointing to the white bundle under Francisco’s arm, Sancho asked, “Is that what La Grande gave to you?”

  Francisco held it before him and let the first segment flop over, which was heavy and pulled the next segment over. Segments continued pulling and flopping until Francisco held the strip from one end as the other dangled. He wrapped it around his neck and cinched the tie string. It dug into the soft spot under his chin.

  Sancho stared at it for half a minute, and then he smiled. “It looks uncomfortable.”

  Francisco said quietly enough so Umberto wouldn’t hear him, “Mother of God, it’s going to be hot.”

  “Stop cursing or the stone will not work,” Sancho said.

  “You believe in the immaculate conception?”

  “No, but you do, and that makes it profane. Besides, it will not be that hot.”

  “Yes, it will.”

  Sancho rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh, that cool breeze on my neck feels so good.”

  “Shut your mouth or I won’t heal you.”

  Sancho stifled a laugh. “Yes, you will. Without me, you will not know if they are coming at you from the sides. You cannot turn your head.”

  “We are in a good position, lads,” Gombal said loud enough for the squad to hear. “We are flanked by knights. In front, Castilian, Calatrava, Santiago, the Hospitallers and the Templars led by don Diego Lopez de Haro. To the right, those led by Sancho of Navarre. To the left, Pedro of Aragon. Behind, Archbishop Rodrigo and King Alfonso himself. And knights mixed in with us militia.”

  Francisco nudged Sancho and whispered, “I’m in a good spot to heal.”

  Behind them Gombal said, “Wish there was a hospital nearby. Along the route to St. James, now there’s a place for a man to be stricken ill. Saracen or Christian alike, they take anyone in.”

  “Quiet in the ranks,” Umberto screeched, but few paid heed.

  Francisco took his neck armor off. “This is daft,” he said. It dropped to the ground with three loud clangs. Alcalde Umberto, who was riding by in front of them, looked around for the cause of the noise. He saw several heads turned towards Francisco, scowled at him, and trotted off down the line.

  Sancho, still looking forward, asked, “You had metal in it?”

  “Steel.”

  “Steel? That is heavy, solid protection.” Sancho looked down at it and then up at Francisco. “So... can I wear it?’

  Francisco ignored him and focused on the enemy. They had formed up along a slight rise, with Al Nasir’s huge, red tent at the center.

  “Ah, the enemy has the Berber cavalry in front,” Gombal said. “Light armor but very fast.” He squinted. “And archers, some infantry, but mostly archers. Deadly Turkish archers. We must drive in among them with haste, lads.”

  Mateo asked, “You can see that with your one eye?”

  “No.” Gombal shook his head slowly. “I can smell ‘em.”

  Goliath moaned. “That’s an awful lot of horses.”

  “At the top of the hill behind them,” Gombal said, “see the big red tent? That be Miramamolin. We fight our way to that tent.”

  The atabal drums started again, sending a shiver up Francisco’s spine.

  “Fear not the atabals,” Gombal said. “God is on our side.”

  “I don’t think he chooses sides,” Francisco said. “It is we who do the choosing.”

  From across the field they heard fierce jeering.

  Francisco mumbled the Hebrew verse.

  “I love it when you speak Hebrew,” Sancho said. “All you Christians should, you know.”

  “What?”

  “You were saying the verse.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  Sancho smiled.

  Francisco smirked and traced the sign of the cross over his chest with his thumb while chanting in Latin, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” He turned to Sancho. “There,” he said and nodded with a pious smirk. “Feel better?”

  “Oy, so much for you seeing the light.”

  There was a rush of orders from commanders on horseback; banners raised, and formations realigned. His shield strapped to his left arm, Francisco reached around with his right and gripp
ed his sword hilt tightly. It was solid and cool to the touch. He clenched his left hand around the stone, feeling the paste ooze in his glove. Can the hand of a healer be the hand of a killer?

  Spanish trumpets blasted. Moorish atabals answered.

  En masse the army moved forward at walking pace except for the knights in front led by Don Diego Lopez, which charged. It was a walk into a dream, a rush of excitement.

  It began.

  On the plains rumbling all at once came the sound of Berber horsemen charging. From the flanks, they swiftly flew, lightly armored in fine chainmail under robes and turbans, waving curved scimitars above their heads, and screeching a battle cry. They distracted Francisco, and when he looked forward again, he saw what looked like a flock of birds flying toward him. Arrows! Almost too late, he lifted his shield in time for two broad-heads to slam into it. Cries of pain rang out around him and one agonizing scream from behind. He tilted his shield to the ground and knocked the arrows free. He turned to see the cry came from Goliath, who caught an arrow in his chest.

  Alcalde Umberto screeched, “Charge!” The Toledo militia rushed forward with eager war cries.

  Ignoring Gombal’s warnings to “Leave him, lad,” Francisco headed back past the charging militiamen to Goliath. He pressed his foot against the giant’s chest and pulled the arrow out. Goliath screamed and blood gushed from the wound and his mouth. The arrow had pierced his chainmail near his heart. Francisco, bumped by passing militia, knelt and pressed his left hand to his friend’s chest.

  Halfway through the Hebrew verse, Goliath sat up and said, “I knew it was true. You did heal my nose.”

  Francisco helped Goliath back to his feet. “Tell no one,” he said, and then ran as fast as he could, pushing his way through rows of shoulders and shields, back towards Sancho. He stepped over one man from the front row holding his leg with an arrow through it. Francisco resisted the urge to heal him also. I must stay by Sancho’s side. This man is in God’s hands.

  When he came within sight of Sancho, the enemy infantry fell upon them. The impact of their clash, shield to shield, sword to sword, broke with the sound of a thousand iron kettles tumbling down a mountain. Battle cries and moans of agony sang their grim harmony. Francisco finally drew his sword. Three militiamen in front turned and fled in fear. The front lines melted into fights of two or three, until one fell and another took his place in a brutal dance of death. For Francisco the healer-become-soldier, the concept of noble warfare began to fade. It was the kill-or-be-killed streets of Toledo all over again, but this time he fought skilled men at arms.

  To his left, eyes as young as his own confronted him. They peered out between a blue turban and a round shield. The fire of anger burned fierce within the young man’s eyes as they fixed on Francisco. Excitement gave way to training and instinct. Francisco raised his shield and felt the impact of the young Moor’s scimitar shock his forearm.

  He thrust with sword, but the Moor deflected it with his scimitar. A flash of the Moor’s red shield hit Francisco’s cheek with enough force to break bone. He tasted blood on impact. Anger blocked out the pain from a cut the stone would soon heal. Recalling a lesson from Gombal, Francisco let loose a wrap. He punched forward with the sword blade pointing back and resting on his arm until his arm was extended. When his arm reached full extension, his wrist flicked, and the sword whipped around the Moor’s shield. The blade dug deep into the folds of the enemy’s turban.

  The Moor—a man, a young man … now a dead, young man—didn’t even cry out, but simply slumped, and slid off the sword as Francisco watched in morbid horror, but he had little time to console his conscience. The deed was done, just like that Key’ari recruiter in the alley back in Toledo. They aren’t men like me, he told himself, but men like Uncle Bernat or the street thugs who don’t listen to reason. They only want to take and kill. For them, they deserve no mercy, only death. I have no choice but to fight now, if not for justice, then for saving my friends and myself. The thought didn’t sit right in his gut. Then another thought gripped him. Is the stone still healing? He didn’t taste blood anymore, but he had no time to check. The battle’s dance of death swept him up, and in self-defense, he killed two Moorish soldiers. He noted Sancho fared just as well, but he had a swollen gash under his left eye. I’ll heal that later. To his left, Mateo and Goliath were fighting side by side, Goliath pushing through and Mateo taking care of the ones that fell.

  Don Diego had charged deeply into the enemy’s lines, but he had expended his thrust. The sheer number of the Moors was as an overwhelming flood washing the knights backward, and the flood was heading for Francisco.

  All this he noticed within a heartbeat. The next Moor, a huge man with a green turban, fell upon him with a downward thrust that clove into Francisco’s shield. It knocked Francisco to the left. Using the motion, Francisco stepped forward with his right foot and put his whole body into the snap-thrust. His hips twisted first, shoulder forward. Tucking his shield in, he extended his arm, swinging the sword around over the enemy’s shield and into his skull. Snap. Four down.

  Gombal yelled, “Press on. Aid the knights!”

  Francisco tossed his splintered shield aside. Easier to use the stone. The next attack came not from the front, but unseen at first from his right side. He held his sword up too late to block the man’s sword. Before the blow hit Francisco, the warrior fell backward, not off balance but as if he were unnaturally pulled away like the scouts in the ravine. It was as if an invisible hand plucked him and flung him backwards. Two Moors and one militiaman fell back with him. The way before Francisco suddenly cleared. Dismayed, Francisco gawked a moment too long. He turned to his right to see rows of Berber cavalry, charging with wild eyes, dressed in black robes with white, flowing Arabic letters painted on front.

  “Cavalry flanking!” Gombal cried. “Oh, Mother of God, have mercy.”

  Francisco stood alone with Gombal. Sancho had worked his way far to his left with Mateo and Goliath, and fresh militia behind them were too far back.

  Francisco gripped his healing stone and planted his feet, ready to be overrun. God, I wish I had La Grande’s gift.

  Without warning, the lead horse buckled and fell, flipping the rider. Javelins thrown from militia behind and to the right came down upon the leading equestrians, and the first row of onrushing cavalry fell in a tumble and tripped up the ones behind them. Gombal crossed himself. With the charge of the cavalry hindered, the second wave of Spanish Militia advanced to Francisco and Gombal in time.

  “Sancho!” Francisco yelled. He pushed through the new wave. A black-dressed Moor screamed and blocked his way, wielding a scimitar and large shield. While the man held his head back to scream, Francisco locked the pummel of his sword hilt around the top of the warrior’s shield. With a heave, he pulled it forward and off the man’s arm. The man stumbled forward and into Francisco’s lunging sword.

  In five more strides, a panting Francisco stood next to Sancho.

  “Get lost?” Sancho asked.

  “Oh, have mercy,” Francisco gasped.

  The fight with the infantry and Berber cavalry grew more intense. For every enemy that fell, two more took his place. Sancho thrust his shield forward, knocking a Moor off balance. Francisco followed with a side thrust that cut deeply into the man’s arm. It was then something cut deeply into his right leg. He fell to the ground and instinctively grabbed his calf. The blood was slick and warm, but soon stopped. Before it had time to finish healing, he hopped back up to block a blow aimed at Sancho.

  By sheer mass of bodies alone, the Almohad pressed them back, and the brawl turned into a rout. Francisco dare not turn his back on the enemy, but kept next to Sancho as they moved backward. Tired, sore, and wondering if they had been cut off from the main force, Francisco stumbled over a body as they moved back. It was Gombal’s. His one eye staring at the sky, mouth open, blood staining his white mantle with a deep wound in his chest; their sergeant lay unmoving.

  “Protect
me!” Francisco said. Without waiting, Francisco knelt. The wave overtook him, and he found himself surrounded by Moorish infantry. Before he could reach down and touch Gombal with the stone-embedded glove, Francisco felt a sharp pain in his back that reminded him of the day he and Sancho defended the girl in the alley from the thugs.

  Chapter 34

  Angelo

  Las Navas de Tolosa

  Local Date: 16 July 1212

  SEEING FRANCISCO SURROUNDED, Angelo focused gravity around Francisco but left the boy untouched, a feat possible only by a second level master gravitas. The Almohads around Francisco dropped but were not crushed.

  Francisco pulled the sword from his back and would have stayed with his fallen commander had more Almohads not pressed him back. He fought his way back to his squad.

  With the aid of his oc-lok, Angelo could see Miyuki block a blow that came from one of the Almohads.

  Back off, Miyuki. He needs to fall.

  It was a careful balance with no assured outcome.

  Then he saw them. Three figures that glowed like Miyuki came out from the next wave of black robed Almohads. Key’ari! he cast.

  Miyuki turned, stood with feet planted apart and legs bent at the knees. She blocked their approach to Francisco’s group with her stun-tachi held out in front with both hands. She had programmed the stun-stick to take the tachi sword form so it felt familiar, but she made the cutting edge dull and soft so it would only stun and not kill. The Key’ari didn’t stop. “Aiee!” Miyuki yelled as she stepped forward bringing her blade up and down in a move that would have nearly clove the Key’ari’s head in two if it had been a real tachi. It didn’t have to have a stun mechanism. The blow itself would have knocked the Key’ari unconscious with a severe concussion. The other two hesitated, and then skirted around either side to Francisco’s squad. The fallen Key’ari was a woman. Her verisuit had already begun to disintegrate, revealing a black jumpsuit visible to any pleb.45

  Sensei, Miyuki cast, the Key’ari cannot see us.

  The Key’ari command must be low on oc-loks. Be on your guard. Their chieftain will have an oc-lok. Angelo ran to her side, not taking his eyes off the two remaining Key’ari who tapped militiamen with their swords—not stab, but tap. As soon as they did, the militiamen dropped as dead men.