“Lope,” Ruy said tiredly, taking the wineskin from Lazare. “Bastard got lucky.” He touched the side of his throat. “Caught him here as Lope killed him.”
Crespin gasped as the moonlight revealed the last member of the group, and he closed his eyes until the blood-spattered monstrosity had walked past him. Lazare watched Ramiro stagger past the horses and continue on down the ravine. A mindless revenant, returning to its grave. None of them made any effort to stop him.
“There’s a route through these mountains,” Ruy said as he handed back the wineskin. “I had forgotten about it until we were at the Castillo del Ferral. We can take the entire army through this pass and be on Miramamolin’s forces before they know we are coming.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t just to protect his family,” he said.
“A tactical advantage,” Lazare said.
“Aye,” Ruy said. “And with him leading the assault, we might have a chance.”
Lazare shuddered at the idea of facing a charge of enraged Christian soldiers, the Beast of Calatrava at their front. “More than a chance,” he said. He looked for the shadow-shrouded figure of the bloody Beast. “We can’t let him fall on the field,” he said. “We have to get him home again.”
“More than any of us,” Ruy agreed. “He has to live.”
EIGHTEEN
Fernando and Crespin were waiting for them when they rode up the path to the villa, nearly two weeks after the bloody battle at Castillo del Ferral. Ramiro leaped out of his saddle and walked, stiff-legged, past the pair and into the house. Lazare got down from his horse much more slowly, wincing at the pain such motion caused in his injured hip. Behind him, Miguel and Hernando dismounted much more readily and Miguel took the reins to his horse after Lazare got his footing on the ground.
“It’s a boy,” Crespin said as Lazare painfully made his way across the lane. “The mother is doing well.”
Lazare smiled for the first time since he had killed a man. The motion of his lips felt strange at first, and he was sure it looked more like a grimace than a real smile, but Crespin seemed to understand. Fernando excused himself and went to help the other knights with the horses.
“Ruy?” Crespin asked.
Lazare shook his head, his smile fading. “We won,” he said. “Miramamolin was unprepared. It was a rout. Nearly two—” He stopped. The number of dead didn’t matter. Too many, he thought. Too many on both sides. “Amairic was there,” he said. “The battle was barely over and he was shouting about the supremacy of Rome against the infidels.” He shook his head. “Iberia, Constantinople, the Cathars in Toulouse. He saw them all as heretics. Rome won, and would continue to win. That was all he cared about.”
“But La Mancha was saved. Toledo too,” Crespin said. “That is all that matters right now. They defended their homes and their way of life. It is a good victory.”
“Aye,” Lazare sighed.
The door of the villa opened and Ramiro wandered out, a bundle of cloth in his arms. He wore a bemused expression, the scarred corner of his mouth struggling to turn up. Crespin saw what he was carrying, and he smiled broadly enough for both of them. There were tears in Ramiro’s eyes as he raised the bundle so that Lazare could see the tiny face nestled within. “It’s a boy,” Ramiro said.
“He’s beautiful,” Lazare said, tears marring his vision. The boy seemed to dance on a series of watery bubbles.
“I am a father,” Ramiro said. He looked at Lazare, and through a veil of tears, Lazare saw some of the ferocious madness that was the Beast in Ramiro’s eyes. “I am not a soldier anymore,” Ramiro said. “I am not a knight. Nor a monster. Nor a murderer. I am just a father. That is the only way I want to be remembered by my son.”
Lazare swiped away his own tears. “A worthy goal,” he said, his voice cracking. “A worthy goal. Have you given him a name yet?”
“Eleázar Ramirez de Calatrava,” Ramiro said without hesitation.
“Eleázar? That is…” Lazare glanced at Crespin who seemed as stunned as he was. “Why…why that name?”
Cradling his son in one arm, Ramiro reached out and laid his hand on Lazare’s shoulder. “You’re part of my family,” he said.
“No,” Lazare said. “I…I can’t…That is—”
“That is his name,” Ramiro insisted. “Iberia had touched you, Lazare. It is just that you be remembered here as well.”
“I…” Lazare stuttered to a stop. Swallowing the lump in his heart and nodding, he accepted Ramiro’s decision. “I am honored. Deeply.”
“He will be a good legacy,” Ramiro said proudly. “For both of us.”
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Linda S. Pearce has worked in the high-tech industry for over twenty years and is active in the animal rescue community. The two met at a Renaissance faire and fell in love immediately. They are now married and live in Seattle with six dogs and two cats.
Michael “Tinker” Pearce is a world-renowned swordmaker and author of The Medieval Sword in the Modern World. He is a student of historic European martial arts and works with Subutai Corporation as a fight choreographer and consultant.
Mark Teppo is the author of the Codex of Souls urban fantasy series as well as Earth Thirst, an eco-thriller with vampires. A bibliophile whose interests include historical martial arts and esoteric traditions, he lives in the Pacific Northwest.
Angus Trim is a skilled swordmaker and machinist who lives in the Pacific Northwest. He is adept in various western martial arts as well as tai chi sword form.
Foreworld Saga 01 SideQuest Adventures No. 1 The lion in chains, the beast of Calarrava, the shield maiden Page 23