by David Scoles
When Sir Talbot moved forward, the Nachzehrer backpedaled and allowed one of the Mamluks to engage the knight instead. Another of the Mamluks moved to engage Sir John Chandos who snarled in frustration and beat back his attacker’s sword thrusts with thrusts of his own.
King Philip was surrounded by his own men, but he could not see them. He was going in and out of consciousness, but he called out in his delirium.
“My son, my Jean, you must lead them now. You must lead them….”
“Take heart, my friend, you shall not die this day. I swear it!” King Philip blinked. It was King James of Majorca, the Exiled King. He had seen Philip and rushed to his side determined to be of use. It saved King Philip’s life.
King James raised his shield and the Nachzehrer’s blow severed it neatly in two taking part of James’ arm with it. James felt a moment of pain then a coldness spread inward from the wound and through his body with the passing of a breath. He regarded the stump then stared slack jawed at the man who taken his left arm.
“I am a King,” James said limply.
“I know,” the Nachzehrer answered in a sepulchral voice. The Nachzehrer swung his blade again and this time the sword ripped through James from left shoulder diagonally down through his chest and out through his belly. James’ last sight was of his guts spilling onto the mud before the darkness closed in on him forever.
A knight emerged from the chaos and in haste came before King Edward who still reeled from the Nachzehrer’s attack upon King Philip. Men of France and England had formed a protective ring around their Kings and sought to beat back the Mamluks and the dark warrior who killed with a skill that lay beyond mortal understanding.
“Sir Thomas Boeth, by what means have you come here and why do you not stand with your lord as commanded?”
“Sir, the Earl of Warwick, the Lord Stafford, the Lord Reginald Cobham, and the others who are about your son are vigorously attacked by the French; and they entreat that you would come to their assistance with your battalion.”
“Is my son dead or so badly wounded that he cannot support himself?”
“Nothing of the sort, thank God, but he is in so hot an engagement that he has great need of your help.”
“Now, Sir Thomas Boeth, return back to those that sent you, and tell them, not to send again for me this day, or expect that I shall come. Let what will happen, as long as my son has life, and say, that I command them to let the boy win his spurs, for I am determined, if it please God, that all the glory and honor of this day shall be given to him, and to those into whose care I have entrusted him.”
For a moment Sir Boeth’s face was expressionless then he slowly smiled a mirthless grin.
“So you will not come? You perhaps trust too much. How like a fool!” Sir Boeth struck with the dagger he had kept hidden behind his back. He had slowly crept closer with each word until he was finally close enough to strike. “For my sons, murderer!” King Edward’s eyes widened as he saw the blade descending. The arm that held the dagger was caught at the last second as Sir John Chandos flung himself at Sir Boeth.
“I think not, Boeth,” Sir Chandos hissed as he and Sir Boeth struggled for control of the blade. King Edward reeled in confusion. Murderer? He looked into Sir Boeth’s eyes twisted in hate and suddenly a memory flew into King Edward’s mind. He had seen these eyes before. A memory of Berwick Castle. A young boy swinging on gibbet and a screaming father swearing vengeance against him.
“Alexander Seton. It cannot be,” King Edward spoke in shock. Sir Chandos finally knocked the knife from Sir Boeth’s/Seton’s hands and the man screamed in frustration.
“There was a Sir Thomas Boeth,” Seton snarled cradling his hand. “He was a tired, sick old man who could not answer his Lord’s call to France. I came in his stead. You did not recognize me! Personal torment and suffering did much to curb my former appetites. The hunger for anything but vengeance has eased the flesh from my bones like a Greek sculptor shears the marble to reveal the true shape beneath. Behold all that remains of a man once called Alexander Seton who once held the town of Berwick and had all that mattered stolen from him by a tyrant.” Seton drew his sword and shouted something in a language none of the English understood. The Mamluks evidently did, for they pulled back from their engagements and moved to surround the Scottish knight.
“For my sons, I will see you dead and if your son is not already so then he will see it done.” Seton pointed with his sword at the Nachzehrer.
“Who are you?” King Edward shouted at the mercenary who had killed a nobleman and perhaps mortally wounded a King.
“A mercenary who fights for whatever devil pays him enough,” the Nachzehrer answered. He hefted his great sword and rested it upon the pauldron of one shoulder casually. “Just like every other man here.”
King Edward glanced over at Alexander Seton and felt a pang in his chest that was not the result of any physical wound. He remembered well that dark day he had hung young Tomas Seton in front of Berwick. At the time it had seemed the right thing to do— avoid further bloodshed by breaking Alexander instead. He had carried the regret within him all these years and now it seemed a price would finally have to be paid.
Other knights had gathered where the Kings were, but they were slow in coming, so weighed down by their cumbersome armor. The French dead outnumbered the English. The assault of the longbow-men had been more effective than even King Edward’s best expectation. Victory was not out of hand. Edward only had to make sure he lived to see that victory happen.
King Edward fixed his gaze upon this mercenary who had perhaps just killed the man who stood between himself and the French throne. A breach of the chivalric rules of honorable one-on-one combat and an unforgivable breach of etiquette. It almost made Edward smile, the way this mercenary moved, the way he fought was one part finesse and one part brutality. There was no hesitation in the blade that cut down the King of Majorca. No, it was much more than that. Something drove this warrior into a merciless fury and a voice inside King Edward that he had learned to trust over the course of his lifetime told him it was something personal.
Edward had survived the near usurpation of his throne and running night battles with the Scottish to secure his realm. He’d had nobles turn against him. His father’s rule had been a failure. There had been moments in his life when he had asked himself if it had all been worth it? A King existed in his own world. Its lonesomeness had only come to an end when his son had been born, then once again when he had just crossed swords with Philip. Now a pair of soulless eyes gazed out at him from the darkness of a faceless helm. Those eyes held a promise and King Edward knew in his heart what that promise was.
“You will not harm my son,” the King whispered aloud.
“I was to leave you alive for that one,” he indicated Seton with his sword, “but you hold that sword as if you stood a chance and that angers me.” The Nachzehrer casually swung his blade and blood sailed through the air to splatter the King’s armor. “Why does having wealth and power bring such confidence? Why does your kind always believe it shields you from all that is inevitable? Let me take one of your arms, won’t you?”
The rain ended, revealing a sky scarred as red as the Crecy battlefield. The wind had died down and summer’s heat tried to reinforce itself. Mist rose from the ground and for a moment Sir John Chandos wondered if perhaps he witnessed the souls of the dead departing for the afterlife. He crossed himself and held tightly to his sword with both hands. His shield had been ripped from his arm in the furious melee and he could not find it. He spotted Talbot looking similarly fatigued, but alive.
“Talbot, these mercenaries mean to end us. We do not seem to be worth the trouble to ransom.” Talbot indicated the wary Mamluks circling them. These knights had made a better accounting of themselves than the Mamluks had expected. The Mamluk’s role, however, had already been fulfilled.
King Edward raised his blade quickly as the the Nachzehrer leapt forward, blade slashing downward. Si
r Chandos shouted a warning, but neither he nor Talbot could hope to break the circle of sell swords in time. The Nachzehrer’s plan was to slay every person of royal blood upon the field and the King of England was next. Edward’s vision tunneled. He put all his focus into blocking that first strike. It never landed.
A body flew into the side of the Nachzehrer at full speed sending the Nachzehrer reeling away into a group of Mamluks. The group fell back, but the Nachzehrer kept his feet by sacrificing some Mamluks. They fell into the mud, but the Nachzehrer managed to stay upright. The large sword he had used to wound King Philip and kill King James was knocked from his grasp. A boot slammed into his armored stomach with enough force to push the Nachzehrer back a second time. Several Mamluks fell, crushed beneath the weight of the armored giant.
The Nachzehrer grimaced. Who dared? Through the slits in his helm he saw a familiar face staring back.
“I have been practicing the fokos,” Radu said. The ax blade, damp with blood, was clenched tightly in his fist. The Nachzehrer reached behind to the small of his back. There he removed a weapon kept concealed beneath his cloak. Another fokos alike to the one held by Radu.
“As have I. Show me that you are worthy to carry it!”
Chapter 19
“My liege!” cried Sir Chandos. With a surge of strength the knight hurled off his attacker then he ran him through with a quick thrust. “Boeth, you damned traitor!”
“Stand fast, Sir Chandos! This man has earned his duel with me!” Sir Chandos’ eyes widened, but he loyally retreated. Then he turned about to guard his King’s rear. Sir Talbot, who had just dispatched his own opponent, pleaded with his liege.
“Your Majesty, no traitor can be a knight and none save a knight can duel honestly!” King Edward grinned and stared into Alexander Seton’s eyes.
“Regardless, this man shall have his chance and let the winner be redeemed in the eyes of God!”
“For my sons.” Seton gave a knight’s salute.
“And for mine.” King Edward returned the salute. Then both men attacked.
Radu aimed for the right knee, his fokos struck, but rebounded off the tough armor. The Nachzehrer lashed out with a vertical slash of his own fokos. Radu rolled under the swing. Rising to his feet in an instant, Radu spun and slashed hard into the Nachzehrer’s side. Again he was frustrated as the two axes came together with a clash and a spark. A test of strength ensued. The Nachzehrer was the stronger man. Radu gave ground, but then a mailed fist lashed out catching Radu under the chin, lifting him off his feet.
Radu’s head struck the ground and he saw stars. There was no time to spit the blood from his mouth. He quickly rolled away to avoid having his skull caved in by a heavy sabaton brought down with the force of a titan. The Nachzehrer laughed, but that laughter was cut short as an arming sword was drawn and thrown through the air, point first, to strike his helm in the temple. The blade then became tangled in the decorative antlers. With a snarl the Nachzehrer ripped the blade loose taking bits of antler with it.
The war continued to rage about them. The French, now without any idea as to who was in charge, seemed determined to at least destroy the English archers for their unchivalrous attacks. The Duke of Lorraine tried to rally men for a counter charge, but he was pulled from his horse by the Irish of Clan O’Neil and hacked to pieces.
Radu and the Nachzehrer were mobile in their fight. Radu moved left, hoping to draw his opponent towards the Irish. He hoped to use them as a distraction. The Nachzehrer had his own tactics. He feigned left, then rushed forward to the right, displaying an uncanny strength and speed for one wearing such heavy armor. This time his fokos did connect. The ax blade took an English soldier in the neck and the Nachzehrer yanked the dying man directly between himself and Radu. With a kick he sent the choking man towards Radu who was borne to the ground under the dying man’s weight. Blood spat like a fountain from the soldier’s wound onto Radu’s face and he cursed as it got into his eyes.
“Oh Christ!” swore Gwilym who had been watching the fight open-mouthed. He knew exactly what was to happen next. It all happened so fast. He had rushed towards Radu hoping for safety and protection, but instead it looked like he was about to witness Radu’s death. The Nachzehrer stalked towards the downed mercenary, fokos raised for a strike.
Gwilym’s legs propelled him forward, even as his mind was shouting at him stop. Why were his legs not listening to his mind? Gwilym’s focus narrowed. The cries of the dying were an audible reminder of the horrors taking place around him, but they faded away into the background. His friend pushed the dead soldier off himself, but his face was coated in blood and his eyes were shut. He would never see the death blow coming.
Friend? Gwilym thought.
“Aye, my friend,” Gwilym said aloud. He leapt forward and plunged his scramasax into the weak joint at the back of the Nachzehrer’s left knee. The mercenary yelled out in anger and swept an arm behind him. Gwilym was quick enough to dodge out of the way. Stumbling and limping the Nachzehrer pursued the little insect who had dared sting him.
“Why not run away?” The Nachzehrer said loud enough for Gwilym to hear. He pulled the knife from his leg and threw it away paying no more attention to the wound than if it had been a scratch.
“Those who run away from a fight end up fighting it for the rest of their lives,” Gwilym answered bravely. “Is that not why you are here?” Gwilym had to keep the Nachzehrer’s attention focused upon him and give Radu time. “You have been eluding your fate and now it has caught you like the jaws of a trap!”
“Oh? Do enlighten me, boy.”
“You are in the employ of that traitor and the King of Bohemia to murder the Kings of England and France. One seeks revenge and the other wants his son to be the most powerful man in Europe!” The words spilled out of his mouth as the thoughts formed. The pieces of the puzzle finally fit together.
“Do go on,” the Nachzehrer laughed limping closer.
Just a little longer. Gwilym thought.
“The Compte’s incompetence at Caen was no mistake. You wanted King Edward confident and drawn further into France so that you could be certain this battle would happen. All the Kings together.” Gwilym drew his saber and the Nachzehrer laughed.
“You tied up all loose ends. The ill-favored family in Saint Josse in the wrong place at the wrong time. The letter between the Bishop of Bayeaux and the Compte that Count Montfort had intercepted. No doubt you celebrated when your former comrades Esteban and Hugo were no longer a concern. You trust no one. You want to destroy the old structure, just as Radu said. Thousands of lives lost and none of it matters to the madman known as the Nachzehrer. What even is a Nachzehrer? German for ‘murdering coward?’” There! Radu had finally gotten an arm free.
“It is a creature who feeds upon the blood of family and others in the dead of night.” The Nachzehrer undid a buckle at his throat and slowly lifted the helmet off his head. He allowed it to fall to the ground. Gwilym drew back in amazement at the face that regarded him, a face much younger than he had expected and a familiar one. “I am the eldest son of the voivode of Transylvania.” The Nachzehrer’s smile was as wide as a serpents. “I am Radu the Black.”
Chapter 20
Gwilym looked from Radu to the Nachzehrer in confusion. The resemblance was there to be sure. The Nachzehrer was taller and wider, or so the armor made him appear. The two had hair of the same color and the same eyes. But what truly set them apart was the bitterness and anger that the Nachzehrer wore like a cloak. It made him look older, meaner and terrible. Radu was a surly and violent man, but Gwilym was certain that Radu, despite his faults, was a good person.
“I will call you what you are,” Gwilym said finally. “A murderer, a weaver of conspiracies and a man who doesn’t sell his sword for coin, but his soul for some ridiculous notion that the world needs tyrants. The world doesn’t want tyrants or their despicable wars and men like this,” Gwilym pointed at Radu, “are what keeps men like you from succeeding
.”
“If only there was more time, boy,” the Nachzehrer raised his fokos. “I would educate you on how success is never measured by how many deaths you cause, but how many deaths are caused because of you!” The fokos struck out, not as the slash Gwilym had been expecting, but a stab with the hard flat top of the ax head. It caught Gwilym in the chest. With a great exhalation of air and a cry of pain he fell backward onto his back. Gwilym hissed through his teeth and instinctively rolled aside to avoid any follow up attack. His roll took him between the legs of a French soldier who stared down in amazement. The soldier had little time to marvel before an ax bit into his back splitting his spine in two. The French soldier fell and the Englishman he had been fighting, thinking he had found an ally, called out a thanks. It was the last mistake he ever made.
Gwilym drew air in ragged gasps. This was intolerable! He had never been struck like this in his life. But where the old Gwilym would have cowered and begged for his life, the new Gwilym who had spent a month beside Radu the Black, or whomever he truly was, had learned to fight back. Fight back was exactly what he intended to do.
Gwilym could not hope to fight the Nachzehrer head on. His armor seemed no impediment to his movements and his skill with the fokos was terrifying to say the least. Gwilym’s only chance was to use the mud and maze of corpses to impede the mercenary’s movements until such time as Radu could rescue him. So he prayed. God evidently decided to ignore him.
Looming in his path was a black cloaked Mamluk holding a Sassanid blade dripping with gore. Taziz and Gwilym saw each other at the same moment and had differing reactions. Gwilym let out a groan and Taziz smiled.