Countdown to Armageddon

by Edward M. Lerner

  Sigebald was a boastful player—and a sore loser. Losing by his own rules, which he had apparently assumed would give him an edge, only made him madder. When it came time to pay up, he slammed his coins on the table. “Your two solidi, and be damned to you.”

  “Not so fast, my friend.”

  Harry looked up in surprise. He hadn’t noticed Terrence, Sigismund, and the others return from the market. One hand resting on his dagger hilt, Sigismund gestured with his other at the money. “Give my friend another coin, or pay in real gold.” In answer to Harry’s look of confusion, the warrior said, “Pick one up and bite it.”

  Harry did, and damn near broke a tooth. There isn’t anything new under the sun, he thought: eighth-century inflation. He studied the coin closely. “I’ll have to remember that face.”

  Sigebald slung down another debased solidus and went off to sulk among his men.

  “Wait.” The irate merchant paused and turned; Harry tossed him back a coin. “Your new Septimanian rules were worth it.” Sigebald strode away, mollified.

  “Why the bloody hell did you do that?” Terrence demanded in English. “You normally squeeze a pence thin enough to shave with. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a Scot.”

  “But the Septimanian chess rules were worth the money to me, in fact far more than a solidus. They do speed up the game. For example, the Minister and the Bishop can move completely across the board. There’s a shortcut move that involves the King jumping over the Castle. Pawns can move two squares on their first turn.”

  “Who cares what blooming rules they . . . ?”

  “You’re missing the point,” Harry interrupted. “It seems that eighth century chess in Septimania follows rules that won’t exist until the seventeenth century.

  “I think we ought to visit the Riviera.”

  SOUTH OF ORLEANS, 730

  Lupus circled in confusion, sniffing at the ground here, pawing it there.

  Bertchramm feared the worst, for the great hunting dog was his last hope. He had lost all trace of the fleeing Saracen raiders more than a day earlier.

  The mastiff settled to the ground with an unhappy whine. As though awaiting Lupus’ signal, the men began to grumble. They had abandoned hope days ago.

  “Shut your cowardly mouths.” Bertchramm’s insult brought stunned silence. Before anyone spoke, he spun his mount to face the men. “Those murderous devils have slaughtered our friends like so many sheep, mutilated the bodies, profaned our sacred places. They killed my brother. As Christ is my witness, I will go on after these butchers, alone if I must.”

  Most of the warriors had the decency to be chastened. Most. “But we have lost the trail. How can we go on?”

  The warlord locked eyes with Childewald. “They are Saracens. They will have a camp to the south, toward or in Iberia. For eight days now we have followed their trail south.”

  And without another word, Bertchramm led the way—south.

  SOUTH OF REIMS, 730

  The roaring campfire warmed half of Terrence’s aching body. His back was as cold as ever. He pulled the blue Frankish cape more tightly around himself. “I won at sword practice. That means that you make dinner.”

  Harry said, “I tripped over a damned tree root. Damn lucky for you.”

  “When we’re attacked by highwaymen and you fall over your big feet, do you suppose you can call a time-out? I always thought that a foolish faith in Marquis of Queensberry rules was a peculiarly English failing.”

  “Ah, hell.” Harry got up and began searching through their supplies. “I’ll get my revenge when you eat my cooking.”

  It was their third night in the wilderness since splitting off from Fredegar’s troop. Sigismund had called them ten types of idiot for going alone. Terrence almost wished that he’d had the vocabulary to fully appreciate the tongue-lashing. Remembering the insults might have kept him warmer during the long ride.

  He worried with a fingernail at a piece of gristle firmly lodged between his teeth. It had been the bane of his existence for two days. “I wish I had some dental floss.”

  Bowen was still angry about having to cook. “Oh, quit your griping. For everything I miss, there’s something I’m glad to be away from.”

  Terrence took the dare. “Indoor plumbing.”

  “Commercials for diarrhea medicine.”

  “Matches.”

  “Cigar smoke.”

  “Shaving cream, aspirin, and pizza.”

  “Traffic jams, air pollution, and McAlpo,” Harry shot straight back.

  “Wristwatches.”

  “Alarm clocks.”

  “Telephones.”

  “Telephones.” They looked at each other and laughed.

  Harry rejoined the contest. “Okay, switch. iPods.”

  “Ghetto blasters.”

  “Electric lights.”

  “Woman’s lib.”

  Terrence knew instantly that he’d put his foot in his mouth up to the hip. The silence stretched awkwardly. He came round the fire and squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “Sorry. No one ever accused me of tact.”

  Harry’s expression was miserable even by the flickering firelight. “I really miss her, Terrence. Really.”

  “I know.”

  “Did I ever tell you how we met?”

  All Terrence could do to help was listen. “No, you haven’t. I’d like to hear.”

  URBANA, ILLINOIS (USA), 1986

  The College of Liberal Arts and Sciences teemed with beautiful women, but the unvarnished, unliberated truth was that few of them frequented the science corner of the Quadrangle. The “hard sciences” and engineering were—alas—still basically male preserves. This Saturday morning, like so many others, found Harry trolling the Student Union for a date.

  The Union basement had a small gallery that showcased student art. The exhibit area was crowded this morning—whether for the quality of the exhibit or because of lousy weather, he couldn’t immediately say. A vivacious blonde near the door caught his eye. Was it was her tight jeans or the perky, bouncing ponytail that so caught his fancy? No, Harry decided: It was her sheer ebullience.

  She had a crammed backpack slung over one shoulder; a hardcover poetry text peeked out from under the flap. You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist: probable English major.

  “Mind if I join you?” She gave him a strange look, but nodded. They ambled through the hall, pausing at some of the paintings. She seemed hesitant to comment on anything. To maintain a conversation, Harry found himself critiquing most of the works. “I know what I like . . . and that isn’t it.” Oh, he was in fine form. “That one goes to show that once you hit bottom, you can still move sideways.”

  They wound up, eventually, in front of a cubist nude. The figure had a sickly yellow cast with a blue undertone. “Self-portrait.” Harry tapped the small title pinned beside the painting, and made a face. “I’d sure hate to meet the model for that.”

  His new acquaintance smiled sweetly. “I’m afraid it’s too late.”

  As Harry stammered foolishly, the woman—he still, stupidly, didn’t know her name—grasped his elbow. Towing him to the gallery exit, she asked him out for coffee. She favored him with a smile so bright as to be almost blinding. “Anyone this dull-witted deserves to be cherished. What are the chances you’ll live long enough to reproduce?”

  That was the moment Harry decided this was the woman he would marry. How else could he prove her wrong?

  SOUTH OF REIMS, 730

  Careless conversation drifted through the trees. Ahmad signaled to a scout to join him, then urged his steed forward with a slight pressure of his heels. Together they slipped through the forest toward the unexpected sounds.

  Soon the odor of smoke also drew them forward. He sniffed incredulously: The fools were burning aromatic pine. What simpletons were these, so to anno
unce their presence? The wind flicked a corner of his burnoose into Ahmad’s face; he brushed it aside impatiently.

  The Berber warrior slid from his mount and wrapped its reins around a branch. Silent as a djinn, he moved through the trees. Approaching from downwind, his own scent masked by the campfire smoke, only a carelessly placed step could give him away. He made no such mistake.

  Jabir crept up beside him. The strangers prattled away; there was no danger of them overhearing a whisper. Still, Ahmad had not survived years of war by taking unnecessary chances. With hand signals he directed the scout to return with two handfuls of men.

  Ahmad studied the strangers while he waited. The setting combined the mundane and the inexplicable. The men wore Firanji (Frankish) cloaks over unfamiliar garments. The saddles, weapons, and gear by the two tethered horses could have come from any settlement within a month’s march. The men’s hair was uncommonly short, not even reaching to their shoulders. Their speech, at least, offered no ambiguity. It bore no relation to anything Ahmad had ever heard, on either side of the great sea.

  By the time Jabir returned, gesturing that the encirclement was complete, Ahmad had made up his mind. He raised his hands to his mouth and hooted like an owl. The strangers were to be taken alive.

  Gamal had a great interest in the unusual.

  NEAR THE FRANCIA-AQUITAINIA BORDER, 730

  Wisps of smoke rose from the ruined shell of a building. Bertchramm cautiously approached, francisca in hand. He trembled with the need to split Saracen heads with his ax. The cooling cinders that crunched beneath his boots mocked him: The devils he sought remained far ahead.

  A weeping monk preceded him. Brother Lodovic had been on solitary retreat when the attack came. His howls of grief upon returning had echoed through the forest, summoning the questing Franks. Now he led the warriors into the pitiful remains of his monastery.

  Bertchramm paused, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. The monks had been brutally slaughtered. Corpses lay everywhere; gore fouled the walls. The simple wooden altar in the small basilica had been knocked over and smashed; it bore the marks of horses’ hooves. The bastards had even ridden their horses into the chapel.

  In a shadowed corner, Brother Lodovic implored them wordlessly to the cellar crypt. Bertchramm returned the francisca to his belt. He followed the sobbing monk down the winding stairs. Surely nothing could be worse than what he had seen on this hunt.

  He was wrong.

  Every casket had been dumped out. Broken skeletons and rotting bodies lay everywhere. His eyes jumped eagerly to a golden crucifix, an object of incongruous beauty in this scene of horror. Then his eyes followed the length of the cross downward, downward, downward—until it plunged through the grinning skull of a skeleton.

  NORTHERN AQUITAINIA, 730

  The trek must be coming to an end.

  In their first days of captivity, the fierce Arab and Berber warriors had beaten Harry and Terrence for making any sound, even an unmuffled cough or sneeze. Now their captors chatted, entirely at ease. Something in what seemed to Terrence a trackless wilderness must have denoted a border, a sign of safe haven. The Arabic in which they spoke so volubly told him nothing.

  “Let me do the talking,” Terrence warned.

  Ahmad, the leader, scowled at Terrence but said nothing. When he chose, Ahmad spoke passable, if broken, Frankish.

  Harry didn’t question the whispered advice; he remained numb from the shock of their capture. His protestations that they were mere jongleurs, traveling entertainers, had been met with a sneer and a pointed glance at their swords.

  Shortly after Terrence’s hissed entreaty, an avian trill sounded from ahead. Ahmad raised his hands and warbled back a reply. Some destination was close.

  They came to a field dominated by what must once have been a Roman country villa. The fine, large windows in its stone walls were bricked up except for slits for the firing of arrows. Beyond a graceful gateway, in the wide central courtyard, scimitars clanged loudly as warriors drilled.

  With his heels, Ahmad jabbed his fine white Arabian in the ribs. It trotted smartly forward to the center of the courtyard. “Gamal,” he called. “Gamal Abdul Salah-ad-Din. I bring you gifts.” Ahmad’s words echoed from the whitewashed plaster walls. He urged his prisoners forward with the flat of his sword.

  An Arab of slight build stepped from the shade at the far end of the courtyard.

  Terrence squinted into the sun to see the man; at first he could only make out a close-cropped black beard. As a passing cloud threw its shadow over the courtyard, a chill ran down Terrence’s spine. He knew that face; he had seen it on Interpol photos.

  The one these warriors called Gamal was Abdul Faisel.

  The horses of both troops felt the tension. Bertchramm tried to calm his mount with a gentle pat of the hand, the pressure of his knees. The horse snorted, but settled down. All around him, men strove to quiet their own steeds.

  “I tell you, we tracked those Saracen dogs here.”

  Bernhardus, chief of the Aquitainian border patrol, waved in dismissive contempt. “And I tell you, we would know if an armed band had passed here. Count Odo guards his borders well.”

  “They slaughtered everyone at the monastery of St. Charibert.” No response. “They broke into the crypt and disturbed the bodies.”

  Aquitainians murmured in disgust and horror. Many among them—and among the Franks as well—still had mixed feelings about the new ways. Where the dead and their spirits were concerned, most thought it was wisest to take no chances. One placated the old gods even as he buried according to the customs of the new God. To disturb the final resting places of the monks, without even the lure of grave goods to steal, was a blasphemy beyond greed and politics.

  “Silence!” The Aquitainians stopped their muttering and looked uneasily at their leader. “I said that no one passed.” Bernhardus gave a withering stare to one of his men who seemed prepared to contradict him.

  Bernhardus grasped his sword hilt. “And no one shall.”

  Faisel’s chambers overflowed with the booty of uncounted raids. Looted treasures lay everywhere: gold and silver reliquaries, crucifixes encrusted in jewels, magnificent Frankish scramasaxes, fine glassware. Two waist-high Greek kraters brimmed with solidi. Mounds of jewelry, mostly brooches and rings, filled several large bronze bowls.

  A modest copper-plated Frankish helmet was almost lost among the riches; it was filled, incongruously, with golden South African Krugerrands. No secret now how Faisel had initially financed his trip across medieval France and recruited his band of cutthroats.

  Hand-drawn maps were pinned to the walls all around the room. Red dots scattered across the map denoted—what? Raids already accomplished, perhaps, or future targets. Faisel himself sat behind the massive table that stood in front of the fireplace.

  His hands bound tightly behind him, Terrence knew that he had only his wits to save them. That seemed like a feeble defense. He sat in response to Faisel’s gesture. From the corner of his eye, he saw Harry sit down beside him.

  “I trust that you’ll understand the ropes,” Abdul/Gamal began, speaking in flawless modern French. “Especially after you’ve come so far to see me. Precisely because you were willing to come such a distance, I prefer the security of keeping you bound.”

  Terrence cleared his throat before answering in bad Gallo-Roman. “I not understand.”

  “Spare me the act. Your clothes and hair give you away as men of my century.”

  He’d been afraid of that. Terrence continued in the vernacular. “Clothes? We buy these from strangers, far to the East. They need money.”

  The leader of the raiders strode over to them. None too gently, he pried open Terrence’s mouth and thumbed his lips away from his teeth. “I suppose you bought their dental work, too.”

  Game, set, and match. Terrence shrugged, then answered in perf
ect French. “It was worth a try.”

  “What of your tongue-tied friend.”

  Harry straightened in his chair. “Neither my French nor my Gallo-Roman is as good as his. It seemed best to let the linguist handle things.”

  Faisel tousled the American’s hair condescendingly. “Mon ami, you will need much more than a linguist to get you out of this predicament.”

  The warrior band rode boldly into the old Roman villa, as though they owned the place. Someday, Count Odo of Aquitania swore to himself, he would.

  With Saracen money he maintained his independence from the Franks. Unlike a decade ago, the Saracens now raided their territory. In a few years, he would be strong enough to dispense with these pagans as well.

  The group at his back numbered twelve: too few to seem an invasion; more than enough to make trifling with them ill-advised. Odo rode past the sentries without sparing them a glance. To the officer on duty, a scarred Berber veteran, Odo said, “I’m here to see Gamal.”

  “He’s busy.” The Saracen’s speech was heavily accented.

  Odo and his men dismounted. The count brushed past Gamal’s lieutenant to step inside. “We have business to discuss.”

  The sentries outside Gamal’s rooms looked at each other uncertainly. They knew Odo was an ally of their master. Finally, as he had expected, they stood aside meekly as he pounded on the door with the solid pommel of his dirk.

  The Saracen chieftain emerged, scowling. “You risk much, coming unbidden, interrupting me.”

  “I risk much giving you sanctuary. The major domus”—he referred to Karl—“would pay much for your head. As I will not give it to him, instead I spend my wealth on warriors to keep out his patrols.”

  “Our arrangement is not new. It has served you as well as me. Why do you bother me about it now?”

  Odo glanced out a hallway window to the courtyard where Gamal’s troops drilled. “Teach your men to be satisfied with plunder. Karl is fast losing patience with the slaughter of your raids.”