Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  A whistling shower of arrows fell in a deafening chorus upon the man, cutting off his scream and impaling him far beyond the point of death.

  Ware’s body shielded Christopher from the deadly shafts, but once struck, it fell back toward him, a driving weight still nervelessly clutching the broadsword.

  The last thing Christopher heard as he was knocked over the side of the wall was the pell-mell hollering of the longbowmen.

  9

  Ware’s arrow-cushioned form drifted slightly to Christopher’s right as he and the corpse plunged toward-what he could only pray was-the moat, and not the muddy, but hard-enough-to-kill berm between wall and water.

  There was no odder sensation. The sky above tore away from him, the clouds seemingly shrinking. The gale that had howled above rose to new heights, only now it was a gale created by his fall. He wished he knew when he would hit the water, but was para­ lyzed in the moment and didn’t even know if he could tum around. It was an awfully long fall. Awfully long. Any drop he had ever made had hap­pened so quickly that he had never had time to con­ template the actual event until after it had happened. With this fall there were seconds to consider what was happening, to listen to the wind, his breathing, the shouting of the archers, the beating of his heart, loudest of all in his ears. For some reason, he didn’t like the idea of having the extra time; it instilled a greater sense of helplessness.

  Something flashed past his gaze, and as he realized it had been an arrow fired at him-

  -he punched the water, head and shoulders first, with a tremendous, splashing SA-MACK!

  He had experienced many sensations the world had to offer, but the moment defied description, and he immediately decided that he would never ever do it again.

  Blasting down through the water, sinking like a heavy sword, he remembered nearly before it was too late to hold his breath.

  The warmth of the moat surprised him, as it had before. He assumed, as he had when he dived in behind Neil, that the waters would be cold. They were not. But they were fetid, and as he sank deeper and deeper, he snapped his eyes closed, not wanting them to be stung by whatever foul elements created the nasty odor that wafted as high as the battlements of the keep.

  He was able to save his eyes from the pain, but not the wound on his chest; the momentum of his body forced water into the cut, stirring up the invisible needles contained within. He reacted to the piercing discomfort by blowing out air; the bubbles tingled his nose as they rose.

  Christopher’s descent subsided and he felt the need to turn himself around, head up, and swim toward what he guessed to be the surface. Breath gone, he kicked hard with his feet, lifted his arms, and pad­ dled up.

  The cut on his chest, his angrily protesting limbs, and the lack of fresh air provoked darkness to rim his mind. With three of his senses deadened, he could only feel the distress of his body and hear the bubbles around him. He wondered if he would black out. The movement of his limbs felt strangely distant, and the darkness he stared into fell into deepest obsidian. He would sleep forever…

  And then-

  Water streamed down his face and ringed his neck. A sudden heat burst upon his cheek, and though his eyes were still closed, the darkness that had once deepened was torched away. He opened his mouth, discovered it was unencumbered by water, and drew in a loud, badly needed breath. Warm, moist air filled his lungs. A hand lifted above the water then came back down into it with a mild splash.

  Thank you, dear Lord, and all the saints. Thank you.

  He flickered his eyes open and found himself star­ ing back at the north curtain wall of the castle.

  “Christopher!” His name had been called from behind him. Was it Doyle?

  He tilted his head up and saw an arrow soar down from the battlements of the keep—directly toward him. Christopher took in a quick breath and ducked under the water, pushing upward with his hands to drive himself as deep as he could in the pair of sec­onds he had to avoid the shaft.

  He heard the arrow ka-thunk into the water some­ where behind him, and then a trio of ka-thunks fol­ lowed.

  Then more arrows sank into the moat, a spate of iron-tipped heads probing for his tender flesh.

  The fall had disoriented him so much that he had forgotten all about the archers.

  Turn around and swim you fool! Toward the shore!

  Where is it?

  He cocked his head left, then right, not wanting to open his eyes but forcing them open. That didn’t matter. The water was too murky to see where it tapered off, and as of now he could not touch bot­ tom. He needed to surface for more air anyway. He headed up, thrusting once, twice with feet and hands, and then his head burst from the water.

  He replenished his breath as his gaze blurred, then focused on the shoreline, a half tum of his body left.

  “There he is!” a distant voice cried in Saxon.

  Ka-thunk! Ka-thunk ka-thunk!

  Christopher dived back under the water as the bowfire intensified. He swam forward, paddled with what energy was left in his exhausted, beaten, fallen, and bruised body. There wasn’t much to draw on.

  He heard the arrows continue and ignored their sounds as they hit the water, favoring the voice in his mind that repeated the simple word, simple action: SWIM!

  His right hand plunged into the mire on bottom of the moat. He brought his leg down to discover the mud was not far below, maybe only a yard. But if he stood there would be no footing. He had to swim to the very edge of the channel in order to gain any kind of reasonable purchase. So he continued on, head low, hands and feet dredging through the warm ooze.

  “That’s him! It’s him!”

  He recognized that voice, thankfully Celt, thank­ fully close, definitely Doyle.

  His chest ran aground on the harder edge of the shoreline. He lifted his head from the water and looked up toward the nearest mantlet, less than five yards away. A misfired arrow meant for him streaked high over his shoulder and struck the wooden shield, then from behind it, an archer ducked out, his bow drawn. The bowman let his arrow fly in answer. Behind the archer, another man ventured a peek. A very wet man with a bandage on his right hand.

  “See him! There he is, right there!” Doyle pointed at Christopher while yelling to someone unseen behind the shield. “Help him!”

  It was a relatively short distance from the moat to safety, but as it was, there wasn’t enough of Christopher left to get him there. He legs felt like they weighed as much as boulders, and his arms were the lighter (for all the difference it made) weight of wall stones. Now he tasted the moat in his mouth, and it made his cheeks sink in nausea. He pulled him­ self a little farther out of the mud, his waist making it onto dry ground.

  Fwit! Two-second delay. Thump! The arrow nar­rowly missed his head and landed just past him. Christopher gripped the sunken shaft and used it to hoist himself farther out of the moat.

  I have to stand and run!

  What about Doyle? Isn’t he sending help?

  The Saxon arrow fire was too heavy now for anyone to reveal himself from behind the mantlet. The shield was already impaled so many times that its oak surface was obscured by a multicolored hue of arrow fletching.

  Saturated in muck, Christopher rose to his hands and knees. The horridly curious idea of looking over his shoulder at the enemy archers entered his mind, and he shut it out by putting his arms and legs into motion.

  The shore ahead had been struck many times by fallen arrows, some having impaled the earth neatly, sticking up at varying degrees, others lying horizon­ tal. If he could stand and run, he might be able to kick a straight path through the arrows, but crawling meant he’d have to thread through them-a much longer and arduous path home.

  He couldn’t stand. Remaining on hands and knees, he weaved his way onward, his pace steady but excruciatingly slow. He wiped his face free of more mud, blinked away the blurriness, and kept going. The bellows continued from behind him, and he swore he could hear Seaver screaming his name.

/>   It would be ironic if you killed me now, little man. But I think I’m going to make it.

  Christopher heard the arrow a breath before it hit him, catching him in the right calf, causing him to fall onto his side and extend the leg. White-hot pain shot chaotically up and down the limb. He looked back over his shoulder, down at the leg, almost not believing what he saw. His hand immediately found the arrow, locked around the base of it where it met his skin. He gave a little tug-DEAR LORRRDDD!­ and howled like he never had before. The arrow would not budge.

  “Finish him!” a voice echoed in Saxon. “He’s down. We’ve got to go out!” “No. He’s done! Leave him!”

  “I won’t!”

  He listened to Doyle arguing with one of the archers, and could do nothing more than pray his blood brother would come. He tried to breathe steadily, but his pant was involuntary. A new world of pain shed all of its merciless misery onto him.

  Fwit! Three … he looked up … two … the arrow fell perfectly, curving down toward him … one-he tucked his head into his chest … thump!

  Christopher lifted his head and the back of it came to rest upon the arrow sunk in the ground, three or four inches away him. Fwit! Fwit! Fwit! Fwit-Fwit­ Fwit!

  Too many arrows. No more strength. Leg on fire.

  Sleep. Must go. Eyes heavy. Stomach turning.

  No! I’ve come too far!

  I’m going to die. I’m going to die alone, on the ground. M y son will never know me.

  He didn’t hear the shuffle of Doyle’s approach, only felt his friend’s forearms go suddenly under his armpits and hoist him in one deft effort to his feet.

  “Come on!” Doyle said, his voice hoarse from shouting. He slung one of Christopher’s arms over his shoulder and drove him on toward the mantlet.

  Christopher knew he was limping, but could not feel his wounded leg below the knee. In fact, he could not think of a single part of his body that felt normal. All of it was either bruised, covered in rank-smelling mud, wet, or strained to its very limits. Even his ears itched with water in them, and his nose was clogged with something other than mucus. He was an unknown kind of desperate animal, clinging to one of his kind for life.

  They rounded the comer of the mantlet and Doyle lowered him quickly to the ground. He rolled to his side, keeping his arrow-impaled leg in the air. Out of the numbness came a short spasm of agony, like a breaker along the beach, and then it was gone.

  There were a half dozen men behind the mantlet, unkempt but not weary. Two of them were peasant levy who wore the hapless faces of those forced into combat and the cheap; tattered tunics that betrayed their lot. The others, armored and well armed, went about their business of shooting arrows with quiet efficiency.

  The oldest of the archers, his long, thin gray hair lashed back in the breeze, leaned over Christopher. “Shot in the calf, then, eh?” he asked rhetorically, inspecting Christopher’s wound. He had a strong lisp, hard to ignore. “It’s not all that bad. You’ll live.” He smiled, nearly every other tooth missing. “Might even keep the leg.” The man straightened and then turned away.

  For the first time in his life, Christopher wished he would black out. The archer’s lispy nonchalance chilled him so much that he just wanted to sleep it all away. He rested his head on his arm, closed his eyes, then concentrated on the sun-spotted dark­ ness.

  “Neil’s gone to fetch Hallam on the east side,” Doyle said.

  “Yes,” Christopher whispered. “You both made it.”

  “Well that’s a silly question!”

  He was going. He felt it. Thank St. George, sleep at last. “Rest now. So tired. I’m sorry.”

  “Sleep well then, blood brother. You don’t want to be awake when Hallam plucks this arrow out of your leg … “

  Sound faded. He swam not in the moat, but in a black sea of naught. It was … bliss.

  10

  “I believe he’s still sleeping.” “He can’t be. The moon is up already.”

  “Why should that matter? You’d sleep longer if you were him.”

  “No I wouldn’t. I’d sleep just as long-if I were him.”

  “He must be hungry.”

  “I’ll bet he suffers his leg the way I do my hand.

  Thank the saints, Hallam says he’ll be all right.” “Are you sure? Look at how pale he is.” “Hallam said he bled a lot.”

  “I wonder if he knows Brenna is here?” “Shush, you fool. We don’t want him to hear.”

  Christopher had been aware of the presence of Doyle and Neil for some time. He had stirred three or four times during his sleep in the tent, at first vaguely cognizant of the coming and going of Hallam, and then he had opened his eyes the last time the doctor had checked on him, probably a quarter hour ago. He feigned sleep to hear what his friends said when they thought he was in the distant land of dreams.

  Doyle was right. His leg throbbed, a dull thud that mimicked the beat of his heart. When he shifted the limb, the knives came and prodded him from all angles, and he imagined they were held by Saxon spir­its under the direction of Seaver and Kenric; those two were not through with him yet. He lay on his back but could not get comfortable on the many layers of blan­ kets beneath him. There was no trestle bed, but he doubted a mattress would have made a difference. The bruises kept him shifting, and when he moved, the leg kept him moving some more. It was, in actuality, very difficult to remain still. But the fact that he appeared to be asleep cursed him with a piece of information from the outside world: Brenna was in Shores.

  Why? How? It left him puzzled. And it dawned on him that the confrontation was now at the fore. Perhaps she was just outside the tent, waiting to come in! How would he react to her? He knew she would fall to her knees and want to minister to him, run a soft steady hand over his forehead and kiss him slowly, gingerly, on the cheek. How would he respond? What did he really feel for her in the new, life-changing light of Marigween and his son? What should he do?

  One of Seaver’s disembodied demons struck his knee quite suddenly with his blade, and Christopher rolled onto his side and released a grunt.

  “Christopher?” Neil called. “Can you hear me?”

  His eyelids shuttered slowly open, and the sem­blance of his two friends sitting on the tent floor bed­ side him tightened into candlelit clarity. He lifted his head from his pillow, moved to sit up, could not, then opted to rest his weight on his forearm. “I think so … “

  “What do you mean, you think so?” Doyle asked. “Of course you can.”

  He swallowed away the aftertaste of something bit­ter the doctor had made him swallow earlier, gri­ maced, then asked: “Brenna’s here?”

  Doyle looked at Neil, then shook his head in silent anger.

  Neil caught Doyle’s look, then shrugged. “What’s the difference whether he finds out now or later?” He faced Christopher and nodded. “She’s with Orvin. They sit before a cookfire near the eastern forest.”

  Christopher drew in a deep breath, sighed, then took the weight off his arm, let himself fall onto the blankets and pillow. He closed his eyes. “How did she get here? Why did she come?”

  “We don’t know,” Doyle answered. “You’ll find that out, though, won’t you?” Christopher had never heard a more rhetorical question, nor one that con­veyed such a powerfully heart-wrenching portent.

  He opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling of the tent, then frowned. “I’m afraid so.”

  “You were going to have to tell her sometime,” Doyle reminded. “It might as well be this eve.”

  “Do the words too much, too soon have any mean­ ing for you?” he asked his friend.

  “Not for me. I’ve already made my appointment to see King Arthur and I will be in his tent before the moon is overhead. I’m ready to get on with my life­ or my death.” Doyle spoke coldly, with enigmatic bravery.

  “And you’re not afraid?” Christopher asked, steal­ ing a look at his blood brother.

  “Of course he’s not,” Neil answered for Doy
le. “He was ready to die when he first threw himself to the Saxons. He’s had even more time to prepare.”

  “You don’t like me, do you, Neil?” Doyle asked, incensed.

  “Once I admired you. But now … I’d rather associ­ ate with someone who wants to live. Phelan loved life more than anything,” Neil’s voice cracked, “yet he had to die. You want to die, yet you’re still here.” Neil turned from Doyle, dropped his gaze to his lap. “Dear God, show me the justice here, for I fail to see it now.” A chill dropped from Christopher’s head uninter­rupted to his toes, sparing no part of his body from its rippling wrath. Death was attached to the wintry sensation; it was a feeling like no other.

  No. Not Phelan. Not him.

  Though he heard Neil correctly, he refused to believe it. “Phelan is dead?”

  The bird had wanted very badly to go along on the rescue mission. He was the one who had convinced Neil to go after he had fallen ill. He had been so young, so courageous and determined-so similar to Christopher. There was so much of life he never experienced. No, he couldn’t be dead.

  “He’s dead, Christopher. Dead and buried. There was a service for him, and about a score of others who died during the first assault on the castle. Phelan died not in battle, but of a damned problem with his stomach! It’s not fair!” Neil turned his head away, rubbed his eyes.

  Christopher lifted a palm to his own face and cov­ ered his eyes. He wanted to weep, and was amazed at how easily the tears spilled from his eyes. It was always that way when he was very tired or ill; the simplest things would make him cry-though he would admit the fact to no one. Now, the death of a friend brought on a torrent. He grieved silently, as did Neil. Doyle made not a sniffle. It seemed he was more imately connected to death than either Christopher or Neil, as if he were already dead and his body merely forgot to cease functioning.

  Then again, Doyle dampered his pain, locked it up until it finally burst. His guilt over killing Innis and Leslie and subsequent suicide run to the Saxons was a crystalline example of that.