The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1)

by Darrell Newton

  Belligerent’s skill showed itself again in his quick recovery. Using his momentum, he brought his sword up as he turned and rushed upon Green-Eyes with a downward slice. Green-Eyes held his sword high overhead with both hands to block. The swords met and as Belligerent’s slid off, Green-Eyes hit Belligerent in the face with his hilt. Belligerent dropped his sword and staggered towards his friends, his hands to his bloody face.

  The crowd roared.

  Green-Eyes placed his boot on the dropped sword and prepared to sheath his own. “Now sir—”

  Belligerent’s eyes glanced from his fallen sword to his fellow knights. In a flash, he drew his friend’s sword and lunged again at Green-Eyes, who parried, slid his sword up Belligerent’s belt, and with a flick of his wrist, flipped Belligerent’s mantle up over his head, blinding him and spilling the unfortunate knight across the cobblestones.

  Laughter and cheers from the crowd.

  Belligerent at least had the presence of mind to hold onto the sword this time, and in half a breath scrambled up to his feet, trousers pulled up with his free hand. His friends dismounted and rushed to his side and held him back from any further embarrassment. They managed to escort him from the scene with soothing praises, “You went easy on him,” and, “How noble to let the old man win,” and, “Come on now. A fine wine is what you need after a fight like that.”

  The crowd roared.

  Green-Eyes bowed. “Would anyone else like a lesson in swordsmanship? No? Very well, how about for those with a little too much wine: lessons in walking and keeping up one’s trousers?”

  The crowd laughed.

  He turned to the mounted Spanish knights who had joined during the argument. “Gentlemen, you may want to inform the alguazil that patrols are needed. Mischief is afoot this night and we have not seen the last of it. Much blood has already been spilled down Calle Ciudad and Camino el Salvador.” They nodded and road off to the east. “You and you there,” he ordered, pointing at a squad of militia, “get buckets of sand or water. Put out this fire.” They obeyed.

  Francisco shivered, and looked up at Green-Eyes. As the crowd dispersed, he issued more commands to the loitering stragglers. Some of the men at the door had bloody faces, a swollen lip and a cut eyebrow. Two lay on the ground with more serious injuries. Dark pools of blood beneath them reflected the firelight. A group from the dispersed crowd joined them: wives either proud of their husband’s bravery or furious at their foolishness; children weeping; men who should have been with the defenders. Sancho greeted those around him, but Francisco, keeping one eye on the green-eyed genie-knight, knelt next to the first man on the ground. Francisco put his hand over the man’s mouth. No breath. He rested his head on the man’s unmoving chest, his ear pressed against the man’s sternum. No heartbeat.

  Someone shoved him from behind. Startled, Francisco jumped to his feet, thinking it was the genie-knight. It was a woman in tears. She pushed him aside and then cradled the man’s head, kissing it. His wife. Sancho, who had been following Francisco, tried to defend him, but the woman yelled at him.

  Francisco moved on to the other man on the ground. It was getting harder to see on the portico. So many people had gathered that they blocked the bonfire’s waning light. I could accidently touch one of these people and heal them. Then they would start asking questions. I would ask how I healed. I would … It was then he saw the genie-knight staring at him with his green eyes. Francisco’s blood chilled.

  Green-Eyes stepped forward. Unsure of his intentions, the crowd parted before him. He spoke. “It takes a brave and truly noble man to stand up for those unlike himself.”

  Francisco checked for the nearest way out through the crowd, paths known to a street rat but hidden from a foreign knight.

  The knight asked, “Will you be joining the crusade?”

  Francisco blinked. Don’t tell him anything. He may want to follow. Francisco looked down at his own armor. He couldn’t lie. With a quick glance to his right, he spotted two possible escape routes, but curiosity compelled him to wait until the last minute. “Of course, I’m going,” He answered.

  “But the Almohads are Saracens. Like these Jews, they may yet be baptized. Will you kill them or defend them as well?”

  Of all that’s holy, this genie is a cleric. Maybe he’s not a genie but an angel … or a demon. “They are invaders,” Francisco said. “They have taken our land.”

  Green-Eyes didn’t answer but regarded Francisco. Francisco suddenly felt naked but no longer terrified. Residual defiance and anger gave him enough confidence to lock eyes with the stranger.

  “What is your name, lad?”

  The shifting crowd had cut off his escape routes. Francisco puffed up his chest. If I am going to die at the hands of this genie-cleric-knight, then I die dressed for battle and doing my father’s work. Let my name be known to all. In practiced, rapid-fire succession that allowed no time for interruption, he announced loudly, “I am Francisco de Toledo, son of Artal del Gado, son of Juan de Toledo, son of Dolcet de Burgos, son of Vidal de Burgos, son of Juan de Hortigüela finder of lost treasures.”

  Sancho stepped up next to Francisco and said. “And I am Sancho of... well, Sancho.”

  The knight bowed. “Well then Francisco-of-the-Many-Names and Sancho-of-the-One, they call me Sir Angelo de Toulouse, and it will be my honor to fight alongside you both in the crusade. Adios.” With that, he turned and walked up a north bound-street.

  Francisco nudged Sancho. “Come. Follow him.” He started walking but turned to see Sancho talking with a young woman. Her head was to the side and eyes downcast, bashful but beaming. An older man, possibly the woman’s father, stood next to them, an approving smile on his face.

  “Oh, come on.” Francisco grabbed Sancho’s sleeve and they ran towards the north bound street. As they turned the corner, they saw Sir Angelo disappear down a side street. They quickened their pace.

  “Catch a knight? Are you daft?” Sancho asked.

  “I am not going to catch him,” Francisco said. “I intend to follow him. Where is he from? Who is he? What is he?”

  Sancho stopped. “He told you who. Sir Angelo and he is from Toulouse.”

  “He could be a genie.” Francisco ran up to and peered around the corner up the side street. Sir Angelo was gone. The street was empty. Francisco’s jaw dropped.

  He couldn’t have run that fast. Did he have a horse? He couldn’t have mounted it so quickly and I would have heard shod hooves on stone. Did he go into one of the buildings? Maybe, but all doors and windows were dark. Francisco gasped and held his hand to his neck. “He is a genie!”

  Chapter 16

  Angelo

  Toledo

  Local Date: 10 June 1212

  ANGELO LOOKED DOWN FROM the second story rooftop. With a thought, nothing more than a mental nudge, he activated his oc-lok and reviewed the Ox Shalay prophecy. The oc-lok beamed the text of the prophecy directly onto his retina. After a moment of reflection, he touched his right earlobe. The action did not activate his incom, but triggered a thought that activated it. He remembered Miyuki when he first met her in Nippon. He pictured her standing on the porch at her father’s house, her eyes stern and defiant. Her figure cut a clean, strong silhouette, backlit by a sunrise. This thought connected his thoughts with hers.

  Yes, sensei, she answered.

  Did you see the riot? he cast.

  I saw everything you did.

  I want your opinion, the educated opinion of a recent graduate.

  After a moment, Miyuki replied, Francisco fulfills the seventh line: The Christian who defends the Jew.

  Agreed. Has your Guillem de Cabestany passed any more of the prophecy? Angelo cast.

  No, she admitted, and Guillem is still on schedule to arrive at Toledo by next Friday.

  Then it is settled.

  Tenishi-san, if I may ask a question.

  Of course.

  If Francisco would not make a good Sittiri, how could he then be one of the h
onored Six?

  Not a good Sittiri?

  He is a coward, she cast. A knight challenged him, and he did nothing to defend himself.

  He is not a coward; he is courageous. He listened to the Voice and stood his ground. No greater courage have I seen since the Battle of Awazu. He felt her stiffen. For her, the battle was deeply personal.

  He is too attached to his companion, she cast. If you try to recruit him now, he will not forsake Sancho.

  Too attached? I see loyalty and leadership. You had even more loyalty to the Minamoto clan before I recruited you. Yes, with him it will take time, but our assessment of his character and skill is irrelevant. One cannot argue with the Ox Shalay. If he fits the prophecy, he is the one.

  I am only answering my master’s query. We must be objective when interpreting the Ox Shalay.

  Very well said, he agreed. You track the troubadour and I shall track this courageous and loyal young man.

  Chapter 17

  Ceolwulf

  Cordoba, Almohad Empire

  Local Date: 1 Muharram 609

  CHIEFTAIN CEOLWULF TRUDGED through the narrow streets of Cordoba, intent on reporting his observations to Eden as quickly as possible. It was not yet midsummer, but he felt like a bonfire was raging under his garments. He was dressed as a wealthy merchant wearing a red turban and several layers of robes over a padded suit to make him look fat. No one would know he was the finest example of Anglo-Saxon stamina, strength, and speed. He huffed and heaved like a fat man. Not the thing to wear on a sweltering day in Cordoba, but Eden, his commander ordered him to wear it. Ceolwulf had suggested to Commander Eden in the most respectful terms that a verisuit would breathe better, could change at a moment’s notice, and act as armor in a fight. Eden’s only response was, “A verisuit might emit an Avar-Tek signal the Sittiri can detect.” He knows verisuits only emit signals while they change forms. He wants to watch me suffer. A fat man. I am a fat man. I hate gluttony.

  Ceolwulf turned off the main street, through an arched entrance, and into a courtyard. It was ringed with arches covered in blue and white tiles in a mosaic of geometric patterns. At the center was a fountain set into the pavement, and next to it were potted ferns and one crippled beggar with a hood pulled over his head and a trembling hand open for alms. Five rug merchants had set up shop next to each other, their carts overflowing with rolled goods. With ridiculous offers, each merchant was trying to coax the same customer to their stall. The potential customer was dressed only slightly better than the beggar, and when the merchants saw Ceolwulf stop at the fountain and watch them, they forgot the poorer man, and plied their offers upon him. Ceolwulf ignored them, withdrew a palm-sized Koran, and pretended to read it.

  I hate Cordoba. Too civilized. Too confining. Too many people. He longed for simpler times, remembering his comrades, other Anglo-Saxon warriors: Aldfrid, Oeric, Ricbert, and the club-fisted giant Hunwald. You could always get Hunwald to do something foolish, but he never took offense and always laughed with you. I’ll never see any of them again. Rolling green hills, good plump women, and a town that knows your name and brings you ale without asking. Ale. Ale is what I miss. Can’t get that in Cordoba. I hate the muttawa.26 Get rich with the Key’ari and get out. The game kills you if you stay in too long. Gluttony, greed, arrogance, and complacency: these are the sins that kill with distraction, and they call my name from every stall and street corner. Get distracted in the game and you make mistakes. Make mistakes as a Key’ari and you die. Eden can continue his futile attempts to create his Golden Kingdom, but he can do it without me.

  The rug merchants, giving up on Ceolwulf, started harassing another passerby.

  Ceolwulf heard a voice in his mind. The streets of Cordoba are relentless if you have money. It caught him off guard, but the voice was Commander Eden’s. Ceolwulf should have expected it. This was the place he was told to report his findings, but he wasn’t told how. He looked around and realized the beggar was his commander, who chose to use a disguise instead of a verisuit. ‘Too rare and valuable to be damaged’ Eden would often say.

  Commander Eden was shorter than Ceolwulf but broader in the chest. Eden’s swarthy skin tone showed years under the sun and his eyes were too little for his face. Of all the Key’ari commanders, Eden tried to prove his fortitude by refusing the cosmetic healing his healing stone implants offered: his nose remained flat from too many battles and facial scars lingered that etched an uneven checkered pattern across his thin beard. His healing implant should have removed the scars, but he had the implant programmed to leave the facial scars as a sign of his toughness, a rite of passage that he demanded for his subordinates. Ceolwulf found himself touching the scar on his own face. It ran on the left side from his forehead to his cheek through the middle of his eye. The eye was cut during this self-inflicted wounding, but Eden did allow that to be healed, mercifully. The hardest part of this initiation ordeal was that the adherents had to injure themselves. Eden believed it was the first test of courage and loyalty. He was probably right.

  Ceolwulf cast his reply. These merchants have not bothered you.

  That is why the rich try to appear poor, and the poor try to appear rich, Commander Eden cast.

  Despite himself, Ceolwulf chuckled. Eden loved philosophy almost as much as he loved the so-called Golden Kingdom, the elusive Key’ari goal. Ceolwulf cast to Eden, You did this to me.

  Your appearance? It is your future, Commander Eden replied.

  Do you want me to report my findings, or do you just like to watch me sweat?

  Commander Eden waited a protracted moment, rubbing his stubbly chin. Ceolwulf started to read the Koran to pass the time.

  Yes, Eden cast.

  It was an either-or question.

  Yes, to both. I will watch you sweat as you report.

  Ceolwulf cleared his throat. He knew it wasn’t needed since he wasn’t physically going to speak, but it was a habit he found hard to break.

  The Sittiri are recruiting.

  Here?

  No. North, in Toledo. They’re following a troubadour, traveling south on campaign. I believe there is a link between the troubadour and the killings in Toledo.

  The scout and informant? No. Not a chance. Both were killed with blades, not Avar-Tek. Take three recruits and bring me back news on this troubadour. No killings. We need to know what their prophecy is. It may aid us in the coming change.

  Change?

  Can you not read the signs of the seasons? War is upon us, not the weekly minor skirmishes, but a feast for the shadows. The King of the North gathers his tens of thousands, and Al-Nasir his hundred thousand. A change is coming; a chance for us to remake the world.

  Ceolwulf hesitated.

  You have your assignment, Chieftain. Go.

  One of the recruiters is Commander Angelo. Ceolwulf felt Eden’s hatred screaming through their wireless connection. He had never gotten used to the Key’ari custom of casting strong emotions.

  Eden spoke out loud in Vantu. “Then we shall bring more recruits.”

  “We?”

  “I shall come with you,” he said with finality that offered no room for debate.

  “I can handle this one alone,” Ceolwulf answered.

  “Fool! Don’t you know who he is? This Angelo is a gravitas27 and a froneesis,28 a heavy and a brain. He has two specialist implants. He can out think you, and he can crush your skull with a thought.”

  “I can crush skulls.”

  “With your hands, you dumb brute.”

  Ceolwulf demurred, “Tell me I’m not going as a fat merchant.”

  Commander Eden laughed. “No, you will shadow the troubadour as a jongleur. Wear the red fool’s suit.”

  I have played the fool too long. Now he wants to dress me as one. “Wouldn’t a verisuit be better? It has stealth and armor.”

  Eden sneered and his voice assumed that mocking tone Ceolwulf hated. “Since you are a master of deception, you have no need of Avar-Tek.”

 
“I don’t know how to juggle.”

  Commander Eden didn’t honor him with a response. He stood up, and the rug merchants yelped. Ceolwulf followed his commander out of the courtyard with resignation, leaving behind the merchants who were bewildered that the crippled beggar stood up and walked.

  Chapter 18

  Francisco

  Toledo

  Octave of Pentecost

  766 Days on the Streets

  FRANCISCO STOOD IN RANKS with Sancho, Mateo, Goliath, and other Toledo militia in full armor, waiting for the call to march. Banners with their colors and emblems flapped in a light breeze, marking the armies that had gathered under them: Alfonso VIII’s army of Castile, Pedro II’s army of Aragon, knights from Portugal and beyond the Pyrenees, Spanish military orders of Calatrava and Santiago, Spanish militias from cities as far north as Pamplona, and more colors from unknown lands. Such a gallant host. The largest Spanish force in history as far as he knew, some sixty thousand strong he was told: knights, squires, mounted sergeants, sergeants on foot, militia, clergy, blacksmiths, siege craft, pack mules, carts, wagons, banners waving, harnesses creaking, hooves stomping. A dusty haze filled the early morning air, a portend of stifling heat by noon.

  Everyone anticipated battle in his own way. Goliath peered over the heads before him towards King Alfonso’s banner, his lips moving in unheard prayer, a tiny metal cap perched on his head for a helmet. Mateo checked, and rechecked his pack, straps, and laces. Sancho looked down at the ground, rocking back and forth, humming. Francisco studied the faces of the men, listened to snippets of conversation, and tried to memorize it for future tales of glory. Though he searched for him under every ultramontanos banner, Francisco could not find the green-eyed genie-knight Sir Angelo. The genie defended him, but that didn’t make Francisco trust him. Something about Sir Angelo felt unnatural, but why? The man—if he is a man—did save my life. But … that’s it. Like a cattle farmer caring for his herd. He cares for them only because he has plans for them: slaughter. Francisco shivered.