Foreworld Saga 01 SideQuest Adventures No. 1 The lion in chains, the beast of Calarrava, the shield maiden

by HISTORY Stephenson, Neal

  Crespin turned slowly, placing his feet with care so that he didn’t step on a piece of shale that might slip beneath his weight. “My heart trembles to be the recipient of such fortune,” he said breathlessly.

  Lazare skipped down the slope and clapped Crespin on the shoulders, startling the stouter man. “We congratulate ourselves with our ability to build churches, but what are they but hovels of mud and stick compared to the majesty of these mountains and the valley below us?”

  “An observation you could have made an hour ago before we had started this climb,” Crespin said, glaring at Lazare.

  “Yes, but you would have accepted my words on faith, Brother Crespin,” Lazare said. “Are they not imbued with much more gravitas now that you have seen God’s majesty for yourself?”

  “’Tis a lesson I would not have minded skipping,” Crespin replied.

  “And missed the opportunity to see what lies at the top?” Lazare shook his head. “Come now, Brother Crespin, we are almost there.” He clapped Crespin on the shoulder once more and resumed his climb.

  From the valley below, the upper rim of the mountains was an unbroken ring of stone cliffs, impassable to a company that included horses and wagons. Nor had their guides suggested they try to cross the Pyrenees here. The valley—with its bouncing spring of glacial runoff, open fields, and verdant forests—was simply a good location for a camp, and the Templar commander, Helyssent de Verdelay, had meant to stay for several days to replenish stores. While the senior religious official accompanying the army was the archbishop of Toledo, the task of providing sermons fell to Abbot Arnaud Amairic, the master of the small group of Cistercians, and the abbot was a priest who took his role as orator very seriously. Lazare and Crespin had dutifully offered their services to the knights, but as the company had seen no combat, nor had it ridden hard, there was little for the small company of Cistercian priests to do.

  During his morning prayer, Lazare had noticed the notch in the cliff, and when he had inquired of the local guides about it, he had learned that it was known as Roland’s Breach. From the valley floor, it did look like a cleft caused by a blade striking a stone.

  And, of course, learning this, he had to climb up and take a closer look. Crespin hadn’t even tried to talk Lazare out of going; he knew that was a fool’s effort.

  The first part of the climb was the most strenuous, and for the last hour, the route had been no steeper than walking from the outer wall to the abbey at Clairvaux. The mountain air was crisp, and Lazare enjoyed the feel of it in his mouth and throat as he breathed deeply during the hike. Much like the water from the stream that ran by the camp, the air seemed purer as if indicative of its proximity to Heaven.

  Unlike he and Crespin. Their white habits were streaked with dust from the rocky climb. Filthy creatures scrambling up the aged bones of God’s creation.

  As he reached the cleft, Lazare marveled at the precision of the cut through the rocky spur of the peak. While he waited for Crespin to catch up, Lazare paced off the width of the gap—just over twenty-six paces—and inspected the marbled wall of the cleft, running his hands over the rough stone.

  Crespin reached the cleft and stood in the shade of the left-hand wall, looking at the mountain range the company of knights still had to cross before they reached Aragon. “Well,” he said after he had caught his breath. “Here we are. Is it as marvelous as you hoped?”

  There were loose stones at the bottom of the cleft, shards that had fallen from the walls; on the left-hand side, a knob of stone protruded from the cleft-face like a pustule waiting to burst; at the top, the edges were straight and there was no overhanging stone lip. Lazare left his hand on the rock, feeling its texture under his calloused hands.

  “The guide told me the story of this breach,” he said. “It was supposedly made by Roland when he tried to break his sword to keep it from falling into Moorish hands.”

  Crespin glanced up at the walls of the cleft. “You have heard a different version than I,” he said. “I don’t recall Roland being a giant.”

  “Of course, he wasn’t,” Lazare replied. “Looking at the stones of battlements and walls, haven’t you seen cuts like this and wondered what happens when steel meets stone?”

  “I haven’t for I know that—in most instances—stone wins. Even if notches like this are made,” Crespin admitted, his mouth turning down as if he had sampled something sour. He looked up at the knob of rock above his head. “Is this why we came up here? For you to fondle the stone?”

  “No one knows where his sword went,” Lazare said. “When the Saracens overran Charlemagne’s rear guard, Roland rallied the Christians with Oliphant and Durendal.”

  “He had an elephant?”

  “No,” Lazare laughed. “He had a hunting horn.”

  “And he called it Oliphant?” Crespin frowned. “I suppose Durendal was the name of his sword.”

  “Yes, it was. Supposedly its hilt contained relics that gave its wielder great powers.”

  “But the Saracens killed him,” Crespin pointed out.

  “It took a great number of Saracens,” Lazare responded. “Thousands.”

  “Thousands,” Crespin repeated. His gaze roamed around the loose rock in the cleft between Gascogne and Aragon. “I don’t see it,” he said. “I fear the magic sword with a name isn’t here.”

  “No,” Lazare said wistfully, “it isn’t. Nor did I find it in Rocamadour where the monks think it landed after Roland threw it.”

  “Rocamadour,” Crespin said. “That’s quite far from here. Even for a giant, which he wasn’t.” He sighed and levered himself to his feet and approached the other priest. It was his turn to rest his hands on Lazare’s shoulders. “It’s just a sword, Brother Lazare, and one that was, most likely, of much lesser quality than the blades you have made. You shouldn’t trouble yourself so much with this obsession with magic swords. Magic isn’t what makes a sword strong. Faith is. Let your faith reside with God. God will guide your arm. God shows you how to make strong steel just as he directs my hand when I place the stones and raise my arches. We are His instruments.”

  “You are right, Brother Crespin,” Lazare said, sighing. “It is just a sword.”

  “Come then,” Crespin said, squeezing Lazare’s shoulder. “Let us make the much less arduous journey back to the camp. Perhaps the Templar commander has discovered a spot of rust on his blade and he will need you to clean it.”

  “I am but a mere instrument of God’s,” Lazare said wryly. “It is my duty to serve.”

  “Precisely.” Crespin idly knocked some of the dust from his robe as he started back down the trail. Behind him, he heard Brother Lazare mutter quietly, “Though, to name a sword…” Crespin shook his head as he kept walking.

  TWO

  Ramiro Ibáñez de Tolosa followed the dry river bed along the base of the hill. The ground was rocky enough that he kicked up little dust as he moved, and with his dun-colored clothing, he could be mistaken for a large stone should he stop and raise the cowl of his robes. The only sound he made as he walked was a light tapping of the butt of his oak staff against the rocks.

  His torso was thick and short, out of proportion with his long arms and legs, and his head was a sturdy block atop his broad shoulders. His dingy gray hair was long and untamed, unlike his beard, which was neatly trimmed along the edge of his jaw. Unlikely allies, the beard and hair conspired to hide the long scar that pulled the left corner of his mouth down, but little could be done to hide the missing tip of his nose.

  Scar tissue notwithstanding, his sense of smell was not diminished, and it was the odor of cooking meat that he was following. The river bed wound around the base of the plump oak-covered hill, and he knew it turned to the west just past an outcropping of splintered rocks that served as a dependable windbreak against the storms that drifted up from the south. He could have approached the lee of the rocky break from above, but the oaks were not dense enough on that side of the hill to conceal his approach. The ro
cks obscured the course of the dry river bed, and unless they had posted a lookout, he would be able to sneak up on the camp without anyone noticing him.

  He saw no watcher in the obvious position atop the rock, and as he came up on the edge of the ragged edge of the splintered stone, he heard voices and the crackling of a fire. The smell of roasting goat was much stronger. Even before he came around the rock, he had decided there would be at least three men sitting around the fire.

  There were four—one was lying on his back a little distance from the fire, and judging from the bloodstained rags clutched to his stomach, he had a reason to be less talkative than the others. The other three wore stained tunics that militia typically wore under maille hauberks, though Ramiro saw no evidence of chain shirts in their scattered baggage. They wore no colors, showed no insignias or seals, and their swords were plain and worn. Deserters, Ramiro decided as he cleared his throat and tapped his staff lightly against the nearby rock.

  “Pleasant day to roast a goat,” he said, nodding toward the smoking carcass hanging over the recently made fire. He spoke slowly and carefully, making sure that his lips closed when they should with each word so that the men would be able to understand him.

  Two of the four scrambled to their feet, their hands falling on their worn sword hilts. The dying man flinched, reacting more to the sudden movement from the others than from Ramiro’s words. The other man remained seated beside the fire, though his hand drifted toward a long knife stuck through his belt. The two standing were nervous, their eyes bouncing back and forth between the seated man and Ramiro, waiting for some signal.

  “It is,” the seated man said. “Did you—” He swallowed his words, and his eyes slid off and then returned to staring at Ramiro’s angular nose.

  “Yes,” Ramiro said, nodding politely. “You can smell it for quite some distance. If there are scavengers in these hills, I suspect they’re already watching you.”

  “Is that what you are?” the man asked. “A scavenger?”

  “Diego!” one of the standing men hissed.

  “He’s not a priest,” the seated one—the one named Diego—said. “Not with that face. And—”

  “Why not?” Ramiro interrupted. The man stared at him, and he gestured at his scarred visage. “Why couldn’t a man like me be a servant to God? Does God care what I look like?”

  The one who had hissed at Diego tried to smile as he stepped toward Ramiro. “My friend means no disrespect,” he said. “He—we—have been traveling for some time. We have not eaten a decent meal in days. It makes us forget our manners.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Ramiro said. “That goat, for instance, was not yours to slaughter.”

  The halfhearted smile on the man’s face faltered and he hesitated, licking his lips as he glanced over his shoulder at Diego. Looking for a signal. Diego inclined his head a fraction and the man’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

  As the ruffian began to draw his sword, Ramiro stepped forward and rapped him smartly on the knuckles with the tip of his staff. The tip then caught the man in the chin, knocking him back into the arms of his friend. Ramiro took another step, letting go of the staff with one hand and whirling it around his head. Diego, half rising, leaped back to avoid getting struck in the head by the fast-moving end of the oak staff, and he ended up on his ass beside the dying man. Far enough away to not be any concern for a moment or two.

  Ramiro swept his staff around, keeping the pair of swordsmen at bay, and then he brought the staff back into a two-handed grip. The one who had spoken managed to pull his sword free of its scabbard on his second attempt, and he came at Ramiro with a clumsy thrust. Ramiro stepped to the side, using his staff to knock the man’s sword blade away from his chest. He snapped the staff back with his hands, catching the man on the side of the head, just below the ear, with a vicious hit. The man’s teeth clicked as they snapped together, and he collapsed instantly, his limbs flopping like those of a child’s rag doll.

  The second man had to step over his fallen friend and his attention dropped to his feet as he came, his sword raised high. Ramiro closed the distance between them, catching the man under the arm with his staff. He shoved the staff up, forcing the man to raise his arm over his head. Ramiro flicked the end of his staff not once but twice, smacking the man in the face with each strike. After the second hit, the man staggered back, his sword hanging loosely in one hand.

  Ramiro scooped up the first man’s discarded sword and turned to assess the situation. Diego had gotten to his feet and drawn his knife, but when he was confronted with both sword and staff, his grip loosened and the knife fell to the ground. “My sincerest apologies to the owner of this goat,” Diego said, bowing his head. “Would that I could return what has been lost, but alas the beast is dead and burned.”

  “Who is your master?” Ramiro asked, ignoring the other’s efforts to ingratiate himself.

  Diego flushed, and he gazed down at his discarded knife for a second as if he were considering picking it up again. “We’re not slaves,” he said. “We’re free Castilians.”

  “We’re not in Castile,” Ramiro pointed out.

  The two men on the ground had both recovered from their ignominious treatment at Ramiro’s hands and had carefully crept out of range of both sword and staff. The one who had been struck beneath the ear tried to glare at Ramiro, but his eyes kept wandering. The other one had tried to wipe away the blood from his nose, leaving a red smear across his left cheek.

  “Don Enrique Rodríguez de Marañón,” Diego said.

  “He’s dead,” the one with the bloody face blurted out.

  “Not by our hand,” Diego said quickly, forestalling a conclusion that he feared Ramiro might be leaping to. “When the Moors took the citadel at Puertollano.”

  “When?” Ramiro asked, his heart quickening. Puertollano lay to the north and west; while that land was claimed by both the Almohad caliphate and kings of Castile and Aragon, there had been few skirmishes between Christian and Moor in the last few years.

  “A week ago,” Diego said. “They overwhelmed us. We only had a dozen knights and”—he gestured at his companions—“not enough men. They captured Don Enrique and two other caballeros. The rest of us were not worth ransoming, and they would have killed us had we not fled.”

  Ramiro let his gaze wander across the supine member of their group, taking in the bloodstained bandages, the pale skin, the thick sheen of sweat. The man had sustained his wound more recently than a week ago. “And where are you going?” he asked, his gaze returning to Diego.

  “North,” Diego said, lifting a hand and pointing along the verge of the forest behind Ramiro, as if such motion might make up for the lack of specifics in his reply.

  It was the wrong direction, but it was away from Ramiro’s villa and orchards. Ramiro nodded. “Then you should continue on your way,” he said.

  “Now?” Diego asked.

  Ramiro nodded.

  “But what about the goat?” one of the two men complained.

  “It’s not your goat,” Ramiro reminded him.

  “But—” the man continued, and Diego cut him off with a hiss. He gestured for the others to gather their gear as he strode around the fire toward their scattered baggage. The pair followed his lead and began gathering up their meager belongings.

  Ramiro walked around the other side of the fire to inspect the wounded man more closely. He was bleeding from the belly, and his breaths were shallow and slow. His eyes remained closed as Ramiro knelt and touched his forehead, feeling the heat of his fever.

  “What of your friend?” he asked. “He certainly won’t last another week.”

  The man beside him, as if summoned from the depths of his fever by Ramiro’s voice, slowly opened his eyes. They grew even larger as he saw Ramiro’s disfigured face, and his chest rose and fell with increasing desperation. He opened his mouth, and if it was to speak or scream, none of them would ever know as his life ended before he could draw enough
breath.

  The sight of Ramiro frightening a man to death spooked one of the two men, who left off gathering his belongings and ran, sprinting for the forest along the hillside. The second man followed suit, and only Diego lingered for a second, sneering at Ramiro in a fit of false bravado. “Monster.” He spat into the fire before he followed the others.

  Unmoved by the reaction of the men, Ramiro calmly closed the corpse’s eyes and mouth before turning his attention to the goat roasting on the fire. It was one of six he kept; earlier in the day he had noticed it missing. The mystery was now solved, but the reason for its disappearance was troubling.

  The Almohads were moving north. War was coming to Iberia again.

  THREE

  Upon hearing the commotion at the rear of the cathedral, Brother Lazare raised his head from his silent prayer and looked over his shoulder. A messenger was in earnest conversation with the archbishop’s steward, and both kept glancing toward the choir of the cathedral where Rodrigo Jiménez de Rada, the archbishop of Toledo, continued to pray. Kneeling behind the archbishop, Helyssent de Verdelay, the Templar commander, stirred slightly but he did not succumb to the same curiosity that had overtaken Lazare. On the archbishop’s left, Abbot Amairic was intent on matching the archbishop’s focus in prayer.

  Lazare sensed that Crespin was trying to get his attention with a wide-eyed glance and a surreptitious head shake, but Lazare ignored him. He was done with his vigil; he didn’t have the same need to impress the archbishop with his religious fervor. Levering himself to his feet, he walked stiffly toward the nave. How long had they been praying? he wondered. Two hours? He was out of practice with such demonstrations of piety, though he felt that God would forgive him. Some of His servants were meant for duties other than personal sacrifice and rigorous abasement. As he reached the wooden gate that separated the choir from the nave, he waved at the pair.