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

by HISTORY Stephenson, Neal

  He didn’t like leaving her but he had to go to the nearby town. He had to inquire after a midwife and see if he could hire workers from the other farms. In the last few years, he had hired young men to help in the fields at harvest time—their land was becoming too bountiful for one man to tend alone. Harvest was many months off yet, but he only needed one or two men. Just in case.

  The dreams continued, and he had seen signs of other men traveling through the hills. Abandoned fires. Slaughtered deer (though no more of his goats disappeared). Horse tracks near the river crossing. The rest of the world was encroaching on his hidden sanctuary. He couldn’t ignore the signs any longer.

  His villa and tiny farm were a day-and-a-half’s walk from the tiny village of Almuradiel, out of the mountains and onto the high plain of La Mancha, that autonomous region conquered and lost by both Muslim and Christian. The mountains at his back were the tall peaks that separated the plateau and the farm lands that lay along the Guadalquivir River.

  It had been almost twenty years since the battle at the fortress of Alarcos, since he had been left for dead with the other knights of the Order of Calatrava. The following five years were a blur; even now, he had little desire to fill in the holes in his memory. He remembered enough to know that what was said of him was probably true. Monster, the deserter, Diego, had named him. It had been a long time since he had been spoken of thusly.

  He walked, ate, slept, and walked again when the dawn came. When he spotted the first herd of cattle roaming the sere plain, he dug out the leather mask from his satchel and fitted it over his head. It covered most of his face and neck, and to lessen the attention given to his mask, he raised the hood of his mantle as well.

  Faceless and nameless was the manner in which he would enter the village of Almuradiel.

  “Is she in distress?” the midwife wanted to know. Maria was a frail-looking woman with sun-darkened skin and a dancing light in her eyes. “Is she bleeding?”

  Ramiro shook his head. “Louisa is fine,” he said.

  Maria put her tiny hands on her hips and stared at him. He was sitting on a worn bench in the corner of the common house, which was cheerless in its emptiness—a sure sign Almuradiel was under Muslim control again. When he sat, she was taller than he, but not by much. “She’s not due for another moon,” she said.

  “She might be early,” Ramiro said, “and it is a long walk to the villa. It would be best for you to come soon and stay with her until the child is born.”

  Maria wriggled her nose and then used her fingers to scratch it. “There are other expectant mothers in the village,” she said.

  “Who?” Ramiro asked, and when the midwife said nothing but played further with her nose, he offered to pay extra. “I suspect your husband can manage the tavern by himself for several weeks,” he said, nodding toward the man who leaned against the short bar on the far side of the room. “And this coin will more than make up for any business he might lose.”

  “It might be longer than a month,” she said. “Firstborns are never in a rush.”

  Ramiro shrugged, indicating that the length of her stay was of no consequence to him. Only that he wanted her to tend to Louisa sooner than later.

  Maria grunted. “I’ll have to talk to Fernando,” she said. Ramiro nodded, and she gestured at his empty lap. “You hungry? There isn’t much, and there’s no wine.”

  “A little bread and oil will be fine,” he said. He reached into his satchel and fumbled for his purse of coin. Withdrawing a handful, he pressed them into her hand. “For the food,” he said. “And your time today. And some more so that you know of my earnestness.”

  Keeping her hand partially closed, Maria touched the coins discretely. Her mouth tightened, and after she counted them a second time, her lips relaxed, almost stretching into a smile. “It has been a dry winter,” she said. “I’ll get you that bread.”

  As she left him, the door of the common house opened and three men entered. They were wearing long linen tunics that had been dyed blue and brown and red. Silk scarves adorned their heads and shoulders. They carried short-handled, curved swords. They stood near the door for a moment, letting their eyes adjust to the dimness of the common room, and two of the three stared at Ramiro.

  He examined them briefly and then turned his attention to the fire in the hearth. They were Almohad riders, and their appearance confirmed his suspicion. The last time he had come to Almuradiel, there had been militia wearing the colors of a noble family in Toledo. He wondered briefly if those men had been allowed to return to the city.

  Fernando—the barkeep—approached the trio, bowing and babbling in Arabic, offering hospitality to the riders. The leader nodded absently as Fernando rattled on, and then dismissed him with a curt word and a flick of his hand. He and one of the other two walked over to the table near the fire and sat; the remaining man was still looking at Ramiro.

  Ramiro heard him approach, and the man stood in front of him, blocking his view of the fire. He didn’t move his head. The man was carrying his sheathed sword and Ramiro stared at his knuckles. He only looked up when the man repeated his words and let his other hand fall on the hilt of his sword. The pommel cap was a plain orb, scratched with use.

  The rider jerked his chin at Ramiro, and Ramiro reached up and pushed back his hood. The man’s hand tightened on his sword and his voice was hard, his words chopped and quick. Ramiro looked at the Muslim, noting the wideness of his eyes and the taut muscles in his neck. Slowly, so as to not alarm the man, he reached up and took off his mask. The Muslim recoiled, his hand pulling his sword a hand’s width from its sheath. Recovering, the Muslim slammed his sword back into its sheath and spat at him, backing away and jabbering at him in Arabic.

  Ramiro said nothing. He sat still, staring at the man, the leather mask held loosely in his lap.

  The other two Muslims were looking at him now, and as the third continued to gesture at him, Maria rushed across the room. She pressed part of a loaf of hard bread into Ramiro’s hands. “You have to leave,” she said. “Please.”

  Ramiro raised his hood and stood. Maria pushed him toward the door, while Fernando tried to engage the Muslims, entreating them to ignore the ugly one who was leaving. Ramiro left without saying a word, listening carefully to every word that was hurled after him.

  It had been a long time since he had heard Arabic, and a long-quiescent part of his mind was being stirred awake. As he stepped out of the common house, his lips began to move, repeating the words he had heard. Remembering their meaning.

  The village square was empty. A pair of oak trees leaned together, consoling one another for being the only trees within the village limits. Nearby, the three horses belonging to the riders nibbled at the sparse clumps of dry grass that grew near the wall of the common house. In the distance, he spotted a pair of villagers walking away from the square. Their pace was not hurried; they were simply unaware of his presence behind them.

  Lacking any other destination, Ramiro wandered toward the pair of desultory trees, but he had only taken a few steps before he heard the door of the common house bang open. The Muslim he had spooked was yelling at him again, and Ramiro heard the rasp of steel as the man drew his sword.

  He understood the man’s words, the memories of those years following the defeat at Alarcos filling his head again. Abomination. Blasphemy. Monster. Ramiro turned and, seeing the man striding toward him, sword in hand, he tightened his grip on the piece of hard bread. As the Muslim raised his sword, Ramiro threw the bread.

  It bounced off the Muslim’s chest, startling him, and then his eyes widened as he realized Ramiro was nearly upon him. He tried to swing his sword, but he only got as far as raising it higher before Ramiro slammed into him. Ramiro pinned the Muslim’s hands, and snarling, leaned forward and bit down hard on the end of the Muslim’s nose. Blood flowed into his mouth, a hot sap as familiar as the words he had once forgotten, and he shook his head savagely from side to side.

  The Muslim screa
med and jerked his head back, and Ramiro’s teeth clicked shut as flesh separated. Ramiro snapped his head forward, breaking the Muslim’s already injured nose, and as the man wobbled and fell down, Ramiro stripped his sword free. When the man struggled to sit up, Ramiro kicked him in the face and then plunged the curved sword into his chest. He leaned on the hilt until the man stopped squirming.

  Only then did he spit out the piece of bloody gristle in his mouth.

  One of the horses blew air heavily out of his nose and Ramiro blinked, suddenly aware of what he had just done. He stared dumbly at the ruined face of the dead man—it was even more deformed and monstrous than his own. Ramiro wiped at the tears streaming down his face—dimly he knew the source of the sorrow that produced them, but it felt like it belonged to someone else—and staggered away from the body. The sword remained mostly upright in the man’s chest, swaying back and forth.

  He exhaled, letting his breath shudder out of his frame. Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, he dashed away the stinging tears. There was blood in his mouth. His tongue flicked out, touching the ragged scar tissue of his lower lip. There was more blood there.

  He lowered his hands and looked at the swaying sword. With a sigh, he grabbed the hilt, pulling the weapon free of the corpse. There were two more men inside; he was going to have to kill them too.

  Fleetingly, he lamented ever going to look for the missing goat.

  The sword felt good in his hand. His tongue touched the scarred ridge of his lower lip again.

  SEVEN

  Lazare had been pounding a piece of steel since dawn, and he had lost himself in the rhythm of his work. It took many hours to turn an ingot of steel into a blade, and many more hours to shape that blade into a real weapon. He liked the process—the concentration required, the endless ringing repetition of his hammer against the blade, the gradual change that came over the piece of metal. He had not been entirely truthful with Marcos: while he did not create the steel of the sword, he certainly shaped it. He gave it form. Much like Marcos did with his translations of the Arabic philosophers and alchemists.

  And in Lazare’s head, tantalizingly out of reach, was an idea. But no matter how he pulled at it, how he tried to extricate it from the dark morass of his thoughts, he could not bring it into shape.

  He let the hammer bounce along the blade one more time and then as he turned to thrust the steel back in the forge of hot charcoal, he noticed Brother Crespin standing beside the bellows that blew air into the charcoal-filled forge.

  “Brother Crespin,” he said, somewhat startled by his lay brother’s appearance. “I did not see you there.”

  “I have been watching you work,” Crespin admitted. “You seemed to be happy.” He offered Lazare a tiny smile. “I have felt the same when I am shaping a block of stone. I can feel God’s hand on mine, guiding my chisel and hammer.”

  “We are mere instruments,” Lazare murmured, moving the blade back and forth in the hot charcoal.

  “Did you acquire that piece of steel the other day, when you went to the city?” Crespin asked.

  “Yes,” Lazare said, feeling only momentarily guilty for not saying more about his trip into Toledo.

  “I would have liked to have gone with you,” Crespin said. “I have been told there is some intricate stonework in some of the mosques. I would like to see it. Not today, though, it is too hot.”

  Lazare looked out of the open tent that kept the sun off his makeshift smithy. The light was bright and made him squint. His forge was hot and he wore a leather apron over his robes, which made him sweat more heavily. Still, the day itself was warm. May, in France, was still damp and wet; the weather in Iberia was much drier and hotter.

  “Perhaps, we could walk to the city in the morning,” Crespin added. “Before the sun gets too high in the sky.”

  “Perhaps,” Lazare said.

  Crespin watched him work for awhile. “You have been quiet as of late,” he said finally.

  Lazare considered making an excuse, offering some mention of the heat or the dust, but it only took a quick glance at Crespin’s earnest face to feel the dull burn of shame creep up his cheeks. “I have been thinking about the purpose of our crusade”—he shook his head and corrected himself—“Rome’s crusade.”

  Crespin gave him an odd look. “It is the same as any other crusade against unbelievers,” he said. “Abbot Amairic speaks often of our duty to serve God and the Church—of the necessity of taking up arms against those who would destroy our God. Haven’t you been listening to his sermons?”

  Lazare shook his head. “I have heard Abbot Amairic speak as often as you,” he said. “I have heard him quote from Scripture and offer homilies to the men. I have studied the Bible myself. I am not unaware of these things that Abbot Amairic preaches. But…”

  “Your heart is conflicted,” Crespin said when Lazare trailed off.

  “Aye,” Lazare agreed. “Do you remember when I dragged you up the mountain to see Roland’s Breach?”

  Crespin nodded. “I do. The walk was quite vigorous.”

  “Are the stories of men such as Roland not a variation of the homilies offered by Abbot Amairic during his sermons? The spirits of the soldiers who may very well give their lives in service of their lords or Church are bolstered by these tales of other men who have fought selflessly. But what if these stories are fabrications?”

  Crespin frowned. “Are you suggesting there was no such man as Roland?”

  Lazare shook his head. “No, I believe there was, but what if the story we know is a romanticized one? A tale that has been rewritten to make his sacrifice more than it was.”

  “That is true of any story told by a troubadour,” Crespin pointed out. “That is part of their charm.”

  “Here, in Iberia, I have heard a version of Roland’s story where he is the villain. Charlemagne was the invader, and the local peoples—the Basques—had driven him out. The Frankish army was running away, and Roland was commanding the rear guard. It was only because he refused to go, only because he stood and fought—on land that was not his—that he was slain. If this is true, then why do we glorify his sacrifice?”

  “Because his actions saved Christian lives,” Crespin said.

  “Is that all that matters?”

  Crespin shrugged. “Isn’t it enough?”

  “But if Charlemagne had remained within his own borders, if his army had not come to Iberia, would not more Christian lives have been saved?” Lazare lifted the glowing sword out of the forge and inspected its length.

  “I suspect that neither I nor anyone will have a satisfactory answer to that question,” Crespin said.

  Lazare dropped the sword blade on the anvil and started pounding it again. “Should I not ask the question then?” he asked between blows of his hammer.

  Crespin waited until Lazare’s pace slowed—each hammer blow less noisy than the one prior. “If it cannot be answered, then perhaps the posing of the question itself is that which you mean to consider,” he said. “Which is to consider how best to save the largest number of Christian lives.”

  Lazare let the hammer skip off the blade. “At what point is violence not the path for peace?” he asked.

  “Every time it happens,” Crespin said. “That is the difference between the two. You cannot have peace with violence, and violence does not necessarily beget peace. It typically leads to more violence.” He gestured at Lazare’s work. “Why are you asking this? Is that not the sole purpose of a sword: to create more violence? It is not used to plow a field for God. Or raise a church wall for God.”

  “It is used to kill, in the name of God,” Lazare shouted at him, his hand tight around the shaft of his hammer. “Or Muhammad. Or some other pagan deity. The sword is a tool with one purpose.” He was breathing heavily, his body slick with sweat, and his heart pounded in his chest. He wanted to bend the piece of steel around the edge of his anvil, pound it into a twisted shape that would have no use for anyone.

  Cresp
in stared at him, blinking solemnly. “I build churches,” he said softly, “so that men may commune with God. Is that why you make your swords?”

  “No,” Lazare said quietly. “I make swords so that men can be free.”

  “You do God’s work then,” Crespin said.

  Lazare continued to work on the sword until he could no longer lift his arms. He could coax it into the shape of a blade because he had that skill, but he could not divine the answer to the questions that hounded him. He left the blade on his anvil and collapsed on the ground near the forge, letting sleep claim him. He was exhausted, both in body and spirit.

  He was dragged out of his dreamless slumber by Brother Crespin, who stood over him, shaking him roughly.

  “What…what is it?” he asked. His mouth was caked with dust and his tongue stuck to his teeth.

  “The Templars,” Crespin said breathlessly. “They’ve gone to Toledo.”

  Lazare did not understand Crespin’s consternation. The Templars were free to ride into the city, much like any other Christian. Why would such news be so alarming that Crespin would wake him?

  “They’ve been restless,” Crespin said. “Late this afternoon, after I spoke with you, I saw Abbot Amairic visit the Templar compound.”

  “And?” Lazare said, sitting up.

  “I do not know if he offered them a sermon or he spoke to Helyssent, but they rode out a little while ago. In full armor.” Crespin shook his head. “I could not help but reflect on our conversation this afternoon, and in doing so, I became concerned about some of Abbot Amairic’s rhetoric. The crusaders have been given a dispensation to fight Rome’s enemies, but who are those enemies?”

  Ostensibly, Lazare knew the answer to that question. The enemy was the Almohad caliphate, the army of Miramamolin that was slowly creeping northward from Seville. The crusaders had been in Toledo nearly a month and they were still waiting for Alfonso VIII, the king of Castile, to decide his army was large enough. The Aragonese army had arrived last week, and a force sent from Portugal by Pedro II was due any day. Combined with the thousands of men who had marched south from Toulouse and regions north, the Christian army would number nearly two hundred thousand strong.