Burning Shadows: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain (Saint-Germain series Book 23)

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “That is most worthwhile,” said Niklos with heavy sarcasm, “considering.”

  “Dying in fire would be the True Death for us both,” Sanctu-Germainios observed.

  “I’m aware of it,” said Niklos brusquely. “That’s what I mean. What good is it to escape the Huns if we are killed by fire?” He straightened the next straw-man before emptying his ladle over the shoulders of the figure. “I reckon that’s why Nicoris changed her mind about staying; you told her what we were planning to do.”

  “Not all of it, but enough,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “She knows that you and I may not . . . be able to leave here.”

  “She might be attacked on the road, or have to fight the Huns in another place,” said Niklos.

  “That is why I asked her to go with Neves and his men. She would have a greater chance with a company of armed men than with just the two of us. She saw the advantages of that.”

  “Don’t you want her here, with you?” Niklos dared to ask.

  “If everything were settled and the monastery still a haven, then yes. But as matters stand, this is not her risk to take; she deserves protection, and here I cannot give it to her.” He paused. “I hope I have done what will spare her from harm.”

  “And I suppose you paid Neves and his men to guard her?” Niklos guessed aloud.

  “She is safer with Neves and his men than she would be here,” Sanctu-Germainios reiterated, no emotion in his voice; he told himself again, as he had told her, that he did not want to be the cause of the death that would bring her to his life.

  “I guess that means you did pay them, and knowing you, very well,” said Niklos, saying nothing more as he continued on until he reached the next ladder. “Do we do the figures on the outer wall as well?”

  “As many of them as we have time to; oil will keep them burning in spite of the damp,” Sanctu-Germainios replied, wondering if Niklos would be willing not to remind him of Nicoris; his anxiety for her had been growing since she had left with Neves and his mercenaries. He concentrated on his immediate situation, trying not to fret for Nicoris. “Once the Huns break through the outer wall we—”

  “—set these on the inner wall alight, and then the dormitories, and under cover of the flames, we make our way toward the lake, setting fire to the straw-men on the outer wall, trapping the Huns between the two blazes—that is, if the Huns cooperate. If they fight from outside the walls, we will have to think of another way.” He coughed to express his discomfort at that notion. To keep from dwelling on their chance of failure, he said, “I trust our horses are well enough concealed to escape the notice of the Huns, otherwise we’ll be in a worse situation than we are now. I don’t wish to try to get out of the mountains on foot, not with the Huns about.”

  “One of the hermits has them in his cave. I gave him feed and water for the five animals: three horses and two mules; they are saddled, bridled, haltered, and laden: we can ride as soon as we reach the cave. For his service, I offered Monachos Guilielmos the last wheel of cheese from the larder—the one Monachos Vlasos left for us—and the gold crucifix from the wall of the refectory. Money would have insulted him.” He followed Niklos down the ladder.

  “Do you think the hermit is reliable? Does he have any idea of what could happen here if he fails us?” Niklos’ nervousness was becoming more apparent; he fidgeted with the tails of his belt.

  “He used to be a merchants’ factor before his family died of pustulant fever: he may be a little mad, but he knows the importance of this duty.”

  Niklos nodded, going on an instant later, “Do you think we’ll be able to get out of this place unnoticed?”

  “I hope we can. The weather favors us.” His hand slid around the hilt of the Byzantine long-sword hanging from his belt in a scabbard. “I have a dozen caltrops as well, and a dagger.” He tapped the satchel slung across his shoulder.

  “Then you anticipate a fight,” said Niklos.

  “Not necessarily, but I am prepared for one, just as you are,” Sanctu-Germainios said as they crossed the narrowest part of the space between the two stockades.

  “Do you think we’re being watched now?” Niklos asked, hesitating a little as they reached the outer wall.

  “In this?” Sanctu-Germainios waved his free hand through the air. “They are welcome to try: I can barely make out the stable from here.”

  Niklos made a sound between a laugh and a sigh. “Why have they waited so long? They must suspect the monastery is empty.”

  “Very likely they do. They want to strike when the monastery is most exposed and its defenses are at their weakest.” He stopped at the foot of the ladder and looked closely at Niklos. “You know this. Why do you continue to—”

  “Pester you? For reassurance. I don’t know you well, but I realize that you’re not like Olivia. You are a self-contained man, you don’t reveal yourself as readily as she does. You keep your own counsel. If you are hopeful or discouraged, you make no show of either. You don’t dissemble, but you aren’t forthcoming, either. Olivia is much more open; she opines on everything. You puzzle me often, she never. I’ve tried to discern your purpose, and half the time I’m unable to figure it out. So I tell you what I understand and hope you’ll confirm it for me.” He turned away, shocked at his own outburst. “I intend no disrespect, Dom.”

  Sanctu-Germainios contemplated Niklos’ restless movements, saying at last, “I did not think you did.” He began to climb toward the battlement walkway. “We will be through here shortly. Then we can take our place on the battlements to watch for the arrival of the Huns.”

  “What if they don’t come?” Niklos asked. “What do we do then?”

  “If the Huns are not here by nightfall, we will set fire to the walls, collect our horses and mules, and take the southern hunters’ track leading toward Drobetae.”

  “In the dark?” Niklos climbed up behind Sanctu-Germainios. “Why don’t we just set fire to the place and leave now?”

  “Because the Huns would know that the fire had been set, and they would search for us. Given their numbers, they would find us.” He reached the walkway, turned, and offered his hand to Niklos, pulling him up the last few rungs with no apparent effort.

  Niklos swallowed once, hard, then scowled. “I’ll try not to keep badgering you, Dom.”

  “And I will try to explain myself,” Sanctu-Germainios promised him as they began their work of applying oil to as many of the straw-men as possible. They had completed half of their task when the sound of hoof-beats reached them, at a distance, but moving at a trot.

  “Huns,” said Niklos.

  “Down the ladder. Leave the jugs. We need our torches.” Sanctu-Germainios had already dropped his and was making for the ladder, his satchel swinging along his side.

  “At the gate-tower?”

  “Yes. Hurry.” He was on the ground, prepared to run. “Hurry,” he repeated, starting away from the outer wall with amazing speed.

  Niklos rushed after him, but could not keep pace with Sanctu-Germainios’ uncanny speed. He continued to run with dogged purpose, reaching the gate-tower as Sanctu-Germainios emerged from the tower onto the battlement walkway, a burning torch in his hand. “Are you going to light them now?”

  “No; as soon as they break through the outer wall; we need as many of them in the space between the walls as possible,” Sanctu-Germainios answered. “For now, will you go to the monks’ church and ring the bell twice?”

  “Why?”

  “So that it may seem that there are more men here than is actually the case; the longer they are confused, the better it is for us,” came his answer. “Then go to the alarm and sound it loudly, so that it might seem that there are soldiers still here to defend this place.”

  “All right,” said Niklos, and ran off to the monks’ church. He found the bell-rope quickly, rang it twice, then rushed on to the courtyard between the dormitories where the alarm hung. He struck the hanging brass tube four times with the mallet beside it, and for a mo
ment he could no longer hear the sounds of horsemen approaching. “They’re coming up the river track,” he said to himself, troubled by the ease with which the Huns were advancing. With the main approach still blocked by the rock-fall, the river track was the most well-marked and the easiest of all the hunters’ trails. He heard the abrupt orders shouted to the horsemen; the sound goaded him into speeding back to the gate-tower and up the ladder. “Do you see them?” he asked as he came up to Sanctu-Germainios on the platform.

  “Not clearly. They are too far away from us for me to determine what—” He stared intently. “They are gathering at the top of the lake, and that should bring them to the makeshift gate in the outer wall.” His night-seeing eyes were less hampered by the dark, but the mist blurred all that moved in the distance.

  “Do you think they know about the stockade getting burned by Monachos Anatolios?” Niklos looked directly at the torch flaming near them in its iron sconce.

  “If the spy inside the monastery did not tell them, their scouts must have done so,” Sanctu-Germainios said.

  “Doesn’t that worry you?” Niklos demanded, finding comfort in talking more than in any response he was given.

  “Yes, it does, but for now, I must put my attention on the problems actually confronting us here, not on what I speculate could happen. We have anticipated as much as we could, and done what we can to prepare for any contingency.” He thought back to the many battles he had fought, in his native land, in Anatolia, in Egypt, in Greece, in Gaul, and as quickly as he recalled them he wished them away, knowing he needed to center his vigilance on the Huns and the stratagem he hoped would succeed. He realized that Niklos wanted to hear more from him, so he said, “You know what our plans are; you can carry them out whether I am able to or not. Use your good sense and you will win free of this place.”

  Niklos glowered. “You’re not planning something rash, are you?—something I don’t know about. Something Olivia wouldn’t approve.”

  “I am planning to do the things we have agreed upon, but that does not mean that the Huns will permit us to best them.” He went silent, listening to the shouts and war-cries of the Huns as they started up from the lake toward the damaged outer wall of the monastery.

  “I wish this fog would lift,” said Niklos, needing to keep conversing.

  “I hope it will not,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “The less the Huns see clearly the better for us.” He drew his sword. “Get ready.”

  Niklos took hold of the battle-axe that had been slung across his back; he unfastened the hook and swung the weapon around. “Ready,” he said, and started along the battlements, working his way toward the mid-section of the inner wall.

  “At least it is damp enough to render their bows inefficient,” Sanctu-Germainios said as he checked the straw-men along the wall.

  “The damp softens their bow-strings, doesn’t it,” said Niklos to show he grasped Sanctu-Germainios’ meaning.

  “Yes. Just as it softens the skeins on the ballistas.” He went into the small tower that stood at the half-way point along the inner wall; he climbed up to the platform and peered into the thickening fog. “I can see about thirty mounted men headed this way, but I hear many more than that.”

  Niklos listened. “Many more than thirty,” he agreed, becoming restive. “A lot of men for the two of us to take on.”

  Sanctu-Germainios swung his sword, testing its heft. “Wait until most of them are inside—”

  “—the outer wall. I remember,” he said testily, although he knew he had been about to set the oil-soaked straw-men alight.

  Sanctu-Germainios listened, his full attention on the sound of the company of Huns. “There are more arriving, I would guess another forty,” he said a little bit later as he came down from the platform. “They are about to circle the outer wall, to decide where to break through.”

  “Do you think they’ll set the wall on fire?” Niklos asked.

  “You mean before we do?” Sanctu-Germainios shook his head. “No. They are not carrying torches. Take heed of everything you hear.”

  “Do you want to remain here, or shall we—”

  “We should stay in position until we know where the Huns will break through. Keep in the cover of the tower if you can. The longer we can remain undetected, the more chance we have to get away. We do not want to draw their attention yet.” Sanctu-Germainios motioned for Niklos to be silent. “They have started to move.”

  The noise of their horses’ hooves grew louder, pulsing like the sea. There were occasional shouts as the van of the company followed around the outer wall toward the gate-tower, their mounts at the canter.

  Niklos was still, as much from fear as in response to Sanctu-Germainios’ order. “There’re more than a hundred of them.”

  “At least a hundred,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “I think there may be as many as one hundred fifty.”

  That total increased Niklos’ dread. “So many.” He lapsed into a brief silence. “Do you think we’ll actually get away?”

  “I hope we will,” said Sanctu-Germainios, lifting his sword again. “The more we can avoid confrontation the greater our chances are.”

  A wailing cry arose from the Huns as they encircled the outer wall, a sound similar to the howls of wolves, but deeper and more menacing. There was very little echo, which made the sound yet more disconcerting.

  “What if they don’t come in the new gate? If they come in the gate-tower, how will we get to the outer wall to set the second straw-men afire?”

  “I hope they will take the new gate; it is less formidable than the main gate. The new gate is better-placed for a raid, as well, since it allows the Huns to reach the river track without being exposed to defensive assault. It is the easiest to bring down, as well.” Sanctu-Germainios moved quickly, rising in the archers’ niche to look out on the enemy horsemen.

  A sudden, shattering moan punctuated by axe-blows rent the air; the Huns not at the new gate went rushing back to it to help to break it down. A few of them were screaming encouragement to their comrades.

  The battering continued for a short while, then the wood groaned and cracked.

  “Be ready. They will get through quickly, now the gate is gone.” Sanctu-Germainios seized his torch.

  Niklos was shaken; the determined vehemence of the horsemen scared him badly; to reassure himself, he muttered, “Light these straw-men, then down to the dormitories and set them on fire. Then, using the smoke for cover, go to the outer wall and light the straw-men there before we go out through the open gate.”

  “Exactly,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “You will need your torch.”

  “I have it,” he said, trying not to listen to the new gate being pulled apart, the cheers of the Huns marking its destruction more than the scrape and thud of its collapse. The clamor of the Huns grew louder as they poured through the hole left in the wall, fanning out as they got into the space between the two walls. Most of the men rode toward the small fields and the paddocks and pens, where their jubilant victory turned to wrath as they discovered that the livestock was gone and the fields were empty.

  “Now,” said Sanctu-Germainios, and flung his torch some distance along the wall into two straw-men fastened over a small catapult; the figures seemed to resist the flames; the torch began to smoke.

  “What do we—?” Niklos whispered, watching as a number of Huns rode toward the inner wall, drawn by the noise and the momentary flare of light.

  “Wait; wait,” said Sanctu-Germainios. He started toward the ladder, observing the straw-men expectantly. “Keep your torch out of sight. Stay in the tower.”

  “But you—” Niklos began, only to be interrupted by a whump as the two straw-men startlingly flared alight.

  The Huns pulled back from the inner wall and the spreading tongues of fire that fanned out from the two figures along the walkway to the next straw-man held in place; the first sparks struck. Abruptly one of the nearest Huns shouted something, and the words passed among the ranks
in troubled, angry yells.

  “Niklos! Come!” Sanctu-Germainios called to him from the foot of the ladder. “Bring your torch.”

  “Right!” Niklos replied, seizing his torch from its sconce, thrusting the handle of his axe through his belt, and descending as rapidly as he could. He was a little breathless as he touched the ground and accounted for it by the presence of increasing smoke instead of keyed-up nerves. “They know, don’t they?”

  “That the figures on the battlements are dolls? It seems so.” Sanctu-Germainios opened the tower door a slit and watched the Huns milling, most of them keeping their distance from the increasing fury of the fire.

  “They’ll see us if we run for the dormitories. We’re on foot.” Niklos bit his lip to stop talking.

  “Then we wait until the smoke is a bit thicker. They will stay away from it, and it will cover our—”

  Much of the inner stockade was starting to burn, and the first two straw-men were little more than ash; one of the Huns threw a spear into one of the figures, and screamed out incomprehensible words as the straw-man tore open.

  “They’re furious,” Niklos said.

  “They dislike being fooled,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “And they do not want to leave here empty-handed.”

  The Huns retreated to the open space between the dormitories, crowded close together, watching the inner wall nervously.

  From his place at the tower door, Sanctu-Germainios saw the horsemen milling, their perplexity increasing with the fire. “We can move shortly.”

  “Good; I’m getting hot,” Niklos complained, for the nearness of the flames rattled what little equanimity he had been able to maintain. “The stockade is starting to burn.”

  “Yes; the fire is getting nearer than the Huns,” said Sanctu-Germainios. He raised his head, staring up into the thickening air. “There will be guards at the edge of the main company,” he said, then slipped out of the door. “Be aware of them. They are the most dangerous for us.”