“Deborah,” he said, speaking close to her ear. “You have only one chance. I will try to take the two to our front. You must get off and take to the rocks below. They will not be able to follow you on horseback.”
She hesitated, but as he gestured, she obeyed. She seemed to be free of pain as she dismounted and ran lightly downhill. She looked like a gazelle. Clearly, she was safe for the moment. Don pulled his shield around and thrust his left arm through the strap. He pulled a javelin from the case and couched it like a lance. Then, shouting the Stonegate war cry, he charged the two riders.
Spear against sword was a drill that Don had practiced by the hour. The narrow passage helped him as much as anything. The two warriors ahead could not maneuver to avoid him or take him on two flanks. Red galloped riderless at his heels as he charged. He did not know how far behind the third rider was, but he would not be able to catch up. Don would have one chance. He longed for his war spear, still in far-off Stonegate. The javelin thrust would have to tell.
As he closed, he could see that the enemies’ horses were exhausted and sluggish. They were covered with lather, but they still danced sideways as the distance closed. None of the riders seemed to be wearing mail—a good thing. Don made as if to thrust the javelin at the horseman on his left—a suicidal move, since his right side would be totally exposed to the swordsman on his right. At the last instant, he swerved to the right, feinted at the face, and thrust with all his strength at the rightmost foeman’s middle. His shield was held high against attack on the left, so he was vulnerable to a counter-stroke on the right if he missed the thrust.
But it did not miss. Hooves ringing like a bell, his mount responded like the old war horse he was. Everything was clear and seemed almost easy as the javelin point described a graceful arc and struck exactly where he had planned. There was a tearing wrench at his right arm and a flash of pain on his right forearm and left shoulder. Then Snap’s right shoulder struck the other horse squarely, knocking the weaker animal down. Don was past them. They could never catch him now, not on those exhausted horses. But Deborah—where was she?
He had to stop and fight. He reined Snap around to a sliding stop on the rocky ground. Red cantered on past him. He looked back down the trail. The foeman he had struck was down, the javelin clear through him. The stricken horse was struggling to its feet. The other swordsman had turned to face Don. He seemed to be waiting for his companion to join him, but the spearman was still fifty yards away. Don’s only chance was to carry the attack before the two could join forces. He knew that he could not repeat the same trick twice. He drew his sword and shouted again. His teeth flashed in a wide grin. For a moment, the odds would be even, and he had a fresher horse!
The second charge was nearly a repeat of the first. Again, Snap smashed into the other animal like a battering ram. Don’s sword was blocked by the other’s shield, but the other rider was thrown off his fallen mount and hit the ground hard. Don rode on by to meet the last opponent’s war spear. Now the portions were reversed. It was sword against spear, but he had the sword this time. He had no intention of waiting tamely for the other to charge him.
His foe was skilled and brave, but his mount was nearly finished. Snap danced sideways to Don’s knee cue and the spear glanced harmlessly off his shield, and Don’s sword smashed into his opponent’s helm with a solid clang. Snap reversed course smoothly as Don reined him around.
Don caught his opponent half turned, sawing on his mount’s reins. Snap once again shouldered the other horse aside as he lunged by. Don’s blade went over the other’s guard and struck him on the side of the neck. He vanished from the saddle.
Don did not look back but turned and spurred forward. The last man had drawn his sword and stood in the middle of the road on foot.
“Throw down your sword,” ordered Don. “There has been enough killing.”
The warrior hesitated. Don could see that he was quite young.
“Come on, boy,” he growled. “You have no chance against this horse.”
The sword rang on the stones. Don looked back. The warrior behind him lay still on the ground. He let out a long sigh of relief. It was over. He turned his attention to the young man in front of him. “Drop your shield and remove your helm!” he ordered. “Quick!”
The young man complied and held up his hands. Moments later, Don had his hands tied behind his back. Don went and checked the other two men. They were both dead. Their mounts stood nearby, too spent to even wander off. When he returned, the young man was sitting in the trail, weeping from exhaustion and rage.
“You shot our horses from ambush!” he cried. “You have no honor!”
“Five men against one is honorable?” asked Don sarcastically.
Snap’s labored breathing made him look back anxiously, and he quickly checked him for wounds or injury, but found him sound and unhurt.
“You kidnapped one of our women and fled by stealth. What did you expect us to do?” said the younger man.
“Look here, boy,” said Don. “This girl wanted to escape, so I helped her. Do you blame me for fighting, or should I have let you kill us both?”
The young man was blond and fair. Don felt some empathy for him.
“We would not have killed you, had you surrendered.”
“I hold you no ill will. You were doing your duty as you saw it,” said Don after a moment’s thought. “Why don’t you come with us? Surely you do not enjoy that evil woman and her many lovers.”
He hung his head. “I cannot,” he said, finally. “My father holds an estate, and I have a girl.”
“All right. Well, I must do what I must, and so must you,” said Don. “I will leave you your sword, shield and helm so you can go home with some honor. I must take your horses. You should be able to work free of your bonds in a short while. Do you agree not to follow us?”
The young man hung his head, then nodded. The irony of the question was not lost on him. Then he heard the sound of hooves coming down the trail. It was a rider, silhouetted against the last rose-gray of sundown. He remounted in a flash, and drew his sword. But it was Deborah!
Don re-sheathed the sword and dismounted even faster. He ran to her and helped her off Red. She jumped down into his arms, sobbing openly. “Oh Donald. I was so afraid,” she said through her tears. “I knew you were dead. I almost rode on alone. But I could not bear to do it, so I came back. I had to see if you were alive. I saw someone being bound, and I thought it was you. But then …”
Don let her sob against his mailed shoulder for a moment. He pulled off his glove to stroke her hair. Strange that she should cry now, he thought, now that the danger is over! He noticed that the temperature was dropping rapidly, now that night was falling. “We are safe, now,” he whispered. “But we have to go!”
“Donald,” she cried. “You are hurt.”
Surprised, Don took stock of his injuries. A gash on his right forearm was oozing blood, but did not seem dangerous. His left shoulder was bruised and sore, where a sword had struck his armor. Deborah rolled up his torn sleeve and bound his wound with a strip of cloth that she produced from he knew not where. Her touch was light, but sure. “It’s very near an old scar,” she said, as she rolled the sleeve back down.
“Yes,” he joked. “A few more scars and I might be mistaken for a warrior.”
She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and her nose wrinkling, just a trifle. “Some have already made that mistake, I think!”
They left without any ceremony. Don gathered the fallen warriors’ weapons, including the war spear, which he tied to one of the saddles. They had not been wearing mail. He decided to lead the three captured horses and so tied them nose to tail. They placed a warm cloak over the young foeman’s shoulders and left a water bottle and a package of food at his side, at Deborah’s suggestion. “He was always kind to me,” s
he whispered to Don. The young man, if he heard, made no sign, and no farewells were said. Then they continued down the main trail into gathering darkness.
The night passed without incident. They stopped after several more miles. Don rubbed the sweaty animals down with a saddle blanket, as best he could. Two of the captured horses seemed to be in distress, muscles trembling, but he could do nothing for them, except let them rest. They built no fire. Don wished for his warm bedroll that he had left behind. He awoke with a start to see the dawn breaking behind them.
One of the captured horses lay dead, but the others seemed to have recovered and were foraging among wisps of dry grass at the ends of their halter ropes. Don had no grain for them, so he saddled them with little ceremony. They decided to leave the exercise saddle, and so he shortened the stirrups of a war saddle to fit her. After a meager breakfast of dried bread and meat, they continued down the main trail, heading downriver.
They covered perhaps twenty-five miles that day, then stopped at a meadow, fairly clear of snow, to allow their mounts to graze for perhaps an hour. There were no more signs of pursuit. They forded the river with little trouble, the ford being fairly clear of ice, and that was the most eventful incident of the day. They met no one on the trail. That night they camped north of the river in a grove of gnarled, stunted pines and junipers.
Don gathered dry limbs and risked a small fire. With a tin container from an enemy’s saddlebags and some melted snow, they made a few cups of hot soup from their meager supply of food. It was delicious. They were both too tired to talk much, but Don noticed again how beautiful she was, even though her hair was tangled and her face dirty. Don also saw that his arm was swollen around the cut, but there was little pain.
The next day found them well clear of the dread lady’s country. They were now at a lower elevation, and there was little snow. With a dry road they were able to travel faster. Later that day they came to a stockaded farm and bought some provisions with silver that Deborah had taken from the purse of one of the dead men. They were not offered shelter, and they desired none, but they did get some grain for the horses.
Don’s arm was hot and swollen to the shoulder, as sundown brought the next day to a close. He could bend it but slightly at the elbow. His face felt hot, flushed and moist as well. There was some pain, but mostly he felt discomfort from the swelling. His wound oozed white pus. Deborah changed the dressing. “I fear you have some poison in your wound,” she said. “It’s deep here at the end, and festering.”
The fourth and fifth days were bad. Deborah seemed to be completely recovered and rapidly adjusting to trail life. She had contrived to comb her hair and clean her face and looked even more lovely than before. Don reeled in his saddle like he had taken much wine. He had removed his mail, and it was tied to one of the other horses. The world now seemed to be a distant dream, and Deborah seemed far away even when she was holding his hand.
They met two other groups of travelers, because they seemed to be spending more time on the main road. Deborah kept talking about “pilgrims” and “medicine.” He insisted that they push on, and she agreed. She talked about a beautiful place ahead with hot springs and a fabled house of healing.
On the sixth day, about midmorning, Don lost his balance and fell off his horse. The sun was hot, hot as his face, but someone put shade over his eyes. He was thirsty, and he took a long drink. Deborah seemed to be tugging at his good arm, and she was talking to him. It was all hard to make out, but she seemed to want him to stand up, so he did.
Of course, it was all clear now! They were near the House of Healing. With a great effort, he remounted Snap and followed her. The fog was still there, but could see that she was leading the spare horses. Now it seemed that many other people were riding with them, and that they were all in the bottom of a dark canyon that blocked the sun. Sheer cliffs rose from all sides, as the river wound around sharp bends. He lost all sense of time, but finally the canyon began to widen, and he saw a valley to the left. The road was much wider, and they met several wagons without the need for anyone to pull aside. Ahead he clearly saw a tall, gray stone wall and a wide gate. The road forked and they took the rightmost way leading directly to the portal. He saw a cross standing on the wall, colored blood-red. Then it seemed that he must have fallen again. But it was hard to be sure because warm sleep took him.
Chapter 11
†
House of Healing
But I will bring you health and heal you of your wounds—this is the Lord’s declaration—they call you outcast, Zion whom no one cares about. Jeremiah 30:17 HCSB
A wide, airy window stood open. The air was fresh and cool, and a bowl of red flowers sat on the sill. Don lay on his back in a soft bed, with his shoulders elevated. What a bed it was! He had never seen sheets so white, and they perfectly matched the room. The walls and ceiling were whitewashed stone, and the floor, red tile. A dark wood cross hung on the wall opposite his bed. There were no other decorations, but a wooden chair sat on one side of the bed and a low table on the other. His forehead felt sweaty but cool. A thick, white bandage covered his wounded arm, which throbbed with a dull ache. He was quite alone.
He tried to sit up, but was strangely weak and dizzy. It was pleasant to simply lie there. He must have dozed off for a moment because when he opened his eyes a strange girl was sitting beside his bed.
“Hello,” she said, smiling. “My! You’ve had a long sleep. More than two days! You must be hungry.”
He was indeed hungry. The idea of food made his stomach stir with a deep ache. His mouth was dry. “Some water, please,” he murmured. His voice sounded weak and hoarse.
“Of course,” she answered, holding a glass of water to his lips. “Here, have a drink. You should also swallow this.” He took a long drink, holding the glass himself. Then she handed him a pale yellow capsule with a cross marked on it. He gulped it down with a long drink of water. The drink felt cool and as refreshing as a May-time shower.
He heard a step as if someone else had entered the room and looked up. It was Deborah. She was wearing boys’ clothes no longer. Now she was dressed in a pale yellow dress with a small, white apron. Her hair was tied back under a white kerchief. She looked beautiful, even though she started weeping when she saw him.
“Oh, Donald, you’re awake,” she blurted. “I was so afraid.” She moved to his bed, leaned over and kissed him full on the lips. He tried to smile at her and lifted his hand to put it on her shoulder, but she was much too quick for that. She took a half-step back and stared at him.
“I must have a bad effect on you,” he joked. “Every time you see me, you start to cry.”
“Oh, you,” she said, trying a weak smile. “You must feel better.”
“What is this place?” Don asked. “At first, I thought I must be dead and this, heaven.”
“Do you believe, then?” asked Deborah. She turned and pointed at the cross. “Are you a Christian?” Her face lit up.
“No …” returned Don. “I just used the term loosely. Are you?”
She looked down. This question was normally considered to be in very poor taste. Christians were bound to answer truthfully, and so it was better not to ask. In some quarters, Christians were still persecuted, though most modern folk were tolerant. Don regretted the blunt words and tried to call them back, but she put a finger to his lips.
“The answer is yes,” she answered. “I’ll talk more of it later if you wish. But here comes your food. Don’t talk now. Just eat and I’ll sit with you for a while and tell you the whole story.”
The other woman brought a generous tray and both helped him to eat. As he did so, they told him what had happened over the past few days. Apparently the sword that cut him had driven foreign matter deep into his forearm near the elbow. It had caused a serious infection and fever. There may have been some poison on the blade (this was suggested
by Deborah) but there was no way to be sure. When he became delirious, Deborah had hidden his arms and armor, dressed him in his gray cloak, and escorted him to the House of Healing as quickly as possible. They had encountered numerous travelers, but all respected the need of the sick to receive medical care. Even a patrol of the Raiders had met them and had left them alone. Don had fallen twice, and it was nearly necessary to use a litter, but Don had been able to ride up to the very gates of the House of Healing before passing out for the third time. Deborah assured him that his armor was safe.
She had persuaded a young warrior to return and retrieve everything that she had hidden. It was all safe within strong walls, along with all four of their horses.
Don had heard of a place where the healing arts had been preserved, deep within the mountains to the West, but had not been sure how much was truth. It was said to be a place of refuge where healing was given to all, regardless of rank or place of birth. Rich or poor, the stories said, it made no difference.
He learned that the House of Healing had in fact existed on this very spot since the days of the ancients. Most of what Don had heard was true. The problem the ill and infirm faced was the rigors of the trip, through lands harsh and inhospitable. This was where the Gray Pilgrims came to the fore. Clad in gray, with a stylized red cross embroidered over their hearts, they walked the highways in every land, even as far as the fabled ocean to the west, some said. Don remembered these men coming to Goldstone.
The Gray Pilgrims sold medicines to the rich and gave them away to the poor. They treated the sick, advised mothers on the care of their children, and did simple surgery. Some they advised to go on a pilgrimage to the House of Healing. In other cases, they advised against making the trip. Several surgeons at Stonegate had claimed to have been trained in the House of Healing, but Don had never had the opportunity to discuss the subject with them.
The Stonegate Sword Page 19
