by Mark Butler
"What should we do?"
"We must find the hill people in this area. They can give us succor through the night," Raul said.
"Will they help us, even if we can find them?" Artois asked, looking more nervous than Francois had ever seen him. Artois liked his enemies in the open light, where he could match his strength against theirs. But demons and monsters of the night, who crept in while you slept? Artois was as scared as a little boy.
They found a path easily enough, although the night was almost completely on them. It was a narrow trail that felt, to Francois, as if they were going in circles. The air smelled fouler, too, a sure sign that humans were living nearby. As they walked, Raul suddenly began talking again.
"Your mother said the demon was a great lizard, capable of breathing fire and eating people. She said it was real, that her great-grandfather had seen the beast when he was very young. It is said to be hundreds of years old."
"You believe that?" Francois asked. Raul ignored him, but kept talking.
"I promised that if I ever saw that dragon, I would send it back to hell. I was young then, and strong. My back never ached and I barely slept. Back then, I would have loved the chance to prove my strength, my courage, by killing a monster. I had forgotten about it, though, until I saw that tree—"
"Still! Be still!" A voice roared through the trees in Italian. Francois and Raul stopped, but Artois kept going. Francois quickly translated the Italian to French.
"Who is there? We mean you no harm," Raul said.
The smallest man that any of them had ever seen stepped onto the path. His head was barely above their mid-bellies, although he appeared proportionally apt. He had a ridiculous, tall, green hat and shoes that curved at the toes. His face was dead serious.
"Who are you?" he demanded, switching to French.
"None of your damn business," Artois growled. The little man looked at Artois with something akin to disappointment.
"We are from Troyes," Francois said in Italian. "We are lost and only need a place to lay our heads for the night."
"You speak Italian?" the man said.
"I lived there with my mother for many years. I've since come to be a Frenchman, with my father and brother. We are passing through these woods and do not want any trouble."
"These woods lead to Toulouse, where the Christians rape and murder in the name of peace. Why would you want to go there?"
"What are you fools blabbing about?" Artois asked. He understood bit and pieces of Italian, but did not have the linguistic flair of his younger brother.
"I am Cathar," Raul said. "I live outside the law, and I am going to see my brother in Toulouse."
Francois tensed up. The words Raul just uttered would earn him a death sentence in any civilized town in France.
"Why didn't you say so? Please, follow me," the little man said in French, earning a smile from Artois.
For such short legs, the little man was extremely fast. The trio had to jog to keep him in sight, and he ducked under fallen logs and hanging vines with surprising agility. They stayed with him, though, and soon reached a clearing. Francois guessed they had followed the man for more than five miles.
The size of the clearing was difficult to judge in the dark. The little man pointed to a corner of the field.
"There is a spot that is covered in that direction. Do you know what an olive tree looks like?" All three men nodded. "Good, two of them overlap down that way, and it creates a comfortable overhang. Take your dogs and sleep there. We will talk in the morning. You are safe here."
They woke early the next morning, when the sun was still cool and frost hung in the air. A smattering of buildings decorated the clearing. There was a large fire pit in the middle, and guard towers as tall as the olive trees watching every direction. A stream trickled nearby, and the men went there to relieve themselves and wash up. After bathing, the little man found them and again made his simple request, "Follow me."
They went to an area of cottages that looked similar to their own back in Troyes, except for one with brightly colored leaves adorning its front door.
"Where are we?" Raul demanded. The sound of his voice stopped movement in the hill village. A group of men stopped hedging trees and looked at Raul. The women, who were threshing, beating clothes, and chatting, looked over, too. The small village was silent.
"This place has no name, it simply is," a booming voice sounded. A thick, red-bearded man stepped out from a building. He only wore a small loincloth, and Francois couldn't help staring at the man's many battle scars.
"Do you have a name?" Raul asked.
"I am Horbert, leader of this village." Francois detected a Viking accent to his voice, which also accounted for his pale skin and unusual name.
"We are passing through."
"And yet you have a pack of dogs with you? How strange!" Horbert said. Francois was surprised that the man had seen their silent, canine followers, given their relatively short stay in his jurisdiction.
"They are tracker dogs," Francois said.
The wind picked up slightly, rustling the leaves. The hair on Francois' neck rose, and he was suddenly cold. Someone was cooking meat nearby, and the smell made his mouth water. Horbert was staring at him, letting the silence stretch out. "Tracker dogs?" he asked.
"What of it?" Raul asked. He had seen Vikings such as Horbert before, when he was young and traveled to England. They were brutes, big and slow. Horbert had a gleam in his eyes, as if he had been chewing the leaves that are said to dull the senses. Or he was drunk on power, ruling over this hill village like a tyrant.
"You must speak with our sorcier," Horbert said.
"What is that?" Artois asked, making his presence known.
"He lives in the house with the leaves," Horbert said, ignoring Artois' question. He waved his arm toward the colorful cottage. "You must tell him about your dogs, and then you will understand."
"Very well," Raul took a step toward the building.
"He is not there, now. He lives there, but he is not always here," one of the women said, before Raul took another step.
"When will he be back?"
"When he chooses." The woman's voice was eerily calm, serene. Her expression was blank too, as if she had been chewing the same leaves as Horbert, except the effect on her was calmative.
"He will be back soon. Please, you must wait for him," Horbert said. The little man from the previous night was watching the scene unfold, clenching his hands nervously. If this succeeded, it would be to his credit for bringing the outsiders to their home.
"I will wait for half a day, but then we must continue our journey," Raul said. He pointed to the sun, "When the sun is directly overhead, after meeting your sorcier or not, we are leaving."
With naught else to say, the Coquets went back to their dogs, under the olive trees. They sat on the ground and the dogs went man-to-man, licking their faces. Artois swatted the mutts away and looked at his father and brother. "What is a sorcier?" he asked.
"They are the doctors of the wilderness. Sorcier is not a common word, so they must only use the name for this one man. He likely gathers herbs from the woods and treats various ailments. A good sorcier knows how to set broken bones and some of them even cast spells. With the way that redheaded ox spoke, this sorcier is among the leaders of this village," Raul said. He had known enough of those men in Italy, where they were prosecuted by the church.
"What could he want with our dogs?" Francois said, deep in thought.
"We shall see."
"He is ready, come," the little man said softly. Francois, Raul, and Artois were asleep, with their dogs. One of the dogs growled at the little man, but half-heartedly, as if he knew the man was not a threat. Potato skins and chicken bones were strewn about the men's legs, a gift from the women of the village. They had eaten the food ravenously and chosen to take a nap.
"You must awaken," the little man said, raising his voice. Francois' eyes snapped open and he blinked a few times.
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"Is the sorcier ready?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I'll rouse these two. Are we meeting him in his cottage?"
"Yes."
The little man left. Francois moved slowly, nudging his father and brother awake. He had not slept so soundly in years! He was refreshed and alert. After Raul and Artois woke, they felt similarly. It's these woods, Francois thought, the trees settle the body.
The door to the sorcier's cottage was open. Raul went in first, followed by Francois. Artois chose to stay outside and watch the dogs. The odor inside was like a physical wall. It was thick and hazy, the combination of mixing plants, rocks, fire, and water. The sorcier was sitting in a chair, in the center of the small cottage. His hair was bright white.
"I am Raul Coquet, the owner of the tracker dogs," Raul said, staring at the ancient.
"Of course, you are, of course," the man said, mumbling and still looking at the floor. His accent was Italian.
"What can we do for you?" Francois asked.
"Two months ago a horse was taken—swept up—in the middle of the night. A man was taken after that; the poor fool wandered out past dark. Not his fault, but still a tragedy. We do not know where the dragon lives, but we know—"
"A dragon?" Raul interrupted him. He believed there might be a dragon, somewhere out there, but in this region, at this time?
"You saw my carving on the tree, surely? That brought you here, and you know it is real," the sorcier said, reading Raul's thoughts.
"How do you know a dragon took the horse and not thieves?" Francois asked.
"There were two great footprints, with claws that would be larger than my arms. There was a stench, too, the lingering musk of evil. The dragon is real and it flies, but your tracker dogs could—"
"Enough," Raul interrupted. "What can you offer us in return?"
"What do you want?"
"You have power, surely?"
"Some."
"I want to know our futures. Tell me what will happen when we meet by brother."
"You mean Christof?"
"How do you know his name?"
"I have some divination spells. If you kill this dragon, or root out its lair, I will look into your coming days. But be aware, there are many interpretations of the future, and with knowledge of the future, you may possibly alter it," the sorcier said, standing up. He was surprisingly tall and sturdy-looking, Francois noticed. He must be young in body, but old in soul.
The agreement was made formal in front of the village. All the parties agreed to the terms, and Raul had one final question before they started tracking the dragon. "Do you have any items of the beast, so that the dogs might know its scent?"
A blackened strip of a shirt was produced from the sorcier's pocket. He looked at it sadly, and then handed it to Raul, "That belonged to the man who was taken. I think the dragon has fire in his claws, so that anything it touches will be burned. This was all that was left of our dear friend . . ."
"Thanks," Raul said, grabbing the strip. He whistled to the dogs and let them sniff it. The dogs got confused looks on their faces, and one started barking at Raul. Another began whimpering, and a few others looked into the trees. "Dragons fly," Raul said, almost to himself. If the dragon did leave a trail that could be followed, it would be strongest in the trees. The dogs would still be able to follow the scent, but it would be weak on the ground and would take much longer.
"Let's go, Father," Artois said, standing nearby with an axe propped on his shoulder. He did not like the little village, with its weird people and no decent-looking girls. But ever since the dragon-hunting proposition, a nervous energy coursed through his body. This was exciting; a chance to do something that no one had ever done before. For Francois, he was immensely curious, and a bit frightened. If he could just see the dragon, that would be enough adventure for him.
After a few minutes of milling around, the dogs became of one mind, as they so often did. They moved like a conscious mass, all teeth and fur, to the west. The three men followed them.
"This is like tracking Leaf," Artois remarked, as they ran.
"Leaf couldn't fly, breath fire, or eat a man in one bite," Francois said.
"But it's the same otherwise."
The day was in high afternoon, when the sun flirts with a slow descent and the world has gone briefly quiet. The woods were not dense; they were more akin to rocky hills, with occasional smatterings of trees. As they went farther and farther west, the rocky hills became steeper and more treacherous, and the trees were fewer.
The dogs slowed. They did not stop tracking, but, it seemed to Francois, they were having second thoughts about tracking this supposed dragon. They sense a predator greater than themselves, Francois thought, They are scared. And then he had a darker, more personal thought—we're all scared.
A roar unlike any heard by men's ears cut through the hills. It was throaty and feral, with a hint of anger. Francois could picture the great lizard in its cave, or its den, lamenting some cosmic injustice. Or perhaps it was just hungry.
The dogs slowed even more, and then they stopped. They were at the base of a mountain, with no trees at the bottom, but a dark gathering of spruce trees halfway up. Raul whistled loudly and the dogs came back to him, eager to have a different assignment.
"Stay here, boys," Raul said. If it were possible, Francois saw relief in the dogs' eyes.
The rocks were slippery, and there were heavier ones higher up, weighing thousands of pounds and positioned to fall at any moment. Francois took a deep breath and steeled his heart. Raul was behind him, breathing heavily, and Artois was ahead, his eyes agitatedly searching the crags.
"There's a cave up here," he called back. His words echoed across the mountain, and the dragon roared again, though it sounded less threatening. Francois mused that the dragon had never had a meal delivered to its front door. Just as he was imagining its lizard face contorted into an evil smile, all of the air was sucked out of his lungs.
An explosion rocked the trio, knocking them to their backs. The dogs howled and fell over, too. A black-greenish shape burst out of the cave at the summit, and it immediately took to the air, hovering a hundred feet above their heads.
Chapter Five
MY YEARS OF PREPARATION ARE NEARLY OVER, King Louis thought. The entire world knew he was going on a crusade. Every king, noble, and peasant in Europe knew that King Louis IX was going to invade Egypt and break the Muslims before reclaiming the Holy Land. The die had been cast, and Louis had done everything he possibly could to ensure victory.
Aigues-Mortes, the town on the southern coast of France, was ready. It was a town constructed entirely for one purpose: a starting point for the Seventh Crusade. There was a great road that led from France to Aigues-Mortes, and it passed through the Duchy of Toulouse. All the previous crusades had relied on the Venetians to provide transport, but King Louis had circumvented dealing with those marauding sailors. He had built his own town and a road that led to it. He enlisted the help of every able-bodied man in France. Lords and nobles even came from England, eager to accompany the great king on his crusade.
"Raise your shield; take the blow, and then strike! Again!" one of Louis' captains was yelling at a batch of farm hands who had just arrived from Chaumont, and they were as unskilled as they were ugly.
King Louis was watching, bored, from the back of one of his white horses. His officers were the best in the world, capable of whipping raw recruits into skilled killers in only a few weeks. Louis stretched his arms overhead and yawned. He was followed by a retinue of servants, advisors, and friends, but they had nothing new to report to him. His preparations for the Seventh Crusade had been so complete, so thorough, that his work was truly done.
I could brush up on my swordsmanship, Louis thought, but no officer of mine will ever speak to me harshly. It was a sobering thought, that Louis had such utter control over his nation that he couldn't expect to hear the truth from his own men. There was no one he trusted anymore
, not while the burden of the crown lay on his balding pate.
"Ooohh!" one of the recruits collapsed to the ground. The captain was standing over him, shaking with anger.
"Get up! Get up! I told you to take the blow, and then deliver your own strike! This is why you don't strike at the same time, because you're going to get yourself killed, and then I'll have to kill your Muslim, plus my own!" The other recruits returned to attention, watching the captain berate the young man. "Now, get up," the captain said.
The young man rose slowly, his knees wobbling. The captain had swung his training sword and struck the boy across the face. The sword was wrapped in sheets and thus could not cut, but it still had weight and could knock a man off his feet. The young man, shoulders hunched, looked to the captain and lifted his shield. The captain smiled.
The captain struck again, attacking the body with a cross-cut. The boy took the blow neatly, and started his own backswing. The boy was an amateur and the captain read the attack like a book, yet he permitted the blow to land. The captain took it in the midsection and grinned. The boy was learning.
"Excellent," King Louis said, watching the exchange.
"The Muslims dogs have no chance of winning, my king," Clairmont, his senior-most general, said.
"Incorrect, Clairmont, incorrect. They always have a chance to win; we have simply reduced that chance to a very, very small possibility. Now is not the time, when we are so close to actually going, to relax."
"Of course not, my king."
"I need to see my daughter," King Louis said unexpectedly. His entourage came alive like a living thing, exchanging their knowledge of Isabelle's whereabouts. A message was soon passed to the king that she was in the royal gardens for her lessons that day.
"Clairmont, I want the men to train until their bones ache and their hands bleed. When you feel they have drilled sufficiently, dismiss them for the day. I'm going to see Isabelle."
King Louis looked to his entourage, and they stared back at him, eager to please. "Leave me for today, I think. I have personal matters to attend to," he said.
