Errant

by Armas, Florian

  He nodded slowly and left the room, leaving me in a silence that did not really leave me alone.

  Loud and pained, my nervous cry burst out, and I leaned my head on my hands over the table until I felt them wet from my tears. Please, Fate, don’t let me become pregnant. I don’t want to carry the child of such a monster. Please... When father came back, my tears were already dry, and I looked at his deep, blue eyes. Clear again.

  “Lenard accepted; it’s just a day earlier than initially agreed. He will open the gate at lunchtime. I told him Orban plans to spend a few months here, until autumn, before returning to Arad. To stay with you. One carriage and four horses are already prepared. Horia and Mugur will come with us as agreed, and Veres is almost fifteen, old enough to ride. The wagons with our belongings went this the morning. They took the south road. We will take the northern one. It’s less safe, but shorter, and we have three swordsmen. There is not much luggage in the carriage.”

  “Five horses. I ride too, disguised as a Knight. I cannot match a man with the sword, but with the bow, I am better than most of our soldiers. And it will be one target less for robbers or…” The word rapists would not leave my mouth. My father nodded in silence.

  The gate closed behind us, and this time its screeching assaulted my ears. Orban’s home now… Afraid of crumbling, I could not turn for a last look at my old home, yet somehow I remembered that Lenard was the last one to disappear from our sight. Maybe I was dreaming. In the carriage, the girls were crying. I forced myself to ignore them; any answer would have just intensified their cries. Veres was silent. My father was silent. All our soldiers who wanted to leave the garrison separated from us. Each with his own fortune… Up on the hills, I could not avoid embracing the castle with one last glance.

  One day I will return.

  With the sun half-gone behind the hills, we stopped at The Long Road, an inn that father knew from his past travels, and I asked for a separate chamber. Bravely, my daughters, Saliné and Vio, forced themselves not to cry again in front of me, yet they unconsciously curled in my arms until they fell asleep. Now and then, a suppressed sob shook their small bodies, but no other sound disturbed the unnatural silence of the night. When their breathing became smooth and even, I left their bed and went to my room, were I could mourn Malin, alone, without being seen. The roosters were announcing the morning when my tears dried, and an uneasy sleep, filled with invisible soldiers marching around with their heavy boots pounding on the stones, came to me.

  “Jara, we have to go.” Father woke me up, when all I wanted was to sleep forever, and I crept out of my bed clumsily.

  We ate fast, in a heavy silence that even the girls respected, and left the inn in a hurry. Too tired to ride, I joined the girls in the carriage, falling asleep as soon as I could sit. Instinctively, I embraced my little Vio when she tried to find some comfort in my body. Older, Saliné was more composed, but she always had an understanding of things that went above her age.

  “Jara,” father woke me again, leaving the impression that everything was just a string of repeated dreams having nothing in common with reality.

  No, it’s not a dream. We are running. The carriage was uphill, at the edge of the forest, hidden inside. Down in the valley, Orban’s soldiers were swarming the inn, searching for us.

  Slippery Fate plays us, and, having played, slips further… I thought, staring at the small soldiers.

  Chapter 2 - Codrin

  “Trap!” Tudor yelled, rising in his saddle to look over the plain – a wide stretch of grassland between the forests. “That way,” he gestured to the right, pushing his horse into a gallop. Not very far, five riders had been moving in parallel with us for some time already, but we chose to ignore them, they were not the first ones – people come and go everywhere. Ten riders were behind us, ten in front, and we were right in the middle. They appeared from the forest in almost synchronized moves. In that moment, the five riders changed course toward us.

  No one on the left side… Yet, I understood his choice. We could overcome the five riders and try to escape into the forest. The space on the left was too obviously empty.

  “Spread out!” Tudor ordered, and as in our training, we separated slightly, forming a wedge with him at the point, forcing our enemies to break their formation. In that moment, I saw their colors: the Royal Guards of Arenia. They found us… My elder brother went on the left, I charged on the right. In front of us, Tudor changed his direction in a heartbeat, and the first clash happened a few moments later. One rider fell under Tudor’s long sword – as any Assassin, he was fighting with two curved swords of unequal length. No man I knew was able to win a fight against Tudor; he was a renegade from the Assassins Sect, hired nine years ago by father, to train my brother and me. The next soldier was too far from him to engage, and came toward me.

  Bad luck… There were two riders on my side. In a desperate move, I turned abruptly, even more to the right, hoping to put one rider between me and the other one, praying that Tudor would come and help. I did not try to fully engage the first rider; at fifteen, it was my first real fight, and nothing was worse than running into someone double my size. I ducked under his sword and pierced his armpit where the armor was frail. A curse followed me. I may be weaker, but I am bloody fast. In haste, I turned left while the two riders following me went the opposite way, losing a few precious moments. The one farther from me had no idea what happened to him when Tudor’s sword chopped off his head. With his attention split, the wounded one fell under my sword. For my parents, I saluted his death with a nod. My first kill. Fury and bitterness, and longing for my dead parents and sister. My brother was free too, and we yelled for victory, to encourage ourselves, swords raised, riding further into the forest, our only escape path. The pack of riders in front tried to cut off our road, but having horses of uneven speed they started to spread across the meadow.

  Close to the forest, there were just four in front of us, and I took over the first one, on the right again. We rode in parallel for a while, and I recognized my cousin Jan. Murderer… Our eyes met, and a wicked smile spread on his lips.

  “Follow your father!” he shouted, certain of my death – he was four years older.

  I reined the horse abruptly, almost to a stop. Jan did the same, just one second later, and I was behind him. My sword fell on his neck. I did not have enough force to chop his head off, but it was not needed. My brother joined me while Tudor took his time to finish a second rider.

  “I killed Jan,” I bragged.

  “Good,” my brother grinned. “One usurper less.”

  I understood him; he was now the legitimate King of Arenia; we just needed an army to put things right and remove our uncle from the throne, making him pay for killing our parents and sister, an army we did not have.

  “Ride parallel to the forest edge,” Tudor shouted. “We have better horses, and need to put some distance between us and them before trying to hide.”

  After twenty minutes of galloping, our enemies remained far behind – only the captains of the Royal Guards had destriers good enough to match ours, and they chose to move with the same speed as their men. Jan had a good horse too, I could not stop thinking, vindictively. They fear us, I glanced back at the riders now grouped behind, looking smaller and smaller.

  “Into the forest,” Tudor shouted when he felt that the distance between the hunters and us was safe enough. With slight adjustments, we led the horses to the left, between the trees. “Bad luck,” he said again – a slight bitterness filling his voice. It was indeed bad luck; a deep rocky ravine, running without end in parallel with the edge of the forest, forced us to go again into the open field.

  When the west road appeared, cutting the forest in two, we turned in haste, to the left, on the road to Livonia, passing the bridge over that bloody ravine without end. I could rejoice at the beauty of the land described by many books and songs as the road entered the gorge of the Cerna River, but not that day. I surprised Tudor, glancing a
round at the tall rock-walls. Under his calm expression, something was wrong, and I questioned him with a gesture.

  “We need a way out,” he said, “to ride hidden. Another column may be in front of us.”

  It seemed that Fate answered his call: a large opening appeared on the right, and we pushed the horses to leave the road. The slope was not steep, and we arrived at its end quickly. And it was an end, there was no way to go further – the meadow was blocked by rock-walls, difficult to climb even on foot, and we had to take the road again.

  Behind a steep curve, a horse neighed, and we turned abruptly, riding back fast on the straight road for about four hundred paces. The riders appeared at that moment: around twenty, and wearing the Royal Guards’ colors. At full gallop, we returned to the meadow that gave us false expectations before, and we climbed fast to the small ridge in front of the rock-walls blocking the exit.

  Thirty paces long, and just two feet high at its lower point, on the left side, the ridge was the best place to defend ourselves and we dismounted – it was difficult to ride the last steps through the scree. A small plateau laid behind the ridge, meeting the tall rock-wall some forty paces back. On its sides, the hard roots of the mountains blocked the lateral paths. Climbing the ridge, I understood Tudor’s choice: the only way to attack us was from the front, through the scree, studded with many boulders, some larger than a bull’s head. They can’t attack us mounted. Nervous, our horses skittered, trying to move onto the plateau, and we freed them.

  “Here we stand,” Tudor hit the ground with his boot, and the rock answered back with the sound of a healthy land. “I will take this side,” he moved to the lower half of the ridge. “Take the other one,” he pointed to my brother – that half was a foot higher and better protected. “And you,” Tudor said to me, “stay back, in the middle, take your bow, and prune their rows before they arrive. You are one of the best ‘gardeners’ I know,” he winked at me.

  At that moment, the first column entered the meadow in front of us, and the land trembled to the rhythm of many hoofs hitting the ground. There was no harmony in the soaring sound, and the rock-wall behind us echoed back in angry tones. The second column arrived too, the noise became louder, and for the first time fear came to me – they were climbing fast on the sluggish slope.

  “Codrin, take down the spearmen,” Tudor pointed to the two columns of riders climbing toward us. Luckily, the soldiers in the Royal Guard were not archers. Confident, he unsheathed his curved swords and balanced them for a few moments. “My good friends are ready,” he smiled to encourage us, saluting with the blades crossed above his head at the same time. Tall and dressed all in black, like any Assassin, he seemed a Knight appearing from an old legend.

  I followed him, tensing my bow, in salute. My brother did the same with his long sword, yet he was not smiling. Neither was I, more than forty riders were attacking us.

  With sure moves, I aimed at the fourth rider on the left, the closest spearman. Released, the arrow hissed softly. I did not follow it; my hands were already nocking the bow, my eyes searching for the next spear. The seventh, on the right. I released the arrow again. On the left, a body was hanging on its horse, which moved away from the column, neighing loudly. The echo answered back, and the second rider fell.

  “For the King!” Tudor and my brother yelled, raising their swords. It was a weird irony, how my brother did not realize that formally he was the King; their shouts were meant for our father.

  I missed the third shot – the rider was too far away. Arriving at the scree, the first column stopped abruptly, thirty steps from us. The riders dismounted, and without hurry, arranged themselves in position for the attack, unsheathing their swords. The Royal Guard was the best-trained regiment in the kingdom.

  “Baraki!” Tudor shouted to the Chief of the Royal Guards. “You are attacking the King.”

  “The King is on his throne,” Baraki answered coldly. He was Jan’s father in law, and my uncle’s right hand.

  Jan is dead. A flash of memory reenacted my maneuver with the horse that helped me kill a much stronger rider. The usurper’s son is dead, I repeated, trying to encourage myself. Baraki is not happy...

  “The legitimate King is here,” Tudor pointed to my brother. “Don’t betray the kingdom.” This time he addressed the soldiers, hoping to discourage some of them.

  “The King offers one thousand galbeni and a Knighthood for any of you who kill one of those traitors,” Baraki countered. “Kill them!” His sword rose swiftly, pointing to us.

  Baraki’s most trusted men charged, a moment later, and the others followed; the mirage of money and privileges was stronger than any sense of justice. I sent my arrow to kill Baraki, but one soldier moving fast to claim his prize got it in his place – Baraki took care to stay behind. In a fast sequence, I released three more arrows, and two attackers from the first line fell on the scree, their heads knocking the boulders with a dull sound. My eyes moved back to search for spears again.

  More determined, one enemy left the line and reached the ridge alone, trying to climb in the middle. Tudor sprang with a speed that defied the eye, his long sword reaching the soldier’s neck, leaving a bloody line behind. The soldier fell silent as if he were asleep.

  In deadly silence, you see blood. Dark red, it spreads on the rocks. It spreads on a yellow flower. It spreads.

  The first line arrived, trying to climb the ridge at several points, and I released my arrow, making another spear fall together with its bearer. Just six spearmen left, I counted fast, my eyes moving back and forth across the meadow in front, registering everything.

  Grass. The blue sky. Tudor’s sword is splitting the sky in two – steely reflection, cold and warm at the same time. Then it splits a skull through the helmet, there is nothing better than an Assassin’s sword in a battle. A black bird flies low somewhere in front. It disappears behind a prancing horse. A dead man is hanging, one leg caught in the stirrup. The horse runs away. The man’s head hits each boulder on the way with muffled sounds.

  Hastily, Tudor parried two attacks at the same time. A third soldier tried to sneak between the other two, and Tudor kicked him back. A small spot of blood colored his pants where the other’s sword touched him.

  Tudor is hurt. My arrow killed the one who wounded him, a second later.

  The smell of blood came to me, and the perfume of an unknown flower. More smell of blood. Too much smell of blood.

  A spear flew over us – the soldier threw it at the same time my arrow pierced his neck – and a neigh sounded behind. I turned, and saw my horse, Zor, wounded, yet the spear was down, in the grass, and that calmed me. My brother stopped an attack on his side. Swiftly, his sword turned and cut – an arm fell on the rocks with no sound. Still attached to the falling arm, a piece of cloth waved the beautiful red, yellow and blue colors of the Royal Guard.

  Your eyes record everything. In flashes. Spasmodically, fingers that will be dead soon grip the stone under them. The stone becomes red. The fingers move no more.

  My last arrow killed the man trying to sneak behind my brother. There are no more spears, I tried to encourage myself and I unsheathed my sword, throwing the useless bow away. In this unequal battle, speed was my friend, I did not have enough strength force to fight blow for blow.

  I turn right. Pirouette. My sword moves in a swift arc. It cuts a leg to the bone. I duck low, to avoid a strong blow. Jump. Pirouette. I make another cut.

  My brother stumbled; a sword caught him from the side. With a last effort, he turned and killed his attacker.

  “No!” Tudor cried and moved closer to him, fast, his swords slaughtering two enemies in swift succession. My knife flew in the face of another soldier; they had understood that my brother was not as strong as Tudor and tried to surround him, and take us one by one. We moved too late, another sword hit his head, and my brother fell in silence. Feeling the time was right, Baraki attacked Tudor from behind, piercing his ring-mail.

  “You are de
ad!” Baraki shouted, his sword up for the final blow. Too early; in a quick turn, Tudor sliced his neck, a moment later, Baraki’s last words lost in the gurgling of blood.

  I turn again, and cut the soldier on the right. Two more were in front of me. Cautiously, they attacked at the same time; somehow, Tudor’s skills were protecting me, projecting fear in the soldiers’ mind, making me an equal to them.

  One sword comes down toward my head at a slight angle, the second one makes a horizontal wheel, trying to cut me in two. I step back. Unopposed, the vertical blade hits the ground, and its master bends forward, his left hand touching a rock to avoid falling. The wheeling blade meets my ring-mail. Cutting through the rings it produces a rasping sequence of quick sounds. A burn passes through my skin. The sword moves further right, hitting the hilt of the one with a stuck point in the ground. A strong metallic clang, and a loud human curse. From its own inertia, the soldier’s body follows the sword, half-turning. I roll forward, before they can regain equilibrium again. I crouch. Pirouette. I cut. Dodging the second sword, I turn and I cut again. Then I turn again and I turn and I cut and I turn. My sword hits only air, whooshing softly. There is no one left standing. My mind realizes it slowly, still pushing me to move, though less and less. I stand immobile. Silence. In my head. There are many ugly sounds around, and patches of red color.