Author: Darragh Metzger
Category: Literature
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/darragh-metzger/page,8,25749-tales-from-opa-three-tales-of-tir-na-nog.html
3
Jean woke with a start and sat up, wondering what had awakened him. A second later, a series of sharp cracking and popping sounds echoed around him, and as they died, the distinctive cacophony of battle reached him like the roaring of the ocean tide: metal clashing against metal, horses and men screaming — and something else.
A bestial sound, a howling and snarling like nothing he had ever heard.
Jean went cold; he did not know what made that noise, and some instinct deep within him warned him that he did not want to.
Cursing the cowardly urge to lie still, he hastily shouldered his belongings and pushed himself painfully upright with his crutch. Men, even men at war, meant the possibility of help. And the scholar in him would not allow him to remain ignorant of something so vital so close at hand.
The sounds grew louder as he scrambled down the ravine, but they began to take on a different tone; the roars of men at war changed to screams of agony and terror. The shrieks of dying horses cut through the mist like knives.
He fought to hasten his crippled pace, cursing his slowness. He prayed to God that he would be in time.
For what, he did not think to ask.
The wall on the left cut in front of him, forcing him to turn, and abruptly a way opened. The mist parted like a curtain and he found himself overlooking a wide, mound-covered plain, fog-shrouded but still visible.
Not far away on one of the largest mounds, a handful of footmen with their backs to a cluster of standing stones battled with pikes against a dozen or so large, burly men who moved strangely.
To the left, a score of horsemen charged the attackers, trying to break the footmen free. The men on the mound and on horseback were wearing armor of a type he had never seen; a mixture of plate and chain, all blackened so they appeared to be cloaked in shadow. Their helms were of many styles, some of which he didn't recognize.
As for the others…Jean got an impression of ill-armed savagery, but it was hard to get a good look, for they moved incredibly quickly through the mist, though always hunched over.
Jean drew his sword hesitantly and stood, debating whether he should even become involved. It occurred to him to wonder what earthly good he could do with a crutch under one arm.
For that matter, which side should he assist? Though they clearly outnumbered their foe, the horsemen and their comrades on the mound were losing the terrible struggle; the bodies of horses and men in black armor littered the ground.
Badly armored though they were, the hunched men seemed impervious to most of the blows dealt by their better-armed and armored foes. Possibly the men on horse were vile invaders, bent on butchery, and the hunched men were simply defending their homes.
Jean took a deep, shuddering breath. Something about the hunched men forbade sympathy. And it was hard to simply stand and watch. So hard.
As the fog shifted and eddied, cloaking one struggle, revealing another, the screams of the men drifted to him more clearly. Suddenly one voice rose above the others, harsh and strident. "Vorwarts!"
German! Jean stiffened in shock. Those men were of his own kind, could even be from Alsace itself. Had fate not intervened, they could well have been his own brothers-in-arms. And might be yet.
A rush of savage protectiveness surged through him, wiping out even the memory of pain. As though the command had been shouted at him alone, Jean seized his crutch in his free hand and, holding it like a spear, charged down the slope onto the plain.
Halfway there, his foot caught on something hidden in the mist and he went down, landing on something that gave beneath his weight only a little less than the stony ground. The impact drove the air from his lungs, but as he gasped for breath, an overwhelming stench made him gag. "Mother of God," he wheezed as he pushed himself away, covering his face with his sleeve.
He rolled clear and lowered his sleeve to get a look at what had broken his fall — and found himself looking into the face of a nightmare. Cold lanced through him as he stared at the demonic visage inches from his own.
The dead thing's jaundice-yellow eyes stared wide and unseeing above a gaping mouth filled with fangs, like that of a beast, in a face made all the more horrible for being manlike.
Jean shoved himself away from it with a cry of disgust and sat, staring, unable to comprehend what he saw.
The creature's rank, burly body was clothed in partial armor, rusted and laced together with bits of sinew and badly tanned leather that added to its stench. Short, dark fur sprouted in coarse patches from dusky ochre skin a few shades darker than its eyes. A rusty iron cap covered its scalp, and the shattered remains of a lance protruded from its chest.
"Devils," Jean breathed. "I am indeed in Hell." It all seemed horribly clear; the fall had killed him, and he was now among the damned. Perhaps he had even died back in the camp and every dreadful moment he had spent in these cursed mists had in fact been his introduction to Satan's realm. Had he not known from the beginning that it was no natural fog?
"Noch Einmal! Vorwarts!" The shout brought his head up as several voices roared a reply. He stared across to where the leading horsemen were succeeding at last in their efforts to drive back their inhuman foe.
The poor fools did not know the futility of it, he realized, numb with despair. As he watched, a lancer on a chestnut horse surged ahead of his fellows and crashed into one of the devils, landing a glancing blow on the creature's shoulder. The horse reared, striking in obedience either to its rider's command or to its own sense of self-preservation. Jean applauded the courage of horse and rider, however hopeless.
The grotesque demon-thing dodged the flailing hooves, then darted beneath the animal's strike with uncanny speed. It seized the horse's leg in huge, misshapen hands — and the horse screamed in agony as its leg was ripped from the socket. It fell, still screaming, bearing its rider with it to drown in the tide of battle.
The demon raised the bloody trophy over its head and howled.
Jean gaped, unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes. Nothing was that strong. Nothing. The Germans were all doomed, and then he would be too; it could not be otherwise. How did one defeat Satan's minions on their own ground?
How could one escape from Hell?
As if in answer, the line of monstrosities faltered, broke, and abruptly scattered before the charge of the horsemen. Shrieking and snarling like beasts, the demons fled, snatching up the bodies of fallen riders and pieces of horse as they disappeared into the mist.
The remaining horsemen, less than twenty by now, started to scatter in pursuit, but a single barked order drew them up and they quickly reformed around the mound where the last of the footmen — Jean counted eight — still stood. A thin, ragged cheer went up from some of them, but quickly died for lack of support.
A dark man on a pale horse, both blood-splattered, rode to the top of the mound and was at once surrounded by the footmen.
He was tall and lean, clad in black studded-leather armor over some sort of chain and plate mixture like that of his men. Grey fur, perhaps that of a wolf, topped his shoulders and circled his helm, a strange, rounded piece that completely covered his head and masked his face. The upper portion of the helm was blackened to match his armor, and a spike protruded from the very top.
Below the fur that circled the crown, the visor, a flat expanse of steel broken only by two slanted eye slits, was undarkened, burnished to a flat sheen.
Jean began to feel less certain of his kinship with these men; there was something alien and threatening in that faceless expanse of steel. Germans did not wear such armor. Even Moors did not, not that he had ever heard.
Nearly all the men carried recurve bows as well as lances, spears, swords, maces, and a wide variety of other weapons of many styles, some of which he did not recognize. Obviously a light cavalry of some sort. But from where?
The commander spoke to the men, but his words, muffled by helm and the thickening mist, were unclear.
If
Jean were going to approach them, it must be now, or his opportunity might well be lost.
His knees refused to obey his order to rise. With a curse, he groped for his crutch, found it, and once more struggled upright.
The movement attracted the attention of the horsemen; there was a shout and several men pointed at him. The leader's steel face turned toward him, unreadable.
For a moment, Jean hesitated, remembering the bows. He raised his free hand and waved, calling to them in German. "Hallo! I am a traveler, a man like yourselves. Do not shoot!"
The leader rode down the mound; his troupe parted around him like the mist and reformed as quickly behind him, riding toward Jean two by two. Jean glanced surreptitiously at the ground; he had dropped his sword when he fell and suddenly missed its reassuring weight. But it would not be wise to reach for it now. He wished very much to establish himself as, if not an ally, then at least not a threat
The leader stopped and looked down at him. Jean could not see the man's eyes through the slits of the visor. "Who are you?" the horseman demanded in German, his voice hollow within the helm. "What are you doing here?"
Jean attempted a bow, unhappily aware of how less-than-elegant he appeared. "My name is Jean LeFleur, of Alsace. I was, in fact, coming to your assistance." He glanced at the repulsive corpse near his feet. "Though little good it would have done, I think."
"Indeed," the leader replied, switching to quite passable, if oddly accented, French." Those creatures, whatever they are, have killed half my men. I don't think one injured man could have been much help. The intent, however, is admirable." He continued before Jean could quite think of a reply. "What is the name of this place?"
The question dropped straight from Jean's ears to his stomach in a cold lump. He looked back up at the leader, trying vainly to read some expression through the blank steel. "I was hoping that you could tell me," he replied cautiously. "I have begun to fear that I've died and entered Purgatory, if not Hell itself."
The leader was silent, and Jean's apprehension grew. Silence was not the answer he had hoped for. He wanted desperately to believe that these men were not as lost as he was. He wondered if the leader had taken offense. Hopefully this man was not the sort to take out bad news on the messenger.
"And I was hoping that you could tell me," the man responded at last. "I haven't died yet, and therefore, this is unlikely to be any form of Afterlife. However, you may not be as mad as you sound. If this is not Hell, it is as close as I ever wish to come."
The slight hope that these men might hail from the mysterious palace Jean had sighted died within him. He swallowed his disappointment. "Well, then, if we are all strangers here, can you at least tell me how you found yourselves here? Perhaps sharing such information might bring to light some clue as to how we may find a way out. Myself, I was traveling to Compostella with a small party of pilgrims, and became lost in the mist when I left the camp for but a moment."
Again, the man was silent for too long, staring down at Jean as though he doubted what he heard. Perhaps his command of French was not as precise at it seemed. When he spoke, his voice was harsh. "I have heard that the French are fond of pilgrimages, but what madness convinced you to try to reach Spain by way of the Carpathians?"
"The Carpathian Mountains?" Jean stared up at the commander in blank amazement, unable to fathom the other's meaning. "What…no, the Pyrenees. We travel the Pyrenees, of course."
"The Pyrenees!" The black-helmeted head jerked as if struck.
Behind him, one of the other horsemen leaned forward, his face twisted with fear. "Voivode," he cried, then gabbled something in an unfamiliar language. Whatever it was, it made the other men stir restlessly, as though infected with the same unease. The commander snarled something in reply, and the men immediately resumed their disciplined stance, though the fear still showed in their eyes.
"We cannot stay here discussing geography," the commander said, switching back to French. "Those hell-spawned creatures might return. We must bury our dead quickly and move on. You will come with us. Perhaps we can discover the solution to this puzzle."
It was more an order than an invitation, but Jean bowed as graciously as he could. "I will be pleased to do so. Many may travel with greater safety than one, surely, Monsieur Voivode."
"Let us hope," the other said. He paused, then added, "Voivode is a title, not a name. I am Janos Narodniho."
Jean bowed again. "Honored Captain Yah-nos…" He fumbled the last name. "…Nar…Nyrod…nyo." He flushed in annoyance; his ear was usually adept, but the strange vowels escaped him.
The Captain gave a short laugh. "Voivode Janos will do for a name until I can teach you to pronounce mine properly." He looked over his shoulder and barked in German. "We must make haste and bury our fallen comrades. Hans, Ivailo, capture the loose horses. Steban, pick two men and build litters. Uros, see to the wounded. Start with our newest comrade here. Markos, take six horse and stand guard. The rest of you, start digging."
He returned his attention to Jean, falling once more into French. "When we move on, you will ride with me."
The men moved with practiced speed, and within moments the orders were being carried out with an admirable blend of efficiency and haste. Jean observed their efforts with growing respect. If the French armies had had such disciplined troops, the English would have been driven out long ago.
Of course, it was doubtful the French troops had ever been so inspired. The English at their worst were but a jest compared to the menace of those demon-things.
The man the Voivode had called Uros proved to be a short, stocky fellow who probed Jean's injuries with surprisingly gentle hands. Though he uncovered more hurts than Jean had credited himself with, treatment was necessarily limited to binding his ankle with a linen bandage, which Uros did with practiced skill.
Unable to assist in the digging, Jean volunteered to help with the wounded. He and Uros moved through the fallen, located those still alive, and had them dragged to the mound where the rest of the wounded waited.
There was nothing suitable to use for cauterization, and no time to heat an iron if they had one. This lack did not seem to distress Uros. Several of the men carried brandy in their saddlebags; Uros commandeered several flasks, and he and Jean washed wounds with the stuff before bandaging them.
Uros spoke German quite well, though he was quick to tell Jean that it was not his native tongue, keeping up a cheerful running monologue as they worked.
"I am Wallachian, as are many of the men. And, of course, the Voivode," he explained as he picked bits of grass and dirt from a gaping slash in one man's leg. Jean found it hard not to flinch in sympathy, but the patient only watched in stoic silence.
Uros's hands were seemingly undistracted by his speech. "But most in the Black Army are actually German, so that has become the language of command. I wonder if we are all that is left? I hope not; perhaps we will find others who survived. I would be happy to strike back at the treacherous barons. I would be happy, also, if one of the healers were with us. Rufus was a physician, but that is him over there, or most of him, I think."
Most of the other man's meaning was lost on Jean, and he focused quickly on what he understood. "You are not a physician?" He flicked a glance at the patient; the man appeared unmoved by the confession.
"Not exactly," Uros admitted without embarrassment. "But there are too few in the service, so I am often called upon to treat the wounded. In my youth, I was a slave to a Turkish physician for a time, and learned much of healing from him. Of course, I do not have the herbs and potions he used, and many of his formulas were secret. Heathens though they be, the men of the east have an understanding of sickness and injury that is, in many ways, superior to that of Christian physicians. It is a pity our doctrines differ so widely that we cannot learn from one another."
Having apparently cleaned the wound to his satisfaction, Uros poured br
andy over it, took the bandage Jean held, and wrapped the leg carefully. Then he patted his silent patient on the shoulder, smiled in encouragement, and moved on to the next. Jean hobbled after him.
Jean listened with interest, but could not keep himself from voicing his skepticism as they settled by the next patient, a young man whose left arm hung at an unnatural angle. "Perhaps it is true that the unenlightened peoples have cures that may be of some help. But wounds must be purged with fire; this is an old wisdom long proved true. Brandy of itself is surely a poor substitute for fire."
The injured soldier's eyes widened in fresh terror as he looked up at Jean, but Uros spoke quickly, evidently as much to quiet his patient's fears as to answer Jean.
"Brandy burns in an open sore or wound much as fire does. The principle must be the same. And in my experience, wounds burned with brandy heal more quickly, and with less fever." Uros gave the boy a broken arrow to bite on, and set to work.
It seemed to Jean a mere heartbeat later that he was helping Uros wrap the arm, splinted with two more arrow fragments. Another encouraging pat and Uros rose and moved on, Jean struggling gamely in his wake.
In between his often terse instructions to Jean, Uros returned to his former topic of conversation as he briskly set bones, washed wounds, and tore bandages. Jean listened with intense concentration. It helped to keep his attention away from the stink of the dead monsters, the blood, the moans of pain the brave soldiers could not always stifle.
"The Voivode is in it this time, I fear. But perhaps he will yet save us. He has gotten us out of worse scrapes, I can tell you. When we were in Russia, they almost had us many times, but each time, like a fox, he would find a way out! Here, lift your arm," he added for the benefit of his patient before continuing. "A great soldier, the Voivode. I have served with him many years, and considered it an honor to follow him on this campaign, though we all knew it was doomed. Or at least I knew."
"How did you know this?" Jean asked politely, trying to balance the rolls of bandages Uros had given him in his one free hand.
Uros snorted. "We were meant to fail, you can be sure of that. Why else would the barons send us south without provisions, leaving us no choice but to forage as best we could from the local folk? Of course they would turn on us, and who could blame them?"
The memory seemed to anger him. He tore loose a fresh strip of bandage with more force than was necessary. "And then we had them at our backs when we faced the Turks; enemies before and behind, and then the treacherous barons came to finish us off. I tell you, it makes my blood boil just to think of such dishonorable, vile pigs ruling our country now that Matthias is dead with no one to take his place. "His task finished, he rose and moved hurriedly off to the next wounded.
Jean limped rapidly after him, trying to decipher Uros' speech. The other's German was quite adequate, but his meaning remained unclear.
His pride stung him at the thought that his knowledge of world events might be far less complete than he had believed. "Forgive my ignorance, but this Black Army — I have never heard of it. What land do you serve? And where was this battle you speak of, friend? I am trying to discover how you found yourselves to be here, where I encountered you."
Uros glanced back, eyebrows raised. "Well, I think by then we were outside Drobeta. Yes, we must have been, because when it was clear we were being overrun, the Voivode led those of us who remained into the hills, hoping to escape through the pass. But we had no sooner lost the Turks and those mercenaries the barons set on our heels when we were beset by the savage hill tribes who infest these mountains. And now these beast-things." He paused to kick a monstrous corpse in passing, his face twisting with fear and disgust.
Jean searched his memory for the place Uros has named, but it escaped him. Before he could ask for clarification, Uros went on, as if the steady flow of his own words kept him focused. "I do not know what evil magic spawned those things or who sent them against us. Turks I can understand. Hillmen I can understand. I do not understand these creatures."
He shook his head, bending over a man who seemed to loll somewhere on the borders of unconsciousness. The wounded man had a dent in his skull, Jean noted uneasily, and blood oozed out of his nose and ears.
Uros shook his head again, but whether his gesture referred to the man on the ground or the situation in general was unclear. "I tell you, Herr LeFleur, I don't know if even Zheleznyi Volk can get us out of this."
Jean blinked. "Zheleznyi Volk?" he asked, carefully enunciating the strange vowels.
Uros glanced over with a quick grin. "Ah. The Russians gave him that name. The Voivode, I mean. It is what they call the Devil, so I'm told."
Jean did not speak Russian, but to his ears the name Uros uttered sounded like a curse, even without knowledge of its meaning. "How…extravagant."
Uros looked up from his examination again, brows raised. "What, Zheleznyi Volk? Oh, the words of themselves actually mean, 'the Iron Wolf.' It caught on; now he is known by that name even in our own land." He paused and threw a warning look at Jean. "Not to his face, of course."
"The Iron Wolf." Jean glanced over to where the subject of their conversation stood by his horse, directing several men who listened with respectful attention.
He knew something of the brutality of men at war. It was daunting to imagine what a man would have to do to earn a name like that among such company.
Well, if the man deserved to share the Devil's nickname, at least it was easier to remember than Janos however-one-said-it, and no more difficult to pronounce. "Tell me, my friend, who does the Iron Wolf serve? If his master sent him here, it is a poor reward for his heroic deeds."
Uros scowled, lowering the soldier's head, which he had been examining, back to the ground. The scowl seemed meant as much for the condition of the man as for Jean's question, for he drew his knife with slow reluctance as he spoke. "This is no time for your questions, Mein Herr. This man is dying. I must attend him."
Suddenly ashamed of himself, Jean focused his attention on the injured soldier. "Forgive me. I see that he has a bad head wound. How will you treat it?"
Uros's reply was curt. "I cannot. If we were in a city, someplace where he could lie abed, perhaps…but not here. And wounds like this rarely end in anything but death. Even if he were fortunate enough to survive, he would most likely be an imbecile. And Karl was a proud man. He would not wish to live like that." He sighed. "Would you be so kind as to pray for him, Herr LeFleur, while I do what is necessary?"
Jean choked, but in the same breath he knew that Uros was right. He shut his eyes and cleared his throat, finally calling up a Psalm that flowed without thought from his lips. He did not hear Uros at work, but felt a touch on his knee.
"That was very fine, my friend," Uros said solemnly when Jean opened his eyes. "It is done. Another will be said over the graves; it is the best we may do for him. He is in God's hands." He wiped his bloody knife, looking down at the face of his former comrade. "Perhaps he is better off than we at this moment."
Uros rose, extending a hand to help Jean to his feet, then picked up the crutch and handed it to him. "Come, we have others to tend, though we are nearly done. Then we must make ready to move on."
Jean shook his head, momentarily speechless, and followed obediently, cold and sick to his core. He knew these men suffered at least as keenly as he did from confusion and fear, but it seemed to him as if each dreadful sight, each new bit of information, each bleeding wound or unpreventable death, had been created and presented for his hurt alone.
Perhaps Uros saw his distress and wished to distract him. In any case, he picked up his narrative as though there had been no interruption. "We served King Matthias. He made us, and in return we built for him an empire. But after his death, the barons feared us, our influence. It was only a matter of time before they found a way to destroy us. Perhaps they have done so."
"Empire?" Jea
n tried to place Uros' narrative on his mental map of the world and failed. "What empire is this you speak of?"
Uros spoke over his shoulder as he walked. "The Hungarian Empire, of course. We of the Black Army, we were the whip Matthias used to drive the greatest armies of the world from our plains and bring his own power-mad aristocracy to heel. Ah, we were proud in those days. But since his death —"
"Wait." Jean stopped, his head spinning, and Uros politely turned back to face him. Jean swallowed, trying to find words, and felt suddenly queasy. "There is no…I have never heard the name of this King — Matthias — and Hungary…Sigismund of Luxembourg, King of the Germans, holds the crown of Hungary and has for longer than I have been alive."
Uros stared, clearly taken aback. "You've been cloistered, perhaps? Sigismund lost the throne before I was born. Matthias's father, Janos Hunyady, was regent and ruled in all but name. They say that in gratitude, Sigismund made Matthias his heir. Myself, I think he had no choice."
For a moment the world went a grey darker than the mist around Jean, and he heard a roaring in his ears. "Before you were born…" he said weakly, then took a deep, shaky breath. "That is not possible. Sigismund was still King of Hungary when I left France but a short time ago. Two weeks or three at most." He paused, saw the puzzled frown on Uros's face deepen. A horrible feeling welled in the pit of his stomach. "Do you know how to tell the year according to the Roman calendar? I began my pilgrimage in the fall of the Year of Our Lord…" He paused to think. "Fourteen hundred and thirty-two."
Uros blinked, as though it was his turn to try to make Jean's words make sense. "Now it is you who speak of the impossible. I know how the Romans reckon the years. Matthias died in…let's see, that would be…" He squinted skyward in thought. "In…the Year of Our Lord, Fourteen hundred and ninety." His voice faltered uncertainly. He returned his attention to Jean and shook his head. "This cannot be. You are a young man. Younger than myself. If you had been wandering these mountains for sixty years, you would be in your dotage."
Jean did not reply. The two men stood staring at one another in a silence each was suddenly afraid to break.