Author: Darragh Metzger
Category: Literature
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/darragh-metzger/page,9,25749-tales-from-opa-three-tales-of-tir-na-nog.html
4
As they rode through the mounds in a column of two, Jean looked briefly back at the new mound, lower than any of the others and bare of grass, that they left behind. He offered a silent prayer for the souls of the men who had died so horribly. And that no one would have to pray so for him.
He faced forward again, nervously patting the neck of the dun gelding beneath him, counting himself fortunate to be mounted at last.
Of the nearly sixty who had first met them, twenty-six men had survived the attack of the demon-things, but the horses had fared worse still. The spare horses had been among the first casualties.
Even with five men in litters and several horses that had survived their riders, there were no extra mounts
The Voivode rode at the head of the column, right in front of Jean. The man on Jean's left was a stranger; Uros rode with the horse litters in the rear. Jean wondered at his own placement, suspecting he rode where Voivode Janos could keep an eye on him.
The sullen watchfulness of the man beside Jean added to that suspicion; the fellow's eyes slid sideways often, and his right hand was never far from his weapon. Jean was not entirely surprised. Suspicion of strangers was only prudent under the circumstances. And it gave him an opportunity to talk to the Voivode regarding the strange and unsettling discussion with Uros.
He eyed the leather-and-maille clad back before him, wondering how to broach the subject. By the way, Monsieur, your healer says you rode into these mountains some sixty years after I rode into them on the other side of the continent. How can this be, do you suppose? The Hungarian commander was intimidating as it was, and the strangeness of the subject made it even harder to begin.
His gaze moved to the Voivode's horse, a handsome, muscular Iberian. It pranced beneath him, neck arched, as though fresh from the parade ground, despite the blood and sweat plastering its black-spotted white coat. Its mane was clipped to a stiff brush along the crest of its neck, giving it the look of a chess piece or a Greek statue.
Praising the horse was as good a way to start a conversation as any. "That is a fine —"
"Pay attention, Monsieur Frenchman. Look around you and be silent," Iron Wolf — no, he must remember to call him Voivode Janos — said over his shoulder, without looking back. "Those creatures could be all around us, for all we know, just out of sight within the mist."
The thought made Jean shudder, and he shot a quick glance to either side. "Your pardon, but will not our horses tell us if such danger is about?"
The fur-topped shoulders ahead of him shrugged. "We had little enough warning last time. This mist seems to baffle the horses' senses as much as it does ours." He paused. "But it does seem to be thinning. At least we no longer have to rope ourselves together. And I can see the ground beneath Shannar's feet. Now, let us be silent and give them no more warning. We will talk when we make camp."
Jean opened his mouth to ask something else, but the nameless man on his left cuffed him on the arm, scowling a warning.
Jean clenched his teeth, reminding himself that he was not in a position to protest. He turned his attention to the area around him, alert for any movement or noise that might herald another attack.
In a way, it was a relief. Perhaps occupying himself with thoughts of defense would keep him from dwelling on the disturbing questions his conversation with Uros had raised.
They rode on in silence through the mounds — burial mounds, not dwellings, he was now certain. He wondered what titanic battle had taken place that so many were buried in this mist-shrouded plain. And when.
Long ago, surely — if time had any meaning here, where men from different countries and eras could meet and speak as though they were neighbors….
He shook his head to dispel his musings. Reason had been turned upside down, and all he thought he knew seemed false.
He studied the cairn rocks standing sentinel atop the mounds. Though obviously old, they retained a stately grace, and many bore traces of elaborate carvings etched in the timeworn stone.
The scholar in him could not help but wonder about the people that had placed them there. Surely not those demon-things; only civilized beings would bury their dead with such stately ceremony.
The grass that covered the mounds and the ground beneath the horses' hooves was richly green. How could it be so? Were there days when the fog lifted and the sun won through, lighting the grass with summer splendor? Did rain sometimes fall to wash away the mist? It seemed impossible.
He tried to imagine this world unshrouded by the grey veil. If the fog cleared entirely, would reality return to its familiar shape? Would time resume its orderly march in the way he had always known it? Would the world make sense again?
They rode in silence and around them nothing stirred, nothing moved. No breeze brushed the grass or lifted his horse's mane. No bird called, no insect hummed, as if they did not exist in this place. He felt more than heard the muffled thud of his gelding's hooves, and the horses around him moved in utter silence, broken only occasionally by a snorted breath or a muted jingle of harness.
The mounds finally ended, along with the grass, and they rode downhill for a time, along a rocky defile that should have echoed with the clatter of their hooves, but didn't. Jean sweated as his horse picked its careful way over the loose rock and shale that slid under its feet. He prayed that those demon-things would not come at them here. This would be a terrible place to be caught in an ambush.
He offered a prayer of thanksgiving when the trail ended without warning, opening onto a featureless expanse of tall grass, the horizon invisible beyond the curtain of mist.
But as they rode, it seemed to Jean that the mist began to develop a shining quality, as though lit from beyond.
He swallowed and glanced furtively at the nameless man on his left. Was he the only one who noticed? Was it only his own longing that fooled his eyes?
He had just decided that the occasion warranted the breaking of their long silence at the risk of another buffet, when the Voivode raised one hand. "Uros. Steban. Kommen Sie."
A moment later, the garrulous healer and another man rode up beside him. "Ja, Voivode," the one called Steban said.
Voivode Janos pointed ahead. "The mists are changing. Scout ahead and see if they clear. But stay in sight."
"Ja, Voivode." Steban turned his horse and cantered ahead of the column. Uros threw a quick smile of encouragement at Jean before following on his heels. The two rode side by side until their outlines began to blur, then slowed to a walk once more.
Moments later, one of them raised an arm and waved it excitedly over his head. Then both faded away like ghosts, as if a curtain had been drawn behind them.
Jean caught his breath, sudden hope making his heart pound. The Voivode immediately broke into a canter, and Jean and the other men followed suit
Within moments, as though they had indeed ridden through a curtain, the mist vanished and the land spread out in sunlit glory on all sides.
Despite the Voivode's earlier command, the men cheered with relief and delight, greeting the open air like starving men confronted with an unexpected feast.
For a moment, the formation slowed to a near-halt and threatened to dissolve into a chattering mass. Along the length of the column, horses dropped their heads, cropping the grass with voracious greed.
Jean brought his horse to a stop and drew in a lungful of air that tasted of summer wind, of flowers, of sweet grass watered by recent rains, of cool evergreens, of sweating horses and leather, and laughed aloud. A sudden buzzing startled him before he saw the fly that swept by his horse's ears.
As a fresh breeze brushed his face, he even grinned at the surly fellow beside him, surprising a brief answering smile from the other man before the habitual scowl swept back into place.
Jean looked back to where the litter-bearing horses were just emerging, and saw the mist rising to the sky like a wall behind them. It looked almost solid from this side, lik
e a grey cloak hanging in the air. He shook his head and returned his sun-starved gaze to the vista before him.
They had come out in some mountain valley. The ground rolled away on all sides in gentle swells, the grass ranging from summer gold on the rises to radiant green in the hollows, dotted now and again with bright clusters of wildflowers and rippling with shifting silver as the wind brushed over it. Here and there, lonely, thick-boled oaks or clusters of slim evergreens threw out circles of inviting shade.
Not far on either side, the green and gold of the grass vanished into the darker green of forests. Snow-capped mountains towered above forest and mist alike, hemming them in on all sides, all beneath a sky so blue it glowed. The wind sighed a soft welcome, carrying the songs of birds on its sweet breath.
Jean stared, rapt with wonder, as a pair of swallows swept past, curving a rapid dance in the wind around one another. Dear God, there are no words of thanks great enough for our deliverance. I promise to burn a candle of good beeswax the length of my own body in the next church I find in honor of this moment. Thank You.
"Achtung!" The harsh command caught Jean like a dash of ice water, jarring him from his rapturous prayer and sweeping silence along the length of the column. He blinked and focused his attention on Voivode Janos.
The Voivode, too, had halted, turning his horse sideways before the column. To Jean's surprise, the commander had removed his helmet; perhaps even he had been unable to resist the temptation to take deep breaths of the delicious air.
Jean had pictured the Voivode with a face as evil-looking as the helm behind which it hid. He had imagined the Hungarian commander as a grizzled old war-wolf, scarred and cruel. But though weathered by sun and wind, hardened by war, and haggard with exhaustion, Voivode Janos was younger than Jean had assumed, and not unhandsome. Wavy chestnut hair and a trim beard of the same shade were shot with more red and gold than grey, the face lined and hollowed more by tension and fatigue than by time.
Not the sort of face over which young girls giggled and dreamed; too lean and sharply planed, perhaps a bit sinister of aspect. Yet not the face of a vicious brute.
The narrow, blue-grey eyes swept over the ragged line of horsemen. Jean turned to follow that glance, noting with sympathy the sheepish haste with which stragglers returned to proper formation, but the Voivode's voice brought his attention quickly forward again.
"We are free of the fog, but not yet out of danger. You will remember that. The greater the beauty, the greater the evil it may hide." The cold eyes made another quick inspection, pausing last at Jean.
Evidently, what they saw satisfied the Voivode that any high spirits had been effectively quelled, order and attention to duty restored. He replaced his helmet, turned his horse, and with a curt gesture signaled the column to move forward once more.
Uros and the other scout again cantered ahead, this time riding on until they were the size of Jean's fingernails.
The columns rode in the trail of the two scouts, following the valley as it rolled gently downhill. From the position of the sun (sun!), it was late afternoon when they emerged from the mist. By early evening, Jean thought he would fall off his horse from weariness. The effects of all he had endured had caught up with him at once, and from the way they swayed in their saddles, he suspected his companions were in no better condition. He took frequent sips from his water bag, but the liquid did nothing to assuage the sharp-toothed beast gnawing at his stomach.
The scant mouthfuls of stale bread and cheese seemed a hundred years in the past, and he could not remember the last time he had truly slept.
They came upon a stream tumbling out of the shadowed forest and flowing clear and cold across their path. The men watered the horses, then drank deeply of the sweet water before filling skins and flasks.
No one mentioned stopping for food, and there was surely little enough of that in any case, though they let their horses graze while they restocked their water supply and gave drinks to the wounded. A few started tiny fires to roast meager lumps of horsemeat pulled from packs and saddlebags. No one had salvaged much after the attack; the monsters had borne away most of the dead horses when they fled.
Jean watched the other men, wondering if they were made of iron, if he, perhaps, should take it upon himself to suggest a rest stop.
He did not know, at first, what made him hold his tongue. It may have been the pallor he noted under sun-bronzed skin, or the sunken eyes and cheeks in faces young and old. Perhaps it was the loose fit of the uniforms, as if once they had clung more closely to muscular limbs. He recalled Uros telling him they were sent south without supplies.
It occurred to him that he might in fact have more food in his satchel than the rest of these men put together.
Tonight, I will share what I have with as many as I can feed, if we find nothing before then, he promised himself silently, humbled. These men have gone without far longer than I.
The column remounted and continued on, while Jean pondered their predicament. Now that he had taken note of it, the signs of prolonged starvation and physical exhaustion in the men around him worried him.
How to solve the problem? He was not a great hunter, but he had often snared rabbits and small game in the woods near his home, and had occasionally been included in hunting parties with some of the noble families of the region.
Though he had seen nothing larger than a lark all day, surely a place like this harbored abundant wildlife. Water was not in scarce supply. Indeed, the friendly stream quickly changed its course to flow directly away from the mists, and the scouts followed its lead, so that its inviting coolness was never entirely out of sight. At least they would not go thirsty, whatever else befell them. And any other animals around would surely seek water come evening.
Now if only the Iron Wolf would call a halt.
It seemed to Jean that he had reached the limit of his endurance when the dull thunder of hooves echoed painfully in his head, rousing him from his exhausted stupor. He looked up, vision swimming, to see one of the scouts galloping back, and a thrill of fear brought him fully awake.
But Uros rode with purpose, not panic, and his face bore a look of barely contained excitement as he lifted an arm in a salute and brought his horse to a halt. He babbled something at the Voivode in what was probably their native tongue, and the captain's reaction was swift and sharp. He asked several questions, to which Uros replied, nodding and pointing ahead all the while. Finally, Uros turned and rode quickly away to rejoin his scouting partner, and Voivode Janos turned to address his men. To Jean's relief, he spoke in German.
"Uros and Steban have found a village ahead, just over the crest of that hill," he announced, and Jean heard several indrawn breaths, saw eyes glitter with hope and other, less wholesome emotions. The Voivode continued. "We will rest while I study the situation and make plans. Uros says there is a hollow ahead where we may set up camp without being seen from below, but which will afford us a good view of the village."
"They will have food — how shall we attack, Voivode?" someone asked.
Appalled, Jean looked for the speaker, but could not find him. Uros had said the Black Army had been surviving by raids for some time, but until now, it had not been real to Jean. He could not tell what outraged him more; the hopelessness of attempting such a thing now, in a strange land, in their obviously weakened and exhausted condition, or the thought of slaughtering innocent, possibly peaceful folk.
Perhaps the Voivode shared his sense of outrage. More likely, he was simply too aware of the folly of another battle. In any case, the captain's eyes went even colder as they found the speaker. "We will attempt to barter," he said slowly, biting off his words. "It is not unlikely that we have found our way back to Hungary, but since we do not know where, it is inadvisable to draw undue attention to ourselves, which slaughtering villagers wholesale is likely to do. If we go among the local folk, you will restrain yourselves unless attacked first. Do nothing
without my leave."
"Yes, Voivode," came the meek reply, quickly echoed in firmer tones by the rest of the troupe. Without another word, the commander turned his horse and rode on. Jean urged his horse to follow, relieved that there was to be no more killing.
When they reached the hill, Uros was waiting to lead them to their campsite. It was little more than a fold in the hillside, like the valley between a woman's breasts, but the stream ran through it before disappearing into a hole in the rock, and trees provided some shelter. No one looking up from either side of the hill would readily see it or anyone in it.
Jean did not see the other scout, Steban. He shrugged and turned his attention to dismounting — a slow and painful process, between his injured knees, his ankle, and his tender backside — and caring for his horse. No one untacked his mount, but settled for loosening girths and slipping bits, prepared to remount in a hurry. Well, any chance to rest was better than none.
He finished with the horse, gave it a pat, and gathered up his pouch, satchel, and water skin, set only on finding a soft spread of grass where he could lie down.
Before he could, a hard hand fell on his shoulder, and he looked around into the face of the man beside whom he had ridden all day. "Komst," the soldier growled.
Jean frowned. He'd had quite enough of this fellow's rudeness. "I am tired and wish to rest. I will come later."
The other's face hardened further. "The Voivode says you come now. Quick."
The Voivode. Well, that put a different face on things. Jean ground his teeth in frustration, sighed, and trudged haltingly after the other man out of the sheltered hollow and up the slope, his knees and ankle jabbing him with reminders of his injuries at every step.
Voivode Janos waited near the crest of the hill, sheltered behind a clump of bushes and the remains of a dead tree. Steban and Uros were there as well, and the three were engaged in a low-voiced discussion.
The Voivode, who had again removed his helmet, turned with a frown as Jean and his escort approached. An abrupt gesture commanded them to stealth; Jean obeyed, grateful to take some of his weight on his hands, and clambered on all fours to just below the others.
"So good of you to join us, Monsieur Frenchman," the Voivode said softly. "Look down there and tell me if you know this place."
The idea of finding anything even remotely familiar on the other side of the rise struck Jean as unlikely, but it seemed the better part of wisdom to comply. Smothering his sigh of exasperation, he dropped to his belly and wriggled up to lie beside the captain. Peering carefully between bushy fronds, he stared down into the valley below.
The place looked less like a village than a fortress, encircled by a stone wall of better than twice man-height, judging from the men who walked along its top. The wall spread out on either side of a great stone tower that dwarfed the wall and every other building. The wall to the right of the tower had a gate, open now, taller than a man on horseback and wide enough for a large wagon to pass through.
Jean's vantage point afforded him a look beyond the walls, and he could see that within the first wall was a second, very nearly as tall, and within that were buildings, many of them also walled, each spaced so that no more than two riders could travel abreast between them.
There were no more than thirty buildings, all built of the same rugged grey stone as the outer wall and tower. Some of the buildings hinted at a rounded grace foreign to Jean's eye, but many could as easily have been lifted from any fort town in France. Most seemed to be longhouses of some sort, possibly barracks. In the very center of the town was a wide, clear space of bare dirt, not unlike an arena.
The top of the walls held no sign of any cannon or other bombards, praise be to God. But there were many slits for archers, boiling oil, or other means of defense. No flags or banners hung anywhere in sight, nor were there crests, paint, window boxes of flowers, or any other bit of color.
A grim little town indeed, and as out of place in this beautiful country as a war wagon in a garden. If the local people needed such protection, the Voivode had spoken truthfully when he suggested that beauty was not a reliable indication of safety.
"Well?" the captain demanded.
Jean shook his head. "I have seen many places like this, of course, though the architecture is not quite like that in my homeland. But I do not know this place. Nor can I see any flags or crests, or anything to indicate the allegiance of these folk."
He glanced up at the impatient face of his captor/comrade. "But I think it would take a much greater force than yours, Voivode Janos, to take this place. Rarely have I seen so stout a defense."
"I have no intention of trying. I am not a fool." Anger glinted behind the habitual frost in the Hungarian's eyes. He turned his attention to Steban, who lay on Jean's other side. "What have we to spare?"
"We stripped all usable weapons and armor off the dead, and some tack," Steban replied promptly. "Some of that we could trade. We still have the chest of gold that Markos and the others took from that Turkish supply train, but we have not had the chance to count it."
The Voivode waved away Steban's caution. "There is enough there to buy the entire town if need be, but we may have need of gold later. What else?"
Steban hesitated. "We might spare as many as two horses." He paused and cleared his throat. "As for firearms—"
"We do not trade those," the Voivode said, cutting him off sharply. After a moment, he added, "How many have we altogether?"
Steban paused to think, and Jean listened with an equal blend of interest and alarm. He had seen a few of the men carrying weapons he recognized as gonnes, though they appeared to be sleeker and more cunningly designed than the clumsy hand cannons with which he was familiar. He had, of course, not been allowed to examine any of them to discover their differences.
He sincerely hoped the Voivode was not considering the possibility of using them against the town below.
"Six still working, Voivode, including yours. Two others that might be repaired, if we have the use of a smithy. Those creatures we fought — they smashed anything they could not use or take. But I do not think we have enough powder or shot for more than one or two volleys."
The Voivode ran a hand over his face while he thought, as if to scrub away fatigue. "Then that is something we will try to trade for. We need ammunition. And even more, a place to rest, for our wounded to recover. But first…" he said, pointing beyond the town, teeth suddenly bared in a wolfish grin, "…we need food. Two or three fat cattle, for instance."
Jean followed the direction of that black-gloved finger, and saw for the first time the shifting brown and black mass that seemed to ooze over the crest of a rise on the opposite horizon. Like dark water, it dripped and eddied around rocks and trees, following the slope of the land as it moved slowly toward the town. Now that he was listening for it, he could hear the lowing carried on the wind.
So many cattle! Surely these folk would have a few to spare. His mouth watered as he remembered the taste of roasted beef.
Steban, too, grinned as if he could already taste the fresh meat. "Ja, Voivode. Shall I put together a pack to take down?"
The Voivode was silent, his eyes following the leisurely march of the cattle. "We do not know what language they speak," he said after a moment. "I must go. You and Uros will come with me."
He turned to Jean's escort, who finally acquired a name. "Drogo, you and Markos watch over the camp and keep the men in readiness. I will send word. If our hosts prove generous, we will ride into the town tonight, and all is well. If not, we head into those hills with a few cattle. Be prepared to take the wounded around the town and wait for the rest of us."
"With respect, Voivode Janos," Jean interjected. "I speak several tongues aside from French and German. I believe I may be of use to you."
Voivode Janos's face was as unreadable as his helm as he turned his measuring gaze on Jean. "You will stay here, Monsieur Fre
nchman. Keep an eye on him, Drogo, and make certain he stays out of trouble."
Jean flushed with anger, but he said nothing. So, the Iron Wolf did not yet trust him. Well, it was to be expected. He did not trust the Hungarian, either.
He shrugged as if it was of no moment, and, rising, followed Drogo back to the encampment.
Most of the men were stretched out on the grass along the stream banks, asleep, as though they had collapsed where they dismounted. It looked like a fine way to spend the rest of the afternoon. He chose a dry spot and stretched his weary body at full length.
It seemed he'd no sooner closed his eyes than someone was roughly shaking his shoulder. He woke and found himself blinking in surprise up at Drogo.
"Up," the other growled. "We ride now."