Author: Darragh Metzger
Category: Literature
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5
Uros had returned to summon the rest of the Black Army. He waved a greeting at Jean as he passed among the stirring men, exhorting them to haste, and paused to call out, "Ride beside me, my friend, while we go down."
Jean nodded agreement and turned to get his horse. If he must be guarded, at least Uros was better company than the surly Drogo.
Within moments, the company was riding downhill, two by two, toward the town gates. Jean rode in the front, beside Uros, listening to his friend's version of what had occurred earlier.
"We are most fortunate, my friend," Uros told him. "The town is called Tisza. They speak Hungarian, though there seem to be other tongues as well. I do not know if we are in Hungary; the people here call it Yasenovo."
He frowned briefly, then his face cleared and he rushed on. "I do not know what we will trade with them, for we seem to have nothing they want. You will not believe this, but we showed them good gold, and they only laughed. They seemed a little interested in seeing our weapons. And one at the gate — the head guard I think — stared quite a bit at our gonnes. But the Voivode will never trade those."
"Then why are we going down to them?" Jean asked. "Is it a good sign, do you think?"
Uros shook his head. "Truthfully? We must. We are nearly done, my friend, and the Voivode knows it. The guards say we may spend the night inside the town. They refuse to deal with us at all now; they say they must bring their livestock in and close the gates for the night, and will talk to us once we are all safe within.
"Do you remember those beast-men? It seems they are called trolkien, and are much feared here. The guard said he expects them to attack tonight, since they will surely have been following us. He seemed most impressed that we survived an attack by so many of them. Evidently, they rarely band together in groups of more than six. I think perhaps he doubts our tale."
Uros frowned and cast a nervous glance back over his shoulder, as if expecting another horde of monstrous creatures to come charging after them. "Under the circumstances, the Voivode has no choice but to accept their invitation. I do not blame him, but I confess I am not entirely easy in my mind about it. Neither is he, I know. Still, perhaps all will be well. At least we are almost certain to eat tonight."
Jean looked ahead at the waiting gate, around which had gathered a small crowd of mostly armed and armored men, though no weapons seemed to be displayed in a hostile fashion. Voivode Janos and Steban stood beside their horses almost at the center of the group, apparently engaged in deep discussion with several of the men. The Voivode did not look entirely pleased.
Almost all the townsmen wore black tabards emblazoned with a red chevron across the breast over their armor. But the man closest to the Voivode, a strapping fellow with an air of authority, also wore a great silver badge of some kind on a chain around his neck. He turned to watch the advancing horsemen, frowning with something that might have been impatience. He spoke to the Voivode, then raised his voice and called out something to the approaching riders. Beside him, the Voivode made an abrupt gesture of concurrence.
Uros returned the gesture, then yelled the command to halt. He murmured quickly to Jean, "He said to bring the wounded in first and to make haste, as the light is fading and they must bring in the cattle. I must go back and bring the litters forward. Wait here." He turned his horse back toward the end of the column.
At once, Drogo, who had been riding directly behind them, nudged his mount up to stand beside Jean's. He scowled at Jean, then turned his sour regard to the gate. His gonne was slung conspicuously over one shoulder.
Jean offered him his most charming smile. "Welcome, my old friend," he said in French. "You do not know how I have missed you, your enlightened conversation, and cheerful demeanor. I pray that, between you and your noble leader, you do not frighten our hosts into barring the gates in our faces."
Drogo shot a menacing glare at him, doubtless sensing he was being made sport of, but returned his angry stare to the gate and the men around it without saying anything. Humor restored, Jean settled back in his saddle to wait.
Led by Uros, the horses bearing the litters of wounded passed the column and made their careful way through the gate. When the last one was through, the Voivode signaled the column, then led his horse after the litters, Steban in his wake. Beside Jean, Drogo grunted and nudged his horse into a walk. Jean's own mount did not wait for his signal to do the same.
As he passed through the gate, Jean noticed the massive timbers and sturdy bars of the door that waited to close behind them, the width of the passage between the first wall and the second, the barbed teeth of the portcullis overhead as he passed through the second gate.
Surely even the terrible trolkien would not be able to penetrate such barriers.
He eyed the town guards with interest, wondering what sort of men would hold such a town, and against such foes. Their armor, what he could see of it beneath the tabards, was simple, functional stuff without ornament of any kind: identical rounded helmets with nasal pieces, gorgets and pauldrons, demi-gauntlets. The tabards covered whatever other armor they wore. All the metal was a flat, dull grey, as if it had been painted. Whoever supplied this garrison did well by his men.
The men varied little in age; most seemed to be in their prime, though he spied a few beardless faces. Their leader outside the gate seemed to be the oldest, and he of no more than late middle age. Discipline was evident; the uniforms were all clean and well-tended, the metal free of rust.
The men, too, appeared to be clean and well-groomed — far more so than the company with which Jean now rode. He flushed, aware of his own filthy and disheveled state. Well, with fortune, that would be quickly remedied.
Beyond the second gate, the way opened into the wide, empty space Jean had seen from the hill. He eyed it doubtfully, wondering if it was large enough to hold all their horses plus the huge herd of cattle that would shortly follow them. Ah, well, it was shelter, and he was grateful for it.
At the other end, the horses carrying the litters waited for someone to relieve them of their burdens. With them were Uros, Steban, and the Voivode, who appeared even less happy than he had outside the gate. Jean and Drogo reached them and stopped, having no other choice, and the others crowded in, looking around nervously. Jean felt a twinge of sympathy; it was not a comfortable feeling, being trapped in an open area and surrounded by people whose ways were unknown. Still, what choice had they?
He glanced again at Voivode Janos, and saw him look up at the walls around them, his face tight and pale. Quickly Jean followed his gaze and ice slid down his back. Archers were mounting the walls and spreading out along them, bows in hand and arrows at the ready, though none drew or pointed their weapons.
"To the gates! Ride!" The Voivode grabbed for his own horse as he shouted the command, but even as the men of the Black Army wheeled to flee, cattle came charging through the gate in a bellowing mass of horns and hooves, pressing the horses back until they were packed together, trapped like fish in a net.
Beyond, the portcullis came crashing down, blocking the only exit.
A voice called out in German, rising over the bawling of the cattle and the nervous whinnying of the horses. "Drop your weapons at once and you will not be harmed."
Jean, clutching at his saddle bow to keep from being thrown from his struggling horse, looked across to the gate and saw the leader of the guard standing on the wall above it, watching them, his face stern.
For a moment Jean forgot his own danger; he could think only of the men around him, of how much they had already endured. Somehow slaughter must be averted. He turned to the Voivode. "Monsieur," he shouted, "surely you see we have no choice. You must surrender!"
Drogo replied for his master with a mailed fist to the side of Jean's head; light exploded behind Jean's eyes and he toppled off his horse to slam into the hard-packed dirt. "We do not surrender! Not ever!" he heard Drogo snarl. Blinking to clear his
vision, he looked up in time to see the surly Hungarian aiming his gonne upward. The report was deafening, echoed by a choked scream from someone on the wall.
The next second, Drogo sprouted arrows like dark-feathered blossoms all over his body. He crashed to the ground beside Jean.
Chaos erupted around him; more gonnes fired, horses screamed and cattle bellowed. Animals and men scrambled over one another in frantic attempts to escape or avoid being trampled.
Jean rolled to his feet and threw himself against the wall, pressing his body into the stone as if to meld with it. Men cried out, bodies toppled from saddles and wall.
The crunch of splintering wood and fresh screams announced the destruction of the litters, but Jean could not reach them to help the wounded men trapped in them.
Through the milling animals, he caught glimpses of the Voivode in hand-to-hand combat with three men in black and red tabards. He could not see Uros at all.
Then Uros was on the captain's horse, arms raised. "Stop! Do not shoot! They have the Voivode — lay down your weapons, damn you! That is an order! We surrender! We surrender!"
At once, the hiss of flying arrows ceased, and the men still in the saddle raised their empty hands.
Doors along the sides of the wall opened and guardsmen came streaming in, struggling to restore order among the frantic beasts. A few, Jean noticed with relief, made straight for the remains of the litters.
A guard stopped before him, sword drawn. Jean did not understand the words he spoke, but his meaning was obvious. Slowly, Jean drew his sword and offered it to him, then surrendered his knives with the same care. Hands raised, he allowed himself to be pushed toward the nearest open door, where other guards took charge of him, supporting him by the arms when it became clear he could scarcely walk unaided.
As he was hauled away, he twisted his head to catch a last glimpse of the Black Army, but the door had closed again, as though to separate his fate from theirs forever.