Author: Darragh Metzger
Category: Literature
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/darragh-metzger/page,11,25749-tales-from-opa-three-tales-of-tir-na-nog.html
* * *
The room to which he was taken did not have the look of a jail cell. A well-built trestle table stood in the center with a bench on either side and a chair at each end. There was a comfortable-looking bed against one wall with a small stand beside it on which sat a pitcher of water and a basin. A large chest was at the foot of the bed, but he had neither the energy nor the inclination to wonder about its contents.
The guards who half-carried him in were not unnecessarily rough in their handling, but it was clear they would tolerate no struggle on his part. He submitted to having his armor removed, then lay on the bed where they placed him, waiting tensely for whatever would come next.
He was surprised at the interest they displayed in his armor and weapons, for they grinned eagerly as they inspected the pieces, commenting to one another in their own language, as if it were some great wonder — though he knew his equipment to be of very common make and somewhat worn.
One of the guards dumped the contents of the satchels — Jean's own and the one he had taken from the dead Moor — on the table and picked through the mess. He lifted up the helm with an exclamation of what sounded like admiration before passing it over to be eagerly examined by the others.
Then he picked up the crumbling loaf and stared at it, made some comment to his companions, sniffed suspiciously at the cheese and wrinkled his nose, then looked at Jean again with something like compassion.
The writing implements evoked interest as well, and the guards' attitude toward Jean made a subtle shift.
As they filed out, save one who took up a station by the door, they even nodded politely to him, and one of them smiled in a not-unfriendly manner.
The guard who remained said something to him in a tone that sounded as if he were trying to reassure Jean on some point. Jean shrugged and spread his hands to show he could not understand. The guard shrugged in turn and fell silent, standing at attention.
Jean lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, suddenly too tired to even care what would happen to him next, so long as they let him rest. He wondered what had become of his former companions, how many of them still lived. Though he had been virtually a prisoner among them, he could not help but fear for them. He hoped that Uros, at least, survived.
He slept, his dreams a confused whirl of battle, of trolkien leaping in and out of swirling grey fog to snatch at him, of arrows whizzing past his face and men screaming and dying around him, while yellow eyes glittered and winked at him from the shifting shadows.
The creak and thump of a heavy door opening intruded on his dreams, followed by loud voices, but he could not drag himself awake until a hand clamped on his shoulder, shaking him out of sleep.
He opened his eyes and looked up into the face of the man who had commanded the guard.
The man's sandy hair and beard were mostly grey, and there were three grey dots in a triangular pattern on his forehead over the bridge of his nose.
He needs to wash his face, thought Jean, still halfway between sleep and waking.
The leader spoke to him and shook him again, and Jean came fully awake at last. As the older man released his shoulder, Jean tried to sit up, succeeding on his second attempt.
The leader did not offer to help, but pulled out one of the chairs from the table and sat facing him. He said something, and when Jean merely shook his head, spoke again in German. "Are you injured?"
"Not so badly as some," Jean replied. "My ankle is the worst of it, and it is bound." He was about to ask after the welfare of the others, but the leader interrupted him.
"Who are you? What is your name?"
Jean paused, wondering how the questions were meant, and how he should answer. He knew he was too tired to think clearly, and the knowledge that in his state he might somehow doom himself or the other captives kept a little imp of fear fluttering its wings in his stomach. "My name is Jean LeFleur. I am a stranger here."
The leader snorted. "That's obvious." Then he paused before continuing in slow, careful, and very odd French. "My name be Johannus Freimann. Commander here, I am. This my Mystic, Kurt Keppler." He nodded to indicate another man, whom Jean had not noticed before, standing just inside the door.
Jean stared in puzzlement, wondering what, exactly, Freimann meant, and why he hadn't seen the man until Commander Freimann introduced him. Keppler also had three grey dots on his forehead. What was their significance? Some religious observance, perhaps?
Commander Freimann went on. "Your wounds are be cared for, and you are be given food and drink. But first you I must ask the questions."
Jean returned his attention to the commander. Aside from the fact that his grammar was incorrect and his pronunciation execrable, there was something odd about his speech, something Jean couldn't quite pin down. "But of course," he murmured in vague agreement. God in Heaven, but he was tired of being confused. "Your pardon, good sir, but where did you learn to speak my language?"
The commander's grim mouth twitched in a half-smile. "That bad, is it?" He switched to German and spoke more rapidly. "I served in a company that went to the Holy Lands with your Louis. And his queen."
His smile widened. "I remember her, and her Amazons. We saw her ride like a goddess among us, shocking the men of the desert with her bare face like an angel's and bare breasts that made you nigh forget her face. Tell me, is she still as magnificent as a summer sunrise?"
There could be only one queen to whom the man referred. Jean did not know whether to be offended at hearing a French queen spoken of in such basely familiar terms, or simply shocked because of what it implied. He wondered if this man meant to test him in some way.
But no — any foreigner could speak French badly, but no one could speak it badly and in such an archaic form at once.
"Eleanor of Aquitaine has been dust these two hundred years," he said, searching the commander's face for some sign of jest. It was undoubtedly pointless to mention that she had died the widow of Henry of England, not Louis of France.
Of far greater import was the implication that Freimann himself was from Jean's part of the world, however far removed in time. Was everyone here a castaway, like himself?
He desperately wanted to ask if the commander knew the way back, but deemed it wiser to wait until after his hosts had satisfied their own curiosity about him. After all, they were unlikely to part with such knowledge if they thought him an enemy.
Commander Freimann blinked in surprise over the death of Eleanor. "Has it been so long?" he said quietly, more to himself than to Jean.
From beside the door, Kurt Keppler spoke. "You're getting old, Johannus. We were Chosen nearly twenty summers ago, and you came through long before that."
Keppler stepped across the room to stand by the side of the aging soldier, and the two exchanged half-rueful smiles.
Keppler turned suddenly and touched Jean lightly on the shoulder. "I suggest you answer all the commander's questions truthfully and to the best of your ability," he said. "If you are honest with us, we will treat you well. We are your friends. You have nothing to fear."
Jean's head buzzed as though he had just taken a drink of strong wine, and he went limp inside with relief.
To be free of fear. What a delightful state. He believed Kurt Keppler completely. He could trust these people — they truly meant him no harm. He looked up at Kurt and smiled. "But of course. I will tell you what you wish to know, if I can."
"Were you a prisoner of those soldiers we took captive?" Kurt asked.
Jean hesitated. "I am not certain. I found them while they were engaged in fighting a band of demons — what do you call them? Trolkien. I tried to help them, but there was little I could do but help treat their wounded.
"After that, the Voivode suggested I ride with them, so I did. It seemed the wisest thing to do at the time. But he kept me under guard the entire time I was with them, and would have killed me, I think, if I had displeased him or rous
ed his suspicions."
Realizing he might have put his former comrades in a bad light, he hastened to add, "They have been at war for a long time. They were betrayed by their superiors, and then lost in the mists. Most of them died during the journey. It is understandable that they should be suspicious of a stranger."
He would have continued, but Kurt raised his hand to stop the flow of chatter, a kindly smile on his face. "It is natural that you would wish to defend them, having been through so much with them, but they have committed a great crime and we wished to be certain you had no share in it. Your behavior, your garb, and the way you were treated, indicate that you did not participate of your own will. Is this true?"
Jean closed his eyes, recalling the cold dread with which he had recognized the trap set for them all. "I am not one of them. I did not wish them to attack you, but I did not wish you to kill them, either. They have been through so much. I just wanted to stop the killing."
Johannus took over the questioning. "The man who struck you. Was he given orders to use that weapon of his?"
Jean's eyes flew open. "No, he acted without the Voivode's orders. Drogo was a surly fellow, quick-tempered and, I think, not quite right in the head. But then, he was my guard and I did not like him. I'm certain Voivode Janos did not intend that he shoot."
"Nevertheless, they used black magic to slay seventeen of my men," Johannus said sternly.
"Only four were slain with black magic," Kurt corrected him. "The others fell by normal means. They fought like tigers, your companions. Their leader alone killed three and wounded another almost past mending." The last was addressed to Jean in tones of not entirely grudging respect. Jean felt absurdly proud that the remnant of the Black Army had acquitted itself so well.
Before he could ask how many had survived, Johannus took up the questioning again. "So, you say you did not know these men before you met them in the Mists. Do you know how many of these weapons they have?"
"Six still able to be used," Jean answered promptly, remembering Steban's report to the Voivode, "and two more in need of repair. The rest were either lost during their flight into the mists or destroyed by the trolkien. And they have very little ammunition left. Perhaps none by now, after the fight with your people. The one called Steban, who was with the Voivode; if he still lives, he would know for certain."
Kurt looked at Johannus and raised an eyebrow. Johannus shook his head.
Kurt shrugged. "A pity. We will have to question them all, then."
Johannus addressed Jean again. "Did you at any time handle the weapons of black magic?"
"Do you mean the gonnes?" Jean asked. "Your pardon, but they are not magical, I assure you. They fire a ball of lead or iron by means of—"
"Stop!" Johannus was on his feet, face tight with anger, or perhaps it was fear. "You've used these things? You understand them? You have knowledge of their workings?"
A part of Jean screamed at him to deny all such knowledge, or at least to answer cautiously, but his tongue seemed to flap on of its own accord. "I do not know how to make the powder that fires the gonne, nor have I ever built a gonne, but I know how they work. At least, other versions of the same weapon. When I was in training to be a soldier, I was supposed to be drilled with a hand cannon, but I never had the chance. They are not cheap, nor easy to come by."
Again, Kurt raised a hand to silence him, exchanging a significant glance with Johannus, who still seemed shaken. They both looked at Jean for a moment.
Finally, Kurt addressed him, picking his words carefully. "So, what you are saying is that these weapons are not unusual where you came from, but that you yourself do not have mastery of their secrets."
"Yes, that is correct."
"You have no first hand knowledge of these particular weapons, the ones used by the men you were with."
"I have no such knowledge," Jean readily agreed.
Kurt paused. "Do you think you could tell others enough that they might be able to make these weapons or that which powers them?"
Jean tried to imagine what he would tell someone who asked him for the secret of the powder, or how to put a gonne together. "I remember that the formula seemed absurdly simple when I heard it. But it has been a long time. Let me think."
He paused. Charcoal, sulfur, and saltpeter…were those all the right ingredients? If one had no supplier, how did one come by them? And what proportions were needed? He flushed, angry with himself, feeling slow and stupid. "I am sorry. I'm sure I know, but I do not think I recall enough to help you. Perhaps if I were rested and given time…."
Kurt looked again at his friend. "He is innocent of actual wrongdoing, Johannus."
Johannus frowned in uncertainty. "If he knows even a little, he might pass it on to others who could build on that knowledge. It is a great risk to take."
Kurt shook his head. "No. There is a simple way."
He again touched Jean's shoulder. "I suggest you forget the secret of the powder. You were never able to find anyone who knew its manufacture; it was probably a secret, closely guarded by some guild or another. And it was all so long ago, the knowledge is unimportant in any case, and brings bad memories when you try to recall it."
Jean opened his mouth to tell Kurt that such an idea was absurd, that he had a good, well-trained memory and would be certain to recall it, given time, but found himself unable to speak.
The knowledge he had been struggling to recall seemed to drain out of his mind as through a hole in a bucket.
He tried to hold on to even the knowledge of what he'd been trying to remember, but that, too, vanished utterly. Something about the firearms the Black Army had used, like the old hand cannons but different…it was all a mystery to him.
He had never liked the things anyway, all that noise and stink. They had never seemed entirely honorable to him. They made killing far too easy, and rendered armor useless.
He shuddered. What had these men been asking him? Oh yes.
"I am sure the Voivode did not intend for his men to use those weapons. The Voivode told me, earlier, that he had no intention of attacking this place; he was aware that he and his men were in no condition to do so, even if they had wanted another fight. But Drogo was a surly fellow, quick-tempered and, I think, not quite right in the head."
"Thank you, Herr LeFleur." Kurt cast a look at the frowning Johannus that seemed to say I-told-you-so.
Johannus shrugged, and his frown faded into a grudging smile. "Very well. Heal him up, and when he is rested we will send him on his way. I will tell Klara to see to his care." He rose and pushed the chair back into place, dusting his hands.
"What of the others?" Kurt asked quietly.
Both men seemed to have forgotten Jean's presence, and he was loath to remind them. He kept his face still, hoping they would reveal their intentions toward his former comrades. He prayed that he would somehow be able to intercede if their fate proved less merciful than his.
Johannus sighed and stood in silence, staring down at nothing. His scarred fingers drummed on the leather of his sword belt. "I think this is something the Triumphant should know about; it is for their judging, not ours," he said finally. "We were told to watch for this black magic. It is now obvious that more 'gonnes' will be coming through. This time it was an entire squad. Suppose there had been more and they had all been carrying those things? Or came through one of the Gates not so well watched?" He paused, and added more quietly, "Suppose the trolkien learned of them — and how to use them?"
The two were silent for a moment, faces drawn and bleak in the wake of their imaginings. Then Johannus roused himself. "We will question them all. Of those who used the black magic, only two still live. And their leader. We will send them, and the weapons, to Yasenovo. Let the Triumphant decide what to do about it."
"Should we report on those trolkien the captain said they fought?"
Johannus snorted. "You really think th
ey could have met so many trolkien and have almost half the men survive? Even supposing twenty or thirty trolkien could be made to fight together instead of killing and eating each other? I doubt both halves of the tale. Typical soldiers' exaggerations. Not worth mentioning to the Triumphant."
"And the rest of the men? Consider how many of ours they cost us."
Johannus smiled at his friend. "Indeed. That means we need replacements, don't we? I think they would make fine recruits. We will give them that choice. I do not think they will refuse, given the alternative. If you can disarm them as you have the Frenchman, I do not foresee any difficulty."
He clapped a hand on Kurt's shoulder. "And after all, they brought us a fortune in steel. If they prove unsuitable, we can afford to hire half the bravos in Yasenovo." With a final grin, he turned and walked out.
"Monsieur Keppler…Herr Kurt." Jean's head felt muzzy, as if he were fighting a losing battle with sleep. "The one called Uros — is he still alive?"
Kurt looked down at him with surprise. "Why do you ask?"
"He was kind to me, alone of that company. And he, too, is a healer." If Kurt himself was so well respected, perhaps that meant these people put a high value on healers in general. Most civilized folk did, after all. In any case, it was the only thing Jean could think of that might help his friend
Kurt nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed. Well, the truth is, I do not know which one is your Uros. The leader survived, and twelve others, including three who were already wounded. But I do not yet know their names. If you like, I will inquire. But you will not be permitted to see or speak to him, and it is best if you forget them all. We have no reason to hold you here, and you cannot stay."
Jean nodded, the movement taking far too much effort. "Please…this land is strange to me. I cannot go without protection. At least return to me my armor, my weapons, my supplies."
"Of course," Kurt replied. "We will return your belongings to you, since you are guilty of nothing. You will be well supplied with all you need before you set forth. Now—" he reached back for the chair Johannus had used and dragging it to the side of the bed —"let's see about those wounds, shall we?"
His hands were swift and sure in their examination, but he was not always as gentle as Uros had been. Jean swallowed oaths and exclamations several times, finally biting his lip to keep silent while he watched Kurt's face for clues about his own welfare.
For the most part, Kurt frowned. "Hmmm. Your brains have been well and truly rattled, my friend. It is surprising to me that you have stayed awake and moving so long. Lumps, bumps, bruises and cracks aplenty.
"Uh-oh, your knees…I'll bet they've been less than comfortable. And these cuts are festering. I see you did not wash them out. You made a fair mess of this foot and ankle.
"Well, let's start at the top and work our way down. It will be easier if you just go to sleep…."
Jean wanted to stay awake to see what the healer did. He had so many questions to ask. But his head couldn't hold onto anything long enough to tell his mouth to speak, and he gave up and let himself drift away.