Beasts of the Seventh Crusade (The Crusades Book 4) (7 page)

"I said the beast's weakness might be up in that cave."

Raul sat down and Artois put his arm around his father's shoulder. It was a simple gesture of affection, one that a sweet mother might give her son on learning that his dog had run away. At times like this, Francois envied the close relationship that his father and brother had; the time they had spent one-on-one had given them some imperceptible understanding of each other's emotions. With the sky dark and the world quiet, Francois longed for the comfort of a strong woman. His mom would be nice to see, but Olivia from Troyes really made his blood flow.

"An avalanche," Francois suddenly said.

"What?" Artois asked.

"We climb the mountain and go above the dragon's cave. There are rocks there, surely, because the beast has upset the whole mountain with its presence. We could cause an avalanche, maybe, and trap the dragon in its cave."

"Until the beast senses what is happening and comes out to finish us off," Raul retorted.

"Have either of you a better plan? Perhaps we could pile brush at the mouth of the cave and start a fire, but this beast doesn't strike me as fearful of flames. Spears and axes won't pierce its hide, even if you're lucky enough to strike it without being eaten. An avalanche could work . . . "

"Sounds better than sitting here all night," Artois said, rising and stretching. In Artois' mind, Francois was the favored son. Francois was insightful, creative, and polite—qualities that Artois had never considered vital until his little brother came along. Now, Artois' strength was his distinguishing virtue, and he embraced that virtue as a poor man might embrace a gold coin.

Raul didn't agree with the avalanche proposition, but it was truly the best idea they had. The trio left the quarry and circled the base of the mountain, always keeping an eye on the cave, set high above them. It was like a black eye, closed for now but ready to snap open at any moment, emitting agony and death. The north side was a gentler slope, with hard-scrabble brush that provided purchase in the slippery sand, and heavy boulders that might provide cover from the dragon, should it appear.

As they climbed, the first rays of light became visible in the east, revealing the countryside for hundreds of miles. The trees were thick for miles and miles, but there was emptiness beyond them to the south, where Francois suspected the forest ended and the dreadful, open plains of Poitiers and Toulouse began.
That is the real fight,
he thought.

By the time they reached the summit, the sun was a half-crescent on the horizon, calling the well-rested to leave their beds and toil for another day. The top of the mountain was a circular area, with rocks of all sizes and a few small junipers. The size of the area was as big as their cottage back in Troyes, and Francois urgently tried to calculate how they would seal the dragon in the cave.

"Pile up every rock you can find here," he instructed Artois and Raul. "Don't put all the heavy stones on bottom, mix them up. This is going to be top-heavy, so when we have enough, we can tip it over. The dragon's cave is fifty feet beneath us, so hopefully the stones we tumble will catch others on the way down."

Artois and Raul began working, not balking once at being ordered around by the softer, younger man. While they piled stones, Francois took a path down the side of the mountain, and then he turned on the slope, going toward the dreaded cave. As he neared the awning, the sulphurous stench became almost unbearable, and his eyes watered and he dizzied. The dragon's breath was deep and rhythmic, suggesting it was still asleep.
That was a large meal that it had,
Francois thought,
The beast may very well sleep for days on end.

There was no easy way for a man to enter the cave. Any protruding rocks to grab, or toeholds, were smoothed down completely. Francois wondered if that was intentionally done by the dragon, using heat to sequester its resting place. When Francois had gotten as close as he could, he looked straight up, delighted to see hundreds of large and small stones above the cave entrance. With sufficient encouragement, those could be knocked loose and the dragon would be buried forever. It was with a bit of regret that he realized his plan might actually work; the dragon was a majestic thing, terrible and wonderful in its own way.

When Francois made it back to his father and brother, they were resting, taking in the view that the summit afforded.

"It can be done," he said.

Their weapons were stones, gravity, and luck. The pile that Raul and Artois erected was considerable, towering over their heads. It was thin at the base, and it widened in the middle before narrowing at the top. In the heart of it was one stone of solid black, set at an awkward angle to the stones around it, as if it was a lever for discharging them from their tentative suspension.

"Father, will you do the honors?" Artois asked. Raul nodded grimly. He was not a cruel man, dispossessed of a conscience and eagerly self-serving. He had worked hard his entire life, enduring utter poverty and earning his survival. His precious dogs had been his investment for later life, eager workers who were loyal to a fault, manageable to an infinitesimal margin. With a crack of his scarred, hairy knuckles, Raul went to the black stone.

He bent his knees and leaned into the rock. Raul closed his eyes and pushed, his arms shaking and lips pursed. Nothing moved and Artois took a half-step toward his father.

"No," Raul said, through gritted teeth. He redoubled his effort, exhaling hard and pushing with all his strength, the veins in his arms leaping to the surface. A deep, creaking groan came from beyond the black stone. It was inside the pile, some living momentum that wanted to throw the stones from the cliff, to succumb to gravity's eternal pull. The groan became louder, angrier, and then the rocks were falling.

The black stone left Raul's fingertips first, and then the stones above it were tumbling. Everything fell in less than a heartbeat, though the image of the avalanche would be seared in their minds forever. The sound was deafening and Francois looked to his father, whose eyes were still clouded with grief. This moment would not assuage his angst, but it was a start.

The dragon's shriek was louder than the rocks coming down around it. In an explosion of boulders and pebbles, the dragon surged out of the cave, flying into the sky and looking back at its home. The Coquets hearts' collectively dropped into their stomachs. Their plan had failed, and if the dragon detected them, their lives were forfeited.

Francois noticed the dragon's injuries first. One wing was flapping strong while the other was weakly quaking, trying to correct the dragon's sudden asymmetry. The hurt wing was splashed with a black, tar-like substance that Francois could only guess was the beast's blood. The black blood was also on the head and neck, and the dragon roared again, not understanding what had happened.

"That will teach the bastard," Artois whispered, nudging Francois in the ribs.

"Hold your tongue," Raul said. His words were unnecessary, though, because the dragon smelled the men's breaths when they spoke, and it flew to the mountaintop, perching on a rock like a vulture on top of a dead tree, ominous and mad.

Knowing there was no escape, Francois stepped into the open, holding his hands out wide and trying to make eye contact with the dragon. It was his first good look at the beast's face, and its eyes were more intelligent than he had realized, regarding him with something akin to disappointment.

The dragon leaped into the sky again, its hurt wing flapping furiously, taking it to greater elevations. It kept going, disappearing into the clouds, the distant sound of its wings fading, and after another moment, gone.

"We're alive," Artois said, rising from his hiding spot. "We're alive, Francois, you crazy bastard! Ha! We did it!"

"Where do you suppose it's going?" Raul asked, his voice humble, like he was given another chance at life, a chance he didn't think he deserved.

"To find a new home? Like any other creature, the dragon needs shelter and food. That's all it wanted in this place; a way to survive."

"It was terrorizing that hill village," Artois said. "Do we not kill a mouse if it is in the kitchens? The dragon was our enemy, though that doesn't make it evil."

"True words, my brother. Think about it, that may have been the last dragon in the world, and we may be the last humans to ever see one," Francois said.

"No one will believe us."

"We know the truth."

The sun was in full glare as they walked back to the hill village. The woods felt less threatening, the air cleaner, with the departure of the dragon. Though the price for the hill village's safety was high, their beloved hounds, the men were content. They still had a great journey to embark on, and they walked in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.

The sorcier was on the path, at least two miles before they reached the village proper. He was cloaked in a blue robe that cast his face in shadows, and his white hair hung around his neck, like a protective twine for his vital places. Like Francois had suspected earlier, the sorcier was not elderly, and his posture was straight and steady. "The dragon is gone," he said.

"It is," Raul confirmed.

"I owe you a debt of gratitude, and beyond that, a telling of the future. Regardless of your request, I am obligated to tell you that the future does not always hold what one desires, and the things you learn may be products of your foulest nightmares. The knowledge you seek has no loyalty to your heart, it simply is what it is."

"I understand."

"Then follow me." The sorcier stepped off the path and directly onto a bush, as if he had night blindness. He didn't hesitate, though, but instead kept walking, increasing his pace, striding over the flora and around the trees like they weren't there. The trio of men carefully walked around the bush, and they fixed their gazes on the sorcier' back, like a beacon to take them through the woods. The sorcier began to run, and the men kept pace with him, taking deep breaths in the fading light of the woods.

They reached a stream and turned south, the sorcier giving no indication that he was tired or lost. He never looked back to see if the Coquets were there and a fleeting thought that the sorcier was a fraud, seeking a way to escape his debt, crossed Raul's mind. The stream ended and the sorcier ascended a hill, increasing his speed yet again.

The top of the hill revealed a field of endless wheat and rye. The center of the field was dominated by an oak tree, taller than any tree they had ever seen. The sorcier took them to the tree, and Raul marveled at its trunk, which would be too wide for the four men to encircle with their arms and reach one another. The tree's bark looked crystallized, like it was in a permanent frost that protected it from time and weather. The sorcier sat at the base of the tree, gazing at the men calmly. He was not even breathing hard, and his face revealed no fatigue. The sky was bright, although Raul couldn't locate the sun in the sky, or even its general direction.

"Where are we?" Artois demanded. Like his father and brother, they felt the enchanted, dreamlike quality of the field with the oak tree.

"You will never return here, unless you learn the ways of the woods, which you won't. Do not worry, you are safe from physical harm," the sorcier said. He stood up sharply and brandished a staff with a convex, silvery sphere on the end. The sorcier tapped the staff on the ground, and when nothing happened, tapped a spot a few inches to the left. Nothing happened.

"It's here, it is . . ." he said, tapping another spot. The sound of the tapping changed, becoming a deep, solid thud. The ground erupted, spewing up one of the oak tree's roots, rising from the ground and stretching for miles. The root was perhaps five feet tall, creating an unbroken wall that halved the empty field. "Yes, this is the correct one," the sorcier said.

"What is this sorcery?" Raul asked, unable to take his eyes from the enchanted root.

"This tree is your life, past and present, as they are simultaneous. This root represents the information, the future, which you wish to understand. Place your hands on the root, and the tree will do the rest."

Francois, Artois, and Raul looked at one another. This was unreal, illusory.

"Can I do it?" Artois asked.

"No, this is your father's tree, his life. If you want to touch the root, you need your father's permission."

Francois and Artois glanced at Raul, who nodded his assent.

With his heart pounding in his chest, Francois slowly reached out and touched the root. A charge of electricity coursed through his fingers, warming his arm and radiating up to his shoulder. His heart slowed and his knee, which had ached during the long night run, felt better. His mind became calmer and clearer, and he smiled. "That feels good."

Artois reached out and grabbed the root with both hands, gripping it tightly. The same warm, caring energy flowed over his body, taking his aches and pains. His hands, dry and battered after hauling and stacking stones earlier, became soft and fresh. His headache disappeared as well, and he felt inexplicably optimistic about the future.

"This tree is your father's life, his vitality. He loves you both and would give of himself to see you live well. Do not hold the root for too long, or you will steal away your father's breath. Look, even now he is wearied," the sorcier said.

Raul had to sit down, his knees becoming weak and breaths coming in short, urgent gulps. A few tears streamed down his face, and Francois felt guilty, as if he had robbed away his father's youth with a single grasp of the enchanted root. Artois, too, hung his head low.

"My turn," Raul said.

Dust and ash choked the sky. Everything was red and the sounds of thousands of men fighting were all around Raul. The noise was muffled, as if Raul was underwater, watching the scene unfold but not a part of its dimension. Two men, locked in mortal combat, stumbled into Raul, and one went through him. He saw the heart, lungs, and liver for a second before the combatants kept tumbling, landing on the ground in an awkward sprawl. With a throaty roar of victory, the bigger man plunged his sword through the other's chest, pinning him to the ground. The big man was Artois, his eyes bright.