Dragon Tree (3 page)

~~

A half mile to
the west, a young squire shielded his eyes against the glare of the
sunrise and pointed. “My lord... over there.”

The knight he
served followed the direction indicated to the treetops where a
rolling spiral of black smoke rose above the greenwood. There was a
village beneath that smoke, a small vill that he was aware existed
in the heart of the forest but had never felt the need or curiosity
to visit.

One of the
other lackeys suggested, “A fire in the woods, perhaps?”

The knight
studied the smoke through narrowed green eyes and sniffed the air.
The smoke was tinged with a familiar scent, one that was not easily
forgotten despite the years that had gone by since he had last
tasted the acridness at the back of his throat. He knew
instinctively that it was no ordinary forest fire and his
misgivings were confirmed as yet another of the woodsmen came
running out of the thicket, winded and sweating.

“My lord
Tamberlane...! The village is under attack. A dozen men, maybe
more. Four knights in command with keen-eyed bowmen to do their ill
work.” He stopped, out of breath and words, and behind him three
other yeomen dropped the stag they were carrying between them, and
instantly unslung bows from their shoulders. The squire, Roland,
spurred his horse closer to that of his lord and frowned.

“Why would
knights be attacking a poor village, my lord?”

Tamberlane
started to shake his head, but stopped when the faint sound of
screams reached them through the lifting mist. Even at a distance,
the cries were full of terror and fear, a sound that haunted his
dreams nearly every night for the past three years. Beside him,
Roland instinctively drew his sword. The lad was seventeen, still
young enough and eager enough to be ignorant of his own mortality
and Tamberlane supposed it would do no good to point out the fact
that they were at a weighty disadvantage against armed knights. The
yeomen were armed with falchions and hunting bows, with a handful
of slender ashwood arrows between them, and while the young squire
was on the cusp of full manhood, approaching his year of majority,
he had not gained much fighting experience in the two years he had
been serving Tamberlane. Moreover, they were all dressed for
hunting, with nothing to protect them other than soft leather
jerkins and doeskin leggings.

"My lord?"

Tamberlane
sighed inwardly and nodded. Armor of another sort rippled along his
arms and bulged across his chest as he adjusted his swordbelt and
withdrew his own bow from the sling that hung across the saddle
horn. It was a Welsh weapon, a longbow fashioned from yew, capable
of flinging arrows two hundred yards with enough accuracy and
weight to pierce chain mail. Having only recently given in to his
curiosity over the unknightly weapon, his proficiency left a great
deal to be desired, but he could hit a tree trunk at fifty paces if
it was wide enough... and if the tree did not jump out of the way,
as they seemed wont to do.

Disdaining the
eagerness in Roland’s eyes, he spurred his destrier in the
direction of the columns of smoke. As chance would have it, he had
chosen to ride his piebald that morning to give the beast exercise,
and he could feel the excitement rippling through the warhorse’s
powerful flanks as they cut through the ferns and saplings.
Similarly, the two wolfhounds that were Tamberlane’s constant
companions, responded to a softly whistled command and streaked
cleanly and silently between the trees, leading the way straight
and true to the small hamlet.

Within
minutes, Tamberlane and Roland had ridden close enough to the
village for them to draw a reign for caution, slowing their
approach, waiting for the rest of the woodsmen to run up and fan
out behind them.

After a brief,
muffled conferment, they split into two groups. Tamberlane took the
wolfhounds—Maude and Hugo—and circled to the east, while Roland led
the five foresters around to the west. The screams had ended, but
there was shouting now and the occasional robust laugh to indicate
that the victors were celebrating their success. They were arrogant
in their triumph, for there were no sentries left to guard their
backs. Roland was easily able to creep to the edge of the forest
without being seen.

He deployed
the huntsmen and waited until each had taken cover behind the stout
trunk of a tree. From his own position he could see the charred
ribs of the cottages, the smoke thinning now as most of the huts
fell to ruin. He could also see the men-at-arms starting to move
amongst the dead and dying, kicking bodies onto their backs,
searching for signs of life, cutting into still-warm flesh to
retrieve the valuable iron tips of their arrows.

The squire
waited an impatient three minutes. He raked a hand through the
golden waves of his hair and glanced repeatedly at the far side of
the clearing, expecting his overlord to thunder out at any
moment.

“Roland! Look
there!”

One of the
foresters stabbed a finger in the direction of the burned huts. Two
of the soldiers had found a young girl who was still alive, and
without paying heed to her cries for mercy, dragged her into the
clearing and threw her down onto the ground. While one knelt down
to hold a knife against her throat, the other started to unbuckle
his belt and lower his leggings.

Roland drew
two arrows from his quiver. With one clenched between his teeth, he
stepped out from behind the tree, raised his bow, and struck the
first attacker down with a clean shot to the heart. The second was
dead before knowing the cause for his comrade’s shocked cry.

Just as death
had come swift and unseen to the villagers, it streaked out of the
forest now and took the raiders unawares. Most were caught out in
the open and after the first flush of arrows found their marks,
they scattered in confusion. The three knights at the edge of the
clearing drew their swords and lowered their visors but by then
they too had become targets and one screamed as an arrow caught him
high on the thickest meat of the thigh.

On the far
side of the village, Tamberlane cursed when he realized Roland had
not waited, but had launched his arrows already. Ciaran had
followed the riverbank, intending to circle around the village and
attack from the far side, but his progress had been halted by the
sight of one of the knights dismounted and standing over the body
of a young peasant girl. It was obvious he had chased her to ground
after she fled the village. It was equally obvious that he was not
content to merely finish his work quickly and return to the others,
for his sword was drawn and he had used the point to ruck the
maid’s skirts above her waist. Where the steel had touched her skin
with ungentle purpose, it had scored bright red lines of blood to
mark its path.

At the sound
of shouts and more fighting, the knight had given pause, his blade
poised over the cleft between the maid’s thighs.

He had not yet
seen Tamberlane, though that was about to change as an arrow cut
swiftly across his path and thudded into the soft earth of the
embankment.

Swearing at
his own ineptness, Tamberlane nocked a second arrow and drew the
fletching back to his cheek. The two fingers that were curled
around the rosined string snapped free and sent the arrow
shooshing
across the fifty feet that separated him from the
startled knight who was now twisting around, searching for his
unseen foe. The knave’s chest was surely as broad as any thousand
year old tree trunk, but the shadows were distorting and the
inexperience in Tamberlane’s hand made his aim unfaithful yet
again. The arrowhead missed the rightful target by a foot or more,
but in doing so, struck the knight’s left arm at the narrowest part
of the wrist. The iron head shattered the bones, tearing through
the tendons and tissue in a bloody red spray.

Tamberlane
dropped the bow and drew his sword. He held the blade upright
before him, barely aware of paying homage to old habits as he
mouthed a single word and spurred his horse forward.

It was over on
the first pass. Tamberlane’s blade swept down in a lethal flash of
steel, catching the knight high on the chest where the links of his
camail joined the lower edge of his helm. The knight spun away, his
neck split open, his body falling with a heavy splash into the
muddy river bed.

Tamberlane
reined his horse to a halt and wheeled about. When he saw that
another rout was not required, he trotted slowly back to the
embankment, his sword still held at the ready.

The knight was
dead, the clear water of the stream carried away a wide ribbon of
red blood spouting from his throat. The girl’s condition was not so
certain, but Tamberlane had no time to check. Maude and Hugo,
responding to a shrill whistle, were told to ‘stay’ and to ‘guard’
while he urged his horse up the bank and rode hard toward the
clearing.

Roland had
managed to drive the attackers back toward the verge of the woods
but when they saw that their adversary was a mere squire in
hunter's green, they had formed up in a solid line and armed their
bows again. Two of the unwounded knights even managed a laugh,
although that sound faded too as Tamberlane’s enormous destrier
came thundering out of the greenwood behind them.

Once again the
line of marauders scattered, half of them casting their cumbersome
crossbows aside in their haste to avoid the churning hooves.
Several who stood their ground paid dearly for their stubbornness.
One of the knights sallied forth, his visor dropped in place, his
shield and sword raised in readiness. When the distance between
Tamberlane and the knight closed, they both swung their blades in a
vicious swath, the combined force of their blows ringing out with
the strength of a church bell. Steel scraped along steel before the
momentum of their horses tore them apart, but without the
cumbersome bulk of armor to hinder his balance, Tamberlane was
first to swing around and spur his steed into another pass.

This time his
blade struck heavy armor across the chest, denting the mail and
banging the knight’s air out of his lungs on a harsh grunt. The
links did not give and Tamberlane had to recover quickly to block a
counterthrust that would find nothing but linsey-woolsey and flesh
to resist the blow.

Roland charged
valiantly forward to defend his lord’s back, but the second knight
made no chivalrous distinction between squire and master. He bore
in for the kill, his sword aiming to cut Roland from the saddle—an
effort that would have succeeded but for the twin ashwood arrows
that flew through the air and thudded into his body like cleavers
striking meat, one taking him under the arm, the other piercing
cleanly through the throat.

The two
archers, aptly named Quill and Fletcher, took a moment to
congratulate each other’s aim while the third knight, his thigh
pinned to the saddle by an arrow, saw how the tide had turned and
screamed for the remnants of the raiding party to retreat into the
woods. He led the flight, kicking his horse into a full gallop that
soon swallowed him into the trees and shadows.

Tamberlane,
meanwhile, was still locked in mortal combat, slashing and hacking
at an opponent who was not lacking in either courage or fortitude.
He fought, in fact, like a man accustomed to killing and because
Tamberlane's most recent battles had been against straw men with
pumpkins for heads, his reflexes were not as sharp as they once
were. The dullness cost him a deep slash along his forearm and
forced him to grip his sword in both hands in order to block the
knight's deadly blows.

Tamberlane
drew on every ounce of strength he possessed. Blow after blow set
his opponent on the defense, and after more attempts than Ciaran
cared to count, his blade found an opening. The strike caught the
knight under the left ear and even though the steel-pot helm was
shielding the point of contact, the sheer fury behind the blow
caused the knight’s neck to snap violently from the spine. Horse
and rider spun for a turn, the latter slumping forward with all
substance suddenly drained from arms and legs. He reeled to one
side and if not for a spur hooking in the stirrup, the weight of
his body armor would have carried him straight to the ground. As it
was, it kept him canted at an odd angle as his horse galloped away
into the woods.

Tamberlane
stared, his brow gleaming with sweat, his chest heaving from the
exertion.

He squeezed
his eyes shut and heard a great roaring in his ears.

It was the
roaring of a thousand voices, the screams shrill with religious
fervor
.
The sun was beating down, the heat was rising in waves off the
desert sand. The steel of his sword was so hot the blood bubbled
and sizzled along its length and the palms of his hands were
scorched raw.

“Are you all
right, my lord?” Roland rode up beside him. “Have you been struck?
Are you injured?”

Tamberlane
gasped and blinked his eyes open. The desert vision faded along
with the shivering echoes of the screams and he wiped a hand across
his brow, damning the oily wetness he found there. There was blood
on his sleeve where the knight’s blade had slashed him, but the cut
was a trifling thing, scarcely worthy of the concern on his
squire’s face.

“No. No, I
have not been mortally struck. And you?”

“I... I think
I have broken a finger, but I give thanks to God that it was not my
sword hand.”

Tamberlane
looked grimly around the clearing, sincerely doubting God had been
present that day. There were thirty, perhaps as many as forty
bodies strewn amidst the smoldering wreckage of the village, many
of them women and children.

“Who do you
suppose they were, my lord? Why did they do this?”