Keeper of the Black Stones (2 page)

The Earl of Oxford pushed his horse forward at the thought, the bulk of Henry Tudor's army at his back. The road here had been long, difficult, and trying, but they'd landed successfully a week earlier, in the Welsh coastal city of Milford Haven. The army's goal–and the Earl's–was simple: overthrow the current king, Richard III, and replace him with Henry Tudor. Now the Earl snorted to himself. Simple. It was an ambitious plan, and it had always been a long shot. If they were successful, they would change the course of the country, uniting the people for the first time in generations. It was an enormous task, and it was the reason the Earl was on his current path.

He straightened in his saddle and squared his shoulders. Today's battle, in Abergavenny, had absolutely nothing to do with Henry Tudor or his war. To the Earl, though, this particular mission was just as important.

He glanced at the sky and cursed quietly to himself. Today was not a day for fighting such a battle, and he would have delayed it if he could. The sky was low and dark, with harsh winds to match. Rain had been driving down since early morning, leaving the ground around them a hazardous marsh-land. They had lost several horses in the last hour as a result; animals that had gone down in the treacherous mud and been unable to rise. They'd been forced to leave the wagons behind for their own safety, and his soldiers were traveling light, with few weapons and minimal armor. He could only hope that they would find Dresden's men unprepared or similarly armed. The fighting would be messy and dangerous, with mud below and armed men above, but he had little choice; the window of opportunity opened today at sundown, and closed a heartbeat later.

The Earl crested the rise above the village and slid to an abrupt halt. The hillside below him had fallen out, a river of mud and water flowing over what should have been his path, and delaying his entry into the village. He grunted in frustration and turned to seek another way down, but found his way blocked by his lieutenant.

Trigva, son of Halvor, was a massive warrior, measuring well over 6 feet in height. He wore a steel helmet, affixed with a brass nose plate and painted with a wolf's head. The painting was appropriate; the Earl knew the Danish soldier to be both fearless and unendingly loyal. Today, the man wore nothing more than a leather jerkin and a set of chain mail. His left arm bore several silver rings–signs of his wealth, Nordic heritage, and skill on the battlefield. He was an imposing force, and the Earl's best ally. He was also the only person the Earl truly trusted in this time and place.

He did not look happy, though the Earl had never seen the man actually smile.

“I have just come from the Archbishop's camp, my Lord,” Trigva said, bowing, and raising his voice over the wind. “He is not pleased with your decision to invade the village.”

“The Archbishop may hang himself, if it please him,” the Earl growled. “This is not his army to order. I have no obligations to him.” He paused. “And I have no choice. I must control that village. And quickly.”

They turned to face the buildings below them, and the Earl sighed. The village contained fewer than thirty structures, housing around fifty families. These were farmers, uninterested in war or politics. They hadn't earned the battle that came to them, or the soldiers who had already invaded. In the center of the village, a crude stone-and-mortar tower rose roughly two and a half stories from the ground, anchoring the north end of the town's church. The remaining structures stood in a loose rectangle around the tower, using the church as a connecting point and their walls and roofs as shields. Together, the tower and homes created a small but formidable fortress. They were well defended, the Earl knew, and ready for battle.

“You're going in?” Trigva asked quietly.

“I must.”

Trigva shook his head. “Why did Lord Dresden send his troops to protect this town? It seems of little consequence.”

The Earl smiled wryly. “They are here to steal the very thing that I need,” he replied. “I must pray that we are in time to save it.”

Instead of replying, Trigva shouted out a warning and vaulted out of his saddle toward the Earl. He hit his commander in the shoulder, knocking him roughly off his horse and to the ground. As they fell, the Earl glanced up to see a volley of arrows cross the space over his saddle and fly into the forest beyond. Arrows that had been meant for him.

“It appears, my Lord, that they know of our arrival,” Trigva said drily. He groaned and pulled himself off the Earl, who grunted in response. He turned to look at the ridge line, and saw that his men were already lined up and prepared to charge.

“Very well. They leave me little choice, then.” He pulled himself back onto his horse and looked to the sky to judge the sun's location behind its dark bank of clouds. An hour before sunset, he thought; that gave them just enough time. If his calculations were right. “We must finish this quickly, my friend. There is no time to waste.”

Trigva nodded curtly, remounted, and spurred his horse toward the men on the ridge, shouting orders in both Nordic and English. The Earl galloped
after him, looking anxiously for a way down the hill below. He would leave the initial charge and fighting to the men, but would have to enter the village himself–soon–to find what he sought. To get there, he would ride directly behind the force, fighting if he must, but keeping out of harm's reach as well as he could. It was a risky proposition, but was his only chance.

He glanced again at the sky, then back down to his forces. Trigva had reached the small group of soldiers and given them their orders. The men began to move rapidly down the liquid hillside, their horses slipping to their knees when they couldn't find purchase, but regaining their feet when they could. Turning his horse, the Earl growled deeply in his throat, ducked in time to avoid another arrow, and plunged after them.

The sky opened as the men raced down the hill toward the village, their horses throwing mud and stones up in their wake. The wind was picking up, its velocity g rowing to match the intensity of the rain, until the Earl could hear little more than the storm around him. His men flowed across the ravine that surrounded the village, and thundered to the base of its outer walls. There, the defending force–forty armed men, dressed in leather, mail, and steel plate–launched their first volley of arrows. They pierced the air, their long wooden shafts armed with steel tips meant to tear through leather armor. The wind caught the arrows as they flew toward the invading force, though, sending them wide and long. The Earl, joining the fray from behind, breathed a sigh of relief at the continued safety of his men. He looked to his right for the reinforcements he knew would be coming from that direction. The men in front of him, now erecting their ladders against the wall, were merely the distraction.

On the other side of the village, a modest infantry of twenty men, with eleven more on horseback, emerged from the westward tree line. They raced without fanfare to their own side of the village. There, the wall would be left unguarded, as Dresden's men had rushed to defend against Trigva's forces on the eastern side of the wall. There, the wall–and the village beyond–would be easily invaded.

The Earl sprinted toward this second force and rode in behind them; this was where he would enter the village. The new troops threw their own ladders up against the walls of the outer buildings and began to swarm up the
rungs. The Earl looked up to the top of the buildings and allowed himself a small smile. The defenders had seen the second force, but were now dividing their own forces between the two groups of invaders, panicking at the double attack. They would never see the Earl's third attack coming, hard on the heels of the second, along the now fully unattended southern rampart.

A roar went through the Earl's men as they rallied with the third group to climb the ladders and invade the town. The man in front of the Earl threw himself from his horse and lunged up the closest ladder, his large blade free in his hand. The massive soldier swung the steel sword over the top of the wall and pulled himself past two of the rampart's defenders before they noticed his presence. He quickly cut both men down, then moved out of sight. Another man followed him, and then another. Looking along the ramparts, the Earl could see that the enemy was failing. Quickly. He jumped from his horse and made his own way up one of the ladders, anxious to fight for himself.

As he stepped forward, though, the defenders unleashed their hidden weapon. Several loud thunderclaps sounded from the village, followed by a cloud of black smoke. No fewer than six of the Earl's men went down under the barrage of lead bullets, falling from the ramparts to the cold mud below. The other men froze and dropped to their bellies. This wasn't the first time they'd encountered this weapon. The men of this period called it the Devil's Flame. They couldn't comprehend the mechanics or technology behind it, but they'd seen the results.

The Earl knew it to be nothing more than simple gunfire. He knew also that it should not exist–and had not existed–in this time period. The fact that Richard's men had this weapon was Dresden's work. This was part of the Earl's personal battle against the man, and was a source of some worry. It was not, however, the reason for today's battle. And it would not stop the Earl of Oxford's men.

Within seconds his men had recovered their poise, and several new soldiers replaced their fallen comrades. The defenders had only a handful of the modern weapons at their disposal, with only one or two men knowledgeable enough to use them, and the Earl's men far outnumbered the defending force. No further gunfire erupted, and within twenty minutes the battle was finished.

The Earl strode quickly toward the edge of the wall, anxious to get inside and find the artifact he sought. When he dropped to the ground, he found Trigva waiting for him.

“What's the butcher's bill?” he asked his lieutenant quietly.

“Seven dead, five wounded, two seriously, my Lord.”

The Earl closed his eyes briefly in regret. “How badly?” he asked.

“Two will not make it through the night, my Lord.”

The Earl nodded. He had never accepted this particular aspect of his role–the knowledge that his decisions and actions meant both life and death to so many people. His only justification was the mission, which was more important than any single human life. More important even than his own, though his continued survival was necessary, for now. He sighed and stood a bit straighter. This was not the time for fears or regrets. Besides, a show of compassion was too easily seen as weakness in this day and age.

“Has your brother found it yet?” he asked tersely, looking around the village.

Trigva had expected the Earl's question, and shook his head. “Not yet, my Lord. But I have all of our men searching for it.”

“Very well. Tell them to make haste, and take me to the wounded.”

Five men lay on their backs next to a well in the center of the village courtyard. Two of them had flesh wounds on their arms, and one had taken an arrow to his leg. These three would survive, unless infection set in. Two men, however, had taken bullets to the chest and abdomen. These were undeniable death sentences. One of the men was unconscious. The other was alert, and very much aware of his impending fate.

The Earl knelt down beside the conscious man and took his hand. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked softly. This was not standard behavior from a lord, but his was a heart that sought to share itself with others. He would not pass a wounded or dying man without at least one kind word.

The man smiled, genuinely pleased with the offer. “Watch over my wife and children, my Lord. Do not let them suffer, or forget me.”

“They will be well cared for. I give you my word. Rest now, my boy.” The old warrior rose and motioned for one of his priests to kneel in his place and administer last rights. He stood watching for a moment, then turned at a shout behind him.

“My Lord!”

“What is it?” the Earl asked. One of his men approached him, holding a dark object in his hands.

“I found it on one of the defenders, my Lord. It is the Devil's Flame!” The soldier held the object out apprehensively, as though it might explode at any moment.

The Earl accepted the heavy object, and glanced quickly at it. It was a gun, roughly 14 inches long, and crafted out of wood and iron. The weapon was crude by any stretch of the imagination, with limited efficiency and range. These pistols existed in the fifteenth century, and the weapon itself was no cause for concern. The object inside the gun, though, touched off an icy knot of fear in the Earl's stomach. The old soldier reached into the barrel and extracted a small metallic object, no larger than his smallest finger. Crude guns–nothing more than small cannons–were common. This single metallic cartridge, which was a self-contained firing chamber, was not. How had Dresden done so much with so little, and so quickly? The Earl swallowed heavily, then jumped at another shout from one of his men.

“My Lord, please come quickly!” the man shouted. He stood near the church, motioning to his leader.

“The stone?” he asked sharply.

At the soldier's nod, the Earl exhaled softly. They had found it, then. But was it in one piece? And was there time? Glancing at the sky, he saw that the glow behind the clouds had moved toward the horizon more quickly than he'd realized. Some rapid calculations gave him an estimate of ten to fifteen minutes before his window of opportunity opened; enough time to get to the stone and prepare. If it was still whole, and functioning. He dropped the bullet in his pocket and strode quickly toward the church, Trigva following closely behind.

“Take me to it,” he ordered.