Nostrum (The Scourge, Book 2) (20 page)

“We will pay you if you can repeat the sacred words,” Tristan says. “Simon sows seeds sinfully in the summer sun.”

“Stop it, Tristan,” I say. “What is the price we must pay, woman?”

She leans forward and glances toward the door before speaking.

“Thlay the dragon, mighty knigth. Thlay the Dragon of Bure.”

Chapter 28

“Father Ralf says the dragon cannot be killed,” I say.

“Then you will never find the thimpleton,” she replies.

I study the old woman. She smiles, but there is no humor in her eyes. There is only desperation.

“Why do you want the dragon killed?” I ask. “I thought it protected Bure.”

She shakes her head. “The dragon protecth Father Ralf and the men of the village. It doeth nothing for the women.”

“So you represent the women of the village?” I say.

“I reprethent Sara,” she replies. “Thee is my granddaughter.”

 “I see. And Sara is to be sacrificed tomorrow.”

“No,” she says. “Thee will not be. Becauthe you will kill the dragon today.”

The rain will render our cannons unreliable, so we leave them with Belisencia and run whetstones over the burrs in our blades. We secure the worn leather straps of our armor, don our helmets, and we stride out of the church into a gray world. It is late afternoon but the thick clouds overhead and the ceaseless, hazy drizzle turn day into evening. The cooling temperatures have wreathed the Stour in a thick, coiling mist that cloaks the water.

How many times have Tristan and I marched out to battle like this? The sounds are as familiar to me as the song of the thrush or the feel of the wind on the downs: plates clanking, weighted footsteps on soft earth, breath echoing in helms. I look to Tristan and put my hand on the hilt of my sword. He nods and we draw our blades together.

We have killed Frenchmen, Tristan and I. We have defeated Italians, Spaniards, and Scots. Fought bears and witches, man-eating dogs and angry bulls. We have vanquished whatever enemies this world has sent at us and enjoyed the earthly prizes that came with the victories. But today is different. Today’s foe is not of this world. Today we fight hell’s champion, and Elizabeth is the prize.

A blond-haired boy of eight or nine plays in the rain, throwing rocks at a small wooden boat in a large puddle. His wide eyes study us, from our mailed boots to our steel helms. I nod to him. He stands and reaches a hand out to touch our armor as we pass. I take off my gauntlet, dig into a purse, and toss him a handful of pennies. The boy picks them up and hurls them toward the ship and into the puddle. Not even children will take coins anymore.

We follow the smoldering Stour into the forest. Push through reed and sedge, our mailed boots sinking deep in the waterlogged soil. I hear a second rush of the river in my helmet, like the ocean in a shell. I glance into the misty Stour but see only white nothingness. It is like staring into oblivion. As if the world simply ceases in that channel.

“If the dragon is in there,” Tristan says, “I don’t think we will find it.”

“Let’s hope it finds us, then.” I did not consider the possibility of not finding the beast. I wonder if Saint George had to search for his wyrm.

“Edward,” Tristan says. “I don’t want the dragon to find us first. If it finds us before we find it, we will spend eternity in steaming wyrm dung.”

 “Then stop talking and search.” I pick up a branch from the forest floor and push my way through oak leaves to the river’s edge. The branch is taller than I am, and when I dip it into the river I cannot touch the bottom. “It’s deep here,” I say. “Don’t fall in.”

I push through a scatter of purple harrow, the thorns clawing at my mail like skeletal fingers. It is even darker in the forest. Rain trickling through the leaves mimics footsteps in every direction. At least I hope it is the rain making those sounds. The mist makes it impossible to be sure. Something dark moves by the riverbank. I jump backward, my armor clattering against Tristan’s.

“What?” Tristan shouts, breath coming in ragged blasts through his helm, like some great guttering furnace.

The darkness coils and slips past me into the river, which lies a few paces to our right. A water snake.

“Wrong sort of wyrm,” I say.

“I propose a new rule,” Tristan says. “No jumping unless you are certain you see the dragon.”

“You can go first if you want,” I say.

“Proceed, Sir Edward.”

I proceed.

Dragons have lurked in England for centuries, although I cannot recall hearing of one that lived in my lifetime. The tales of knights slaying these monsters are always ancient ones. Saint George is the most famous of these knights. It is said he slew several dragons in England, including the one at Withermundsford. Lancelot, a knight who lived in the time of a king named Arthur, slew one too. And there are others. Each territory of England has half-forgotten stories of local knights fighting local dragons. And other countries apparently have them too. I knew an old knight named Ethelbert whose grandfather used to tell stories about the Crusades. Apparently, there were dragons in the Muslim lands. “But they didn’t call them dragons,” Ethelbert said. “They called them aw-teen.” There may well have been aw-teen in the arab lands, but I have not heard of any famous Muslim dragon slayers.

“Who was the last knight to kill a dragon?” I ask Tristan.

He chops at a bramble with his sword and shrugs. “Saint Gilbert, I think.”

“He was a Scotsman, wasn’t he?”

“Aye, Sirrr,” Tristan says in a brogue. “Kilt the dragon Dubh Giuthais, he did. Said the words, ‘Pity of you, dragon,’ and fired an arrow into its heart.”

 “But Gilbert killed his beast a hundred years ago at least, didn’t he?”

Tristan nods. “We could be the only dragon slayers of our time.”

“We have to kill the dragon to become dragon slayers, Tristan.”

We push through ever-thickening brush. Water trickles into my helmet through the eye slits and air holes, spatters my face. I stumble over fallen, half-buried branches and push through thick patches of bur reed and saxifrage. I worry that we will not find the creature. What happens then? Will we waste days searching for the simpleton? What if he is not in the village? How long will it take to find him? I wonder how Elizabeth is doing and pray her body is holding up better than Morgan’s.

“Edward,” Tristan says. “Did you see the dragon’s eyes when we fought it in the river?”

“No, Tristan,” I say. “I was distracted by the massive teeth that nearly took my arm off.”

“I saw them,” he says. “They were yellow.”

“Very good,” I say. “Maybe you can paint a picture when we get home.”

“Edward,” he says. “They were yellow.”

“I heard you, Tris…” I stop walking and look back at him.

He nods. “Yellow.”

“The priest said the dragon eats plaguers.”

“And yet its eyes are yellow.”

“Maybe the priest lied,” I say. “Maybe it doesn’t eat plaguers.”

Tristan shrugs. “Then where are the afflicted? We haven’t seen any in the village. Not one.”

I stare back toward Bure and wonder. “That’s quite a mystery, Tristan.”

“It quite is, isn’t it?”

We continue walking. I am tired already. The festering wound still drains me of strength. When we are about fifty paces into the forest, something moves in the mist. I crouch and hear Tristan doing the same behind me. My helm makes it difficult to see, but I do not want to remove it. If the dragon breathes fire, it is the only thing that might save me. I look into the mist. It is no snake this time.

I put a finger to my helm at the place where my lips would be and turn toward Tristan, point to the dark shape. Tristan’s helmet bobs up and down. He sees it. I tap him with my hand, then motion with my finger that he should loop around in front of it. Then I tap my chest and motion that I will circle behind it. His helmet shakes side to side. He taps me and motions that I should go in front of it and he behind. I sigh.

The shape moves closer. Slowly, so slowly. I do not think it has spotted us. Despite the danger, I allow myself a smile.

We found the dragon before it found us.

I stay crouched and creep toward the front of the monster. I wish I had a shield. I do not know how many times I have wished that on this quest. Knights do not use shields anymore. They are unwieldy on horseback and our armor is so strong these days that we do not need the extra protection. Not using shields also allows us the use of two-handed weapons. Tristan would laugh if he saw me with a shield, but if dragons are returning to the world, then I think shields should, too.

Tristan creeps forward and loops toward the dragon’s flank. We are only a few paces from the Stour, which worries me. It would not be wise to pin ourselves between a dragon and the deep river if things go badly. But if things go badly, then Elizabeth will die. I shake my head. There will be no retreat.

The shape makes a sharp movement, then freezes. Has it heard us? I sit unmoving, breath held. We need to take the beast by surprise. It does not move. I think it knows we are near. We should strike before it finds us. I take a long breath, count to three, and charge.

My war cry is “Elizabeth.” I shout it with all my strength and storm toward the dark shape, knowing, as I approach, that it is far too tall to be the dragon. Far too lanky and frail. My war cry echoes flatly in the forest.

The deer plants on its front legs, then leaps to one side and bounds away from me. But Tristan charges from its flank, his war cry of “Hallelujah!” echoing as well. The doe shifts to one side, crouches, then leaps effortlessly over Tristan’s hunched form. She lands behind him and vanishes into the mist.

Tristan laughs and turns to me. “Did you see that? Did you see it Edward? She jumped right over me!”

More deer silhouettes appear behind Tristan. I open my mouth to tell him that more deer may jump over him, but they are not deer.

“Tristan!” I slog through lady fern and old leaves, raising my sword high. “Tristan!”

He turns and nearly falls backward from the surprise. Plaguers. At least a dozen of them. And the mist gives birth to more and more of them as I watch.

“To me!” I shout. “To me!”

But Tristan is already backing toward the river. Fool. He will be pinned between river and plague. I run to his side.

“The other way! Back toward the village!”

But I realize why he backed toward the river. There are plaguers behind me too. The afflicted approach in a half circle of snarling death. The mist leeches them of details. They are rotting silhouettes that claw at us, their footsteps like an exhausted army on the march.

Tristan and I stand shoulder to shoulder. One of the plaguers trips in the brush and falls at our feet. I drive Saint Giles’s blade through his back, pinning him to the earth. Tristan thrusts over and over again into the back of the man’s neck until the head is severed.

Two more approach. I hack through the leg of another man, nearly severing the limb. He topples to the ground. Tristan frees a woman’s entrails. When she doubles over in pain, he shatters her skull with a two-handed rising cut. My plaguer crawls toward me and I smash his skull with my boot, knowing I will remember the slow crackling sound for the rest of my days.

Three bodies. A good start.

But many more approach. I think back to a night on the banks of the Thames. Sir Morgan and I shoulder to shoulder, rotting, clawing death closing in on us from all sides. But this is different. There aren’t so many against us today. And, unlike the Thames, the Stour does not appear to be tidal. The river is deep, so the dead cannot flank us.

I would be more confident if I did not feel so tired already. My breaths echo in the great helm at the same speed as my thundering heartbeat.

Tristan savages the throat of a thickset man. Three more of the afflicted approach. Then a fourth and fifth. There are too many to count. We give as much ground as we can. Until the river strokes our heels. Our swords carve room for us, but the space we make is taken back instantly as more of the afflicted crowd forward. Some of the plaguers we cut down continue to attack. I feel their hands clutching at my legs, their teeth searching for weakness in my mailed boots. There are too many. Too close. They are inside my fighting distance and I cannot retreat. My sword is now a liability.

I drive the blade down through the back of a crawling man, plunge it deep as I can, hearing the man’s high-pitched shrieks as I pin him to the earth. I draw my dagger. And I begin a more personal fight.

My head hurts. There is a whine in my ears, a high-pitched tone that grows louder. I slash the dagger two-handed at a young woman’s face and almost lose my balance with the follow-through. I stagger backward and one of my boots slips into the river. I fall to my knees and feel hands grasping at me. Bodies overwhelm me.

I stab and stab at the bodies that hang from me. I do not know where I am striking, only that I am rending flesh, releasing blood, tearing screams of agony from the plaguers. I grab hair, gouge eyes, use my helmet to break skulls, and slash, always I slash. Still on my knees. I must stand or they will smother me.

Tristan holds one gauntleted hand at the center of his sword and swings the weapon like a staff, hacking with the blade and piercing with the tip. He rips open the face of a man who wears a blue silk shirt. The flesh splits like a sliced gourd, revealing the bright red pulp inside.

He turns to me and extends a hand. I take it and he pulls.

For if one falls, the other will lift up his fellow…

I thank God, Mary, and Saint Giles that Tristan is beside me.

The world spins as I stand. Exhaustion. I have reached the point of exhaustion. My limbs feel like limestone blocks. I am still not well. But the dead do not stop. They smother me with their heavy flesh. Get between me and Tristan. I lose sight of him among their bodies. More and more plaguers press against me. I have to push back to keep them from driving me into the river. I plunge my dagger blade into the eye socket of a fat man who has boils over his entire face.

I must find the simpleton
.