Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1) (37 page)

I found my place, half-hidden behind a great slab of tumbled rock, took my bow from my back, and tied on an arm guard of stiff leather. It might help steady my aim. My muscles were still shaking
from the exertion of the climb. Below me Hroudland was sprinting in short, quick bursts from one hiding place to the next. There was still no movement from what I now thought of as the mountain
chapel. Everything was eerily quiet.

When Hroudland was not more than twenty paces from the surrounding wall, he stopped, unsheathed his sword, then turned and waved to me. I stepped out into the open, nocked an arrow to my bow,
and took aim at a spot just above the flimsy-looking wooden gate. It would be an easy shot. Hroudland ran the last few yards and I saw him give the gate a heavy kick. It flew open and he dashed
inside. Afterwards there was an occasional glimpse of his head and shoulders above the wall as he searched the enclosure.

In a short while he reappeared at the gate and called up to me, ‘There’s no one here. The place is empty.’

The tension drained from me. I let my bow go slack, and then began to descend the slope to where Hroudland stood waiting.

‘All that climbing and hiding for nothing,’ he smiled ruefully. ‘We could have walked directly here along the path.’

We went in through the broken gate and I looked round. The enclosure did duty as a sheep pen. The dusty ground was strewn with animal droppings. A length of canvas had been draped over branches
propped against the outer wall to make a lean-to shelter. Someone had kindled a fire on the ground in front of it. The charred fragments looked fairly recent.

‘Whoever stays here didn’t want to occupy the building itself,’ said Hroudland. He was checking the door. It was locked.

‘I would have expected there to be some sort of caretaker or a guard?’ I said. The emptiness of the place struck me as unnatural.

‘He could have gone off to Pamplona,’ said Hroudland. He was probing the door jamb with his sword point to see if he could find a weakness. ‘His friends needed help to empty
the city of valuables and carry them up into the mountains.’

‘No point in damaging Durendal,’ he commented, slipping his sword back into its sheath. He walked over to a boundary wall made of rocks. They were neatly stacked one on top of the
other without any mortar. He picked out a large stone and brought it back.

‘Stand aside!’ he warned, and then slammed the rock against the timber. The door was sturdy and it took a dozen hefty blows before the lock gave and it finally burst open.

Hroudland peered inside.

‘It’s too dark to see much.’

The lintel was so low that he had to duck his head as he stepped over the threshold. I followed him cautiously.

There was a faint aroma of burned herbs. The interior was more like a cave than a room. If I stretched my arms out sideways I would nearly have touched the opposite walls, and I could barely
stand upright. The only window was a fist-sized hole left open in the far wall and close to the ceiling. The light from it scarcely penetrated the deep gloom. Both of us had to stop for a moment to
allow our eyes to adjust to the darkness.

I heard Hroudland give a low grunt, part astonishment, part satisfaction.

‘There, straight ahead.’

I moved aside to allow more light to enter through the smashed doorway behind me. A thick stone slab set in the far wall made a broad shelf running almost the width of the building. On each end
of the shelf stood a small wooden block. They were holders for rush lights, though both were empty. On the shelf between them lay two commonplace items that might have been found in the kitchen of
a modest home. One was a small goblet. Five or six inches high, it looked dull and very plain. Beside it was a plate that was even more ordinary, the sort of serving dish for a small joint of meat
or a fish. Otherwise the little room was bare.

Hroudland stepped forward.

‘Could this be the Graal?’ he asked tentatively. He sounded more than a little disappointed. He picked up the goblet from the shelf and carried it back to the doorway to look at it
in better light.

The sun had now sunk far below the horizon and the chapel, if it was that, was deep in shadow. Nevertheless as he held up the goblet up, I saw a very faint glow, tawny brown within the bowl.

‘It’s made of some sort of stone,’ the count said. On the middle finger of his left hand he wore a gold ring set with a large piece of amber. He tapped the goblet with it and
it rang with a hard, flat sound.

He handed me the goblet.

‘What do you make of it, Patch?’ he asked.

If I had seen the goblet displayed on an altar I might perhaps have described it as a small chalice. The upper part, the bowl, appeared to have been hollowed from a single piece of a dark
coloured stone, which had a brownish tint in its depths. This bowl had been fixed on to a base made from a dense dark wood that contained black streaks. The effect was rather clumsy and heavy, and
the goblet with its thick rim looked neither valuable nor very elegant. I turned it over in my hand, half-expecting to find some pattern or decoration like that I had seen on the bronze cup from
the fountain of Broceliande. There was nothing.

‘Maybe this is not the Graal, if such a thing even exists,’ I said carefully.

‘Then why hide it away up here in the mountains?’ demanded Hroudland, taking it back from me and returning inside the chamber.

He replaced the cup on the shelf and picked up the dish that had been lying next to it, and brought that into the light. Again I saw the tawny brown glow. The plate was made from the same
material as the goblet. I could only compare it to a fine marble. The dish had swirls of other colours – grey and pale white – within the stone. I had never seen anything like it
before.

Hroudland examined both sides of the dish. Again there were no marks. The plate had been carved from the unknown stone and then polished.

‘Those tales you heard from the Breton bards, do they say what the Graal looked like?’ I asked.

He shook his head.

‘The stories were more about the journeys of those who went searching for the Graal, the strange places and the mysterious people they met . . .’ His voice tailed off as he saw the
expression on my face.

I had been looking past him, over his shoulder at the mountainside. The fading light had lengthened the shadows, changing the appearance of the rocky slope behind him. There were patterns and
shapes among the boulders that had not been there previously. I knew exactly where I was. I was in the landscape of my dream, the nightmare of the monstrous beasts and winged creatures that
attacked Hroudland and me.

‘What’s the matter?’ the count asked sharply. ‘You looked as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

I forced my gaze back to the plate he had in his hand.

‘We have to get out of here, immediately,’ I said shakily.

Hroudland did not hesitate.

‘We’ll take both the cup and the platter. Later we can decide which is the true Graal.’

He turned and disappeared inside, the plate in his hand, to fetch the cup. At that instant a series of high-pitched whistles sounded from the side of the mountain above me. There were several
different notes, one after another. My skin crawled. I swung round on my heel, scanning the slope. But it was impossible to locate where the sound came from. The mountain was shrouded in the
gathering darkness. There was a short silence; then came a series of whistles from a different spot. Another succession of notes, rising and falling almost as if they were words. I jerked around,
again seeking the source of the sound. But it was futile. I was still peering into the gloom when the original caller responded. Now there was no doubt. The whistlers were communicating with one
another in some sort of secret language.

I was about to duck into the building to summon Hroudland outside when there was a fierce scrabbling sound. A dark shape came hurtling out of the shadows straight at me with shocking speed.
There was a terrifying snarl, and I was knocked off my feet by the impact of a heavy body. I heard a deep-throated murderous growl and had a glimpse of white fangs beneath drawn-back lips. My
nostrils filled with a powerful scent of dog.

I flung up my arm to ward off the gaping jaws. The beast was appallingly strong and determined. It was thrusting and snarling, trying to snatch my throat. I rolled from side to side, attempting
to throw it off. I was faintly aware of two more animals. They streaked past me and bounded into the dark entrance to the chapel. From within came the sounds of a vicious tussle.

My archer’s arm guard saved me. The dog had locked its jaws on my forearm, and the leather prevented the teeth from penetrating. I managed to struggle up on my knees, and then regain my
feet. The brute was thrashing its head violently from side to side, trying to drag me down again. I reached forward with my free hand, intending to pull it off by the scruff of the neck. There was
an agonizing stab of pain as my hands closed on the sharp metal spikes of a thick collar designed to deter wolves.

I backed away slowly, step by step, holding off the dog with my left arm while it continued to growl savagely, shaking and tugging frenziedly. I retreated, just managing to stay on my feet,
until I could feel the wall of the chapel behind me. That is where I had left my bow leaning against the stonework. I searched behind me with my right hand and fumbled in the arrow bag until my
fingers closed on an arrow. Gripping the shaft firmly I pulled it out. With a great heave I swung the brute to one side and, when its flank was exposed, I rammed the razor-sharp metal head into the
dog’s belly with all my strength. There was a yelp of pain and it released the grip of its jaws.

But the brute did not abandon the attack. It stood a yard away, stiff-legged, teeth bared and growling murderously, watching for an opening when it could fling itself on me once again.

I shouted for Hroudland, and he backed slowly out from the chapel in a half-crouch, facing towards the frenzy of brutish snarls that sounded within the gloomy interior. He had set down the dish
because he had his sword, Durendal, in one hand and in the other a short dagger. Both blades were pointed towards the doorway. He had scarcely got clear when the other two dogs emerged. They were
even larger than the one that had knocked me down. One had a gash in its shoulder, the blood dripping down on the dust. Both animals had their eyes fixed on the count, and they were stalking slowly
towards him, ready to spring.

Again I heard that unearthly whistling from the mountainside behind me. This time it seemed closer.

‘They’re somewhere on the mountain,’ I gasped. ‘I don’t know who they are or how many.’

‘If they send in more dogs, we’re in trouble,’ said the count. ‘I can deal with three or four. But a pack of them would pull us down.’

We were out in the open now, standing back to back, facing the growling dogs. They were massive brutes, each as big as a small calf, with bear-like shaggy pelts and heavy square heads. All of
them wore spiked collars, and it was clear that they were trained for fighting.

Even at that late stage, Hroudland might have successfully completed his raid. He could have risked going back inside the chapel, snatched up the goblet and the plate, and the two of us could
have fought our way back down the track. But then there was a sudden movement in the air above us. It was so unexpected that neither of us had time to prepare ourselves. Out of the gloom swooped
down a half-seen shape, a darker form against the already dark sky. It came at an unnatural speed, at head height. I felt the rush of air on my face. A whisper of something flashed overhead.
Hroudland let out an oath and doubled over as if he had been struck. Durendal clattered to the ground as he let go his sword and clapped his hand to his face. For a moment he stayed bent over,
hunched in pain. When he stood upright and removed his hand, blood was streaming from a gash just beside his right eye.

I had barely time to take in what had happened when again I felt that sinister rush of air. This time there was a sharp blow and searing pain across my scalp as something sharp raked across my
head. I caught the quick flap of broad wings and the large bird that had attacked me was rising up and away. It was circling, ready to attack again.

In the distance we heard the oliphant horn. Berenger was signalling that there was danger along the path where he stood guard. Our escape route was threatened.

So we ran. We blundered out of the broken gate and down the dimly seen track. The huge dogs harried us every step. They lunged at our heels, snarling and barking, driving us off like the sheep
stealers. I had abandoned my bow but Hroudland had managed to snatch up Durendal from the ground. Occasionally he stopped and stabbed and slashed at our tormentors, making them keep their distance.
There was nothing we could do about the birds. They swooped out of the darkness and tried to rip out our eyes. Like the huge dogs, they must have been trained to guard the Vascon flocks from wolves
and thieves.

Only when we were well clear of the chapel did the onslaught finally cease.

The night sky then clouded over completely. Without light from moon or stars to show us where to put our feet, our progress was like groping through a black pit. We tripped and fell, got up and
stumbled forward a dozen or more times. We dared not stop, fearing that our enemies would have time to set an ambush on the track ahead of us. We lost all sense of time or how far we had got, and
it must have been well past midnight when someone called out a challenge from directly in front of us. It was Berenger. He heard the noise we made coming down the track.

‘Thank God you’re back,’ he said. The relief in his voice was very evident. ‘The place is swarming with Vascons, hundreds of them on the move.’

‘Which way are they headed?’ asked Hroudland sharply. Even exhausted, he kept his wits about him.

‘Towards the road. They passed me a couple of hours ago. I stayed out of sight until it was safe to sound the alarm.’

‘We press on at once,’ Hroudland announced. It was an order, and he was once again a war leader. ‘I must be back in command of the rearguard before the Vascons fall on
us.’