The Iron Tempest (42 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

In which Rashid goes adventuring
and makes a rash Promise

Rashid never received Bradamant’s letter. While the servant had been searching for him in the most obvious places, the knight had been on his way to Bradamant’s apartment which, of course, he found empty. The duke discovered him standing in the abandoned room and, with amazingly well-concealed disdain, cheerfully told the Moor that Bradamant had only just that morning fled the city, preferring not to spend the weeks preceding her marriage to a Christian prince in the proximity of a pagan suitor whose unwelcome advances she found in the worst possible taste. Haemon raised a calm hand to still Rashid’s indignant protest. “There, you see?” he said. “That’s just the sort of heathenish outburst that Bradamant cannot abide. That’s why she’s left the city. It’s unfortunate, but there you are.”

Without replying, Rashid ran from the room and descended to the stables where he located the largest, strongest, most intelligent-looking horse he could find which, of course, proved to be the faithful Frontino. Ordering him to be saddled, he then went to the palace armory where he chose new armor, replacing his distinctive silver eagle with that of a white unicorn on a crimson field. He found a new lance and shield, but of course kept his sword, Balisard. He did not concern himself with anything else: food and shelter could be found on the way. When he returned to the stable where Frontino was waiting, eyes rolling eloquently in anxious anticipation of adventure. Without a word to the attendant, Rashid mounted the animal and rode unchallenged through the palace gate. He had briefly considered commandeering a squire to accompany him, but thought better of burdening himself with another person, however useful he may be. He’d prefer traveling alone, keeping his fury self-contained.

Leaving Marseilles unobserved, he followed the road northeast toward the Hautes Alpes that separate Frankland from Italia. The Durance led him to Briançon, where he crossed the Alps at the Col de Mount Genèvre. Descending with the Dora Riparia, Rashid passed through Torino without noticing it. He followed the plains at the foot of the Alps, past unseen Milano and Verona, Vicenza, Treviso and Cervignano del Friuli, finally passing into Hungary at Trieste. Northeast of that city he picked up the course of the Sava, which inexorably led him to Belgrade where Prince Leon all unknowingly awaited his doom.

Nearly a month after leaving Bradamant’s empty room, Rashid found himself on a low hillock overlooking the confluence of the Sava and the Ister. Spread over the flood plain on the far side like a dark, turbulent tide was a vast army. Thousands of men—at least twenty thousand, Rashid estimated—horses, tents and pavilions all assembled under the crackling banners of the Greek emperor. On the nearer side, below his vantage point, was a second army under a strange flag he didn’t immediately recognize.

Frontino nickered warningly as the brush immediately below rustled and then emitted a desperate-looking man, like frightened rabbit bolting from its warren. Rashid said nothing as the man, more intent on looking over his own shoulders than he was on where he was going, nearly ran headlong into the huge horse. When he finally saw the knight towering over him, he gave a kind of bleat and fell over backwards in an effort to stop his forward rush. As he tried to scramble to his feet, Rashid said, drawing Balisard, “Hold on there a minute.”

The fugitive turned as pale as a mushroom as a greasy sweat poured from his pock-marked face. He stammered, but could only produce more bleating sounds.

“Stop that,” Rashid ordered.

“I—I—I—Yes, sir!” the man whimpered, wringing his hands.

“Are you one of Emperor Constantine’s men?”

“Oh! Ah—well, yes—ah, that is, in a manner of speaking—ah, I was, ah, on leave, sir—ah, that is—”

“I said to stop that. You’re a deserter and I couldn’t care less about that. What I want to know is: is that Constantine’s army down there?”

“Yes, sir, it is, sir, certainly, sir.”

“What is it doing?”

It was preparing to retake Belgrade from the Bulgars, the deserter explained. Constantine had been attempting to throw bridges across the Sava, which separate him from the city, while the Bulgurs—under the personal leadership of their king, Vatrano—were just as busily occupied in preventing this. It was certain the Greek would eventually prevail, for his army outnumbered the other four to one. Besides, he had ships and boats with prefabricated bridges. The great show of force the emperor was expending at the confluence was, however, a kind of ruse. Impatient to reach the Belgrade, Constantine was not prepared to depend upon securing this one route. Therefore, while the Bulgurs were kept busy burning bridges, Leon had led a second army upstream and was at this very moment constructing his own bridges. As soon as they were completed, he would mount a surprise flanking attack against the enemy. Indeed, he was probably on his way at this very moment.

Rashid thanked the man for this valuable information, gave him a few coins and ignored the flood of insincere thanks as the deserter hastily scuttled away down the path. Content for the moment to simply observe, Rashid leaned forward against Frontino’s powerful neck and watched the events in the valley below.

Scarcely a half hour had passed before he heard the distant rumble of approaching cavalry and the tootling of trumpets. In expectation of these signals, the emperor’s army suddenly exploded into such furious, well-rehearsed action that it was immediately obvious that the unsystematic skirmishing that the Greeks had so far been indulging in was in itself a disguise. With a concerted rush, the boats that had been scattered for a half mile up and down the river suddenly pulled together, planks were thrown across their beams and fastened in place and within minutes Constantine’s army was pouring across the bridges and into the confused and completely surprised Bulgur forces just as Leon’s army appeared from behind the bluffs that shielded the upper bend of the Sava. Rashid had to admit to a reluctant admiration.

Still, Rashid watched calmly, making no move to enter the battle. After all, it was entirely possible that Constantine and Leon might fall at the hands of their enemy—thereby satisfying Rashid fondest wish with no effort on his part—though that was looking less likely all the time.

The Bulgurs, for all that they were outnumbered and outflanked, fought well and furiously and for some moments Rashid thought that perhaps he may have made his long journey for nothing (except, of course, for the pleasure of seeing the emperor and his son die). However, the Bulgur king (whom Rashid recognized by his banner) was soon surrounded. And when his horse finally fell, he was cut to pieces by a thousand blades.

Until that moment, the Bulgurs had resisted bravely, but now that their liege had fallen beneath the deadly storm that was overwhelming them, they began to break their ranks, retreating in confusion as the Greeks ate away at their front lines like acid.

Rashid set his helmet firmly onto his head, rested the butt of his lance in its socket and charged down the hill, into the midst of the retreating army, through which he passed like a barracuda through a school of minnows. Even in their terror, the soldiers paused in their flight to wonder gape-jawed at such a startling apparition.

As Rashid neared the river, where Constantine’s army continued to cross the temporary bridges with a volcanic rumble, he spotted a crimson-armored knight. He immediately recognized the golden millet stalk that decorated his tunic as belonging to Androphil, Constantine’s nephew and a man whom the emperor loved no less than his own son. This was good enough for Rashid who charged the unsuspecting Greek with lowered lance. The point passed through the man’s shield and armor as though they were made of cheese and protruded a hand’s span from between his shoulder blades.

Rashid let his lance fall with the dead knight and drew Balisard from its sheath, slashing at the soldiers that crowded against him, splitting the body of one nearly in half, sending the head of another flying. In less than a minute, he was covered in gore and even Frontino had been transformed into a scarlet, smoking demon. The animal’s great hooves trampled into the mud a litter of severed heads, arms, hands and legs while rivulets of blood flowed into the Sava. The stain would eventually reach Belgrade, creating a supernatural terror and panic in the city.

The Bulgur army, at first hypnotized by such an unexpected apparition, turned in its flight, every breast refilled with courage. The Greeks, absolutely unprepared for such an unexpected defense, lost their initiative in their confusion and the revitalized Bulgurs overwhelmed them. In five minutes, the Greeks had broken their ranks and abandoned their standards. A hundred quick-thinking Bulgurs flanked their enemy, pressed through to the riverbank where they set fire to the bridges and boats, cutting off the only retreat. Thousands of Greeks were forced into the swift current where they were either cut down or drowned.

From the low hill where he had fled the rout of his men, Leon Augustus watched the decimation of his army. Bewildered and sad, he wondered who this strange knight might be who had personally despatched so many of his soldiers. It was through this one man’s lone effort that his invasion was destroyed, yet so magnificent was the knight’s prowess, so overwhelming his deeds, that the prince could not help but feel a grudging albeit traitorous admiration for him.

But what is he doing here? Leon wondered. It’s obvious that he’s not a Bulgur. Could he be an avenging angel, descended from heaven to punish the Greeks for their innumerable offenses against God? The superhumanity of his feats seemed to argue for this.

When Leon was a child and his mother would strike him in anger, he would not turn to his father for comfort. Instead, perversely, he would embrace the woman, kissing her and loving her even more than he did before. In much the same way, he found himself loving the man who was still destroying his men as methodically as some infernal machine. He felt as though his own heart would break if that knight were to fall. He’d trade half his kingdom rather than see such a worthy man killed. Even while the stranger was busy murdering his troops, Leon could not hate him.
His valor commands admiration,
the prince concluded
, more than the injury commands anger.

With a shrug and a sigh he ordered retreat to be sounded.

Meanwhile, however, Leon Augustus’ infatuation was not being reciprocated. Rashid’s hatred had not been abated by the spilling of hogsheads of Greek blood and as he hacked left and right, his eyes were constantly searching for a sign of his enemy. He shouted Leon’s name, but it was lost in the roar of dying men, victorious men and burning bridges.

The battle ended as the sun settled onto the hills, reddening darkly as though it were absorbing blood from the gory river. Rashid was surrounded by a field of dead and dying men, through which the victorious Bulgurs were wading, cheering, shouting, stretching their arms toward their mysterious savior. He finally tore his eyes away from the darkening hills and looked at the men who were pawing at him and kissing his bloody feet. He suddenly realised they were crying for him to be their general, their king, their ruler.

He raised his hand and the mob was immediately silenced.

“I’ll be whatever you wish me to be,” he said quietly. “General, king—whatever pleases you. But I can’t touch either baton or scepter, I can’t enter Belgrade, not while Leon Augustus is at this very moment drawing further away. I don’t know where he’s gotten to, or in what direction he’s fled, but it’s my intention to pursue him and not leave his trail until I’ve caught him and killed him. I’ve journeyed a thousand miles for that one purpose and no other.”

This little speech was received with great enthusiasm, for it expressed a sentiment shared by every Bulgur. Half a dozen men pressed close, all eagerly pointing upstream, in the direction they had seen the prince flee.

Rashid rejected every offer of assistance and companionship. He had no interest in whatever grievance lay between the Greeks and the Bulgurs. So far as he was concerned, the battle—so overwhelmingly victorious for the Bulgurs—was a complete disappointment in that it had failed to procure him the death of the emperor and his son.

Shaking off the men who begged to follow him, he spurred Frontino and followed the road back into the west.

After some hours of riding in a darkness relieved only by the wan light of a quarter moon, he spied a lambent glow some distance ahead. This eventually proved to be the still-burning remnants of Leon’s boats and bridges, obviously fired by the retreating Prince. Having no choice, Rashid kept to the left-hand bank of the river, following it upstream to where he hoped there might be a ford.

For miles there was neither town nor village—not even a peasant’s hut. The moon was rapidly lowering and the trail was now dangerously dark. Only Frontino’s almost supernatural instincts keep both horse and rider from tumbling onto the rocks.

Rashid did not stop, but rode on until dawn. Ironically, just as first light illumined the road, he spied a village ahead. Deciding that it would be only counterproductive to press on, he looked for an inn or tavern where he could get something to eat and a place to rest for a few hours. Besides, Frontino needed refreshment and relief after twelve hours under the saddle. Perhaps he might even be able to obtain some news of Leon and his fugitive army.

There was indeed an inn, whose proprietor was appalled at the sudden appearance of the giant knight in the blood-drenched armor, but was at the same time too frightened or too wise to refuse him entrance. After asking that his horse be taken care of, Rashid ordered food and drink that he scarcely tasted and then a bed that he didn’t remember climbing into, nor the fitful sleep that soon followed.

Not more than an hour later another man entered the inn, a man not nearly so prepossessing as his predecessor, a common soldier, thin, tattered and hungry. He stumbled to a table, tossed a handful of coins onto it and ordered a large quantity of ale.

“Good morning, stranger,” said the innkeeper, “you certainly look a little worse for the wear.”