The Trials of Lance Eliot (11 page)

We halted. I tried to dismount, but caught my foot in the stirrup and fell. A minute passed as I disentangled myself. “To think some people travel for fun,” I grumbled, rubbing my back. “Tsurugi, do you think we could have something to eat? I'm famished.”

He opened one of the bags, brought forth two pieces of bread and gave them to me. Then he closed the bag.

“Aren't you going to eat anything?” I asked.

He didn't reply.

“Dash it, aren't you going to eat anything?”

“I'm not hungry.”

I thought for a moment. “I see what you're doing, Tsurugi. You're giving me your portion of the meal. You didn't really eat breakfast this morning, did you? I ate both our breakfasts. Come on, have something to eat.”

“You eat it.”

“Listen, you shouldn't starve yourself. I'll be fine with one portion. I want you to eat the other. Come on, take it.”

“I don't need it.”

“You need it more than I do,” I insisted. “Don't be stubborn.”

He said nothing.

I felt exasperated and ashamed of myself. The man was starving himself because I had opened my mouth and demanded more than my fair share the night before. How could I right my mistake? A cunning solution came to me after several moments of thought.

“I'll tell you what,” I said. “I'm going to put your portion on this stone—there. I won't touch it. There it will lie, until you or the birds eat it up.”

I expected Tsurugi either to accept the food or insist I eat it. Instead, he shrugged and said, “I'm going to fill the canteens. Stay away from the road.”

He disappeared into the trees, leaving the food on the stone. So much for my cunning solution.

I ought to have been grateful for his kindness, but I wasn't. It was a cold kindness, silent and unpretentious and unsentimental, and it annoyed me. Now I could do nothing but wait for him to return.

Waiting wouldn't be comfortable. An autumn chill was in the air, though a little sunlight was breaking through the gray clouds above. I didn't like the idea of hiding in the cold shadows of the forest when I could enjoy the soft grass of the meadow. Ignoring Tsurugi's admonition to stay away from the road, I lay down with my hands under my head. One of the hunds growled, wind whispered through the trees and a hawk cried a long way off. Then all was silent.

I was just slipping into a comfortable doze when a sharp pain shot through my head. My vision flashed white and faded instantly to black.

When I awoke I wished I hadn't. My head hurt terribly. For a moment I was afraid my skull had been cracked open. Gingerly touching the top of my head, I felt a great bump beneath my fingers. I was much relieved. A bump was bad, but better than a fracture. Relieved that my skull was still of one piece, I began to wonder where I was. It was dark, so I presumed night had fallen. It was difficult to see. By squinting I could make out an iron framework over my head, and by turning my head I could see metal bars on all sides.

I was in a cage.

My friend, I had no more idea of what had happened to me than you do. At the time I didn't care. Never mind where I was. I wanted to sleep. Trifling details—why I was caged, for example, and how I had acquired the bump on my head—could wait until morning. However, sleep was impossible. My head pounded with the evenness of a ticking clock, and the bars on which I lay were more uncomfortable than any railway seat I have ever slept on.

A jolt sent a fresh wave of pain searing across the top of my head. From the dark all around me came grunts and clangs and the tramp of heavy feet. We were moving. My cage rocked back and forth, rolling me from side to side like a doll. I made a feeble effort to sit up and felt my stomach lurch. Turning my face downward, I vomited through the bars. Then I curled up and waited for my torment to end.

After all the ages in the world, the sky lightened with the glow of dawn. I had my first look at my captors as the sun rose. I was not encouraged. My cage was surrounded by unkempt, filthy creatures barely recognizable as men. Long mats of tangled hair fell past their shoulders and hung down their backs. Their teeth would have driven the bravest dentist to despair. Scars covered their bodies. Though their clothes were in tatters, I could tell they had once been dyed red.

They were the Nomen. What they were doing so far northeast of Faurum I'll never know. Perhaps they were sent to cut off support to the city while it was under siege. It doesn't matter. I huddled in my cage, cursing the day of my birth, wishing for something to drink and hoping they didn't notice me.

A long cry rose from far away. The Nomen turned to each other, and one of them bared his teeth and growled, “What was that?”

“A battle call, it was,” said another. “Chief, you idiot, you blighter! You've led us right to the enemy, you misbegotten son of a jackal! I'd my fears when you was made chief of our band, but I said nothing. Now you've pushed us into trouble, and I'd like to see you or anyone get us out of it.”

A massive savage stepped forward. From the way the others shrank back from him, I guessed he was their chief. He wore an insignia like a spiked wheel on a cord round his neck, held a heavy cudgel and spoke in a quiet, husky voice. “Five of you take spears and go,” he said, motioning with his hand. “Stay out of the light. Kill whatever you find. If they're too many, come back quick-like and we'll move camp.”

Then he turned to the Noman who had spoken against him, seized him by the shoulder and beat in his face with the cudgel. There was an awful rhythm in the blows, like a blacksmith's hammering. The chief hissed a word with each blow. “I—am—chief—and—do—not—abide—insolence.” The ground was sprayed with blood.

I closed my eyes and sat with them shut for a long time. When I dared to look, I saw the Nomen swarming through the forest like red ants, hacking limbs from trees, throwing wood onto fires and pitching tents. A cart with iron-rimmed wheels sat between two fires. Four hunds were feeding on something, crowding round it and snarling at each other. The air was filled with the stench of sweat and urine and blood. Shivering, I curled up on the cold iron bars and closed my eyes.

A gentle whisper drifted to my ears. I opened my eyes, looked around and made a gulping noise as my breath stuck in my throat.

Tsurugi stood outside the cage. Motioning for me to keep silent, he took the dagger from the sheath on his thigh, found the lock and inserted the tip of the blade into the keyhole. I waited. His face showed no expression, but sweat beaded on his forehead. The tip of the dagger clicked softly as he moved it around inside the lock.

Much later, when my adventure was over, I realized Tsurugi must have made the cry that drew the attention of the Nomen, and slipped into their camp while they were busy looking for him. I was too stunned to think about it at the time. I simply watched in mute amazement and terror as he fought to open the cage.

A howl rent the stillness. A Noman had spied my companion. He ran toward us, swinging a club.

“Run!” I shouted.

Tsurugi did not run. Dropping the dagger, he put his right hand to the hilt of the katana on his left side. With his left hand, he reached over his right shoulder to the hilt of the wakizashi strapped to his back. He waited until the savage was only a step away and then drew both swords, crossing them like scissor blades. The savage fell to the ground without his head.

In case you haven't figured it out by now, my friend, war is a bloody business. We don't fool around with swords and arrows in our modern, civilized age. Soldiers press triggers to fire bullets, killing from a comfortable distance. Aircraft pilots press buttons to release bombs, oblivious to those who perish in blinding flame far below. We've made war distant, impersonal and convenient.

I was to learn that war of any kind, primitive or modern, causes no end of suffering. The first hint of this came from my training under Aidan, yet that was only a hint. I didn't begin to understand the horror of war until I heard the shrieks of the Nomen and saw their blood glistening on the grass.

Tsurugi leapt over the body of the savage and charged forward to meet the Nomen. They carried stones and bent swords and blades on sticks like crooked scythes. Three or four of them swung their weapons as he approached. He rolled beneath their blades, slashed at their legs and regained his feet.

I watched with terrified fascination. He moved with incredible grace, blades flickering so fast I could hardly see them. It's a pity
dance of death
has already been worn to a cliché, for I can think of no better phrase to describe the battle—not the battle, the massacre. He flowed like water through the crowd of savages. Where he went, Nomen fell. For a few moments I clung to a faint hope that he might kill them all.

Then a savage hurled a rock at him from behind. It struck the top of his head, and he crumpled to the ground. Gibbering with delight, the Nomen bore his limp body to the cage and forced it through a hatch. I took his body in my arms and gasped with relief. He was alive. His head was bloodied, but the bone had not cracked.

Pressing my shirt against the wound to staunch the blood, I tried to gather my wits. It took a while; my wits were rather scattered. A bandage. Tsurugi needed a bandage. I lowered him to the floor of the cage and tore a long strip from my shirt. Crossing my legs, I set his head in my lap and wrapped the cloth around it. Then I stretched him out, pillowing his head with my shirt, and lay down beside him.

As the sunlight grew brighter, the Nomen crowded round to examine their latest captive.

“Look! We've captured a legionnaire, we have.”

“What about the other? He don't look like a legionnaire.”

“He's wrapped up that head wound very tidy-like. I say he's a healer.”

“You're a fool, you are. The bleeding one ain't been magicked. Can't you see? We know you've no brain; have you no eyes as well?”

“Say that again and you'll join the rest of them what are cut open on the ground.”

“Legionnaire's handy with a sword, ain't he? He sliced fifteen, sixteen, seventeen at least.”

“What'll we do with these two?”

“Roast them. They belong on a spit, and I say we ought to spit them alive. Whittle a stick nice and sharp, you know, and push it right down the throat and out the other end, like we did with them blokes we took a couple of days ago down southways.”

“We keep them alive,” said the chief. “We've got feed to last days now without killing these. No wasting fresh meat. We take them with us.”

“We could sacrifice them,” said one of the savages. “To Ilt, you know, for good luck.”

“Hmm,” droned the chief. “Pearl-eyed Ilt would surely favor us if we offered him two fine specimens such as what these are.”

There was an uproar. “You can't do that,” yowled a Noman. “Last time you gave up four of the fattest, and one a tender woman. I say we eat these and offer up the next bunch.”

The chief pondered this proposal. “The soldier would be tough and stringy.”

“So is these,” cried the Noman, pointing to his fallen comrades. “They'd splinter your teeth, yet you're forcing them down our throats.”

“Shut your mouth,” said the chief. “We keep these two alive and offer up the next bunch. Now to work, you mangy whore-sons.”

I shook with cold and fear as they dragged their slain comrades to the largest campfire and left them in a heap. The dead Nomen would be eaten, and so would we. Unless we were sacrificed to Ilt, of course. I would have thrown up again if there had been anything left in my stomach. Why, why, why couldn't Lancelot of Camelot have been summoned instead of me?

Then Tsurugi stirred and I forgot my misery. For a moment, at least.

8

LANCE ELIOT RECEIVES WELCOME COMPANY

“TSURUGI,” I CRIED. “SPEAK to me!”

“My head hurts.”

“One of them hit you with a rock. I tried to bandage your head,” I added as he touched the strip of cloth, “but I'm afraid I did a pretty clumsy job of it.”

“Thank you, Lance.”

I was stunned at this sudden outpouring of gratitude. “You—you're welcome,” I said. Tears were gathering in my eyes. I wiped them away. Legionaries didn't cry.