Witold,” Sir Ignacz said as he examined the crushed body that had lain beneath the horse at the top of the rise. His voice was strangely subdued.
Sir Poznan spat citral on the ground at his charger’s hooves. “And the horse?” He gestured to the creatures whose neck was nearly severed completely.
The knight grimaced as he approached, kneeling down and examining the buckles. After a moment he sighed heavily. “Sir Andrej’s I fear.”
Father Athfisk approached the dead squire and bean to say a few prayers over his body, sprinkling a bit of incense over the mangled form. Sir Poznan ignored the black-robed priest and brought his charger a bit further up the rise, examining the tangle of boot and hoof prints in the rock strewn path. “How many do you think there were?”
But Sir Ignacz could only shake his head. “It is hard to tell. But they were on foot, only two pairs of hoof prints lead down the path.” He pointed at the ground, and Sir Poznan nodded, seeing it for himself. “The rest are from the wagons. Those tracks there are very heavy. They must have put the bodies on that one.”
“They will regret that.” Sir Poznan looked to the west, and saw that the sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon. “We have but a few hours of sunlight left. They know that we are following them, so we must use all haste now. Father Athfisk, leave it.”
But at that, the goggle-eyed priest appeared aghast. “We must give Witold a proper burial! We would be sinning against Eli if we did not!”
Grunting, the knight commander nodded. “Very well. We shall dig a grave here. Say your rites quickly though, father. We have little time.”
The path up the Barchumba was winding and in some places rather steep. Nevertheless, they did not have any difficulty in navigating it. Nemgas, Chamag and some of the other larger men rode along on top of the final wagon, each bearing picks. Hanaman rode with them, his lean face studying the rock walls on either side. When he saw what he thought a promising boulder, he would point to it, and then the lot of them would jump to the ground and strike at the boulder until they managed to dislodge it from its resting place. With rumbling tread, it would roll a short distance down the path until it wedged itself against the other wall, sometimes narrowing the path itself so that a horse would have to squeeze through.
A few times, the boulder would actually smash through the rock, and continue tumbling on down, causing a roar that made each of them wince and stare in shock. But most of the ones they moved did exactly as they hoped they would, and blocked part of the road. At one point, Chamag turned to Hanaman and asked, “How wilt we get down if we keep doing this?”
But Hanaman smiled to him. “This wast the easiest path up Barchumba. There art others still. I hath seen them. I wilt ne’er trap us here, Chamag.”
This satisfied them all, including Nemgas, who found his mind set to worrying about a great many things. The squire had asked if he was Kashin. It had been so long since he had heard that name upon the lips of any other that it startled him still. How had a youth from the Southlands come to know that name? Clearly, the Driheli had been sent after Kashin for some reason. What reason, he did not know. But Kashin was dead, only Nemgas remained. Even if the knights had remotely honourable intentions, they could never succeed. And judging from the battle, he doubted their intentions were honourable in the least.
But there was something else that was nagging at him. What was worse was that Nemgas could not quite determine what. It seemed like he should know what it was, but every time he thought he had that pesky thought pinned down, it slipped through his fingers like water. There was something important he felt he should know, and he thought he could see the outlines, but it was still a mystery to him. There had been so many mysteries presented to him in the last few weeks that any one of them could have been the object of his nagging, but none of them seemed quite right.
He thought back to Cenziga and felt his flesh crawl. Whatever had happened up on that mount was as mysterious to him then as it had always been. Somehow it had created memories of a life lived completely amongst the Magyars for him, memories that he ached to have be true. Why had it done that? And why had it killed Kashin in the first place? None of it made sense.
Then there was Cheskych, a place wrapped in old myth and legend, a living reminder of what had once been. The story he had heard of Pelain’s death seemed something he should consider, as he was walking those same steps that the ancient hero had once walked. Steps that had led to his death at the hands of a terrible dragon in Hanlo o Bavol-engro. Would they have to venture into that ancient city? Would he find the bones of that dragon scarring the earth still?
And of course, thinking of Pelain reminded him of Pelurji. He felt a fresh sense of worry wash over him then. How was the boy doing? Had he heard yet why they were moving up into the mountains? And had he heard why? Nemgas wished he could be with the boy and comfort him. Once they were up in the mountains proper he resolved to check on him. And that squire, perhaps find out what he knew.
But for now, he climbed down form the wagon, another boulder to dislodge to slow the knights down yet again.
“Up,” was Sir Ignacz’s conclusion as he examined the wagon tracks from atop his destrier. The path along the defile began to slop downwards from the fork, though it still curved from side to side as it wound along the base of the Vysehrad. The long shadows of jagged rocks made long gashes appear in the beaten road. But the other path moved up through a fissure in the rock, one gouged out by the creation of the defile, and it turned about a stronger vein of rock, so they could see very little along the way.
Sir Poznan rested a mail glove upon his pommel and rubbed his chin for a moment. “We will have to send a rider South to Sir Czestadt. You!” He pointed to one of the rider’s, a man with short blonde hair. “Take this message to Sir Czestadt. You will the Knight Templar along the mountains to the South. The Magyars have gone up into the mountains and I am following them up. Now go.”
The rider nodded and moved his horse around the rest of the group, and then started down the defile at a gallop. Sir Poznan looked to his squire and said, “Light the torches. It is getting dark.”
He did not wait for any of the brands before he set up that incline, slipping his mail glove back over his hand. The quarry could not be that far ahead now.
By the time that the wagons finally emerged from the crevice and could look out over Barchumba from above, the sun was nearing the horizon. No longer a brilliant yellow, it was a smouldering orange that coated the clouds that hung in the sky in a bath of rusty colours. Already in the mountains the shadows were long and deep, a taste of night yet to come. Hooded lamps were being hung on the wagon transoms so that they could always see the one before them. Rarely were they used, but there was nothing that could be done for it.
“Hold onto thy pick,” Hanaman advised after returning from the lead wagon and speaking with Adlemas. For the moment the wagons remained still, the Assingh lowering their heads to graze at the grass, but finding only ground rock or flat stone. Several Magyars were bringing a bit of grain to the beasts so that they might have something to sup upon.
There appeared to be a road heading off both to the North and to the South from the top of the defile. Both paths were strewn with bits of rock and te occasional boulder. But they were all small, and could easily be moved around. They had done the best they could in blocking the passage through the crevice, and now Nemgas was quite eager to check on Pelurji, not to mention the squire that they’d captured.
“Hast the squire awakened?” Nemgas asked as he shifted the pick from one hand to the other. The head of the pick was still firmly tight, even after so much use that day. He could dimly remember it being stolen from a Midlands blacksmith. A good thing too, though not of the highest quality, it was exceptionally well-suited for its purpose.
Hanaman nodded. “Aye. I hath spoken to him, but he hast said nothing.”
Nemgas chuckled mirthlessly then. “He dost not speak our tongue, Hanaman. I hath knowledge of his, if thou wouldst allow me to speak with him.”
“Then hand me thy pick and go speak with him. If thou shouldst discover anything, send word.” Hanaman looked back over the line of wagons as they began to move again, heading down the southwards path. “We shalt continue South for now. We must find a way to block them for a night that we might rest. But we shalt travel until ‘tis safe to stop. I hath already told Adlemas this, so he shalt send word if he shouldst see any place with promise.”
With a thoughtful nod, Nemgas saluted his liege, and then climbed down from the final wagon, passing his pick to Hanaman as he did so. When he touched the hard rock ground, he began to jog alongside the wagons, making his way through the narrow road that wound impossibly high up in the mountains. Strangely, he felt winded by the simple run, and was heaving for breath by the time he reached his wagon. He’d planned on checking on Pelurji first, but that would have to wait now. Perhaps moving so many boulders had worn him out even beyond what he’d expected?
Berkon was resting in their wagon, a poultice wrapped with fresh bandages about his arm where he’d been struck by the knight’s knife. Of his other four wagonmates, Chamag and Kaspel were helping to move the boulders, while Pelgan was driving their wagon. Only Gamran and the Driheli squire kept the injured Berkon company, and the squire was bound hand and foot to Pelgan’s middle bunk.
Gamran was busying himself over a small cross pendant fitted with several sapphires. He sat across from the prisoner, whistling as he defaced the Driheli pendant, slowly working those sapphires loose with the sharp edge of a knife taken from one the dead knights. The squire stared at the little thief in agonized horror, but did not otherwise move. Either whatever fight he’d had in him had already left him, or he was saving it for a later time. From his dejected visage, Nemgas assumed the former.
“Hail and well met,” Nemgas said as he closed the door behind him. The air in the wagon was pleasantly warm, and he felt a bit of his exhaustion wear off. As he took a deep breath, he felt strangely refreshed and filled with energy. The squire was laying with his feet towards the door, so he could see Nemgas standing in the entrance. He closed his eyes and rolled his head back out of sight.
“Hail Nemgas,” Gamran said in impish delight, looking up only briefly from his work.
Berkon waved slightly with his injured arm and smiled. “I shan’t use a bow for many days now, Nemgas. I fear I hath failed thee.”
“Nay,” the Magyar shook his head as he stepped further into the wagon. When he stood at the end of the bunks, he smiled to his friend and fellow bachelor. “Thou hast done as well as thee could with an arrow in thy arm. ‘Twas not thy fault that thou wert struck. Let the wound mend and in time thou shalt skewer many targets with thy shaft.” He smiled once more, and then glanced down at the squire. The youth was still dressed in his blue-green riding tunic and breeches. Only his boots had been removed so that his legs could be tied together. “Hath our prisoner said anything?”
“Nothing I couldst understand,” Berkon groused then, drawing back further into his upper bunk. “He hast a foul foreign tongue.”
“Aye,” Nemgas said, crossing his arms and leaning one shoulder against the bunks.
“Who art they?” Gamran asked after finally managing to pop one of the small sapphires from its home. He held the gem between two fingers, grinning as the light cascaded through its clear blue depth, scintillating from each facet. The squire rolled over on his side, putting his back to them, ignoring their words, if even he could understand them.
“They art Knights of Driheli,” Nemgas said. “A Southlands order of knights who hath a fanatical devotion to the Ecclesia. They art fierce warriors, and ‘tis rumoured that a few doth possess magical powers. ‘Tis all I know of them.” He eyed the squire curiously for a moment. The boy had claimed not to know much of the Northern tongue, but he could have been lying. “Methinks I shalt slit his throat.”
But the youth did not stir even at that, although both Gamran and Berkon did appear surprised at his words. But neither spoke then, trusting that Nemgas knew how best to handle the prisoner. Reaching over, Nemgas gave the squire’s arm a firm shake, and then pulled him onto his back. The boy’s head rolled over so that he was staring at Nemgas. There was fear in his eyes, shock too, but both had dulled with the passing of hours.
“Tell me your name, boy,” Nemgas said in the Southern tongue. The boy laid mutely there, staring at him wide-eyed. “In the Steppe, one who will not speak is buried to their neck in the ground and left behind. The person to be buried has their hands and feet bound securely in rope, so that they can move neither. The pit is dug and they are put in, and up to their waist the ground is filled first with large rocks. Then they pour in smaller rocks from river beds, so that their legs are very nearly crushed from the weight. And then the ground is packed back in over top of them, right up to their chin. They cannot even move to dig themselves out after all that.”
Nemgas waited a few minutes while the youth stared at him, his eyes wider. “In the Steppe, there are very few people,” Nemgas went on, no longer facing him directly. His voice droned, as if he were uninterested now in what the squire might have to say. “So, anyone so punished would likely starve to death, if their eyes weren’t first pecked out by birds, their flesh torn by wild dogs.”
Out of the corner of his eye he could see that he had the boy’s attention now. The youth could be no more than fourteen or fifteen years of age, he guessed from his size. Both Berkon and Gamran were watching them, wondering what Nemgas could be saying to renew the boy’s fear. “Of course,” Nemgas went on after a short pause, “the weather is warming now, and so the ground is moist and wet. The worms are crawling once more, as are the ants. When a person is buried to their neck, they crawl all over the strange warm body, feeling its every contour, getting into every crevice, the nose and ears especially. Those small ants, crawling up within ones nose, rooting about in your ear, bitting off tiny pieces here and there as it goes, a terrible slow torture more horrifying than anything man could devise.”
The boy was now sweating and beginning to pull against his bindings slightly. Nemgas returned his eyes upon the boy, standing tall then, letting his voice deepen. “Of course, this was only done to those who would not talk. It was used most often by rival clans at war with another. When one or the other would capture a scout, they would question him. If the scout did not speak, then they would be buried, for one who will not speak is already dead.” Nemgas leaned a bit closer in. “So, what is your name?”
“Go... Go... Golonka...” the youth trembled, his voice uncertain. “My name’s Golonka...”
Nemgas nodded slowly then, crossing his arms once more, standing upright. “Golonka,” he said thoughtfully. “How long have you been a squire, Golonka?”
The boy appeared reluctant to answer, but after a few moments wilting under the Magyar’s gaze, he stammered, “Two... Two years.”
“And you are fourteen? Fifteen?”
“Fourteen.”
Nemgas smiled and sat down on the edge of the bunk. “And to whom did you squire, Golonka?”
But here the youth went silent again, though the fear was plain in his face. Nemgas waited a moment, tapping his fingers together as he studied Golonka. He turned to Gamran and Berkon after a moment and smiled. “I hath told him that he wilt be buried to his neck shouldst he keep quiet. Bring a shovel.”
Gamran smiled as he set aside the talisman. He’d worked yet another sapphire loose and pocketed the gem before rising to retrieve a shovel from the outside of the wagon. Nemgas turned back to the squire while the little thief was gone and said, his voice chill as ice, “You are not saying anything, Golonka.”
The youth shivered. “You... you killed him.”
“Who?”
“My knight.” Golonka was then on the verge of tears. “You killed him.”
Nemgas nodded. “Aye. He wanted to kill me. I did not want to die. Tell me, Golonka. Why is it that the Knights of Driheli have come so far away from their homeland?” Naturally, the boy remained silent. He had found some reservoir of inner strength that kept him quiet. Nemgas had expected as much though. “How far from Stuthgansk do you live, Golonka?”
He could see the youthful squire pondering whether he could answer that question when Gamran returned, brandishing the shovel in his hands. Nemgas waved him to his seat, but for several long seconds, Golonka could not take his eyes from the spade. But it had its intended effect. “I was born in Stuthgansk, but now I live in Bydbrüszin with the other squires.”
“I see,” Nemgas remarked thoughtfully, smiling assuredly to the boy. He did not know enough about the politics or the organization of the order of Driheli to determine what that could mean. He did know that the Order was headed by a single Knight Templar who kept control through a group of Knight Commanders. But who they were and how many there were he did not have any notion
“So this is the furthest you have ever been from your home, is it not, Golonka?”
The boy nodded even as he fought to keep his breath under control. His fingers flexed a bit under the strain of his bindings.
“I imagine you did not come here alone either,” Nemgas added slowly. Golonka said nothing, but his lips creased in a worried moue. “How many knights accompanied you on this journey?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered, lips trembling.
“Oh? Surely someone must have said it. Squires are always in the company of their knights. Did not anyone speak it to your knight?”
“Yes, but...”
Nemgas leaned a bit closer. “But?”
“I don’t remember,” the boy added weakly. “Please don’t bury me.”
Nemgas rubbed his hands together, a glare forming upon his brow. “If you answer my questions honestly, I certainly will not bury you, Golonka. Now, how many knights have come with you to the Steppe?”
The boy sighed and shivered, lips moving but not speaking, as if he were mouthing a prayer. But it was a short one, for his voice returned, though it was anxious. “There were six knights with each of the Commanders and the Templar.”
This did surprise Nemgas. The Knight Templar had come to the Steppe as well? Truly then, whoever had given the order for them to travel must have wanted no possibility of failure. This was a matter even graver than he suspected. “How many Knight Commanders have come with you?”
“Two,” the boy said, his tongue seemingly freer, though there was still a great deal of reticence.
“And what are their names?” Nemgas asked. After a moment he added, “And the name of the Knight Templar.”
The boy again whispered a silent prayer and said, “The Knight Templar is Sir Czestadt of Stuthgansk. The Knight Commanders are Sir Petriz of Vasks and Sir Lech Poznan of Bydbrüszin.”
Nemgas nodded then. “So you are under the authority of Sir Poznan?” The squire nodded slowly at that. “And he is following us out of the North. Do Sir Czestadt or Sir Petriz accompany him?”
“No... No they do not.”
“Where are they and their forces?”
But the boy shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Nemgas narrowed his gaze, reached over to Gamran, and took the spade form the little thief’s hands. “Surely you must have heard somebody mention it.”
The boy’s eyes went wide in sudden terror, unable to look away from the spade. “They are somewhere to the South, but I don’t know where! Please!”
Nemgas let out a heavy breath and shifted about. He rose to his feet then, and handed the spade back to Gamran, nodding once. A sudden cry lifted from the squire’s throat, perhaps fearing the nod meant he was to be buried. Nemgas turned and drove his fist into the youth’s stomach, knocking the wind from him. His scream turned into a hacking cough as he doubled up.
“He hath said much that worries me,” Nemgas said then to his fellow Magyars. “They that follow us into the mountains art but one portion of those arrayed against us.”
Berkon nodded sourly. “But why hath they come?”
“I hath not yet asked. I wilt do so when he hast recovered.” He looked away form the squire for a moment. “Gamran, wouldst thou retrieve a wineskin to loosen his tongue?”
The little thief chuckled humourlessly. “Aye. I wishest that I couldst understand thee when thou dost speak to him. It must be terribly fascinating! ‘Tis a great pity that I canst not!” And then he turned and left the wagon once more, leaving the spade leaning against the bunks.
Nemgas bowed his head low in thought as he waited for Gamran to return. His entire world had turned once again upside down in only the last six hours. When he’d woken that morning he’d thought about how enjoyable it would be to see how much progress Pelurji had made in his juggling or tumbling. Now he feared for his boy’s safety, wondering when the knights of Driheli would finally catch up wit them and attack.
It only took Gamran few minutes to fetch the wineskin. He nodded both to Nemgas and Berkon before standing next to the prisoner and putting the opened stopper to the squires lips. Lifting the leather sack, he poured out a bit of the contents, and the squire drank, spluttering only once. Gamran lifted it back once the wineskin was half empty and placed the cork back in the mouth.
Nemgas nodded to his fellow Magyar and then turned on the squire of Driheli. “Is that better?” he asked again in the foul Southern tongue. A part of him wished that he did not know it all, for nothing he was gaining from it was pleasant.
The boy nodded after a moment, shifting on the hard bunk. “Yes. Thank you.”
Nemgas smiled ever so slightly. At the very least the squire still held his manners in check. “You have come from Stuthgansk to the Steppe with a great force, Golonka. Why did you come?”
Fearful eyes met his. “There is a traitor to the Ecclesia that we have to kill. One who dishonourably abandoned their duty.”
“Truly?” Nemgas asked. “And who would this traitor’s name be?”
Before the squire could answer, Nemgas retrieved the spade, rolling it about in his fingers. The boy’s face was flush again, the wine having already worked its way in his belly. But it had not yet loosened his tongue any further. “It.... It’s you, isn’t it?”
Nemgas’s grimace became colder. He spun the spade about in one hand before catching it tightly in both. “What is his name?” His voice grew dark, eyes narrowing.
“I cannot! I would betray the Ecclesia if I said,” Golonka whimpered, eyes on the verge of tears once again.
“What. Is. His. Name.” Nemgas spoke each word like a hammer blow, leaning just a little bit forward with each utterance.
Golonka pressed his eyes shut tight, pulling against his bonds once again. “Please, don’t! I have betrayed my Ecclesia too much!”
Nemgas lowered the spade, touching the cool rusted metal to the boy’s forehead. “Then you should speak. Should the knights of Driheli succeed, they will remove your tongue, cast you from their order, have you excommunicated from the Ecclesia, skin you alive, and then hang you to die from the spikes of Stuthgansk for your treachery. Now tell me the name of the man you seek.”
The boy again said a silent prayer, though this time Nemgas could make out the outline of the words. A prayer for absolution clearly. “He is Kashin,” Golonka said at last. “We were sent to kill the traitor Kashin.”
Nemgas took a long deep breath. So it had been as he’d feared. Ever since this very same lad had asked him if he were that man, the Yeshuel who died upon Cenziga, he had known that it must be so. But there was still so much that he did not know. Clearly the Knights of Driheli had not come up to the Steppe of their own volition. Although he was fairly certain he knew what duty they thought Kashin had abandoned, the one who had brought them up to kill the Yeshuel was the greater and more important mystery.
“Who sent you?” Nemgas asked, tapping the squire’s head with the spade once more.
But the boy vigorously shook his head. “I don’t know. A Bishop. That is all I have heard.”
“You never heard the Bishop’s name?”
“No, I never did. He was just called the Bishop.”
Nemgas snarled at the squire. “If you do not know who gave you the order, then how do you know that what you do is the will of the Ecclesia let alone Eli?”
This appeared to confuse the squire. Nemgas felt sure that none had ever suggested to him that the orders of any in the Ecclesia were ever to be suspect. “Because the knights say it was from the Ecclesia.”
“And if they were lied to?” Nemgas prodded, turning the spade about before the squire’s eyes.
“But...” the boy said, blinking, quite confused now. It was clear that the wine had finally kicked in, his tongue finally free. “But they wouldn’t be. The Bishops always do the will of Eli. That is why they are Bishops.”
Nemgas let out a harsh laugh. “They have been corrupted, Golonka. The dark one has moved amongst them and turned them against Eli.”
“No!” Golonka said, fighting against his bonds once more. “No! You are an agent of the dark one trying to deceive me!”
“Hardly,” Nemgas laughed, his voice bitter. “This corruption exists and it is real. Patriarch Akabaieth was murdered on the orders of at least one of the Bishops.”
“You lie!” Golonka cried out, shifting back from the spade, his eyes alight with rage. He tried to reach his arms up to throttle Nemgas, but was caught up by the bindings. Nemgas smacked him in the forehead with the flat end of the spade, a bit of rust chipping free.
“I know you will not believe me, but what I say is true. And this also: Kashin of the Yeshuel, the man whom you seek, has already been killed.”
Golonka blinked at him for several moments in stunned silence. His forehead reddened where it had been struck. “No. You are Kashin,” he finally managed to say. There was a determined certainty to that voice, but also a bit of desperation. Golonka was hanging off the edge of a dark precipice with only his fingertips. No grip could possibly be more concerted than that.
He chuckled mirthlessly. “I watched Kashin be killed, young one. I saw it with my own eyes. Though I may look like him, I am not Kashin.” Nemgas knew those words were true. Though he could remember all that Kashin had done and thought, he was not that same man. He was Nemgas, a Magyar from birth.
Another thought came to him then, and he rolled the spade about in his hands. “How did you come to know that Kashin was amongst the Magyars?”
“A group of riders told us.”
Nemgas frowned at that. “A horse clan?”
“I suppose.”
Nemgas glanced up to both Gamran and Berkon. “‘Tis unlucky fate. If this boy speaks truly, then they hath been led to us by the Tagendend.”
Berkon spat form his bunk, and Gamran laughed harshly. “Alas that I couldst not steal more form those foul riders than but a blanket and buckle. They shouldst lose far more for this.”
“They shalt,” Nemgas said with a grunt. “But not while these knights give us chase.”
He turned once more to the squire, and waved the spade before him menacingly. “Perhaps I will not bury you today. That is if you tell me one thing more. Apart from the knights, has Sir Poznan any other arms with him?”
The squire shook his head. “Just the knights.”
Nemgas nodded, and then stood back up. He offered the spade to Gamran. The little thief had once more reclaimed his talisman, and was working a third sapphire loose. Soon the cross would be completely robbed of its gems, and simply be a chunk of metal to be smelted. The thief took the shovel in one hand and looked inquiringly up at his friend. “He hath said as much as he wilt today, methinks. I wilt return when I canst. Behind us there be but a small contingent of knights. We hath already slain two, so only five follow us. But they hath their squires, and perhaps a few others with them, so they shalt appear larger than they truly art. Still, we must be wary.
“There art two other groups of knights also on the Steppe looking for us. I do not know where they art. Methinks they shalt find us in due time as well,” Nemgas grimaced once as he looked between his fellow Magyars and the squire. “Keep thy spade handy. I hath threatened to bury him to his neck shouldst he not help us.”
“‘Twould be difficult to bury him within the rock,” Gamran pointed out skeptically.
“Aye, but he dost not know that we art in the mountains.” As he spoke, a subtle smile crept out upon his lips. Gamran and Berkon watched him, their own eyes filling with the delightful façade as well.
“‘Tis true,” Gamran said at last, giving the spade a quick spin with one hand. “Thou art devious, Nemgas!”
“Shouldst he become unruly, gag him,“ Nemgas said, nodding to the squire who had once again rolled his head to the other side of the bunk. “I must speak with Hanaman.” And then Nemgas left the wagon, jumping down to the mountain path, glad for the lanterns in the fading gloom of the twilight.
Sir Lech Poznan of Bydbrüszin was almost used to seeing the massive boulders smashed into the walls of the narrow crevice that wound up into the mountains. Almost. The route was never completely blocked, almost as if the Magyars themselves were not completely certain they could get back down afterwards. But what space remained was usually only wide enough for one of the destriers to pass through at a time.
“Sir Ignacz,” he called out, the strain becoming evident in his voice. “Lead us through.”
In truth, the only reason they had come to a stop at all was because they were fast losing the light and could ill afford to advance recklessly. With the sun slipping beneath the horizon and the first of the night’s stars beginning to shine overhead, they had to rely upon the flambeaux they carried to find their way. The squires bore the torches of course, guiding the knights up through the fissure, but it was still not enough for them to gallop safely. They were reduced to a measured cantor, and it galled the Knight Commander.
While his most trusted knight threaded the small opening, his squire in tow, Sir Poznan moved his own charger into position to follow him through. He let one more knight and squire proceed before him before he made his way around that massive rock. It was an oddly shaped rock, jagged edges and crack lines evident along one face, where the Magyars had struck it. By simply stretching out his arms, he could have touched both the boulder and the opposing rock face with the flat of his palms.
On the other side naturally the fissure was open once more and dark. When Skowicz brought the torch close enough, Sir Poznan pulled head to ride next to his lead knight. “How far ahead do you think they are now?”
Sir Ignacz made a face. “Two hours perhaps at best. I don’t think they’ve stopped since they stared this climb.”
“Not even to roll these damnable boulders in the way?”
“No,” the man shook his head, his grimace plain underneath his helm.”I wouldn’t if it were possible. And with as many wagons as they must have, certainly they can do all this and still keep moving.” He gave the reins a tug, and the destrier moved into a slightly faster trot. Sir Poznan kept pace with him, nodding all the while. Though he did not like it, it was also what he had concluded.
“We will have nearly a full moon tonight,” Sir Poznan said. “They’ll probably continue on as long as their mounts can. As should we.” He glanced back and counted the number of flambeaux he saw. Eight. Five for the knights and the squires, and three more for the messengers and Father Athfisk. There should have been ten, but their scouting party was no more.
He did not hear what Sir Ignacz said to him in reply, as he was lamenting the loss of Sir Andrej. Sir Poznan had known him since the days of his youth, being that Sir Andrej was the second son of Lord Poznan’s castellan. Sir Poznan was three years older, but they still had run about the manor together, riding across the fief when the mood took them. And until the duties of being a squire in the Order of Driheli separated them for several years, they had always hunted together. Once they had become knights, and Sir Poznan the Knight Commander, it was only logical that they would resume that friendship they had shared in their youth.
With a satisfied grin, he thought back to their first foray together as knights, putting down the shepherds rebellion on his father’s fief. Those wool-headed serfs had possessed the audacity to refuse their share of taxes. They’d had to slaughter the heads of the guild naturally. Ah, they’d laughed and drank heartily that day. He could not help but laugh a little at the memory of it.
But then that laugh turned to bitter anger as he remembered what those pagan Magyars had done to his friend and fellow knight of Driheli. Sir Andrej was dead by pagan hands, the foulest of crimes that could ever be committed against one of their order.
When he’d first begun chasing after the Magyars what seemed months ago now, he’d only wanted to discover if the traitor Kashin was amongst them, and kill him. He did not care what became of the other Magyars. Even that morning he still merely wished to accost them and reclaim Kashin from amongst them. But now, they would die. He quivered as he thought about how much pleasure he would take in skewering them upon his blade. Watching the chilren try to run, only to fall beneath his hooves. The women screaming as they saw what true men, what knights were capable of, what the wrath of Eli could bring.
They would know. They would all know how they had wronged the Driheli, Sir Lech Poznan vowed to himself as he rode up that narrow fissure into the mountains of Vysehrad.