by Cameron Kirk
in Issue 85, February 2019
Darkness was fractured by fire, and as the fire grew, it pushed back the cold blanket of night. The new-born radiance painted in glowing timbre three men in a forest clearing, two seated and the third lying on a makeshift stretcher upon the pine needles, a bloodied bandage wound about his knee. Beyond them, the dense woods melted into the waiting darkness.
Each man bore a Jerusalem cross on a white mantle; underneath, fine chain mail glinted where it was exposed to the firelight.
Hugh Drogos de Merlon leaned forward on the mossy log upon which he was seated and threw a handful of twigs on the fire. His face was handsome and youthful but his brow was permanently fixed in a scowl above an aquiline nose. His voice was spiteful and bitter. “I do not like this. We should be closer to home. We have had too many delays.” He ran his hand through short, blonde hair in frustration.
Robert Occitan propped himself up on his elbow. He flinched as a sharp jab of pain enveloped his right knee, but when he spoke his voice was level. “As I’ve said,” he remarked casually, “you are under no obligation as to my welfare. Move on, with my blessing.”
Simon Alaire, the oldest of the three, rubbed his grey-speckled goatee and spoke, “Nonsense, Robert. The brotherhood of Christian warriors takes care of its own. If we do not have loyalty, what do we have? Yes, Hugh?”
The young man made no answer but continued to scowl and snap dried branches across his thigh.
“Besides,” continued Simon smiling at the discomfort of the younger man, “we’re lost. Best we stay here for now.”
“We must move on,” said Hugh. His voice danced upon the edges of uncertainty. “Antioch is on the other side of this forest.” He did not meet the gaze of either of his companions.
Simon Alaire laughed, “That may be so, but we have far to go. We see out the night here and forge on at dawn.”
Hugh Drogos de Merlon hurled more twigs at the flames as if throwing knives at the heart of his most loathed enemy but remained silent.
A distant wolf called. Another echoed the first, closer. Lesser men would have gripped their weapons tighter, or at least surreptitiously measured the distance between hand and sword, but the three Christian Knights were not the type of men to let fear rule their thoughts or actions. None moved, all remained lost in individual thoughts, staring at the growing blaze.
A twig snapped, but not at the behest of Hugh Drogos de Merlon. The sound came from beyond the firelight. Then another dried branch gave beneath the weight of something moving closer to the light.
Robert Occitan attempted to gain his feet. Simon Alaire and the younger Hugh Drogos de Merlon did so with more celerity.
Simon waved Robert back to the forest floor. Let us take care of this, rest, he seemed to be saying, but Robert Occitane stood alongside the older and younger crusader all the same.
A woman leading a child entered the outermost glow of the firelight. She was hooded, the child ragged, almost naked, clutching an equally ruined rag doll. The woman and child stopped. The woman’s hooded head turned to her child and then back to the men in chainmail.
“Come” said Simon. “Come to the fire, take warmth.” He ignored an icy look from the youngest knight.
The woman and babe moved closer to the fire, the mother warily: a bird sensing a trap and ready to fly at an instant’s notice.
The firelight gleamed in the large brown eyes of a boy-child not more than three years old.
“They are Turks,” hissed the younger knight. “We invite the enemy to share our fire now?”
Simon scoffed. “The war is over, Hugh, I believe not even your holy Pope Urban would object to offering a woman and child a seat by the fire.”
“My Pope? Did we not all take the oath, or do the old leave behind their promises with their youth?”
“Enough,” interjected Robert. “The warmth of a fire is precious little to sacrifice, or to squabble over. Sit, woman. Hugh, offer them bread.”
“But–”
Robert Occitane’s voice lit up with authority and echoed around the clearing. “I am the Marshal, and while I live, you take orders from me. Offer them bread.”
Hugh did as he was bid, making no attempt to hide his displeasure nor soften his furrowed brow.
Robert grimaced as he rolled onto his elbow. He stared at the newcomers, his expression unreadable.
Simon remained standing and watched Hugh break off some stale bread and offer it to the woman, now seated. She removed her hood and broke the bread, offering her child the larger piece.
Simon took his seat on the log. Every man around the fire watched the woman’s beautiful, ochre face, though she seemed oblivious to their gazes. And when the woman and boy had finished eating, she picked her child up and cradled him in her arms.
And for a moment, there was peace.
Then, the woman lay the drowsy child on the pine needles, stood and approached the fire. She shrugged off her robe and stood naked near the blaze. The woman turned around to look at them. She began to dance, slowly like a puppet on a string and as she did so her mouth dropped open. It continued to droop and her eyes began to darken. Veins appeared on her face until her visage was a yawning horror, a thing of nightmares.
The three knights were on their feet now, reaching for weapons, hearts beating in fear of the witch and the loss of their immortal souls.
Before any of the crusaders could strike down the woman, the child cried out and ran between the three knights and the creature that had once been his mother. She laid clawed fingers upon the child’s throat and swiftly sliced, causing blood to spray wildly from the child’s neck. The boy fell.
Simon and Hugh closed upon the witch. She kicked at the fire, sending sparks against their chainmail and bounded like a she-wolf out of the light and into the darkness.
And then it was over.
The child was unconscious, and his breath rasped and gurgled.. The three knights of the Holy Crusade looked at the crumpled figure, knees drawn up in fetal curve, still clutching a bloodied doll. Fluid continued to pump from the frail neck.
Robert Occitane ignored the pain from his wound and knelt beside the child. He clamped his hand over the cut. “A cloth,” he said. “Give me a cloth.” Simon hesitated for a moment and then quickly pulled an undershirt from his haversack and tossed it to Robert. The injured knight applied pressure upon the gash in the child’s neck.
Simon knelt beside him. “We have to close this, or the child will bleed out.”
“We must stop the bleeding first,” responded Robert. “If this is an arterial wound, the boy has no chance.”
“What are the two of you doing?” said Hugh Drogo de Merlon, his scowl lines deep. “This child is damned, the issue of evil. Let it die.” Hugh scanned the darkness for any sign of the witch’s return.
“Nor shall children be put to death because of their fathers,” uttered Simon.
“Behold, I was bought forth in iniquity and in sin did my mother conceive me,” responded Hugh.
“Gentlemen, we leave the theologizing for a later time,” said Robert maintaining the pressure upon the wound. “Water, and a needle and thread.”
Simon returned to his rucksack and searched for a small leather pouch that he knew contained a needle and thread. He was careful to avoid the sheath-less dagger that lay inside. He heard the clink of the vials of poison that he carried, and hoped that the bottles would remain intact. He found what he needed and returned to Robert Occitane. The older man briefly considered the idea that the needle and thread he now carried were the only possessions he had, or had ever had, designed to heal and not kill. The thought disturbed him.
“I think the bleeding may have stopped,” said Robert. “We must clean the wound as best we can and then stitch it.” The child was limp in the Marshal’s arms. “We do it quickly before he wakes.”
Hugh sat on the edge of the firelight, brooding, his thoughts twisted and unknown even to himself. He watched as the older knight poured out precious water to clean the gash. Simon then attempted several times to thread the fine silk through the eye of the needle. “Damn eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
“We need younger eyes and a steadier hand,” said Robert matter-of-factly.
The younger knight understood. For a flickering moment he saw a face, that of a child about the same age as the one whose blood now stained the pine needles; this child had lived and died in another place and time not so far removed from the here and now. Brown eyes, she too had brown eyes. They had burned brightly and then faded.
Hugh Drogos de Merlon joined the two older knights. He placed the silk thread through the eye of the needle, tied it and began to stitch the tender neck of the frail child.
His hand was steady.
***
Morning eased its way through the trees, dappling the pine needles and sleeping figures. Hugh was awake, and yet motionless, staring at the dying fire. The others began to rouse, their breath rising in steamy curls in the chill morning air. The boy’s chest moved slowly.
“He breathes still,” said Hugh as Robert checked upon the swaddled figure near the fire.
Simon ambled over stiffly, the forest floor having been particularly cruel to his older bones. He grunted as he kneeled next to the child. “He will live,” said the goateed knight. He struggled to regain his feet. He turned to Robert. “Let me see your knee.”
“I slept well.”
“Wonderful, now your knee.” Simon grimaced when he saw the Marshal’s injured joint. “You need a physician, soon. It has become corrupt.”
Robert Occitane shrugged. “Without a horse, we won’t be seeing another living soul for days. But such is God’s will.”
“I admire your stoicism, friend. But I urge speed,” said Simon
“The child…you must take the child and leave me here,” said Robert.
Silence for a moment. “A noble gesture, Marshal,” said Hugh, “but we are obliged to you and you alone.”
“I hereby transfer that obligation to the child.”
“Robert,” began Simon. “This–”
Robert Occitane spoke vehemently, “I will not see another child die, not on my account!”
The older and younger knights stood in silence for a moment. Simon patted Robert on the shoulder and began to make preparations to leave. Hugh saw the child in his mind’s eye once more, the girl with the brown eyes. He blinked and she was gone. He went to the boy and lifted him gently, placing him on the stretcher. “The wolves will come for you tonight,” said Hugh.
“I know”, said Robert. “I will die here. But the wolves will not take me, that I promise.”
“We shall return for you.”
Robert smiled and nodded, taking the lie with good grace.
A few minutes later Simon Alaire and Hugh Drogos de Merlon were moving into the forest, carrying a small figure on the stretcher between them, leaving the clearing, and Robert Occitane, behind.
***
The sun was descending behind the trees as Robert Occitane began to spark the fire into life. It had been a painful process of hunting for firewood, his mobility fading fast. He briefly wondered at the futility of his actions. He did not fear death, but he didn’t want to die cold, and so he blew the first tendrils of smoke until they blossomed into flame. Barely had the fire begun to give off heat than Robert heard approaching footsteps crackling over the late autumnal leaves. He drew his sword but did not rise.
A monk entered the clearing, his hood drawn back. His brown robes seemed to absorb the last rays of the setting sun. Robert was not sure of just what order the monk belonged, Benedictine possibly, for the monk remained silent. He stopped a few feet from the fire and Robert gestured for the bald man to take a seat. He did not lay his sword aside, remembering the last visitor at the fireside.
The monk nodded, sat and warmed his hands by the fire.
Robert spoke hopefully, “I have two friends, they carry an injured child, if you or your brethren come across them, I beg you, take them in. They have no horses and must journey far.” Robert scanned the darkening woods. “Your monastery is nearby?”
The monk, appearing to be in his middle years, shook his head.
“Another lost soul, eh brother?”
And now the silent man smiled. His smile faded as he looked at Robert’s knee. From a small bag slung upon his shoulder he removed a shallow pot. He then busied himself arranging a makeshift tripod from which he hung the pot over the fire. He added a small amount of water and sprinkled a bright green herb with an acrid aroma and a yellow petaled flower into the water. He watched it come to the boil, never saying a word. Robert watched on, feeling his strength fading away.
After some time, the monk removed the pot and carefully scooped the floating herbs into a cup. He added a thick, milky paste to the cup and stirred it with a small wooden spoon. The man pointed to Robert’s knee.
“Thank you, friend, but I fear that it is too late.”
The monk shook his head and pointed again.
“Very well.”
The monk approached Robert and removed the bloodied bandages surrounding his knee. Robert winced in pain. The medicinal paste had now cooled enough to be applied directly to the gangrenous gash encircling Robert’s knee. Robert suppressed a scream at the sting.
When the monk had finished, he applied fresh bandages, acquired from his magical shoulder bag. The monk washed out the cup and scooped some of the brown-green water from the pot. This he offered Robert to drink.
Robert sipped at it and nearly choked. It was bitter and tasted of something more, something foul. He waved it away, but once again the monk demonstrated his insistence.
A dying man has little to lose, and so Robert forced a few more sips of the brew.
The moon had begun to rise, and despite his waning spirits, Robert was glad for the company of the monk. He felt warm, and began to relax. With a start, he realized the pain in his knee had begun to retreat like the tide at low ebb. For the first time in a week, Robert Occitane considered the possibility that he was not going to die.
“What’s a holy man doing all the way out here?” asked Robert, more to himself then to the monk. “Were you in the war? A healer? A noble profession, healer. I am a soldier, a mercenary if I am to be truthful. I did terrible things, Brother, and now they weigh upon me fearfully. I cannot sleep. I must confess it all, before I die.”
“I understand,” said the monk. “The two knights, and the child. When did they leave here?”
“This morning. They left me here to die. I asked them to.”
“You’re not going to die.” The man’s voice was resonant, mellow, calming. “Which way did they go?”
“South, to Antioch.”
A nod, as if affirming a previous notion. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes. Why do your lips not move when you speak?”
“That is not important. Stand up.”
Robert did so. His knee did not hurt him. He felt stronger than ever.
“These knights, did they, too, take innocent lives in the war?”
“Yes.”
“Then they must be punished.”
“Yes.”
“Find them. Slay them. And then kill the child. Do you understand?”
“The child? Surely the child does not deserve death.”
“The child is ill. His death will end his suffering.”
Robert could see that the monk was right, why had he not seen that before?
“Now go.”
Robert removed his chainmail and leapt from the firelight like a startled stag. He did not take his sword. He sniffed the air and immediately found the scent of the older and younger crusader. He began to run. Behind him, the monk’s face began to change color and shape, revealing its true aspect.
***
It was dark and had been for several hours, but Hugh Drogos de Merlon was not asleep. He couldn’t remember ever having slept. He looked at the child still unconscious on the stretcher. The child was light, there was barely any weight in him and the task of carrying the boy throughout the day had been in stark contrast to that of carrying Robert Occitane, the man they had left behind to die. The lighter load had simply burdened Hugh’s spirits all the more.
Hugh spat into the fire. Then, he heard something. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck and he kicked out at the gently snoring mass of chainmail and goatee that was Simon Alaire.
“Wake up, old one.”
Simon grunted, then farted. “I’m awake, and who are you calling old?”
“Something’s coming.”
Simon sat up and listened. He was a warrior of many years’ experience but could sense nothing. However, the expression of concern on the handsome well-to-do face of his companion was not something he would ever ignore. Hugh was a spoilt prick of the first merit, but he was a skilled scout and had younger ears. Simon reached for his sword.
Simon’s grip on the hilt of his sword loosened when Robert Occitane walked into the firelight.
“Robert, my God!” Simon got to his feet with the speed of a much younger man and hugged his companion. Robert did not return the hug but looked at Simon as if seeing him for the first time. He seemed puzzled at something.
Hugh said, “Your knee, how did you …? How are you here?”
Simon bristled. “Sour-faced bastard, what does it matter? Robert, sit by the fire, let me look at your knee.” Robert sat and Simon joined him. The older crusader remarked, “It looks better, by all that’s holy. It’s a miracle. He patted Robert on the back and beamed.
Robert stared from the older knight to the younger. Then his eyes fixed upon the child.
The boy was now sitting up on the stretcher, returning Robert’s stare. Hugh and Simon were startled at the sudden wakefulness of the child and watched on, baffled at the interaction between the child and the Marshal.
The child got up slowly from the stretcher and walked over to Hugh Drogos de Merlon. The frail boy took Hugh’s hand in his and with his free hand pointed at Robert Occitane. He shook his little head and began to cry softly. His eyes were big and imploring behind his tears.
Hugh looked at Robert and an unknown fear gripped his heart. “Simon, get away from him,” Hugh said.
Simon Alaire looked at Hugh quizzically. “What?”
More urgently, “Get away from Robert.”
Robert Occitane began to get to his feet; Hugh mirrored his action, and drew his sword.
“What are you talking about? Put your sword away,” said Simon, standing by Robert’s side. “Why can’t you ever be glad for anything?”
Robert turned to Simon and looked at him the way a butcher looks at a pig: there was no malice, simply intent.
“For God’s sake, Simon. Move away!”
Something in the younger man’s tone registered with Simon and he moved just as Robert lunged at him with a feral grin, sharpened teeth narrowly missing a fatal clamp on the older knight’s throat, but the creature that was once Robert Occitane was now upon Simon, tearing at his chain mailed chest. Simon fell to the ground and threw his forearm up to protect himself as Robert bit at it, searing through the metal and puncturing flesh. Simon’s cry of pain joined the guttural howling of the clawed and fanged creature upon him.
Hugh cursed the creature upon Simon; he cursed Simon; he cursed the child; he cursed his parents for sending him to war; he cursed the war; he cursed the dark lifeless forest that afforded no food or water; he cursed himself. Nothing had ever gone as he’d planned; nothing had ever worked out. He’d been promised so much but had received so little in life thus far. How he found himself here, in this nightmare, he did not understand. His frustration overpowered his fear.
“I don’t deserve this!” he screamed.
“Get it off me!” Simon screamed back.
The child was howling in fear. Hugh swung his sword, his father’s sword, not that he’d ever lived up to his father, but the sword swung true, cleaving through Robert’s elbow and separating forelimb from the upper arm. The blow nearly took off Simon’s nose, and he would later accuse Hugh of not showing proper diligence. Hugh would shrug, and say, “saved your life, didn’t I?”
Smug bastard.
The creature pointed its severed limb at Hugh and blood spattered over Hugh’s face. Somehow blood did not enter the young knight’s eye as the creature had intended, a blind man in the next few moments would be a dead man.
The strangest of thoughts went through Simon Alaire’s head as the howling creature resumed its attack. A voice said, “We spent days trying to heal Robert’s injured knee, and now that spoilt fop doodle cuts off his fucking arm, just like that. What a waste.”
“Robert is trying to kill you, I think it’s fair enough,” said another voice in Simon’s head.
Simon slammed his knee upwards into the creature’s balls, causing it to exhale violently and pause its one-armed barrage of blows for a moment.
Hugh swung at the creature’s head and somehow missed.
Simon promised himself that he would run Hugh through a few basic weapon training drills if he survived.
Hugh now plunged his sword through the creature’s back and it exited through his stomach, the tip of the blade coming to rest on Simon’s solar plexus. Had it not been for the armor he wore, the sword would have caused a grievous injury to the goateed knight.
Simon began to wonder if Hugh was actually trying to kill him.
The thing that was once Robert Occitane was now mortally wounded. Its blackened eyes began to flicker. It stopped attacking and Simon pushed it off.
The creature now lay on its back, moments from death. And then it spoke in the voice of Robert Occitane once more.
“Where am I? Where is the monk?”
Simon took Robert’s head in his lap, ignoring the burning pain in his punctured forearm. He wiped blood from the dying man’s forehead. “The monk, did he do this to you?”
“He… I cannot remember. Is the boy alright?”
“Yes, Robert he is fine.”
“Good, good. He wanted to harm the boy, but you mustn’t let anything happen to him.”
And then Robert Occitane, Marshal and Crusader, died.
Simon Alaire had known the man a bare two weeks, but he wept like a child at a puppy’s funeral.
***
“Damnation, my forearm hurts!” enthused Simon Alaire, nursing his wounded limb.” If I… if I begin to turn into…” he looked at the corpse of Robert Occitane lying on funeral pyre of dried leaves, “one of them, you know what must be done.”
“Why take any chances?” responded Hugh squinting into the morning sun. “Let me do it now.”
“Fuck you, de Merlon.”
“We have to get out of this forest, Simon, and we have to rid ourselves of this child. First the child’s mother, and now Robert. The Devil pursues the boy and as far as I care, he can have him.”
Simon scowled in pain and derision. “You would leave an innocent child to die out here? You’re a coward.” Simon patted the mute child upon the shoulder, a weak attempt, he knew, to reassure the boy.
“Go ahead. I’ve been called worse.”
“You’re a high-born coward, rapist and child murderer.”
Hugh shook his head, almost sadly. “No, you don’t judge me. Not you. The Pope forgave us. I have absolution. I did no wrong. It was war.”
“If you believe that, then I’ll add ‘idiot’ to the other charges I lay against you.”
“Alright, Simon. You protect the boy and go off and fight the Devil. I’m going home to a soft bed, servants and warm baths. That child will drag you to Hell.”
“Piss off home then and spend the rest of your days forcing the maid to suck your dick, but the day you die, you’re the one going straight to Hell. You want absolution? This child is your chance at redemption. It wasn’t down to chance that we crossed paths.”
“I think you’re delusional. Your wound has poisoned your brain.”
“Come on, lad,” said Simon winking at the boy, “let’s get you out of this place.” The older knight kissed the forehead of the corpse of Robert Occitane and then he put his arm around the boy’s shoulder and they walked away.
Hugh Drogos de Merlon watched them go. He could hear the older crusader prattling at the child. He listened.
“You know boy, my wife and I, we never had children. I was always busy off warring somewhere or other. More fool me. Come home with us. She makes mighty fine gingerbread. Do you like gingerbread?”
And then Hugh was alone. He looked around. The morning was breaking bright through the sickly trees; there would be ample light today. A good day to move fast. He would not die in this accursed forest. What did Alaire know of redemption? He was as guilty as all the rest.
He took an ember from the dying fire and placed it under the dried leaves supporting the body of body of Robert Occitane. He raised his fist. “Deus Vult.”
Hugh slung his crossbow over one shoulder and his rucksack over the other and left the campsite, moving quickly, encumbered by neither the old, the young nor any feelings of remorse.
***
Night settled like dust on a corpse. Hugh didn’t light a fire, for he knew that whatever evil lurked within the woods would be attracted by the light, as the last few days had proved. He sat against a tree bole planning his return to the outside world, the world after the war. He had never been favored by the Gods. He was neither a great scholar nor a warrior of any reputation, but he would live long, and that, in itself, would be recompense. Let the brave and noble die young,
Hugh knew that if one day he fucked the wrong whore, he would die slowly of syphilis, bed ridden, incontinent and insane in his middle years, or if he were lucky, in golden old age, but right now that seemed a glorious alternative to having his intestines ripped out at the hands of the Devil in these forsaken woods at the tender age of twenty-three.
He sat fuming at his circumstances, the absurdity of it all. Then, he heard the soft, brushing echo of sandaled feet on pine needles. From the other side of the tree, twenty yards off to his left and another twenty to his right, hooded figures, and a third on the gentle pine-scented slope above him.
Monks, or so they appeared. Robert had mentioned a monk. He froze and watched them. Hugh recognized the pattern they moved in; it was military. They swept the forest, looking for something. They had not seen him, ensconced as he was in the tree roots. These were not monks. No, these things were hunting something, most likely the old crusader and the child. These monsters had turned Robert, and the child’s mother, of this Hugh was suddenly sure. And there, at the edge of his vision, grey and moving like a ghost through the trees, a fourth figure.
Hugh felt his bowels loosen in fear. It was all he could do not to shit in his britches.
He did not move, did not breathe, and they passed by, moving swiftly south. Hugh estimated that they would catch up with Simon and the boy some time on the morrow, or even sooner if the child moved slowly.
Hugh breathed out silently and looked up at the stars twinkling behind the bare intertwined branches of the trees. He knew Simon and the child stood no chance against the hooded ones, particularly if the hunters came upon the prey while they slept, and an old man and a child would be sleeping, of that there could be no doubt: the one too old and the other too young to keep their eyes open in the mid of night.
When Hugh had sensed the hunters had passed by, he rubbed his face in his hands and grimaced.
They had no chance, he thought.
God damn them. God damn them.
I will die in my bed an old, rich baron, he said to himself.
He looked at the stars again and then at the earth at his feet. In the absence of moonlight, he could not see the struggle of worm against soil, of plant against darkness. But he felt it, somewhere deep inside.
“Futility,” he said softly, shaking his head.
He thought once more of the small Muslim child. Her eyes, so large, had penetrated his own as they stood facing each other. Her pale dress was covered in blood, a crimson spattering, as if she’d been eating the ripest of cherries. There was no fear in those eyes, only a deep comprehension of the idiocy and horror of war, a comprehension he now shared.
Hugh sighed. After a long moment, he got up and began to silently follow the creatures disguised as monks.
***
“And gingerbread, she makes wonderful gingerbread, did I mention that, lad?”
The child nodded solemnly as he clung to the back of Simon Alaire. The crusader looked at the sky. The sun was now low in the sky. They had made less progress this day than he would have liked. Surely, this forest must end soon, thought Simon. Even a child as light as this one made his legs feel heavy.
A fatalistic part of Simon Alaire’s mind knew that neither he nor the child would ever make it out of these eternal woods alive. God’s will, he thought: one must simply fight the good fight and accept it, and yet when the child whispered his first words into his ear, Simon’s heart sank.
“They’re coming,” said the boy quietly and hoarsely.
Simon stopped and looked around him: another clearing, another carpet of pine needles. This would be as good a place as any, he thought. He briefly considered cutting the boy’s throat, but dismissed the notion.
He put the boy down, knelt and placed both of his hands on his frail shoulders. He looked into the boy’s eyes. “I don’t know what you have done to upset the Devil, boy, but I don’t care. You are innocent, that I know, and so I am sworn to defend you by my honor as a Crusader and a Christian, though I have not always acted so honorably.” Simon bowed his head. “I know you understand not a jot of what I have just said, son.”
The boy looked scared and confused.
Simon looked up into the boy’s frightened eyes once more. “I am here with you, do you understand?”
The boy nodded.
“Good, do not fear death, boy. A better place awaits. Your mother, as she was, awaits.”
The boy nodded again.
Frozen air washed over Simon’s back. He steeled himself, stood and turned to face the threat, whatever it may be. Hooded and menacing, they came into the far end of the clearing. Three of them. Wizards, demons, Simon knew not what they were, but he had heard stories of evil spirits dressed as holy men that possessed the living, of spells that burrowed deep into the ear, driving one mad, feral. He would not listen to their words, their chanting. He hummed a tune to focus his mind, to keep them out of his head.
Merry it is while summer lasts
With birds’ song;
But now draws near the wind’s blast
And weather strong.
Ei, ei, what, this night is long!
And I with very great wrong
Sorrow and mourn and fast.
Simon Alaire stood in front of the boy. The hooded monks stopped twenty yards from the man and child. Simon urged them on, for this could not be a long-range battle. He was a swordsman, not an archer or a mage.
Simon reached for a dagger at his belt and threw it at the sorcerer. It did not reach its target. Hitting an invisible barrier an arm’s length from the monk, the dagger dropped with a dull thud to the forest floor.
The three hoods were removed as one. Green, parchment-thin skin stretched over sharp cheek bones and beaked noses. They all grinned. Goblins, ghouls, necromancers, Simon could not say just what these wraith-like shadows were, but it did not matter. His heart raced, but he breathed evenly. He must kill them, or be slain.
One of the creatures began to make shapes in the air with its scaled hands. Simon moved forward, intending to stop the spell before it was cast, but his progress was impaired by the other two creatures, now holding dull, black, curved blades.
But this was something Simon Alaire understood. Ask him of witchcraft and magic and he would tell you that he knew little. But swordplay, now that he was weaned on.
The turf beneath Simon’s feet was rich and soft. He kicked it and it spewed up into the faces of the monks. They spat and blinked and Simon moved in swinging.
To Simon’s surprise the monks blocked every attack, despite both being half blinded. They were excellent swordsman, and Simon began to despair.
His heart sank further when the skeletal remains of a Saracen warrior erupted from a grave of foliage, curved scimitar in its decaying hand. Still possessing flesh, albeit rotted, Simon estimated the corpse was no older than two weeks. It was now three swords against one.
A crossbow bolt penetrated the neck of the chanting monk. After exiting the neck of its victim, it embedded itself in a pine tree. Green ichor dripped from the shaft and feathers. The monk, through whose neck the bolt had passed, stared in amazement at Simon. The sorcerer then dropped to his knees. The Saracen cadaver followed suit. Both tipped forward onto the moist earth, the monk dying for the first time, the Saracen for the second.
The two remaining monks gibbered at each other, quickly scanning the tree line through which they had entered the clearing. Seeing something, one of the monks began to chant, and a wall of fire erupted from the ground in front of him and swept towards a cluster of trees, exploding against bark and branch. Hugh Drogos de Merlon came running from behind the trees, crossbow in hand and hair on fire.
Simon Alaire had not paused, despite the bizarre events unfolding before his eyes, as hesitation meant death for any soldier, and he had not lived all these years by staring open mouthed in battle. As Hugh came screaming into the clearing, Simon beheaded the closest monk.
Hugh dived head first into a patch of sodden earth, plastering the damp soil over his head and extinguishing the fire.
Simon aimed a killing blow at the second monk, a blow that never found its mark, for the creature in monk’s robes deflected the blow and returned one of his own. Simon Alaire ducked and heaved his sword at the midriff of his opponent.
“If in doubt boy, go for the middle,” his instructor had said, a thousand years ago. “They won’t jump it, and they won’t duck it. Right about the navel.”
Simon Alaire sliced open the lower intestines of the foul green-skinned creature posing as a man of God. It tried to hold its guts within the wound, and then Simon sword-stabbed it through the eye. It dropped to the forest floor.
“Where is the other one?!” screamed Hugh, his head still smoking. “There were four!”
Simon scanned the environment. There, on the other side of the clearing, the fourth demon, bow in hand, not an earthly bow, a glowing crystal weapon, string drawn back.
Aimed at the child. Simon moved as fast as he could, faster than a man of his age had a right to, faster than he’d ever moved in his youth.
But not fast enough. The magic arrow was loosed before Simon could cut down the bowman. The old crusader had tears in his eyes as he hacked the demon to pieces. He’d been too slow.
But Hugh had covered the body of the child with his own. He took the arrow in the back and grunted in pain. The arrow penetrated his muscle, lung and ribs, and carried straight on, wide of the child and burying itself in the mud.
He missed, thought Hugh. He fucking missed.
Simon Alaire gently rolled Hugh over, there was no sign of the foul arrow. Blood soaked through Hugh’s chainmail and bubbled from his mouth. The child was weeping quietly.
“I thought you’d abandoned us,” said Simon.
Hugh laughed. It hurt. He wanted to tell Simon that they boy would be as good as dead with only Simon as his protector. He couldn’t get the sentence out.
“Why’d you come back?” asked Simon.
The stars were beginning to appear in the evening sky. “Redemption,” whispered Hugh Drogos de Merlon.
Simon held the young man’s hand. “You have it, son.”
A small girl entered the clearing and approached the fallen knight. Hugh’s eyes followed her as she approached. It was the girl with the large brown eyes, the one who came to him often in his dreams.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Hugh.
Simon Alaire looked around but could not see who Hugh was talking to.
The child put her finger to her lips, hushing the dying crusader. All is forgiven. She smiled and took something from a small pocket in her crimson-stained dress. She placed it on Hugh’s lips. Hugh tasted it.
“Gingerbread,” he whispered.
Then Hugh Drogos de Merlon died.
***
Josephine Alaire was hanging washing when she saw her husband and a young child walking down the dirt lane. She stood puzzled for a moment and put her hands on her hips. Her quizzical look soon faded and she smiled in wonder at the frail figure in the large shadow of the man she had married.
When Simon opened the gate and allowed the child, looking wide-eyed at Josephine, inside, she asked no questions. She smoothed back her graying hair and tied it in a ponytail and wiped her hands on her apron.
She leaned forward and spoke to the child, “Do you like gingerbread? I happen to have some fresh out of the oven.”
The child nodded.
And they all went inside to eat.
©February 2019, Cameron Kirk
Cameron Kirk is interested in travelling the world looking for lost treasure, meeting alien life and fighting horrific creatures while wielding a sword. In lieu of the real thing, he writes it. His work has been seen in Alcyone, Antipodean SF, and Aphotic Realm. He won Best of Fiction 2017 at Across the Margins. More of his work can be found at https://shanghaicam.wixsite.com/website.