Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1) (31 page)

‘Look out!’ I yelled.

Again the boulder was careering a deadly path down the slope.

By then I knew it was no accident. Someone on the crest was trying to kill us.

For a second time the boulder missed. It leaped through the gap between us, bounding down the slope with a great crashing. Shards of rock flew up whenever it struck another boulder.

I bellowed at the trooper to come back. He flung himself sideways from his saddle, landing on the slope above him. He had the reins in hand, hauling on them, trying by brute force to make his
horse turn on the narrow path. The animal gave a whinny of protest and spun on its haunches, turning so that its front hooves were clawing on the loose gravel of the upper slope as it tried to find
a purchase. At that moment the trooper himself lost his footing and, arms flailing, slid down under the belly of the horse.

The tangle proved fatal. A third rock came tumbling down. It was larger than the others, and halfway towards us it struck an outcrop of rock and split into two. The smaller part, no larger than
a blacksmith’s anvil, bounced higher and higher until it struck the trooper squarely and with tremendous force. I felt the thud of the impact, and then the scream of the horse as in the same
instant the collision smashed the beast over the edge of the path. The trooper, his hand still twisted in the reins, was dragged away with his mount. Beast and man went slithering down the slope in
a sickening whirl of hooves, arms and legs, bouncing off the rocks as they followed the fatal boulder that had outstripped its victims. Finally they came to a rest in the bottom of the ravine.
Neither could have survived that terrible fall.

Now the hidden enemy turned his attention on me. I was the only target remaining. I kicked my feet out of the stirrups and swung myself down from the saddle, stumbling as I landed on the broken
ground. I made no attempt to make the mare turn but pushed past her flank, leaving her where she was as I ran for my life back the way we had come. The loose ground crunched and shifted beneath my
boots, though thankfully not loudly enough to drown out the warning thud and clatter of the next boulder as it was launched down the slope. I looked up and judged its path. Then I dived to one
side, flattening myself against the hillside, feeling the ground shudder beneath me as the rock careered off the rocks. It missed me by a yard or more, and then I was up and running, away down the
path and around the next corner in terror.

I had gone perhaps twenty paces when, to my horror, I heard someone chasing down the track behind me. I dared not look over my shoulder and expected a lance point in my back at any moment. Then,
to my relief, my panic-struck mare came slamming and barging past me, almost knocking me off the trail. The creature had managed to turn herself around unaided, and was bolting. I reached out,
grabbed a stirrup with both hands as she pushed past me and clung on. I was bounced and dragged beside her down the path, and I feared she would run off the track and fall, taking us both down to
our deaths. But somehow she managed to carry me, half running, half dragged, for more than a mile before she slowed enough for me to heave myself back into the saddle and gather up the reins.

By then we were well away from the ridge, and I rode on shakily until I caught up with the trooper walking his lame horse. By a stroke of luck we came across Hroudland very soon afterwards. He
was out with a score of cavalrymen, checking on his patrols.

As soon as the count heard what had happened, he went galloping off at full tilt, hoping to catch the hidden attackers before they left the scene.

But it was too late. He returned some hours later, riding up to our camp at the head of his men, faces covered in dust, their horses lathered and weary. His first words were, ‘Patch, you
were lucky. We found marks up on the ridge where a lever was used to dislodge the rocks. But the enemy was gone.’

‘What about the trooper who was knocked off the track?’ I asked.

‘A mangled corpse. One of my men clambered down to take a look. All blood and broken bones.’ He swung himself down from the saddle and walked over to the campfire, his face serious.
‘Tomorrow I’ll call the men together and warn them to be more on their guard.’

‘Any sign of a village where the attackers could have come from?’ asked Berenger, who had been scouting out on our left flank.

The count shook his head.

‘If there had been, I’d have got the truth out of them.’

Then I noticed something odd. One of Hroudland’s riders had come back with an extra brunia tied to his saddle which, I presumed, he had salvaged from the corpse of the dead man. A brunia
was a costly piece of equipment and most of the mailed jackets worn by the men were on loan from the royal armoury; it seemed strange that the mysterious assailants had not stayed long enough to
plunder their victim.

T
HE
AMBUSH
AND
THE
TROOPER
’
S
death cast a shadow over our advance. We were still in Vascon land, yet to enter Saracen territory. So we should have had a peaceful journey because the Vascons were Christians like
ourselves. Instead with every mile we travelled, we were met with increasing hostility. The Vascons hid their stores of food, blocked or polluted wells, and if we asked directions, they sent us in
the wrong direction. Hroudland had begun drinking heavily again and, in keeping with the prickly mood of our troops, he became erratically aggressive and surly. When we reached the Vascon capital
at Pamplona, he proposed to Eggihard that the army should storm and ransack the city to repay the Vascons for all the trouble they had caused us. The city walls were still as derelict as when I had
seen them on my way to Brittany; they would not have withstood a determined assault. Eggihard bluntly told the count that the army had come to Hispania to assist the rebel Saracens, not plunder the
Vascons, and there was a blazing row between them. Hroudland stormed out of the meeting and rode away with his vanguard, leaving the main army to fend for itself.

With Hroudland in such an ugly mood I made a habit of keeping out of his way as we pushed on to Zaragoza. I was thinking about Osric and wondering what had happened to him. It was three months
since I had given him his freedom and left him with Wali Husayn. Part of me hoped that he had been able to leave Zaragoza and return to the place where he had grown up, but another part of me was
looking forward to meeting him again. I had come to appreciate that nothing had replaced his companionship since the days when King Offa had sent me into exile. I suppose that I was falling victim
to long-delayed feelings of loneliness. No longer having Osric by my side had made me realize just how much I had relied on him as a mentor and a confidant, and so I eagerly anticipated our meeting
and the renewal of trust that it would bring.

With this in mind I rode ahead of everyone else during the final few miles of our approach to Zaragoza, through the orchards that surrounded the city. After several days of uncomfortably hot
sunshine, the sky had partially clouded over and a slight breeze made the morning pleasantly cool. I had decided to put on full armour, helmet and brunia, and was carrying my battle shield and
sword, hoping to impress any herald that Husayn would send out to welcome us, for the wali would surely know of the approach of Hroudland’s vanguard, even if Eggihard and the main force
lagged several days behind.

Riding through the lines of plum and orange trees, I was reminded of the day I had first come there with Wali Husayn after our journey through the mountains. We had used the very same track for
I recognized a small wooden bridge that crossed one of the many irrigation channels. Now, of course, the trees were in full leaf, their fruit nearly ripe, and there was just enough breeze to gently
sway the laden branches. I was happy and relaxed as I rode, turning over in my mind what I might discuss with Wali Husayn. I hoped there would be the chance to share another pleasant evening meal
beside the reflecting pool in his palace. All around me the orchards were very quiet except for the croaking of several ravens that circled over me. I saw no one. The hoof beats of my horse, the
same nervous mare that had saved my life, were muffled by the soft earth between the fruit trees. I savoured the calm and stillness, glad to be clear of Hroudland and his snappish temper. He and
his escort of riders would be at least a mile behind me. I felt an unexpected surge of pride at the idea that after two months’ march from Brittany, I would be the first person in the army to
sight Zaragoza.

A movement some distance ahead caught my attention. A small troop of horsemen was moving at a walk across my path. They appeared and disappeared among the lines of tree trunks. It was difficult
to tell their exact number but I recognized them immediately as Saracens; their mounts were their typical small, high stepping horses. They wore flowing mantles and I identified them as cavalrymen,
for they wore helmets and carried lances. I congratulated myself that Wali Husayn had sent out an escort to greet Hroudland and bring him into the city, showing the count the same honour that the
wali received from his own followers. For days I had been telling the count that Husayn was a civilized and cultured nobleman and I was hopeful that such a courtesy would help dispel
Hroudland’s sour temper.

The riders were crossing my path about a hundred paces ahead and had not seen me. Perhaps they were not expecting a lone rider. So I called out a greeting. I saw the little group stop and turn
in my direction. I reined in my horse and sat quietly as they trotted towards me. In my mind I was already rehearsing the formal phrases of welcome in the Saracen tongue which Osric had taught
me.

The Saracen cavalrymen must have been fifty paces from me when I noted the colour of the scarves around their helmets and the banners tied around their lances. It was a plain green. With a
sudden lurch in my stomach I recalled that every one of Husayn’s servants and soldiers had worn crimson.

Something was very wrong.

The riders were still coming towards me at a purposeful trot. My alarm sharpened my senses. Even at that distance I could detect that they were deliberately keeping their horses in check. It was
not the disciplined riding of well-trained cavalry. Belatedly it dawned on me that they were hoping to get very close before I realized who they were – the enemy.

I snatched on the reins and wrenched my horse’s head around and kicked hard. The mare threw up her head in outrage and broke into a gallop. I leaned forward in the saddle and shouted in
her ear, urging her on as we flew between the trees. Behind me I heard a triumphant cry and then whoops of excitement as the troopers took up the chase.

For them it must have been as easy as running down a wounded deer. My mare was not a creature to win races. She was very ordinary, more suited to a thirty-mile march than a mad, short sprint.
Her timidity gave her extra speed at the outset, but she could never outpace the Saracen horses now in pursuit.

I stayed low, ducking under the branches of the fruit trees, occasionally feeling the lash of twigs and foliage whipping across my helmet. I felt the mare leap an irrigation ditch, and urged her
on. The whoops and yells grew louder and nearer, and in what seemed only a few minutes I could feel the mare tiring beneath me. Her head began to droop and her breath was coming in gasps. I knew
that very soon she would stumble and go down. We came to a clearing in the orchard, no more than thirty paces across, and rather than take a spear in the back, I pulled up the exhausted beast, and
turned.

If I was to die, I thought to myself, I preferred to be facing the enemy. In a sudden flashback to my childhood, I knew my martial father would have wanted it to be that way.

My pursuers had strung out in a line. The leader was a lancer mounted on a small chestnut horse. He gave a shout of confident anticipation as he saw that I had turned and was at bay. Scarcely
breaking stride he lowered his lance and rode straight at me. The point with its fluttering scrap of green cloth was aimed squarely at my chest.

Whether it was luck or the hours of practice I had spent on the training ground below Hroudland’s great hall, I responded as the instructors had taught me. I gripped my horse with my knees
and thankfully the mare steadied for a moment, too tired to fidget. I concentrated fiercely on the lance tip. The green cloth tied around it made it so much easier. As it came darting towards me, I
swung up my shield and slapped aside the point so that it missed entirely. My enemy was riding at a full gallop and went racing past me on my left hand side, lying forward in the saddle so that the
small round shield slung between his shoulder blades protected his back. He was a youngster, scarcely into his teens, and his lighter weight had brought him to the front of the pursuit. He was
probably in his first hand to hand combat, for when I looked into his brown eyes for an instant I saw they were bright with the excitement of battle.

Then, without deliberate thought, I was rising in my stirrups as I had seen my instructors demonstrate time and again. My borrowed sword was in my right hand, and as my attacker drew level, I
chopped down the blade almost vertically. It caught the lad in the back of the neck, below the rim of his helmet. I felt the shock as the blade hit something solid, and then it was nearly ripped
from my hand as the lad slumped forward on his horse’s neck. A moment later he tumbled to the ground, his mantle tangling around his corpse.