Burning Shadows (42 page)

“Ideally, yes. We can decide which road or path to tell the courier to use later this evening. The sooner we send our dispatch, the sooner we may have an answer,” said Priam Corydon.

“Even if that answer is no, as it is likely to be,” remarked Bernardius, then lifted his head as if to defend himself. “What makes any of you think that Verus Flautens will send us soldiers? What if he hasn’t any more to provide? Drobetae itself may have been attacked by Huns, and all the soldiers are needed to protect the town from another assault.”

“Like us; we beg for more soldiers because we are losing ours too rapidly,” said Neves. “I’ll ask my men, and Bernardius can ask his, who among them is willing to carry the report to Drobetae. One of them must be willing to risk being chased by Huns.” He snapped his fingers. “Oios knows the roads in this region. He may be willing to go. He’s a brave enough fellow.” He turned toward the door. “When the payment agreement is ready, I’ll put my name to it.” 

“Thank you,” said Priam Corydon, making the sign of the cross in his direction, and then the sign of the fish.

“I’ll sign it, as well,” said Bernardius.

Mangueinic shifted uncomfortably on his crutch. “If there is reason for me to put my mark on it, I will.”

“How will I know that you are going to abide by your agreement?” Denhirac asked testily.

“You know because I will swear by Christ the Savior to do so,” said Priam Corydon, his countenance becoming severe. “I will bind the salvation of my soul to the terms of this agreement, if it will allay your reservations.”

“Then I will speak to those few of my men who are still here; if any of them are willing to cut wood for a lamb, I’ll let you know before we retire tonight. One way or another, the work will be done.” He saluted the others with great formality and left the warehouse.

“That,” said Mangueinic, “is an impatient man.”

“Not without reason,” Neves said. “We have work to do, comrades, and we had best be about it.”

Priam Corydon made the sign of the cross. “Come, Monachos Niccolae.” He rose from his bench, gesturing to his recorder. “You and I will have to explain our decisions to the rest of the monks and novices.”

“Yes, Priam,” said Monachos Niccolae as he gathered up his vellum, goose-quill pen, and jar of fixed ink and prepared to follow him.

Bernardius, Neves, and Mangueinic were left alone in the warehouse. The place was growing dark as the last of sunset faded from the sky, leaving the two clerestory windows aglowing deep-blue. The three took a little time to gather their thoughts, then Neves said, “At least work will continue on the walls.”

“That’s something,” said Mangueinic.

“We can train some of the refugees to man the ballistas; that would be helpful just now,” Neves went on.

“Not all the refugee men want to fight,” said Bernardius, “but it’s probably worth a try. I’ll ask among my townsfolk.”

“If we stay in here much longer, people will think we’re plotting against the Priam and Denhirac,” Bernardius remarked.

“True enough,” Neves said, and started toward the door.

“Do we meet here later, or at the monastery?” Mangueinic asked, working his crutch to gain more speed.

“Probably at the monastery. I don’t think the Priam will seek us out.” Neves sounded annoyed, but he continued out into the deepening twilight, the increasing darkness banished by the large fire at the center of the compound where the carcasses of deer turned on spits and the smell of smoke, venison, wild garlic, and thyme filled the air.

“When do your men change their posts?” Bernardius asked. “Is it the same as most evenings, or have you assigned another hour?”

“It is the same as it has been,” said Neves. “As I assume it is for your men.”

“Most of them, yes, but not all.” Bernardius cleared his throat and spat. “Our ranks have thinned, as have all ranks, and I am hard put to fill the posts on the battlements, so I have lengthened the watches stood to a half a day or half a night and staggered the times of service so they overlap, giving the appearance of more guards than we have. Or so I hope. Having more of the refugees to add to their numbers will embolden my soldiers.”

“So that’s what you’ve been doing—lengthening the watches your men stand,” Neves exclaimed. “A good precaution. Astute of you.”

“More necessity than cleverness, I fear,” said Bernardius, opening the door for the three of them. “After supper, when we’ve spoken to our men, we should meet at the horse-trough, and decide how to deal with the messengers and the woodsmen. I hope we have some volunteers.”

They stood together outside the door, looking serious. Neves finally broke their silence. “I trust we’ll have good news by then.”

“Truly,” said Mangueinic, and would have said more but the loud, unmelodious clang of the alarm sounded.

“The outer walls are burning!” came the shout from the gate-tower.

“Huns!” Mangueinic started toward the center of the compound.

“No,” Neves said, loudly enough to be heard. “No sentry or guard reported them approaching.”

“There has been no lightning,” Mangueinic said. “It has to be Huns.”

“Then they killed the sentries and guards,” growled Bernardius.

“All of them?” Neves asked, starting toward the lower gate that led to the fields and the outer wall where smoke was beginning to churn into the twilight sky. “And no one noticed?”

“It doesn’t matter the cause: the fires must be put out,” said Mangueinic, and started off as rapidly as he could go toward the inner gate, bellowing as he went, “Men of Apulum Inferior! To your posts! Bring water, and form a line to quench the flames!”

“But if there are Huns …” Bernardius began, then his words faded as the fire began to shine along the tops of the outer stockade. “We must be careful, in case this is another deceptive tactic.”

“Then we must have the men take up their positions on the inner walls!” Neves shouted, running after Mangueinic. “We must put it out!”

Men came running from the center of the compound, their hands still shining with the grease of the basted deer they were dining upon. Some carried weapons, others held buckets of water, and still others had baskets of stones. Bernardius took up the task of directing them toward the outer walls or the battlements of the inner walls, all the while shouting encouragement and scrambled Latin phrases.

“What would you like me to do?” The voice came from a short distance behind Bernardius, and it shocked him to hear so reasonable a question. He swung around and looked into Niklos Aulirios’ face.

“Are the horses safe?” Bernardius asked.

“For now. I put the grooms to wetting down the outside of the stable and the barn, though neither is very near the flames.” Niklos paused. “I also ordered two of them into the roof, to stamp out sparks.”

“A good idea,” said Bernardius. “If you’re willing, would you go around from the main gate to the fire and see if you can find anything that might reveal who did this?”

“You mean you want me to find out if the forest is full of Huns,” said Niklos, faintly amused.

“Or brigands, or Gothic outlaws, or—well, who can say?” He coughed as the smoke thickened.

Niklos reverenced Bernardius as elegantly as a Byzantine courtier would have done. “I shall inform Dom Sanctu-Germainios of my mission, and will report to you as soon as I am finished with my inspection.”

“If the fire enters the forest, things will go badly for us,” Bernardius warned. “We must have trees to repair the walls—more so now than this morning.”

“I’ll observe as much as I can, and I’ll tell you what I find, but you probably shouldn’t hope for too much.” He turned away and strode off to the old chapel, entering by the side-door and finding Sanctu-Germainios setting out medicaments. “I suppose you know?” he asked in Greek.

He sighed and spoke in the same tongue, “About the fire: how could I not? This will bring trouble.”

“As if we didn’t have any already,” said Niklos. He studied Sanctu-Germainios narrowly. “Bernardius has asked me to go outside the outer walls to assess the damage.”

“Because he can spare you, I suppose,” said Sanctu-Germainios.

“I’m not one of his soldiers, or one of Neves’ mercenaries, or one of the refugees, so I am more expendable than most.” Niklos chuckled his exasperation. “I think I had better do it, don’t you?”

“It would probably be advisable,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “But be circumspect.”

“I know: Olivia would kill me if I died again.” Niklos ducked his head. “If I’m not back by midnight, look for what’s left of me in the morning.” He took a step back. “Where’s your ice-eyed companion?”

“In the women’s dormitory,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “There has been an outbreak of fever there.”

“The fire won’t help that,” said Niklos, and departed. He walked quickly to the horse-trough and drenched himself with water, then went to the main gate and slipped out through the warder’s door to the outer wall of the monastery. Above him on the ramparts, a few of the guards still remained, but most had gone to fight the fire; Niklos kept in the shadow of the wall, not wanting to take an arrow in his flesh because a soldier thought he was an enemy.

The outer walls were more than half a league around, but Niklos covered the distance to the fire quickly. Nearing the shallow end of the lake, he saw the first of the flames gnawing away at the standing logs; the fire crackled and spat as it reached pockets of resin in the newly cut trunks. Niklos peered through the smoke, glad for once that ghouls did not have to breathe very often. The trees nearest the lake had been cut down during the most recent rebuilding of the fortifications, and most of the underbrush had been cleared away as well, so there were no signs of the fire spreading—at least not yet, he reminded himself. He approached as near to the burning stockade as he dared, noticing that the wind was blowing toward the buildings inside the walls rather than toward the forest. “That’s something to be pleased about,” he said aloud, and continued down toward the lake, wanting to wet himself down again before he continued his survey. Wading into the shallows, he crouched down and began lifting handfuls of water and pouring them over his head and shoulders. He rose slowly when he was soaked again, and looked around the edge of the lake, searching for any sign of men waiting for the breach in the wall to widen sufficiently for them to storm the defenses. He caught sight of what appeared to be a mound of rags at the edge of the lake, a dozen strides from where he stood. Frowning, he started toward the heap, and halted as he heard an agonized voice come from within the pile.

“God’s Will. God’s Will.” The voice cracked, and the mass of rags lurched.

Niklos moved quickly, going to the fallen man, who lay supine, half in and half out of the water; Niklos was aware as he did that this could be a trap, that the man at the edge of the lake could be one of many others bent on catching him unaware. He felt for the dagger in his belt, prepared to use it. He reached the ragged figure and saw that his monkish garments were dreadfully burned, as were his hands and face. After he had taken a little time to look around, wishing as he did that he had a vampire’s night-seeing eyes, he bent down next to the man. “You’re badly hurt,” he said, slowly and distinctly. “Do you understand me?”

“God’s Will,” the man whispered.

“Do you hear me?” Niklos persisted.

“I hear,” the man answered. “The fire …”

“Yes, there is a fire.”

“Is it still burning?”

“It is,” Niklos answered, fearing the man’s eyes had been damaged; his eyebrows were singed away and most of his face looked as if the skin had been melted.

“Is the wall destroyed?”

“It’s … damaged,” said Niklos.

“Oh,” said the man, his tone remote.

Making up his mind, Niklos said to the man, “I’m going to pick you up and carry you into the monastery where your burns can be treated.”

“No. No!” The man thrust out with his scorched hands; he writhed desperately as Niklos took hold of him.

“I promise you I will hurt you as little as possible,” he said, and dragged the man upright as he wailed. In another abrupt motion, he slung the man up and over his shoulder, his arm holding him in place.

“No! God’s Will! God’s Will!”

Moving slowly so that he could maintain his hold on the squirming man, Niklos made his way back toward the main gate, trying not to listen to the howls the man made. Getting through the warder’s door was difficult, but after two tries, he succeeded, emerging inside the walls to see that the flames were dying, and as much steam as smoke was rising from the outer wall. He started toward the old chapel, but slowed as Priam Corydon approached him with Mangueinic. “I saw no signs of Huns,” he said as they came up to him.

“Then what’s that?” Mangueinic asked, pointing to Niklos’ miserable burden.

“I found him at the lake. He’s badly burned.”

“Let me look at him,” said Priam Corydon.

“He’s not a pleasant sight,” Niklos warned as he lowered the man from his shoulder and helped him to stand upright.

Priam Corydon stared at the tarnished silver crucifix hanging from a braided leather thong around the man’s neck; he made the sign of the fish. “Monachos Anatolios,” he mumbled as if his lips had lost all feeling.