A Walk in the Black Forest Page 2

  “Bloody barbarians,” said Sedrick, the youngest of the group.

  “Aye,” replied Tanak. “Keep your eyes alert, young pup, and your sword at the ready and you may live to fight another day.”

  “He’s still much to learn,” added Sir Richard. “Might be best for him to stay back and learn from the masters.”

  Used to the jesting by the older warriors, Sedrick replied, “If I’m to learn from you, old man,” he leaned forward in his saddle, “Tis unthinkable that we even won at the battle of Hastings. We know how weak that sword arm of yours can get.”

  Sir Richard harrumphed in reply.

  Tanak’s eyes glistened with mirth.

  “If the three of you are done socializing, might we get on with this?” Damon asked, his own mirth slipping through the seriousness of the situation. His men were weary of travel and of fighting and this was just one more fight. Sometimes the laughter helped, but now was not the time. Maybe after, Damon thought. After justice and vengeance, then they can rest and seek the mirth needed to ease their weary souls.

  Through the morning’s stillness, he slowly raised his sword to the sky. His men, bloodthirsty and fueled by aggression, tore down the hillside like deliverers of the Apocalypse, the ground churning beneath their horses’ hooves.

  Thirty rebels filled the lanes and pathways of the small burning village. Startled from their brief celebration, they looked on as hell came thundering.

  * * * * * *

  “Bloody Norman bastards,” the ringleader, Calder, spat, pulling his sword free of its sheath. His wind-worn features and grizzly beard were covered in grime. Blood stained his flimsy leather tunic and hands where he clutched his rough-honed short sword. His soulless black eyes arched in annoyance as his partially toothless mouth leered.

  “Gather round, me fellows.” Calder’s voice was rough like thunder through a glen as he bellowed, “‘Tis a good day to die!” He was resigned, wary as he watched the riders approach. Each of his men were dressed alike, leathers in muted earth tones, no armor or chain mail, no helmet or shield. Good colors for thrash and dash skirmishes, but ill-outfitted against armor-covered Knights.

  “What do we do, Calder?” his man, Tavish, questioned.

  “Kill them!” His stout limbs swung round to meet his foes.

  “But ‘tis the Dragon, Calder. And Dragon’s Blood he be carryin’,” Tavish replied.

  “Aye, and I’ll be seein’ if the Dragon bleeds his self,” Calder boasted.

  * * * * * *

  The horse’s hooves churned up clods of mud in the rain as the riders tore down the hillside. Battle cries echoed in tune with the howling wind.

  “A fools’ battle,” Tanak claimed as he and Damon road abreast, swords drawn and vengeance rising. “They stand no chance.”

  “Aye,” Damon grunted. “But justice shall be served this day.”

  As warrior met warrior, the clang of steel echoed through the village as though a bell, tolling each rebel’s demise. The ground turned to a bloody, mud-filled pit, dead men littering the ground. Above the din, Damon shouted fiercely, “Curb your fury, we need some alive so that we may know thy enemies’ name!”

  Tanak and Sedrick flanked him, forming a circle, each covering the other’s back.

  Despite the odds, his twelve men had the advantage of years of experience in warfare and the memories of the battle at Hastings were not so soon forgotten. Throughout the land, there had been constant skirmishes as Saxon continued to battle Norman, despite William’s accession to the throne. Damon’s men were the best that good coin could buy; burly warriors, each of them. Upward of six feet in height with the girth to match the mountains, they were like immovable giants on horseback come to seize their enemies.

  They wore their ferocity like the scales of the dragon they served. With weapons of the finest metal, razor sharp and gleaming in the steady gate of rainfall, each man, resilient in battle and fearless of demise, steered their mammoth warhorses into the fray of battle. Damon had handpicked each of them for their fierceness in battle, their cunning in warfare and their loyalty, to him and their King, the Duke of Normandy. Aye, they were paid mercenaries each of them, but their fealty could not be bought by any other.

  Using his shield to guard his left flank, Damon maneuvered his great warhorse, Fallon, into the center of the rebels, striking down one foe after another. Tanak kept his horse to Damon’s right, making sure his backside was protected, each man taking down their enemy with an almost easy flair.

  Glancing to the left, Damon watched as Sedrick picked himself up off the muddy ground, helmet nowhere to be found. He gestured to Tanak who steered his horse to cover Sedrick’s back.

  “Not the way to keep that head, pup,” Tanak jested.

  “You worry about my back and I’ll worry about my head, oh great dark prince,” Sedrick replied keenly as he turned, blade swinging, striking down the man, Tavish, in one swift blow.

  As the clang of steel echoed and sword met flesh and bone, Damon’s muscles bunched and clenched with the weight of his fury, his dragon sword singing its rhythm of death. The battle was over in moments.

  Turning in his saddle, Damon scanned the lane for survivors. The eerie, silent music of death strummed through daybreak, matching the beat of each warrior’s heart. Mentally taking stock, he noted that only one rebel remained standing amidst the throng of bodies that littered the ground.

  His men had done well, though he’d had no doubts in their abilities. He did, however, hope to have more men left alive so that they could be questioned. These rebels had given no quarter and chose death over capture like the fierce berserkers from the North. For a warrior, ‘twas indeed a good day to die.

  Like a captured wild boar, their captive stood surrounded on all sides by armored Knights, grunting and puffing his disdain like the creature he resembled. Scraggly and grimy, the man sneered at the gathering throng, rain sluicing into the dirt and sweat that covered his body. With balding pate and scrunched-up beady eyes, he leered at his captors, wiping his brow with the tattered edge of his sleeve, his mouth scowling in abhorrence.

  “Bloody Norman bastards,” he spat, gripping his sword in both hands before him. “Ye shall all die!” It was clearly a vow to rival any archangels.

  Fallon danced beneath Damon’s chiseled thighs as he tightened the reins and leaned from his horse’s side, the jingle of harness disrupting the silence as he angled his sword to the man’s throat. “Yield!” he calmly stated, his voice a heavy whisper in the morning silence. “Yield, and you shall live to fight another day!” There was no note of hostility in his voice, only calmness rimmed his words. He appeared relaxed and complacent as though the man’s decision was no more than the bother of a gnat.

  If the rebel chooses not to yield, Damon thought passively, his death will be quick and merciful. Aye, he’d suffer no bout of conscience for it. He hoped, however, that the man would be wise and live, and in turn, provide the answers he so desperately sought.

  The ravaging of the countryside was weighing on his King and, as his champion, it was Damon’s duty to bring the rebels to justice. To end the fighting and settle peace throughout the land. ‘Twas a great responsibility for a mere man. But Damon’s shoulders, thankfully, were quite wide.

  Seconds passed as the rebel assessed his odds, glancing first to the warrior who held his life against the edge of his crimson-tinged blade, then to the others who circled him, until finally returning once more to rest on the dark warrior before him. The man was huge and clearly intimidating and his beast of a horse was just as fierce. Truly, a more daunting warrior had never before existed. He had the look of the Archangel Michael sent by God, ready to meet out punishment to the wicked and seek justice for dead.

  “Never should have believed stupid, empty promises,” he grumbled. His eyes shifted from warrior to warrior. He looked up squarely, stared each man in the eyes. Aye, Fate has definitely been a cruel and merciless wench. He spat on the ground, wiping his mouth with th
e sleeve of his tunic.

  The Norman warriors continued to shift anxiously around him, muscled arms bulging and steely eyes intent. I shall have the last laugh and spit in the eye of Fate, he thought sardonically, swinging his sword in a great arc, his last attempt to sever the arm of the warrior he now faced. With a cry to the heavens, he bellowed, “I shall never yield to you, Norman pigs! Never!”

  * * * * * *

  Sensing the man’s intent, Damon jerked forward in his saddle. With the graceful agility of a cat, he shifted quickly, avoiding the damage intended for him. Before the man could finish the swing of his blade, a flick of Damon’s wrist brought his sword across the man’s neck, severing the muscles and bone in one swift blow.

  Blood flowed from the man in a huge fount, spilling down his chest to mix with the blood that had already turned the ground into a sloshing crimson sea. He stood frozen in mid-swing as his head tumbled from his body and hit the ground with a resounding thud, his lifeless form slumping in its wake. Death in all her prowess was indeed a wicked master.

  Removing his gloves, Damon ran his hands over his face and brushed his shoulder-length hair away from his eyes. Knowing he did not have the answers he still sought, he turned his mount and assessed his men. Disgruntled contempt for the endless warfare was etched deeply in the shadows of his cold gray eyes. He was weary of the constant fight and the unending search for the men who pillaged the countryside.

  He was wearier still of the search for those guilty of murdering his family. He had spent the entire span of the moon searching, killing and searching some more. All those who were guilty would come to meet his sword—it was a vow that he would keep, and when done, he would relish the finality.

  Damon continued to view the destruction. The damage was extensive, the carnage immense as neither a hut nor a fence was left standing. The acrid pall of death hung thickly in the soot-filled morning, clinging to his senses, his clothes and his soul.

  “What is your will, milord?” Sedrick asked, his voice deep and rough as a dense summer forest—not at all matching the man-child that stood before him.

  Slowly turning his head, Damon looked to the young knight in his service. Sedrick had been with him since Hastings and remained closely by his side, indeed, had become a part of his inner circle. With soft green eyes and dark brown hair that was shorn to his shoulders in a wavy mass in the style of many of the Norman soldiers, his vibrant youth glimmered behind his eyes. He was only eight and ten in age, but was tall, like a great oak of long standing. His build and skill were increasing as the days turned to the passing of moons and he was quickly becoming a man of honor and respect.

  At Hastings, Damon had saved him from a Saxon’s broadsword, and Sedrick had then sworn fealty to him on the battlefield. Being a landless soldier, he had willingly chosen to stay and fight by The Dragon’s side. Though he still lacked the aloof roughness of many of the battle-honed soldiers in Damon’s service, Damon knew that the time would come when too much blood and death would leave its mark on this youthful knight. “Gather any survivors, and see to their wounds. Then bury the dead and find me Tanak and Sir Richard.” He scanned the edge of the village. “We will search the edge of the forest for any signs of remaining rebels. And, Sedrick...”

  “Aye, milord.”

  “Move with your steed, and he’ll be less likely to lose you,” Damon directed, a slight gleam of laughter reflecting in his eyes.

  “Aye, milord!” Sedrick replied, turning to do as his lord requested, and quickly swinging around to carry out his orders. In silence, Damon viewed the carnage.

  Tanak silently approached from the lane where huts still slowly billowed, adding to the day’s darkness. “You were searching for me, my friend?” he asked, his voice quiet and deeply accented in the cadence of the east. A prince from a faraway land, Tanak was the third son of an Arabic sheik. He had chosen to leave his country to join with Damon and the Conqueror on a plan to invade England, to take a crown and a kingdom that had been a deathbed promise.

  Tanak’s appeal for adventure was the main reason he chose to come to this dark land. His golden skin and jet-black hair were among the features that labeled Tanak a Saracen, and though he appeared calm and serene in nature, a darkly mystical and daring warrior was hidden beneath the folds of his quiet veneer, the whole a facade to the outward stillness of the man. Damon knew the unobtrusive strength he emanated hid the great knowledge and cunning his friend possessed.

  They had met in the marketplace in Constantinople some years before. Damon had actually stumbled upon him in a back alley brawl as a group of Seljuk Turks held him, robbing him of his coins, pummeling him into the dirt. The odds of six on one were a bit more than Damon could bear to watch. Young and wild himself, with a bit too much enthusiasm for a fight, he gladly entered the fray. A debt and friendship as strong as brotherhood had emerged from the deed.

  “Aye, my friend,” Damon replied, stirring from his distant memories. “We will search the outlining forest. Make sure there are no more of these bastards lurking in the underbrush.”

  Upon his words, Sir Richard approached from the rear of the village. His swaggering gate and glinting eyes displayed no signs of weariness, from neither battle nor the leagues of land they’d traveled. Nothing seemed to wear on the spirits of this knight.

  “The dead have been gathered, milord, and the men have begun the task of burying them. There were no survivors.”

  Damon nodded his response.

  Richard was as light in features as Damon and Tanak were dark. Like a golden Adonis of Greek mythology, he stood tall and lean, his pale, golden hair and deep blue eyes marked him well loved by many a lady. King William had given him his land and the title of Lord of Woodmir for his services at the battle of Hastings. He now swore his allegiance to his King and to Damon as his Overlord. They had once fostered for a time in the same keep—both young and imperious for flight, fight and the taste of freedom. A time that now, to Damon, seemed so far away that even the memories were growing hazy. They had joined with William to make their mark upon the world.

  “Tanak, you and I shall search the surrounding area for any stragglers. As soon as the dead are buried, we ride for Woodmir.” There was firmness to his orders, yet the tiredness of battle clung to his words like the blood that rimmed his sword. Damon watched as Richard mounted his horse and turned in their wake. Ahead of them lay the dark foliage of the wet and shielding forest. Behind them lay death in all her guises.

  In the weeks that had passed, Damon buried his family and had been on a vigilant search of the countryside ever since. His vengeance ran deep as a riverbed quieting the brooding turmoil that slowly consumed his waking hours.

  But as the days passed, those sleepless hours had grown, becoming apparent on his face, marring his features like chiseled stone. With a silent oath of unshakeable resolve, he vowed he would find those responsible for the murder of his family and settle his own brand of justice upon them. Turning his mount, they headed into the darkness.

  Long moments lingered as they fruitlessly searched the wooded area surrounding Baldock for more than an hour. The leaves were silent witnesses, the brush the keeper of its secrets. Lingering had brought them no further information as to any surviving rebels and no closer to the enemies they sought. With the day reaching its zenith, Damon gathered his men, turned their horses north and headed towards Woodmir. The promise of food and rest before the long journey home to Blackmoor Castle fueled their resolve as they proceeded across the plain.

  * * * * * *

  In the canopy of the trees, adeptly hidden, one man lingered, watching the departing warriors. Darkness permeated from him. His eyes blazed with hatred and contempt rolled from him like the waves of a violent sea.

  “You have conquered this time, Lord DeGracey of Blackmoor,” he sneered, “but even death shall come to you. You cannot escape her tensile grasp forever.” Quietly, without disturbing the creatures of the forest, he slithered into the fading shadows like a de
vil in the guise of a serpent.

  Chapter Three

  Norwich, England ~ September, 2003

  Beneath a full harvest moon, the skyline blazed; luminaries on Main Street, neon glow on slate edifices and timeworn, cobbled alleyways. A multitude of stars shone against the backdrop of a vast onyx sky. Gabriella sat quietly on the bed of the hotel room, lost in thoughts of wonder and amazement about the relic stretched out before her. Its length spanned almost the entire length of the king-sized bed. Engraved with ancient symbols, its silver glowed with mysticism in the streams of evening light.

  Like a wanderer in the mist, she could almost visualize an ancient village as though it stood before her, just beyond her reach. Through the haze, she could see the rough-hewn huts with straw-mat roofs crafted with the hands of the long dead. Picture the lanes of dirt where a multitude of people gathered, hawking their wares. She could glimpse the beggars seeking coin and thieves stealing bread. Imagine the places where man and beasts gathered in the small confines of village inns and taverns, seeking shelter from storms and war alike.

  If she closed her eyes and listened, she could imagine the clang of a smithy pounding out the metal of the blade that lay before her. His back arched with purpose. His brow beaded with the sweat of his labor as he hammered out the magnificence of weaponry that he created.

  Centuries had passed since the sword had last gleamed in the full light of a midnight moon. Its blade, once honed sharp enough to sever limbs, its weight, that which only a warrior could bear. Mesmerized by its beauty, she slowly caressed the magnificent etching of a dragon circling the round length of the hilt, its wings outstretched like an overlord of the night skies. A single red jewel still found purchase in the slanted eye of the great winged beast.

  She was amazed that this sword had not felt the hand of its master in a millennium. And yet she held it now, here, in an age that knew a different sort of destruction. In the dim light from the bedside table, she turned the sword first one way, then another, catching the light on the blade from every angle as a prism danced in the jewel of the dragon. The beauty and detail of the etching was magnificent.