John Schettler - Anvil of Fate

“You are old and spent, and tied up here, even as I am,” he said. “Yet I may have one last ride yet, ere this sun is gone.”

The battle was going just as he expected it might. The Berbers had been rushing in, firing their damnable arrows, hurling hard stones from their slings, and fleeing like the cowards they were. They were taunting the Franks, teasing them, trying to provoke them, as a man might poke a stick at a bear at bay. But Charles was adamant. He would not come down off his hill where he stood, and he stubbornly held his men back behind the line of their shieldwall.

Odo paced restlessly about as the afternoon wore on. His wounded eye still pained him, but it was nothing compared to the dint in his honor, and the nobility of his house. The longer he waited, unsummoned, the more he broiled with resentment. “Why do I serve this bastard?” he said aloud. “I should leave him to his obstinate ways and flee now to salvage what I may of my homelands.”

Indeed, many of his captains urged him to do exactly that. “You will never again see those taken by Charles alive,” they told him. “You are but a pawn to Charles now, and it is unseemly that you are thus debased, when all of Gaul should bow its head in thanks that it was by your endeavor the Saracens are challenged here this day.”

Hearing this, a man stepped from the shadows of the wood, wearing the cassock of a monk. “They are heathen,” he agreed. “They have spoiled all the land, burned the abbeys and holy places, and the good lord Odo has stoutly shielded the abbey of Saint Martin while Charles dallied on the road. And he has suffered the worst of their misdeeds—even to the giving over of his daughter Lampegie to their brothels and harems.”

“What is this you have said?” Odo drew his short sword and raised his heavy arm over the monk.

“Forgive me, Lord, but this is what comes to us from men who have late escaped from the enemy camp! Three men, taken as slaves, crept away in the dark last night, and fled to the abbey you so ably defended yesterday, and there they spoke it that Abdul Rahman has brought many other captives hither from his conquests, and that among them Lampegie may be found, given to the harems of his Emirs! Strike me down, but as God is my witness, this I speak truly.”

Odo stayed his hand, his eyes agleam with inner fire. It would satisfy his anger to kill this monk, yet he was merely a messenger. The enemy was elsewhere, and if what he said were true, it was one last grain of sand that set off the avalanche of wrath in his mind. It was not that he held any great love for the woman the monk spoke of, else why would he have given her to the heathen Manuza in the first place? No, but it was a point of honor. It was not seemly that she would be used this way, and yet one more insult he must endure. Now, with this spoken aloud, the eyes of his men would be on him with hidden shame as the sun fell and they listened to the brave Franks under Charles struggling and dying on the hillock above.

His hand was tight on the hilt of his sword, and his cheeks red with anger, his eyes narrow as he considered what to do. He looked at his chieftains, speaking in a hard voice.

“Yes, we fought, and failed in the summer when the enemy fell upon us in a place we had not thought they could come. Yet it is I who gave fair warning, and summoned Charles here to this place. Nor do I wait here upon his command as some might think!”

It was a vain attempt to salve the wound, he thought. I should leave this place! Let Charles have his battle, and the glory he so covets. Headstrong and boastful, he hears no other counsel.

At that moment there came a shout from above, and a great noise. Startled by the clash, the old gray Arabian leapt up, as if rearing for battle, and the rein that held him snapped. He beat his hooves upon the smoky cold airs, neighing loudly as his nostrils flared. Then, he settled hard, still driving his heavy hooves into the ground, pawing and digging with restless energy.

Odo looked over his shoulder at the beast, saw how he chafed for battle, old but yet strong of heart, his shoulders taught with the fervor of his discontent. And Odo saw himself there, rearing up as well at the thought of battle so near but yet denied him, snapping the rein that held him in check, and riding out into the gathering dusk to have the vengeance he so rightly deserved.

“I should have smashed the enemy camp days ago,” he breathed. “All that they hoard there has been stolen from my lands. I cannot bear it any longer. I will not bear it! And that one there,” he pointed at Kuhaylan, “that one knows the road to honor.” He called for his charger, and bid his men to take to their saddles as the sound of the battle raged on above them.

Charles was heavily engaged, in the thick of battle, he thought, and the day grows old with blood and smoke. He will summon me at long last, thinking to use me as a hammer in time of greatest need, but by then it will be too late, because I will not answer.

For I will not be here…

“Come!” he shouted at his riders. “Mount now and come with me, and we will make our way with stealth and guile around the flank of the enemy and so come upon this camp the monk speaks of. Ride with me and avenge dishonor! Clean the stain from your shields and spill the blood of the enemy. We wait here no longer.”

He spurred his mount and rode close by the gray stallion, whistling as he did, and the horse leapt up and followed in the wake of the young brown charger, eager to run. And so it was that Odo and his three thousand brothers in arms made their way along trails they knew well, having scouted all this land and ground for many days. They moved like the shadows of wraiths through the darkening woodland, a cold breath upon the land, yet with burning fire in their hearts.

In time they came to the enemy camp, seeing the white tents and smelling the fires of the early evening meals. Their mounted archers moved silently in the van, finding and silencing the outlying skirmishers of the Arab guards, and when they were very near the camp, the Duke Odo raised his hand, pausing while his horsemen gathered around him like a gray fog. Then they leapt forward as one, racing into the enemy camp at dusk, heedless of any danger, free and full of anger, and the great commotion they bestirred there came even to Abdul Rahman where he sat on his black Arabian mount, watching the heavy horse of his armored cavalry wheel and charge yet again.

Seeing their master turn with alarm at the sound from the camp, a captain of a mounted ajinad regiment waved at his men to turn and settle the matter, for he was eager to please his general, and it was not fitting that he should suffer this distraction. He rode off with his troop of horse, and, seeing this, two other captains followed him, leading many other horsemen to follow.

The tents were well fired, and thick black smoke rose on the noisome airs, marking the place where the Arab camp lay. Word of the attack on the camp seemed to spread like fire in dry grass. Minutes later, to his great surprise, Abdul Rahman saw many more regiments of his Berber horse peel away from the flanks of his armored riders, and ride to the rear.

“Who gave that order?” he shouted. Yet even as he spoke he could hear the footmen shouting from behind that the tents were afire and all the plunder and pillage of many months was being set to the torch by their heathen enemies. Dismayed to see how the Berber horse had turned to flee, the commander of the heavy Saracen cavalry looked and saw his general off in the distance, his drawn sword pointing at the smoke from the burning camp. And seeing so many of his brothers turn and ride for the camp, he held up his final charge and turned as well, thinking it was the desire of his lord.