Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

‘The stories were more about the journeys of those who went searching for the Graal, the strange places and the mysterious people they met. .’ His voice tailed off as he saw the expression on my face.

I had been looking past him, over his shoulder at the mountainside. The fading light had lengthened the shadows, changing the appearance of the rocky slope behind him. There were patterns and shapes among the boulders that had not been there previously. I knew exactly where I was. I was in the landscape of my dream, the nightmare of the monstrous beasts and winged creatures that attacked Hroudland and me.

‘What’s the matter?’ the count asked sharply. ‘You looked as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

I forced my gaze back to the plate he had in his hand.

‘We have to get out of here, immediately,’ I said shakily.

Hroudland did not hesitate.

‘We’ll take both the cup and the platter. Later we can decide which is the true Graal.’

He turned and disappeared inside, the plate in his hand, to fetch the cup. At that instant a series of high-pitched whistles sounded from the side of the mountain above me. There were several different notes, one after another. My skin crawled. I swung round on my heel, scanning the slope. But it was impossible to locate where the sound came from. The mountain was shrouded in the gathering darkness. There was a short silence; then came a series of whistles from a different spot. Another succession of notes, rising and falling almost as if they were words. I jerked around, again seeking the source of the sound. But it was futile. I was still peering into the gloom when the original caller responded. Now there was no doubt. The whistlers were communicating with one another in some sort of secret language.

I was about to duck into the building to summon Hroudland outside when there was a fierce scrabbling sound. A dark shape came hurtling out of the shadows straight at me with shocking speed. There was a terrifying snarl, and I was knocked off my feet by the impact of a heavy body. I heard a deep-throated murderous growl and had a glimpse of white fangs beneath drawn-back lips. My nostrils filled with a powerful scent of dog.

I flung up my arm to ward off the gaping jaws. The beast was appallingly strong and determined. It was thrusting and snarling, trying to snatch my throat. I rolled from side to side, attempting to throw it off. I was faintly aware of two more animals. They streaked past me and bounded into the dark entrance to the chapel. From within came the sounds of a vicious tussle.

My archer’s arm guard saved me. The dog had locked its jaws on my forearm, and the leather prevented the teeth from penetrating. I managed to struggle up on my knees, and then regain my feet. The brute was thrashing its head violently from side to side, trying to drag me down again. I reached forward with my free hand, intending to pull it off by the scruff of the neck. There was an agonizing stab of pain as my hands closed on the sharp metal spikes of a thick collar designed to deter wolves.

I backed away slowly, step by step, holding off the dog with my left arm while it continued to growl savagely, shaking and tugging frenziedly. I retreated, just managing to stay on my feet, until I could feel the wall of the chapel behind me. That is where I had left my bow leaning against the stonework. I searched behind me with my right hand and fumbled in the arrow bag until my fingers closed on an arrow. Gripping the shaft firmly I pulled it out. With a great heave I swung the brute to one side and, when its flank was exposed, I rammed the razor-sharp metal head into the dog’s belly with all my strength. There was a yelp of pain and it released the grip of its jaws.

But the brute did not abandon the attack. It stood a yard away, stiff-legged, teeth bared and growling murderously, watching for an opening when it could fling itself on me once again.

I shouted for Hroudland, and he backed slowly out from the chapel in a half-crouch, facing towards the frenzy of brutish snarls that sounded within the gloomy interior. He had set down the dish because he had his sword, Durendal, in one hand and in the other a short dagger. Both blades were pointed towards the doorway. He had scarcely got clear when the other two dogs emerged. They were even larger than the one that had knocked me down. One had a gash in its shoulder, the blood dripping down on the dust. Both animals had their eyes fixed on the count, and they were stalking slowly towards him, ready to spring.

Again I heard that unearthly whistling from the mountainside behind me. This time it seemed closer.

‘They’re somewhere on the mountain,’ I gasped. ‘I don’t know who they are or how many.’

‘If they send in more dogs, we’re in trouble,’ said the count. ‘I can deal with three or four. But a pack of them would pull us down.’

We were out in the open now, standing back to back, facing the growling dogs. They were massive brutes, each as big as a small calf, with bear-like shaggy pelts and heavy square heads. All of them wore spiked collars, and it was clear that they were trained for fighting.

Even at that late stage, Hroudland might have successfully completed his raid. He could have risked going back inside the chapel, snatched up the goblet and the plate, and the two of us could have fought our way back down the track. But then there was a sudden movement in the air above us. It was so unexpected that neither of us had time to prepare ourselves. Out of the gloom swooped down a half-seen shape, a darker form against the already dark sky. It came at an unnatural speed, at head height. I felt the rush of air on my face. A whisper of something flashed overhead. Hroudland let out an oath and doubled over as if he had been struck. Durendal clattered to the ground as he let go his sword and clapped his hand to his face. For a moment he stayed bent over, hunched in pain. When he stood upright and removed his hand, blood was streaming from a gash just beside his right eye.

I had barely time to take in what had happened when again I felt that sinister rush of air. This time there was a sharp blow and searing pain across my scalp as something sharp raked across my head. I caught the quick flap of broad wings and the large bird that had attacked me was rising up and away. It was circling, ready to attack again.

In the distance we heard the oliphant horn. Berenger was signalling that there was danger along the path where he stood guard. Our escape route was threatened.

So we ran. We blundered out of the broken gate and down the dimly seen track. The huge dogs harried us every step. They lunged at our heels, snarling and barking, driving us off like the sheep stealers. I had abandoned my bow but Hroudland had managed to snatch up Durendal from the ground. Occasionally he stopped and stabbed and slashed at our tormentors, making them keep their distance. There was nothing we could do about the birds. They swooped out of the darkness and tried to rip out our eyes. Like the huge dogs, they must have been trained to guard the Vascon flocks from wolves and thieves.

Only when we were well clear of the chapel did the onslaught finally cease.

The night sky then clouded over completely. Without light from moon or stars to show us where to put our feet, our progress was like groping through a black pit. We tripped and fell, got up and stumbled forward a dozen or more times. We dared not stop, fearing that our enemies would have time to set an ambush on the track ahead of us. We lost all sense of time or how far we had got, and it must have been well past midnight when someone called out a challenge from directly in front of us. It was Berenger. He heard the noise we made coming down the track.

‘Thank God you’re back,’ he said. The relief in his voice was very evident. ‘The place is swarming with Vascons, hundreds of them on the move.’