By the time they reached the camp hidden somewhere upon the craggy sides of Mt. Taygetus, Noel was winded, hot, and furious. His muscles ached from tension, for walking blind over rough terrain made him irrationally certain that each step was going to send him plunging over a precipice to his death.
The dwarfs flanked him on either side. George tapped him or tugged at the hem of his tunic to give him guidance signals. Thaddeus’s signals were all painful pinches on his thigh. Noel vowed that as soon as he got free of his bonds he was going to kick Thaddeus off the mountain.
The rocks and bracken left him bruised and scratched. Soon he was limping on his bare foot. How, he wondered desperately, had he managed to lose one sandal in the time stream?
And what the hell did it matter, considering the trouble he now found himself in? He had to get away from these people and consult his LOC’s data banks. His observations so far told him he was somewhere between the eleventh and fourteenth centuries. But three hundred years of latitude wasn’t precise enough. He must know exactly when he was so he could reprogram the LOC for an emergency return.
A sour bubble of fear rose to his mouth. He thought of going back through the anomaly that had cast him here, of experiencing that agony, that terrible void, and he broke out into a cold sweat.
There had been too many tests for him to believe the equipment at fault. That made Tchielskov’s absence suddenly suspicious, although Noel hated to believe the old man capable of treachery.
But if it was sabotage and his destination had been deliberately altered, would his return capability have been tampered with also?
The thoughts raced through his mind until they half maddened him. He forced himself to calm down, to not panic yet. He had to remain stable and listen to his trained instincts. He had to wait, putting up with being a prisoner, until the moment for escape was right.
In the meantime, not being able to see through the tight weave of his cloak left him disoriented and edgy. Sounds were muffled too. He tried to walk normally, but he found that he tended to lift his feet higher, in shorter steps, groping his way although George kept a running commentary on what obstacles were ahead of him. With his arms bound to his sides, he felt off balance and clumsy.
Thaddeus pinched him hard. “Rock ahead,” he said.
Noel flinched from the pain, and his temper got away from him. He whirled on the dwarf, yelling, “You damned little twerp! Leave my backside alone!” and kicked out blindly.
His foot connected with Thaddeus. Noel heard a grunt and a yell of fright accompanied by a crackling of crushed weeds as the dwarf went tumbling. George’s laughter rang out through the crisp air.
“Quiet! All of you!” commanded Elena from ahead of them. Her footsteps came rustling back through the weeds and loose shale.
Noel sensed her presence as much as heard the whistling swing of her bow. He dodged blindly, and managed to escape the worst force of the blow. Still, it hurt enough to make him swear.
“Stand still, you!” said Elena. “George, stop that noise and go after your brother.”
Thaddeus moaned from somewhere to Noel’s left. “Kicked me, just like a mule. Broke me leg.”
“Be what ye deserved,” said George without a trace of sympathy. “Get up. Ye ain’t hurt.”
“I could have been. It’s sore bruised. Could be broke.”
There came the sound of a thud, and Thaddeus’s quick yelp.
“I’ll give ye broke. Get on with ye!” said George.
They came scrambling and panting through the scrub. Noel considered making a break for it, but Elena’s hand closed upon his shoulder. “Don’t do that again,” she said in a low voice.
“I’ll do it every time I’m provoked,” said Noel hotly. “Tell him to keep his damned hands to himself.”
Elena drew in a quick breath as though exasperated. “What do you expect? The rules of chivalry? We have our own laws and our own ways. We do not need the iron heel of Byzantium on our necks.”
“Forget the political rhetoric,” said Noel. “I’m talking about treating your prisoners decently-”
“Just havin’ a bit of fun, was all,” said Thaddeus. “And you bein’ our prisoner means we can do as we like with you.”
“Bring him on,” said Elena. “And you, scribe, if you try anything else we’ll slit your throat and leave you here to feed the vultures. We have enough prisoners taken already.”
Noel swallowed his anger and kept silent after that. To discover that the people of this age were just as selfish, backward, petty, and vicious as any other era, including his own, was hardly surprising, but disappointing just the same. He remembered that Trojan had said once that chivalry was more often sung about in troubadour ballads than practiced by knights.
Thinking about Trojan brought a rush of homesickness that he’d never encountered before in all his years of traveling.
Then he caught himself up sharply, angry at his wallow in self-pity. He hoped with all his heart that Trojan’s journey to the muddy battlefield of Agincourt had been a safe one. He hoped that none of his fellow historians had fallen into a trap like his.
Noise ahead drew him from his reflections. He lifted his head, straining to decipher the sounds of goats and horses, people talking, bursts of low laughter, moans of pain, the clank and rattle of activity.
“Hold him here,” said Elena and went on.
Noel stood in place, pretending a docility he was far from feeling. To his left at a distance ran a rushing burble of water. Noel swallowed with difficulty, longing to slake his thirst in the stream. Mingled with the scents of fresh goat and horse droppings, he could smell woodsmoke and the aroma of cake and roasted meat. His stomach growled loudly. He felt hollow enough to eat a five-pound steak with all the trimmings.
“Yani! Demetrius!” Elena’s voice was bugle clear. “Look what I have brought you.”
Noel strained to listen to the murmur of two voices, purposely kept low although Elena’s excited words ran like a mountain stream over the other’s. Then the second voice lifted, revealing a man’s deep tones: “Cut him free, and let us see him.”
A knife cut the cord binding Noel’s arms. He swept off the suffocating cloak in a fury, ruffling his hair, and felt the cool kiss of fresh air with relief. At first the bright sunlight dazzled his eyes. He squinted, putting a hand across them in protection.
By the time his vision adjusted, Elena had walked back within a few feet of him. Beside her stood a man with a bullish neck and shoulders, muscles bulging even in his wide jaws. He towered over Elena, and only the faint red cast to his dark hair and a certain similarity around the eyes spoke of any family resemblance between them. Although he wore hose over legs like tree trunks and short, ankle-high boots, his long, sleeveless jerkin was fashioned from a wolf pelt with the fur still attached to the hide. Its leather lacings strained across his broad chest with every breath he drew.
He was chewing on a haunch of what smelled like roasted kid. Every time he bit off a hunk, hot juices sizzled through the meat. Noel found his gaze locked on the man’s greasy mouth, watching the powerful jaws grind methodically. He swallowed, longing for food, imagining its taste in his own mouth.
“Well?” said Elena impatiently. The breeze blew her hair across her face, and she tossed it back. “Have you nothing to say, Demetrius?”
The man drew the back of his hand across his mouth and tossed the bone to a mongrel dog cringing nearby with its tail tucked low. It snarled and snapped at the prize. Immediately two other dogs appeared. They fought viciously over the food until Demetrius uncoiled a whip from his belt and cracked it at them.
“Get out!” he shouted.
One hound snatched the bone and dashed away. The others slunk after it.
Demetrius’s gaze came back to Noel. His eyes narrowed. “He’s no soldier, no courtier.”
“But he is Byzantine,” she said in frustration. She stared at the man in plain disappointment. “We caught him and brought him in. Otherwise he’d have gone to Maina or even to Monemvasia and sounded the alarm. That is worth something, is it not?”
Demetrius ignored her; his gaze remained fastened on Noel although his mind seemed elsewhere. He belched. “Long run over to the coast. Not much to worry about from a skinny scribe like this. Should have slit his throat rather than bring him here.”
Fresh alarm touched Noel. These people were all too casual about slitting throats. He took a step forward. “Just a-”
George whipped a dagger point to Noel’s stomach. Without a word, he shook his head once. His eyes, weary, a touch cynical, and very serious, stared up into Noel’s from his craggy, ill-proportioned face.
“Don’t need another mouth,” said Demetrius. “Too many to feed now. Dogs hungry.”
“But-”
“Enough, Elena,” he said sharply. “Bring anything for the treasury?”
She glared at him. “I dislike robbing corpses!”
“No different than robbing live ones. You-”
“Oh, you are hopeless,” she said, walking back and forth with her hands on her hips. She kicked at a pebble. “Where is Sir Magnin? Has any word come yet about how he fared with the castle?”
Demetrius gave her a slow, sly grin. “Sir Magnin, eh? You talked us into this all because of your precious Sir Magnin.” He gripped her arm. “What if he doesn’t take the castle, eh? What if he dies with an arrow in his throat?”
She yanked free. “Why should I care?” she said loftily. “If he fails, then we have no Frank possessing Mistra. The Byzantines will send another foreign kephale from Constantinople, and we’ll be no better off-”
“We can catch the next one too,” said Demetrius, still grinning, “and ransom him like this one.”
“You should wait until you have word from Sir Magnin before you send any independent ransom demands to Constantinople,” she said sharply. “He planned this well, and it is to our advantage to help him.”
Demetrius spat. “That gasmoule half-breed. Why should I take his orders?”
“Because, brother,” said a youth, walking up to join Elena and Demetrius, “he is more clever than you. As long as he shares his spoils and gold, I don’t mind taking his orders. What have you found today, little Elena?”
She gestured at Noel casually, as though he had ceased to matter. “Just a stray casualty on the battlefield, not dead, and ready to cause us trouble. I thought you would be grateful to me for finding him.”
“Kill him,” said Demetrius. He drew his dagger and tossed it to the youth, who caught the hilt deftly. “Too many mouths to feed. And that Albanian howling every minute about ransom and consequences… enough to drive a man mad.”
“He’s a scribe,” said Elena. “A coward and a liar too. He did his best to talk us into letting him go, but we caught him easily.”
“No talking, Yani,” said Demetrius impatiently. “Just kill him. Take him over there past the rocks where the blood won’t spook the horses.”
Noel’s heartbeat quickened. His breath came shorter. All over, he could feel his body tense, ready to fight, ready to run. Although Demetrius had tossed Yani a dagger, the boy was wearing another thrust through his belt. If Noel could seize that…
“Watch him,” said Thaddeus in warning. “He’s tricky. Damned near broke me leg.”
Yani smiled, and his gaze ran briefly over the dwarf before returning to Noel. The resemblance between him and Elena was strong enough to leave no doubt they were brother and sister. He was perhaps sixteen or seventeen, built wiry and quick like the girl, with fiery red hair and a smattering of freckles across his cheekbones. There was high intelligence in his face and eyes.
“Strange,” he said. “This man has not the look of a Byzantine.”
“Neither does Lord Theodore,” said Elena.
Demetrius shrugged. “Theodore is a damned Albanian. What does it matter? Kill this knave and be done with it. I want you to take a message to-”
“That message can wait,” said Yani sharply. “We promised Sir Magnin we’d delay until nightfall. We shall keep our word.”
“Lose a whole day waiting on him,” grumbled Demetrius. He pointed at Noel. “Be rid of him! Elena, get yourself in proper clothes. Thaddeus and George, take the goats out and stake them in good grass. Move!”
Now, with everyone scattering, was the time. Noel spun around to run. Only then did he see the sentry crouched atop a rocky escarpment above the narrow pass leading into the camp, which was situated at the bottom of a deep ravine. With the sheer rock walls surrounding him on three sides and a bowman at the only exit, Noel hadn’t a chance.
He hesitated, his shoulders drooping. Damn. The only option left to him was to fight the boy and get one of those daggers, since his own had been taken by George. He turned his head slightly as Yani walked around to face him again. He looked at Yani, then away, not trusting himself to keep his intentions from his face.
Yani was no fool. He stood beyond reach, the borrowed dagger held ready in his hand. “No, no, my friend,” he said softly. “There is no escape from here, except to your Father in heaven.”
Noel swallowed hard. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. He was as tense as wire.
“Elena said you are a scribe. Is that true?”
Noel looked at him and shook his head.
“Ah. I did not see a pouch to hold vellum, ink, and pens,” said Yani. He paused until Noel’s gaze met his. “I know how to read and write.”
“Congratulations,” said Noel dryly.
He said it in Latin, which he could speak on his own without the translator’s assistance. His tone was clear enough to the boy. A swift tide of color spread from Yani’s collar to his hairline. He frowned, his air of friendliness gone.
“You are arrogant for a prisoner. Why do you speak Latin? Are you trying to insult me?”
Noel shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Your accent is deplorable,” said Yani, showing off by switching to medieval Latin in midsentence.
“Dead men tell no tales,” said Noel with a flippancy he did not really feel. He was tired of this cat-and-mouse game. If they wanted to kill him, then he was ready to get the whole business over and done with.
“I do not understand this saying,” said Yani. “Is it from your country?”
“You might say that.”
“What is your name?”
“What does it matter?”
“Are you trying to provoke me into killing you?”
Noel sighed. “Look, you have your orders. I-”
“I don’t always do what my big brother says.” Yani’s lips curled into a brief, secretive smile.
Noel felt a burst of hope, but he remained suspicious. “What’s the deal?” he demanded. “What do you want from me in exchange for not following your brother’s orders?”
“You are a quick one.”
“Let’s say I’m not stupid.”
“Are you Albanian?”
“No,” snapped Noel, irritated with that tangent question.
“Your name is-”
“Never mind what my name is. It’s irrelevant.” A rule of traveling was to avoid stating names whenever possible. A traveler was supposed to blend in with the local crowds, to observe and record, not to participate.
Yani’s hand closed on his shoulder. “You should not-”
Noel moved quicker than thought, stepping in close to the boy to force Yani’s knife hand up while he grabbed the second dagger from Yani’s belt. Yani shouted an alarm and swung at Noel, but Noel blocked the blow with his shoulder. Sliding one foot between Yani’s, he tripped the boy and used his impetus to flip him through the air. Whirling, his gaze taking note of the sentry who was nocking an arrow to his bow, Noel ran for the pile of rocks near the mouth of the ravine.
They had spilled down from a past avalanche, leaving a sloped scar on the cliff face above. Noel thought he might be able to climb out that way, although his back would make a good target for the sentry.
Right now it didn’t matter. He had to take any chance, no matter how slim. Ducking his head, he concentrated on running a fast zigzag course, ignoring the bruising pain of his bare foot upon the rocky ground.
More shouts alerted the camp. An arrow whistled past him, missing by inches. Noel grinned to himself, sucking in air. He sprang up the rock pile, going on all fours where necessary, praying there were no snakes sunning themselves. Another arrow sliced through his cloak and bumped his side awkwardly with the fletching. Thank God for bad shots.
Noel reached the top of the rock pile and slithered over it, making sure he kept his body as low to the rocks as possible. This was not the time to stand erect.
He never heard it, never sensed it. There was no rush of air, no whisper of sound although there should have been something to warn him.
The projectile hit the back of his skull with a force that felt as though the mountain had fallen on top of him. He stumbled, feeling his body go slack in midstep, feeling his arms fly up of their own volition, feeling himself fall. Glaring sheets of red and yellow flared inside his skull, blinding him. Then the pain rushed over him in a sticky, nauseating wave. Behind it came an awful blackness, one he wasn’t sure he could escape.
He fell, and never felt the ground.