A Templar's Apprentice (16 page)

He was exhausted, his eyes were red-rimmed and his body slumped. “Try an' get some more sleep, Tormod. We're up again with the dawn.”

“I canno' sleep. Ye need it more. Let me take the watch. Ye canno' go on without rest.”

I could tell he was torn, but he knew I was right in this. He sighed and took a last glance around our shelter. “Aye. Don't let me sleep more than three marks o' the candle. We must travel by night long before the sun rises.”

It pleased me to know that he trusted in me enough to sleep. I took out my dagger and fisted it tightly. The vision of those men and what they had done to Marta was still strong before my mind's eye. And though I was prepared to take this watch, nothing could stop me from
jumping at every sound that broke the night's stillness. They were out there looking for us.

I spoke truly. There was no danger of my falling asleep on a watch with thoughts of our pursuers racing through my mind. I hadn't prayed in a long while, but needed it tonight. My prayers were not what others might think appropriate, but I didn't care. I spoke direct and made no apologies.

Lord, how could Ye let that happen to her? Why are Ye letting this happen to any o' us?
I shivered with revulsion as thoughts of what happened to Marta returned. It was so brutal, the violence of it beyond imagining. She was a small old woman.
Why?

Mine was not much of a prayer, but it was all I had. I was torn up inside — about Marta, my damaged foot, the constant need to run. The Lord had not saved any of us. Maybe there was no Lord out there at all, just the power of the land and whatever held it constant. Such a thought would have Da on me with a strap. Nonetheless, the troubling thought stayed with me all night.

I was tired when the moon began its descent. The sounds of the night — the creak of the woods and the song of the insects — were making it worse. I woke the Templar with a quiet hand. He sat up right away; he had been awake.

He knelt and began the Matins, the Morning Prayer. I yawned and dropped beside him, adding my voice to his knowing he expected it.

Shortly thereafter we set out. We ate as we walked, a handful of dried beef and cheese, washed down with water from the skin we shared.

“We will make for Pamplona,” said the Templar. “Following the pilgrim route through the mountains. We must break the pattern o' what is expected. They'd not think we'd travel out in the open, an' so that is the way we will take.”

My legs were tired but growing stronger each day we walked. My foot seemed to ache less, though perhaps I had just grown used to the feeling. The Templar remained quiet, deep in his own thoughts, leaving me to obsess about the men hunting us.

We traveled the land as the cold of the night hung low over the hills and valleys. And as the sun began to rise, we crested a hill that overlooked a wide dirt road.

“That is it, Tormod, the Holy Road,” the Templar said.

It didn't look all that holy to me. It seemed just a road, but nonetheless I followed its snaking path with my eyes. Even as early as it was, there were travelers out and about. A thin trickle of peasants — men, women, and children alike — walked the road.

The Templar watched for movement at the road's edges and, seeing none of the hunters, deemed it time we move on down the slope. As the pilgrims grew near, we ambled from our place and trailed their group. We spoke to no one; the Templar drew his hat low and I did the same.

None of the travelers seemed to mind our joining their group. It was the way of the road. Others added to the queue as the day progressed, and eventually we were in the middle of the pack and no longer at its end.

The heat that rose with the sun was stifling, especially beneath the dark robe. Sweat dripped down my back and neck in a nasty stream. I would have given anything to throw off the peasant robe and hat and bare my skin to the air. But we could not take the chance of discovery.

There were times during the trek when the road before me wavered, but the Templar seemed to know just when to ply me with water and dried meat so that I remained upright. It was a long and difficult journey. The land was one big series of hills that dipped and climbed at steep intervals. I didn't complain, though, even when the breaks came not as often as I'd hoped.

We traveled a week in their company without mishap. By then, I almost was able to forget that we were hunted. And this was nearly our undoing.

We stopped for a rest by the side of the road. I could feel the life of a small stream beyond the trees and with a skin in hand set out for it. Water trickled softly over the rocks. I bent and splashed some on my face, washing the grime of the road down my neck.

Hide.
The thought echoed urgently in my mind. I spun, waiting for the attack. There was nothing, yet I crouched and made my way to the trees' edge to peer beyond.

Two men had approached, soldiers caked in the dust of the road. I searched for the Templar. He was not with the group. Reaching, I sensed him by a tree opposite the pilgrims.

An old man I had shared some of my dried beef with pointed off down the road away from the direction we had come.

The soldier leaned in threateningly. “Down the road,” the words of the old man came to me as he gestured again. A burst of impatience brushed the edges of my mind. I turned toward its direction and gasped as the second soldier grabbed a child. The family had only joined us the night before. The father held the mother as she strained to go to the boy. “We know nothing!” he
shouted. The soldier's blade glinted in the sun as it came to rest against the small, unprotected neck of the boy. I could hear the boy's blood pulsing in my head.

“Let him go.” The Templar stepped from the safety of the trees, his hands held high in surrender. “Ye have no need o' a child. Release him, now.”

A strange hum floated on the air, a high-pitched whine that hovered just at the edges of my hearing. It brushed my skin with an odd heat that made my legs weak and the inside of my head itch. The soldier holding the knife seemed unable to make a decision — until the blade against the boy's neck dropped away.
Run.
The command snapped inside my mind and that of the boy, who scrambled to the safety of his father's arms.

“Que faites-vous?”
The first soldier shouted angrily.

“Que?”
The second shook his head, as if he were coming out of a daze.

“Rapidement, obtenez-le!”
cried the first. Both men charged the Templar, and I rose from my crouch ready to help. The Templar moved quickly. His upraised hands knocked away his hat, dipped over his head to the hilt of the sword, and drew in a motion that I barely marked. The first man to reach him caught the swipe of the blade deep in the crease of his neck. Blood spurted bright, and the child began to scream. The second soldier followed, drawing his sword on the run, and he and
the Templar engaged. Metal on metal screeched in the still, hot air as the Templar parried and swung. The soldier's advance slowed. In moments he'd lost ground. The group of travelers scattered with cries of fear.

The soldier might have been adept in his company, but the Templar was far superior in one-on-one combat. As the man struggled, the Templar's blade descended like a strike of lightning, sliding inside his guard, sinking deep in the soldier's chest.

With a sharp cry of surprise the soldier dropped to his knees, grasping at the wound as the blood flowed from his body. Then, all at once, he fell sideways and moved no more.

The Templar approached and made the sign of the cross over both men. “Tormod,” he called. “Come quickly. There will be others.”

The boy's father helped us drag the heavy bodies behind some rough scrub. My legs were shaking, making it hard to move them. My robe was damp with blood. “What will we do?” I asked breathlessly.

He spoke not a word but moved quickly along the road past the pilgrims. I trailed after. None of the travelers moved to follow us, and in moments we were out of sight. When we rounded a curve, the Templar left the road. I followed. Our plans had changed.

We hiked for a long time at a quick pace. My body
was tired, but there was nothing for it but to move on. Those who sought us were close behind.

The sun slipped low in the sky, but the air remained still and stifling. I wanted to keep silent, to let him lead us and think out whatever had drawn him into himself, but there came a point when I could hold back no longer.

“How did ye do it?”

He knew what I asked. “'Tis simple, for one o' our kind,” he said, raising his arms and turning his palms down as he spoke. “It only works small miracles — just a bit o' shifting o' the natural forces. 'Tis not something ye should ever rely on, but it helps in a bind.” His stride remained strong, but he made room beside him on the path we'd been traveling single file. “What did ye see?” he asked, the teacher in him surfacing again.

“The first man hesitated.”

“Aye. Good. Notice the small things. He was hesitant, afraid before I'd done anything.”

I realized that he spoke true. The one he had approached looked leery and frightened. He was young, perhaps not long in his post.

The Templar went on. “It only worked in the moment o' surprise. It would not have done much on more than one, particularly if they were bent on coming down on us.”

“But how?” I pressed.

“Hmm, how to describe it?” he mused. “Ye can sense the life o' the land, aye?”

I nodded.

“Well try an' see it in yer mind's eye. Imagine it lifting right up out o' the earth an' filling the air. Then with yer mind whisper it into the form ye need.”

“What form? I don't know what ye mean.”

“Well, if ye want to delay someone from acting, ye whisper a screen o' uncertainty. Ye project fear an' hesitation. It will only work if the person ye're whispering it on feels that way to start. Our gift plays on emotion — yers, an' theirs.”

“And if ye just don't want them to see ye?”

“Then ye whisper a bit o' preoccupation. Ye turn their minds to something that would consume them.”

“Can I do it?” I asked.

“Aye. With practice. If ever we're not on the run again, we'll work on it together.”

T
ravel for the next few days was tense but uneventful. That is if you think uneventful covers walking across
leagues of land with little stop or rest, with a fear that makes you start and jump every few minutes. But, compared to what it might have been, our journey was blessedly peaceful.

And then it all shifted. On the banks of the River Sil — with the bloodred sun shimmering rays of unending heat down on us, and the water, a cool and murky brown — our quiet came to an end. I stumbled to the edge, dipping my hands and soaking my face. My body felt oddly tight, as if a string that stretched from my feet to my eyes had been wound to snapping. I shook my head to clear the haziness creeping over me.

A sea of blue-and-gold pennants snapped in the wind. Rows of silver helm gleamed.

Focus. Ground. Shield.
I came to with a lurch to find the Templar stooped beside me, the carving out and awash in a gleaming light.

“Danger awaits at Ponferrada,” I said.

“Ahram is seeking us,” he said nearly at the same time.

“But …”

He said nothing, just stood and continued on through the cover of high grass that grew along the bank of the river. I followed with a lump in my throat. The carving had glowed. I saw the armies. Why would he still go there?

It was the first time I had any doubt about a decision
of the Templar. It made me feel badly, like I was breaking a trust of some kind. I kept quiet, letting him lead the way, allowing the ache of my foot to occupy the best part of my mind.