Come Twilight (21 page)

In the creamery, Sanct’ Germain had more trouble: two men were chopping down the door with axes. His brace was not enough to withstand their assault, and so he took his sword and thrust at the men through the gouges in the wood.

One of the men cursed, but the other fought all the harder, reducing two of the door’s boards to kindling in five desperate blows. His companion continued to hurl imprecations at Sanct’ Germain and the village he defended. The man with the axe started to climb through the opening he had made. Sanct’ Germain swung his Byzantine sword, letting the weight of the blade carry it deep into the man’s thigh.

The man bellowed and scrambled back, leaving a wide spatter of blood behind. He and the man with him staggered away from the door as Sanct’ Germain pushed through the wreckage of the door to make sure the two did no more damage; they might be injured, but they could still be dangerous. One of the men brandished a dagger as he strove to escape. Sanct’ Germain had no difficulty seeing the fleeing men in the darkness, but the confusion of the fighting made it hard to keep track of them as the attackers began to mill, their own disorder bringing more disarray to the villagers. He kept after them, occasionally glancing back to see if any of the other attackers had discovered the gaping hole where the creamery door had been.

As Sanct’ Germain dispatched the second of the men he chased, he heard the renewed shouting from the gates—the villagers had begun to fight once more, and their resolve was once again high. They began to shore up the gates as the younger men took baskets of stones and climbed to the top of the walls to hurl these down on the men outside.

Csimenae began to chant; the words were harsh, in a language Sanct’ Germain did not recognize, and the melody confined itself to three notes, but it was stirring to the villagers, and soon most of them were chanting with her, shouting on every eighth syllable.

Now the attackers hesitated, and two of them broke and ran; the slower of the two was brought down by a cudgel thrown by one of his fellows. One of the attackers did his best to shout over the chanting, “This is deviltry! They are praying to demons! What do we have to fear? There are monks praying for us!”

Rocks showered down. From his vantage-point at the side of the barn, Sanct’ Germain saw the attackers withdraw a short distance. He took advantage of this lull to hasten to Csimenae.

She was still leading the chanting, and a few of the villagers were flushed with premature victory. “How many did you rout?” she asked as she reached the end of a cadence in the chanting.

“Four,” he answered. “Two of them are dead and we will have to bury them.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “Not until the kites and crows have picked their bones.” She grinned her fury. “They must show what happens to those who come against us.”

A few of the villagers added their support in vigorous shouting.

Sanct’ Germain knew better than to press the matter with her now. Instead he told her, “I think they will make another rush, and soon.”

“No,” she said. “They will vanish into the hills and we will never see them again.” The last words were cries of triumph.

“I fear they are not beaten yet; they may return for another assault,” said Sanct’ Germain. “Keep ready until sunrise. In case they have not accepted their defeat. Remember they have wounded to retrieve—”

He got no farther. “Wounded?” She pointed to Henabo. “Take one of the men with you and kill the injured. We have no use for them here.”

“Kill them?” Sanct’ Germain could not stop himself from exclaiming. For the first time he felt the ache in his arm where the blood was finally beginning to dry. “You cannot kill them.”

“Yes. We must. Kill them. They would have done as much to us. We haven’t food enough to keep them as slaves—you know that as well as I do. So they must die.” Csimenae held up her arm and the men around her shouted agreement. “Go; do what you must.”

“At least wait until morning,” said Sanct’ Germain. “Your men could be—”

Csimenae ignored him. “Kill them. Now.”

Henabo pointed to Namundis. “You. Come with me.” He hefted an iron-headed sledge-hammer and strode toward the gates.

Namundis nodded, swallowed hard, and took a stout cudgel before going after Henabo, his cheeks flushed beneath his fuzz of youthful beard.

“They will swear vengeance on you and on this village for—” Sanct’ Germain protested, only to be interrupted.

“Let them swear whatever they like,” Csimenae declared, and spat. “We will kill all who come against us.” She smiled as the villagers made loud cries of assent. “They will not dare to attack us, no one will dare.”

Pordinae shouted, “Let them die!” and the others took up her call, repeating it until it, too, became a chant.

“There is no benefit in this,” Sanct’ Germain said, but no one heard him.

An appalling sound rent the night—part shriek, part sigh, it came with a pulpy thud.

“That is what will become of all who attack us!” Csimenae shouted, and was echoed by a second fatal bludgeon.

The villagers cheered. Then the cheers turned to screams as a second wave of attackers came rushing out of the woods, their axes and hammers already swinging.

Namundis, who had been straddling a wounded man, gave a cry of dismay, then fell under the first onslaught as the men rushed at the walls.

“Fight!” Csimenae shouted. “Fight! Kill them!”

The people of the village struggled to overcome their burgeoning terror. Pordinae reached for a big iron rake and started to climb onto the wall. “Strike them down!”

“Strike them!” The shout encouraged the villagers, and they strove once more to fight off the outsiders.

It was a fast, ferocious skirmish: the attackers rushed at two sides of the walls, their hammers striking stones and flesh alike. The villagers clambered onto the walls and used rakes, hoes, and flails to batter at the men charging their stronghold.

Sanct’ Germain climbed onto the roof of the house nearest the gate and called out where the attackers were. “Someone close the creamery! Brace the door from within!” he ordered, knowing it was the weakest part of their defenses. “And someone guard the barn! And the sheepfold!” He was shocked at how few men there were, and he realized how desperate they must be; he was at once more sympathetic to their plight and steeled against them, for they had very little to lose in this battle. Along with the sweep of the fighting, he could sense the coming dawn, and knew his strength would diminish with the light.

Three of the attackers managed to climb onto the wall, and one of them used a shepherd’s sling to hurl rocks at the defenders until one of the villagers managed to batter him off the walls with a pig-goad. One of the fallen man’s fellows was able to loose three more stones before he, too, and his remaining comrade, was driven from their place.

When the end came, it was quick; the attackers lost their impetus, faltered, then fell back rapidly, dragging their wounded with them, and pulling Namundis’ mangled body after them. Inside the walls the villagers rushed to watch the retreat, confused by the suddenness of the withdrawal.

Sanct’ Germain came down from the roof, weariness possessing him like a ghost. He leaned against the wall of the house, his arm aching, and his soul in despair. The villagers who hurried past him paid him no heed.

“My master.” Rogerian’s voice cut through the commotion and caught his attention.

He straightened up. “What is it?” For he could see from Rogerian’s face that something was wrong.

“Csimenae,” said Rogerian. “She has been . . . hurt.” He said this last in the language of the Mongols on the Old Silk Road. “Ione has her.”

“Hurt?” Sanct’ Germain repeated in the same tongue. “Badly?”

“Yes.” Rogerian glanced about uneasily. “Come with me.”

Sanct’ Germain squinted up into the night sky that was just beginning to fade. “I will,” he said, knowing he would soon have to be indoors or suffer for it. He made himself walk with Rogerian as if he had all his strength still. “What happened?”

“One of the rocks in the slings—it struck her. Here.” He laid his hand on the side of his head, above and slightly behind his ear.

Sanct’ Germain frowned. “The skull?”

“Is broken,” said Rogerian, and paused while Sanct’ Germain considered this. “Not terribly, but broken. The side of her head feels . . . soft.”

“Is she conscious?” Sanct’ Germain asked as they reached the door to Ione’s house.

“When I came for you she was, but her pain was great and she was . . . not herself.” He indicated the villagers who had come to the market square to assess their losses, and said, “They do not know yet.”

“Ah.” Sanct’ Germain closed his eyes a moment, then opened them, saying, “You had best bring my chest. I will do what I can for her.”

Rogerian nodded, turning away before the crowd could understand their purpose. “I will be circumspect,” he promised as he went off through the reveling villagers.

Behind Sanct’ Germain, Ione opened the door. “Come in. Hurry. There isn’t much time.” She tugged him inside.

“Is Csimenae failing?” Sanct’ Germain asked as the door was closed sharply.

“I fear,” said Ione, pointing to the huddled figure beside her hearth.

Sanct’ Germain went to her at once, dropping down onto one knee and leaning forward to examine her wound; he saw she held Aulutis close against her, and said, “Will you let me take him?”

“No!” Her voice was weak but there was no mistaking her determination. She looked blearily at Sanct’ Germain. “Don’t let. Them.”

“She is afraid of what they will do to him,” Ione explained.

“Why should they do anything?” Sanct’ Germain wondered aloud as he inspected the side of Csimenae’s head.

“They swore fealty to him,” said Ione as if there was an obvious conclusion to this.

“Yes. Why should he fear them if he has their oath?” He saw the matted blood in her hair and the slight depression where the bone had broken; without his sovereign remedy it was only a matter of time before contamination of flesh would exhaust her body and she would succumb to fever. At least, he thought, he still had syrup of poppies to ease her pain.

Csimenae licked her lips. “Thirsty,” she muttered.

“May I have some water?” Sanct’ Germain asked Ione before once again attempting to take Aulutis from his mother. “I will not harm him; I want to treat you. Surely you can trust me to do this.”

“No,” she whispered, clutching her son so fiercely that he whimpered.

Ione brought the water. “It is the villagers,” she said as she handed him a ceramic cup. “They will have to kill him if they want to end their fealty. They will drag him behind a horse. And her as well.”

Sanct’ Germain did not falter in holding the cup for Csimenae, but he looked around at Ione, startled. “Why should they do that?”

“If Aulutis cannot lead them, they will have to find someone who will. If Csimenae dies, they will kill her child for the good of the village.” Ione studied Sanct’ Germain. “Is she going to die?”

“Her injury is very grave,” he admitted as he took the cup away; Csimenae had managed to drink half of it. “But killing the boy—”

“They must,” Ione said as if any other possibility was unthinkable. “And Csimenae.”

“And if Csimenae lives, what then?” He touched the mass of hair and blood as lightly as he could; there was no doubt the bone was broken.

“Then they will not abjure their oaths. But she would have to be strong enough to raise him, and to bring him to manhood.” She took a step back. “If she is weak, or simple, they will kill her and her son, so that they may have a proper leader to support.”

“If she needs time to recover, will she have it?” He was vexed with himself for what he was thinking; he had sworn when Nicoris had decided to die that he would bring no more of the living into his life; she had shown him that for most, his gift was worse than a scourge and he had realized then that he must not impose himself again on anyone. Yet he knew beyond question that if he did not offer his life to Csimenae she, and her child, would be lost to the desperate villagers and the attackers beyond the walls: it was unbearable. He heard Rogerian’s rap on the door, and turned with relief. “If you will admit my servant.”

Ione pulled the door back a little way and peered out. “It is he,” she said as she opened the door to let him in.

“Very good,” said Sanct’ Germain as he rose to take the chest Rogerian carried. “Thank you,” he said.

“It is little enough,” Rogerian responded with a slight nod in Csimenae’s direction. “That injury is . . . dire.”

“I fear you are right,” Sanct’ Germain said as he opened the chest. “Syrup of poppies and the pansy anodyne, I think.” He spoke remotely, as if his thoughts were far away and this work was done by rote.

“And willow bark,” Rogerian suggested.

“It will ease any swelling,” Sanct’ Germain agreed. He looked at Ione. “Do you have a small bowl I could use? I want to make a treatment for Csimenae.”

Ione’s expression was skeptical, but she went and retrieved a small copper bowl from her pantry shelves. “Will this do? And what of the boy?”

“She will not let him go,” Sanct’ Germain said, aware of the force with which Csimenae held onto Aulutis.

“Not yet,” said Ione, her meaning clear: when Csimenae was dead, Aulutis would be sacrificed.

“She’s almost crushing him,” Rogerian said, his concern making his austere features look forbidding. “Can you persuade her to release him?”

“I do not know,” Sanct’ Germain said as he took two small jars and a vial from his chest. “I will need a bandage for her. Something light, with that loose linen from Corduba.”

“If there is any left,” said Rogerian.

“If there is not, then make strips of my old silk tunica; you know the one. It is light enough.” He went about his preparation with the ease of old habit. “Ione, will you keep watch for us?”

She hesitated, then said, “I will. Unless she fails. If she is dead, I must tell the rest, or they will kill me for my silence.”

Sanct’ Germain nodded, knowing that Csimenae could not last very long no matter what medicaments he provided. “That is kind of you.”