The Book of Dreams(106)

Anselm looked as though he would explode with anger.

‘I’ll hold my own against any man who cares to go against me,’ he spluttered.

‘Then I suggest you reserve your fighting prowess for the coming battle,’ snarled Hroudland. Without bothering to put a foot into the stirrup, he vaulted into the saddle. A moment later he was trotting off, shouting encouragement at the ox drovers, encouraging them to pick up the pace.

*

Riding beside the treasure carts brought back memories of the days when Osric and I had tramped along behind Arnulf’s eel wagon. There was the familiar farmyard smell from the oxen, and the four heavily laden carts rumbled along at the same sedate walking pace. The road surface was very rough, and their solid wheels juddered and shook as they rolled over small rocks or dropped into pot holes. Arnulf had handled his well-trained oxen by himself, but here in the mountains each cart needed two men, one walking beside the animals, the other seated on the cart and armed with a whip to urge the animals on. The axles worn down by months of travel produced a continuous, high-pitched squealing that announced our presence to anyone within half a mile and set one’s teeth on edge.

It was unnerving to know that the Vascon sentinels were watching our every step. I found myself wondering how often they had tracked the progress of other travellers labouring along the same narrow road. Perhaps this was how the stone platter and the little chalice had come into their possession, looted from victims of an ambush sometime in the distant past. I had no doubt that the Vascons knew about the ransom that Wali Husayn had paid. The bags of silver would be sufficient enticement for an attack, and Hroudland’s brutal sack of Pamplona had given the Vascons a powerful reason to wreak bloody revenge.

So, despite the blazing sunshine, I wore an iron helmet over a felt skull cap. The metal plates of a brunia protected my body. Thick, padded gauntlets covered my hands and forearms. Only my legs felt vulnerable. I sweltered in the searing heat and the perspiration ran down my body until my saddle was slippery with sweat. Like the troopers riding with me, I knew there would be no time to don our war gear when the Vascons chose to launch their assault.

It was the trooper just behind me who first spotted the danger. He gave a sharp cry of alarm and pointed up to our right. I swivelled in the saddle and looked up the steep slope of the mountain. The Vascons had struck early, well before we reached the gorge. The mountainside was sprouting men, a hundred or more. They had been lying in wait, concealed among the rocks. Now they rose from the ground and began to descend, leaping and slithering. As they advanced they raised a war cry, the most chilling sound I had heard. It was a terrible wolfish howl, mournful and without pity.

There was momentary panic along our line. The drovers struck out with their long whips. Troopers cursed as they swung their shields off their backs and slid their arms through the straps. Everyone grabbed for their weapons. Hroudland was bellowing at us to close ranks and keep moving and face the danger.

The Vascons had another surprise for us. We had expected their first attack to come as a hail of sling stones and arrows. But we had misjudged their ferocity. There was a clatter of slingstones, though only a few. At the same time a couple of dozen arrows fell among us without doing much harm, though a wounded horse screamed. It was the reckless savagery of the Vascon charge that was dismaying. They came seething down the hill in a surge of raw hatred and hostility. They were determined to engage us hand to hand. At that moment I knew for certain that it was not the wali’s ransom that drew them on but the burning desire to exact retribution for the destruction we had inflicted on their city.

Their leading warriors had concealed themselves within a few yards of the track. They sprang up from the ground and lunged at our horses’ bellies with daggers and short swords. Few succeeded in reaching their targets. Our troopers spitted them on their lances. Their iron sword blades cut down through muscle and bone, severing outstretched hands and limbs. The Vascons wore no armour. They were dressed in jackets of wolfskin and leggings of coarse cloth, and they took fearful losses. The man who had selected my gelding as his victim scuttled out of the roadside ambush and came straight at me like a scorpion, dagger raised. I swung my sword at him and the well-balanced Ingelrii blade made an effortless arc. The razor edge lopped off the man’s dagger hand as easily as a woodsman prunes a small branch. The Vascon reeled away, leaving a smear of blood behind him.

There was a confusion of shouting and the clash of steel from where Gerin was in charge of the vanguard. Near me the trooper who had first seen the Vascon ambush was swearing steadily as he tried to wield his sword and at the same time bring his mount under control. The howls of the Vascons and the smell of blood had panicked the animal. It was skittering from side to side, trying to bolt, hooves scrabbling on the rocky surface of the road. The trooper was roaring angrily and, unbalanced, he failed to connect as he cut at a Vascon lunging at him with a spear. The point of the weapon gouged a deep gash in the horse’s hindquarters before the trooper recovered himself enough to make a backhanded sword swing and hack the man to the ground. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a lad dart past me. He could not have been more than ten years old. He headed for the nearest ox cart and had a small knife in his hand. Before I realized what he was doing, he stabbed the blade into a full water bladder that hung from the side of the cart. Quick as a weasel, he dived under the cart and escaped. Behind him a jet of fresh water sprang from the punctured water bag and splashed to the ground.