The Omega Factor(2)
His mind flashed to the warriors behind him.
Moor meant simply “dark,” and the deep olive of their skin stood in stark contrast with the loose-fitting white tunics, the colorful turbans, and the scarfs that draped their necks in a kaleidoscope of silken thread. They were a brutal lot, a clear menace, and he did not want to face their crescent-shaped scimitars or their mounted archers. He’d been expecting follies of arrows, but the pursuit so far had been through thick stands of fir and pine, so clear shots had been unobtainable. He hated archers. A true warrior should only come to battle with an ax and sword in hand. What had the poet said? Coward was he who was the first archer.
He allowed his attention to switch from the ground to the route ahead, relying on his horse to make sure the footing was true. A blast of crisp wind swept through a nearby cleft and slowed his progress. The trees around him began to change, the firs diminishing, towering pines now dominating. Each trunk reached audaciously toward heaven, many twisted as if in pain, most bereft of limbs.
He winced.
There would now be more opportunities for the archers.
The horse slowed and twisted a path through the pines, avoiding granite boulders and leaving a clear trail across dainty edelweiss. A stillness wrapped the dusky forest. The musty scent of twigs and boughs filled his nostrils. Above, the sun was warm, the clouds low, which meant rain might eventually become his ally. But, for now, any storm was too far away to be of assistance.
He stopped the horse and risked a look behind him.
No one was in sight.
He tried to listen for some sound that might betray the Moors’ presence, but the clicking of grasshoppers interfered. He emerged from the trees and found a path leading eastward.
A signed paper in his saddlebag certified that he was the duly authorized representative of Philip the Good, the reigning Duke of Burgundy. By trade, he was an artist. Philip’s court painter. But by service he was a spy, in the employ of the duke. His current mission had taken him into Spain on a reconnoiter of local roads and territories. His attention to depth and detail, his skill and accuracy with pen and brush, was what distinguished his art. The duke liked to say that his visual cunning was unmatched. But unlike his paintings, where the real world only inspired what he represented, when on a covert mission what he produced had to be an exact match. On this trip he’d sketched valuable maps that led to important mountain passes, all vital to any army in the future.
Jan was broad-shouldered and solid in limb. His brown hair had grown out, stubby like a brush—his beard long and ragged, which made his pallid face look even paler. Normally, he’d be clean-shaven, but he’d intentionally not shaved the past few weeks, the facial hair adding a measure of welcome disguise. His head was lean, large, and some said square, with a high brow and a fine straight nose. It helped that he spoke Spanish and understood the local customs. All of which made him the perfect spy.
Another breeze brushed past and he savored a quiet moment. His skin was wet and hot, his legs achy. Beneath the mantle he was clad in heavy mail. A weighty aventail bit into his neck and chin. He’d dressed for battle, ready for whatever might come his way, and eleven Moor horsemen had accepted his challenge. He wondered if someone in the last village had given him away. It was a Christian community but, as he’d been warned, the Moors had eyes and ears everywhere.
He reached down and stroked the horse. The animal flattened his ears and accepted the affection. The twitter of a finch came from an adjacent tree. He half expected the clash of an ax or the buzz of a saw, but there was no sign that anyone else loomed nearby. Before him, another pass opened and beyond spread the brilliance of an emerald-breasted valley. A clearly defined trail wound a path ahead through a thick stand of beech. He urged the horse forward and sat up in the high saddle, thinking perhaps he’d lost his pursuers. He’d be glad when he could remove his ponderous metal clothing and enjoy the comfort of night. He should make Las Illas before sundown.
Ahead, on one of the trees, something caught his attention.
He approached and stopped.
Carved into the trunk of an enormous beech was the image of a bird. Great care had been taken with its representation. The plumage and beak distinct, its mighty wings held close and tight, ready for flight.
He recognized the vulture.
The Spanish called it quebrantahuesos. Bone smasher.
And he knew why.
He’d watched in awe many times while the great raptor had dropped its prey from the air onto rocks, breaking the bones and making it easier to get at the rich marrow. Strange that someone had taken the time to so beautifully depict such a predator here. Below the bird were letters. Not of a language he knew, though he recognized the Arabic symbols. Around him the rock crannies groaned from the wind. He was deciding on what next to do when the stillness was disturbed by a low swoosh that quickly grew in intensity.
He knew the sound well.
Arrows piercing the air.
In the next instant three tips sucked into the earth just ahead of him.
His head whirled around.
The Moors had rounded a bend in the trail and were fast approaching. He urged his horse forward. Their first shot had been off, but they would be more accurate with the next folly. He allowed his right hand to drift from the reins to make sure that his battle-ax was still held by its leather strap to the saddle. He might soon need the weapon.
He entered the mountain pass.
To his left rose glaring white cliffs. Box brush clung to every crevice. An inky-black forest loomed to his right. He almost diverted the horse into the trees, but his lead on the Moors was good and he thought he might be able to outrun them. He had to be either over or near the border, and he doubted the Moors would follow him into French territory.