Wolves and Jackals (II)

Count Étienne and his attendants now each faced a dozen or so mouths full of sharp teeth, dozens of rising and falling howls, and hundreds of flickering eyes. It was not that they lacked courage, nor that they feared death so greatly, but humans possessed an innate revulsion toward these apostles of demons.

If the count had his say, if time could turn back, he would rather return to Holy Cross Castle of the King of Jerusalem and accept the challenges of those young knights. One against one was fine; one against ten was fine. To die beneath a Christian's lance was still nobler than dying in the jaws of these beasts.

Most hateful of all, anyone wearing armor or mail might have been able to try breaking out, mounting a horse, and riding away to raise the alarm. Even if he could find no one, or found people unwilling to rescue them, at least someone could gather their bodies and anoint them with holy oil, so they would not suffer at the hands of demons only to be cast into hell for having received no last rites!

But their ship had run aground. Their lives had been spared, and they had brought out the horses, wine, and part of their food, but their clothes had been soaked through with seawater. Several squires about to be promoted had been wearing mail—for they had always worn it to grow accustomed to its weight as soon as possible—but fearing the wet mail would rust, they had taken it off, oiled it, and hung it from branches nearby.

The monks and knights in leather armor and plate had done the same.

These beasts called servants of demons were so clever. They seemed to know that once humans put on armor, there would be nothing they could do to them, so from the very beginning, they had sent some of their stronger members to prevent them from reaching and putting on their armor.

And then there were the horses. Had they not been tethered together, the frightened animals would have scattered long ago. Now, though, no one knew whether that was a good thing or a bad one.

The wolves and jackals knew these large deer-like creatures well. They cautiously darted between the horses' hooves, biting at their tails and legs. Some wolves, skilled at leaping, sprang onto the horses' backs with their companions' help and tore at the backs of their necks until blood streamed down.

They dealt with horses as they dealt with humans, doing all they could to make them fall. Once a horse fell, the main force of the wolf pack immediately shifted its attention and changed prey, because by then, the horse could neither strike back nor flee.

Some wolves and jackals were too slow to react and were trampled beneath hooves or thrown from horses' backs, but such sacrifices were entirely worthwhile.

Count Étienne heard two cries of agony in quick succession. With one hasty glance, he saw a squire being dragged away by wolves. The other cry sounded very much like one of the monks in their party. In that instant of distraction, the lead wolf bit down on his longsword. Its teeth scraped against steel with a shrill creak; even when the blade cut open its tongue and gums, it would not let go.

For the first time, the count met a pair of living wolf eyes at such close range. They were tawny yellow, with enormous pupils. Count Étienne hoped it was only an illusion, but he seemed to see within them a bottomless abyss, burning coals, hell—hell! he shouted in his heart.

"Help me, Lord Jesus! Save me!" he shouted himself hoarse, but everyone here had already exhausted their strength. The wolves and jackals had divided them apart, ensuring that only one person in each area was surrounded and attacked.

"If this is God's will!" Count Étienne cried madly. "Shelter me, Saint Pelagius! Protect your apostle, protect your follower! Saint Pelagius!"

He called upon the name of the saint he revered, the one who had discovered Saint James's tomb in the ninth century, along with a shield once held by an angel. That shield was later revered by the Church of Rome as the Shield of Saint Pelagius, said to be capable of protecting mankind against the harm of all evil spirits.

As the count prayed, scorching flames suddenly rose from beneath his feet. At first they were like a spear, piercing the wolf pack's noose; then, in a heartbeat, they spread open and covered everyone. The knights and monks reacted with astonishing speed. They fought back the wolves before and beside them with all their strength and rushed toward the count. The flames lit their faces and hands, setting some wolves and jackals alight without harming a single human being.

Yet at the same time, Count Étienne felt a weakness burst forth from the depths of his body. "I'm not going to make it," he said softly. Even if a knight helped him onto horseback now, he could not hold the reins or brace himself in the stirrups. He knew he certainly would not be leaving today. He only hoped his nephew, perhaps along with others, could escape. "Anoint me with oil." Everything before his eyes was crimson; he could see nothing and could only grope for the people beside him.

He felt his hand gripped powerfully by another. "Praise Jesus Christ!" the man said, but instead of anointing him, he took the sword from his hand. Another pair of hands caught him. Someone sighed, and then several fingers brushed across his forehead. The count drew a deep breath. He was about to tell the monk to anoint the others as well when he felt his knee, half-kneeling on the ground, begin to tremble. He found it strange, for there was no fear in his heart—but at once he thought of a possibility.

This was the vibration of hooves striking the earth, one of the sensations most familiar to a knight!

He lifted his head. Though he could not clearly see what lay before him, he could hear the people around him cheering. Someone had come to save them!

Cesar could not approve of Geoffrey's earlier actions. Though he had received favors from this Templar, his conscience was forever tormenting a heart that did not belong to this era. Yet these tangled feelings vanished at once into the howling gale after Geoffrey knelt for the fifth time, recited the Lord's Prayer, and asked Saint Erastus, the saint he revered, for guidance.

"Thank Jesus Christ! Thank Saint Erastus!" The older knight rose to his feet and shouted with an exhilarated expression, "We found them—it was us who found them!" He immediately swung himself onto his horse and charged forward like an arrow loosed from its bow. He moved so fast that he outstripped birds in flight. Behind him, not one person lagged behind—not even Cesar, who had practiced riding for only a few months.

Naturally, he could not have ridden the little horse Castor, Baldwin's gift, on this journey. Castor would indeed grow into a splendid steed, but in weather like this, with days and nights of hard riding ahead, only a strong adult Percheron or Maremmano horse would do.

Cesar rode a Percheron. The Gerard family had learned that he was leaving the castle and given him this horse in return for the little barrels and mops. It had a shining dark-brown coat, with only its hooves and tail white. It naturally could not compare with Castor, but Cesar had loved it at first sight.

As for how this horse had come to like Cesar, that was naturally because Cesar had unhesitatingly brought out every bit of the fruit, vegetables, and malt candy from his own share.

Riding an adult horse felt entirely different from riding a pony, and a horse at full gallop felt vastly different from one walking at an easy pace. In times when riders still had to carry messages, it was common to see that after a long journey, not only the horse was exhausted beyond measure, but its rider was also barely alive—because when a horse galloped at full speed, a person could not truly sit upon it unless he was willing to have every bone in his body jolted to pieces.

Cesar's teacher had been Baldwin. He had taught Cesar, "When your horse is galloping, you must not tell yourself, 'I am riding a horse.' You should tell yourself, 'I am standing on a small boat.' Your feet must press firmly into the stirrups, anchoring you to the horse's back like an anchor. Your knees must bend, rising and falling with the horse like waves. Your hands must grip the reins tightly, just as a sailor hauls upon the ropes of a sail. Only then can you steer this living little boat through hurricanes and torrential rain instead of being swallowed by them."

Over these past few days, Cesar had truly felt how precious those teachings were—though they might not have been Baldwin's own words, but something he had borrowed from a former martial instructor, perhaps even Count Raymond of Tripoli or Amalric I himself.

At first, he had still been somewhat clumsy, and his legs were often injured by impacts and chafing. If this body of his had not been unlike that of an ordinary boy... that was to say, if he had not possessed great strength, healed quickly, and felt little pain, the Templars would have left him behind long ago when he became too sore to move.

Geoffrey had not liked him from the start.

Only when he tried riding according to Baldwin's guidance did he truly experience the exhilaration and joy of riding. The small estrangement between him and his horse dissolved without trace, and their understanding became as seamless as though they were one being. Though they traveled upon land, it felt as if they were passing through rolling waves, the wind an invisible sea tide. He even caught up with Geoffrey and followed close behind him. He saw that point of firelight that seemed ready to go out at any moment.

He heard Geoffrey shouting the name of the saint he revered. Geoffrey charged toward the firelight like a heavy hammer smashing against the iron netting of hell. His horse lowered its head, pinned back its ears, and leapt with all its might. In a single bound, it landed in the heart of the wolf pack.

Cesar saw it as well, but he did not panic. He had taken part in several hunts before. So long as a person remained on horseback, medium-sized beasts such as wolves and jackals could not threaten them. On the contrary, even an untrained horse would instinctively trample, kick, and bite.

He seized the reins and lifted his body, making the horse rear up and raise its forehooves before bringing them crashing down. The blow struck a large wolf in the chest. It let out a mournful cry and died. Cesar felt only a slight jolt. His horse snorted, wheeled about the field, and constantly shook its body.

The two soldiers and squires behind them arrived as well. The precarious balance between wolves, jackals, and humans was finally broken—but not as the lead wolf had hoped. The scales did not tip toward the wolf pack, but toward the other side. Hidden in the darkness, it assessed the humans' strength and that of its pack, though Saint Pelagius's blessing upon Count Étienne had already run out...

Its original purpose could no longer be achieved. It threw back its head and gave a long howl. The wolf pack's assault immediately weakened. The experienced old wolves had even abandoned their opponents, instead picking up jackal corpses from the ground in their jaws and racing into the darkness. The other wolves followed suit. The jackal pack sensed that something was wrong as well. Their leader roared furiously, but there was nothing it could do.

The beasts abandoned the ground strewn with corpses and departed without hesitation. Having survived the disaster, Count Étienne's party collapsed one after another, their limbs trembling and their minds spinning. Only the count, supported by a squire, walked toward the Templars.

"Salutations to the valiant knights!" he said between gasps. "I must thank you. If not for you and your squires—now he could see a little more clearly—we would all have been finished!"

"Thank God, thank the Holy Mother, thank Their holy Son, and thank Saint Erastus, the saint I revere. Without their protection, we could never have found you, much less come to your aid!" Geoffrey swept his gaze over the battlefield, making certain there was not a single cowardly bastard here. At last, his eyes settled upon the guide.

"Amalric I, King of Jerusalem, heard that your ship had suffered a wreck, so he sent us to find you," he said to Count Étienne. There were, of course, great doubts about these words. Countless ships suffered wrecks. Even if other survivors had reached another village or city and reported the matter, and even if a messenger had immediately informed Amalric I, the journey there and back would take at least ten days. How could they possibly have found them so quickly?

But since the Templar had said so—the guide had sensed it too—this might be his only chance to escape with his life. He hid behind the monk and slowly edged toward a dark corner where he would not draw notice. But just as he was about to slip away, there came a clink.

A gold coin fell, landing squarely upon a broken shortsword. The sound was loud and crisp, and everyone heard it.

Everyone instinctively looked over. The guide stared at them in terror and reflexively gripped the money pouch holding his gold coins. It had always been tightly tied to his belt, hidden beneath his leather armor, but after the wolves and jackals had relentlessly bitten and clawed at him, even the toughest calfskin could not hold. Several tears had opened in it. The earlier coin had only been the beginning. Now, whenever the guide moved, those glittering little things would tumble down one after another.

The monk from Count Étienne's party moved first, picking up several coins that had fallen at his feet before the guide could reach them. He weighed and examined them. They were Roman gold coins used throughout Jerusalem, each weighing a little over four grams. As had been said before, one hundred and fifty Roman gold coins were enough for a knight to equip himself from head to toe—no matter what, a guide should not possess such a handsome fortune...

He looked at the guide and slowly gripped the handle of his hammer. The guide backed away in terror, dropping more coins. But where could he run?

No one noticed the guide's expression changing from terror to ferocity. No one expected that though he hunched his shoulders, bent his knees, and put on the appearance of a coward, he was gathering force. Then he lunged sideways at Count Étienne!