His hand was tight on the hilt of his sword, and his cheeks red with anger, his eyes narrow as he considered what to do. He looked at his chieftains, speaking in a hard voice.
“Yes, we fought, and failed in the summer when the enemy fell upon us in a place we had not thought they could come. Yet it is I who gave fair warning, and summoned Charles here to this place. Nor do I wait here upon his command as some might think!”
It was a vain attempt to salve the wound, he thought. I should leave this place! Let Charles have his battle, and the glory he so covets. Headstrong and boastful, he hears no other counsel.
At that moment there came a shout from above, and a great noise. Startled by the clash, the old gray Arabian leapt up, as if rearing for battle, and the rein that held him snapped. He beat his hooves upon the smoky cold airs, neighing loudly as his nostrils flared. Then, he settled hard, still driving his heavy hooves into the ground, pawing and digging with restless energy.
Odo looked over his shoulder at the beast, saw how he chafed for battle, old but yet strong of heart, his shoulders taught with the fervor of his discontent. And Odo saw himself there, rearing up as well at the thought of battle so near but yet denied him, snapping the rein that held him in check, and riding out into the gathering dusk to have the vengeance he so rightly deserved.
“I should have smashed the enemy camp days ago,” he breathed. “All that they hoard there has been stolen from my lands. I cannot bear it any longer. I will not bear it! And that one there,” he pointed at Kuhaylan, “that one knows the road to honor.” He called for his charger, and bid his men to take to their saddles as the sound of the battle raged on above them.
Charles was heavily engaged, in the thick of battle, he thought, and the day grows old with blood and smoke. He will summon me at long last, thinking to use me as a hammer in time of greatest need, but by then it will be too late, because I will not answer.
For I will not be here…
“Come!” he shouted at his riders. “Mount now and come with me, and we will make our way with stealth and guile around the flank of the enemy and so come upon this camp the monk speaks of. Ride with me and avenge dishonor! Clean the stain from your shields and spill the blood of the enemy. We wait here no longer.”
He spurred his mount and rode close by the gray stallion, whistling as he did, and the horse leapt up and followed in the wake of the young brown charger, eager to run. And so it was that Odo and his three thousand brothers in arms made their way along trails they knew well, having scouted all this land and ground for many days. They moved like the shadows of wraiths through the darkening woodland, a cold breath upon the land, yet with burning fire in their hearts.
In time they came to the enemy camp, seeing the white tents and smelling the fires of the early evening meals. Their mounted archers moved silently in the van, finding and silencing the outlying skirmishers of the Arab guards, and when they were very near the camp, the Duke Odo raised his hand, pausing while his horsemen gathered around him like a gray fog. Then they leapt forward as one, racing into the enemy camp at dusk, heedless of any danger, free and full of anger, and the great commotion they bestirred there came even to Abdul Rahman where he sat on his black Arabian mount, watching the heavy horse of his armored cavalry wheel and charge yet again.
Seeing their master turn with alarm at the sound from the camp, a captain of a mounted ajinad regiment waved at his men to turn and settle the matter, for he was eager to please his general, and it was not fitting that he should suffer this distraction. He rode off with his troop of horse, and, seeing this, two other captains followed him, leading many other horsemen to follow.
The tents were well fired, and thick black smoke rose on the noisome airs, marking the place where the Arab camp lay. Word of the attack on the camp seemed to spread like fire in dry grass. Minutes later, to his great surprise, Abdul Rahman saw many more regiments of his Berber horse peel away from the flanks of his armored riders, and ride to the rear.
“Who gave that order?” he shouted. Yet even as he spoke he could hear the footmen shouting from behind that the tents were afire and all the plunder and pillage of many months was being set to the torch by their heathen enemies. Dismayed to see how the Berber horse had turned to flee, the commander of the heavy Saracen cavalry looked and saw his general off in the distance, his drawn sword pointing at the smoke from the burning camp. And seeing so many of his brothers turn and ride for the camp, he held up his final charge and turned as well, thinking it was the desire of his lord.
“No!”came a voice close by the governor’s ear. “The heavy cavalry!”
Abdul Rahman wheeled his horse about and saw the grey eyed Emir, Abdul Samad. “Did I not say it?” The Emir shouted at his general. “We should not fight here in this narrow place! Did I not warn you our tents were ill guarded? You must hold the reins tightly, my lord. Heed not these stirrings of unrest or the mighty host will flee, and many will die a martyr’s death on this gray road!” He pointed to the old stony road built by the Romans so many centuries ago.
Abdul Rahman reddened with anger, and he spurred his horse, riding out with the fire of battle in his heart to rally his men and turn them back to the battle with the Franks. But seeing the enemy give way, and quickly surmising what was happening, the Frankish general shouted at his men to take up their shields where they had long been planted and dinted with the barbs of the enemy lances. His soldiers raised their long broadswords, wet with the blood of their enemies, and with one voice they called out as they charged, sweeping down the slope of the hill in the wake of the fleeing horsemen, carrying all before them as they came.
Caught up in the swirl of battle, Abdul Rahman cried out, his curved scimitar raised high, when an arrow struck him full in the throat, choking off his voice and life. The sword of Islam had broken and died on the anvil of fate.
Chapter 30
Nordhausen was back, safely through the Arch and up in the lab now, where Paul and the others warmly greeted him. They were eager to hear his tale, and Kelly sat with one eye on the Golem monitors.
“You barely made it,” he said. “The singularity has developed a pretty bad wobble on the spin now. But I managed to compensate and pull you through.”
“In one piece, I hope,” said Robert, remembering what had happened to Rantgar. “Well, has it changed?” he asked, still somewhat breathless from the Time shift.
“We don’t know yet,” said Kelly. “I’ve only just regained control of the Golems, and I’m putting them back to work as foragers. It may take a while before a weight of opinion forms and we can get some reliable data.”
“Where did you go?” asked Paul.
Nordhausen told them of the abbey and his host, and the rubbing he had been called upon to translate. “It was a rubbing from the stela unearthed at Rosetta,” he explained. “They thought it might be the last clue they needed to unravel the weave,” he said. “But things were very unsettled there. The Berbers had come within arrow shot of the abbey, and Emmerich, the Abbot, had been busy packing off anything he could save. The scriptorium was a near shambles when I arrived.”