The Dragon on The Border

  He began pouring wine into everybody's cups.

  But, as it turned out, Herrac was a true prophet. MacDougall and his train did not pass until about mid-morning of the next day.

  What caught the eyes of those in ambush, first, the next day as they waited just inside the screen of the first trees beside the trail, was a flash of gold coming toward them farther up it, and still out in level territory. But the flash was not of the gold with which the Hollow Men would be paid; but of gold facings on the surcoat over the armor of the lead rider in the procession.

  That flash of gold, and the arms beneath it—which Lachlan immediately identified as the MacDougall arms—not even counting the pennant flying from the upright staff beside the surcoated man's saddle, announced that their quarry approached.

  They stood where they were, hidden by the trees, watching until the MacDougall's group was only some thirty or forty yards from the beginning of the area where the ground swelled on either side. Then Jim turned to the others.

  "Christopher," he said to the youngest de Mer, "you had better move up the trail at least a dozen yards, and stay out of sight until after the attack. At the moment of the attack, and only then, move out to bar the trail ahead."

  He turned to Herrac and Sir Giles.

  "Sir Herrac, Sir Giles," he said, "you and your fellow riders should pick a position well toward the rear, since you will need room to build up speed for your charge, though that will be difficult in an area treed this thickly. I leave it up to you to choose less distance and a clear route to the trail, or more distance and the need to weave around trees in making your approach."

  "Lachlan," he said to the Scotsman beside him, who had already stripped down to his kilt, and looked of a mind to get rid of that too, including sword, shield and all else but his naked poignard, to be carried by the hand of his naked right arm against the enemy.

  Lachlan glanced up at him.

  "Lachlan," he said, "you should be closest to the trail of all, since you are less likely to be seen than armored men on horseback. You can hide quite well behind a tree, even if part of you is showing, and you must have a short dash to the trail in order to be sure you strike the part where the gold-carrying horse or horses are, whether they are in the midst of the guards, or not."

  "Well, now…" Lachlan said with unusual slowness.

  "If you will forgive me, Sir James," said Herrac, "Lachlan being as he is, and I knowing him as well as I do, I believe it would be best if, instead of being closest to the trail, he is furthest from it."

  "Aye!" said Lachlan hastily. "Aye, have no fear that I can reach the train in time and at the right spot. But I must wait further back."

  "Oh?" said Jim, puzzled. But, since neither Lachlan nor Herrac offered any further explanation of this he sensed that there was a reason which it was either uncomfortable or impolite to give at this moment; so he wisely went along with it.

  "Very well, Lachlan," he said, "pick your own spot. I trust you to do as you say. In that case though, since I was going to stay close to the trail with you, I will instead join you two, Sir Herrac and Sir Giles, if so please you."

  "We will be honored, m'Lord," said Giles, so quickly that his father did not even have a chance to answer.

  "Honored, indeed," growled Herrac, casting a reproving glance at Giles for taking the initiative in answering.

  Those approaching drew closer. Jim, sitting his horse with the de Mers among the trees, was suddenly aware, from some distance behind him, of a faint sound. He could not really believe what he was hearing, so he listened closely. In a moment he heard it again; and the sound was unmistakable.

  It was a hiccup.

  He looked at Herrac, but that Border knight's massive face was stony and his eyes all on the trail. He gave no sign that he had heard anything himself.

  He did not really need to answer, thought Jim to himself, abruptly. What he had heard was a hiccup and it was even farther back than this, and the only person who could be making that sound was Lachlan.

  Apparently, something about being on the verge of getting into a fight caused Lachlan to break out in hiccups. That it was a sign of fear, Jim discounted without seriously considering the possibility. Lachlan was simply not the type to be afraid in a moment such as this. What it probably was, was a reaction to the excitement and tension of waiting. Nonetheless, it was interesting.

  It was particularly interesting, because when he himself had had the hiccups back at the castle, from too much wine, and Lachlan had come in, Lachlan had expressed surprise, saying that Jim could hardly be drunken this early in the afternoon. It occurred to him now that possibly Lachlan thought that he had found someone else with the same disability; and that Jim might have just come into possession of some particularly exciting news.

  In any case, there was little chance of the riders, who were now entering the section between the two slopes, hearing the hiccups. Even if they did, it was too odd a sound in too unlikely a place for them to either notice or be alarmed by it.

  The MacDougall came on. He was a resplendent and handsome sight, sitting with ramrod back on a beautifully caparisoned, if also armored, horse. He was perhaps three horse-lengths in front of a man who seemed to be a groom, riding a small, very hairy horse with broad hooves and leading a much better-looking horse loaded with luggage. A horse-length or so behind the groom rode, two by two, the riders in half armor. There were, in fact, eight of them. Obviously they were the guards of the gold, which—as Lachlan had predicted—was in two ornate chests, one each side of a pack horse between the front four mounted guards and the back four.

  Jim gave no signal, trusting to Dafydd to know when was the best time to shoot. Therefore it was that, ready as he thought himself, he was taken by surprise when suddenly the last four men, riding behind the chests on the horses, fell from their saddles; or leaned forward unnaturally against the necks of their mounts, with the shafts of arrows protruding from their backs.

  Then, everything happened at once.

  There was a wild yell from behind him, and a perfectly naked Lachlan ran past to his left, toward the road, leaving behind himself Herrac and his sons, who were just now getting their horses into movement.

  Then the horses were in movement and things degenerated into the kind of blur that every armed fight that Jim had been in so far had fallen into.

  His own horse, Gorp, blundered into a tree, so that he fell behind the de Mers. A moment or so later when he reached the trail, Herrac was in the process of almost literally hammering one of the guards into extinction, with his superior size and strength; and Giles was hotly asserting his superiority over the other man-at-arms.

  Things at first glance looked well, but just then Jim noticed that one of the three other sons was already down; and, of the two who were left, both were being driven backward by the guards who had opposed them, for all the young men's size and strength.

  It was simply a case of experience. Jim had no doubt that a father like Herrac would make sure his sons all practiced daily with their weapons, particularly in mock battle with each other.

  But all the preparation in the world did not teach you half as much as actually getting into your first fight. Jim had found that out himself, the hard way.

  Brian had continued to tell him that he was no more than at best a mediocre fighter, with fourteenth-century weapons. His lance-work was unmentionable, and he was no more than passable, at best, with any of the other arms. However, the one weapon he had given Jim some credit for being able to use effectively was the combination of broadsword and shield.

  After a difficult time, Jim had finally learned the trick of tilting his shield to make an opponent's sword-slash glance off it. This, combined with a certain natural talent for the type of sword-work in which a broadsword is used more like a club than anything else, had finally brought Brian to the point of telling him that in an emergency these were the weapons he should use.

  Though to be sure, events could change that choice, as
they had in his legal duel with Sir Hugh de Bois de Malencontri, the former owner of Jim's castle. Then, Jim had won that fight with a long, two-handed sword; but only by taking advantage of the fact that Sir Hugh was somewhat overweight and that he, Jim, had unusual spring and strength in his legs.

  Lachlan had successfully cut the girths of both the horses carrying the chests, so that both chests lay on the ground; and was dancing, naked and poignard in hand, around MacDougall's groom, who had produced a short-handed battle ax from somewhere among his clothing.

  But the next to the youngest son of Herrac's was near to being beaten from his saddle by his opponent, and was in dire need of help; which his brother was not free to give to him—nor indeed was Herrac nor Giles.

  The excitement of the moment came to a sudden boil in Jim. With a blood-curdling whoop, he stuck his spurs into Gorp and charged on the horse into the attack, to the rescue of the endangered son.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jim cannoned into the man-at-arms who was driving back William de Mer, at the same time getting in a blow with his sword hard enough to send the man-at-arms halfway out of his saddle. The collision came with both his own weight and that of Gorp—who was not only a good-sized horse; but, furthermore, outraged. Jim had never stuck spurs into him before. Wanting to get back at somebody—anybody—he screamed and struck out at the smaller horse of the man-at-arms with his front hooves, almost as if he had been a properly trained war horse.

  Jim had no time to appreciate this, however, since he was busy fighting with the man-at-arms himself. The other regained his saddle; but, so unexpectedly caught by a second opponent, and particularly by one who was standing up on his stirrups and hitting down at him from a slightly larger horse, found himself suddenly on the defensive.

  He switched his attention completely from William, who drifted off, clinging to his horse; while his former opponent did his best to turn matters into a duel directly between Jim and himself.

  If Jim had not been so carried away—it struck him later that some of Lachlan's enthusiasm might have gotten through to him, because there was something oddly terrifying about a naked, armed man charging a line of armored enemies—he might not have done so well. As it was, however, Jim simply proceeded to overpower the man-at-arms, hammering him out of the saddle, Herrac-style.

  Suddenly, the small battlefield was still. Horses and men alike were standing, or sitting panting, or lying on the ground. And nobody stirred until Herrac leaped from his saddle like a twenty-year-old and ran to the son who had been knocked out of his saddle.

  "Alan!" he cried on a note of anguish. He fell to his knees beside the young man and lifted the limp head onto his knee. "Alan—

  His thick fingers tremblingly began to unlace the binding of Alan's helmet. He got it off at last to show the young man's face, paper-white, and his eyes closed.

  Jim felt a sudden, ugly emptiness. Alan was the oldest son. To Herrac, the death of his first-born son would be unusually severe; unconsciously as well as consciously these many years, he had been planning for and training Alan to succeed him as master of the castle and its lands.

  Jim got down from his horse, pushed his way past Lachlan and the other sons and knelt on the other side of Alan. He held his hands over the slackly open mouth and smiled across at Herrac, who was holding Alan's head and rocking back and forth like a tower of doom about to fall on anything nearby.

  "He's breathing," said Jim.

  Herrac burst into tears.

  Once upon a time the sight of such a man crying would have been shocking to Jim; but he had found out long since that both men and women of the fourteenth century cried as easily as children. And certainly Herrac had reason to do so, on hearing that his son still lived.

  "Help me!" said Jim to the sons. "Help me get his armor off him—gently. I'll see what I can do."

  Hearing that a magician promised to use his efforts toward Alan brought the other sons, even including Sir Giles, out of the fascinated trance with which they had been staring at their brother. They clustered around Alan and gently began to get his armor off.

  Jim carefully searched Alan's body with his hands, looking for any sign of a wound, but found none. He took the other's lax wrist and felt for a pulse. It was there, and regular but slow.

  He frowned, but quickly erased the frown at the flash of sudden fear in Herrac's eyes.

  "Alan seems perfectly unhurt," said Jim. "The only danger could possibly be concussion…"

  He lifted his head and looked at the two nearest brothers, those who had been next to Alan when they charged the men-at-arms.

  "Did either of you see what happened to Alan? When was he hit by the man-at-arms he rode against?"

  "The man-at-arms hit him once," said Hector, one of the two spoken to. "It did not look like a hard blow to me, Sir James, but Alan fell immediately out of his saddle."

  "Hmm…" said Jim.

  His fingers explored the skull beneath the unruly hair of Alan's head, now springing back into shape since the helmet had been removed that had squashed it flat temporarily.

  "It could be a concussion," he said again. The other thought that was in his mind was that there might be something about Alan himself that had caused him to go into a faint on being hit. But since this took him into an area of medicine about which he knew nothing at all, and besides could only frighten the de Mer family without offering any comfort or reassurance, he said nothing about it.

  "Bring me some water or wine," Jim said.

  It was brought. Jim made a few passes over it with one hand, while muttering under his breath, for the general purpose of cheering his audience with the thought that something magical in addition to the ordinary moistening of skin was at work here. Then he took one of the wadded cloths that he carried in a very unfourteenth-century pocket Angie had sewn on the inside of his shirt, dipped it in the wine—it would be wine, after all, that they brought, of course, he thought—and carefully bathed Alan's face.

  For a moment nothing happened; then as the damp cloth continued to moisten the wan features, Alan's eyes flickered and opened.

  "What—what is it?" he muttered confusedly. "Father—I mean—Sir, where am I?"

  "On your back on the ground, laddie," said Lachlan loudly, "after being knocked out by one of the MacDougall's men. Y'recollect that now?"

  "Yes… yes… I remember." Alan's eyes looked around him, and fastened on his father. Herrac darted forth a hand and caught the nearest hand of his eldest son.

  "Alan!" he said. "You're all right!"

  "Why, yes, Father," said Alan. "I never felt better in my life. Forgive me for lying down like this to talk to you—"

  He sat up and suddenly clutched at his head with both hands.

  "What is it!" cried Herrac.

  "A headache, Father…" said Alan between his teeth. "A headache I did not expect, that is all."

  Jim took hold of the young man's shoulders and pushed them gently back to the ground.

  "Lie still for a while longer," he said. "Someone fetch me a jacket or something from one of those dead men or prisoners of ours." He was a little surprised even as he spoke to hear the callousness of his own voice. But a couple of years here had changed him. "Then bring me any other coverings you can find, so that we can keep Alan warm for a little while while he lies still. We'll wait and see if that headache doesn't get better."

  "It's nothing, Sir James," said Alan on the ground. "I'm ashamed to have mentioned it. Let me up—

  "Stay where you are!" said Herrac. "Whatever Sir James says, do!"

  "Yes, Father," said Alan, lying back against the roll of unidentifiable cloth that had been placed under his head by one of his brothers.

  These others were now busily undressing both the dead men and the groom, who was not dead but had one arm hanging limply; and his ax was stuck in a tree about ten feet from the road, as if it had been thrown there by a practiced hand—undoubtedly Lachlan's.

  "Sir Herrac," said Jim, getting to his
feet, "perhaps you'd be good enough to stay with Alan for the moment, while the rest of us look into other things that need to be done here? Lachlan, I think we should talk to this MacDougall."

  "Aye. That we should!" said Lachlan, with what Jim could only interpret as a very evil grin. Lachlan was testing the point of his poignard with his other hand.

  "I said 'talk' only!" said Jim. "Come along with me. You too, Giles."

  Leaving Sir Herrac with Alan and his other sons, Jim walked forward to the MacDougall, who was still sitting his horse and facing forward toward a motionless, gleaming, iron figure that was young Christopher. The sixteen-year-old had kept his word. He looked to have not moved a muscle; and to Jim, now on foot as they moved toward him to reach MacDougall, Herrac's youngest son did indeed make a dangerous-looking sight, blocking the trail with leveled lance.

  They reached the man in the golden surcoat. He turned his head to look down at the two of them.

  "Well now, Ewen," said Lachlan, in a tone of satisfaction before Jim could get a word in edgewise. "It looks like you'll be paying us a visit!"

  "Sir," said Jim, "whatever your rank—"

  "He's called one of these new-fangled Viscounts," Lachlan put in.

  "M'Lord MacDougall," said Jim, "I am Sir James Eckert, Baron de Bois de Malencontri. You are my prisoner. Step down from that horse."

  "And most quickly, Ewen," said Lachlan, testing the point of his poignard again. "Ah, but I'd much recommend that you do so with speed."

  MacDougall swung down from his horse, however, in leisurely fashion. Standing, he made less of an impressive figure, since he was a good four inches shorter than Jim, and at least two inches shorter than Lachlan. But his thin face with the high cheek bones was heavily marked with contempt.

  "There are footpads on every road these days, it seems," he murmured and his hand slid in under his surcoat. The point of Lachlan's poignard was immediately at his throat; and his hand stopped.

  "It was a kerchief only I was reaching for," said MacDougall softly, slowly pulling out a wispy piece of cloth that would seem more likely to be carried by a woman. A faint scent of perfume wafted from it. "There seems a damned smell around here, for some reason."