“Rest?” she exclaimed, starting up the slope with her long skirts gathered in her hands. “Why? There is no time to lose. We have a battle to plan, and we cannot do that without Theodore. Come.”
CHAPTER 11
The next day they found the Milengi camp by virtue of the vultures circling overhead. Weary and footsore, they stood in the small protected canyon and stared at the scene of carnage. Men and women alike lay sprawled where they had fallen. Most had been hacked up by swords. A few were brought down by crossbow shafts.
Stunned, Noel could not avert his gaze from the mutilated corpses, the sightless eyes staring into eternity. The tent shelters had been torn down, their belongings strewn. The horses, goats, and chickens were all gone.
In the soft, early morning light when the rising sun cast a rosy hue upon the ground, and the clouds concealing the peak of the mountain gleamed pearl-white, something seemed unreal about so much death. Other than the circling buzzards, there was not a sound of life. No insects, no birdsong. Even the breeze lay still. Only the stream splashing over its bed of stones kept touch with reality. He heard himself swallow. Beside him Sophia whimpered.
He glanced at her, and saw that she was staring with her hands pressed against her mouth.
“Theodore,” she whispered.
With a meager amount of sleep and a long night of hiking through rough country, maintaining a constant alert to avoid the search parties riding over the trails, her beauty had worn badly. She might be eager to find her fiance, but she hadn’t stamina. It had taken all her strength to keep going; by willpower alone she had managed the last leg of their climb. Now she stood aghast, all hope drained from her dirt-stained face.
Noel’s heart filled with pity. “Stay by the stream,” he said. “I’ll search.”
Wordlessly she nodded and seated herself upon a rock. She worked to arrange her torn skirts in proper folds over her feet. Noel knew the activity was a mindless one, a subconscious reaching for what was conventional and safe in a world that had turned upside down.
He did not want to walk through the camp, but he forced himself to do it. The sun overhead was growing hot. The still air within the canyon was too heavy, too oppressive. Then the smell hit his nostrils: a thick, wet, salty- copper odor that made him think irrationally of the ocean.
It was the smell of blood. He found himself standing next to a headless man in hose and jerkin. The pool of blood beneath him was too great to soak entirely into the ground. The edges had started to coagulate, but the rest was still wet.
The green figs Noel had eaten for breakfast came up in a choking rush. He stumbled away, coughing and shuddering, and wiped his face with unsteady hands. It was tempting to run from this canyon of death and never look back. He saw Sophia’s figure still sitting upon the rock, posture perfect, hands folded in her lap. Her eyes were closed and her lips were moving as though she prayed.
Noel ran his sleeve across his clammy forehead and forced himself to continue the search.
Thaddeus, the dwarf he disliked so much, was the first person he recognized. The tiny man had been shot in the back with an arrow. His dagger lay in the dust beside him. Noel squinted ahead and walked on. It was worse to see faces he knew. He was afraid Elena would be here, and that fear grew with every step.
He found Yani next, the young, slim, red-haired brother who had been so clever in mind, so practiced with the slingshot. He had died with a sword in his hands. Blood smeared his face and chest. A dead horse lay half on top of him, its entrails spilling from the great wound Yani had cut in its belly. The rider was gone. Not a single casualty from the attackers remained behind.
Noel hurried on, not wanting to linger, determined to get this over with quickly. There were no survivors here. He went on peering at faces, sick outrage building beneath his horror.
Demetrius lay facedown like a fallen tree, his muscles bulging in the rigor of death. An axe had cleaved the side of his skull. His arms and torso held numerous wounds that bore mute witness of how long it had taken them to kill him.
One of the Byzantine courtiers lay draped over the broken poles of the goat pen, an arrow in his throat. Of the others there was no sign. Noel sighed and trudged back to Sophia. He started shaking his head before he reached her.
She rose to her feet. Her face was as white as marble. “He-he is not dead?” she said with trembling lips.
“He is not here,” said Noel. “I’d say Sir Magnin’s boys did this, came in and took the Byzantine prisoners by force.” He frowned and glanced at the cliff face. “I thought it was against the rules of chivalrous battle to attack a sleeping camp by night.”
“No honest knight fights at night unless provoked,” she said. “What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s early, just an hour or two since dawn. They’re long gone. We didn’t even hear this happen. That tells me they struck at night, like guerrilla fighters.”
Her expression turned cold and hard with hatred. “It is a new trick invented by Sir Magnin, this night attack. The men boasted of it after they took the castle. That is why Theodore was ambushed on the road in the darkness. Sir Magnin is no honorable knight. He is a treacherous, conniving brute, a coward afraid to face true men of valor in the light of day.”
Noel’s frown deepened. “Has he always fought like this?”
“No,” she said. “I have never heard so. But when my father died, his ambition to rule this province must have clouded his judgment. He has become utterly ruthless, and that horrible creature who follows him…” Her voice trailed off, and she avoided Noel’s eyes.
Ambition was only part of it, thought Noel. The suggestion must have come from Leon. His duplicate was turning out to be a sociopath, without morals, scruples, or conscience. Am I like him? Did he grow from some dark part of me?
“Leon,” he said heavily.
Her gaze came up. “Is he your brother?”
The answer stuck in Noel’s throat. He turned away from her, scratching the itchy beard stubble upon his face. “There’s no way to know if Theodore got away before this raid, or if they took him.”
“At least he is not dead,” she added, accepting his change of subject. “What do we do now? What can we do for these poor, unshriven souls? The wolves…”
“The ground is too hard for grave digging, even if I had a shovel.” Noel sighed, dreading the task ahead. “I guess I can pile rocks over them. Some of them.”
“I shall help you.”
“Nay. ’Tis no task for a lady.”
The voice came from the left. Noel spun around, reaching for his sword, and faced the figure walking toward them. The sun was at his back, putting his face in shadow, but Sophia gave a glad cry.
“Theodore!”
She ran toward him a few steps, her arms outstretched, then she stumbled and fell to the ground in a swoon. Noel and Theodore reached her at the same time.
“Let me,” said Theodore, shouldering Noel aside. He carried her to the shade of the olive tree guarding the spring. Laying her gently upon the bank, he cradled her against him and poured a palmful of water between her parted lips.
She coughed and sputtered, coming around. Her eyes fluttered open and gazed up into Theodore’s. Such a look of tenderness passed between them that Noel felt compelled to turn away and give them their privacy.
He grabbed the foot of the nearest corpse and dragged it next to another, on and on, trying not to look at their faces or their wounds if he could help it. After a few minutes Theodore joined him in the task. The bodies were stiff and unwieldy.
“We dare not take too long at this,” said Theodore. “They may double back in search of me again.”
“I know,” said Noel. “There are too many bodies. It will take a full day of hard work to cover them all, but she’s worried about the wolves.”
Theodore met his eyes, his own blue ones a little suspicious, probing, doubtful. “Tell me all that has
