Cormac Fitzgeoffrey vrs sexy desert witch
Mar 14, 2021 20:25:10 GMT -5
Post by themirrorthief on Mar 14, 2021 20:25:10 GMT -5
BELASANTERRASIA
By Sermon Bath (ME) an old tale recycled
There were thirty of them. They huddled close together beneath the less than
abundant shade provided by a large outcropping of tall rock. Among the group were
a sprinkling of renegade Egyptians and Bedouins, but most were lean, hawk-like
Turkomen wearing sheepskin caps and wolf skins. Some wore rusty mail beneath
their clothes and peaked helmets sat the heads of a few. There was very little talk and
even less movement save for the occasional curious lizard peeking out from beneath
one of several boulders strewn in random fashion across the desert landscape.
The young Frenchman Michael de Blois was the only Frank in the dusty company.
He cared little for his companions but held considerable respect for their toughness
and fighting ability. These men followed an outlawed Norman-Gael crusader named
Cormac Fitzgeoffrey. De Blois had naught to say to his fellow men-at-arms save for
one. Yumel was little more than a boy, only a few wisps of beard grew on his face.
His eyes were large and eager. Michael liked him and occasionally they shared a few
words to pass the time.
“I have never seen such heat Ferenghi,” Yumel stated simply…hoping to draw the
young frank into a conversation. De Blois did not reply at first. The band had ridden
hard for three days to reach these rocks. Here was a tiny spring the Bedouins called
The Tear of Allah. Cormac had ordered them all to wait while he had continued on
alone. He left no explanation for his action but rarely explained himself on any matter.
He simply gave orders and expected them to be obeyed. In that respect the giant
swordsman was little different from the sheikhs and warlords that ruled this ancient
part of the world. De Blois sometimes pondered this and other mysteries concerning
the big warrior with the deep voice and scarred face. There was no question that he
led well enough…or had until now.
“Do you think Lord Cormac will be long? Some of the men say that he goes to a
cursed land forbidden to Moslems. They say that no man has ever returned from yon
valley and lived to tell the tale of what he found there.” Michael thought he glimpsed
a hint of fear in the dark eyes of the boy. This was a dangerous land. They had taken
a circuitous route southeast from the abandoned citadel of Sieur Amory. It had been
a good gathering place since the French knight no longer used it. He had allied him-
self with the Roualli Arabs and had become an important man…and wealthy. With
better fortune the crumbling wasteland citadel had been abandoned.
They had attempted to skirt the worst of the desert but in so doing had positioned
themselves perilously close to the ragged hills where the fierce Memluk Turks lived.
They were sworn enemies of Cormac Fitzgeoffrey and would gladly kill him and all
who rode with him perchance they discovered how close their foe was. Luck had
fallen their way thus far. “Don’t worry about Lord Cormac, he will return from his
mission in due time and then we’ll ride like the wind away from this cursed desert.”
Yumel nodded hopefully. Whether he actually agreed with the Frenchman scarcely
mattered. “The men also want to go but they will wait for the Lord. Riding with
him has made us all wealthy…or would have were we not fond of strong wine,
gambling, and women with expensive tastes. He has promised that soon we will
raid a town so wealthy we can all live like kings for a year.”
“And we shall,” Michael replied. “Has any man ever know Lord Cormac to break
his word? Such is an impossibility. Now we must all be patient for a little longer. I
know nothing of his purpose for bringing us here but it must be very important indeed
for I have never seen him so obsessed with a thing.” Both men stopped talking but
the Frenchman had not spoken his entire mind. He could have added that Cormac
had not been the same since they’d rescued that filthy old prophet called Esau. It
was true that some called Fitzgeoffrey mad. Michael did not think it true but this
time he was not so certain. The men would not wait for long and they would not
listen to the former squire of Gerard de Gissclin. He shielded his eyes from the sun’s
glare and stared at the distant cedars. They grew tall and thick in a place where nothing
should have grown. Michael de Blois was no coward but he felt a slight chill travel
down his spine despite the sweltering desert heat. Silently he offered prayers to each
of his patron saints. His pious duties done, the young squire took a sip of the potent drink
the Turkomen made from fermented mare's milk. They called it kumiss and de Blois
dreaded the moment his companions finished the last of their supply.
It was the worse possible place where a man could find himself. Each step took
the heavily armored Norman-Gael deeper into danger. It was a forbidden place, the
promise of death ripened the air with dread. It was dark there, very dark…as if even
the sun had been cowed into hiding by the mystery of this valley that had no name.
Overcast skies and thick foliage defied truth and logic due to the mere fact they existed.
This was desert land; the countless number of large trees, their twisted and gnarled
limbs blocking the scant light, was…wholly unnatural.
He was a large man, his body encased in iron mail. However, he wore no helmet
and carried no shield. He walked purposefully and unafraid. It seemed almost as
if this dreadful dark valley was, in his mind, more mindful of him than he was of it.
The land had been to rugged and clogged with underbrush to continue any further
on horseback. He’d hobbled his great black stallion near a tepid pool of water at the
far edge of this forested land so very rife with strangeness. His volcanic blue eyes
were bright and deep set, his raven hair cropped short. His coif was thrown back,
revealing a portion of his powerful, corded neck. Everything about the man spoke to
strength and fierce determination. He’d set himself on a course and now he would
see it through. His inscrutable features were scarred, the
result of many battles.
However, they betrayed little doubt or misgivings.
Inside his heart lay the reason behind this thing he did. No other was privy. Once
he’d been a man who ignored superstition with naught save a slight grimace or roll of
the eyes for the man or woman who spoke of the supernatural. However, his doubts
concerning the certainty of that philosophy had since increased decidedly. There was
a sheathed edge to the faint smile that crossed his lips…vague in meaning but with
a hint of malevolence and grim determination.
A tale had come to the former crusader and possessed him. He’d eagerly ridden
out from Antioch seven days earlier with thirty men at his back. Somber men that camped
in the desert just beyond this deeply forested valley. He would go the rest of
the way alone. If any of his companions at arms had been inclined to argue his striking
out by himself into the mysterious void…they displayed scant evidence of the fact.
He had seen many questions in the eyes of Michael de Blois and the others but he’d
informed them of nothing save a quick return followed by a great raid.
The outlaw from Outremer came upon a deep gully that contained a tiny trickle of
dank and slow moving water. The warrior had walked far and developed more than a
thirst but he dared not slake it there. A gourd secured to his broad belt by a bit of rawhide
held far better water, though not so much that he would take a swallow as yet. He was
not entirely certain how much longer his trek would last. However, the gully containing
the miniature stream lay precisely where he was told it should be…now he simply had to
follow where it led.
An hour passed, then two. Yet, the heavily armored Cormac had not paused; his long
strides took him always further into the depths and darkness of the bewildering wood.
Sweat beaded his forehead and his hand rested upon the hilt of a broadsword, a thing
feared by friend and foe alike. The sensation of sword and gauntlet against his flesh
felt exceedingly good and he might have found comfort there…had he needed it. He
did not. The cold lingering tendrils of promised danger blew a chill wind against him
but it only served to dry a little of the sweat that his long physical exertion had created.
He hurried on, eager, near bursting with anticipation.
Another hour passed before the outlaw came upon a sight that would have frozen a
normal man with maddening fear. If the armored warrior was affected at all his face
expressed nothing that betrayed the emotion. He slowed to survey the scene that lay
in his path. Offset a few yards to the left of the gully, and to that same side whereupon
paused the outlaw, there rose from the denseness of the brush and brambles a huge
structure built of hand hewed stones. It rose at least twenty or more feet into the air
and the Norman-Gael estimated its girth a goodly sixty paces around. The intrepid
adventurer wasted scarce time studying the monolith; his full attention quickly fell
to the hell-spawned beast that sat like a monstrous monarch upon its throne of ancient,
and well haunted masonry. The thing was a full head taller than Fitzgeoffrey, a large
man in his own right: its naked flesh was dusky and half-adorned with dull black scales.
Its hands were ominously clawed and thick patches of pale fur covered much of the
creature’s broad shoulders and muscular arms. It glared at the man with tiny yellow
eyes that burned with a bright malevolent, and thoroughly malignant evil.
The outlaw had never seen a demon…he’d held the belief that such things no longer
existed save for those which simmered in the minds and souls of ordinary men. Now,
he would never doubt again. It was madness, yet there it sat. Although he continued
to maintain his outward calm, the crusader was more than a little amazed when the
unwholesome monster addressed him…and in the King’s own English!
The thing leapt down from the dank pyre before its deeply guttural and rumbling
voice rattled the very leaves that dwelt upon the gnarled trees. “Why have you come
so far to die stupid mortal? Tell me if you would…and I promise to make your last
minutes slightly less painful than those of others insane enough to pass this way. Of
course my promises are mostly lies but if you would…? Begin with the name your
weakling sire gave you when your whore mother spawned you. I hope it amuses
me mortal…half so much as your girlish voice doubtless shall.”
“My name is Cormac Fitzgeoffrey. I am an outlaw from Christian Outremer, of
Norman blood which I hate and Celtic blood which I despise. I am a friend to few
and a follower of none. Eamonn Ftizgerald, the knight that led me to the east is long
dead, fallen in battle. I come of my own free will seeking a woman that I was told
dwells in these hellish woods. I would learn more of this woman from you. I leave
to you the decision of speaking before or after you are returned to hell’s inferno by
my hand.” Cormac’s eyes flashed as he spoke. Conversing with this foul entity was
a necessity scarcely to his liking.
The demon smiled politely but with devilish delight. Its long fangs, ghastly and
sharp, were horribly bared. It replied quickly. “Your words are meaningless save
they prove you insane. You come seeking to end my gnawing hunger but shall we
continue the joviality for a few moments more? What is the name of this woman you
seek, great fool encased in metal that cannot save?”
The scar faced outlaw calling himself Fitzgeoffrey seemed well at ease and not at
all intimidated by the monster. He replied in a voice relaxed and even despite the evil
eyes that searched his own like a white hot brand. “She is called Belasanterassia and
I was led to believe she is a witch and doubtless your own queen. Still, I desire an
audience with this woman. I wish to see with my own eyes if she is as beautiful and
desirable as the prophet declared.”
The demon merely smiled and shrugged its great hairy shoulders. “Enough, I grow
weary of your high pitched squeaking little mouse. Although you are pitiful and very
small I fear I am sorely hungry so now I would kill and devour you. If only you had
one or two companions…then perchance I would have been well filled. I fear one
tiny fool might prove to be to scanty a meal but perhaps the taste will serve to lighten
my burdensome vigil here.”
The monster charged the outlaw with remarkable speed but Fitzgeoffrey had drawn
all four feet of his great and gleaming steel blade in one blindingly swift motion.
The dusky demon emitted an awesome roar and came on in a rush of animalistic,
blood mad fury. The Norse steel fell in a smooth flashing arc and the creature’s head
flew from its hairy shoulders, spraying a heavy mist of foul smelling, brackish fluid.
Then it crashed to the earth several yards from its former perch. The headless body
continued to blindly lash out with both sets of deadly, and likely rabid, claws. The
outlaw struck the staggering carcass square in the lower midsection with a vicious
kick that hurled the bloody mass backwards. Amazingly it gathered itself and took
two or three unsteady steps in the general direction of the huge crusader who simply
stood waiting; his heavy weapon held high in both mallet-like fists. The half dead
beast drew close and the long Norse forged sword fell straight down with awesome
force. The demon’s still combative flesh was split from collar to loathsome cods.
Fitzgeoffrey watched, his face revealing no emotion as the two halves separated and
fell first to the right and then the left. Nearby the great head screamed its outrage via
a crescendo of vile cursing and loathsome oaths. This frustrated outpouring of pure
venom by the destroyed beast merely drew the hint of a smile across the Norman-Gael’s
hard set lips.
Fitzgeoffrey took great pains cleaning the sword, all the while ignoring the guttural
protests of the helpless demon. The ex-crusader inspected the blade meticulously and
then returned it to its varnished leather scabbard. He shrugged before approaching
the severed head that lay glaring with rare hate but seemingly fallen suddenly and
quite strangely silent. Without hesitation Cormac lifted the horrid artifact by its few
sparse strands of long straggly hair. He hefted the thing until it reached eye level,
then the grim outlaw spoke. “By right of having slain you in fair combat demon: I
now claim my right to question you. I have learned you must answer me truthfully as
I am now the master of you and what moments remain of your hellish half life that
persists for the time being. Now speak, do the words I have said ring true? If so,
where do I find this woman I seek?”
“Yes, I am yours to command…at least for these few seconds before I return to
my high master in hell,” the grotesque trophy answered.
“Good,” Fitzgeoffrey replied. “Now I would have you tell me at once where I can
find this woman, or witch, who calls herself Belasanterrasia?”
“As you wish, great lord,” groaned the bested demon. “Climb the ancient cairn
that formerly served as my divan. At the very top is a great stone chiseled thereupon
with runes and the image of an arrow. Go forth in the direction the arrow points and
you will find that most horrible of females called Belasanterrasia. The witch dwells
within a great cavern. Find her and doubtless she will kill you at once. That thought
soothes me as I journey to the fiery hell that is reserved for demons.”
The monster closed its eyes but Fitzgeoffrey had heard enough. He cast the head
away with all his considerable might before climbing the huge pile of stones. There
at the very top, precisely as described by the demon, was a very large rock covered
with bizarre runes and the obvious depiction of an arrow. Cormac took careful note
of the direction the arrow indicated, then he climbed down and was on his way once
more. He trudged onward through more rough and foreboding country before at last
encountering a network of tall bluffs. These were decorated at the base with a
scattering of several massive boulders seemingly hurled there by impossible force.
There he found the great dark maw of a cave. Without the slightest hesitation the
outlaw marched within a few yards of the sizeable opening. The unexpected odor
of bear grease teased his nostrils. He allowed himself a moment to ponder how it
might be possible for bears to roam in a land where no one had ever heard of bears?
Likely, he smelled something entirely different…preferring to not yield his mind to
the suggestion that the witch was so powerful that she could conjure great beasts at
will.
“Belasanterrasia!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. I am Cormac Fitzgeoffrey,
formerly of Outremer’s holy service. I demand that you reveal yourself. If not, be
warned…I will gladly fetch you forthwith by strength of arm if necessary. Show
yourself to me, I would look upon your beauty, or have knowledge of a lie of it!”
The grim faced man waited impatiently for several minutes. He was about to fulfill
his vow to enter the mysterious lair when his sharp eyes discerned movement from
somewhere within the murky depths of impenetrable darkness. Someone…or some
thing appeared to have heard his bold summoning.
A huge creature appeared at the mouth of the cavern, a shockingly all black lioness.
The feline eyed the man serenely. A low rumbling growl broke the silence but the
beast took no further action save reclining upon on a large boulder and continuing to
stare with supreme concentration into the face of the warrior. Unabashed, Cormac
returned the stare impatiently. Several minutes passed before the cat glanced back
towards that same maw whereby it had so recently made its astonishing entrance.
Cormac’s volatile eyes followed the gaze of the lioness and then he breathed deeply.
A most magnificent woman slipped into the light. If she was not Belasanterrasia then
the witch that carried the name was not the world’s most beautiful woman…for this
great beauty most certainly held claim to that title.
The stunned outlaw quickly composed himself. “You are surely the woman that is
named Belasanterrasia. I would have words with you if you please.”
Unbelievably huge emerald eyes looked the man up and down. Her magnificent
features betrayed scant emotion but hinted of curiosity or perhaps annoyance? Her
hair was waist length, straight and thick, and seemed to glow, such was its obsidian
sheen and gloriously velvet texture. It was held in place by a thin band of gold positioned
just below her short black bangs and disappearing somewhere above her partially
exposed ears. The woman’s skin was soft hued and light golden brown. She wore no
clothes save a short skirt of white sheathed in slivers of silver and polished bronze.
Gold bracelets set with bright gems adorned her wrists. Slender but strong shoulders
and arms framed a lean flat belly. Her lips were full, sensuous, perhaps outshone only
by equally full and abundantly more sensuous breasts: scintillating orbs, gently rising
and falling with each breath, poised to turn even Helen of Troy green with envy. She
seemed more Greek than Arab but there were also vague hints of the Negro and the Eastern.
Her flared nostrils widened and those lovely eyes narrowed. She carried a luminescent
purple cloak in her right hand and a mysterious staff in the other. The staff was carved
with runes that hinted of the same ancient craftsmen that had carved the great stone atop
the demon’s cairn. She deftly donned the cloak and bound it at the nape of her well
sculpted neck with a shining clasp. She pulled the garment close about her slender
shoulders until it concealed much of her breasts. Modesty in a woman was not such
an unbecoming thing Cormac mused silently as he sucked another deep breath into
his great lungs. Yet he could not deny that there was no shame in nakedness…were
it all so magnificent.
“Speak quickly, what have you here in my domain?” Her tone was demanding,
obviously accustomed to being obeyed and quickly.
The warrior answered, his voice steady and deep despite the increased pace of his
heartbeat. “I am named Cormac Fitzgeoffrey, a man-at-arms late in the service of the
Christian lords of Outremer. Now I serve no lord save for myself. I have traveled
hither in search of a woman named Belasanterrasia. It is said that her beauty dims in
the light of no woman that draws breath in this life. Am I correct in my belief that
you are the woman so described?”
“You are,” the woman answered coldly, her fingertips lightly massaging the long
staff of decorated wood held by her left hand.
Cormac nodded and spoke again, his words flowed bold and cocksure. “It is my
intention to lay with you Belasanterrasia. I prefer that you consent of your own free
will but I shall lay with you, and God willing, leave you with child…my son. A few
months ago I rescued a blind prophet name Esau. He was being badly used by a
throng of Arab merchants who were offended by his mere presence. I slew them all
and set the man free. It was a thing done on a whim, more a product of boredom and
desert fever and less of logic. That and the promise of gold trinkets many prosperous
merchants are prone to carry concealed on their person. However, the means by
which his salvation was rendered mattered little to the prophet. He gave me a few of
his meager belonging, blessed me, then told me a strange tale about the world’s most
stunning beauty. He called her Belasanterrasia. He gave me not only the name but
directions to this dark valley. I took an oath years ago, that should I bring my sword
to these burning desert lands, I would have the most beautiful woman to be found
therein for my own pleasure. Hours ago I slew a fearsome demon. Before embarking
for hell he told me of this great cavern and I made my way here.”
“So you killed Eladt then,” Belasanterrasia said calmly. “He and only he could’ve
pointed out the way. Therefore, you must be no ordinary man to have killed such
a powerful demon. You are also a pompous idiot. I will not lay with you now or
ever and I’d rather spawn with Satan himself than allow my womb to suffer the
infection of your malignant get. Be gone from here now you ugly oaf. I will tolerate
no further delay lest I put my pet Enene on you and rejoice as she rips you limb from
malformed limb. Go!”
The woman glanced at the great black cat who rose on all fours and growled after
an utterly menacing fashion. Cormac Fitzgeoffrey drew his heavy broadsword and
said nothing. The die was cast. It was time to back up bold words with bolder
action.
The outlaw was lightening fast but the cat was much faster still. The broadsword
was only half raised when the feline struck with such force that Fitzgeoffrey was
hurled backwards and crashed on his backside with a pronounced thud. The cat’s long
claws and razor sharp fangs had sought purchase in soft flesh but close meshed chain
mail held and death was delayed. The former crusader scrambled to his knees as the
cat circled, planning its next angle of attack. The beast seemed to be in no hurry, it
bared the awesome fanged weaponry that lined its slavering jaws. If anything, the
beast seemed to be growling with contempt for a foe so easily surprised and put off
balance. However, it failed to take account of the fearsome cold that emanated from
Cormac Fitzgeoffrey’s gleaming, glacial blue eyes. He was filled with rage but long
years of hard fighting against the paynim hordes had taught him to temper his hate
with steely nerve and cold calculation.
The beast instinctively sensed that the man’s head was the vulnerable spot. It leapt
high, its fangs aimed for the soft exposed flesh of the warrior’s face. However, it was
Cormac that displayed remarkable agility on this occasion. He darted sideways at
the last possible instant and saved himself from the dagger-like fangs. Yet he could
not possibly avoid the desperate rake of claws that opened a deep gash in the left
side of his already scarred jaw. He sliced expertly with the long blade but his target
easily danced away. Again the cat launched towards its prey but Fitzgeoffrey just
managed to slip out of reach of both fang and flailing claws.
It became as obvious as Belasanterrasia’s epic beauty that the broadsword, although
sure death for a human foe, was simply to long and clumsy to strike effectively at
such an agile threat as ferocious Enene. Disgusted, the outlaw dropped the sword and
drew two long daggers from his belt. Shorter and easier to wield, he advanced in
the direction of the animal…a deadly blade in each eager fist.
The cat, despite its incredible ferocity, had few options. It could not bite or tear its
way through the outlaw’s armor and therefore had no choice but to continue leaping
high in the air in an attempt to assail its opponent’s head. The blood streaming down
the Norman-Gael crusader’s face made the beast mad, so desiring she was to tear and
rend until there was nothing left of the armored man’s pink flesh save red pulp. Cormac
Fitzgeoffrey moved forward in a fully erect stance; crouching would have only made
a lower, and more easily obtainable target for the enraged, fiercely roaring feline.
Unwilling to fight a defensive battle, Enene took a running start and flew at the big
man with claws outstretched for the maximum effect. Fitzgeoffrey had dropped both
daggers down to his waist. He turned sideways and tucked his chin against his chest
before extending his right arm with dagger pointed toward the cat. Enene’s claws
fell an inch, perhaps less, short of the outlaw’s face. However, the lethal blade met
the cat full in the throat; the animal had impaled itself! Not one to forfeit such an
opportunity, Cormac twisted the blade upwards, driving it deeper into Enene and
simultaneously lifting her. Although the cat weighed a good 120 pounds she found
herself heaved through the air like a discarded rag doll. Blood sprayed from the
fatal wound as the lioness landed with sickening crunch against a tree. She valiantly
struggled to rise but only managed to sink back, and with frothing mouth, writhe in
her death throes.
The Norman-Gael spent little time observing the cat’s final demise. He snatched up the
the huge Norse broadsword and swerved about, alert to all potential dangers. “You
bastard, you slew my pet.” Belasanterrasia’s voice turned cold as a frozen corpse.
“Tell where am I to find another like her? Now I am perfectly certain that I shall
slay you.”
The woman raised her staff and pointed it at the panting crusader. She mumbled
some quick words and a bolt of pure lightening burst forth from the end of the staff…
flashing towards Fitzgeoffrey. Although he carried no shield, the thundering bolt
seemed to strike something much more solid than mail or flesh. Amazingly it then
fragmented into a million sparks white hot sparks. Instead of being burned to death,
the outlaw stood like an iron tower brandishing his broadsword and laughing.
“One of the gifts Esau gave me was a lock of hair from the severed head of Saint
John the Baptist. Foolish witch, your wicked magic cannot touch one who carries
such a powerful talisman as that. Cease these foolish attacks and consent to lay with
me. Fear not, I can be gentle when held tightly in the arms of a beautiful and willing
companion.”
“A pox upon your putrid flesh,” Belasanterrasia spat. Then, she whirled and darted
back into the darkness of the great maw. The outlaw heard her hurried footsteps for
a moment and then nothing. “Come out Belasanterrasia, there is no place you can
hide where I can’t find you.” Cormac Fitzgeoffrey did not tarry long before following
the object of his lust into the foreboding cave.
A few long strides carried him deep into sheer blackness. The odor of bear grease
or something akin was stronger. However, it was not an altogether unpleasant scent.
He lit a tiny oil lamp of oriental design. He carried the small object with him always,
and despite its small size it gave off a surprisingly generous light. However, it was
small and the oil inside would not last forever. Fitzgeoffrey was confident that his
search would indeed end soon. Had venerable Esau not foretold that his quest would
meet with success? He had to admit to himself that Belasanterrasia was being very
stubborn. All part of her little game he supposed and chuckled. She played it well
did she. Doubtless the witch knew as well as he how it all must end.
The cavern narrowed into a tunnel that turned and twisted this way, then that. At
least he could stand upright as he moved slowly but purposely with the little lamp
held before him…alongside the great sword. The design of the lamp cast odd but
mysterious and beautiful patterns upon the cold hard underground walls and the
occasional stalagmite. Twice he passed what appeared to be large piles composed of
human bones, likely positioned strategically as a warning. He worked his way down
the long corridor for perhaps a half hour before he suddenly found himself in a
massive room. A number of large decorated braziers blazed with bright fire. They
had been placed at various points in the room and supplied good light. In fact, the
light was more than good enough for Cormac Fitzgeoffrey to see that he was not
alone. Belasanterrasia stood opposite the entranceway whereby the outlaw had exited.
She no longer held the wooden staff but rather a long, dancing red scimitar that
gleamed wickedly in her right hand. The crusader had seen enough swordplay in his
day to notice the easy way the blade flickered and pranced effortlessly in the woman’s hand.
“Ah, I’ve run my fox to ground at last. Let me talk sense into that lovely head my
dear.” Cormac Fitzgeoffrey’s voice was hopeful…but not overly. He was no fool.
For the very first time the girl smiled. “You Christian dog. Very well then, you can
have me all for yourself…only first you must slay me; and you must slay me for that
is the only way to save your own life you bumbling oaf. Now ready your pathetic
defense and may the jackals gnaw your bones!”
Cormac’s first instinct was to make light of the words. However, the hard light
that shone from those brilliant emerald eyes made him take pause. Already she had
begun to stalk him, the blade dancing easily in her grasp. “That red sword appears
to be quite a prize. It will make a fine trophy to show to my men when I return to
them triumphant…and well sated.”
“Just try to die well, not like the swine you smell akin to.” Belasanterrasia stated
flatly, without emotion. Fitzgeoffrey thought her words well spoke and a tinge of
admiration for her courage, and not just her beauty, passed through his mind.
They moved closer and the pair of steel swords clashed with a metallic thunder.
Brilliant sparks showered the two combatants like curious, fiery imps. Her attack
was surprising skillful, well practiced, and clever. However, let it be said that the
strength of the athletic woman’s arm was the thing that the outlaw took heed of first.
He’d fought a great many men with less physical power. He quickly came to realize,
as he jumped back to avoid a deadly thrust at his midsection, that whatever happened,
it would be a fair gained victory. When he took mastery of the woman, and he surely
would, his will could be imposed by right of conquest. Cormac barely stifled a merry
chuckle. All of this trouble over a woman: but such a splendid one!
Belasanterrasia was as quick as she was strong. She darted in and out, her red blade
flashing at the outlaw like an angry cobra. Cormac Fitzgeoffrey moved better than
a man in armor should but he struggled to match the woman’s lightening attacks. It
did not help matters that he fought to overcome but not kill…a disadvantage made
more complex by the fact Belasanterrasia was obviously in a slaying mood. The big
man parried and cursed as the red blade flicked past his defense and nicked his left
ear. The wound stung but the greater pain perhaps assailed the champion crusader’s
ego. He pressed the attack harder and forced the female warrior back as she deftly
displayed uncommon tactical and defensive knowledge. Small wonder the woman
had cast aside the magical staff and fetched her sword mused the outlaw during small
intervals of pause to catch their breath.
“You’re ponderous and predictable,” Belasanterrasia spat. “How long can you
possibly last before I unseat your muddled head?” Then she drifted away from his
renewed assault and laughed. “What fools and cowards men are, to encase themselves
with heavy armor that only burdens their limbs and saps their strength.”
Sweat poured from the fearsome warrior’s brow and he grunted forcefully with
every swing of his great broadsword. A cold rage had begun to set behind his volcanic
blue eyes. “To the death then you worrisome bitch! The skull to victory, may the dogs
gnaw your bones!”
The woman only laughed and counter-attacked with a blinding, red flashing flurry
the likes off the crusader had never witnessed during his long years of war. Despite
his best efforts the scimitar managed to nip his chin. His face was slowly becoming
a bloody mask. “I see now, its magic you’re using against me…an enchanted blade
and a variety of deceptions that have nothing to do with well honed swordsmanship.
Yes, that must be it…evil magic, black, hell spawned powers that no man can dream
of defeating.”
The woman was also sweating profusely now. She backed away to gather herself
for another deadly attack. Her breathing had become more heavy and the bountiful
globes that were her breasts heaved and quivered. “Ha, you stated yourself that you
wear a talisman against magic…so what new excuse do you have for your stumbling
about like a drunkard. Surely now, you must know how close to death you are. Why
make me any angrier…do you wish a quick clean demise or a delayed and painful
exit from this life?”
“Damn you woman! I will not be taunted by a skinny wench…not when the blade I
wield has tasted the blood of hundreds of men…and women!” Thus said, the furious
swordsman pressed the attack all the harder; if he was to die…so be it. He would not
be made the fool.
Thus the contest continued, Belasanterrasia darting and slashing whilst the hulking
Norman-Gael outlaw hacked furiously, raining powerful blows against the strange
red scimitar that miraculously did not shatter. Cormac was perplexed by this and
he could scarcely believe that the woman’s arm had not been broken as she parried
sword strokes that had maimed countless other sword arms. He was convinced that
witchcraft was afoot but at the same time he grudgingly admitted to himself that this
tremendously athletic woman displayed rare skill and courage. As the battle raged
it was becoming increasingly apparent that his attacks were losing some of their
strength and fury. His corded body was slimy with sweat and his stout right arm
had become heavy. Cormac gripped the mighty Norse broadsword with both hands
and pressed on. A grim smile set upon the woman’s lips as she maneuvered with
as much fluidity as ever, despite the sweat that glistened upon her powerful but lean
thighs and stomach.
As Cormac became more frustrated by his lack of success he began to take more
chances. His guard became less wary and he felt compelled to take risks due to his
waning power. Belasanterrasia was quick to take advantage and her point stung his
thigh. It was not a serious wound but it was painful…and added to his blood loss.
He did not need anyone to inform him that his situation had become desperate. It was
impossible, yet now he was forced to defend rather than attack. She had pricked and
stung him a half dozen times to the point that he sensed the warrior witch might well
be toying with him, or at least prolonging the fight deliberately. Perhaps she was only
set on enjoying his increasingly pathetic plight…slowly weakening, becoming near helpless.
This grim thought enraged the outlaw and he called upon one last surge of mighty
energy that was spawned of pure hatred for not just the woman but the entire world,
yea, even unto himself. “For the glutting of hate and vengeance!” he roared and struck
with tremendous power. The woman gave ground, her own expression suddenly
becoming grimly intense. However, she continued to fend off each awesome blow
and eventually mounted a counter-attack. The flashing red blade came streaking
from seemingly nowhere and with his last vestige of reserve strength Cormac threw
up the broadsword to block. This he accomplished but there was a horrendous sound
and blue and red sparks blinded his eyes. He instantly blinked away the sweat and
flashing sparks, but when his vision returned a horrifying vision was revealed. The
great broadsword that had served him so well in more battles than he could possibly
number had been sheered. He held the hilt and less than five inches of blue steel in
his hands. A quick glance revealed the mighty blade lying at Belasanterrasia’s feet.
With no other recourse the armored outlaw threw the hilt at the woman’s head and
drew a long dagger from his thick belt. It was all for naught though for he felt the
stinging tip of the long red scimitar pressed against his throat just above his coif. He
was finished.
With disgust he let the dagger slip from his hand and stared into the cold emerald
eyes of the deadliest foe he’d ever faced. Whether it be by witchcraft or some great
improbable skill, he was defeated at last…and by a woman!
Cormac was numb with rage and disbelief. So this was how it ended? Yet, he was
not afraid to die. The only regret he bore from his life of fighting and bloodshed was
the simple fact he would not live to crush with his bare hands the scrawny throat of that
false prophet Esau. He growled at the triumphant Belasanterraisa, “I am not a patient
man, kill me and be damned! I’ll endure no more taunts.”
“Silence! Perhaps I’m not quite prepared to kill you as yet,” the woman stated
flatly, her eyes flashing with a strange fire. “It is I that issue the commands.”
“Kill me!” the Norman-Gael half shouted.
The woman only responded by withdrawing the deadly point by a half-inch. “It
hardly seems possible but I believe you might have bested me had not you encased
yourself within all that ridiculous metal. I am a blood descendant of the goddess
Isis and here lies her realm that I may reveal or conceal to men at my whim. True,
I am only half goddess and not entirely immortal. Still, do not doubt my powers or
attempt to deny my will. Muhammadans nor Nazarenes dare tread here, yet here
you are. I am intrigued.”
“By Satan’s hoofs you pagan hellion, what game is this you play?” the outlaw
roared.
“True you are a great ugly brute but I very much enjoyed our little joust. Perhaps
a future match would be equally interesting. You call me pagan but I can easily
sense something of a kindred heart…am I mistaken?” The woman questioned the
stunned outlaw as he gazed at her with increasing puzzlement. It was true that he’d
long held the secret belief that Valhalla awaited him should he ever be cut down. He
knew that traces of fierce Viking blood flowed hotly through his veins. He had on
many occasions followed the banner of the cross but his shield bore the image of
a ghastly skull. Like the Norse warriors of old he served no god or man lest it also
served himself to do so. Such had brought him naturally to the life of an outlaw,
hated by most and returning hate meted in equal measure.
“Esau spoke in only half-truths,” Belasanterrasia said and withdrew the blade even
more. Cormac realized the woman was going to spare him. So be it he shrugged and
turned to go. His men were waiting and what man was a match for a goddess, even a
halfling divinity for that matter? Had he not witnessed sufficient impossibilities to
convince him thrice over that she spoke the truth. He could not resist one last peek
at the great beauty that was not to be smothered by mortal arms. As he accomplished
this her eyes captured his. “So you’re going then?” she asked simply.
“Yes, I do not belong here. This place is ancient and mystical beyond my simple
understanding. I am a warrior, a reaver, and outlaw…and little else.”
“Very well, “ Belasanterrasia said, her voice grown perhaps a bit softer. “But first
rest a moment and take some wine. A long walk awaits you to be sure, you have
bled much and needs regain your strength.”
Y&&Y&Y&&Y&Y&Y&Y&Y&Y&
Michael de Blois wiped sweat from his forehead and swept a strand of wet yellow
hair from his youthful face. He felt uneasy and turned his eyes yet again in the
direction of the strange valley where tall cedars grew where they should not. Yumel
studied his friend’s face felt the time was finally right to ask the question that he and
the others were all anxious to ask. “Lord Fitzgeoffrey has been gone for far to long
Ferenghi. This place is to dangerous for us to tarry longer. The Egyptians say that
our master was doomed from the moment he ventured forth into that forbidden place.
They say even Allah casts no light there; and that is not something an Arab would
speak of lightly.”
Michael de Blois looked down at his sandaled feet. The boy was right and he knew
it. The Frenchman’s soul was enduring a rare conflict. Cormac Fitzgeoffrey had
saved his life and that of his bride Yalala. However, the men would leave with or
without the young Frank in their midst; and what could he do alone other than perish
among the vastness of the desert? He felt much loyalty towards the Norman-Gael but
even greater was his desire to return alive to his beloved. At last he looked at Yumel
and nodded very slightly, “tell everyone to prepare, we leave in one hour. Let us be
gone from this accursed place which has certainly swallowed our master.” For the
first time in a very long while the somber Yumel smiled broadly. Resigned, Michael
was about to return the smile when a heavy bolt from an arabalest torn into the young
hillman’s forehead, spraying the startled Frenchman with blood, brains, and shards of bone.
De Blois leapt to his feet and drew his heavy saber, “we are attacked, to arms!”
Even as he shouted the warning he heard the ominous rattle of Tatar kettle drums.
In the distance he could see three score and more fierce Memluk warriors riding hard
and closing quickly. Obviously others had concealed themselves in the rocks as
another bolt broke the arm of a Turkoman whose scream was lost amongst the shouting
of his companions in arms. Michael cursed the sentries he sent to watch. They had
likely dozed off in the heat of the day or perhaps their throats had already been slit.
A bolt whizzed past his nose as he struggled to arrange his little band into some kind of
defensive formation as the charging Turks, their heron plumed helmets bent forward,
came on in a blood mad rush. The sun glinted on long scimitars held high, ready and
poised to slash at the first available throat. It was an unnerving sight but the hawk-
like Turkomen quickly unlimbered their stout bows and sent a hail of arrows flying
toward the Memluks. It was a volley fired in haste but several missiles found flesh
and riders toppled into the sand. Behind him Michael heard the dying scream of
Yumel’s assassin as a dusky Bedouin’s pike pierced his side. Another volley of
arrows were just barely loosed when the cursing, slashing Turks were among them.
Michael swapped blows with a frothing warrior even as the man’s steed struck at the
young Frenchman with steel shod hooves.
The men fought bravely and well but a dozen had already fallen two minutes from
the moment battle had been joined. Two or three wolf skin clad Turkomen had took
to horse and tried to flee. This would serve to delay their death precious little but
at least they drew away the attention of several Turks who followed in pursuit. Their
horses were swifter and the hillmen were soon caught and slaughtered. Michael had
much more important matters to deal with. He finally unseated his opponent and
then drove his blade through the Turk’s chest only to be confronted with three more
who attacked afoot. The head of an Egyptian landed at Michael’s feet and entangled
him as he slipped perilously on the bloodied sand. He wounded one Turk in the
thigh and ducked beneath the scimitar of a second. However, as he took a step
backwards to improve his defensive stance, he stumbled against the hapless head
which was being kicked back and forth some like child’s gruesome plaything.
The French squire groaned and fell flat of his back. A grinning Turk loomed over
him, prepared to administer the death blow. But then something happened that de
Blois would relate to Yalala as a true miracle. A flashing red blade descended on
the grinning Moslem and split him from shoulder to sternum. The corpse collapsed
in a bloody heap beside the boy even as another Memluk’s head went flying through
the air spewing bright red blood. “The skull to victory!” shouted a massive, figure
in chain mesh mail. Blood splattered and mounted on his black stallion the outlaw
seemed more like a mythic embodiment of God’s most brutal vengeance than a mere
man.
“Lord Cormac!” the stunned squire exclaimed. “We were certain you were dead.”
Another deadly slash of the red scimitar and a startled Turk, his eyes bulging with
disbelief, toppled from the saddle.
“Can a ghost slay as well as this!” the ex crusader shouted happily. “Look to your
guard young de Blois, there is still much killing to be done.”
That was true enough but the tide has suddenly turned. Many of the Turks had
allowed themselves to become unnerved by the appearance of the man they hated,
yet feared the most. Michael could see it in their eyes. This was not to their liking.
The fight continued but for every Turk that fell another wheeled his mount about
and fled. Eventually only a smattering remained and they were dispatched with zeal.
Just as suddenly as it had began, the melee of battle had ended. It was impossible to
stand against the skull on the shield.
No more than ten of Cormac’s band remained standing but they might as well have
been a hundred for the great shout of victory they raised. They spat, cursed, and
taunted the fleeing Turks. Some screamed that Lord Cormac Fitzgeoffrey would soon
ride to the Memluk villages and burn every man alive as they cowered beneath their
women’s skirts. Another legend about the Norman-Gael outlaw had been created …
long would the story be told beside blazing campfires deep in the rugged hill country.
“What happened to your great sword?” Michael inquired.
“Lost in battle, sheered down to the hilt by this red scimitar.” The outlaw declared.
Young de Blois was puzzled but he dared not ask further. The dark, inscrutable
look of old had returned to his master’s grim features. The origin of the strange red
weapon would remain a mystery then. The Frenchman asked a much more innocent
question instead. “What do we next, find more men and raid for gold and fortune?”
Cormac Fitzgeoffrey sat contemplating on the back of his great black stallion as he
watched his men gathering their horses or searching the bodies of the dead Turks for
trinkets and weapons. “Yes, we do all that but I am thinking that I may not be done
entirely with this place quite yet. If I live, someday I shall return. But first we raid…
for gold and fortune; and the most expensive wine, sweet smelling perfumes, gem
studded bracelets, and many yards of the best purple silk.” There was a short pause
before Lord Cormac continued, “and an ebon lioness cub.”
Michael de Blois’ eyes widened in astonishment but wisely he kept his council to
himself.
By Sermon Bath (ME) an old tale recycled
There were thirty of them. They huddled close together beneath the less than
abundant shade provided by a large outcropping of tall rock. Among the group were
a sprinkling of renegade Egyptians and Bedouins, but most were lean, hawk-like
Turkomen wearing sheepskin caps and wolf skins. Some wore rusty mail beneath
their clothes and peaked helmets sat the heads of a few. There was very little talk and
even less movement save for the occasional curious lizard peeking out from beneath
one of several boulders strewn in random fashion across the desert landscape.
The young Frenchman Michael de Blois was the only Frank in the dusty company.
He cared little for his companions but held considerable respect for their toughness
and fighting ability. These men followed an outlawed Norman-Gael crusader named
Cormac Fitzgeoffrey. De Blois had naught to say to his fellow men-at-arms save for
one. Yumel was little more than a boy, only a few wisps of beard grew on his face.
His eyes were large and eager. Michael liked him and occasionally they shared a few
words to pass the time.
“I have never seen such heat Ferenghi,” Yumel stated simply…hoping to draw the
young frank into a conversation. De Blois did not reply at first. The band had ridden
hard for three days to reach these rocks. Here was a tiny spring the Bedouins called
The Tear of Allah. Cormac had ordered them all to wait while he had continued on
alone. He left no explanation for his action but rarely explained himself on any matter.
He simply gave orders and expected them to be obeyed. In that respect the giant
swordsman was little different from the sheikhs and warlords that ruled this ancient
part of the world. De Blois sometimes pondered this and other mysteries concerning
the big warrior with the deep voice and scarred face. There was no question that he
led well enough…or had until now.
“Do you think Lord Cormac will be long? Some of the men say that he goes to a
cursed land forbidden to Moslems. They say that no man has ever returned from yon
valley and lived to tell the tale of what he found there.” Michael thought he glimpsed
a hint of fear in the dark eyes of the boy. This was a dangerous land. They had taken
a circuitous route southeast from the abandoned citadel of Sieur Amory. It had been
a good gathering place since the French knight no longer used it. He had allied him-
self with the Roualli Arabs and had become an important man…and wealthy. With
better fortune the crumbling wasteland citadel had been abandoned.
They had attempted to skirt the worst of the desert but in so doing had positioned
themselves perilously close to the ragged hills where the fierce Memluk Turks lived.
They were sworn enemies of Cormac Fitzgeoffrey and would gladly kill him and all
who rode with him perchance they discovered how close their foe was. Luck had
fallen their way thus far. “Don’t worry about Lord Cormac, he will return from his
mission in due time and then we’ll ride like the wind away from this cursed desert.”
Yumel nodded hopefully. Whether he actually agreed with the Frenchman scarcely
mattered. “The men also want to go but they will wait for the Lord. Riding with
him has made us all wealthy…or would have were we not fond of strong wine,
gambling, and women with expensive tastes. He has promised that soon we will
raid a town so wealthy we can all live like kings for a year.”
“And we shall,” Michael replied. “Has any man ever know Lord Cormac to break
his word? Such is an impossibility. Now we must all be patient for a little longer. I
know nothing of his purpose for bringing us here but it must be very important indeed
for I have never seen him so obsessed with a thing.” Both men stopped talking but
the Frenchman had not spoken his entire mind. He could have added that Cormac
had not been the same since they’d rescued that filthy old prophet called Esau. It
was true that some called Fitzgeoffrey mad. Michael did not think it true but this
time he was not so certain. The men would not wait for long and they would not
listen to the former squire of Gerard de Gissclin. He shielded his eyes from the sun’s
glare and stared at the distant cedars. They grew tall and thick in a place where nothing
should have grown. Michael de Blois was no coward but he felt a slight chill travel
down his spine despite the sweltering desert heat. Silently he offered prayers to each
of his patron saints. His pious duties done, the young squire took a sip of the potent drink
the Turkomen made from fermented mare's milk. They called it kumiss and de Blois
dreaded the moment his companions finished the last of their supply.
It was the worse possible place where a man could find himself. Each step took
the heavily armored Norman-Gael deeper into danger. It was a forbidden place, the
promise of death ripened the air with dread. It was dark there, very dark…as if even
the sun had been cowed into hiding by the mystery of this valley that had no name.
Overcast skies and thick foliage defied truth and logic due to the mere fact they existed.
This was desert land; the countless number of large trees, their twisted and gnarled
limbs blocking the scant light, was…wholly unnatural.
He was a large man, his body encased in iron mail. However, he wore no helmet
and carried no shield. He walked purposefully and unafraid. It seemed almost as
if this dreadful dark valley was, in his mind, more mindful of him than he was of it.
The land had been to rugged and clogged with underbrush to continue any further
on horseback. He’d hobbled his great black stallion near a tepid pool of water at the
far edge of this forested land so very rife with strangeness. His volcanic blue eyes
were bright and deep set, his raven hair cropped short. His coif was thrown back,
revealing a portion of his powerful, corded neck. Everything about the man spoke to
strength and fierce determination. He’d set himself on a course and now he would
see it through. His inscrutable features were scarred, the
result of many battles.
However, they betrayed little doubt or misgivings.
Inside his heart lay the reason behind this thing he did. No other was privy. Once
he’d been a man who ignored superstition with naught save a slight grimace or roll of
the eyes for the man or woman who spoke of the supernatural. However, his doubts
concerning the certainty of that philosophy had since increased decidedly. There was
a sheathed edge to the faint smile that crossed his lips…vague in meaning but with
a hint of malevolence and grim determination.
A tale had come to the former crusader and possessed him. He’d eagerly ridden
out from Antioch seven days earlier with thirty men at his back. Somber men that camped
in the desert just beyond this deeply forested valley. He would go the rest of
the way alone. If any of his companions at arms had been inclined to argue his striking
out by himself into the mysterious void…they displayed scant evidence of the fact.
He had seen many questions in the eyes of Michael de Blois and the others but he’d
informed them of nothing save a quick return followed by a great raid.
The outlaw from Outremer came upon a deep gully that contained a tiny trickle of
dank and slow moving water. The warrior had walked far and developed more than a
thirst but he dared not slake it there. A gourd secured to his broad belt by a bit of rawhide
held far better water, though not so much that he would take a swallow as yet. He was
not entirely certain how much longer his trek would last. However, the gully containing
the miniature stream lay precisely where he was told it should be…now he simply had to
follow where it led.
An hour passed, then two. Yet, the heavily armored Cormac had not paused; his long
strides took him always further into the depths and darkness of the bewildering wood.
Sweat beaded his forehead and his hand rested upon the hilt of a broadsword, a thing
feared by friend and foe alike. The sensation of sword and gauntlet against his flesh
felt exceedingly good and he might have found comfort there…had he needed it. He
did not. The cold lingering tendrils of promised danger blew a chill wind against him
but it only served to dry a little of the sweat that his long physical exertion had created.
He hurried on, eager, near bursting with anticipation.
Another hour passed before the outlaw came upon a sight that would have frozen a
normal man with maddening fear. If the armored warrior was affected at all his face
expressed nothing that betrayed the emotion. He slowed to survey the scene that lay
in his path. Offset a few yards to the left of the gully, and to that same side whereupon
paused the outlaw, there rose from the denseness of the brush and brambles a huge
structure built of hand hewed stones. It rose at least twenty or more feet into the air
and the Norman-Gael estimated its girth a goodly sixty paces around. The intrepid
adventurer wasted scarce time studying the monolith; his full attention quickly fell
to the hell-spawned beast that sat like a monstrous monarch upon its throne of ancient,
and well haunted masonry. The thing was a full head taller than Fitzgeoffrey, a large
man in his own right: its naked flesh was dusky and half-adorned with dull black scales.
Its hands were ominously clawed and thick patches of pale fur covered much of the
creature’s broad shoulders and muscular arms. It glared at the man with tiny yellow
eyes that burned with a bright malevolent, and thoroughly malignant evil.
The outlaw had never seen a demon…he’d held the belief that such things no longer
existed save for those which simmered in the minds and souls of ordinary men. Now,
he would never doubt again. It was madness, yet there it sat. Although he continued
to maintain his outward calm, the crusader was more than a little amazed when the
unwholesome monster addressed him…and in the King’s own English!
The thing leapt down from the dank pyre before its deeply guttural and rumbling
voice rattled the very leaves that dwelt upon the gnarled trees. “Why have you come
so far to die stupid mortal? Tell me if you would…and I promise to make your last
minutes slightly less painful than those of others insane enough to pass this way. Of
course my promises are mostly lies but if you would…? Begin with the name your
weakling sire gave you when your whore mother spawned you. I hope it amuses
me mortal…half so much as your girlish voice doubtless shall.”
“My name is Cormac Fitzgeoffrey. I am an outlaw from Christian Outremer, of
Norman blood which I hate and Celtic blood which I despise. I am a friend to few
and a follower of none. Eamonn Ftizgerald, the knight that led me to the east is long
dead, fallen in battle. I come of my own free will seeking a woman that I was told
dwells in these hellish woods. I would learn more of this woman from you. I leave
to you the decision of speaking before or after you are returned to hell’s inferno by
my hand.” Cormac’s eyes flashed as he spoke. Conversing with this foul entity was
a necessity scarcely to his liking.
The demon smiled politely but with devilish delight. Its long fangs, ghastly and
sharp, were horribly bared. It replied quickly. “Your words are meaningless save
they prove you insane. You come seeking to end my gnawing hunger but shall we
continue the joviality for a few moments more? What is the name of this woman you
seek, great fool encased in metal that cannot save?”
The scar faced outlaw calling himself Fitzgeoffrey seemed well at ease and not at
all intimidated by the monster. He replied in a voice relaxed and even despite the evil
eyes that searched his own like a white hot brand. “She is called Belasanterassia and
I was led to believe she is a witch and doubtless your own queen. Still, I desire an
audience with this woman. I wish to see with my own eyes if she is as beautiful and
desirable as the prophet declared.”
The demon merely smiled and shrugged its great hairy shoulders. “Enough, I grow
weary of your high pitched squeaking little mouse. Although you are pitiful and very
small I fear I am sorely hungry so now I would kill and devour you. If only you had
one or two companions…then perchance I would have been well filled. I fear one
tiny fool might prove to be to scanty a meal but perhaps the taste will serve to lighten
my burdensome vigil here.”
The monster charged the outlaw with remarkable speed but Fitzgeoffrey had drawn
all four feet of his great and gleaming steel blade in one blindingly swift motion.
The dusky demon emitted an awesome roar and came on in a rush of animalistic,
blood mad fury. The Norse steel fell in a smooth flashing arc and the creature’s head
flew from its hairy shoulders, spraying a heavy mist of foul smelling, brackish fluid.
Then it crashed to the earth several yards from its former perch. The headless body
continued to blindly lash out with both sets of deadly, and likely rabid, claws. The
outlaw struck the staggering carcass square in the lower midsection with a vicious
kick that hurled the bloody mass backwards. Amazingly it gathered itself and took
two or three unsteady steps in the general direction of the huge crusader who simply
stood waiting; his heavy weapon held high in both mallet-like fists. The half dead
beast drew close and the long Norse forged sword fell straight down with awesome
force. The demon’s still combative flesh was split from collar to loathsome cods.
Fitzgeoffrey watched, his face revealing no emotion as the two halves separated and
fell first to the right and then the left. Nearby the great head screamed its outrage via
a crescendo of vile cursing and loathsome oaths. This frustrated outpouring of pure
venom by the destroyed beast merely drew the hint of a smile across the Norman-Gael’s
hard set lips.
Fitzgeoffrey took great pains cleaning the sword, all the while ignoring the guttural
protests of the helpless demon. The ex-crusader inspected the blade meticulously and
then returned it to its varnished leather scabbard. He shrugged before approaching
the severed head that lay glaring with rare hate but seemingly fallen suddenly and
quite strangely silent. Without hesitation Cormac lifted the horrid artifact by its few
sparse strands of long straggly hair. He hefted the thing until it reached eye level,
then the grim outlaw spoke. “By right of having slain you in fair combat demon: I
now claim my right to question you. I have learned you must answer me truthfully as
I am now the master of you and what moments remain of your hellish half life that
persists for the time being. Now speak, do the words I have said ring true? If so,
where do I find this woman I seek?”
“Yes, I am yours to command…at least for these few seconds before I return to
my high master in hell,” the grotesque trophy answered.
“Good,” Fitzgeoffrey replied. “Now I would have you tell me at once where I can
find this woman, or witch, who calls herself Belasanterrasia?”
“As you wish, great lord,” groaned the bested demon. “Climb the ancient cairn
that formerly served as my divan. At the very top is a great stone chiseled thereupon
with runes and the image of an arrow. Go forth in the direction the arrow points and
you will find that most horrible of females called Belasanterrasia. The witch dwells
within a great cavern. Find her and doubtless she will kill you at once. That thought
soothes me as I journey to the fiery hell that is reserved for demons.”
The monster closed its eyes but Fitzgeoffrey had heard enough. He cast the head
away with all his considerable might before climbing the huge pile of stones. There
at the very top, precisely as described by the demon, was a very large rock covered
with bizarre runes and the obvious depiction of an arrow. Cormac took careful note
of the direction the arrow indicated, then he climbed down and was on his way once
more. He trudged onward through more rough and foreboding country before at last
encountering a network of tall bluffs. These were decorated at the base with a
scattering of several massive boulders seemingly hurled there by impossible force.
There he found the great dark maw of a cave. Without the slightest hesitation the
outlaw marched within a few yards of the sizeable opening. The unexpected odor
of bear grease teased his nostrils. He allowed himself a moment to ponder how it
might be possible for bears to roam in a land where no one had ever heard of bears?
Likely, he smelled something entirely different…preferring to not yield his mind to
the suggestion that the witch was so powerful that she could conjure great beasts at
will.
“Belasanterrasia!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. I am Cormac Fitzgeoffrey,
formerly of Outremer’s holy service. I demand that you reveal yourself. If not, be
warned…I will gladly fetch you forthwith by strength of arm if necessary. Show
yourself to me, I would look upon your beauty, or have knowledge of a lie of it!”
The grim faced man waited impatiently for several minutes. He was about to fulfill
his vow to enter the mysterious lair when his sharp eyes discerned movement from
somewhere within the murky depths of impenetrable darkness. Someone…or some
thing appeared to have heard his bold summoning.
A huge creature appeared at the mouth of the cavern, a shockingly all black lioness.
The feline eyed the man serenely. A low rumbling growl broke the silence but the
beast took no further action save reclining upon on a large boulder and continuing to
stare with supreme concentration into the face of the warrior. Unabashed, Cormac
returned the stare impatiently. Several minutes passed before the cat glanced back
towards that same maw whereby it had so recently made its astonishing entrance.
Cormac’s volatile eyes followed the gaze of the lioness and then he breathed deeply.
A most magnificent woman slipped into the light. If she was not Belasanterrasia then
the witch that carried the name was not the world’s most beautiful woman…for this
great beauty most certainly held claim to that title.
The stunned outlaw quickly composed himself. “You are surely the woman that is
named Belasanterrasia. I would have words with you if you please.”
Unbelievably huge emerald eyes looked the man up and down. Her magnificent
features betrayed scant emotion but hinted of curiosity or perhaps annoyance? Her
hair was waist length, straight and thick, and seemed to glow, such was its obsidian
sheen and gloriously velvet texture. It was held in place by a thin band of gold positioned
just below her short black bangs and disappearing somewhere above her partially
exposed ears. The woman’s skin was soft hued and light golden brown. She wore no
clothes save a short skirt of white sheathed in slivers of silver and polished bronze.
Gold bracelets set with bright gems adorned her wrists. Slender but strong shoulders
and arms framed a lean flat belly. Her lips were full, sensuous, perhaps outshone only
by equally full and abundantly more sensuous breasts: scintillating orbs, gently rising
and falling with each breath, poised to turn even Helen of Troy green with envy. She
seemed more Greek than Arab but there were also vague hints of the Negro and the Eastern.
Her flared nostrils widened and those lovely eyes narrowed. She carried a luminescent
purple cloak in her right hand and a mysterious staff in the other. The staff was carved
with runes that hinted of the same ancient craftsmen that had carved the great stone atop
the demon’s cairn. She deftly donned the cloak and bound it at the nape of her well
sculpted neck with a shining clasp. She pulled the garment close about her slender
shoulders until it concealed much of her breasts. Modesty in a woman was not such
an unbecoming thing Cormac mused silently as he sucked another deep breath into
his great lungs. Yet he could not deny that there was no shame in nakedness…were
it all so magnificent.
“Speak quickly, what have you here in my domain?” Her tone was demanding,
obviously accustomed to being obeyed and quickly.
The warrior answered, his voice steady and deep despite the increased pace of his
heartbeat. “I am named Cormac Fitzgeoffrey, a man-at-arms late in the service of the
Christian lords of Outremer. Now I serve no lord save for myself. I have traveled
hither in search of a woman named Belasanterrasia. It is said that her beauty dims in
the light of no woman that draws breath in this life. Am I correct in my belief that
you are the woman so described?”
“You are,” the woman answered coldly, her fingertips lightly massaging the long
staff of decorated wood held by her left hand.
Cormac nodded and spoke again, his words flowed bold and cocksure. “It is my
intention to lay with you Belasanterrasia. I prefer that you consent of your own free
will but I shall lay with you, and God willing, leave you with child…my son. A few
months ago I rescued a blind prophet name Esau. He was being badly used by a
throng of Arab merchants who were offended by his mere presence. I slew them all
and set the man free. It was a thing done on a whim, more a product of boredom and
desert fever and less of logic. That and the promise of gold trinkets many prosperous
merchants are prone to carry concealed on their person. However, the means by
which his salvation was rendered mattered little to the prophet. He gave me a few of
his meager belonging, blessed me, then told me a strange tale about the world’s most
stunning beauty. He called her Belasanterrasia. He gave me not only the name but
directions to this dark valley. I took an oath years ago, that should I bring my sword
to these burning desert lands, I would have the most beautiful woman to be found
therein for my own pleasure. Hours ago I slew a fearsome demon. Before embarking
for hell he told me of this great cavern and I made my way here.”
“So you killed Eladt then,” Belasanterrasia said calmly. “He and only he could’ve
pointed out the way. Therefore, you must be no ordinary man to have killed such
a powerful demon. You are also a pompous idiot. I will not lay with you now or
ever and I’d rather spawn with Satan himself than allow my womb to suffer the
infection of your malignant get. Be gone from here now you ugly oaf. I will tolerate
no further delay lest I put my pet Enene on you and rejoice as she rips you limb from
malformed limb. Go!”
The woman glanced at the great black cat who rose on all fours and growled after
an utterly menacing fashion. Cormac Fitzgeoffrey drew his heavy broadsword and
said nothing. The die was cast. It was time to back up bold words with bolder
action.
The outlaw was lightening fast but the cat was much faster still. The broadsword
was only half raised when the feline struck with such force that Fitzgeoffrey was
hurled backwards and crashed on his backside with a pronounced thud. The cat’s long
claws and razor sharp fangs had sought purchase in soft flesh but close meshed chain
mail held and death was delayed. The former crusader scrambled to his knees as the
cat circled, planning its next angle of attack. The beast seemed to be in no hurry, it
bared the awesome fanged weaponry that lined its slavering jaws. If anything, the
beast seemed to be growling with contempt for a foe so easily surprised and put off
balance. However, it failed to take account of the fearsome cold that emanated from
Cormac Fitzgeoffrey’s gleaming, glacial blue eyes. He was filled with rage but long
years of hard fighting against the paynim hordes had taught him to temper his hate
with steely nerve and cold calculation.
The beast instinctively sensed that the man’s head was the vulnerable spot. It leapt
high, its fangs aimed for the soft exposed flesh of the warrior’s face. However, it was
Cormac that displayed remarkable agility on this occasion. He darted sideways at
the last possible instant and saved himself from the dagger-like fangs. Yet he could
not possibly avoid the desperate rake of claws that opened a deep gash in the left
side of his already scarred jaw. He sliced expertly with the long blade but his target
easily danced away. Again the cat launched towards its prey but Fitzgeoffrey just
managed to slip out of reach of both fang and flailing claws.
It became as obvious as Belasanterrasia’s epic beauty that the broadsword, although
sure death for a human foe, was simply to long and clumsy to strike effectively at
such an agile threat as ferocious Enene. Disgusted, the outlaw dropped the sword and
drew two long daggers from his belt. Shorter and easier to wield, he advanced in
the direction of the animal…a deadly blade in each eager fist.
The cat, despite its incredible ferocity, had few options. It could not bite or tear its
way through the outlaw’s armor and therefore had no choice but to continue leaping
high in the air in an attempt to assail its opponent’s head. The blood streaming down
the Norman-Gael crusader’s face made the beast mad, so desiring she was to tear and
rend until there was nothing left of the armored man’s pink flesh save red pulp. Cormac
Fitzgeoffrey moved forward in a fully erect stance; crouching would have only made
a lower, and more easily obtainable target for the enraged, fiercely roaring feline.
Unwilling to fight a defensive battle, Enene took a running start and flew at the big
man with claws outstretched for the maximum effect. Fitzgeoffrey had dropped both
daggers down to his waist. He turned sideways and tucked his chin against his chest
before extending his right arm with dagger pointed toward the cat. Enene’s claws
fell an inch, perhaps less, short of the outlaw’s face. However, the lethal blade met
the cat full in the throat; the animal had impaled itself! Not one to forfeit such an
opportunity, Cormac twisted the blade upwards, driving it deeper into Enene and
simultaneously lifting her. Although the cat weighed a good 120 pounds she found
herself heaved through the air like a discarded rag doll. Blood sprayed from the
fatal wound as the lioness landed with sickening crunch against a tree. She valiantly
struggled to rise but only managed to sink back, and with frothing mouth, writhe in
her death throes.
The Norman-Gael spent little time observing the cat’s final demise. He snatched up the
the huge Norse broadsword and swerved about, alert to all potential dangers. “You
bastard, you slew my pet.” Belasanterrasia’s voice turned cold as a frozen corpse.
“Tell where am I to find another like her? Now I am perfectly certain that I shall
slay you.”
The woman raised her staff and pointed it at the panting crusader. She mumbled
some quick words and a bolt of pure lightening burst forth from the end of the staff…
flashing towards Fitzgeoffrey. Although he carried no shield, the thundering bolt
seemed to strike something much more solid than mail or flesh. Amazingly it then
fragmented into a million sparks white hot sparks. Instead of being burned to death,
the outlaw stood like an iron tower brandishing his broadsword and laughing.
“One of the gifts Esau gave me was a lock of hair from the severed head of Saint
John the Baptist. Foolish witch, your wicked magic cannot touch one who carries
such a powerful talisman as that. Cease these foolish attacks and consent to lay with
me. Fear not, I can be gentle when held tightly in the arms of a beautiful and willing
companion.”
“A pox upon your putrid flesh,” Belasanterrasia spat. Then, she whirled and darted
back into the darkness of the great maw. The outlaw heard her hurried footsteps for
a moment and then nothing. “Come out Belasanterrasia, there is no place you can
hide where I can’t find you.” Cormac Fitzgeoffrey did not tarry long before following
the object of his lust into the foreboding cave.
A few long strides carried him deep into sheer blackness. The odor of bear grease
or something akin was stronger. However, it was not an altogether unpleasant scent.
He lit a tiny oil lamp of oriental design. He carried the small object with him always,
and despite its small size it gave off a surprisingly generous light. However, it was
small and the oil inside would not last forever. Fitzgeoffrey was confident that his
search would indeed end soon. Had venerable Esau not foretold that his quest would
meet with success? He had to admit to himself that Belasanterrasia was being very
stubborn. All part of her little game he supposed and chuckled. She played it well
did she. Doubtless the witch knew as well as he how it all must end.
The cavern narrowed into a tunnel that turned and twisted this way, then that. At
least he could stand upright as he moved slowly but purposely with the little lamp
held before him…alongside the great sword. The design of the lamp cast odd but
mysterious and beautiful patterns upon the cold hard underground walls and the
occasional stalagmite. Twice he passed what appeared to be large piles composed of
human bones, likely positioned strategically as a warning. He worked his way down
the long corridor for perhaps a half hour before he suddenly found himself in a
massive room. A number of large decorated braziers blazed with bright fire. They
had been placed at various points in the room and supplied good light. In fact, the
light was more than good enough for Cormac Fitzgeoffrey to see that he was not
alone. Belasanterrasia stood opposite the entranceway whereby the outlaw had exited.
She no longer held the wooden staff but rather a long, dancing red scimitar that
gleamed wickedly in her right hand. The crusader had seen enough swordplay in his
day to notice the easy way the blade flickered and pranced effortlessly in the woman’s hand.
“Ah, I’ve run my fox to ground at last. Let me talk sense into that lovely head my
dear.” Cormac Fitzgeoffrey’s voice was hopeful…but not overly. He was no fool.
For the very first time the girl smiled. “You Christian dog. Very well then, you can
have me all for yourself…only first you must slay me; and you must slay me for that
is the only way to save your own life you bumbling oaf. Now ready your pathetic
defense and may the jackals gnaw your bones!”
Cormac’s first instinct was to make light of the words. However, the hard light
that shone from those brilliant emerald eyes made him take pause. Already she had
begun to stalk him, the blade dancing easily in her grasp. “That red sword appears
to be quite a prize. It will make a fine trophy to show to my men when I return to
them triumphant…and well sated.”
“Just try to die well, not like the swine you smell akin to.” Belasanterrasia stated
flatly, without emotion. Fitzgeoffrey thought her words well spoke and a tinge of
admiration for her courage, and not just her beauty, passed through his mind.
They moved closer and the pair of steel swords clashed with a metallic thunder.
Brilliant sparks showered the two combatants like curious, fiery imps. Her attack
was surprising skillful, well practiced, and clever. However, let it be said that the
strength of the athletic woman’s arm was the thing that the outlaw took heed of first.
He’d fought a great many men with less physical power. He quickly came to realize,
as he jumped back to avoid a deadly thrust at his midsection, that whatever happened,
it would be a fair gained victory. When he took mastery of the woman, and he surely
would, his will could be imposed by right of conquest. Cormac barely stifled a merry
chuckle. All of this trouble over a woman: but such a splendid one!
Belasanterrasia was as quick as she was strong. She darted in and out, her red blade
flashing at the outlaw like an angry cobra. Cormac Fitzgeoffrey moved better than
a man in armor should but he struggled to match the woman’s lightening attacks. It
did not help matters that he fought to overcome but not kill…a disadvantage made
more complex by the fact Belasanterrasia was obviously in a slaying mood. The big
man parried and cursed as the red blade flicked past his defense and nicked his left
ear. The wound stung but the greater pain perhaps assailed the champion crusader’s
ego. He pressed the attack harder and forced the female warrior back as she deftly
displayed uncommon tactical and defensive knowledge. Small wonder the woman
had cast aside the magical staff and fetched her sword mused the outlaw during small
intervals of pause to catch their breath.
“You’re ponderous and predictable,” Belasanterrasia spat. “How long can you
possibly last before I unseat your muddled head?” Then she drifted away from his
renewed assault and laughed. “What fools and cowards men are, to encase themselves
with heavy armor that only burdens their limbs and saps their strength.”
Sweat poured from the fearsome warrior’s brow and he grunted forcefully with
every swing of his great broadsword. A cold rage had begun to set behind his volcanic
blue eyes. “To the death then you worrisome bitch! The skull to victory, may the dogs
gnaw your bones!”
The woman only laughed and counter-attacked with a blinding, red flashing flurry
the likes off the crusader had never witnessed during his long years of war. Despite
his best efforts the scimitar managed to nip his chin. His face was slowly becoming
a bloody mask. “I see now, its magic you’re using against me…an enchanted blade
and a variety of deceptions that have nothing to do with well honed swordsmanship.
Yes, that must be it…evil magic, black, hell spawned powers that no man can dream
of defeating.”
The woman was also sweating profusely now. She backed away to gather herself
for another deadly attack. Her breathing had become more heavy and the bountiful
globes that were her breasts heaved and quivered. “Ha, you stated yourself that you
wear a talisman against magic…so what new excuse do you have for your stumbling
about like a drunkard. Surely now, you must know how close to death you are. Why
make me any angrier…do you wish a quick clean demise or a delayed and painful
exit from this life?”
“Damn you woman! I will not be taunted by a skinny wench…not when the blade I
wield has tasted the blood of hundreds of men…and women!” Thus said, the furious
swordsman pressed the attack all the harder; if he was to die…so be it. He would not
be made the fool.
Thus the contest continued, Belasanterrasia darting and slashing whilst the hulking
Norman-Gael outlaw hacked furiously, raining powerful blows against the strange
red scimitar that miraculously did not shatter. Cormac was perplexed by this and
he could scarcely believe that the woman’s arm had not been broken as she parried
sword strokes that had maimed countless other sword arms. He was convinced that
witchcraft was afoot but at the same time he grudgingly admitted to himself that this
tremendously athletic woman displayed rare skill and courage. As the battle raged
it was becoming increasingly apparent that his attacks were losing some of their
strength and fury. His corded body was slimy with sweat and his stout right arm
had become heavy. Cormac gripped the mighty Norse broadsword with both hands
and pressed on. A grim smile set upon the woman’s lips as she maneuvered with
as much fluidity as ever, despite the sweat that glistened upon her powerful but lean
thighs and stomach.
As Cormac became more frustrated by his lack of success he began to take more
chances. His guard became less wary and he felt compelled to take risks due to his
waning power. Belasanterrasia was quick to take advantage and her point stung his
thigh. It was not a serious wound but it was painful…and added to his blood loss.
He did not need anyone to inform him that his situation had become desperate. It was
impossible, yet now he was forced to defend rather than attack. She had pricked and
stung him a half dozen times to the point that he sensed the warrior witch might well
be toying with him, or at least prolonging the fight deliberately. Perhaps she was only
set on enjoying his increasingly pathetic plight…slowly weakening, becoming near helpless.
This grim thought enraged the outlaw and he called upon one last surge of mighty
energy that was spawned of pure hatred for not just the woman but the entire world,
yea, even unto himself. “For the glutting of hate and vengeance!” he roared and struck
with tremendous power. The woman gave ground, her own expression suddenly
becoming grimly intense. However, she continued to fend off each awesome blow
and eventually mounted a counter-attack. The flashing red blade came streaking
from seemingly nowhere and with his last vestige of reserve strength Cormac threw
up the broadsword to block. This he accomplished but there was a horrendous sound
and blue and red sparks blinded his eyes. He instantly blinked away the sweat and
flashing sparks, but when his vision returned a horrifying vision was revealed. The
great broadsword that had served him so well in more battles than he could possibly
number had been sheered. He held the hilt and less than five inches of blue steel in
his hands. A quick glance revealed the mighty blade lying at Belasanterrasia’s feet.
With no other recourse the armored outlaw threw the hilt at the woman’s head and
drew a long dagger from his thick belt. It was all for naught though for he felt the
stinging tip of the long red scimitar pressed against his throat just above his coif. He
was finished.
With disgust he let the dagger slip from his hand and stared into the cold emerald
eyes of the deadliest foe he’d ever faced. Whether it be by witchcraft or some great
improbable skill, he was defeated at last…and by a woman!
Cormac was numb with rage and disbelief. So this was how it ended? Yet, he was
not afraid to die. The only regret he bore from his life of fighting and bloodshed was
the simple fact he would not live to crush with his bare hands the scrawny throat of that
false prophet Esau. He growled at the triumphant Belasanterraisa, “I am not a patient
man, kill me and be damned! I’ll endure no more taunts.”
“Silence! Perhaps I’m not quite prepared to kill you as yet,” the woman stated
flatly, her eyes flashing with a strange fire. “It is I that issue the commands.”
“Kill me!” the Norman-Gael half shouted.
The woman only responded by withdrawing the deadly point by a half-inch. “It
hardly seems possible but I believe you might have bested me had not you encased
yourself within all that ridiculous metal. I am a blood descendant of the goddess
Isis and here lies her realm that I may reveal or conceal to men at my whim. True,
I am only half goddess and not entirely immortal. Still, do not doubt my powers or
attempt to deny my will. Muhammadans nor Nazarenes dare tread here, yet here
you are. I am intrigued.”
“By Satan’s hoofs you pagan hellion, what game is this you play?” the outlaw
roared.
“True you are a great ugly brute but I very much enjoyed our little joust. Perhaps
a future match would be equally interesting. You call me pagan but I can easily
sense something of a kindred heart…am I mistaken?” The woman questioned the
stunned outlaw as he gazed at her with increasing puzzlement. It was true that he’d
long held the secret belief that Valhalla awaited him should he ever be cut down. He
knew that traces of fierce Viking blood flowed hotly through his veins. He had on
many occasions followed the banner of the cross but his shield bore the image of
a ghastly skull. Like the Norse warriors of old he served no god or man lest it also
served himself to do so. Such had brought him naturally to the life of an outlaw,
hated by most and returning hate meted in equal measure.
“Esau spoke in only half-truths,” Belasanterrasia said and withdrew the blade even
more. Cormac realized the woman was going to spare him. So be it he shrugged and
turned to go. His men were waiting and what man was a match for a goddess, even a
halfling divinity for that matter? Had he not witnessed sufficient impossibilities to
convince him thrice over that she spoke the truth. He could not resist one last peek
at the great beauty that was not to be smothered by mortal arms. As he accomplished
this her eyes captured his. “So you’re going then?” she asked simply.
“Yes, I do not belong here. This place is ancient and mystical beyond my simple
understanding. I am a warrior, a reaver, and outlaw…and little else.”
“Very well, “ Belasanterrasia said, her voice grown perhaps a bit softer. “But first
rest a moment and take some wine. A long walk awaits you to be sure, you have
bled much and needs regain your strength.”
Y&&Y&Y&&Y&Y&Y&Y&Y&Y&
Michael de Blois wiped sweat from his forehead and swept a strand of wet yellow
hair from his youthful face. He felt uneasy and turned his eyes yet again in the
direction of the strange valley where tall cedars grew where they should not. Yumel
studied his friend’s face felt the time was finally right to ask the question that he and
the others were all anxious to ask. “Lord Fitzgeoffrey has been gone for far to long
Ferenghi. This place is to dangerous for us to tarry longer. The Egyptians say that
our master was doomed from the moment he ventured forth into that forbidden place.
They say even Allah casts no light there; and that is not something an Arab would
speak of lightly.”
Michael de Blois looked down at his sandaled feet. The boy was right and he knew
it. The Frenchman’s soul was enduring a rare conflict. Cormac Fitzgeoffrey had
saved his life and that of his bride Yalala. However, the men would leave with or
without the young Frank in their midst; and what could he do alone other than perish
among the vastness of the desert? He felt much loyalty towards the Norman-Gael but
even greater was his desire to return alive to his beloved. At last he looked at Yumel
and nodded very slightly, “tell everyone to prepare, we leave in one hour. Let us be
gone from this accursed place which has certainly swallowed our master.” For the
first time in a very long while the somber Yumel smiled broadly. Resigned, Michael
was about to return the smile when a heavy bolt from an arabalest torn into the young
hillman’s forehead, spraying the startled Frenchman with blood, brains, and shards of bone.
De Blois leapt to his feet and drew his heavy saber, “we are attacked, to arms!”
Even as he shouted the warning he heard the ominous rattle of Tatar kettle drums.
In the distance he could see three score and more fierce Memluk warriors riding hard
and closing quickly. Obviously others had concealed themselves in the rocks as
another bolt broke the arm of a Turkoman whose scream was lost amongst the shouting
of his companions in arms. Michael cursed the sentries he sent to watch. They had
likely dozed off in the heat of the day or perhaps their throats had already been slit.
A bolt whizzed past his nose as he struggled to arrange his little band into some kind of
defensive formation as the charging Turks, their heron plumed helmets bent forward,
came on in a blood mad rush. The sun glinted on long scimitars held high, ready and
poised to slash at the first available throat. It was an unnerving sight but the hawk-
like Turkomen quickly unlimbered their stout bows and sent a hail of arrows flying
toward the Memluks. It was a volley fired in haste but several missiles found flesh
and riders toppled into the sand. Behind him Michael heard the dying scream of
Yumel’s assassin as a dusky Bedouin’s pike pierced his side. Another volley of
arrows were just barely loosed when the cursing, slashing Turks were among them.
Michael swapped blows with a frothing warrior even as the man’s steed struck at the
young Frenchman with steel shod hooves.
The men fought bravely and well but a dozen had already fallen two minutes from
the moment battle had been joined. Two or three wolf skin clad Turkomen had took
to horse and tried to flee. This would serve to delay their death precious little but
at least they drew away the attention of several Turks who followed in pursuit. Their
horses were swifter and the hillmen were soon caught and slaughtered. Michael had
much more important matters to deal with. He finally unseated his opponent and
then drove his blade through the Turk’s chest only to be confronted with three more
who attacked afoot. The head of an Egyptian landed at Michael’s feet and entangled
him as he slipped perilously on the bloodied sand. He wounded one Turk in the
thigh and ducked beneath the scimitar of a second. However, as he took a step
backwards to improve his defensive stance, he stumbled against the hapless head
which was being kicked back and forth some like child’s gruesome plaything.
The French squire groaned and fell flat of his back. A grinning Turk loomed over
him, prepared to administer the death blow. But then something happened that de
Blois would relate to Yalala as a true miracle. A flashing red blade descended on
the grinning Moslem and split him from shoulder to sternum. The corpse collapsed
in a bloody heap beside the boy even as another Memluk’s head went flying through
the air spewing bright red blood. “The skull to victory!” shouted a massive, figure
in chain mesh mail. Blood splattered and mounted on his black stallion the outlaw
seemed more like a mythic embodiment of God’s most brutal vengeance than a mere
man.
“Lord Cormac!” the stunned squire exclaimed. “We were certain you were dead.”
Another deadly slash of the red scimitar and a startled Turk, his eyes bulging with
disbelief, toppled from the saddle.
“Can a ghost slay as well as this!” the ex crusader shouted happily. “Look to your
guard young de Blois, there is still much killing to be done.”
That was true enough but the tide has suddenly turned. Many of the Turks had
allowed themselves to become unnerved by the appearance of the man they hated,
yet feared the most. Michael could see it in their eyes. This was not to their liking.
The fight continued but for every Turk that fell another wheeled his mount about
and fled. Eventually only a smattering remained and they were dispatched with zeal.
Just as suddenly as it had began, the melee of battle had ended. It was impossible to
stand against the skull on the shield.
No more than ten of Cormac’s band remained standing but they might as well have
been a hundred for the great shout of victory they raised. They spat, cursed, and
taunted the fleeing Turks. Some screamed that Lord Cormac Fitzgeoffrey would soon
ride to the Memluk villages and burn every man alive as they cowered beneath their
women’s skirts. Another legend about the Norman-Gael outlaw had been created …
long would the story be told beside blazing campfires deep in the rugged hill country.
“What happened to your great sword?” Michael inquired.
“Lost in battle, sheered down to the hilt by this red scimitar.” The outlaw declared.
Young de Blois was puzzled but he dared not ask further. The dark, inscrutable
look of old had returned to his master’s grim features. The origin of the strange red
weapon would remain a mystery then. The Frenchman asked a much more innocent
question instead. “What do we next, find more men and raid for gold and fortune?”
Cormac Fitzgeoffrey sat contemplating on the back of his great black stallion as he
watched his men gathering their horses or searching the bodies of the dead Turks for
trinkets and weapons. “Yes, we do all that but I am thinking that I may not be done
entirely with this place quite yet. If I live, someday I shall return. But first we raid…
for gold and fortune; and the most expensive wine, sweet smelling perfumes, gem
studded bracelets, and many yards of the best purple silk.” There was a short pause
before Lord Cormac continued, “and an ebon lioness cub.”
Michael de Blois’ eyes widened in astonishment but wisely he kept his council to
himself.