Tale of the Week 22 - The Winner
One man stands alone...
Theodotos I. strikes again!
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Here is the story:
Valley of the Shadow
Darkness. The valley of the shadow of death. I glanced nervously up at the looming cliffs as we rode through the canyon, my hand nervously going to the sword girt at my waist. How different this was from the rolling meadows of my native France.
The contingent of Turkopoles at my back seemed unconcerned by their surroundings, their bows slung over the saddle of their light horses.
Just five more miles. We were returning to the main body of Crusaders from a foraging expedition. The camp wasn't far.
The sky above was dark and threatening, ink-black clouds rolling across the face of the earth. Sunlight streamed from a few faint cracks in the blackness, the last frail efforts before nightfall.
Without warning, a cry went up from one of my men, a cry of alarm and fear, quickly spreading through the column. I wheeled my horse sharply, the sudden jerk on the reins causing him to rear, his hooves pawing the air for a moment in time.
“What is it, Subawi?” I demanded, my interpreter riding up beside me at that very moment. His face was pale as the morning mist, a look of fear in his eyes.
“It is the bird, my lord. The bird of death.”
I looked, my eyes following his pointing finger. There, silhouetted by the final rays of the sun, circling over the canyon and our strung-out column, was the form of an eagle, a vulture hovering low as if in anticipation of its next meal. Le oiseau de mort. The bird of death. As the interpreter had said. Hair rose on the back of my neck as I remembered the priest's words on the last Sabbath day. “For wheresoever the carcass is, there shall the eagles be gathered together. . .”
The words of our Lord.
One of my Turkopoles drew his bow suddenly from off his saddle, fitting an arrow onto the string, firing in one smooth motion. The arrow ascended, twisting, through the air, its course straight and true. I watched breathlessly as it connected with the vulture, piercing the bird through the breast. A shriek of agony rent the valley, seeming almost human in its intensity as the vulture fell from the heavens. I spurred my horse forward, intending to congratulate the man on his marksmanship, but the look on Subawi's face stopped me.
“It was an omen, my lord,” he stated, answering my unspoken question. His voice trembled. “We are all marked now. We are going to die.”
I started to reply, but at that moment I caught movement on the cliffs above us. I turned in my saddle, fear rising within me. He was right. . .
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