Getting a line to form was something easier said than done, as Ian soon discovered. For the this part, most of the figures charging down the road towards him were not Moors but more fleeing allies: panicked knights from France and Italy who'd come to Castile for what they'd thought was an easy chance of loot and glory; equally terrified knights from right here in Spain who'd expected to fight a civilized foe such as the Moors they'd mingled with for nearly four centuries; and lastly the foot soldiers who'd realized the fate awaiting them as their lords fled the field. In truth, this onrush of Christians were now the best weapon the invaders had in pursuing the wounded King.

"Fall to the side! Let them pass, but watch for the enemy." Ian signaled the few archers he'd been assigned to keep launching fire arrows at the wagons closer to the advancing Moors, hoping the flames and smoke would both slow them and help mask his position. The remnants of Alfonso's army poured past until their numbers dwindled. From the direction of the battlefield, screams that were suddenly cut short told of what had befallen those too slow to escape.

That, too, was mercifully masked by smoke.

When the first robed figure rode through the haze and was greeted by an arrow to the heart, Ian once more urged his troops to form a line across the road. By now, his numbers had been augmented by some of the more veteran fighters who had been swept back along the road in the retreat, and he found himself shouting orders in three different languages. Then the swift Arab mounted attack was upon them, and the real chaos began. They held the line across the road from wagon to wagon, fighting desperately, the screams of horses filling the air as Ian's men cut the enemies mounts down beneath them, the dead beasts helping to slow the advance. The Moors would pull back to regroup, Ian and his troops seizing the opportunity to fall back and form a new line as quickly as possible, leaving a low wall of dead men and horses behind them as an obstacle. Over and over the scene played out, but it was only a matter of time before the enemy found a way to outflank and cut off the mercenaries' retreat.

It was during the eighth such clash that Ian's own horse went down. Some of the Moorish riders were equipped with small bows and they'd begun targeting the tall figure in the winged helm. While they'd mostly hit his buckler, several bolts had struck his horse, and the big stallion simply seemed to fold to the ground, although Ian's landing was anything but soft. He managed to dive far enough away so his legs were not caught under the body of the horse, but still had the wind knocked out of him a bit. A wild shout of triumph from the enemy signaled a fiercer attack.

Then from down the road came more shouts and the sound of pounding hooves. They'd been outflanked. Ian climbed back up on his feet and readied himself to fight on two fronts.

By now, the smoke from the burning wagons made it difficult for even half-elven eyes to see far, so there was nothing to do but wait until the new riders drew closer. The original pursuers, still believing the rear guard's commander had been slain, began pressing their attack, so Ian found himself forced to ignore the threat behind him as he made his presence known and rallied his men. Once more he became the target of Moorish archers, and then a determined group of riders broke past the line, intent on riding him down. Ian could see the face of the lead warrior as he braced himself, buckler up, Deathkiss ready. "I hope we gave you enough time, Ferret." He prepared himself for the blow.

The rider gave some shout, raised his sword as he charged, …and then toppled sideways from his saddle as an arrow suddenly sprouted from his chest. From behind Ian, the new arrivals finally thundered out of the smoke, but they were not more enemies At their head were Marcus and Timmons, followed by more of the mercenary company. There, too, rode Diego, the reins of a riderless horse held in one hand as he galloped up, angling his own to shield the half-elf as he mounted.

"For an ifrit you seem to be having the devil of the time. I thought you would call up demons to defend yourself, or so some of the bishops claim."

Ian looked at his friend. He'd never told Diego the story of how he'd come to be with the Twisted Otters, or that he'd sworn never to use his powers to attack. Now was not the time to stop and explain. But Diego was right in one instance: even with the reinforcements, this retreat could not be held much longer, not unless something was done to buy them more time. "Perhaps I have no demons, but I can make them I do." He drew the length of chainmail he used to protect the lower part of his face the helmet didn't across his chin, so that only his slanted blue eyes could be seen. "I hope this works."

He rode towards the fighting.

**********

"Tell me again. Slowly!"

Yusuf ibn-Tashufin, Commander of the Faithful, and summoned by an angel to liberate the Moslems of Spain from their infidel persecutors glared angrily at the messenger sprawled on the ground before him. "Well? Speak!"

"We did as you ordered, lord, and rode after the Christian king to take him prisoner. But a fierce warrior summoned fire barred the road from us and held us back. We did not relent, however, and finally our arrows struck him down."

"Then he is dead, yes?"

"So we thought, lord, but then he rose up, and summoned men from out of nowhere to stop us, and …and then…"

"Just say it, curse you! Then what happened?"

"He appeared before us on a horse, his form bright as the sun, and his sword burning in his hand, and he rode at us. We broke. We have shamed you, lord." The soldier's hand trembled slightly as he awaited the wrath of his lord.

The emir stood quietly for a few moments, then stooped down, grabbed hold of his followers hand and pulled him to his feet. "No, it is I who am shamed to have treated you so. It was the bravery of you and your fellows that won the field this day. Go and rest, and know Allah blesses you." He led the man himself to the tent flap." On your way out, tell my captain to bring me the churchman."

A few minutes later, Emir Yussuf found himself regarding another figure stretched before him on the ground. This was the Bishop of Lugo, one of two of the Christian prelates taken prisoner. In terse sentences, Yussuf told him the story of the fiery warrior. "Well? IS there such a being fighting for Alfonso?"

"The ifrit. He rides among the mercenaries, for no God-fearing man would fight beside him. He is tall, with blond hair and pointed ears, and appears fair as all demons that would tempt one to sin would appear." The bishop ranted on for nearly ten more minutes, until Yussuf, tiring of his ravings signaled his captain to silence him for good.

"Put the head with the others. Let the Castilian see the might of Allah."

"Yes, lord! And after?"

Yusuf ibn-Tashufin lowered himself onto some cushions. "Summon my councilors. We have a decision to make."

11/2002


Champion: Part XXVI

A bell was ringing somewhere.
No, it was a lot of bells.
He'd overslept! Father Master was going to make him weed the whole garden alone again. But the damn blankets were tangled, and he couldn't get loose.

"Timmons?"

He stopped struggling and opened one eye. Marcus stood by his bed, one hand behind his back. "What's happened?"

"Damned if I know. They started ringing ten minutes ago. I suggest we go see what the commotion is all about."

"Do we have to? My head is pounding."

"Considering the amount of ale we both consumed last night, I'm not surprised. Come along, sit up."

Timmons gave a resigned sigh, then fought his way out of his blanket to sit up. He immediately regretted it.

"Here" Marcus handed Timmons the chamber pot he'd concealed behind his back. "I thought you'd might need this."

********

A half hour later, the pale and somewhat rumpled pair joined a crowd at the steps of Toledo's oldest church. Speculation as to what the bells signaled raged, but Timmons' only concern was when the damn bells would stop ringing. He was shouting this to Marcus when the doors to the cathedral opened, the crowd fell silent, and his loud "Damn!" thundered across the plaza. He did the sensible thing and stepped back to mingle with the crowd. On the steps, the priest held up his hands and began speaking.

"People of Castile and citizens of Toledo! Rejoice! The heathen invaders have sailed back across the Straits! An angel sent by God, armed with a sword of flame, and aided by the bravery of the gallant knights, has put the enemy to flight! Rejoice!"

The crowd roared, the bells began to peal once more, and Timmons reached out to tug furiously at Marcus' sleeve. Luckily for them their exchange of words was lost in the cheers around them.

*********

"Angel of God, eh?" Ian raised a brow, then swallowed some cider. "Sit down, the pair of you, before you fall over." Ferret and Diego made room at the table and called for more drinks.

It had taken an hour to track Ian and the others down to this small tavern that catered to Christians, and by that time, the celebrations were in full swing citywide. Marcus sat, grabbed a mug of cider and took a swallow before speaking, "Alright. Timmons and I can understand the "Angel" part. Lord knows it's better than having them call you a demon. But the brave knights? They ran, damn it!"

"Many did, yes. But there were others who didn't, who stayed and fought. And do not confuse retreat with flight, my friends. Once the field was lost, those knights with cooler heads knew there was little choice but retreat." Diego looked at his friends tiredly.

"The Spanish knights, aye." Timmons reached for some ale, hoping it would ease his hangover. "But the French and Italians…"

"They were younger sons, come to Spain not to fight infidels but to gain fame or fortune. They are knights in name only. There, I agree with you."

Silence fell over the group for a few moments. The retreat had been horrific, and reports had filtered in just the previous day that displays of severed heads had been made the cities allied against Castile. Though they were said to be those of captured knights, Ian and the others knew only too well that most of the prisoners the Moors had taken had been those servants and stragglers too slow or weak to keep up with the retreating army.

Ian set his cup down and turned to Diego. "You deserve as much credit as anyone for what Alfonso was able to salvage. You helped get him to safety and if you and the others hadn't arrived when you did, the Moors would have overrun the retreat. Why hasn't the King given you the honors?"

"I refused them." Diego gave a short laugh at the indignant expressions on the faces of the three young mercenaries. "There are reasons, my friends, good ones."

"What reasons?" Timmons nearly shouted. "You cannot be serious!"

The Spaniard nodded. "I most certainly am. Think, my friend. My father nearly caused a civil war. He still has supporters here, and they would leap at the chance to use his son as a new rallying point. And then there is the succession."

"He's right." Ferret pushed his chair away from the table and stood. "Alfonso has no sons. His only male relatives are his youngest brother, who is of ill health and weak mind, and the son of his niece, who, my young friends, is one Diego de Vivar. Think on that a bit and I'll see the three of you at the staff meeting tonight." He grinned and left.

"You see? If I suddenly become a hero, I become a threat to my King. And as a threat, I cannot fight for my country and people effectively. No, better it stays this way; better that I fulfill my knightly vows with honor."

It was Ian who finally spoke for his fellows. "Diego, your father is becoming a legend, they already are singing ballads about his prowess but you will surpass him, my friend."

"I don't want to surpass him. My father is a legend, aye, and a great warrior,but not a knight in the real sense of the word"

"Whatever he is or you become, as far as I am concerned, you are the Kings true Champion" Ian raised his cup of cider in salute, and Marcus and Timmons did as well.

"To the Champion."

11/2002


Champion: Part XXVII

October 23rd, 1102
Camelot, England
16 years later

It had become a tradition over the years for Ian, Marcus, and Timmons to gather on the anniversary of the Battle of Sagrajas if they were able. It was a night for three old comrades to reminisce and raise a few toasts to comrades of their years in Spain. On this night, a fierce wind blew against the walls of the castle, and Ian stood to toss another log in the small fireplace in his office as he waited for the others to arrive.

As always, Ian was struck by one ironic fact: that it was he who had ended up in Camelot and not Diego. They'd had occasion to journey together here to England on a mission for Alfonso, and Diego had listened intensely to the tales of Arthur and of those who carried on his legacy.

"Let's make a promise." The four young men stood on the deck of a ship headed back to Spain and Diego gestured aft towards the receding English coastline." Some day, say, oh, ten years or so from now, we'll meet in the Hall of Camelot Castle and toast King Arthur's memory!"

Laughing, they all agreed, being young and sure of their own immortality. And so they sailed back to Spain, rode together to Castille, and there parted company. Over the years, they occasionally crossed paths with Diego, but their meetings were fewer and far between. They exchanged letters though, and when Ian left the mercenaries after the fall of Carcasonne, the memory of that lightly given promise led him to Camelot, and shortly after, the arrival of Marcus and Timmons as well. They all wrote to Diego, urging him to fulfill his own promise and meet them there.

Then one winter's night five years ago, a letter was delivered to Ian by courier. Recognizing the handwriting as being the work of Ibrahim, the half-elf eagerly tore open the seal and sat to read the news from Castille, and as he did, his face fell.

My friend,
     It is never a pleasant duty to be the bearer of sad tidings, but it has fallen to me to give you sad news.
     Yesterday, August 15th, Diego Diaz de Vivar was killed. He was with the King's army which was besieging the city of Consuegra and was taken by an arrow. Death, from what I could tell, must have been swift and I pray our friend passed to his Christian paradise without pain. King Alfonso mourned him as if he was his own son.
     As for his real father, we have sent news of Diego's death to Don Rodrigo. One can only imagine how this tragic news will strike him.
     We march again on the morrow, and I have more wounded to tend. I will write again when I have time. Take care of yourself, my ifrit friend, you, and those two rascals with you. As I write, I see you all in my mind's eye as you were in Toledo: young and eager for knowledge.
     May God, by whatever name we each know Him, watch over you all, and grant Diego the peace he could never quite achieve in life.

By my hand
Ibrahim,
Royal Physician

It had taken four months for the letter to reach him.

*********

"Are we terribly late?"

Ian looked up from the fire and grinned at Timmons and Marcus. His two friends crowded the doorway, each bearing a bottle of some no doubt potent liquor in hand. "Not quite. Come in and sit." He pulled out a few chairs and waited for the pair to sit, fetching a cup for all of them, and one other item. He set the five-year-old letter on the table and waited.

Marcus set a clay pipe down beside it, one that Ferret had given years before. Beside that, Timmons added two more items. One was the button with the de Vivar arms engraved upon it they had found clenched in Harold's hand. The other was the lucky penny Harold had given him.

Twenty years since Harold's death, five since Diego's, and three since Ferret's murder. It seemed impossible. Ian sighed, then silently poured out a drink for each of them. When he finished, Timmons raised his cup.

"To the memory of gallant friends."
They drank the toast, and then before they could sit, Ian made another.
"And to the friends still here with us."
They all drank, then sat, and as the wind raged against the stone around them, they talked the night away.

Finis

11/02 Bill West