From Above

  The smoke was thick as soup; the smell of tobacco and ale hung heavy in the air. The “Peg-legged Sue” was a tavern unlike any place he had ever been.

  Every other night he slipped away from camp, avoiding suspicious eyes. He knew well enough that the Lady would not approve of him being here. But drinking helped against his guilty conscience and even more so against the memories of the things he had seen.

  The “Peg-legged Sue” was no place to rest though; knives came out on the slightest provocation. Yet this place was his respite – here he found what prayer had refused to give him.

  “Oi, Rob, get yer filthy arse over here,” he heard one of the patrons yell, “wanna play some dice?” An hour and some ale later Rob had lost the money he had scraped together but had won some interesting pieces of information.

  According to the patron, some of the buildings close to the south gate had collapsed into a pit. A pit filled to the brim with those strange shards of green glass. Rob left his drink unfinished.

  Shortly after, Rob was back at camp, still smelling of ale and smoke. He went straight to one of the smaller tents. ”Psst, Alfred, you awake?”. Rob knew Thibault’s young squire was always up for some gossip and unlike the other high-born, he was quite level-headed.

  “I am now, you buffoon,” the boy answered and Rob quickly crawled into the tent, telling Alfred about the rumours of the green glass. After answering all the boy’s questions, Rob went back to the fire. He covered himself in some rags and closed his eyes.

  A light kick to the ribs dragged him from sleep; Rob grunted and cursed. Peter a fellow Bowman stood over him, “Wake up yer highness, we are moving out – if ya please”. Rob rubbed his eyes, the chants of the Pilgrims rang in his ears. He dragged himself off to fetch his bow and arrows and muttered a prayer to the Lady.

  A little time later, Rob, accompanied by Peter, found himself on the balcony of a half-collapsed house.

  He cautiously checked his footing. He knew all too well how easily one could slip and fall.

  Rob looked down and saw the other members of the warband moving through the alleys below. Just one or two buildings and they would reach the pit, he estimated. But unlike what he had heard, the pit was not filled with green glass. Water had gathered and had turned it into a pool of mud and grime.

  With weary eyes, Rob scanned his surroundings. His heart skipped a beat - was there a shadow moving over at the half-collapsed tower? – he rubbed his eyes. His breath came shallow, as he looked at the staircase and tried to peer into the gloom.

  “Na, I’m seeing ghosts again,” he said to himself and relaxed a little.

  That was when he felt Peter’s elbow in his side. Rob turned around, Peter leaned on the handrail, eyes squinted, “Look, there’s somethin movin.”

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  Rob could hardly make out two silhouettes. They moved on all fours, darting towards the pit. Behind them, a larger group of shambling shadows emerged.

  Below, in the alleys, Rob could see a group of his companions engage. Someone shouted, “For the Lady”.

  “Damn me, how do we know what to shoot?”

  “Just shoot those who move like they don’t have a stick up their arse,” Peter sighed.

  Rob nocked an arrow, drew breath and let it fly – it immediately passed out of sight. He waited – nothing. On his right he heard Peter’s bow sing, followed by a cheer from below.

  Rob nocked another arrow, mimicking Peter’s angle. He aimed towards the sky and let loose. He looked down, watching for movement. This time one of the shadows tumbled and turned heel.

  He lowered his bow as sharp thud interrupted his movement. Right before him, an arrow stuck in the handrail of the balcony. Still vibrating from impact. Rob immediately took cover.

  It had come in steep. Rooftops, not the street. Rob did not take a second look – he was already moving. Pressed up against the wall he passed a door frame and found himself on a bridge leading to another building.

  He took cover behind a wooden pillar and peeked out. “Curses,” he thought, there were figures standing on the ramshackle walkways on top of the tower.

  “Tower! Archers on the tower!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, while rushing towards better cover. He hid at the bottom of the pillar, losing sight of the battlefield, as arrows flew past him.

  Keeping his head low, he only heard the rattling of footsteps, moving in the streets below. Away from him and towards the tower.

  He waited a few moments, muttering a prayer to the Lady. Without leaving his cover he drew the bow. In a single fluid motion he stood, leaned out behind the pillar and let the arrow fly.

  He did not even look to see if it hit but hid back into cover. No arrows flew his way. More cheering erupted near the pool.

  Cautiously, an inch at a time, he looked up behind his cover, toward the pool. His vision was partially obstructed by the buildings. It seemed some of the figures were retreating, from the cheers he figured it mustn’t have been his fellow Bretonnians.

  But there was no time for celebrations. The sound of shouting and clashing metal pulled his attention back to the tower.

  He snarled and forced himself back into motion. He let another arrow fly towards the tower only to be hiding back in cover, as a stray arrow whizzed past him.

  He changed position again, when a terrified scream followed by a sickening thud that caught his attention. “Lady, please let it be one of them,” Rob prayed, as he stole a glance back at the tower.

  His prayer had not been heard, as the fighting noises from the tower went silent, the instance the body hit the floor.

  Rob shifted again, trying to get better cover. Once there, he glanced down into the alleys.

  Close to the pool another fight had erupted. Only faint noises of clashing steel reached Rob’s ears. He could not make out any details, but it seemed like two groups were fighting each other.

  Some of the figures moved fluidly, as if dancing. Rob was captivated by the movement, almost forgetting how deadly it was for those involved.

  A blade flashed in a smooth arc.

  For a second one figure stood still. Then the body collapsed.

  Rob swallowed bile as another volley of arrows flew past him. Then out of nowhere he heard three horn blasts. Keeping his head low, Rob retreated from the ruins and cautiously made his way back to camp.

  Peter and Rob were among the first to return to camp. In ones and twos, the rest followed. Had it been a different situation, Rob might have chuckled at the sight of the noble knights, all covered in soot and dirt. But the procession was far too grim.

  Rob started counting heads, two were missing. From what he could gather Squire Edgar and one of the Pilgrims had not made it back to camp.

  He returned to the campfire to report the missing. There he saw Adalhard’s remaining squire pulling an arrow of elven making from Adalhard’s shoulder.

  Opposite them, Alfred sat slumped on a block of wood, blood running down the side of his face. His whole body was shaking and colour slowly draining from his face.

  Rob turned away. He had seen enough for one night.

  Without saying a word, he slipped away from camp. He yearned for smoke and ale, and whatever mercy they had to offer.