The Amulet

Birds of magnificent wingspan, figure-eighted gracefully---black pirouetters in the slate grey sky. The small boy in peasants’ grubby clothes kenned their presence like reading a map. He made his way down the hill to the bloody mesa, and the bodies were fresh.

He wiped grime and sweat from his pale freckled face absentmindedly with his course-spun sleeve. It was a habit he’d done since he was a wee bairn when his parents had been alive; one developed nervous habits, when living in a war zone.

***

Seven hours earlier…

Rhys Hughes swung his heavy broad sword at the neck of an Englishman. The head shlumped off the body within a geyser of blood. He wheeled instinctively backwards and decapitated another. As he turned again, shoulders aching from pulled muscles, back pinched in a dozen vertebrae---he rolled through the pain, only saw red, and again slew another Englishman.

Hughes whipped around, like a snapping wolf on adrenaline, expecting more, sword raised in burning arms. He was bleeding from twenty places, not certain if any of his wounds were fatal.

Ahead forty feet was King Edward the Second. With all the strength left in him, he stumbled over bodies and blood-soaked rocky terrain. He hadn’t the strength to lift his sword in either hand, he was dexterous in both. but he sought to end this needless bloodshed once and for all.

As he topped the slight rise his vision blurred. Sweat and a wash of blood flooded down his face like a gory curtain. Through the red haze he saw the sadistic king fall. He smiled bloodily…and saw no more.

***

The battlefield was a red carpet teeming with fat feathered roaches---vultures tearing flesh from faces and crows sneaking in to swipe the eyes. Movement caught his eye far across the landscape. Another boy, perhaps older, frantically going through pockets and filling a sack.

He got into motion, thinking maybe he had an hour or so before the prince heir dispatched a recovery team. Like the boy across the bloody field, he began searching pockets and grabbed anything of value strewn in the trampled grass or wedged in the rugged turf.

His sack clunked on the ground when he came across the body of a soldier in a Welsh uniform. The English wore armor, the Welsh wore tunics, leg or arm armor sometimes, and if lucky a chest or back plate. Most wore some chainmail around their necks, and a few had head pieces as well. Yuri’s sack was heavy, he was about to flee back into the woods, when the light from the setting sun set the gemstone on the fallen Welshman’s chest aglow like an ember in a dying fire. Rays radiated from the stone like the ethereal beams from God’s Topaz. The illusion was not lost on the boy, but he had little time for old wive’s tales. He reached a hand towards the glowing amulet.

“ARARARARARARARAROWR!

Yuri jumped back quick as a squirrel with its tail on fire. He looked at his hand as if in wonder the dog hadn’t left its teeth marks. The boy nearly fainted then, as the body sat up.

***

Rhys had passed out after seeing the king killed, not caring if he died in his sleep. Apparently, it was just a nap. He was awakened by a dog fiercely barking, snarling, and kicking up dirt.

“Alright already! I’m up!” He looked around and saw a large yellow wolf-like dog barking at a kid.

The kid was most likely an orphan, an innocent casualty of the war. He’d seen over a thousand. Probably came scavenging stuff from the battle site, drawn by the vultures.

The dog, on the other hand, was a mystery.

Rhys waved his hand over his face and in the air over his confused head. “Okay. Don’t know either of you, but we gotta get like NOW.” Rhys tried to stand but his legs wouldn’t obey. The big yellow dog came, and he grabbed her around the neck to be dragged into a sort of half-upright shambling gait. Yuri followed.

***

Rhys opened his eyes and looked around the place. There was a tanned sheepskin on the wall above him. Painted on it a field dotted with sheep and a red and golden angel in the cloudy sky looking down upon the field. It was his own cabin hideaway. His wife had painted it four months before the English Priests came, calling her witch. Next to the amber wedding amulet he wore, it was all he had left of her. The priests had taken her away; the soldiers had taken Rhys with them. It seems the reputation of a champion Welsh warrior had spread far and wide. Who’d have thought that being a hero could also be a death sentence.

The dog must have sensed this was the man’s den. The yellow wolfy-dog with the big, pointed ears must have dragged him here…with the help of the kid. There he was, a Scarb. The soldiers called them that---a version of scavenger and crab. They lived on the streets or in the woods, orphaned by the war. He may have killed this boy’s pa.

And still, he never understood the wars any better than this boy. They were currently closer to the shore, than when he’d fallen. That was good. The border fighting had been many miles east.

The boy was busy over a pot on the hearth, carefully adding green stuff and what looked like turnips or potatoes. His young face was intent on his job, the tip of his tongue sticking out from the side of his bow-shaped mouth.

“Hey…” Rhys called out softly, it was all he could muster.

Still, the boy’s shoulders jumped at the sound. He dropped the last handful of green stuff into the cooking pot and turned towards the soldier. He didn’t come closer but looked him square in the eyes.

Rhys sat up a little more and swung his legs over the edge of the platform supporting the mattress he’d fashioned from flour sacks and soft yellow grasses. The boy didn’t flinch, but the yellow wolf-dog stood before him, not growling, but with canines bared.

“Whoa girl,” Rhys said and showed his hands slowly.

The dog came and sniffed them. She sniffed the wounds that Rhys just realized were bandaged and clean…and hurt much less than he figured they should. He smiled. The dog relaxed and licked his outstretched hands.

“Well now, ain’t you a beauty?”

“I call her Summer, cuz her coat’s like sunshine,” said the boy from across the small hut-like cabin.

“That is a very apt name for her. Very noble. And you lad, what do I call you?”

“Yuri.”

“No last name?”

“Well sir, was born the surname Wellsmith. But I bin on me own a long time. Barely recall me mum’s face…”

“Ah…I’m sorry to hear that Yuri…”

“I donna blame ye. Yer Welsh, no?”

“That I am, young sir. I too, lost my family in this damned conflict.”

“Did the king truly die?!”

“I saw him fall before I myself succumbed…”

“May he rot in ‘Ell!”

Summer barked in agreement, both the boy and man laughed.

After two months Rhys healed up nicely. Thanks to the waif’s attention to his wounds and culinary skills, he was up and training his twenty-nine-year-old body back into shape. He was grateful to the boy, he may have perished without his attention, in turn, he mentored the him: taught him how to use a sword and fight when the sword was not in the hand.

In the dirt yard before the cabin, Yuri came at Rhys with only his hands for weapons. Rhys deflected the attack but Yuri, small and quick, jumped upon his back and shoved his thumbs towards the big man’s eyes.

“Yes! Very good son.”

Yuri’s eyes shone like deep brown quartz as he slid off Rhys’s back.

Summer bounded into the yard with a fresh pheasant.

Yuri cried out, “Oh boy!” He grabbed the floppy bird from Summer and ran round the back to skin and prepared it for the hearth.

Rhys stroked Summer’s thick fur. She whined softly and looked towards the west.

Though the war had come to a halt after the king’s death, it wasn’t long before the prince declared he would march on through Wales, and see his father’s take over complete. Rhys felt he was done with war, whatever he accomplished, he felt he lost. He’d lost everything, just like the boy.

***

One day in the middle of December, six months later…

Yuri had run ahead of Rhys, towards the bluff, and the dog was off hunting.

The body was fresh. No stink or rot smell.

He pulled the body over. It was a woman. Yuri pushed her dark hair from her face and in his fingers detected a heartbeat. He probed his young little fingers along her body but couldn’t detect any injuries. She moaned. Yuri held back a cry in his throat.

The eyes opened. Green and beautiful.

“It’s okay. You’ll be fine. I’ve got you now,” Yuri crooned, trying to sound adult. Summer bounded to the pair, turned and beckoned Rhys to hurry with her barking. Rhys carried the woman back to their cabin and laid her on his bed.

She awoke and cried out a shriek and whimper as Summer loomed over her sniffing and softly whining. She pulled the soft woolen covers over her and looked around. She reached out a hand to the dog standing watch. Summer’s teeth bared. The woman nodded, and four English soldiers marched in.

The soldiers held their weapons at their hips, not raised, not aimed, but alert and ready.

The men parted and young Prince Edward III strode through them. “Well done Marta.”

Rhys and Yuri looked at each other, reasoning out their dilemma through their eyes. The woman was bait. She stood up, sure and steady, and bowed before Edward as he handed her a small leather pouch bulging with coin. She could not meet their eyes as she slunk out the door.

Edward said, “Rhys Hughes. You’ve committed regicide. I could justifiably end you here---”

Yuri cried out, “No! It wernt him that did it! I saw---” ‘WHACK!’ The blow from the gauntleted hand sent the boy sprawling to the dirt floor.

Rhys said, “The lad speaks true! Twas not I who slain yer father!” He stepped towards the slumped body.

Two soldiers stepped between the boy and the Rhys.

Edward said, “A pity there aren’t any witnesses.”

“No! Please! I’ll do anything you want. I’ll fight for you. Just leave the boy be.”

Edward nodded thoughtfully, his finger curled under his nose. After a minute he smiled wryly. He’d come to realize that leaving the boy alive would be leverage. And a warrior such as Rhys would be better behaved with the boy’s life being like the carrot before the mule.

Prince Edward lead the troupe. Behind seven men plodded Rhys and Yuri with four soldiers at their backs. It would be a month-long trek with the going so slow.

Edward’s scout trotted up. “Sir. Hunting camp up ahead a span. Six men, their mounts, two pack mules.”

Edward curled a finger under his nose, his thinking pose, and said, “They’ll be armed, crossbows perhaps. Dogs?”

“Just two hounds, sir.”

“Alright. We wait til midnight. Take out the dogs…”

Yuri had caught up to the prince. Panting, he said, “Your highness sir. I’m good with dogs. Let me take care of them. They’d be an asset to you. Dogs are always an asset.” And again, he wondered what had become of Sunshine. Had she been slaughtered by a soldier?

The tears shimmering in his eyes amused the prince. His finger found his upper lip. “Hmmm. Smart lad. If you try anything funny…”

“You’re planning on killing those men?” asked Rhys who now stood behind Yuri.

“If I must.”

“Yer nuttin but a common highwayman! These are your subjects.”

‘WHACK!’ The man by Rhys raised his quarterstaff again.

“Halt!” said the prince. “You’re right. Slinking around like common thieves. Pah! They shall simply give me what I want or…meh…” his shrug was the period of his statement. He nodded to his right-hand man.

The man addressed the troupe. “Forward march!”

They carried on.

As they passed a dense hemlock thicket, the green eyes followed them. The gypsy stood and watched the last of their red tunics meld into the leaves and pines. In her hand, she caressed the amber amulet with her thumb until it was warm. As she looked down upon it, it lit up from inside as if a ray of sun had found it. She followed the men at a safe distance, the yellow wolf-dog at her side.

As the weary troupe came out the forest, they were buoyed by the sight of the prince’s castle on the horizon. Even the horses perked up, prancing their hooves as if smelling the fresh oats in the barn. Rhys and Yuri each rode their own horse: Rhys on a spirited dark stallion, Yuri upon a piebald mare with a long kinky mane.

At the hunter’s camp, only one man had been killed. He’d been the owner of the stallion. The mare’s owner had given her up willingly after the first man’s head had been crushed like a melon beneath the prince’s horse’s hooves. Yuri was pleased to think of the dogs who’d listened to his voice and heeded is commands. When the prince asked him of the dogs, he’d said simply, “Seems they’ve run off.”

The prince had shrugged, said, “meh,” and carried on at a much faster pace now that all were mounted.

The troupe wearily plod through the gates under the portcullis. Rhys noted several faces amidst the crowd of peasants clapping and cheering, that were sullen and turned away. The revelers were faking it. It may be possible to find allies here. Amongst the faces a pair of green eyes caught his own. His breath caught in his throat. The faux gypsy. But now dressed in a simple but fine dress of pale yellow, her thick dark tresses tamed beneath an ivory headscarf. As he was led forward towards the castle, she ducked out of sight…but not before he saw the yellowy fur of the dog at her side.

Rhys and Yuri shared a room in the castle, it was a prison cell, the heavy door locked.

About midnight a face appeared in the tiny window of their cell. Green eyes emitted a sound of disgust from Rhys. “No! Wait! I’m so sorry I did what I did but then I realized who you were. You are our savior! Look, here is your doggy! The dog that is not a dog.”

What a curious statement. Rhys looked out the tiny window again and saw Summer there, grinning. As he watched, the gypsy woman placed the amulet over her neck.

The golden-haired wolf stood on her back legs and grew taller as the lustrous fur fell away. Summer the dog had become a woman. A tall pale skinned woman with strawberry blond hair, freckles, and the beautiful dark amber eyes he’d fallen in love with a decade before. The faux gypsy removed her long cloak and covered the nude woman with it.

“Strawberry Fields! Suzanne? Is it you? Or am I going to the devil with my mind on fire?”

“Rhys my love...I escaped the priests and the pyre by becoming the dog. I am what they accused me of being. The magic is in the amulet. This is Marta, my apprentice and accomplice.” Marta bowed demurely. Suzanne continued, “She’s given the guards honey cakes laced with a heavy concentrate of laudanum. We should wait until the bell rings eleven o’clock to be sure they are sleeping.”

Rhys said, “And the lock?”

“Easy-peasy.” Suzanne pulled a long pin with a forked end from the pocket of Marta’s cloak. “She really was a gypsy before I found her. Tee-hee.”

God, how Rhys had missed her giggle.

The bell rang. The lock was picked. After a brief mouth-sucking reunion and fierce hugs, the amulet was removed from Suzanne’s neck. Marta, Rhys, Yuri, and Summer crept swiftly through the dark halls of the castle. Past loud snores, they fetched their horses then as casually as they could, made their way to the gate. There was a guard at the portcullis.

It didn’t take magic to enamor the man. Marta was quite the beguiling charmer. She moved like a silken snake, her old gypsy ways of dancing were hypnotic. The poor man would wake with a large lump on his head and the urge to flee into the woods behind the foursome after the prince realized his prisoners had escaped.

***

In the cabin the next day, Yuri was packing, Marta was readying the horses. She had a small cart in the woods close to where Rhys and Yuri had found her. As they loaded everything they needed, Rhys took the painted hide from the wall and rolled it up.

Suzanne said, “You kept it all this time.”

“Of course I did. It gave me the peace to fall asleep underneath it in times of such agitation. It will be with us everywhere we go.”

“We will stay together as a family, yes? To travel south to Marta’s homeland of Italy.”

“Yes, my love. Marta is like a sister to you. And Yuri…well, he’s like a son. Without him, I would have perished.”