The Blood of the Iutes: The Song of Octa Book 1 (The Song of Britain 4) by James Calbraith

Author:James Calbraith [Calbraith, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Flying Squid
Published: 2020-12-14T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XI

THE LAY OF PAULUS

“Octa! Young Octa!” I hear a cry of joy. “Thank the Lord, you’re alive!”

I turn to see one of the red-clad riders dismounting. He throws off his helmet, wipes his spatha from blood and strides up to me in confident, military steps.

“Comes Pinnosa!” I bow, hiding my surprise. Ursula bows beside me; the others, perplexed, glance from me to the rider and back. “I… don’t understand… I thought you said —”

He smiles. “Let’s just say, after you left, I had an inspiring conversation with my… librarian,” he says.

“Librarian?” I ask, confused. “You mean — Rav Asher?”

Before he can answer, I spot Hildrik and Basina ride up to us.

“Who are you, lord?” Hildrik asks in his rough Latin. “To whom do we owe our deliverance?”

“Hildrik —” I say, “this is Hlaford Pinnosa. Comes and Bishop of Coln.”

Hildrik straightens in the saddle and looks to the red-clad men. “Then these men must be…”

“Coln garrison — those that could get here on time. More are coming.”

“How — why?”

Pinnosa pats me on the back. “You owe it to young Octa,” he says. I catch Basina’s raised eyebrow and a smile. She seems suitably impressed, but as puzzled with what’s going on as Hildrik.

I smile back impatiently. I want to look for Gille among the wounded, hoping he’s out there somewhere, gasping for breath, bleeding, rather than dead in the field. I want to see the three fallen Iutes; perhaps they, too, can be saved.

The Comes takes a look around. “You have lost many men, chieftain,” he says, as if reading my mind, “but some may still live, if you hurry. We can use the Saxon wagons to transport them to Tolbiac.”

I look to Odowakr’s supply train. The porters fled into the woods, leaving their sacks and crates behind. Some wagons lie overturned on the roadside, the load spilled, others got dragged by panicked oxen into the field, but a few still stand on the road, abandoned by their drivers in the retreat.

“They won’t let a Frankish army into Tolbiac,” Hildrik says grimly.

“They will if I tell them to,” replies Pinnosa. “Gather your dead and your wounded, chieftain, and I will do the same, and then we must march onwards.”

Hildrik hesitates. He looks westwards. “My men are weary. We need to rest.”

“So do we. But Tolbiac is a small town. If Odowakr decides to take it, even with his depleted force, it shan’t take him long, and we’ll be trapped here. One more push, and we can rest — in beds. I’ll introduce you to Tolbiac’s best taverns.”

“What about Coln?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you be going back to defend it from Hildebert?”

He shakes his head with a sad smile. “Coln is coming with us.”

He points to the east; in the shimmery haze of the evening, I see what first appears like a dark line of an approaching army. As my eyes adjust to the distance, I recognise it as a packed mass of marching men, horses and wagons, a few hundred at least, moving slowly, but surely towards us.

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