Standard of Honour

That simple assurance, so bravely and so innocently given, was Lachlan Moray’s introduction to Hell, for within an hour of giving it, Alexander Sinclair had begun to lose all sense of himself. He remained awake throughout that time and seemed to be lucid, but when Moray carefully raised him to his feet, taking his weight with an arm across his shoulders, all the strength drained from Sinclair in a rush and he slumped in a swoon. From a manageable burden he became a deadweight within a heartbeat, and almost pulled Moray down with him. Gasping and grunting words of useless encouragement, Moray managed to lower him to the ground again without dropping him on his broken arm, and then he knelt over him, peering in consternation at his friend’s pain-ravaged face and feeling despair well up inside him as he recognized the finality of their situation.

It was as he was kneeling there, peering at Sinclair’s unresponsive face, that a sudden connection occurred in Moray’s mind, between the unconscious Sinclair and another old friend, Lachlan’s kinsman and former captain, Lord George Moray, who had been generally expected to die two years earlier after being gravely wounded.

That the Scots nobleman had not died, and had recovered fully, had been due to the efforts of a single man, a Syrian physician called Imad Al-Ashraf, and Lachlan Moray remembered Imad Al-Ashraf very clearly, because the man had saved Lord George’s life by means of a magical white powder that relieved his lordship’s pain and kept him comatose until his broken body had had time and opportunity to heal itself.

Moray dropped his hand to the scrip that hung from his belt, reaching inside the overhanging flap with finger and thumb and pinching the soft kid leather of the tiny pouch that was sewn onto the back of the flap. Called away by some emergency before Lord George had made a full recovery, Al-Ashraf had declared that the worst was over and that his lordship would recover without a physician’s help from that time on, providing he did nothing stupid to endanger himself again. Lachlan, who had barely left his lord’s side since the incident in which he had been wounded, assured the Syrian physician that he himself would take responsibility for seeing to that. Al-Ashraf bowed his head in respect and acknowledgment of the pledge and then, before he left, provided Moray with a small packet containing eight carefully measured doses of the magical white powder that he called an opiate, warning him seriously of the dangers of using the nostrum carelessly and too often, then going on to instruct the knight concerning the signs and conditions he should look for before feeding any of the drug to the injured man. When Moray had shown a sufficiently wide-eyed respect for what he was being told, Al-Ashraf went on to teach him how to mix and administer the drug, which both erased pain, or at least the awareness of pain, and enforced sleep upon the recipient.

Moray had no notion how the potions that he mixed went about their work, or how sick a man would have to be to require the use of them, but he used four of the eight doses on Lord George in the latter stages of the nobleman’s recovery. And he had marveled each time at the swiftness with which the potions completely overwhelmed his stubborn and intransigent superior, rendering him unconscious, and apparently depriving him even of the power to toss and turn in his sleep.

Moray had carried the four unused doses with him ever since, in a blind but profound belief that he might have need of their magical powers on his own behalf someday. Although he knew that, should the need arise for him to use them himself, he might be physically incapable of doing so, too ill or too badly wounded, still he had told no one about them, suspecting that their value might make possession of them dangerous.

His grasp on the small pouch tightened, but he hesitated to pull it free of the stitching that held it in place. Lachlan was afraid, deep inside himself, that he might endanger his friend Sinclair by forcing him to drink something that might, against all reason and logic, be poisonous, despite the good he had seen it do formerly. And even if it helped Sinclair, the white powder would kill any possibility of their leaving this place that day, since it would plunge Sinclair into a deep sleep for hours on end. But Sinclair was most evidently in agony.

Slowly, reluctant still, he pulled the small package free of its stitching and opened it, gazing down at the four separate doses, individually wrapped in fine white muslin, that lay inside. Now, feeling an excitement welling up in his chest, he opened one of the small, carefully wrapped measures and emptied it into his drinking cup, then mixed it with some of the water. A moment later, he had raised Sinclair’s head and helped him to swallow the contents of the cup without spilling a drop.

That done, he laid his friend down again, made him as comfortable as he could, and then sat back on his heels. Within minutes, Sinclair was deeply asleep, his breathing, it seemed to Moray, already steadied and strengthened. Recognizing the change, he felt grateful, but he also grinned wryly, wondering aloud to himself what was to become of them now, helpless as they were, unable to move and dangerously low on water, for he knew that one, at least, of the Muslim patrols would visit this place again, to pick up their dead comrade.

It was then that Moray remembered the device in which the dead man in the desert had been dragged behind a horse for so many miles. The idea was enough to give him strength, and he went scuttling out into the late-afternoon light, crouching low and raising his head with great caution above the rim of the wadi that had sheltered them. He made no move that might betray his presence until he was certain that he was alone and that there was no one out there looking either for him or at him.

It was a quarter of a mile from the wadi that concealed them to the clump of boulders where he had hidden from the Saracens that afternoon, and he crossed it quickly, conscious that he was a very conspicuous target. He went directly to where the dead man lay beside the clump of stones and tried to roll the body off the improvised bier, only to discover that it had stiffened since he last touched it and was now rigid and difficult to handle. But it was soon done and he gathered up the apparatus. The framework of lashed spears felt strong and sturdy, but he was surprised by the unexpected weight of the coiled ropes of braided leather that he slung crosswise over his shoulders, and he had a ludicrously difficult time after that in simply bending down to pick up his crossbow and bolts. He had to make several attempts, fighting to keep his balance beneath the burden he was carrying as he stooped and bent, weaving and groping blindly towards the weapons on the ground.

Within the half hour, he was back at the wadi dragging the apparatus behind him and unsurprised to discover that Sinclair did not appear to have moved a muscle since he had left. He bent over to feel the sleeping man’s forehead, noting that his breathing was deep and regular and that the strange rasping rattle in his throat had disappeared. What concerned him most at that moment, however, was the need to make sure that Sinclair was still deeply asleep, for Moray had been thinking furiously, and for the first time since dawn on the slopes of Hattin the previous day, he had a detailed plan in mind, one that he thought he would be able to execute, providing that he could first set and somehow splint Sinclair’s broken arm.

Moray had two weapons at his disposal: the crossbow and six foot-long steel bolts, and the inlaid, double-curved bow with its quiver of more than a score of finely fletched arrows. Six crossbow bolts, when compared with twenty-two arrows, made his deliberations simple. He stood up and wearily removed his linen surcoat, armored hauberk and leggings, dropping them carelessly on the sand before leaning over to cut the straps that fastened his friend’s heavy mail hauberk. He stripped Sinclair, too, of his hauberk and leggings, removing close to fifty pounds of steel links, knowing that the armor would be useless to them were they captured by Saracens. He piled the discarded chain mail to one side, then patiently worked his own sleeveless leather jerkin over Sinclair’s broken arm until, by dint of much pulling, he was able to wrap the garment completely around him and feed the other arm, much more easily, through the arm hole. That done, he cinched Sinclair’s belt about the unconscious man’s waist and sank wearily to his knees beside his friend, contemplating the task that faced him next: the setting of Sinclair’s broken arm.

It was not a task with which Lachlan Moray felt comfortable. Kneeling on the sandy floor, he stared down into the sleeping face, reviewing what he must do within the next short time and cursing himself for not having paid more attention to the procedure when he had seen it done before, by other people. But on those few occasions, he had turned his face away, as squeamish as everyone else about the noises of bone grating upon splintered bone, and hoping blindly that he himself would never have to undergo the pain such manipulations must involve. It had never occurred to him that he might someday have to perform the operation himself. Sweet Jesus, Alec, he thought. Don’t wake up while I’m doing this.

He inhaled deeply, bent forward, and carefully cut away the insubstantial arrow splints he had applied the day before. Then, clenching his teeth and shutting his mind to what he was about, he braced himself and pulled on the broken arm, feeling the loose bones grate as they shifted in response to his manipulations. When he felt sure the arm was as close to naturally straight as he could make it, he cut several lengths from the yards of leather rope that had bound the dead Muslim’s conveyance to the horse that pulled it. He tore the remnants of Sinclair’s white surcoat into strips and looped four short pieces around the broken limb, above and below the elbow, knotting them with care so that they were loose yet snug enough to remain in place. Then he carefully inserted the six steel bolts, weaving them over and under the loops so that they were all held in place by at least two of the straps, and when he was confident that they were all properly positioned he bound them again, firmly this time, so that they formed a steel cage around the broken limb from wrist to biceps. As soon as he had finished that, he used two longer lengths of the rope to bind the arm itself tightly against Sinclair’s body.

He dragged the still unconscious man to the conveyance he had rescued, then pushed and hauled and shifted Sinclair’s deadweight bulk until he thought it was evenly distributed across the straps between the two supporting poles, and when he was satisfied that it was, he worked for a time on shortening and adjusting the harness that had originally joined the poles to the horse that pulled them, painstakingly knotting the ropes into a crude harness of netting that bore a very faint resemblance to the salmon nets he had used as a boy in Scotland but would serve, he knew, to distribute the weight of his burden across his chest and shoulders. Only then, when there was nothing more he could do, did he drink sparingly and lie down to sleep for the last remaining hour of the day, knowing he would awaken when the evening chill settled across the cooling sands.

MORAY AWOKE SOON AFTER NIGHTFALL, and still it appeared that Sinclair, deeply in the grip of the Syrian’s wondrous powder, had not moved. He bent to listen to the sound of his friend’s deep, regular breathing before he rose to his feet and drank again from the water skin. He then placed it securely beside Sinclair on the bier and bound it to the straps there, alongside the Saracen’s bow and quiver. Finally he inserted his arms without much difficulty into the harness he had made, tightening the bindings across his chest until they were as comfortable as possible, and set out on his journey. The weight at his back was solid and ponderous, but the harness served its purpose well, and he leaned into it like a draft horse taking the traces, his enormous muscles making relatively light work of pulling the weight at his back. He felt much freer without the burden of his chain mail, and grateful for the bright light of the moon. The only sounds he could hear were his own footfalls on the hard-packed, windblown sand and the steady hiss of the pole ends gouging parallel tracks behind him.

He had lost track of time and distance by the time he heard Sinclair grunt deeply and move suddenly, disturbing the plodding rhythm of his walk and almost throwing him off balance. He was glad to stop and shrug out of the harness, twisting around as he tried to lower his end gently without jarring the injured man.

“Where in God’s name are we?”

Moray noted that Sinclair’s voice, while still weak, was noticeably stronger. He stood up on his toes and stretched hugely, swinging his arms for a time to loosen his shoulder joints before he made any attempt to answer.

“And why can’t I move? What am I tied to?”

Moray ruffled his friend’s hair. “Well, God bless you, too, Alec. I’m well, thank you, merely having hauled the solid weight of your large and miserable arse halfway across this desert. But it is a relief to listen to your complaining and know therefore that you are well, too.” His voice altered from one word to the next, dropping its tone of raillery and becoming serious. “You can’t move because you’re trussed up like a pig’s carcass, and you’re trussed up because it was the only way I could stop you from flailing your arm about. It’s badly broken and you were growing sick because of the pain, tossing about and raving. I used crossbow bolts for splints. And you are lashed to the only means I have of moving you in the hope of reaching safety. Saracens are swarming all about us. As for where we are, I have no idea. We’re in the desert somewhere, heading southwest towards Nazareth because I can’t think of anywhere else to go. I overheard two Saracen patrols exchanging information—Saladin has taken La Safouri, so there’s no refuge there. I borrowed this thing that you are lying on from a corpse that was left behind. I’ve been dragging you across Outremer ever since.”

He fell silent and watched his friend absorb everything he had said, noticing as he did so that Sinclair’s face appeared to be less haggard than it had been earlier that day, although that might have been the effect of the moonlight, for the moon was now riding high overhead.

Sinclair frowned. “You are dragging me? How?”

“With ropes. A leather harness.”

“You mean, like a horse?”

Moray grinned as he untied the bindings of the water skin. “Aye, the same thought had occurred to me. Like a horse. A workhorse. See what you’ve made of me?”

“You said there are Saracens everywhere. Why is that?”

“I don’t know. They’re probably looking for fugitives like us, people who escaped from Hattin. You look better than you did earlier, thanks be to God. Here, have some of this.”

He knelt and held the water skin to Sinclair’s mouth, and when he had finished drinking, the injured man looked around at the moonlit waste surrounding them.

“You have no idea where we are?”

“South and west of Hattin and Tiberias, perhaps four leagues, or five. I must have come five miles at least, pulling you, and we walked all night last night. Do you remember that?”

Sinclair looked almost hurt. “Of course I do.” He hesitated. “But I don’t recall much else.”

“I dosed you with some medication I had in my scrip and you’ve been asleep for hours. How much pain are you in?”

Sinclair made a movement that might have been a shrug. “Some, not much. There’s pain, but it’s…distant, somehow.”

“Aye, that will be the drug. I’ll give you more of it later.”

“Be damned if you will. I need no drugs.”

Moray shrugged. “Not now, it’s plain. But later, if you start raving again, I’ll be the one to make that decision.” He peered up at the sky again, as though expecting to see clouds. “In the meantime, we have to keep moving. The moon’s high, so we’ll have light for an hour or two more, but after that, if I can’t see the ground underfoot, it might be nasty for both of us.”

“Then keep your eyes open for another place to hide during the day that’s coming. The loss of an hour or two of darkness won’t make much of a difference to our journey if we don’t know where we are or where we’re going. But what about water? Have we enough?”

Moray hefted the water bag. “We have until we reach the end of this. After that we’re in God’s hands.”

“We’re in God’s sands, Lachlan, and like to die here if He doesn’t provide for us.”

“Well, we’ll find that out tomorrow. For now, I walk and you take your ease.”

He fastened the water bag carefully in place, then strapped on the harness again and set off. They did not speak to each other after that, for they both knew how sound can travel in the desert at night and they had no wish to attract company. Moray quickly steadied himself into the plodding gait he had been using for hours, but he was aware from the outset that fatigue was rising in him. He gritted his teeth and willed himself to ignore the shooting pains in his calves and thighs, concentrating solely on the incessant rhythm of placing one foot ahead of the other.

Some time later, much later, he decided afterwards, an agonized groan from Sinclair brought him back to awareness, and he stopped short, surprised to see that the terrain around him had changed completely and that he had walked from one desert zone into another without realizing it.

“Alec? Are you awake?”

Sinclair did not answer him, and Moray stopped on the point of peeling off the harness that felt now as though it had embedded itself into his body. Instead, he straightened up, arching his back and suddenly aware of the pain and stiffness he had blanked out of his mind until then, and looked about him carefully. The moon was low in the sky, but it still threw sufficient light for him to see his surroundings clearly enough to be amazed at what lay before him. The ground beneath his feet now was hard, scoured down to bedrock by the wind, and he was standing on the edge of what he saw as an enormous tilted bowl that loomed above and ahead of him, a broad, almost circular area of flat land, more than half a mile in extent, that was littered with great boulders and surrounded on all sides, except for where he stood, by towering, featureless walls of sand. Mountainous dunes, their gigantic slopes painted silver and black by moonlight and shadows, swept up on both sides of him to shut out the horizon ahead, eclipsing the stars. As he stood there, hearing only the pounding of his own heartbeat, he became aware of the stillness of the night; nothing moved and no smallest sound disturbed the absolute calm.

“Alec, can you hear me?” There was still no response, but he spoke again, quickly, as though he had heard one. “We’re in a different kind of place here, but it looks promising, as far as finding shelter goes. There are boulders ahead, within reach, and we should be able to find a spot among them where the sun won’t roast us tomorrow. It’s late, and the moon’s almost gone, and I’m too tired to go much farther, so I’m going to take us there and find a spot to rest. And then I’m going to sleep, perhaps for the entire day tomorrow. But first I’m going to feed you some more of those drugs you don’t want. That is if I can force my feet to move again. Hold on, and I’ll try.”

He bent to the traces again and, after the first few faltering steps, found the plodding rhythm that had enabled him to keep forging ahead for hours. Within another quarter of an hour he was close enough to the largest pile of boulders to see that there was shelter aplenty among them, chinks and crevices that looked large enough to swallow both of them with ease. He lowered Sinclair’s bier to the ground and peeled himself agonizingly out of the network of straps and braces that had sunk into his tortured flesh. As he bent to check his friend’s breathing, Sinclair opened his eyes.

“Lachlan. It’s you. I was dreaming. Where are we?”

“Hazard a guess. You’re as likely to be right as I am.” Moray was massaging his right arm, moving his elbow in circles and grimacing with pain as his fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulder. “Damnation, but you make a heavy load, Sinclair. I feel as though I’ve been hauling a dead horse behind me since the day I was born.” He saw his friend’s quick frown and waved away the apology before it could be uttered. “You would do the same for me. But I’m looking forward to having you back on your feet and walking again. Then you’ll be able to pull me.” He grunted and switched his ministrations to his other shoulder. “I believe I’ve found us a place to rest out of the sun tomorrow, but I’m going to leave you here while I make sure of it. In the meantime, you should pray and give thanks to God that I was clever enough to get rid of all our armor before we set out on this little sojourn. I’ll be back.”

He returned quickly, a strange expression on his face, so that Sinclair, after hawking to clear his throat, asked, “What’s wrong? Did you not find a place?”

Moray shook his head. “Did you pray? You must have. I hoped to find a gap between the stones that would shelter us. I found a cave instead—a cave that has been very recently in use as a living place. I found a cache of bread—stale but edible—along with water, dates, dried meat and a bag of dried dung, camel and horse both, for fuel. If I had not been here in this accursed Holy Land for so long, I would think it a miracle. As it is, it’s a stroke of fortune of the kind a cynic like me can barely contemplate.”

Sinclair was frowning. “Who would live out here?”

“Some nomad. There are more than a few of them out here. And who but a nomad would think to hoard dry dung?”

“But—think you he might be still around here?”

Moray stooped and hoisted the bier by the short cross-brace at its head, throwing the mass of straps across Sinclair’s legs at the same time. “I doubt it,” he said, grunting with the effort of lifting Sinclair’s weight again. “Whoever he was, he’s probably at La Safouri now, or at Tiberias, celebrating our defeat. Since you appear to be praying effectively, pray then that I am correct. One way or the other, we will know soon. Now lie back, it’s not far.”

SINCLAIR AWOKE IN THE DAWN LIGHT, his arm on fire, the pain of it a living thing that he could feel somewhere at the back of his throat, or so it seemed to him. He knew immediately what had happened to him, and that his arm was broken, but he had no awareness at first of where he was or how he had come there. Then he heard a soft sound and turned his head to see Moray’s shape silhouetted against the morning brightness at the cave’s mouth, and everything came back to him. He tried to call Moray’s name, but on the first attempt, although his lips moved and he articulated the sounds, nothing emerged. He swallowed, trying to moisten his dry mouth, and tried again, his voice emerging as little more than a croak.

“Lachlan.”

Moray did not stir, although Sinclair knew he must have heard him, and his eyes narrowed as he took note of the tension and rigidity of the other man’s posture. Moray stood stiffly in the entranceway, one hand braced against the side of the deep cleft in the rock that was their shelter, his entire body inclined slightly forward as he peered at whatever it was in the distance that had caught his attention.

“Lachlan, what is it? What can you see?”

Moray straightened slightly, the tension fading from his stance as he did so, and spun to move purposefully back towards Sinclair. “Vultures,” he said, as though the word explained everything. “I saw them circling when I went outside to piss and I’ve been watching them ever since, until the last of them disappeared.”

Sinclair felt as though he were missing something painfully obvious. “I don’t understand. There are always vultures in the sky out here in the desert. Always one, at least…”

“Aye, until something dies, and then they gather in flocks as by magic. No one knows how they know, but they always do.”