Dagger of the Martyrs

by Steven Savile

  The three remaining men are on him in an instant. Samira thinks they will finish him there and then, but, apart from a few swift kicks meant to hurt, but not disable, they hold their blows.

  “Our master, Guillaume de Nogaret has business with you, Templar,” the largest of the remaining attackers says, and spits in the redhead’s face.

  ◆◆◆

  They drag the dazed Templar away.

  Samira, or whatever part of her she now inhabits, goes with them, soaring, a silent, cruising bird above their head. They throw the redhead over the back of a waiting horse and gallop, full pelt, through tight narrow streets that appear to Samira as tall, looming canyons of blackness framed against a slate-grey sky.

  They approach a tall stone building, and at first Samira fears following them inside, fears being trapped there in the rock unable to return to the cave on the mountain. But her spirit has no such reluctance, and in the blink of an eye she is again elsewhere, hanging silently, invisible, above the redhead once again.

  But this time, he is very far away from the relaxation of a hot bath.

  He is strapped to a long table, still naked to the world, arms and legs outstretched to expose every inch of scarred flesh. An old man, almost as old as Javed, stands over him. In his right hand she sees an iron poker, its tip white hot, just starting to fade to red. He applies the poker to the soft flesh on the inside of the Templar’s left thigh, pressing it down, holding it there as the skin sizzles and sears. The redhead grits his teeth against the pain, determined not to show weakness as the poker is pressed tighter.

  Samira can smell the burnt meat, the singed hair, but she cannot drag her eyes away as the big man finally breaks his silence.

  He screams, over and over again.

  “Good,” the old man says. “We can begin. Tell me, Templar, when did you first renounce Christ?”

  As the redhead’s screams grow ever more frantic, Samira drifts, up and away, her sight darkening and blurring until she is once again in darkness, smelling the tang of black tea, the Templar’s cries fading away somewhere far distant.

  ◆◆◆

  But the spirit is not yet done with her.

  She feels its breath on her face again, and the darkness swirls.

  When Samira looks again, she is high above a throne in a grey austere room. Gold gilding, bare in patches, trying to hide the rotted wood inside, but it cannot disguise the hate and fury that drive the slight figure of a man who sits there.

  There are three men standing to attention before the throne. One of them is the old man she saw torturing the redhead.

  “So, de Nogaret. Has the Templar confessed?” the slight man asks.

  “In full, your Majesty. He has returned to the fold of the Church and confessed to the vilest of heresies. Furthermore, he freely admits to conspiracy against your throne and the Pope, both by himself and by his brethren in the Order. We have his name on it.”

  The King turned to the man standing to De Nogaret’s left, a tall, cadaverous figure with dark, sunken eyes and a pale, almost ghostly face.

  “Well, Gui, it has come to pass as you said it would. God is not pleased. We have enemies of the faith in the kingdom, and you have my decree. Take de Marigny with you and see that my will is done. I want these heretics in my dungeons before the day is out. The Lord wills it.”

  “The Lord wills it,” the cadaverous man replied. He bowed and left the room.

  Samira expected her spirit to follow him, but it appeared she had been shown all that needed to be shown for now, for even as the man’s footsteps receded away on the stone floor, so too did Samira recede, until she stood in the dark, smelling fish and black tea.

  ◆◆◆

  “Was your question answered, little fish?” Javed asked as he brewed more tea.

  “I don’t know. I witnessed many strange things,” Samira replied. “But I do not see how they can relate to my future.”

  The old man studied her for a moment, then offered his familiar vague wisdom. “The world beyond this mountainside is full of strange and often wonderous things. I have no doubt that you will discover just how strange and wonderful in time. But, perhaps your spirit did not understand your question, or more accurately, you do not completely understand it yourself?”

  She told Javed what she had seen in her vision, trying to remember even the smallest details in case they were more important that the greater play she had witnessed.

  He supped tea, sitting in silence for a long time before answering.

  “It is their way to fight among themselves, these Men of Christ, as if one interpretation of their God is somehow superior to another. It will be their undoing, in time.”

  “But who were those men? Why was I shown them?”

  Javed shrugged.

  “She is your spirit. You will have to ask her.”

  ◆◆◆

  They drank tea in silence for long minutes, the tang of the hot brew doing much to ground Samira back in place, here on the mountainside. There was part of her now that wanted to fly, and would always want to fly, soaring like a bird in the dark canyons of strange cities, but to succumb to that desire would be to turn her back on the cave, her life here and, ultimately on Javed. She was not ready to do that.

  “Tell me about the spirit,” she said. “I know you call it a doing thing, rather than a telling thing, but there must be some tales you can impart, some history?”

  Javed laughed.

  “You already know some of the stories, you just haven’t recognized their true nature. What do you think was to be found in those magic rings and lamps you were always so eager to hear about?”

  “Those were Djinn,” Samira replied, remembering the tales of her childhood. Javed laughed again.

  “And what are Djinn, but spirit and breath?” She thought about that for a moment. “For just as we Fidai can control the spirit and bend it to our will, so there are those who would steal it from us and bind the spirit to them. Beware traps, both in this place and the next, little fish, for either could prove to be your downfall.”

  The tea had gone straight to Samira’s head. She felt her senses swimming, as though all she needed to do was close her eyes and she might spin off into the darkness again, flying. Soaring.

  “How do I bind it to me?” she asked. “How do I make it mine?”

  “You have already begun,” the old man replied. “Tomorrow, we shall see what both of you have learned, and prepare the way for what comes next.”

  When Samira put her head down to sleep the darkness called to her once more, but she was too afraid of being lost in the tall dark canyons to risk letting herself go.

  “What has all of this to do with Bologna?” she asked the darkness.

  The last thing she saw before sleep took her was more like a dream than any of the previous visions. There were no smells or sounds, and hardly any light, a single flickering candle which was barely enough to see the sleeping boy, his mop of black hair spilled on the pillow.

  The moon came out from behind a cloud, and as the silver slipped across the boy’s sleeping face Samira saw her mother there.

  1307

  THE KNIGHTS TEMPLAR CHAPTERHOUSE, PARIS

  Aymeric dreamed of high mountain valleys and a dome of sky the likes of which he had never seen.

  He smelled fish, smoke, and wet animal in his nose, and tasted black tea on his lips.

  It was so real.

  He woke in confusion to the sounds of fighting. It took him a moment to realise that it came from the courtyard below his dormitory.

  Aymeric clambered out of bed and crossed to the window. He wore a thin white cotton nightshirt; his day clothes were folded atop his mail, at the side of his bed. His first instinct, born of years of training, was to reach for the sword that had lain at his feet. The feel of the weapon and the weight of it in his hand did much to quell the growing sense panic as the rage of combat grew louder in the stairwell outside the sleeping quarters.

  All around
him other aspirants reached for their weapons.

  Some struggled to dress themselves, while two, still in their night shirts, made for the windows, considering flight.

  “To me,” Aymeric shouted, without second thought. Together they were strong, alone, fractured, they were weak. “Grab your swords. Now. Don’t waste time with anything else. The Order needs us.”

  He moved to where Guillaume de Bois still struggled to climb out onto the window’s ledge, and grabbing a fistful of night shirt, dragged the boy back inside and threw him to the ground. He showed Guillaume the tip of his sword, inches above his chest. “Any of you who will not fight, will die here, right now,” Aymeric said, with both command and power he did not feel. The room fell quiet. His voice was not that of the callow youth he had been until a moment ago. It was the voice of a Templar Knight.

  The clash of steel on steel was loud on the other side of the dormitory door.

  “Be true,” Aymeric said, somehow keeping the tremor out of his voice as he demanded they, “Stand, for the Order.”

  The door slammed inward.

  The fight was upon them.

  ◆◆◆

  Aymeric recognised all too well the livery of the men in the doorway: King’s men. He was sure he had seen one holding his bow drawn on him as he had walked along the causeway yesterday.

  Father was right. There was a fight coming.

  The King’s men spilled into the room, three of them coming straight for Aymeric, as though they had identified him as the lion at the heart of these lambs. Aymeric concentrated on the man on the far right of the three and lunged into an attack. The warrior slashed, and Aymeric parried, aware in that brief exchange that his opponent was no swordsman. Aymeric feinted to go under his sword, then twisted his wrist and went over it. The steel felt like an extension of his arm as it slid through the man’s throat. With little more than a twitch of the wrist, Aymeric sliced his jugular and sent the warrior gurgling to the ground.

  He sensed rather than saw movement to his left and reacted instinctively; turning and ducked in one fluid movement as a sword whistled through the air inches above the top of his head. The middle man advanced, sword swinging wildly. Again, this was no swordsman, but he was big and fast. Aymeric blocked the blows as they rained down, the heavy sword sending shockwaves the length of Aymeric’s arm with every impact.

  The third man was slower to come forward, watching, weighing his blade in his hand, looking for the moment to throw himself onto the front foot and look to end Aymeric’s stubborn resistance.

  Aymeric had to finish this fast.

  The big man drew his sword back to swing again, the veins in his neck bulging as he put all of his immense strength behind a single savage swing. Aymeric read his intention, and ducked inside the wild blow, stepping in so close he could taste the foul reek of cloves on the big man’s breath, and smashed the pommel of his sword up into the man’s mouth, feeling them crush wetly against the force of the blow.

  The big man let out a howl, spitting three broken pegs of tooth, but he had the weight advantage, and despite the pain, pushed Aymeric away, putting space between them. Even as Aymeric staggered back two steps, the big man came on, swinging.

  Aymeric let him come, rocking back on his heel just as the big man’s bastard sword seemed set to cleave his skull, throwing himself to the side. The momentum of the swing carried his foe forward, off balance. As Aymeric adjusted, he thrust the point of his blade deep into the man’s side, opening him up. There was moment where surprise and death met on the big man’s face, then Aymeric kicked him over to the floor and dragged his sword clear of the bloody wound. There was no final blow. The sword fell from the dead man’s hand, the flat of the blade clattering on the floorboards. Blood gathered around it.

  Aymeric stepped into the blood, bringing up his blade to defend himself from the third man.

  All around the dormitory the battle raged.

  Too many of his friends had fallen to the King’s men.

  Some, still in their bed-shirts, were already being herded out of the door.

  Aymeric couldn’t help them.

  The last man advanced, snarling at him, like a cornered wildcat. “Fancy blade-work, lad. Let’s see if you’re as good as you think you are.”

  “I’m better,” Aymeric said, the only two words he was going to allow himself in this exchange.

  This man was different. It was obvious in his balance and the way he carried himself. He wasn’t some bowman given a blade, he was a swordsman. There was no rush and wild swing.

  Aymeric circled him, trying to stay calm.

  “That’s two fine men you’ve dispatched there, boy. I don’t think the King will care too much if I send you to join them.”

  The man sent his blade out in a quicksilver flicker that Aymeric barely managed to turn aside as its tip was over his heart. The blade drew blood. It was only a nick, but the muscle stung where it was parted.

  Aymeric turned defence into attack, lunging forward rather than trying to sidestep. The attack caught the King’s man off guard, but before Aymeric’s stroke could do any serious damage, he threw himself to the side. Aymeric’s blade sliced across his ribs, a cut for a cut. A couple of inches deeper and it would have taken the man through the heart. The King’s man came back at Aymeric hard, throwing himself into the attack with the young aspirant barely able to fend off the savagery.

  The clash of steel echoed around the room.

  They circled, feeling each other out, searching for an opening. Neither man took any risks. Blows were traded. Easily parried. No real danger behind any of them. Aymeric was tiring. He had no way of knowing how strong his opponent was, really, or how much longer he could match him, but the other man was breathing hard. They used the room’s sparse furniture to block and unbalance, the world reducing down to these four walls. Back and forth. Each swing fended off. The sword grew heavier in Aymeric’s hand with every swing.

  He had no choice but to risk a feint, and hope it didn’t leave him too exposed; it had worked on the training ground as often as it had failed him. But this was different. He wouldn’t take a slap from a wooden practice sword if he screwed this up.

  Aymeric stepped backwards, as if retreating before the ferocity of his foe’s unrelenting attack, and let his right leg give under him. That was his lie, and he sold it, feigning a stumble and letting his sword hand go down towards the floor as though he was spent.

  As he hoped, The King’s man bought his weakness and went for his suddenly exposed left side.

  Aymeric ignored the scything blade as it swept down, and, with a straight arm, punched his sword upwards, catching his opponent under the ribs and driving the blade in, deep, pushing through to cleave his heart.

  He fell, already a dead weight pinning Aymeric to the floor, and the young knight had to use all his remaining strength to push the corpse off him.

  Gathering his wits, he stood upright.

  The tall, cadaverous man he had walked into in the King’s Chambers, Bernard Gui, stood in the doorway, a thin smile on his face.

  “You are your father’s son, that is plain to see,” the Inquisitor said. “But I must ask you to yield, boy. We do not mean to kill you, but if you continue to resist, we will have no option.”

  There was a further commotion in the hallway outside the dormitory, and Aymeric heard his father’s voice yell out.

  “Aymeric!”

  Aymeric rushed forward, sword raised.

  He never reached the door.

  Bernard Gui stepped, quicksilver fast to one side, brought his own blade round, and struck the boy, hard, over the left ear with the flat of the weapon.

  His father shouted from a great distance, but he was too far away. It became too dark, too quiet, as Aymeric fell to the floor, lost. Damned.

  ◆◆◆

  Aymeric had no sense of how long he was unconscious, but as his senses began to return they were fractured, offering snatches of life interspersed with the empty d
ark.

  He stumbles on the way down the Chapterhouse stairwell. The steps are slick with blood. He hears grunts and groans and peculiar muffled impacts that he realises are bodies being tossed down the stairs by the King’s men. There is a growing pile of corpses on the lower landing; aspirants and Templars entwined in death as they never were in life.

  He is marched, barefoot and half-naked through the Parisian streets, vision churning and spinning. Everything is so very different from the proud walk he had made with his father just the day before. The townspeople who had cheered spat and jeered now. He felt something—a raw hen’s egg—break against his cheek. His legs betray him and he stumbles again, almost falling this time, only to take a brutal kick in the upper thigh that deadened his leg, leaving him to limp the rest of the distance.

  All around him men, and boys, of the Order walk silently, some shuffling, broken, others still proud, walking tall and staring straight ahead.

  He counted at least fifty heads, but surely twice that number have fallen in the Chapterhouse. He fears the worst for his brethren.

  As they near the causeway leading to the King’s palace, Aymeric searched the faces for his father. He is not there. In every face he a stoic acceptance of their plight. They know that pain and death await them at the end of the march. There is no doubt in their minds. But they are Men of the Order, Knights of God. They will face what is to come as they always have, with strength and honour. Aymeric can only hope he is strong enough to die alongside them without shame before the angry King and his mocking men.

  ◆◆◆

  Aymeric was only half-conscious when they bundled him into a cell. He shared it with four of his fellow aspirants, including a sullen-faced Guillaume de Bois, the youth who had tried to flee through the dormitory window.