Dagger of the Martyrs

by Steven Savile

  “We could go down to the village?” Samira said. “It might be more comfortable for you?”

  He waved her away.

  “What need have I for comfort? This is my home. I have lived in mighty cities, small towns, villages and caves, little fish. And of all of them, here is where I choose to be. So, if my end is indeed coming, then I will face it on my own terms, in the place of my choosing. Now, we will speak no more of it.”

  It was the most he had spoken in several hours, and it left him weak and weary. The warmth of the tea and the heat from the fire did little to revive him, but he had things he was determined to say.

  “You did well today, little fish, but the cold truth is you have only beaten an old man long passed his prime. Remember the redheaded Man of Christ you saw in your vision? Do you think you would have bested such as him with your trickery?”

  It was a sight that still haunted Samira’s dreams, the way the naked man had gone about his killing in such a controlled, efficient manner. There had been a fury to it, but not some wild anger, it the redheaded warrior was driven by cold fire.

  She shook her head.

  “I am not ready. And I will never have his height, strength or reach.”

  “That is not why we train, little fish. We do not train to fight toe-to-toe. We train to kill in Allah’s name. That is different.”

  “And then I shall always fail, for Allah does not speak to me.”

  “And yet he has given you his breath, to use as you will, without asking for anything in return. Is that not in itself a way of telling you that he loves you?”

  The old man fell quiet again. He always had a way of twisting any talk of Allah to his favour, but Samira couldn’t bring it in her herself to believe; the hate was cut too deep in her heart. There was a burning need within her to see revenge for the deaths she had witnessed in a God’s name.

  She was about to tell Javed that, for perhaps the tenth time, but the old man had his eyes closed, and was breathing softly.

  “I cannot pledge my allegiance to your god, old man,” she said, and bent to kiss his cheek as she covered him with a goatskin blanket. “But I can pledge it to you, father.”

  1308

  THE PALACE, PARIS

  Aymeric had expected to be thrown back into the cell with his fellow aspirants, but when he was taken up the stairs it was to the same cell, only now it was empty, and the smell of blood, piss and shit hung heavy in the air. A new layer of clean straw covered the stone floor, but it could not mask the fresh stains.

  “My brothers, where are they?” Aymeric’s question earned harsh laughter from his jailers.

  At least they did not leave him naked, although the rough garment they gave him was barely more than a burlap sack with holes for head and arms. It chafed sorely against the burns in his thighs if he moved the wrong way. But his discomfort was nothing against his distress at the choice forced upon his father, and the tortures the man had so obviously endured under the Inquisitor’s pokers.

  Aymeric vowed there in the dank gloom that he would face Bernard Gui again.

  And next time, the Inquisitor will not smile so freely.

  It was an easy promise to make, a harder one to keep, but the younger man had a lifetime to make sure that he did.

  He huddled against the wall in the dark, waiting, knowing that it was only ever going to be a matter of time before he was dragged back down to the dungeon and the heat of the forge, if not today, then tomorrow or tomorrow or tomorrow. For now, there was only silence. There were no footsteps on the stairs, no distant screams.

  Aymeric’s burns pained him sorely. Coupled with his weakness brought on by the long incarceration, he drifted in and out of fitful sleep, drawing no real rest from it, though it was a small relief from his plight. He dreamed again of clear blue skies over mountaintops, dry valleys and thin streams, and a dark, ice-cold tarn where something swam he thought he should recognise.

  But each time he awoke he was still in the same place, still in the cell. He remembered Gui’s words.

  I cannot offer him freedom, but he will not be harmed while he is under this roof.

  It was an empty promise; Aymeric realized that now, for to break it, all Gui had to do was have him transferred out of the Palace and put under a different roof. But it would not be today, at least, for the sun was going down outside over Paris, and with the dark came an ominous quiet that was in many ways more disquieting than any screams.

  ◆◆◆

  He woke from a fever dream into almost perfect darkness, raised out of slumber by a sound from somewhere nearby.

  “Who’s there?” Aymeric asked the darkness.

  “A brother in Christ and defender of the Temple,” came a whispered answer. “Now keep quiet. We must be quick.”

  The noise Aymeric had heard had been the soft clink of a key being engaged in the cell door lock. The mournful creak as the door was pulled open sounded far too loud in the still of his prison. A man stood in the cell entrance, holding a masked lantern that offered a spear of light.

  “Put this on,” his rescuer said, tossing something soft towards him. The voice was as young as Aymeric himself, the speaker’s face obscured where a hood hung over it. Aymeric caught the garment and slid it over his head; it was a long, hooded, monk’s habit similar to the one worn by the other man.

  “Follow me,” his rescuer said. “And if anyone speaks to you, say only ‘Pax vobiscum’ and make the sign of the cross. You are a novice in my charge, and no more will be expected of you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes… but my father…”

  “Is the one who has sent me here. No more questions. The man I have paid has promised to look the other way for two minutes, no longer, and the time is almost up. We must leave now or we never will.”

  “But my father…” Aymeric said again.

  “… is too well guarded, and we are not armed. You are the one being rescued here, not he. Come!”

  Even then Aymeric might have gone down instead of up when leaving the cell, but after less than half a dozen steps his legs betrayed him, and he would have collapsed to the floor if his rescuer hadn’t held him up.

  “I can only offer my support as we do not meet anyone,” the man said.

  “Then pray, brother, that we do not meet anyone,” Aymeric replied, even his voice weak. “I do not know how long I will be able to stand unaided. The tortures wrought on my legs have taken a heavy toll.”

  His rescuer provided a shoulder to lean on, and Aymeric started up the stairwell, each rising step like trying to pull his feet clear of thick mud. The burns in his thighs wept and blood that ran hotly down his legs.

  “Are you so keen to stay here, brother, that you drag your feet?” his rescuer said when they reached the first landing. “Your father has confessed to terrible crimes, renounced the Order and betrayed his sacred vow, all to buy you this one chance at freedom. Do not waste his sacrifice.”

  Aymeric suddenly realized that this must be the priest that his father had asked for; even under the eye of the Inquisitor, the plot for Aymeric’s escape was being hatched. He was in awe of the man. It wasn’t difficult to see through the priest’s attempt to rile him; but he was right, his father had given everything for this, even his immortal soul, and that was enough to give him strength, for a while. His newfound purpose allowed them to climb to the top of the stairwell and look out over the dark inner courtyard of the King’s Palace to the guarded portcullis, and the causeway that led to freedom beyond that.

  “Now what?” Aymeric asked.

  His rescuer did not pause, although he stepped away from Aymeric’s side, removing his support, and headed off across the courtyard. Aymeric had no choice but to follow, limping like a wounded beast following its master. Every new step brought a fresh flare of pain with it, movement pulling at his burns. By the time they crossed the courtyard and stood in the striped shadow of the portcullis, he didn’t think he could manage a single step more. There was no fight in him.


  The huge gate was wound open at their approach, the two holy men waved through with barely a second glance.

  “Pax vobiscum,” he muttered and made a sign of the cross at the guards, who didn’t so much as look his way. A few shuffling steps later they were free and clear out on the causeway, but Aymeric couldn’t collapse no matter how desperately he longed to. He forced himself to walk tall, following his rescuer until they were safely out of sight of the Palace guard.

  ◆◆◆

  Aymeric slumped, completely spent, against the nearest wall.

  His rescuer let him rest as long as he needed to catch his breath.

  “I give you thanks, brother,” Aymeric said when he finally found his voice.

  “Do not thank me,” the youth said. “Thank your father. I am merely following my own master’s orders.”

  “Your master? One of the Templar Masters is still free?”

  The youth laughed softly.

  “No, you misunderstand. I am Yannick, of the Priesthood, and I serve Reynard. He is no Templar. But he is my master none the less.”

  “What does he want with me?”

  “That, you will have to ask him. All I know is that your father has influence in the Poor Quarter, enough to have me come here and fetch you. You are lucky that I am known in the Palace and can come and go.”

  “That is a blessing.”

  “It is. But you are far from free of danger; they will search for you when they find you gone, you are your father’s son. They will come looking for you, leaving no stone unturned. Now, come. We must get you to safety.”

  Once more Aymeric was forced to lean heavily on the youth’s bony shoulder. Even so, he could barely manage more than a hobble.

  The streets were quiet and empty. They made good time, despite his weakness, passing among the wealthier properties around the palace and heading south across the bridge to the poorer, more tumbledown housing. Still there was no respite for Aymeric, for Yannick, half carrying the young Templar, took them through the maze of hovels, huts and covered stalls that comprised the poorest slums of the old city.

  By the time Yannick came to a halt outside a ramshackle building far south of the main city wall, Aymeric was almost too exhausted to stand. Slumped against the wall he damned near coughed his guts up. It took him several seconds to stop, and gather his wits enough to notice that he had been brought to a church, albeit one far removed from the magnificent edifices to be found further north. The stonework was of flint and mortar, decayed and fallen in places, and obviously of great age. A jagged needle of tumbled stone was all that was left of a former bell tower, and the oak door on which Yannick rapped out a signal looked to be as old and decayed as the church itself.

  The building dominated the south end of a square of buildings of equal age and decrepitude. A young child, so filthy that Aymeric couldn’t tell if it was boy or girl, looked on from across the street as the huge door creaked open and Aymeric was half-carried into the church.

  A tiny man wearing priest’s robes that had seen their best days decades before, and with the longest, straggliest beard that Aymeric had ever seen—it reached to the old man’s rope belt—stood just inside the doorway, as if he had been waiting for them.

  “The son of my friend is my son,” the old man said with a broad smile. His voice was little more than a harsh cackle, but there was surprising iron in the hand that gripped Aymeric’s wrist in welcome. “I am Reynard. My home is your home for as long as you need it.”

  Aymeric tried to return the old priest’s grip, but he had no strength of his own.

  Finally, spent and used up, he let the weakness take him.

  Blackness gathered at the edges of his sight, and he fell into the dark, safe for the first time in as long as he could remember.

  1308

  THE YAZIDI VALLEY

  Javed’s health was failing him, but there was enough will and determination in the old man that he found the strength to bark orders and demands for Samira’s training.

  “You have found your breath, little fish,” he said. “And she has heard you. Now you and she must become as close as sisters and learn to trust each other, to rely upon each other’s strengths – and weaknesses. To do that you will need to spend time together, alone in the dark. You will go down into the village for three days and three nights. Choose a hut, close the door, cover the window, and stay there. During those days are allowed a single cup of water a day to quench your thirst. You will not eat.”

  “What am I to do for three days in the dark?”

  “Listen to your breath. Have your breath listen to you. This is a conversation you must have alone; I cannot help you.”

  The old man coughed, and fresh blood bubbled at his lips.

  He wiped it away angrily.

  “Go, little fish. I will count the breaths until your return.”

  “But I cannot leave you. You are ill.”

  “I am as well as I am ever going to be again,” Javed replied, truthfully. “But if it will please you, I promise to stay in the cave, eat stew and drink tea while you are gone.”

  “And keep the fire lit?”

  Javed smiled.

  “Not that you will be able to see it from below, but yes. My old bones grow damp and cold, so I will keep the fire going. Now go. We will talk on your return.”

  Samira took nothing but a goatskin of water and what she wore with her and descended the hill track towards the dead village below.

  ◆◆◆

  Samira hadn’t been in the village in all the years since the Men of Christ ravaged it, despite it only being no more than a hundred steps to the west of the stream were she fetched their water.

  She had barely even looked toward the huts in all that time, but now that she did so, she saw that wind and weather was doing its best to erase what was left from the face of the valley.

  Most of the small buildings had fallen in, some weakened by the fire that had raged there, others through neglect and the ravages of time.

  It seemed somehow apt to Samira that one of the few huts still fully standing was the one she and her mother had been given when they had arrived. But what she wasn’t expecting was the wash of emotion that hit her as soon as she entered the small hut. Everywhere she looked, memories of her lost life lay strewn on the floor; a corn doll mother had made for her just days before the raid, the clay jug from which she had drank herbal teas in the mornings, now smashed beyond repair. A woollen shawl, her mothers, now green and covered in moss and slime lay over a solitary chair, and her bed, what was left of it, was a damp mess, the straw long since dried out, and now far too small for her to lay in.

  The unexpected tears almost blinded her. Her throat constricted, meaning she had to fight for each deep breath. It took several long minutes to subside. She gathered up everything loose from the floor and threw it out of the doorway before shutting herself inside. She used the old shawl to cover up the single small window, then sat, cross-legged, almost central in the middle of the hut, over the spot where their fire used to be set. At least the floor was dry underneath her, but she was already missing the old man, their fire, and his black tea.

  She sat for some time, watching the play of light and shadows on the wall before she felt calm enough to begin. She felt the breath of Allah on her face almost as soon as she closed her senses off and found her calm centre.

  “What do we have to tell each other, I wonder,” she said, self-conscious about speaking aloud while sitting alone in an empty room. Her spirit had no such qualms. In Samira’s mind’s eye she watched it move around the confines of the hut, a distinctive ripple in the fabric of the world. She remembered what Javed had said.

  “A conversation is supposed to work in both directions,” she said, aloud again although she already knew from her experience in the tarn that the spirit would hear her, even if she only communicated in silence.

  The ripple continued to circle her, around and around, faster and faster until it was almo
st dizzying.

  “What do you want from me?” Samira said into the dark. Her words echoed back at her, as if from a great distance, in a voice that was her own, yet was also something else entirely.

  What do you want from me?

  The conversation had begun.

  ◆◆◆

  Samira quickly discovered that her spirit was like an inquisitive child, constantly seeking answers, difficult to keep on a single train of thought, and full of joy at the wonders it found around it, as if it had just been freed from a long confinement. Samira spoke to it, of her training, of Javed and her love of the old man, and the small part of the world in which they spent their time. She talked of her hopes and fears for a future that stretched ahead of her as dark as the gloom inside the hut where she sat. Every word she uttered was repeated back to her in a whisper that steadily became louder over the course of that first afternoon.

  Just as darkness fell, so Samira finally fell silent, her throat dry from talking. She felt the breath on her cheek, inhaled, and was once again alone in the hut; all sense of another presence had gone, and the first conversation appeared to be over.

  Samira took a long slug of water from the goatskin to ease her throat, stood, and stretched limbs that had grown stiff from sitting still for too long.

  Something caught her eye, a movement near the window where the woollen shawl hung. At first, she took it for a gust of wind moving the material. Then she saw it again, a ripple running over the wool, not dissimilar to the one that her spirit made in its movements, yet different, distinctive in its own way, enough for Samira to know it was nothing of hers.