Dagger of the Martyrs

by Steven Savile

  “We were safe and secure there, in our mountain fastness, but all was not well in the land, for Hulagu Khan and his hordes of horsemen rampaged over field and hill, claiming all before them in the name of the Mongol Empire. The Men of Christ turned a blind eye to the Khan’s pillaging, for Hulagu was friend to their God, having a wife in the faith, as well as one of his most trusted generals. What was certain was that he was no friend of Allah.

  “Our Iman, Rukn al-Dīn Khurshāh, did his best to placate the Eastern devil, making a show of surrendering some of the minor castles and strongholds while always being mindful to keep Alamut strong. But the Khan was no fool and saw through the Iman’s subterfuge. The Khan pressed on before his attacks were hampered by the early snows and surrounded the Iman’s main residence. Fortified though it was, it could not stand against the Khan’s great siege engines and overwhelming numbers. Finally, after four days, the Iman surrendered on agreement of safe passage for him and his family. The order went out along the Alamut valley that all castles and fortresses were to comply with the will of the Khan.

  “The Mongol prince Balaghai brought his forces all the way to the base of our fortress and demanded that we surrender. We of the Fidai did not take kindly to such demands, especially from enemies of the faith, but my Master would not go against the will of his Iman in the matter and ordered an evacuation of our stronghold. He took great pains to ensure that all women and children were seen to first, the welfare of his people foremost in his mind all that long day. It was only later, as it came time for the last of us to leave, that his thoughts turned to the library and the treasures therein.

  “He took me down to the chamber where we had spent so many nights in training, and we had a last look at that great room.

  “‘All of this will be lost to history if we give the horde access to it,’ he said, and I saw the heaviness of his heart. ‘These Mongols have no respect for our past, only their own; such is the way with all conquerers. But they will not have it, for there is treasure here even greater than that which is written.’

  “He led me to an antechamber, a place that had previously been denied to me, and opened a great, bejewelled chest—a magnificent treasure of its own—and inside, on a bed of red velvet, sat a dagger, a plain blade with the hilt only adored with a single, thumbnail-sized green emerald. He passed it to me. It felt hot in my hand despite the chill in the chamber.

  “‘It may not look like a treasure,’ my master said. ‘But this is the Dagger of the Martyrs, and it is sacred to all Fidai, having come down to the faithful from Hassan-i Sabbāh, may his memory be blessed. It cannot be allowed to fall to the Mongols, for they would only see its worth in gold, not its value to hearts and souls.’

  “‘I can ensure its safety, Master,’ I promised, but he shook his head and took the blade from me.

  “‘This task falls to me alone,’ he replied. ‘I brought you here to bear witness, so that you will know what needs to be done when the time comes.’

  “My master closed the chest, leaving the dagger inside, and led me back to the doorway of the library, an archway of antiquity that dated back to the hewing of the first fortress out of the mountain rock. He slid a stone aside and showed me a lever set inside an alcove.

  “‘This can only be locked from within,’ he said. ‘So, I will remain here to guard the treasures. Do not fear; the Khan will not find me, although he will try, for all of my masters before me are with me in spirit. Only one who understands the breath of Allah may enter here from this time onward. Now go; the Iman will have much work for you in the years to come. If it is Allah’s will, there may come a day when it is safe to return; but I cannot foresee that for you. You will know when the time comes.’

  “With that, he pushed me out of the library and, with the same movement, pulled the lever in the alcove. A slab of stone slid down with a rush and when the dust settled there was a solid wall where the doorway had been. I called out for my master, testing the wall with my hands, but either the rock was too thick, or he chose not to reply; I will never know which.

  “You can imagine the Mongol prince’s rage when he could not find the legendary library and its treasures. His horde ransacked and burned the whole fortress, tearing it apart brick by brick in their search for it, but my Master had spoken truly; the library is hidden from the faithless. It is there yet, lying in the dark deep in the mountain, waiting for one of the spirit to uncover its secrets.”

  ◆◆◆

  Javed stopped to make a fresh pot of tea, and Samira realized the tale was done.

  “You can’t leave the story there, what happened next?” she asked.

  “Life. Death. The same as always happens. The Khan killed the Iman, I went to Cairo into the service of the Caliphate, and I grew up. But that is not the reason I have told you the tale. I am old now, and my master was right, it does not fall to me to fulfil his wish. I would not survive the journey. But, when you are ready, you shall do it for me.

  “This is your final test, after which you will be Fidai, and no longer need my wisdom, little fish. Go to Alamut, open the lost library and walk amongst the spirits of our masters. Find the Dagger of the Martyrs and bring it back to me. I wish to hold it, one last time before I leave this life.”

  1308

  CHINON

  The walk from Paris was a sobering experience for Aymeric.

  He wasn’t prepared for the scale and depth of poverty that assailed the country outside of the great city on the Seine. He had understood on an academic level that the peasantry lived lives of desperation on the edge of starvation but understanding it and walking amongst that same desperation was another thing entirely. Every mile he walked it grew worse. That he had nothing to give to any of the skeletal, sad-eyed children dogging his steps with their grubby hands out, made the ache in his heart unbearable.

  The King shall pay for this, he vowed, not knowing how the weasel king could be forced to pay up his debts to his people, only that he was going to find a way to make it happen. He had to. For all of these people.

  For ten days he had walked through a land bereft of hope.

  He ate what he could forage, some fruit, a handful of berries here and there, silver-scaled fish tickled from their hideaway under rocks, turnips and other root vegetables he traded a day’s labour for, and, one blessed day, breaking bread and sharing wine with a fellow traveller kind enough to take pity on him.

  Ten days of trudging in all weathers, on the rutted tracks that passed as roadways outside the city.

  Ten days of solitude, only the sounds of France to keep him from going out of his mind.

  Twice already he had been beset by brigands, but these were no trained fighters, they were desperate men. The first two, he sent on their way unharmed, but for a few bruises and a battered ego. The second time was worse; three grown men met him on the road, standing in his way. They refused to give way, drawing knives as they spread out, making it harder for him to face all three at once, then mounted an attack.

  Shame burned in the young knight. He hadn’t wanted to kill them. He took no pleasure in it, but they were driven beyond despair and hunger, and wouldn’t back down, no matter how many chances he offered to save themselves. They gave him no choice. It was a lesson hard learned; just how far men in extremis are prepared to go, far beyond the point of no return.

  By the time he reached the outskirts of Chinon, he was tired, and weighed down by the troubles of the world through which he had travelled.

  ◆◆◆

  Chinon was the site of a de Bologna summer home; his father had spoken of it as a haven of happy memories, of fishing for trout, hunting deer and boar and of a large, open house full of sun and laughter.

  The house would see precious little laughter from now on, for Aymeric arrived at the premises, having been directed by an innkeeper, to find it derelict and burnt out, only the outer shell of two walls remaining. The King’s decree was nailed to a tree at the gate. This was a different scroll from the one he
had read in Paris, and on perusing the signatories Aymeric immediately saw a name he knew—a name that was the very reason for this detour that took him far off the road to Rome.

  The decree declared all of the de Bologna lands in the area, including all small-holdings, serfs, taxes and livestock to be now under control of the Crown, and all members of the de Bologna family were considered outlaw, and subject to the King’s justice if apprehended.

  The King’s representative in the region had signed it at the bottom in flowery script.

  Gaston LeClair.

  ◆◆◆

  In contrast to the black ruin of the de Bologna property, the LeClair estate was verdant and prosperous. Vineyards stretched for mile after mile on the slopes of rolling hills, and the peasantry, in contrast to many he had seen on the road, appeared better fed than most.

  Aymeric surveyed the large estate from atop one of the hills.

  The main house, a squat stone building of some age, sat almost in the centre of the vines, among a series of outbuildings he assumed stored the wine vats.

  Guards patrolled the perimeter of the house itself at regular intervals, four men, all carrying swords, all armoured, as though they expected trouble. They would be a different proposition from seeing off a few starving brigands, and Aymeric knew better than to walk rashly on down to meet them head on. Stealth, rather than brute force, was the order of the day.

  He sat in the branches of a thick-boled tree on the hill, watching the house until the light went from the sky and everything grew still. Moving silently, he crept between the rows of vines, changing over into a different lane every few hundred yards, staying low so that even if he was spotted he might be taken for a deer or pig.

  By creeping almost on his belly, and with his sword strapped across his back, he was able to creep up within ten paces of the house itself.

  Now came the difficult part; those last ten paces.

  The easy thing to do would be to sneak up behind a guard and slit his throat quietly, but these weren’t the King’s men; these were merely country folk pressed into the service of their Count, none of whom had drawn their swords in anger. His sense of fair play, and the fact that he hoped win the Count over by persuasion rather than force, stayed his hand.

  They worked in rotation in pairs, and not too efficiently at that, for they left two distinct blind spots of several seconds each on either side of the house.

  Aymeric picked his window of choice nearest to one of those spots and waited, crouched low at the edge of the vines.

  As soon as the guards passed, he moved, padding across the open space unheard and unseen.

  By the time the second pair of guards came around the corner, Aymeric was already safely standing in the shadows inside the open window.

  ◆◆◆

  He stayed still for several breaths, letting his heart slow and his eyesight adjust to the gloom in the room.

  Aymeric untied the sword and carried it, blade raised ahead of him as he padded through the room.

  The bedchamber he had entered hadn’t seen use in some time; dust hung in the air and lay thick on the cold floor. A flickering light showed under the closed door in front of him. Aymeric made for it and stood, listening for movement on the other side, before carefully pushing the door open a few inches. It was just enough to give him a view into the room beyond.

  A large fat man sat with his back to Aymeric, bent over a desk, writing on parchment with quill. His fleshy buttocks, unconstrained by the thin nightshirt, hung over the seat of the chair on either side, and wobbled with each of the man’s movements. Aymeric stepped up behind him, still unheard, and whispered in the man’s ear.

  “The brethren of the Order send their regards.”

  LeClair, for it could be no other, nearly soiled himself, his bones doing their damnedest to jump clear of the skin constraining them. The fat man knocked over a pot of ink and sent flecks of the black flying all over the desk, his parchment, and down the front of his nightshirt.

  Candles under which he’d been working guttered and spluttered, but stayed lit.

  Aymeric saw the scream start to form in the fat man’s mouth, and punched him, none too gently, in the stomach to steal the wind from his cry. LeClair buckled, but Aymeric stopped him from sinking back down into his seat. His eyes never left the sword. Aymeric motioned for him to move to the bed that dominated the other side of the room.

  It was only after LeClair rolled, none too gracefully, onto the huge mattress that Aymeric lowered the sword, although he kept it hanging loosely by his side, occasionally tapping it against his boot so that LeClair wouldn’t grow too comfortable.

  “Friend of my father,” the young knight said softly, shaking his head. “I thought him a better judge of character.”

  For the first time, LeClair’s gaze left the sword to look Aymeric in the face.

  “You’re Lucian’s boy?”

  “I am. And I am only alive to tell you due to the deaths of good men, and with no thanks to you, and your lies for the King.”

  LeClair spluttered, spittle flying from too wet lips. “Phillip assured me there would be no ill-treatment. Surely house arrest is no great burden for Templar knights?”

  “House arrest? The King’s dungeons are no house, and the torturous Inquisitors no hosts.”

  “Dungeons? Inquisition? No. No that can’t be… The King promised…”

  “The King lied,” Aymeric said, trying to keep his voice calm.

  LeClair shook his head. “No. I don’t believe you,” LeClair said.

  “Then believe this.” Aymeric lifted his tunic to show the burn scars, still livid, on his thigh. “Two burns, nothing compared with the hell my father has had to endure as a reminder of your friendship.”

  “I have no words.”

  “No lies you mean?”

  “All that matters is that he is alive?”

  “Indeed, he is, but no thanks to you. The Order is banished and accused of heresy and conspiracies against God and the Crown. You have helped the King lie to the Church, and why? To feather your own nest.” The fat man made to object, to explain, justify, but Aymeric silenced him. “Now it is time for confession, Gaston LeClair. If my father’s friendship ever meant anything to you, you will recant everything you were signatory to on the King’s decree.”

  LeClair went pale. “I can’t do that… The King will have me killed.”

  Aymeric laughed bitterly. “You think I will do less? I could have run you through before you even knew I was here. I can finish you here and now. And if I should die, the men of the Order will form a line for the privilege of taking my place. So, ask yourself this, LeClair, which of us do you fear most? A wretched weasel of a king, or the man with the sword to your throat? And when you’ve answered that question for yourself, answer this one for me: will you recant? For the sake of Lucian de Bologna and the friendship you so casually betrayed?”

  “I will answer to God for that,” LeClair said.

  “And sooner than you might like,” Aymeric said, raising the sword, just a few inches, but they were more than enough to hold LeClair’s attention. “One last time. Will you recant?”

  LeClair sighed. He shook his head. “You need to understand, boy, it won’t matter. I can say anything, sign anything, the King will not listen,” he said.

  “But the Church will, if you confess that you lied. They will have to listen.”

  “All I can think to do is write to the Cardinal in Chinon Cathedral begging forgiveness?” LeClair said, his voice rising to a wheedling whine. “He might listen. He is a friend to your Order. Even so, I can’t see it changing your father’s fate.”

  “It will have to suffice,” Aymeric said. “I believe you have a confession to write,” he said, standing over the fat man.

  Over the next hour LeClair laboriously inscribed a detailed confession of all the lies he had told in the King’s name, outlining how the King’s deceit in issuing his decree against the Templars had served to steal fam
ily estates and benefit the pauper king.

  Aymeric read it through once the ink had dried, nodding to himself as certain points were made clear.

  “I will deliver this to the Cardinal personally. It might even be enough to save your immortal soul,” Aymeric said. He looked down at the poor frayed tunic he’d worn since leaving Paris. “But I cannot go looking like this. I will need tunic, armour, and a horse.”

  LeClair almost smiled.

  “That much I can give you, for the sake of the friendship your father and I shared. I was once a much slighter, much happier, man. You can have my armour, my sword, and any horse you desire from my stables, with my blessing. May it serve you well. All I can say is that I am sorry. It isn’t much, but I mean it. I didn’t know.”

  Aymeric saluted with the sword blade flat to his forehead.

  “Ignorance is no excuse, LeClair, but perhaps my father wasn’t a poor judge of a man after all,” he said.

  ◆◆◆

  Aymeric cut a different figure on leaving the LeClair estate.

  He sat high on a handsome, strong horse, wearing armour that, although old, had been kept oiled and rust free. His clean white tunic seemed to shine in the sunshine. He wore a different sword at his hip, choosing not be to reminded of Yannick’s sacrifice in the Paris Tavern every time he handled the weapon, and had LeClair’s signed confession in a leather pouch under his shirt.

  It was a five-mile ride into Chinon itself, but for the first time in months, Aymeric found himself enjoying every minute of it.

  That feeling of wellbeing lasted as far as the gates to the cathedral.