Dagger of the Martyrs

by Steven Savile

◆◆◆

  As if realising her predicament, her spirit returned to her in a single breath.

  Samira felt a pressure, something pushing against the air, and slowly, steadily, and with the sudden release of an overwhelming reek of rot, the great slab of stone lifted to allow her physical body entry.

  She heard a mechanism grate and groan, straining as the stone creaked, surely ready to drop at any moment.

  She did not hesitate.

  Stepping inside, and over the dry, virtually mummified corpse in the doorway, she made straight for the alcove containing the dagger.

  As she lifted it from its bed, she heard a whisper in her ear, and felt breath on her cheek, not one but many, the breaths of a host of souls standing at her shoulder.

  They spoke only one word, but Samira knew it was a welcome and a farewell in the same breath.

  Fedai.

  The stone fell back in place with a dull thud as she left.

  Samira hid the dagger in the folds of her clothing and began the climb back up to the light.

  1309

  ON THE ROAD TO BOLOGNA

  Aymeric had barely covered two miles before he had to stop.

  Any hopes he had of finding the horse had long since faded; it was off and lost somewhere in the night. The burden of his ring mail shirt was too heavy to bear for any great length of time on foot while injured. He trudged, he stumbled, he dragged his feet, and then he couldn’t manage even that. He hadn’t stopped to tend his wounds. If he continued to force himself to march, he would be on his knees long before morning. And carrion fodder before much longer.

  He moved off the road, stumbling into the thin forest to hide from any prying eyes that might have been watching.

  He did not have the wherewithal to light a fire, or the strength. All he wanted to do was close his eyes. The night was warm enough. He didn’t feel a chill as he stripped off the mail shirt, struggling to pull it over his head. He had to pull it away from his side where the links had become sticky and embedded in his flesh and damned near screamed as white pain lanced though him, but he bit down on it. There was enough light to see that the wound, while bloody, wasn’t deep. That was a small mercy. The blow had barely pierced the skin, and now, having taken off the mail, the pain lessened considerably.

  Ten minutes of foraging enabled him to find both water and several handfuls of overripe berries. They were a simple bounty but did much to raise his spirits.

  He washed the wound out and bound it tightly with strips of cloth torn from his undershirt.

  Aymeric made the only choice he could; he left the mail and greaves in the trees. It felt as though he was abandoning a part of his identity with it, but he kept the white tabard with the Templar cross emblazoned on it, stuffing it into his shoulder bag. He could live without the armour, no matter how fine it was. It had served its purpose, keeping him alive this long.

  Unburdened by the weight, he set off for the road again.

  He walked no more than two hundred paces when he heard the distinctive thunder of distant riders, getting closer.

  ◆◆◆

  Aymeric moved off the road, wincing at the sharp pain in his side as he hunkered down in his hiding spot in time to see a dozen men of the King’s Guard ride past.

  He was under no illusions. There was only one reason for them to be on the road that night; he had let two men walk away from a fight, and it hadn’t taken long for them to report their failure.

  He was being hunted.

  He waited until the drum of the hoof-beats faded into the distance before leaving the safety of the bushes. Even then, he kept to the side of the road and moved cautiously, listening for sounds of approach and watching constantly for signs of ambush.

  A mile farther up the road he heard voices and moved to the side, edging forward into the undergrowth until he saw the flickering red of a fire ahead of him.

  It would be an easy enough matter to move even deeper into the woods, creep in a cautious circle around the campsite, the silhouettes of the enemy etched onto the night by the flame, and pass on by. But easy enough didn’t make it the right choice. There was a chance of precious information here, and in the currency of his future that was valuable than gold.

  He inched forward on his belly, making himself as small as he could, and ignoring the sudden flare of pain from his wound. It took more than ten minutes of pained belly-crawling through bushes and grass, but finally he was close enough to make out the strains of conversation, and well enough hidden that they had no idea that their quarry was within spitting distance.

  “I’m telling you, he’s dead in a ditch somewhere. We found the horse, didn’t we? You saw the blood on the saddle.”

  “Sure, I saw blood, but I’m telling you that a dead man didn’t hamstring Jacques and leave him on the road,” came the reply. “He’s behind us somewhere, between here and the city. We need to double back and flush him out.”

  “Why does Cantella want him so badly, anyway? He’s just a boy.”

  “He’s de Bologna’s son. That makes him a symbol the Templars can gather round.”

  Somebody spat into the fire. It sizzled on the hot stone, evaporating in less than a second.

  “Templars. You say that like it’s supposed to mean something. It’s all bullshit. They’re pretty boys and arse bandits, the lot of them.”

  “That’s as may be, but they’ve got the King’s bollocks in a vise as long as that lad is alive. And that is why Cantella is so determined to see him dead. The Inquisition had the pair of them. The King has not forgotten, or forgiven, their escape. You need to listen more. Cantella isn’t going to let this lad walk. He will harry and hunt him forever. He won’t know peace until he is dead. Same goes for the rest of the de Bologna family. Their lives are worth nothing. Cantella, and his master Gui, want them removed from the face of the earth.”

  Aymeric stayed in cover, listening to their fireside chat for over an hour but heard nothing beyond the common complaints of all military men in the service of tyrants.

  He crept away, heading north through moorland and wild grass, allowing the stars to guide him.

  He could no longer trust the road.

  1309

  ALAMUT

  Samira rested in the uppermost chamber within the mountain, needing a few hours of well-earned sleep. The stars looked down on her through the shoulder-wide opening above.

  She only woke when the light improved, announcing dawn over the Alamut valley.

  She wanted to be off this pile of rock and find some water before the heat of the day made movement an ordeal. Her goatskin was all but empty. She jumped, catching the edge, and pulled herself up through the opening.

  Samira stood on the mountaintop.

  She smelled something different in the air, a musky, animal odour that smelled like goat.

  When the breeze fell to a whisper, she heard a new noise: a loud murmur and rumble like distant thunder.

  She scrambled up onto the same long stone she’d rested on the night before, and looked down into the valley immediately below her.

  Where it had been a barren, dusty channel of dry rock before she had delved into the mountain, the entire valley was now full of black horses, squat tents and a milling throng of men.

  A Mongol army had descended while she was in the library, and even now a score or more of them were approaching the base of the causeway, intent on climbing the mountain.

  She couldn’t go down that way.

  Javed had taught her how to hide in plain sight, but that worked best in the darkness of a cave or the gloom of a cloudy day; here, under the unflinching glare of the sun, disappearing was that much more difficult.

  The causeway itself was too narrow, with too few hiding places in the rocks.

  Samira needed to think.

  The first thing she needed to do was find an alternative route off the mountain.

  The southern ridge that ran just below the ruined fortress along the valley looked to be the fastest way
, but it also carried the most risk as it was narrow, precipitous in several stretches, and more worryingly, exposed to the skyline. The northern slopes appeared to be more passable, despite being higher, and snow-capped in places. But more horsemen were arriving every minute from the north, meaning escape in that direction was a forlorn hope.

  She had no thought of peril; it did not help and merely wasted valuable time.

  She set off at a fast pace, clambering silently down towards the southern ridge even as the Mongols climbed the causeway. The point where their path crossed hers was some hundred yards below her current position.

  It was going to be touch and go which of them got there first.

  ◆◆◆

  She descended as quickly as caution would allow, arriving at the crossing where the causeway met the southern ridge seconds ahead of the climbing tribesmen. It was barely enough time to find a tall rock to give her cover.

  She had to crouch, taking refuge behind it, and couldn’t risk a look for fear of discovery. She heard them well enough, their feet shifting pebbles and rock fragments, scuffing them tumbling away down the slope. The voices, strange and guttural, yet understandable after Javed’s patient teaching, casually spoke of women and horses, and grumbled about the climb and the heat.

  They were not looking for her. It was just ill-fortune that they had been sent to check the mountaintop.

  Samira let them pass.

  She thought for one wild second about scrambling down the rest of the way now the men were above her but dismissed the idea pretty quickly; she risked being caught between the devil and the anvil of hell if a second groups followed the first up. No. She stuck to her original plan. Once the men were out of hearing above her, Samira headed swiftly for the southern ridge, with each rushing footstep expecting to hear a cry at her back to tell her she had been seen.

  The descent took her down the slope for a hundred paces, then she had to climb again, clambering up a rocky sheet of scree and loose stones that led to the main ridge.

  She moved quietly, sacrificing speed for sure footing and stealth, grateful that her simple clothing would blend her in with the surrounding rock should her movement catch the eye of one of the tribesmen.

  Her gait aped that of a goat, a technique mastered on the slopes of home.

  She had almost reached the top of the slope and could see the start of the ridge only yards above her when an errant rock, not as well wedged in place as she had thought, slid from under her hand. It tumbled off down the mountainside, taking a rattling scramble of pebbles and scree with it.

  She bleated, mimicking the cry of a panicked goat, but it was too late.

  She had been seen.

  Seconds later the first arrow clattered into the slope, skittering off the rock less than a foot from her face.

  Samira didn’t wait to see if there would be a second.

  All thought of caution gone, she pushed herself forward, sprinting, arms and legs pumping furiously as her entire world was reduced to reaching the ridge above her. She didn’t care that her headlong flight kicked off a small avalanche, a whole section of scree falling off the slope in a rush. A scream rose up from below. She chanced a look down. One man fell away out of sight, rolling and tumbling among the falling stones. Four more had already started up the slope toward her.

  As she pulled herself up onto the ridge another arrow whistled past her head, so close she felt the sting against her left ear.

  There was an opportunity here and now; she could keep the high ground and wait for them to come to her, then pick them off one by one as they came over the ridge to the top.

  But she had made a promise to the old man, no bloodletting. That was her challenge. And that would be hard to keep in a fight to the death. So, instead, she turned and ran on, racing the tribesmen across the mountainside.

  Her only thought was to be out of range before they reached the narrow track. She raced across the jagged peaks of the southern ridge.

  ◆◆◆

  She fled along the high tops, leaping where she could not run, climbing where she could not leap.

  At another time she would have been exhilarated by the chase, filled with the view, the wind and the light, but the sun beat too fiercely here, and the wind blew too hot and too strong; she couldn’t give herself completely to the act of running for the sheer joy of it when at any second she could get an arrow in the base of her spine.

  Again, she thought of coming to a halt, standing her ground, but the ridge was too open. There was nowhere she could see that would serve to lay any sort of trap. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. She had counted the breathes; by now, the following Mongols would be close to coming up over the top to join her on the ridge.

  And she wasn’t out of range of their arrows.

  She ran faster, taking more risks than Javed would have allowed her at home. As threw herself across a leap of eight feet over a dizzying drop to the valley floor, a clatter sounded only feet behind her as the arrow rattled against stone.

  She took the next expanse of ridge even faster, abandoning all pretence of care, leaping and bounding, and resorting to precarious holds that would have frightened the goats.

  Samira focussed on the point ahead of her where the ridge dipped lower. Reach it and she would be able to reach a path to the valley floor; but first she had to get there before she got herself killed.

  She leapt for a hold on a tall slab of stone, a fifteen-foot sheer block that she needed to get over fast; another arrow struck, this one only a foot from her face. She lost her grip, and as she was about to scramble for it, heard the old man whisper to her; memory or spirit breath, it mattered not, for the advice was sound.

  You must know when to embrace the rock, and when to give it space.

  Samira allowed her body to swing loose, hanging with only two knuckles of her right hand wedged in a narrow crevice, and tried to find calm, balance.

  Samira looked up, not down, seeking her next hold.

  She saw it and made her move.

  Samira hauled her body up even as another arrow sparked off the stone where she had been a second before.

  But, as if merely recalling the old man’s advice had triggered something inside, she could clearly see the path she needed to take. She scrambled up the rock, not like a goat, but like one of the desert lizards, so sure of itself it had no thought of ever falling.

  Samira reached the top of the tall slab and chanced her first look back.

  Her pursuers were still following, but when the nearest of them shot another arrow in her direction, it hit the rock a long way below her feet.

  She had gained some time.

  *

  Gained time was of no use if she didn’t exploit it.

  She turned her back on the pursuit and headed for the spot where the ridge dipped to meet the lesser slopes.

  She found a goat track that wended its way all the way down through the rocks and scree.

  Descending was more difficult than climbing, both harder work on the muscles at the back of the legs, which were already screaming for respite, and more treacherous with the scree shifting beneath her feet as she rushed, knowing any slip might send her tumbling away with the rubble all the way to the valley floor.

  She only looked up when she reached a bend in the track, standing on flatter ground, and took a moment to catch her breath. She saw no sign of pursuit. She could only hope they had been beaten by the tall slab.

  She looked down; and her heart fell.

  More Mongol tribesmen were riding in through the valley mouth to the south; a horde.

  If she continued on her current path they would see her before she had any chance of making good her escape.

  The only route open to Samira was south, along the side of the mountain, traversing another treacherous scree slope.

  She wasted no time worrying about it, scrambling along the flat-footed, zigzag track towards the loose stones, breathing hard.

  ◆◆◆

&
nbsp; Her going was much slower now, needing to rely on stealth rather than speed. She minimized her movements where she could, trying to avoid drawing any attention from the riders below. She could only hope that her garments provided enough camouflage against the rock for them to miss her as she moved. She headed steadily south, staying high on the hill, not daring to attempt any passage to the lower slopes while the horsemen still filled the valley.

  Licking her parched lips, Samira saw rock rather than scree ahead, offering surer footing. Instinctively she wanted to rush towards it, but that instinct had been beaten out of her by the old man; she maintained her slow, careful pace, inching closer to safety.

  She almost made it, but no more than ten yards short of her goal another arrow struck the scree at her feet.

  It came from above her; she had been outflanked.

  The impact of the shaft on the scree was slight, but enough to dislodge a handful of pebbles, which in turn gathered more gravel and stones in a small avalanche that became a rushing torrent of stones tumbling off down the slope.

  The noise of shouting rose from far below; she had been spotted.

  All thought of caution gone, she took a hasty step forward, and lost her footing, becoming the catalyst for another avalanche as she went sliding, then rolling and tumbling, downward in a river of stones.

  ◆◆◆

  It felt like it took forever.

  She landed heavily, bruised and battered, brought up short by a shrub of thorns that snagged, entangled and enmeshed her in its clutches.

  She was still trying to escape when a dark shadow loomed over her.

  The punch that slammed into the side of the head took her away into blackness before she could fight back. The last thing she heard was more words in the guttural dialect of the Mongols.

  “We have caught a spy. Take him to the camp; the Khan will want to interrogate him.”