The Djinn (The Order of the Knightshades Book 1)

by J. Kent Holloway

  “But you’ve been looking for this thing for nearly seven long years,” William said. “What on earth makes you think you’re any closer to locating it?”

  Gregory simply waved a hand away at the question. “Never you mind. The point is…once I’ve obtained the ring, I will be able to use it to rid me of the burden of the Djinn.”

  “I don’t think you quite understand,” William continued, a look of confusion in his eyes. “The djinni are creatures of immense power. The Muslims believe that they are below the angels, but above human beings…but live lives very much like humans. They marry. They grow old…though they live for thousands of years. And they eventually die. They have strong magic that no human is capable of defending against. I’m not quite sure that you’d be able to contain this djinn that haunts you even if you were able to find Solomon’s ring.”

  Gregory shook his head. “Dear brother, you’re missing the point. The power the ring has in overcoming the Djinn doesn’t come from magic. It comes from man. My men believe he is a spirit. But they also believe in the magic of Solomon’s Seal. So if it fails to subdue my nemesis with its power, the knights under my charge will see him for exactly what he is…a mortal man. His power will be stripped from him in an instant. His reign of fear will end and my men will end his life as easily as they would a mongrel on the street.”

  William shrugged. “It’s possible. But you still have to find it and that will be the difficult part.”

  The baron smiled as he strode casually toward the bedchamber door. “Have no fear of that, brother. Even now, I’m closing in on the location of the ring…as well as the secrets of raising the golems of Solomon. Have no fear of that at all.” He walked out of the room without so much as a goodbye to his brother. He had a great deal to think about and he had little patience for familial niceties.

  As he made his way out of the palatial tent, he couldn’t help but wonder where his brother’s physician had gotten off to. It didn’t matter much. The only thing he was now concerned with was getting home before sunset. Gregory wanted to spend time with his daughter, Isabella, before the night fell and the spirit of uncertainty edged its way back into his world.

  3

  Tufic watched silently as the baron and his heavily armed entourage rode away from his estate, his hands absently clutched into two tight fists. Though he would admit it to no one, he feared for Gregory. William’s brother was headed down a dangerous path…one that would not easily be remedied if allowed to continue. One that would end in disaster for himself...or worse, his daughter Isabella.

  Turning from the doorway, the weary physician of a hunched and dishonored leper strode through the tent’s many rooms until he came to the library. Taking a deep breath, he moved to the center of the room, bent down, and pulled open the small trap door carved into the wooden floor. He then climbed cautiously down the narrow staircase into the vast cavern system nestled beneath William’s estate. Tufic negotiated the labyrinthine tunnels without aid of any light, as if he’d been born of the darkness, and stopped as he stepped into a large chamber.

  “We’re running out of time,” a voice said from the shadows. The clicking of flint in the darkness sent a blossom of sparks onto a torch and the Djinn’s hooded face was revealed.

  The chamber lit by the single torchlight was roughly fifty yards in diameter and twice as high. Jagged stalagmites hung from the ceiling like the fangs of some great dragon. Save for a single work table, two chairs, and a medicine cabinet, the room was completely bare. Dozens of hibernating bats hung precariously over their heads, oblivious to the outsiders intruding in their domain.

  “First things first,” Tufic said, his face grim. “You need your regimen.”

  Though he couldn’t see through the Djinn’s hood, Tufic knew he was smiling. He knew further even, what the thing of shadow standing before him was thinking: For such a young man, you worry like an old woman. Or at least, that’s what had been said in the past when the physician had suggested more treatment. “I’ll be fine,” the Djinn said. “We have much larger problems to worry about at the moment.”

  Tufic nodded and then walked over to the table where an assortment of strange medical apparatuses rested meticulously in their place. Taking a dagger from the implements, he moved to a nearby patch of damp earth and began digging without looking up.

  “Gregory’s getting closer to the Ring of Solomon,” Tufic said. “If that happens, all will be lost.”

  “Please don’t call the ring by that name, my friend,” rebuked the Djinn. “It was Aandaleeb’s long before it was Solomon’s…and for a king so wise, he was an absolute fool to try to harness its dark power.”

  “My apologies.” The physician continued to burrow in the dirt without looking up.

  “None needed. But you’re right. Gregory didn’t want to reveal too much to William, but he’s definitely close.” The Djinn walked over to the wooden chair near the physician’s table and sat down. “But it sounds as though I’m finally getting under his skin. All is not lost yet, my friend.”

  “Ah-ha!” Tufic exclaimed with a smile as he reached into the pile of dirt and extracted a small oval object. He held it up with an air of satisfaction. A single, multi-colored mushroom. “We’re running out. The fungi is becoming much more elusive to find.”

  “We can worry about that later. Right now, we need to discuss stepping up the time table,” the dark-robed figure said. “I’d assumed we would have much longer to carry out our plans. As you’ve noted, that might not be the case now. Our strategy will need to change.”

  The physician gave a stern look at his friend as he moved over to the table, placed the mushroom into a crucible, and began grinding it to dust. “But if we run out of these, you might not be around to enjoy the fruits of all your labor. With the way you’ve been pushing yourself…the injuries you’ve sustained…my potions are all that is keeping you alive at the moment and you know it.”

  The Djinn sighed as he pondered this. His own mortality mattered little to him. He’d already lived much longer than anyone like him had a right. But his mission…his mission was something that he could not jeopardize. “Very well, Tufic. Just how much of the medicine do we have left? How long will our supplies hold out?”

  His friend stopped his grinding for several seconds as he mentally calculated the numbers. “At best, we have a week. Two at the most if I ration it.”

  “And then?”

  Tufic could only shrug. “I’m afraid it has escalated in recent weeks. However…”

  The Djinn cocked his head. “Yes?”

  “Well, I was thinking…they say that the Seal of Solom…excuse me, Aandaleeb’s Ring…had many magnificent properties.”

  “Forget it,” the living shadow said, standing unsteadily to his feet. “Have you heard nothing of what I’ve said about that infernal talisman? It was wrought with the most evil of magic. The ring cannot be used at any cost, do you understand me?”

  “But sire…it is said that the Seal not only has the power to bind the spirits and bring life to the inanimate, but also heal grievous injuries. And on at least one occasion, it is said to have even raised someone from the dead.”

  “And besides being called by its forger, the Babylonian sorcerer Aandaleeb, the ring is known by yet another name…a secret name. Are you aware of what that is, Tufic?”

  The physician shook his head.

  “Solomon himself is said to have spoken of it on his death bed. He called it Wisdom’s Bane.” The Djinn looked his friend in the eyes. “No. No good can come from such a thing. The wise king himself understood this in the end. It’s why he petitioned his high priest to remove it from his grasp and hide it for all times.”

  “But you will die.”

  “Which is something I’m completely prepared for, my old friend. But not quite yet.” He took his seat once more and held out his hand. “So I’ll have my medicine now…as loath as I am to imbibe it.”

  Tufic nodded with a wan smile, then poure
d the ground fungus into a vial filled with a strange amber liquid. Giving the concoction a careful stir, he handed it to his patient and watched him drink it.

  “Ah, Tufic, that has got to be the worst tasting swill in the history of mankind,” he said with a weary laugh. “But now on to more pressing matters. The medallion I recovered from Isabella. Have you had time to study it?”

  The physician pulled out a key from his tunic and used it to unlock a small chest resting among his scientific equipment. He reached in and extracted a gold chain with an intricately carved gold medallion attached.

  “Aye,” he said, handing the necklace to his friend. “It wasn’t easy, but with the help of an old man I met in Acre, I was able to translate the script.”

  “And?”

  “Besides a vague recounting of Rakeesha’s golems, it tells of how Azariah, the high priest, entrusted Solomon’s ring to a band of nomads. My research suggests these were the progenitors of a group of desert monks known a few centuries ago as the Essenes.”

  The Djinn nodded at this. “I’m familiar with them. They were a group of ascetics that practiced Jewish mysticism for many centuries. They thrived in the land up until around the time of Christ. Then, the Romans drove them into the desert once more. Fortunately, Samir befriended their descendants several years ago.”

  “The Sheik knew them?” Tufic asked, a little surprised.

  The Djinn sat silently for several seconds, staring absently into the golden face of the medallion he now held in his bandaged hand.

  “You’d be amazed at who the old man had become friends with over the years, Tufic. And lucky for us, Samir introduced William to their chieftain about a year before his death. He should still be in good standing with them, I’d say.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Simple enough, old friend,” he said, rising from his chair as he clutched the medallion tight in his hand. “I leave at once to find the Essenes. It won’t be easy. They’re nomadic and will be difficult to locate. But it’s our next step. Just pray I get there before Gregory’s forces do.”

  ****

  "You will tell the baron what he wants to know!" Gerard DuBois roared as the back of his hand slammed across the battered nomad's jaw. The chains binding the pathetic man's wrists rattled against the impact. "He is losing his patience with you, Jew."

  Gregory arose from the wooden chair he'd been occupying since entering the cell to observe the interrogation and sighed. This simply wasn't going nearly as well as he'd first hoped. When he'd first received word that his men had been able to capture one of the Guardians—the group of nomadic warrior-priests, who at one time had been known as the Essenes and had been charged with protecting his prize for nearly a thousand years—he'd been ecstatic. He'd believed it only a matter of time before the emaciated and dehydrated desert-dweller would crack under the brutal hand of his mercenary lieutenant and share the secrets he'd sought for so long now.

  Instead, the nomad had been ridiculously stubborn. Even now, at Gerard's latest beating, he merely spat a wad of congealed blood from his mouth and glared at his interrogator.

  "Enough!" the baron said, walking casually up to his prisoner. "Enough," he said a bit more gently, then nodded to Gerard to back away. "Seriously. Must we continue with this charade, Ibrihim? You know, as well as I, that you will invariably tell me what I want to know. One way or another. We have no intention of letting you die…so you will have to endure this…" He waved a hand around the cell. "…for a very long time."

  The nomad smiled grimly at this. "And I am prepared to endure to the very end. There is nothing you can do that will force me to break my vows…or betray the trust placed in me."

  This is getting tiresome, Gregory thought as he stared at the man with a smug smile. A different tact is needed for this one. But what?

  Though he knew he could continue with the torture, he was becoming even more convinced that such tactics simply would not work on someone this zealous. He'd need to be creative, if not even a bit dishonorable. In the end, the method of obtaining the Solomon's Seal was inconsequential. The only thing that mattered to the baron was its possession.

  Gregory turned to Gerard and nodded once more. Understanding, the mercenary and three of his men unchained Ibrihim bar Jonas, the Guardian of the Seal, and forced him to the ground. They then re-chained his wrists and ankles in such a way as to force him to lay face up and unable to move. One of Gerard's men handed him a wooden bucket filled with hog swill and the mercenary ceremonially emptied the contents all over the prisoner.

  “Our friend is a dedicated man, Gerard,” the baron said as he strode casually toward the cell door. “He won’t easily loosen his tongue to tell us the location of the Seal. You’ll only tire yourself out trying to make him talk.” Gregory opened the door and turned to face the nomad. “So, we’ll simply allow the rats infesting these dungeons do much of the work for us. We’ll talk soon, Ibrihim. I pray you’ll be much more cooperative by then.”

  He strode out of the cell, thankful he wouldn’t have to hear the screams of his prisoner.

  4

  Two days later…

  Gerard DuBois, the captain of Gregory’s secret mercenary force, scanned the eastern horizon from the edge of the ridge his soldiers now huddled upon. The orange-red glow of the sun descended behind him, blinding those encamped in the valley below from his presence.

  ‘Twill be a cooler evening than we’ve experienced in recent months, he thought, taking a deep breath of the humid air. A thunderstorm had rolled into the valley earlier in the afternoon. The moist breeze against his body cooled the white-hot armor against his skin. Western armor wasn’t designed for such hostile environs as the Outremer and it could make a waiting soldier miserable just from the heat building up inside the chainmail.

  He inhaled once more, then looked down at the settlement below.

  It had taken some doing (and the loss of an eye by the teeth and claws of hungry rats), but the nomad had finally revealed the location of the Guardians’ camp. And now, he and his men waited patiently for the time to strike. Soon, Gregory would have his precious ring and Gerard would be one step closer to gaining the prize he most desired—the baron’s lovely daughter.

  The thought of her alabaster skin against his raised the temperature even more within his armor and he turned his attention once more to the camp below lest he lose himself in his fantasies about Isabella.

  The nomads were casually preparing for the evening, unaware of the danger that lurked over the horizon. Cooking fires burned—the succulent smell of stew rose up from the smoke—making Gerard’s stomach rumble. Children laughed as they chased a pathetically scrawny dog around the camp’s domiciles. A group of women huddled together in hushed chatter as they carried pots filled with water on their heads from the Jordan.

  It truly was a beautiful sight to the Western warrior. Not for its pastoral perfection, but for what was soon to come—mayhem, terror, and death for any who stood in his way of his mission.

  His purpose here was, of course, two fold. Primarily, he was to retrieve the fabled ring known as the Seal of Solomon. But there was a secondary reason for this raid as well. The baron was in desperate need of laborers to continue work on the tunnels he’d been excavating for the last seven and a half years. Tunnels deep in the underbelly of the City of David. Tunnels that would lead Baron Gregory to the final piece of the puzzle to his life long quest. The nomads who survived the initial raid would be taken prisoner and forced to work. The baron never asked how his workers were procured and of course, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. But Gerard savored such moments as this.

  He had come a long way from his humble beginning. The illegitimate son of a Saxon nobleman and a Jewish whore, he had been born in Bethany, a tiny village on the outskirts of Jerusalem. His suspect heritage prevented him from any positions of honor among the nobles. But he hadn’t let it stop him.

  “Sir, Balian’s group is now in position,” reported Ar
chibald, his second in command. “Durgan’s forces are almost in place.”

  “Thank you, Archibald. We will now bide our time until the infidels are deep in slumber. Be ready for my signal.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Gerard watched as his closest friend marched toward the rest of his mercenary force. They were feared throughout the Outremer and with good reason. They were the best. They had never known defeat and with a few exceptions for Gregory, they rarely took any prisoners. He was most proud of his men.

  ****

  It had been a perfect victory and took less than fifteen minutes altogether. Not a single one of Gerard’s men had been injured, though the same could not be said for the Guardians. Six strong men, and one impulsive lad, had died in the attack.

  Of course, there was never really any chance the campaign could have turned out differently. The camp, which had been set up on the western shore of the Jordan, had been completely surrounded. Balian’s knights had ridden in from the north, while Durgan’s from the south. Gerard’s men had marched in from the east, all while the camp slept in the stillness of the night.

  They had struck swiftly, silent as a bird of prey. A bird of prey…the unnerving memory of the falcon shot a shiver down his spine. It was the only thing that disquieted him about the entire affair. An omen if there ever was one, he thought.

  The bird had swooped down upon them in the thick of battle—black as jet with eyes that glowed red from the camp’s firelight. It had done nothing but perch itself upon a withered old tree near the tent of the tribe’s chieftain and watch the battle unfold.

  At first, Gerard had opted to ignore the strange sight as the battle raged on. Things had gone well until the young boy fell. It was such a useless death. The lad would have been a strong worker in Gregory’s tunnels. But he’d been too proud for his own good. Taking a sword from a fallen warrior, the whelp charged at Gerard like a moon-vexed lunatic. Instinctively, the larger man had cut the boy down with a single swipe of his blade.