****
“Samuel!”
Samuel’s head jerked up to look around the darkened alley. His cousin was nearby and searching for him. His pulse quickened.
“Don’t worry, lad,” said the living shadow standing in front of the squire. “We’ll be through with our business before he finds us.”
“He’d understand, you know. He’s brave and strong—and above all, good.”
“I know he is, Samuel,” said the Djinn. “There’s no finer man in all Jerusalem than your master. But he wouldn’t give us the chance. He’s too blinded by duty.”
The squire’s eyes dropped once more. The creature was right. Horatio meant well, but until he opened his eyes to evil the baron and his ilk were committing, he’d continue blindly serving the wrong side.
“What would you have me do?” asked Samuel, who had given up the silly notion that the creature before him was an evil spirit. In fact, despite the Djinn’s own protests, he had become convinced that he was, in fact, an avenging angel of the Lord.
It had been in the way the creature had spoken to him—just days ago now, but seemingly like ages—when he had spirited Samuel away and tied him up. The Djinn’s words had been so comforting. He had told the boy that he would not so much as hurt a single hair on his, or Horatio’s head. Not a thing easily believed except for the kind eyes hidden in the dark recesses of his turban—once he’d seen past the greenish glow, that is. Samuel had believed him instantly.
Everything he had thought of the creature until that moment had skittered away on the desert wind. At that very moment, Samuel had known he was in the presence of one who served the True and Living God. Of course, if Horatio had heard that, he would have been convinced that the “demon,” as the knight often referred to the Djinn, had used some wicked enchantment to beguile him. But the only enchantment the squire had seen in the creature was sincerity and hope.
“Did you hear me, Samuel?” asked the Djinn, who had been instructing the boy of his plans.
“I’m sorry, sir. I was pondering.”
A gentle chuckle escaped the linen fabric of the angel’s turban. “That’s all right, lad. I know all this is a bit much to ask of you. I wouldn’t have, but that I gathered you for a man of stout heart and noble courage.”
“Aye, sir. All I wish is to serve Him what saved me from my sins.”
“Good,” said the Djinn. “So this is what I ask of you.”
The man in black explained the task that he required from Samuel. Patiently, he answered the squire’s questions with warmth and concern until they were both convinced the lad understood his role.
“Samuel!” Horatio’s voice was growing nearer.
“Now, hear me boy, your cousin is upon us,” the Djinn continued. “There is danger in this. If you are caught, do not resist. Tell them all you know and they may go light on you.”
“But I’d never…”
“Listen to me. Tell them everything. You do not know enough to jeopardize anything that I’ve worked on. You only know your part. You will betray no one by giving them what they ask. It would pain me to see you come to harm, lad.”
“All right,” said Samuel, as he knelt down at the Djinn’s feet, his eyes clenched with pride over his task. “I will do all that you ask of me.”
“Stand up, Samuel. I am no god to be worshipped, nor king to be revered. I am but a mere servant—like you. Now be strong and find your cousin. He worries for you.”
The squire looked up to find that he was now alone in the alleyway. It seemed to Samuel that the creature had simply stepped into the very shadows like a doorway and disappeared. The thought of it unnerved him. There was just so much about the Djinn that he didn’t understand.
Still, he knew there would be time enough to reflect on the creature’s nature after tonight. Now, he must get back to his cousin, who was at this point, frantically scouring the streets for him.
Samuel smiled. No matter how much Horatio pretended to dislike him, the lad knew his cousin would go to the ends of the earth to protect him from harm. Muttering a quick prayer, he ran out of the shadows and into the moonlit streets.
****
“Samuel!” Horatio cried as he sprinted around the corner, nearly bowling his cousin down. “Thank God you’re well. I was worried.”
“I’m fine. Everything is all right. I just had a bit of a fall back there and became disoriented.” Samuel hated lying to his cousin, but he saw no way to avoid it. “You know me. I’ve no sense of direction at all.”
The knight smiled at his young charge, relief flooding his veins at having finally found him—and none the worse for wear. But something in Samuel’s eyes disturbed Horatio. Something was not quite right.
A scuffling noise above broke the knight’s gaze at his squire. Looking up, he caught a fleeting glimpse of something black moving about on the rooftop of a small mercantile.
He turned his eyes back to his cousin, who casually looked down at his feet as if mesmerized by the shape of his shoe. Horatio looked up at the roof one more time, but saw nothing. Perhaps it had been his imagination, though there truly was something about Samuel’s demeanor that unnerved him. The knight vowed to get to the bottom of it before the night was through, but now they needed to make haste to Gregory’s meeting. The baron was no doubt cursing them at that moment for being late.
With a smile, Horatio placed an arm gently around Samuel’s shoulder. “Come, cousin. We have a meeting to attend.”
The squire returned the smile. Whatever dark shadow loomed inside Samuel’s soul seemed to vanish with his contagious grin. For one brief moment, Horatio saw the same light-hearted boy he had remembered from their youth. The knight promised himself that he would do all he could to see it for years to come.
7
Gregory’s patience was wearing thin. Horatio and his halfwit cousin were nearly thirty minutes late. One of the baron’s greatest irritations was the lack of respect by his men and recently, Horatio had been the most disrespectful of all in his employ. He wasn’t sure why the knight’s absence surprised him.
Granted, Gregory had asked the two simpletons to check on his daughter before coming to the meeting, but they still should have been here by now.
Unless…No! He wouldn’t even entertain such notions. The damnable creature that had haunted him in these last few months was beginning to plague his every thought. He was seeing the Djinn in every shadow. In every flicker from the corner of his eye. And this had led to a nagging sense of dread—dread of the Djinn’s next attack. An unreasonable fear that the creature would get to him at his weakest point. It’s what he would do if roles were reversed. He would go after the one thing his enemy treasured most. In Gregory’s case, that would be Isabella.
It was bad enough the demon had absconded with Solomon’s Seal…an object of immense importance to his plans. But that simply wasn’t enough for the Djinn. No. He’d sent a not so subtle threat in his latest attack against Gerard and his men. The baron reached into his tunic and absently pulled out the oval medallion from around his neck.
Gregory traced the medallion’s inscription with his finger. It had taken nearly six years and a veritable fortune to translate, but he had finally done it. He’d unlocked the secret location of Solomon’s Vault where the baron’s life had changed forever. He’d been searching, under the Holy See’s instructions, for the fabled Urim and Thummim stones…but what he’d discovered once opening up the tunnels that led to the Vault made those relics completely insignificant. The medallion had been the key to the discovery of a lifetime. Perhaps even the greatest discovery in the history of the Crusades.
Of course, after he’d gleaned all he could from the medallion, he’d given it to his daughter on her eighteenth birthday. A prize worthy of a princess. A divine gift to a divine gift.
Then, one day, two months ago, the medallion had disappeared without a trace—from Isabella’s very bedchambers, no less. At the time, it had really not concerned him too much—after all, he already had
the information he needed from it. He’d simply assumed his daughter had misplaced it. An irresponsible oversight, to be sure, but nothing to raise suspicions of sinister dealings afoot.
Now, he knew differently. The Djinn had been in his daughter’s bedchambers. He had taken it from her while she slept. Its return was a clear warning: “I could have taken your daughter any time I chose.” Gregory shuttered at the thought. It was why he was taking such special precautions now with her—why he’d practically sequestered her in her room and why she was being watched so tenaciously now. He would not allow the demon to have her.
But he could not think such thoughts tonight. Not now, when the hour he had worked for was so near. Soon, the Djinn would be a mere trifle and the prize Gregory had sought—had sacrificed so much for—would be his. The baron shrugged off the gloomy thoughts and turned his gaze to the five other men who did have the courtesy to arrive on time.
Well, not all who were present had arrived on time. Tufic, his brother’s physician, had only just arrived. The insufferable heathen hadn’t even apologized for his audacity. It was out of sheer grace that Gregory had invited his brother to the meeting in the first place—William had, after all, been invaluable in his research into Solomon’s golems and his guidance and wisdom would be needed before the final stages of the baron’s quest were complete. But, of course, his brother couldn’t attend due to his illness—or rather, the fact that most of the gentry in Jerusalem considered him unwelcome, thought Gregory. So, instead of attending the meeting himself, William had sent his loyal representative.
The baron shuddered as Tufic’s cold eyes glared at him. There was just something unsettling about the physician, though Gregory could not discern what it was. He was typical of most natives of the Outremer—dark skin with close cropped black hair and a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. His mustache was curved at the ends to form two tight loops above his upper lip. Thick, bushy eyebrows hung over a narrow, beaklike nose.
No, Tufic’s appearance was that of any other Saracen. Gregory’s apprehension of the doctor was not from his looks—it was in the way he stared at the baron. It was clear that the heathen held great animosity toward him. Tufic’s eyes burned with rancor whenever their eyes met and Gregory always had the sense that, if left unchecked, the physician might use one of his surgical instruments on the baron’s exposed neck.
Remembering the task at hand, Gregory pushed back all thoughts of mistrust, fear, and irritation. This meeting was just too important. He forced a broad smile to form on his face as he motioned for his guests to enter the large, stone doorway that led down to his private tunnels.
“Come, gentlemen, the time is at hand.”
“But what of your men?” asked Tufic with a sardonic grin. “You have complained of them all evening. Are you so quick to give up on them now?”
“Obviously, they have been delayed,” Gregory said, taking a deep breath to ease the irritation building within him. “They’ll catch up to us, I’m sure. Horatio knows the way.”
All six men turned to the heavy oak door that had been pulled open by Gerard’s own men just prior to their arrival. Besides the baron, his brother’s physician, and Gerard, the group consisted of Monsignor Tertius, a Moroccan nobleman who had renounced his title, wealth, and land to serve the Holy Church. A direct representative of the Pope, Tertius had been sent to the Outremer to check on why Gregory’s mission had been delayed. The Vatican, it seemed, was getting impatient and they would be most displeased when they learned the truth behind this expedition. This, of course, did not concern Gregory in the slightest.
The fifth man invited to the meeting was the most unusual, if not dangerous, choice for Gregory’s endeavor. Unfortunately, the baron had no choice—Al-Dula ibn Abdul was a necessary evil in the purest sense of the phrase. Al-Dula was an infamous Muslim warlord from Egypt and one of the top ranking officials in Sultan Saladin’s cabinet. He was also ravenously ambitious. Claiming to be a direct descendent of the Prophet Mohammed, Al-Dula held aspirations to wrest control of the Sultan’s realm and establish himself as the new Caliph. He’d also been the one to provide the medallion to Gregory that pinpointed the exact location of Solomon’s Vault. An heirloom from when his family held considerable power while Jerusalem was still in Muslim hands. Though the baron had despised forming a partnership with the man, he would never have discovered the Vault without him.
Of course, he’d nearly had to sell his soul in order to obtain the piece of jewelry. Al-Dula had wanted nothing less than the means to overthrow Sultan Saladin and he was convinced, just as Gregory, that the power to do that lay deep within Solomon’s Vault. In the end, the baron decided, the price would actually serve his own purposes quite nicely as well. After all, Saladin had his eyes set on Jerusalem at that very moment. To remove him from power now could only benefit Gregory in the end.
Of course, Al-Dula had not come alone. He brought an uninvited guest—the sixth and final member of their party. Gregory had not been told the man’s name and truth be told, he wasn’t sure he cared to know. Al-Dula had volunteered some information on the strange and silent guest, dressed in a black and gray tunic, a dark red turban, and a thick black beard that hung down to the man’s chest.
Apparently, the sixth guest was a member of a secret Saracen society—a group known and feared throughout the Muslim world as the Hashshashin and made up of elite clerics, completely devout in their religion to the point of fanaticism. And, if what Gregory had heard about the sect was true, they had honed the art of murder to the point of almost supernatural perfection.
The baron glanced at the silent killer in their midst and he couldn’t help but utter a silent prayer to whatever god would listen that he would find an ally in the man—the cleric would make a ruthless enemy.
“Come, gentlemen,” Gregory said. “History awaits us this evening.”
The baron led the way down the stone staircase that descended into the bowels of the city. Flickering torches, interspersed several feet apart, lit the long, spiraling steps. Fire-cast shadows danced along the curved walls as the seven men struggled to maintain solid footing on the narrow stairs. After several minutes, the group came to level ground—a long dark tunnel stretching deeper into the earth before them.
“Just a little further,” said the baron, turning around to look at his guests. “What I have to show you is just—”
His words hung in his throat. The hashshashin was no longer with them.
“My friend,” Gregory addressed Al-Dula, “it seems as though your man may have gotten lost.”
“You needn’t worry yourself, Baron. Emir is quite capable of taking care of himself.”
“Yes, well, be that as it may, it is essential that we all stay together.”
Panic began to swell within the baron’s chest. He didn’t like this at all. It was bad enough that Al-Dula had brought this killer with him to their meeting. He was an unaccounted variable in the entire scheme and Gregory did not like unknown variables.
Al-Dula was a man motivated by greed and ambition. This made him predictable and, thereby, trustworthy to a certain point. But this “Emir,” as the future Caliph had called him, was motivated by something altogether different—devotion and fanaticism. To a man like Gregory, whose only commitment was to himself, these were alien and unfathomable concepts. He simply could not be sure how to anticipate the actions of such men.
For a brief moment, thoughts of William flitted through his mind. You would know, wouldn’t you, brother? Gregory thought. You’ve always acted according to your convictions. You would know exactly what to expect from this hashshashin.
Taking a torch from a wall sconce, the baron turned toward the darkened tunnel just as a scream from above echoed down the narrow confines of the stairwell, stopping Gregory in his tracks and chilling the hearts of the entire group. In unison, they spun around as a great commotion descended the steps toward them.
Suddenly, Samuel careened down the stone steps, tumbling end ov
er end. The young squire crashed to the dirt floor at the feet of Tufic, who immediately stooped down to examine the lad for injuries.
Sounds of a fierce battle ensued, the clatter of clanging swords exploded above them. Horatio jumped into view, his back turned to Gregory and the four other men who watched slack jawed at the duel. The knight was pushed back, blocking a blow from a curved scimitar—the attacker still unseen around a corner.
Gregory froze with dread. He had heard rumors of the curved black blade wielded by the Djinn—a blade exactly like the one now struggling to hew the outmatched knight to pieces.
Horatio took another step backwards, bringing his assailant finally into view—it was Emir. The brutal hashshashin pushed his advance, nearly knocking Horatio from his feet, but the knight brought up his shield, narrowly escaping a decapitating blow.
“Lord Gregory, get out of here!” cried Horatio as he glimpsed over his shoulder to see the baron and the others. “It’s the Djinn!”
Emir crouched down as the knight swung his blade around in a full arc, attempting to slash the cleric in half. The hashshashin swung his right leg up, entwining it between Horatio’s own legs and twisted. The knight flew through the air helplessly, tumbling straight for the crowd of onlookers.
The cleric bounded the steps three at a time until he came to Horatio’s inert form. Grabbing him by the neck, a long slender dagger appeared out from a fold in Emir’s tunic and flew towards the knight’s throat.
“Enough!” commanded Al-Dula.
With skill that Gregory had never known possible, the zealous Emir flipped the blade into his palm in mid-swing, striking Horatio with the butt of the dagger. The knight gasped from the blow as Emir raised himself to his full height and looked down at Horatio, bloodlust in his eyes.
“L-Lord Gregory,” said the knight. “It’s the Djinn. Don’t let him escape.”
The baron raised an eyebrow, an amused smile growing across his face.
The Djinn (The Order of the Knightshades Book 1) Page 7