The Third Caliph

by Alex Archer

  A holy war. An ancient scroll lost in history...until now.

  During a dig in Morocco, archaeologist Annja Creed and her companions are nearly buried alive when the khettara ceiling collapses, revealing a 1,300-year-old corpse. But when Bedouin bandits raid the camp, Annja barely escapes with her life...and half of a scroll in ancient Kufic script. Her companions’ survival now depends on her.

  The scroll dates back to 656 AD, when Muslim raised sword against Muslim and the assassination of the third caliph left no clear heir to Muhammad’s teachings. It’s a coveted find. Annja quickly finds herself caught between a devious terrorist whose family honor depends on destroying what she possesses and a ruthless CIA team. Both believe the end justifies the means. And that Annja cannot allow.

  “Find her!”

  Annja caught the reins of one horse in her hand and with her knife sawed at the cord that kept the herd tied to the spot. When the ground tie parted, she grabbed the pommel and heaved herself into the saddle.

  A light pinned her in the darkness. Instinct pulled her eyes toward the beam, but she caught herself and looked away as she put her heels to the horse’s sides and yelled, “Hiii-yaaahhh!”

  “Mustafa! The woman is among the horses!”

  “Do not let her get away!” Mustafa pointed his pistol and shot. A bullet ripped through the air over her head. “Get the horses!”

  Lying low in the saddle, Annja kicked her horse again and fought to stay in the middle of the sudden crush of bodies headed away from the campsite. She ran with the herd, pausing once to glance over her shoulder at the campsite.

  Muzzle flashes flared against the darkness. Two of the horses stumbled and dropped, but a few seconds later the rifles fell silent.

  Annja stayed low over the horse’s neck, feeling the animal’s muscles bunch and flex, and made a promise to herself.

  No matter what, she would return in time to save the others.

  Titles in this series:

  Tear of the Gods

  The Oracle’s Message

  Cradle of Solitude

  Labyrinth

  Fury’s Goddess

  Magic Lantern

  Library of Gold

  The Matador’s Crown

  City of Swords

  The Third Caliph

  Destiny

  Solomon’s Jar

  The Spider Stone

  The Chosen

  Forbidden City

  The Lost Scrolls

  God of Thunder

  Secret of the Slaves

  Warrior Spirit

  Serpent’s Kiss

  Provenance

  The Soul Stealer

  Gabriel’s Horn

  The Golden Elephant

  Swordsman’s Legacy

  Polar Quest

  Eternal Journey

  Sacrifice

  Seeker’s Curse

  Footprints

  Paradox

  The Spirit Banner

  Sacred Ground

  The Bone Conjurer

  Tribal Ways

  The Dragon’s Mark

  Phantom Prospect

  Restless Soul

  False Horizon

  The Other Crowd

  Alex Archer

  The Third Caliph

  The Legend

  ...The English commander took Joan’s Sword and raised it high.

  The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the tramplued mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.

  Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.

  Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are reborn...

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mel Odom for his contribution to this work.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Basra, Iraq

  656 CE

  Shifting quickly, Hamid avoided his opponent’s curved sword. The blade tugged at his burka only for a moment before slicing through it. His sandals punched through the top crust of sun-baked soil as he moved and dodged, and turned his footing treacherous as he aimed a swing at the swordsman’s head.

  The man was older than Hamid’s twenty years, and he’d been in many more fights. But the older man wasn’t invincible judging by the scars on his face and hands. A rime of dust coated his fierce black beard. He was stronger and thicker set, and Hamid knew he could not allow the man to get an upper hand. He had to depend on his speed and skill, and pray that God was truly on his side.

  “Defiler.” The warrior swung again and this time Hamid blocked with his sword. The impact vibrated through his arm. The metal rasped as Hamid quickly gave ground. “Treacherous cur, I will spill your blood upon the ground for the glory of God.”

  Hamid stepped back again and shook his sword arm. All around them, the battle raged. In the distance he still saw the howdah mounted on the camel’s back where Aisha bint Abu Bakr directed her troops. She was the third widow of the Prophet Muhammad, and believed by many to be the prophet’s favorite wife.

  Many also believed that her claim to the true teachings of Muhammad, and thus of God, were more legitimate than Ali ibn Abd Munaf, who had been the cousin and son-in-law to Muhammad. Hamid supported the lady Aisha’s claim because his father told him Ali would lead the Muslim people from the rightful path of God.

  The swordsman swung again and Hamid managed to block once more. Steel rang and the curved sword vibrated in Hamid’s hand. He gave ground yet again, forcing his opponent to pursue him. The bigger man sank even farther in the sand. Hamid waited for his opportunity.

  He had lost track of how many men he’d seen killed over the past few days, and how many he himself had killed. When he had joined the supporters of Aisha bint Abu Bakr, he had only come to leave behind the village and the work. It had been a chance to see more of the world. He had not given thought to dying for the opportunity.

  “Surrender your sword and I will let you live.” The older man drew in a breath.

  Hamid shook
his head. “I cannot turn from God’s work.” He knew that was what his father would say, and he had no other words to offer. Never before had Muslims risen up to strike down Muslims on a battlefield.

  “You are a fool. This is not God’s work.” The swordsman facing Hamid swung again and again, and the clang of metal on metal rang within Hamid’s skull. “You could live your life in the glory of the one true God. Instead, you strive to waste it in the name of that harlot.”

  The disrespect firmed Hamid’s resolve. Muhammad’s widow should not be spoken of in such a cavalier manner. She had been the prophet’s favorite wife. None contested that.

  This time when his opponent strode forward, Hamid dashed the blade to one side, stepped in quickly and turned to his right. He grabbed the man’s extended right wrist with his left hand and trapped the warrior there off balance. Then he whirled suddenly and sliced his opponent’s throat open.

  Blood spilled over the front of the man’s clothing as he stumbled back. He clasped a hand to his throat and stared at Hamid in disbelief before lifting his sword and rushing Hamid. Caught unawares, paralyzed by the sight of the man dying before him, Hamid couldn’t get out of the way in time. The man’s bulk bore him to the ground and knocked the air from his lungs.

  Frantic, Hamid grabbed the man’s sword arm, barely able to restrain the man who was trying to saw the sword into Hamid’s face. The blade nicked Hamid’s cheek before the man’s strength fled. Rolling to one side, Hamid knocked the corpse from him, then climbed wearily to his feet to search for another foe. He knew there would be one because the widow Aisha’s forces were outnumbered.

  Horns blared over the plain. Recognizing the signal to withdraw forces, Hamid gratefully stumbled back, sucking in air. He glanced at the corpse stretched on the ground and at the sand greedily absorbing the spilled blood. His sword now felt like a boulder at the end of his arm.

  A warrior mounted on a black stallion raced along the line of warriors, and his counterpart did the same in front of the armed men that fought for Ali.

  “Stand away! Stand away! The battle is over!”

  One of the older warriors next to Hamid dropped to his knees in prayer. Another man stepped forward and raised his voice to ask, “But who has won?”

  As he looked across the battlefield littered with the dead, unable to know who was friend and who was foe, Hamid wished to know the answer to that question, as well. And with all the bodies, could there truly be a winner?

  The rider reined in his horse. His thick face was bleak. Blood trickled from his nose and his eyes were bloodshot. More blood matted his black-and-gray beard. “A bargain has been struck.”

  “What bargain?”

  “The lady Aisha has asked that you—her faithful warriors—stand down.”

  “Why?”

  “So that your lives might be spared. She would honor you by letting you live.” The messenger looked along the troops. “Ali has us outnumbered. The lady knows that we will not win this day.” The horse snorted and pawed at the ground. “She asks that you live so that the prophet’s true teachings will be remembered and be taught to your children and your children’s children.”

  The announcement drained Hamid of his remaining strength. He slumped to his knees, supporting himself with his sword.

  “Then who will avenge Uthman ibn Affan?” The older warrior beat his breast in agony. “Two of my sons have died during this battle. I will not have their blood shed in vain. They remained true to the teachings of Muhammad, and to the true caliphs. To stop now is to dishonor them.”

  Uthman ibn Affan’s murder at the hands of assassins had caused the civil war that now consumed them. Dying as he had without a true heir, the caliphate succession was a contentious mess. Everything was done in the name of God, but there were several who claimed to represent God’s will.

  The messenger rode his horse over to the distraught father and spoke quietly in a tone that carried so they could all hear. “To stop now means you may sire more sons, my friend. Raise those sons up under the grace of God and know that this struggle is not ended here. No true Muslim will allow this sacrilege to stand.”

  Screaming with unbridled rage and loss, the warrior threw himself down and rent his hair and clothing, crying out for vengeance on his enemies.

  Through tears, Hamid stared at the man he’d last slain in the name of God and honor. If only the horn had sounded earlier, the death would not be on his hands. So many would not now be dead.

  In his heart, though, he knew those numbers would only have been saved today. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, they would continue to die by one another’s hands. As the messenger had said, this struggle was not over.

  He closed his eyes and remembered the six hundred Muslims Aisha had ordered beheaded in Basra. The blood had spilled across the cobblestones, and the executors had cheered their victory. The only cheers now were from Ali’s warriors on the other side of the battlefield.

  Looking at those men, Hamid knew he could never again accept them as brothers. Ali had warped their belief, had seized the caliphate for himself, and he would guide those who followed him away from the true path of God. The best they could hope for was to walk in the shadow of God, not the light.

  This battle might be over, but the struggle within the believers would never die. Hamid bowed his head and prayed that mercy might be granted in time. He feared that generations would war among themselves, and Muslims would again kill Muslims.

  Chapter 1

  Forty-three miles east of Erfoud

  Kingdom of Morocco

  The ground beneath Annja Creed’s feet shivered, giving her a slight warning. The only warning she got. She threw herself against the nearest earthen wall and pressed her face against the hard-packed sand while raising her right arm over her head to shield herself. With her left hand, she fumbled for her neckerchief and succeeded in bringing it up to cover her nose and mouth as the tunnel caved in and dust rose in a whirlwind. She closed her eyes and fought to remain calm.

  Falling earth pummeled her and drove her to her knees, pounding the air from her lungs. She kept her eyes closed. Getting buried alive under tons of sand was one of the most horrible deaths she could imagine.

  “Look out!” The man’s warning barely penetrated the thunder of the tumbling earth, and it came far too late to do any good. Everyone who had been down in the khettara when it collapsed was now at risk of suffocating.

  The sand covered Annja and everything went dark. Panic set in then as she automatically fought to push herself up. She couldn’t budge the sand and in her fear she imagined that it was still falling, burying her even more. The sound of falling earth echoed in her head, but she told herself it was just the beating of her heart.

  Calm down. You lose your head, and you’re dead. And there are other people in here that may need your help. Not many of them could have escaped the cave-in.

  She struggled to take a breath. It felt as if an elephant was standing on her back. Realizing that she couldn’t just push up from all the dirt, she concentrated on shifting her right arm.

  Professor David Smythe had been in the tunnel with her. He’d left her exhuming the pottery shards while he’d gone for the brushes. Theresa Templeton, the grad assistant from Harvard, had been there, as well. Cory Burcell, the BBC cameraman, had been filming. Three of the muqannis, the Moroccan irrigation diggers...

  Annja thrust her arm up, hoping she hadn’t gotten twisted around during the collapse. She used her open hand open like a knife blade to slowly slide through the shifting dirt. Lifting her arm let more sand slide in under her chin and her next breath was even more difficult to take.

  Finally, her hand broke free of the sand. Knowing that freedom was less than two feet away galvanized her. She contorted her body and heaved her way out of a premature burial.

&nbs
p; She broke through to her waist and blinked sand out of her eyes as she stared down the dark tunnel. She pulled the neckerchief down and filled her lungs with air. The dust made her cough.

  “David! Theresa! Cory! Anybody!”

  “Annja?”

  A male voice. To her left. Annja peered through the gloom and barely made out Professor Smythe standing against the far wall twenty feet away. The lean archaeologist, caked in sand from head to toe, looked pale in the darkness. His thin blond hair was wet with sweat and stuck to his scalp.

  “I thought we’d lost you,” he said in relief, looking much younger than he was—late thirties, she remembered. Experienced enough to be of some use getting out of this.

  Annja brushed off her legs. “Not yet. Have you got a spare flashlight?” She’d lost hers during the cave-in.

  Smythe rummaged in a backpack near the wall and came up with a Mini Maglite. He started to cross to her, then stopped, obviously realizing there were people still under the dirt. “Here.” He pitched the flashlight to her underhand.

  It was almost invisible in the darkness but Annja managed to catch it. “Who are we missing?”

  Smythe ran his light over two men standing beside him. One of them was Cory Burcell, the BBC cameraman. In his early twenties, lean and black, his once-khaki shorts and Batman T-shirt were covered in dirt. Cory was used to laid-back assignments, not roughing it in Morocco. The other man was one of the muqannis, in his fifties and experienced at irrigation construction. He was already digging through the sand by hand like a human mole.

  “Theresa’s missing. Two of the muqannis.” Smythe reached for a trenching tool.

  “No. No shovel,” the muqanni barked. “Hand. Use hand only. Work from edge. Quickly. Quickly.”

  Smythe put the trenching tool down and started digging. “Do you know where they were? Where they were standing?”

  Annja turned on her flashlight and saw that during the confusion she’d moved, but she hadn’t been more than three feet away from this position before the cave-in. Theresa had been helping her with the pottery shards, getting firsthand experience with the process of pulling the pieces from the earth.