Black Lion's Bride

by Lara Adrian

  Zahirah saw no sense in denying it. All around her, Halim's fida'i soldiers battled with Sebastian and his fully armed crusaders and caravaneers. What might have been a surprise attack and slaughter had instead become an equal fight--more than equal, for despite the ambushers' greater number, the Franks on their heavy warhorses were beginning to succeed in driving them back, pushing them toward retreat.

  But Halim showed no such signs of backing down where he stood, facing Zahirah. He edged forward through the ash-filled smoke that surrounded them, forcing her back a pace to avoid his blade. She stumbled over the massive bulk of the dead camel behind her, but righted herself before she lost her footing completely. Halim was there as she started to come up, the razor-sharp tip of his scimitar lifting her chin and malevolently encouraging her to rise.

  “I should have known you could not be trusted,” he sneered. “You are too weak for this mission. You are no fida'i.”

  Zahirah swallowed hard, willing her voice not to wobble under the cold, cruel edge of Halim's blade. “I am more fida'i than you ever were. I would not slaughter a dozen innocent men and call it Allah's will. Nor could I stand by and allow you to do so.”

  “Innocent men,” he scoffed. “You think any one of these Franks is innocent? Oh, would that our vaunted lord and master were here to see you now, slavering at the heels of these Christian dogs like a bitch in heat. He would thank me for killing you.” He flexed his hand on the grip of his scimitar, readying to strike. “Indeed, I expect he shall.”

  Acting on a sudden surge of instinct, Zahirah flung herself backward, rolling to the ground before Halim could draw another breath. A crossbow, loaded with a single bolt, lay just out of her reach in the road. She stretched for it, triumphant as her fingers closed around the wooden throat of the weapon. That triumph was short-lived. A heavy boot came down hard on her wrist, pinioning her hand to the stone cobbles of the road.

  “Think again,” Halim snarled from above her.

  Zahirah turned her head to face him, scarcely able to see him through the swirling smoke and dust. But she could see his sword, and she could see the tight grip of his hand on the weapon, fury turning his dark knuckles nearly white.

  Allah, but she was certain, this--here and now--was to be her end. She could not move, could do nothing to defend herself; Halim was going to kill her. The realization sunk into her brain like a piercing shard of ice. She was going to die.

  Her eyes burning from the thick black haze that filled the air, Zahirah strained to find Sebastian amid the confusion of the ambush. Just one last glimpse of him would be enough. She would not fear death if she could be certain he had survived. She peered hard through the ash and soot and jumble of fighting men, but to no avail. She could not find him, could see nothing beyond the shapeless mass of the stalled caravan and the chaos of combat beyond.

  She must have voiced Sebastian's name aloud, for Halim began to chuckle. “Such a pitiful end for the great Sinan's daughter. Was it worth it, Zahirah? Was he worth the cost of betraying your clan?”

  “He would have been,” Zahirah replied fiercely, preparing herself for the deadly wrath she was inviting. “But I have not betrayed my clan today, Halim. Only you.”

  His answering chuckle was pure malice. “I see. Then the pleasure of exacting justice now shall be mine alone. It will be an honor to take your traitor's head back with me to Masyaf.”

  Zahirah forced herself not to flinch as Halim's blade retreated slightly, cutting a thin trail through the smoke as he drew his arm back to deliver a fatal blow. She kept her eyes open, feeling tears spring forth in the endless moment she waited for his blade to bite into her neck.

  The din of battle died away in that exaggerated space of time, leaving only the heavy thud of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. She heard Halim draw a sudden, sharp breath, saw his arced blade poised high above her head. Praying for a swift end, Zahirah kept her eyes trained on the muted glint of steel, bracing herself for the imminent impact.

  To her astonishment, it did not come.

  Halim seemed frozen above her, and through the smoke she saw a look of shock coming over his face. Zahirah felt frozen as well, unable to do anything but stare in confusion as Halim's shock turned to horror. Then she saw the reason.

  A bloodied tip of a broadsword had sliced through his chest from behind, cleanly impaling his wicked heart. Halim stood there, staring at her, his dark eyes wide and condemning as his scimitar dropped from his slack grasp. His weight was no longer supported by his own legs, which had begun to buckle beneath him, but by the strength of the blade that had just delivered his death. Once removed, Halim crumpled to the earth like a puppet on severed strings.

  Behind his lifeless form stood Sebastian. Face soot-streaked and spattered with blood, his black hair wild and windswept about his face, he had never looked more breathtaking or deadly. He reached down to Zahirah, his gaze steady, intense. “Come, my lady. Take my hand,” he said when she could not summon the strength to stand of her own volition.

  Zahirah could not hold back her tears as he lifted her to her feet and enveloped her in a fierce embrace. Clutching him to her as if to never let go, she wept into his chest, burying her face in the tattered folds of his silk surcoat.

  “Hush now,” he soothed, his deep voice like a balm to her nerves. “'Tis over, Zahirah. The fighting has ended. You're safe with me now.”

  Still ensconced within the circle of his arms, Zahirah drew her head up to verify what Sebastian said, that the fighting was indeed over. Although it was difficult to assess the outcome, she could see that he spoke true. The caravan and its escort party, while not without damage, was, for the most part, intact. Only a few of Sebastian's men had fallen in the skirmish; Halim's forces had suffered easily twice as many casualties. Some of the surviving fida'i soldiers had retreated, while still others lay wounded in and around the road.

  “It's over,” Sebastian said again, pulling her closer and kissing the top of her head.

  But as if to belie his reassurances, in the not too far distance, came the rumble of horses' hooves--another army come to join the fray, by the sound of it. Fearing that Halim had provided additional men, Zahirah cried out in alarm, but Sebastian seemed unconcerned. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun and smoke as he peered at the approaching company of riders. He chuckled, then he and the rest of the crusaders standing around them went down on one knee, bowing over their swords in deep deference as more than a score of Frankish soldiers thundered forth, then drew to a halt before them on the road.

  Borne on tall lances were twin pennons of red silk, adorned with three golden lions. The triangular flags snapped and fluttered in the wind like dancing flames, framing the leader of the newly arrived party in rich, regal color. Zahirah gaped at the splendor of the man riding at the fore of the contingent, a broad-shouldered knight who swept off a crown-like helm and mail coif to reveal a head of fair brownish hair and stern, kingly features.

  “Your Majesty,” Sebastian said, respectfully bowing his head.

  And Zahirah suddenly found herself staring into the questioning blue gaze of Lionheart himself.

  The man she was sworn to kill.

  Chapter 19

  “It appears we have arrived too late to assist,” said the English king, a note of disappointment in his voice. He glanced to Sebastian, who straightened to his full height beside Zahirah, his spine erect, wide shoulders held back with pride before his king. “You guarded my supplies well, Montborne. I commend you on your service. As ever, you do not disappoint.”

  Sebastian returned Lionheart's smile. “I am honored to serve, Sire.”

  “Assassins, were they?”

  “Yes, Sire. They were agents of the Old Man.”

  The king clucked his tongue. “Vermin cowards,” he growled. “Which of them do you suspect was the one who attacked me in the camp some weeks past?”

  “Their leader is over there,” Sebastian answered, gesturing toward Halim's lifeless body.
“He also killed Abdul a few days ago.”

  The king grunted, flattening his mouth. “And this?” he asked, looking once more to Zahirah. “Have we taken a pretty little hostage from our infidel raiders?”

  “No, my lord,” Sebastian answered, moving closer to bring her within the shelter of his arm. “This is the lady, Zahirah. 'Twas because of her that we were prepared for this raid.” He pitched his voice a bit lower as he turned his head down to meet her gaze. “She risked much to bring me the warning. I am grateful and indebted.”

  Lionheart's tawny brows rose slightly. “Indeed? Well, then, Montborne, I should like to hear more about this. Perhaps the lady will indulge me in the tale upon our arrival at Darum.”

  Zahirah inclined her head at the king's comment, uncomfortable with the way his eyes roved so freely over her person as he spoke. In a flash of memory, she recalled Abdul's warning soon after she first arrived at the palace in Ascalon . . .

  The king likes pretty things, and he takes what he likes.

  “Perhaps, my lord,” Sebastian answered when she knew not what to say. His tone was casual, but the muscles in his arm went a little tighter around her shoulder, subtly letting her know that, should she need him, he was there to protect her.

  The king's gaze lingered a moment longer, then flicked past Zahirah to the caravan of supplies. “Did we lose much in the skirmish?”

  “Three of my men are dead, as is the caravan foreman,” Sebastian replied. He waited as the king dismounted, then left Zahirah to walk with his liege around the carts to inspect the condition of the caravan. “We lost some of the grain to spillage and scorching, but the bulk of the shipment is intact.”

  “Excellent.” Lionheart gestured two of his soldiers forward with a curl of his gauntlet-covered hand. “Wixley, Fallonmour--assist Montborne's men in transferring the spilled supplies to the carts. And remove these dead beasts from the road. I want to be loaded and en route to Darum within the hour.”

  “My lords!” shouted one of the crusaders. He pointed toward the thicket of brush off to the distant left, where one of Halim's surviving soldiers was attempting to flee.

  The king seemed wholly unfazed. He pivoted his head toward a huge knight clad in black chain mail, and gave a curt nod. Like a hound of hell suddenly unleashed, the warrior broke from Lionheart's ranks astride an ebony destrier. He gave the beast his spurs and sped across the plain, easily flushing the straggling fida'i out of hiding before cutting him down with a mighty sweep of his sword.

  Zahirah looked on in horror as another assassin soldier pulled himself to his feet and tried to run for cover. Limping from his injuries, he did not get far. The king's demon warrior wheeled his mount on it hocks and gave chase with a roar. He bore down upon the fida'i within mere moments, cleanly beheading him in mid-stride.

  “Don't watch, lass,” whispered the voice of Sebastian's lieutenant from where he now stood beside her. He caught her chin and turned her face away from the carnage. “Blackheart takes no prisoners, and no one possessing a soul should be made to witness him in action.”

  But there was little need to see in order to understand what was taking place in the field. The moans and prayers of Zahirah's wounded clansmen were silenced one by one as the devil knight and two companions swept the outlying plain and road, efficiently executing every last man.

  Less than an hour later, the caravan was reassembled and once again on the road for Darum, led this time by the formidable duo of Sebastian and the English king. Zahirah rode along near the rear of the group with Logan, who gently schooled her gaze back to the fore when she pivoted in her saddle, compelled to take one last glimpse of the smoking plain and bleak, body-strewn field she was leaving behind.

  “The future lies this way, lass,” he said, indicating the horizon with a sweep of his hand. “There's no sense in looking back.”

  Zahirah nodded, but her smile felt weak on her trembling lips. Despite her bravado with Halim, she could not deny the truth in his accusation. She had indeed betrayed her clan today. A betrayal that had cost many lives. And when she looked ahead of her, feeling her heart clench to gaze upon the proud carriage and handsome features of Sebastian of Montborne, she feared a future that would soon force her to betray her clan again . . . or commit the greater sin of betraying her own heart.

  * * *

  They reached the English king's army near Darum some five hours later. It was twilight in the dune-set encampment, the sun having dipped behind the score of Christian tents assembled on the plain, making way for night to rise in deepening shades of azure and ruby-gold. Around the camp, soldiers busied themselves with various tasks. Some scoured weapons; some tended cook fires; still others cared for the injured, those men wounded in previous battles or made sick from lack of water and the stinging bites of the desert's vicious black flies.

  Every man able rose to his feet and cheered when King Richard arrived, Lionheart proudly heading up the caravan of supplies as if the victory over the ambushers had been his personal triumph, more than it belonged to Sebastian and his few troops. Zahirah glanced to Sebastian to gauge his reaction to the king's assumption of credit, but his face showed no trace of resentment. He was not the sort to crave recognition or praise, she realized, watching as Sebastian coolly accepted the greetings and good-natured jests of some of the other soldiers who came forward to welcome him to the camp. Indeed, in that moment, Sebastian seemed more kingly than the king, the black-haired captain's tall stature and easy, noble demeanor setting him apart from the ranks of the common men who swarmed around the caravan.

  Zahirah's pulse gave a little jump of pride as she surreptitiously watched him reunite with soldiers and friends he had likely fought beside in the months before his injury had grounded him at Ascalon. As if he sensed her warm regard, he glanced back and caught her looking at him. His gaze met hers and lingered, intense despite the buzz of activity around him.

  There was desire in his eyes, and an unspoken invitation in his smile that sent a tingle of awareness through her. Zahirah bit her lip to keep from beaming back at him, mindful of the curious stares she was now receiving from several of the Frankish knights.

  “A feast this evening!” shouted the king, his baritone voice immediately turning all heads toward him as he dismounted from his prancing, huffing steed. He waved some of the men forward to begin unloading the goods from the camels and carts. “We've foodstuffs and wine, and great cause to celebrate. Today's victory was but a taste of the glory soon to be ours when we march on Jerusalem!”

  “God wills it!” came the collective reply from the soldiers. Bedraggled and weary, the crusaders roused to their king's call of war, applauding and chanting, “Help, help, for the Holy Sepulcher! Death to the infidels!”

  Zahirah felt as uncomfortable as her suddenly skittish mare amid the throng of rallying Franks. She tried to calm the beast, but in the end it was Sebastian who gentled the sleek black horse. He did not join his countrymen in their fervent song and shouts of war. Instead, he swung down off his destrier and walked to Zahirah's side, calming her mare with low, soothing words as he stroked its sweat-sheened neck. Then he turned to Zahirah and offered her a hand in dismounting. “The king has arranged a tent for me here in the camp,” he said. “I warrant you'll be more comfortable there, my lady.”

  She nodded, grateful for the opportunity to remove herself from the boisterous crowd of knights. Sebastian assisted her to the ground, then led her into the heart of the encampment. Along the way, they came upon a red-striped tent, set off on its own near the pen containing the army's horses. From within the tent came the sound of women talking and laughing in Arabic, the chorus of feminine chatter punctuated now and then by the hollow thump of a drum or the soft jingle of bells and tambourine. Dancing girls, she realized as she and Sebastian approached the pavilion and Zahirah ventured a glance inside.

  The front of the tent was rolled high to permit fresh air and easy entry, the open portal shaded by an awning that was held up by tall,
twin poles and flanked by burning torch lights. Inside, incense and opium burned, the curling tendrils of smoke wreathing the heads of five young Saracen women who lounged like odalisques in a harem. The dancers sprawled on cushions and carpets in various states of undress, their comely faces unveiled, dark hair unbound, modesty clearly unabashed, garbed as they were in filmy silk pantalets and skin-exposing bodices that left little to the imagination.

  They giggled over something one of them said, but their prattle ceased the instant their eyes lit on Sebastian. The one holding the tambourine rose up from her reclined position and sauntered forward with a fluid grace, the bangles on her wrists and ankles ringing with tinny music as she moved. She posed herself artfully near the mouth of the tent and gave Sebastian an inviting smile, revealing a bright gold tooth that glimmered in the wavering flames of the torches.

  “Well come, my most hand some lord,” she said in the crusaders' tongue, her speech heavily accented and halting, but the gleam in her eye requiring no interpretation. She wrapped one hennaed hand around the tent pole and slid her fingers suggestively up and down the length of it. “You like, Fahimah play for you.”

  Sebastian's head turned, though he all but ignored the comely young woman's offer, his long-legged strides slowing not the least as he passed her and her whispering companions. Taking Zahirah's hand in his, he turned down a boot-worn track that led toward the row of colorless silk tents belonging to the king and his officers. A yellow-haired Frankish youth met them halfway. A mere boy, Zahirah corrected as the lad jogged forth to greet them, his ruddy pink cheeks seeming scarcely old enough to grow the sparse beard that fuzzed them like the skin of a peach.

  “My lord Montborne,” he said, bobbing his head before Sebastian. “This way, if you please. I will show you to your quarters.”

  The lad brought them to the designated tent, then pulled back the flap to permit them entry. The shaded space was empty of its prior occupant and sparsely furnished with bedroll, table, and a single wooden stool. A half dozen overlaying carpets covered the earthen floor of the pavilion, their Arabic weaves of russet, gold, and green glowing warmly in the scant light of an oil lamp that burned at the edge of the squat, scarred table.