Elisha Barber: Book One Of The Dark Apostle

by E. C. Ambrose

  The gray eyebrows dipped downward, and Mordecai dropped his hand, his head already shaking. “Too long in secret, Barber, I wouldn’t know how to undertake that. Only went to the river for a little company.”

  “But you’ve had surgical assistants,” Elisha protested, then wished he hadn’t reminded him as pain flashed across the other man’s face. “You know what I mean. I know I’m not worthy of such a teacher, I’m just—”

  “A barber? Can you still believe that? Dear boy, you are a miracle worker. I am grateful, of course I am.” He glanced away.

  A brief cloud of sadness passed over Elisha’s heart, causing the brand to ache. “No,” Elisha murmured, “I’m not sure you are.”

  As if unaware, Mordecai’s hand held one corner of the bloodied prayer shawl, his fingers running over the darker band where the hair was woven in. “Sarah,” he whispered, “My wife. Jacob, the eldest, Joshua, my little Rachel.” He blinked fiercely, and Elisha felt the tightening in his own throat as he knelt before the surgeon. “Baron brought me in to heal his son—a Jew, a last resort. Too late, of course. I had no choice but go.” His voice sank so low that Elisha felt the rumble of grief long held as if a storm approached across an empty sky. “We never have a choice, my people. I called even upon my skill, and could not save him. Such anger rose. I have never felt such anger. How could a Jew know what it was like to lose a child? We murdered Christ. We slay good Christian children for evil rites—the force of his anger almost overcame me. I went to the library at the college of surgeons. I sank myself in words until the weakness left me. I came home.” His voice died away completely.

  By instinct, Elisha reached out, setting his hand on Mordecai’s arm.

  “Too late.” A bitter echo through Elisha’s heart. “He made sure I understood.”

  After a moment, Elisha swallowed his own pain and weakness. He wondered if Mordecai had ever considered the desperate notion that captured him in his grief. “Do you believe in the Bone of Luz?”

  Mordecai stirred slightly. “I have been a surgeon longer than you have been alive, and I have never found evidence of that. However they are to be raised up, it is not for man to know.”

  Elisha longed to offer some comfort, even some condemnation of the terrible injustice, but he was spent, and this grief was too old, too deep for any words to reach it. The knowledge fell heavily upon him that his own quest for resurrection had been a fool’s errand. Slowly, Elisha withdrew his hand and laced his fingers together.

  A thoughtful movement of Mordecai’s right hand brushed his wiry gray hair across the thinning patch atop his head. “If you’ll excuse me a moment?”

  Elisha scrambled up, swaying a little. “Of course. I’ll wait outside. I don’t want—” He shrugged. “I can’t leave you alone.”

  “Understood.” He hunched on the bed, waiting.

  Drawing the door shut behind him, Elisha propped himself against the wall. The memory of death chilled him even across such a distance. He tucked his hands into his armpits to stop them shaking.

  “Elisha Barber!” a voice shouted from outside, and Elisha jerked upright.

  Footsteps echoed on the stairs. “Elisha Barber!”

  “I’m here,” he called. No good in hiding from them now.

  Cautiously, the guard peered around the corner, then stepped into view with two of his fellows behind him. “Get a move on, then,” he snapped, but a cross of newly whittled branches hung around his neck along with a sprig of something fragrant.

  “I’ll be down,” Elisha said, softly but firmly.

  Glancing at his companions, the guard adjusted his helmet strap, then nodded once. “Hurry it up.” They turned and descended in a clatter.

  After they’d gone, the door opened at Elisha’s side, and Mordecai stepped out, clad in a long, hooded robe, his prayer shawl out of view. He was stuffing the remaining pages of his brutalized prayer book into an inner sleeve. “Shame I have no knowledge of deflection. Always meant to learn.” Looking up to Elisha’s face, he gave a brief smile, as if to show he’d recovered, but Elisha saw a few more lines around those eyes, and Mordecai gave up the pretense. “Shouldn’t be around you so much—I’ll have no secrets.”

  Elisha offered a rueful smile of his own. “At the very least, you shouldn’t try to cheat if we gamble together.”

  “If we partnered, though, could be a new line of work.” Mordecai flipped up the hood to hide his face, and slipped his arms deep into the sleeves.

  They descended carefully, both still weak, and stopped for a breath at the landing. How they were ever to cross as far as the castle, Elisha had no idea. Perhaps the duke was eager enough for his company that he would send out a carriage. Lord only knew what the man wanted to begin with.

  Together, they took the last few steps and emerged into the sunlight. Two dozen men awaited them, and the leader stepped up quickly, though he halted a few paces short, scowling. “Who’s that then?”

  “Ah, my assistant. I can’t leave him.”

  “We don’t have orders for that,” the man replied.

  Elisha gave a savage grin. “Then maybe I should go before the king to explain.” He took a step forward, projecting menace.

  “Still don’t know why we’re not gathering wood for the stake.” The leader narrowed his eyes. “Take him, then, just let’s be off.”

  The man radiated tension, poised for violence, and Elisha felt impressed with himself all over again. Apparently, his ruse at the bridge had gained him more than the chance to retrieve Mordecai: he had earned the fear of the king’s men. Good.

  As they began the long walk, Mordecai swayed, and Elisha shot out a hand to steady him.

  One of the guards falling in behind let out a derisive snort. “Assistant? He’s got a woman under there!”

  Elisha nearly succumbed to another fit of giggles, and the hooded head rose with a note of indignation. Smothering the laughter, Elisha turned his gaze ahead, to the rough ground of the battlefield and the distant ramparts of the castle. As he gazed, the drawbridge inched downward, and finally lay open. A small group crossed over and started on their way.

  As they walked, sun beat down on Elisha’s dark hair, and he could only imagine how Mordecai must be sweating in his heavy robe. Since that moment in the chamber, Mordecai guarded his every emotion and sensation. Exhaustion crept through, however, and a nagging ache at the sight of his injury. Amputees often complained of feeling the need to scratch their missing limb, and Elisha wondered if Mordecai might now and again feel as if his hand were still lost.

  After all the events of this day, Elisha found it amusing that he retained any scientific interest at all.

  Still, as the walk wore on, entering the realm of pitted earth and ruined engines of war, sweat trickled down Elisha’s neck, stinging the rope’s path like a thousand insects. He flicked his hair, but it wasn’t long enough any more to relieve that tingle. He gritted his teeth and walked on, turning his mind to the question of the assassination he had agreed to perform.

  This duke seemed a man of honor, from Elisha’s brief meeting, but who could tell with a nobleman? And did not the lives of all Elisha’s friends outweigh this one? Assuming the king could be trusted to let them go, especially after Elisha’s little show on the riverbank. He tried to think of a way around their bargain, a way to counterfeit death, but the body in the river was an obstacle he could not surmount, not without much more knowledge than he possessed. If he got a chance on their arrival, he would consult with Mordecai, to see if he might have any suggestions. Of course, once they got there, he had no guarantee of how they would be treated. Not knowing what the duke wanted left him at a severe disadvantage. Perhaps the messenger-prince had spun some tale about Elisha’s value, or perhaps the wounded earl—the very reason Elisha had come face to face with Duke Randall—had begged his life, if he’d been aware enough to know who tended him.

  In front of him, the lead guards suddenly halted, calling out.

  The party of the
duke’s men had met them, exchanging salutes. As they separated, Elisha saw the figure of Prince Alaric, grubby and still clad in his messenger’s garb. One of the men leaned down and worked the lock on his manacles. Rubbing his wrists, the young man started forward, entering the company of the king’s guards.

  From behind, someone screamed.

  Piercing Elisha to the heart, the shriek rang on the wind, then was silenced by a crunch that sickened him even at this distance. Elisha whirled in time to see a second figure brought out atop the tower. He reeled. “No!” he shouted to the treacherous king. “No! You promised me time!”

  Elisha started to run, but his guards had already drawn their swords, as if they’d been waiting for the signal of that scream. A breath of steel wind slashed at his back, and Elisha threw himself to the ground.

  Someone grunted and rolled.

  The startled guards hesitated, giving Elisha enough time to scramble back to his feet.

  The lead man lay gaping, a dagger stuck in his side.

  Standing over him, the prince flashed a familiar smile. “That’s one I owe you, Barber.”

  “What the devil is going on here?” Elisha cried.

  Knocked down in the scuffle, Mordecai stayed on the ground, one hand holding his hood in place.

  Feet approached behind, and Elisha stiffened, but Prince Alaric called out, “You men, stop there!” He leaned to the guard he had killed and took the dead man’s sword. “My father made a bargain. Surely you’re meant to carry it out.”

  Arrayed behind him, the duke’s men likewise froze, exchanging worried looks, hands gripping their sword hilts.

  “We got orders, Highness,” one of the king’s men said, advancing.

  Elisha darted a glance back, then returned his eyes to the prince.

  “What orders?”

  “To fetch ’im back to justice, alive or dead, once we had you. ’e’s a witch, Yer Highness! Take care.”

  Throwing up his hands, the prince replied, “He’s a barber, you fools. He saved my life not long past.”

  “We’ve got orders: Get ye back, and get rid of ’im!”

  The prince eyed Elisha sidelong, his hesitation just enough for his father’s men. The king’s guards sprang forward, several of them rushing to encircle Duke Randall’s soldiers as well. Even if the prince did choose Elisha’s side, the duke’s men were sorely outnumbered.

  Rolling out of range for the nearest man, Elisha crawled toward Mordecai, reaching for attunement at the same time, despite his thundering heart. Neither of them was armed, but they might at least watch each other’s backs using every sense at their disposal. As he approached, the hooded figure rose in a swift movement, throwing off the hood.

  “Behold! I rise again!” Mordecai cried in a voice like thunder. Elisha froze in astonishment.

  “It’s the Jew!” called a panicky guard.

  “Kill the witch!” the leader roared in turn.

  A few men backed away, but a booted foot struck the small of Elisha’s back, shoving him down to the dirt, knocking the breath out of him. The brand flared into terrible life on his chest, igniting the series of burns down his arm, and Elisha cried out.

  He grabbed at the ankle, struggling to dislodge it as a sword flashed in the corner of his eye. He had not even a seed of grass to defend himself and a sudden cold shivered through him like Death’s own laughter.

  Chapter 35

  Then, through the disturbed earth, Elisha heard hoofbeats. Many horses, riding hard from the direction of the duke’s castle. The king’s treachery had not gone unnoticed.

  “Lord preserve us!” cried Elisha’s attacker.

  “To the prince!” shouted another.

  As they regrouped, the leader ordered, “Bring him!”

  A mailed hand grabbed hold of Elisha’s shirt hauling him up and dragging him in the opposite direction.

  As he fought to get himself loose, Elisha caught sight of Mordecai, sprinting for one of the fallen siege towers. As if feeling the glance, the surgeon flashed him a look and dove for cover. Beyond, Duke Randall’s cavalry came on, fifty horses, followed by men on foot. Elisha lost his tenuous footing, and was pulled headlong back toward the king’s encampment.

  He finally got one leg under him and launched himself ahead, tangling into the legs of his captor.

  Both went down hard. As Elisha clambered up again, he heard another shriek on the wind, another resounding crack. Had it been Ruari, or one of Madoc’s men? Christ!

  With a glance to be sure Mordecai was safe, Elisha started to run. One way and another, the king would have him back: best return of his own free will and see what he could make of it. Unarmored and urgent, he quickly outstripped most of the king’s guards.

  He caught sight of the prince in the midst of a ring of soldiers, all moving toward the king’s encampment. “Go, Barber!” the prince shouted, his mouth dropping into a mask of surprise as Elisha ran up, dodging a guard’s hasty swing.

  “You’re going the wrong way!” Prince Alaric pushed through for a moment, and Elisha hesitated, meeting those familiar blue eyes.

  “He’s got Brigit,” Elisha snarled.

  The eyes flared wide as the prince caught his lip between his teeth and let it free. “But why?”

  Even as Elisha turned away, panting, he saw the darkening of recognition in the other man’s face.

  His heart in his cramped throat, Elisha ran toward the royal encampment. What would he do—what could he possibly do?

  Suddenly, the hoofbeats caught up to him. “Holy Cross, man, what are you thinking?” someone snapped down over the battle-ready snorting of his steed.

  At that moment, Elisha didn’t know. But he must try to reach the hostages, try to figure out a way. His head swam with the urgency of his need, and the futility of his action. The king would shatter them all by the time he could get back.

  “Get to the castle, you fool! Don’t put me through this for nothing!”

  His hands balled into fists, he risked a sidelong look at the horseman who kept pace with him.

  Duke Randall’s round face watched him from the frame of his helmet, his visor thrown back. “I dunno what’s going on, but Hugh’s got no more patience for you, that’s for sure.”

  “He’s taken my friends!” Elisha shouted, turning back to his path to leap over a fallen soldier.

  “My God, man, what for?”

  Gritting his teeth, Elisha said, “If I don’t kill you, he’ll kill them, but he’s already started.”

  “He’s got no honor,” the duke fumed. The horse lunged ahead, then made a tight circle to come up beside him, slowing.

  A hand snatched at Elisha’s arm.

  “Come on!”

  Stunned, Elisha tripped, then righted himself.

  “Hurry.”

  He locked his hand around the duke’s upper arm. Swinging himself up to the horse’s rump, he clung to the saddle.

  “Let’s meet the snake in his lair,” the duke muttered into the wind.

  Tightening his grip on the saddle, Elisha struggled to maintain his balance, the natural impulse to embrace the rider thwarted by breast and back plates. Sword and twin daggers hung at the duke’s sides, and he ducked low against the horse’s neck, letting him run. In a moment, it could be over, Elisha saw with instant clarity. A slash from a stolen dagger, even a well-placed shove could send the duke tumbling back to be trampled by his own horsemen. The king on his tower had planned all of this, the hostages merely a way to keep hold of Elisha. He would be watching now, his two enemies coming on one horse. If Elisha carried out the deed, the king might be surprised into lenience. He would fulfill the bargain just to learn why Elisha had done it.

  “Will you?” the duke called over his shoulder.

  “What?” Wind whipped tears from Elisha’s eyes.

  “Will you kill me! It’s your best chance right now!”

  Elisha wet his lips and swallowed. The life of this one nobleman could hardly outweigh those of Madoc’s
regiment, or his friend Ruari—assuming they had not already died. Or Brigit. Her face flashed before him, green eyes glittering.

  His wrists throbbed with the effort of hanging on, and Elisha shut his eyes against the wind, his head lowered into the shield of the duke’s broad shoulders. He had conquered Death today, would he now become its ally?

  “God damn me for a fool,” he muttered, his face twisted into a bitter smile.

  “I thought not,” the duke replied. “You love life too much.” He spurred the horse a little harder. “Then let’s take the bastard down.”

  As he listened to the snorting of the horse, he remembered the stillness as they’d left camp, the lowered flaps on the lords’ tents, the strange rustle by the river. The king’s camp seemed deserted, his men vanished. Or hidden. Why start killing Elisha’s friends? Because Elisha had no choice but to respond. Why order his men to disrupt the prisoner exchange? For the very same reason: the duke’s honor would never stand for it. “Your Grace! It’s a trap!”

  But they had already entered the river’s bend, the monastery looming up before them. Too late! In the cottage and hospital, the doors flew wide and soldiers poured forth. Mounted knights dashed around the corner, singing out their warcries.

  The duke pulled hard at the reins, wheeling about as he cursed.

  Elisha lost his grip and tumbled from the horse’s rump to roll hard along the ground. Curling into a ball, Elisha hid his head as a horse sprang over him. Metal clashed, and someone stumbled on top of him, falling in an arc of blood. His body seared Elisha with the freezing cold of death.

  He could feel it mounting all around him now. Horses whinnying their terror, men screaming and cursing and praying while that frigid wind passed through them. Yet they remained unaware.

  Elisha moaned, pushing the corpse away. The cold stung his fingers and burned his injured wrists, as if seeking its revenge.

  On the battlefield there was room to run. Here, the duke’s men were trapped, ambushed by a treacherous king who had baited his snare with Elisha himself. The duke had brought only fifty men—a show of strength to intimidate the king’s guards—and many of these were outside of the ring of battle, separated from the man they had sworn to serve.