Adam of Albion

by Kim McMahon

  “The Templar who’s doing all the yelling—his name’s Gerard de Chavirage,” Orpheus answered. “He’s another guy who can’t be trusted, a loose cannon who’s caused a lot of trouble—and gotten a lot of people killed.” Then his eyes suddenly widened. “Oh-ho—this is interesting. Saladin and Richard aren’t supposed to be here, themselves—kings don’t negotiate directly with kings. But see that Templar over toward the far right, the burly one with the reddish blond beard? That’s Richard in disguise, I’m sure of it. He must have decided this was too important to miss, even if he is sick.”

  Adam stared in disbelief. He, puny little Adam Keane from Montana, was actually looking at the legendary king and warrior, Richard the Lionheart! He was sweating heavily and looked uncomfortable, probably because of his fever, and there was nothing to distinguish him from the other Templars—he had the same heavy beard and tight chainmail cap that covered most of his head. But there was no mistaking the bold eyes and iron jaw of a man who gave orders but didn’t take them.

  “Do you think Saladin might be here, too?” Adam whispered.

  “Good question. According to history, they never actually met face to face, but it’s possible. He’d be in disguise, too, and it’s hard to tell.” Like the Templars, the Muslim soldiers had thick beards, and they’d thrown folds of their cloaks across their lower faces to shield against the dust.

  Then, while Adam and Artemis were trying to imagine which one Saladin might be, Orpheus started bouncing up and down, thumping against Adam’s back.

  “There! On the white stallion—the Grand Vizier,” Orpheus hissed.

  The Vizier came riding up, accompanied by several more soldiers, with the air of being fashionably late. His face, even from a distance, looked haughty and cruel. He stood out from the plainly dressed soldiers because of his jewel-clasped turban, his rich robe—and his saddle. It was also rich-looking, embossed with gold—and it sported a large, heavy pommel.

  Just slightly bigger than Orpheus.

  “That’s where OToo is—inside the pommel?” Artemis whispered.

  Orpheus nodded himself almost frantically. “And Eurydice’s still inside him—or me, or whoever it is,” he said, with a tremor in his voice again. “I can’t believe I’m this close to her, after so long!”

  The Vizier reined up next to one of the soldiers in the ranks, a lean, hawk-nosed man dressed in plain warrior’s garb like his comrades. But now Adam noticed that he had the same kind of piercing, commanding gaze as King Richard—and the Vizier seemed deferential to him, bowing slightly as they talked.

  “How about him, Orph—could that be Saladin?”

  “I think it must be—the Vizier wouldn’t be nearly so respectful to anyone else.”

  This couldn’t get crazier, Adam thought.

  “Adam, do you have a plan?” Artemis said anxiously. “We must be close to the time when it happens.”

  “Any minute now,” Orpheus confirmed, sounding more anxious still.

  Adam stared at the fierce soldiers, their restless mounts, the scene simmering with barely contained violence. His heart was pounding like a war drum at a Blackfeet Indian powwow.

  “I’m going to act like I’m one of the grooms and get right in there,” he whispered. “Artemis, pretend you’re a serving girl, and stay as close to us as you can. If I can get hold of that pommel, I’ll run like hell—you run to meet me, and Orph, you open up the wormhole as soon as we’re together.”

  “Oh, do be careful, Adam,” she breathed, lowering her veil a little. Her eyes were shining with excitement and worry, and she caught his hand and gave it a squeeze.

  He nodded, not even trying to talk—he was working on swallowing that familiar lump in his throat.

  SEVENTEEN

  Breathing hard, fighting panic, Adam slipped quickly through the crowd until he got to where the grooms were waiting to tend the warriors’ mounts. He was worried that he looked as scared as he felt, but no one seemed to pay him any attention—they were all riveted on the unfolding drama, as the two emissaries kept shouting and the others looked angrier with every exchange. He kept edging along, finally coming within twenty feet of the Grand Vizier—as close as he dared to get.

  Everything hung there, in that state of seeming unreal and yet all too terribly real, for maybe another minute.

  Then, out of nowhere, a black blur of motion just seemed to appear.

  It was one of the Assassins, on foot and darting like an arrow toward the soldiers. Before anyone could move or even grasp what was happening, the Assassin’s arm whipped forward, hurling something straight at the Grand Vizier.

  Adam watched the object fly through the air, seeming to twist with a life of its own, and his hair lifted up off his neck as he realized what it was:

  A writhing, hissing snake, shining green in the sunlight, mouth opened wide and fangs bared!

  It landed in the stallion’s mane, and the big horse reared up in terror, dancing back on its hind legs and shaking its head wildly. The serpent went flying again.

  And so did the Grand Vizier. He tried to cling to the pommel but his grasp was wrenched free, and he sailed away with flailing arms and legs, hitting the ground with a thud that Adam could feel in his own bones. He’d been thrown from horses enough times to know it well.

  The simmering chaos erupted, with soldiers drawing their swords and spurring their mounts—ready to fight, but hesitating as if they weren’t quite sure what to fight about. Other men rushed to the Vizier to tend to him. The snake was on the ground in the middle of it all, slithering around demonically and striking at anything that came close. The Vizier’s stallion was still spooked, bucking and crow-hopping as it tried to get away.

  OToo, with Eurydice, was still in the saddle’s pommel!

  Adam broke into an all-out run to catch up with the horse—but he wasn’t the only one. Another of the Assassins appeared, this one on horseback with a scimitar in his hand, galloping straight toward the stallion. As he reached it, he swept the sword across the saddle in a fierce slash.

  The pommel arced skyward like a lobbed baseball.

  The Assassin reined his horse up hard, wheeling around to chase the pommel. But Adam was ahead of him—and once again, his fear was suddenly gone and he knew exactly what to do. Time seemed to slow to a crawl and the rest of the world dropped away. There was only that leather orb spinning through the air, and him racing after it with everything he had, hands stretched out to reel it in.

  But just as it was falling into his grasp, the thunder of hooves seemed to explode in his ears—and a heavy boot thrust against his shoulder, knocking him off his feet to skid sprawling on the ground.

  Numb with shock, Adam could only watch the Assassin gallop on past him and pluck the pommel smoothly out of the air. But instead of racing away with it, he seemed to fumble with it for a few seconds, and then craned around in his saddle and hurled it back into the cluster of knights.

  One of them reached up and caught it, with a hand encased in a chain mail war glove. Adam could just make out through the swirl of dust, horses, and human bodies, that the man was a Templar.

  Then it was over. The whole thing had taken maybe twenty seconds.

  Now the Assassin was at full gallop again, and his comrades swooped in to join him, all of them riding hell for leather toward the barren, hilly desert country to the east. Neither the Crusaders nor Saladin’s men made any move to follow them—as busy as they were with their own melee, most of them probably hadn’t even seen this sideshow.

  But Adam knew what had happened—the Assassin’s nimble fingers had pulled Eurydice out of OToo’s skull during those few seconds, and now she was gone. As the crushing reality came hammering down on him, he collapsed, hugging the ground with his bruised, skinned up arms.

  “I blew it, Orph,” he said, with sobs of misery welling up in his throat.

  “Don’t beat yourself up, Adam. You made a great try—it was just impossible. Let’s find Artemis and get you two home safe.�
� He sounded sad but calm. It was, after all, what he’d expected.

  Adam gazed helplessly at the band of black-robed figures dwindling into a distant cloud of dust—and then noticed that one of them was lagging behind, trying to catch up. This rider, and his horse, seemed smaller than the others—and unlike them, without a red sash.

  Then he caught a glimpse of a few locks of hair escaping from under the rider’s black hood, flowing behind him like a pennant. They were very long—and the hair was white blond.

  “Look—it’s Artemis!” he hissed, rolling onto his side and swinging the sack around so Orpheus could see. The insane little twit had stolen a pack pony and she was chasing after Eurydice!

  “I knew she was trouble,” Orpheus muttered.

  Adam jumped to his feet, tears forgotten. He had to catch her—if they weren’t together when Orpheus’s time limit ran out, she’d be stuck here, and probably live the rest of her life as a harem slave.

  He looked around desperately for a horse that he could steal. The Vizier’s stallion was loping away and out of reach—Adam would never catch it in time. But there were several others, spooked by the snake and the confusion, trotting around restlessly. One in particular caught his eye, a beautiful Arabian chestnut mare with white-socked ankles. She must have belonged to one of the Muslim soldiers, which would make getting away with her a very risky proposition. But nobody seemed to be watching her just then, and he could tell she was strong and fast. With a good head start, he just might be able to outrun pursuit.

  There was no more time to think about it—it was now or never.

  Adam walked toward her, moving carefully to not spook her further, and calling out quietly, “Whoa, baby, whoa, it’s okay.”

  She shook her head, snorting, but she didn’t run away—she turned to face him and waited nervously. She was obviously well trained, and she’d learned to trust a human who approached her right—she wanted him to make things safe. But her fear warred with that, and Adam was a stranger.

  Adam started crooning the old lullaby his mother used to sing when he was young. It had always worked on him, and it seemed to work on horses, too. He didn’t think the words had anything to do with it—maybe it was the soothing tone of voice, or maybe the soothing itself got translated. Whatever it was, he was convinced that horses understood humans better than the other way around.

  But when he reached out to take her reins, her fear suddenly won, and she reared up, threatening him with her flailing front hooves. Adam was almost under them by then, but he held his ground, still crooning softly—letting her know that he understood her terror, but that was over. He was here to care for her.

  The hooves stomped back down to earth, just missing him. She half-circled back and forth a couple of times, snorting and pawing—and then, with a little whinny that was part complaint and part relief, she lowered her muzzle into his outstretched hand, relaxing her flattened ears and rolling eyes.

  Adam stroked her muscular sweaty neck, pressing his forehead against it and inhaling her musty scent. For a few precious seconds they stood still like that, reaching a wordless understanding.

  Then, just as he was about to swing himself up on her back, Orpheus started butting frantically against him again—like he was trying to send a Morse code message with his forehead, because he didn’t dare speak out loud.

  Adam spun around—and almost let out a yelp of terror. Standing five feet away was one of the Muslim soldiers, who’d come up on him so stealthily he hadn’t heard a sound.

  The man was lean, hawk-nosed, handsome in a weathered way. His beard was streaked with gray, but there was nothing about him that seemed old—he bristled with energy and power.

  And his right hand was gripping his sword hilt. There was zero doubt that it could be out of its sheath and slashing across Adam’s throat in a heartbeat.

  His fierce, piercing gaze held Adam petrified. Especially because it was starting to sink into him that this wasn’t one of Saladin’s soldiers.

  This was the great Sultan himself. His face had been half-covered when Adam had seen him in the ranks, but there was no mistaking those eyes.

  Then, with a sickening jolt, Adam remembered that Saladin had been astride a chestnut horse with four white socks. There was only one of those around here—this one.

  Adam had just tried to steal the Sultan’s own, personal mount.

  His knees turned to jelly. He had to hold onto the horse’s neck to stay on his feet.

  Saladin stepped toward him. Adam closed his eyes, waiting to die.

  But instead, he felt a callused hand brush his cheek—not in a harsh way or a slap, but a touch that seemed somehow exploratory.

  He dared to open his eyelids enough so he could peer out. Saladin was holding up his own hand to the sunlight, examining his fingertips—which were darkened by the walnut juice dye, still damp on Adam’s face.

  The Sultan’s lips curved in the faintest hint of a smile.

  “I see that we have more than one thing to talk about, young groom,” he said, in a deep voice that rasped as if a lifetime of desert sands spoke through it. “But let me start with a compliment. I watched you handle Zuleika—” he patted the mare’s flank affectionately— “and I’m most impressed. She doesn’t lightly tolerate others than myself.” The horse whinnied and bobbed her head up and down, as if agreeing.

  Adam decided he must be so scared he was hallucinating. He could not have heard what he thought he’d just heard.

  “Th—th—th—thank you, sir,” he managed to get out.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  Adam nodded timidly.

  “Then you have the advantage on me. Your name?”

  “Adam.”

  “Adam,” the Sultan said approvingly. “A fine name—the father of us all. But it’s not common among my people.” He glanced at his walnut dyed fingertips again. “You’ve darkened your skin to disguise yourself. And while I understand your words well enough, they fall strangely on my ear. Where do you come from?”

  Adam hesitated. The answer that Artemis had given Mustafa, from a faraway time and place, was not going to fly.

  “It’s called America,” he said. “It’s kind of on the other side of the world, and it hasn’t been discovered yet.”

  Saladin frowned, his forehead wrinkling. He was probably trying to decide if Adam was outright crazy.

  “I swear, I’m telling the truth, sir. And I’m not going to cause any harm to anything or anybody,” Adam pleaded, figuring it couldn’t hurt to follow Artemis’s lead on this one.

  Saladin rumbled with a throaty laugh. “It comforts me greatly to know that my soldiers and I are in no danger from you.”

  Adam’s face flushed with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean it like that—just in general.”

  “You’re not with the Crusaders and their army, then?”

  “No, sir—not at all.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’ll try to explain, but it’s complicated.”

  Saladin exhaled, somewhat impatiently. “Very well—let’s find a more civilized place to talk. But tell me this—how did you get the skin dye for your disguise, and the clothing of a stable groom?”

  Damn! Adam groped frantically for a way around bringing Mustafa into this, but came up empty.

  “I—I don’t want to get anybody in trouble,” he stammered.

  “Unless this anybody does intend harm, they have nothing to fear. Saladin does not punish the innocent.”

  “A groom—a boy about my age, named Mustafa. But please believe me—he was only trying to help me. We’re not up to anything.”

  Saladin nodded—seeming, Adam saw with relief, to accept Mustafa’s innocence. Then his gaze turned away, to follow the galloping Assassins, now almost disappeared in the distance.

  Except for Artemis, straggling along behind them on her little beast of burden and losing ground, but not giving up.

  “Are you worried about your friend?” Saladin asked, po
inting at her.

  Adam’s mouth fell open. How did Saladin know? Had Mustafa ratted them out after all? He didn’t think so—Mustafa was too smitten with Artemis to break his promise, and besides, he’d only been out of their sight for the few minutes when he ran to the marketplace.

  But one thing Adam was already flat dead certain of—you had better not lie to this man. Tell him the truth, even if it’s the last thing in the world you want to admit.

  “Yes, sir,” he quavered.

  “I can’t guarantee this, Adam. But my guess is that he—” Saladin paused, as if to suggest that he also knew that he was really a she— “will fall into good hands. In fact, he may well be safer there than here. At any rate, we must let him go, and may Allah grant a favorable outcome. There’s other important business to attend to right now.” He vaulted up onto the horse as naturally and gracefully as a gymnast.

  “Come!” he said, his voice now sharp with command. He reached down to clasp Adam’s forearm in a vise-like grip and swung the boy up behind him. They took off at a lope, but not back toward the meeting pavilion with its confused crowd scene.

  Instead, Saladin headed straight for Jerusalem, with its magnificent shining beacon, the Dome of the Rock.

  EIGHTEEN

  As Adam jounced along on Zuleika’s back, his heart was torn in several different directions. On the one hand, things just kept getting more incredible. Instead of being dead—which, by all odds, seemed the most likely thing that should have happened to him by now—here he was hanging out with the great Saladin, who had even complimented him on his horsemanship!

  But on the other hand, what a total bust this plan had turned out to be. He’d failed to recover Eurydice, and now she was long gone, with their hopes of finding her zilch. On top of that, Artemis had disappeared, and even though Saladin had kindly reassured him that she’d probably be okay, the chances of finding her seemed like zilch, too.

  If you took a really hard-eyed look at the situation, you were left with two kids and a dying runt of a head, trapped in a timewarp of almost a thousand years ago, in an utterly foreign and extremely violent land. They were as helpless as baby hamsters, and they didn’t have a clue what to do next.