by Kim McMahon
The smell was sickening enough—the two boys were practically gagging, and even Saladin’s guards, veteran warriors who were obviously used to this sort of thing, looked uncomfortable—but Adam’s imagination lit up with horrifying thoughts of what it would be like to get hacked and bludgeoned with sword, battleaxe, mace, your flesh ripped and bones smashed, then to lie helpless for weeks or months in the scorching desert heat. Not much could be done but bandaging wounds and sawing off gangrened limbs; there were no pills or injections to dull the agony, no antibiotics against infection, not even anything like television or books to help pass the endless hours. Many more died than lived, and those who did live went back to war to face more of the same, as soon as they were able. It wasn’t exactly what you saw on the big screen at the Cineplex.
As they approached, a tall, spare man who looked about forty stepped out to meet them. He was dressed like the soldiers with dusty boots and leggings, plus a black tunic with a splayed white cross on the front. He also had a long, well-used broadsword hanging from his belt of corded rope. His face was craggy, even harsh, although not in a hostile way—it was more like a road map of a really hard life. He didn’t seem even slightly fazed by the awful smell. He probably spent a lot of time around it.
“A Knight Hospitaller,” Orpheus whispered. “They guard pilgrims and tend to the wounded. They’re also warriors like the Templars and fight alongside them, but they don’t like each other.”
Hassan and Sayeed seemed to know him, and to respect him—they raised their hands in salute and called out greetings in Arabic, which he returned. Then his gaze shifted to Adam, and turned appraising.
“If the Sultan sends his favorite horse, this must be a special occasion,” he said. “What do you bring us?”
Hassan turned back in his saddle and motioned with his head for Adam to answer.
His heart was hammering harder. It was time for him to prove that he was worthy of Saladin’s trust. He slid off Zuleika’s back, thinking it would be more polite to approach on foot, and led her forward.
“A gift from the Sultan to King Richard, sir,” Adam said, and then, remembering what Saladin had said, he added, “I speak English.”
The tall man’s eyebrows rose.
“Indeed?” he said—also in English, although with an accent that might have been French or German. “I think the king will be as curious as I am. Who shall I tell him is calling on him—and riding Zuleika, no less?”
“My name’s Adam, sir.”
“Very well, Adam. Come along, I’ll take you to him.”
But by now, others had noticed their presence. As they started walking, two Templars on horseback came riding toward them. There was no polite dismounting here—they stayed in their saddles, looking belligerent and blocking the way.
Although Adam noticed that they didn’t get too close to the tall man, who seemed as unfazed by this as by everything else.
“You overstep yourself, Cristof!” one of them called out. “The cart must be examined before it’s taken to the King.”
Cristof! Adam registered. This was the knight who Saladin had said he could trust.
“The King’s body may be ailing, but as his physician, I assure you that his mind is in excellent condition,” Cristof answered, walking calmly onward. “He’s entirely capable of deciding for himself—and I suspect he’d be rather annoyed if you suggest otherwise.”
The Templars glowered angrily, but they reined their horses aside to let the group pass.
As they moved farther into the camp, the sickly smell gave way to the still strong but more wholesome odors of cook fires, dust, horses, and men who sweated a lot but rarely bathed. They headed toward a tent which, for a tent, looked fairly luxurious—carefully set up, spacious, and flying white pennants emblazoned with red crosses.
The emblem of King Richard the Lionheart.
Orpheus gave him a thump, as if to drive the point home. The Templars were still hovering around, fingering their sword hilts menacingly. Adam tried to follow as close behind the Hospitaller as he could without looking weird.
Cristof signaled him to wait and walked to the tent, parting the flaps and disappearing inside. After a minute or two, he stepped back out.
“The King wishes to see his gift—in privacy,” he called to the Templars. Scowling, they backed away.
Hassan nodded at Mustafa, who burrowed into the pile of wet straw and uncovered two ornate bronze chests the size of old-fashioned steamer trunks. Both were damp from the straw—but one seemed strangely more so, as if from condensation.
“This is for you, revered doctor,” Hassan said, pointing to the drier chest. “The Sultan sends it with his compliments—it contains herbs and other healing substances that he hopes will be useful to you.”
Cristof nodded with appreciation. “Please return my thanks to him—he may be sure I’ll put it to good use.”
“The other is for the King. It’s heavy—shall we bring it inside?”
Cristof gripped one of the handles and hefted it, lifting the end up off the cart.
“I think Adam and I can manage.”
Adam was startled, but he quickly took his cue and grabbed hold of the other handle, tensing his shoulder muscles as he took on the weight. It wasn’t so bad, about like a bale of wet hay. He followed Cristof into the tent, clinging to the handle like it was his last hold on life. They set the chest down, and Cristof stepped off to the side.
Adam was left standing there alone—face to face with King Richard the Lionheart.
Richard was wearing only a long plain tunic and sitting in a large chair made of wicker, probably because it was comparatively cool. He did look sick—although it was still early morning, his tunic was soaked with sweat, and his hair and beard were damp matted strands. But the knotty muscles in his bare calves were like footballs, and his hands could have snapped a steer’s leg. His famous battleaxe, its wicked double blades scarred from cleaving skulls, leaned against the chair within easy reach.
And his bold, commanding gaze was undimmed. In a way, it was like Saladin’s, although while the Sultan’s pierced, Richard’s bludgeoned.
Right now, it was hammering full blast at Adam.
“Open the chest, lad,” he growled. “But I promise you—if it’s another of those damned snakes like yesterday, you’ll go home inside there with it.”
Oh, no! Adam had been so relieved to convince himself it wasn’t a bomb, he hadn’t even thought about something like a snake. He remembered the airborne serpent at the skirmish, hissing and striking with vicious speed—remembered one time on the ranch when he’d disturbed a nest of rattlers that came boiling out like writhing furies, bent on killing the little boy running frantically away.
Trying to keep his hands from trembling, he knelt beside the chest and unsnapped the lid—then inhaled a quick deep breath and swung it open.
Richard’s glowering stare shifted to the chest’s contents and stayed there for several seconds, with his eyes widening in disbelief.
The chest was filled with a single large block of clear ice, sculpted into a perfect cube, its surface just starting to slicken from the heat.
Richard threw back his head and barked out a laugh. “Do my eyes deceive me, Cristof?”
“I think not, my lord,” the doctor said, with a craggy grin. “But let’s put it to the test.” He unsheathed his sword halfway and tapped a corner of the ice block with the hilt, breaking off a small chunk. He smelled it, rubbed it between his fingers, and tasted the moisture.
“From what I can tell, it’s as pure as Our Lady’s heart,” he said, handing the chunk to the King. Richard swathed it across his sweating forehead, then popped it gleefully into his mouth.
Adam sidled off to the side, lightheaded with relief. Whoever would have dreamed that ice would be such a big deal? In Montana, it was a nuisance you spent half the year fighting. But here, it would be much more rare than gold and jewels, and those wouldn’t keep you cool.
“Whe
re do you suppose he got it?” Richard demanded, crunching the ice between his teeth. “There can’t be any of this stuff for hundreds of miles.”
“I’ll ask.” Cristof stepped outside the tent briefly, talking with Hassan and Sayeed, then came back in. “The mountains of Lebanon. When he heard of your illness, he sent a team of his swiftest horsemen. They rode hard day and night, and only just returned. It’s a measure of his esteem for you.”
“Hah! A measure of how badly he wants me to get out of his land, more likely,” Richard declared—but jovially.
“That, too,” Cristof agreed.
“If only my friends had a thousandth part the grace of this enemy! I’d throw my arms around the old rogue if he was here. But I’ll throw them around his gift, you may be sure. Have my tub filled, will you, Cristof? Hack me off a few chunks to throw in, and take the rest for your wounded—it will ease their day a little.”
With the King’s mood so pleased, Adam gauged that now was the time to carry out the rest of his instructions.
“The Sultan sends his best wishes and his hopes that your health will improve, sir,” he said, still fighting a tremor in his voice. “And he swears on his honor that he had nothing to do with that snake, or any of the rest of it yesterday. He was as surprised as everyone else. He also sends you this.” He stepped forward, bending one knee in what he hoped was an appropriate gesture of deference, and handed Richard the scroll.
Abruptly, the tent flap was thrown open and a Templar came striding in. Adam didn’t have any trouble recognizing his angry face.
Gerard de Chavirage.
Adam’s heart plunged. Things had been going so well!
“Don’t trust any of it, Richard—it’s a trick,” Chavirage said harshly. Then he swung toward Adam, with narrowed eyes that looked slightly unhinged. “This boy is going to tell us the truth—while his feet toast in a fire.”
Electrified with terror, Adam couldn’t even stammer a denial.
But Richard’s stare turned hard again, with a dangerous gleam—and this time, it was Chavirage in the gunsights.
“You are bold, lord Templar, to burst into my tent and speak to me so,” he said. “Have you forgotten that I am the King of England?”
“The Knights of the Temple know no other master than the pope,” Chavirage replied haughtily.
Richard’s face turned incredulous with rage.
“By God, ill though I may be, I’ll carve you up like a Christmas goose!” he fumed, gripping his battleaxe and lunging out of his chair.
Chavirage backed up quickly, his boldness vaporizing.
But Cristof, looking calm as ever, stepped between the two men and placed a restraining hand on the King’s chest, easing him back toward his chair.
“Your majesty, please,” Christof said. “My monks are weary of burying corpses—his will only be another burden.”
Chavirage shot him a venomous look. “You’ll pay for that remark, Cristof.”
Cristof smiled again—but this time, it was a very different kind of smile, one that Adam fervently hoped he’d never see aimed at him. The kindly seeming doctor obviously had another side to him—one that even the Templars didn’t want to cross. That sword hanging from his belt was no decoration.
“I’ll welcome the occasion, Gerard,” Cristof said. “Once the king’s business is concluded, I’m sure that you and I can find a moment in private—and settle our longstanding business.”
By now Chavirage was redfaced with fury, but obviously not going to do anything about it. He spun around and strode back to the tent’s entrance, with his gaze raking Adam as he passed.
Then, without a hint of warning, he swung the back of his gauntleted hand across Adam’s face. The smack was so hard it sounded like the crack of a bullwhip, and it lifted Adam clear off his feet and sent him sprawling. He lay there with his cheek stinging badly and the shock hurting worse.
As he struggled to get his feet under him, Cristof stepped over and gripped his arm, helping him to stand.
“Do you always make friends so easily, Adam?” Christof said, with his good smile back again. Richard joined in with his booming laugh.
Adam looked from one to the other of them, their faces showing the rough sympathy of men who knew exactly what he was going through, and who had gone through far worse themselves.
Shakily, surprised at how good it felt, he managed to laugh, too.
TWENTY-SIX
Artemis crouched down on the stone floor, trying to gather her thoughts and calm her breathing. She’d never been in darkness so absolute. Even when she’d played games as a little girl, daring herself to brave the depths of a cellar or hide in a closet, there was always some tiny bit of light from somewhere that her eyes would adjust to. But here, she literally couldn’t see her own pale hair.
And just as Theodora had warned, she was alone like she’d never been—especially because she wasn’t exactly alone. There were faint skittering sounds, high-pitched squeaks, and the soft rush of flapping wings. She had to fight off panic as her mind conjured up images of bats, rats, snakes, and all kinds of other creepy-crawlies sneaking around her.
She stood up hastily, feeling for the door she’d come through. Her fingers found a rough stone wall, but no trace of a seam—it was as if the door had disappeared.
Maybe it had, she thought queasily. At any rate, it was closed for good, and she couldn’t go back. She couldn’t just stand there in the dark, either. She was on a journey, which meant making progress. Her only chance was to find the other door, if she could.
If it really even existed.
But find it how? Which direction should she go?
The Artemis of only yesterday, the one who’d lived in England, would have simply charged forward. But this Artemis was wising up fast. That would be stupid at best, and maybe suicidal. She had to think her way through this, and it was a very different kind of thinking than she was used to—it wasn’t like a book or an equation she could decipher.
Start with what you know, like Adam says, she told herself. What she knew was the verse Theodora had given her.
In darkness find flint, with fire find glint, the strikes must be fierce, the false hearts to pierce.
There was plenty of darkness on hand, but that was no help. She clenched her eyes shut, which was a momentary improvement because at least she saw faint flickering patterns. But that wasn’t going to show her anything beyond her own eyelids.
Maybe just charging ahead wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
She took a deep breath, got another grip on herself, and went back to the verse. The next thing mentioned was flint—and that brought a little click in her mind. She’d never been a Girl Guide type—it was all very worthy, but their wardrobe was impossible, with no black clothes or makeup, and she couldn’t dream of anything more foreign to her nature than joining a troop of serious-minded, obedient girls led by tweedy matrons.
Still, she knew that flint was used to start fires. It was like a rock, right? Which you struck against something and it caused a spark.
Fine. Great. All she had to do now was find some flint, and then find something to light with it, all in total darkness.
She let out a little scream, cutting it short and listening for an echo that might give her some idea of how big this place was. But no echo returned.
Okay—it was big.
She put her hand back on the wall where the door had been. She might as well start moving along it—at least it would give her something to touch as a guide, instead of just blundering out into space. That narrowed it down to two directions, with one seeming as good, or bad, as the other. She mentally flipped a coin, and it came up tails. That, she decided, must mean the left-hand path—the way that was traditionally followed by seekers of arcane knowledge.
Slowly, cautiously, she started taking steps, feeling with her feet and groping with her outstretched free hand. Neither the stone wall nor the floor seemed to change except for unevenness in their rough surfaces.
The creepy sounds didn’t change, either. If anything, they seemed to be getting closer, like an invisible cloud gathering around her. She started walking faster.
Then she stepped on something that wasn’t hard stone. It was soft, rubbery—and through the thin sole of her sandal, she felt it squirm under her foot, and something scaly brushed against her bare ankle.
She let out another shriek, this time at top volume, and lost her cool so completely that she broke into a run.
That lasted exactly three steps. When her foot came down for the fourth, there was no floor under it.
For the next surreal instants, she seemed to be outside herself—watching her body keep running like a cartoon character, legs churning in midair. It felt like she’d never stop falling. But her martial arts training took over—she instinctively tucked up her knees to her chest, with her feet under her and her hands outspread, concentrating on her center. At the instant she touched ground again, landing on another stone floor, she flipped off to the side in a springing roll. It still knocked every whisper of breath out of her, she banged her head hard enough to multiply the stars in front of her eyes, and she knew she was going to be one big scraped up bruise. But she could tell that she was basically okay. If she hadn’t been so poised, she’d have broken her legs and very possibly her neck.
Although she was far from comfortable, lying there was still better than getting up—except those damned eerie sounds were still coming. In fact, there was a quiet slithering very close to her head. She jerked upright, which made her dizzy, and without thinking, she thrust a hand down on the floor to brace herself. It landed on something cold and clammy—and definitely alive. She leaped to her feet and screamed again, which was silly—it wasn’t going to scare the things away—but she couldn’t help herself.
But this time, as the scream died, she heard an echo. She did it again a couple of more times, listening intently. The echo seemed to start fast, within a second or so. That should mean there was a wall not too far away.
She started walking, this time testing each step before she put her weight down, and gritting her teeth against the more things that squished under her feet—whatever they were, this must be their favorite hangout. Maybe they liked water—the floor was damp here, and she thought she could hear a faint, slow dripping in the distance, which might or might not be good.