“Long are the years that sometimes pass when a merchant is abroad,” Ibn-Khaldun said. “Do you know that he has for certain died?”
“He was at Mecina,” Jacob replied. “Who survived that massacre, except Christians?” He wrenched a handful of grass from the verge to wipe his hands.
Ibn-Khaldun offered the boy his water skin. “Your father might not be dead. He might very well be alive. I know some survivors of the Battle of Mecina who live in that very castle. My apprentice survived that battle — his name’s Ríg, and at the time he was little older than you are now.”
“Ríg?” Jacob snorted. “That’s not an Arabic or Hebrew name. If he’s a Christian, I’m not surprised that he survived the massacre.”
“You do know that it takes two sides to fight a battle, eh?” Ibn-Khaldun said patiently, as a teacher might do with a stubborn student. “That one of Saladin’s own brothers was besieging Mecina and killing pilgrims who tried to escape?”
“I’ve heard many versions,” Jacob replied quietly. “In none of them does my father survive, and in all accounts the Hooded Hospitaller, Santini, slaughters all who get in his way.”
“There was much death in that siege, true,” Ibn-Khaldun said, “but, I’ve also heard that Saladin retreated when it became obvious that staying wasn’t worth taking the castle. I saw the battleground, Jacob. There were many bodies — Christians and my people alike. Perhaps it wasn’t only Santini’s men doing the killing, eh? You do know that many pilgrims, merchants, and villagers escaped Mecina thanks to Santini’s efforts, don’t you?”
The old man shrugged at the insoluble problem. “War is war, and for human beings it seems as if killing is sometimes just as much a part of living, especially when religion is involved.”
“Human beings?” Jacob cried. “They weren’t human, those Christians at Mecina.” He glared at the Krak as if the fire in his eyes could incinerate its walls. “Servius Aurelius Santini wasn’t human,” the boy continued heatedly. “Hundreds died at the castle because of his insufferable nazaro arrogance, and my father was just —” his eyes brimmed, but he finished the sentence. “My father was just making his way back from a business trip.”
“You’d seek vengeance, then? At your age?” Ibn-Khaldun asked. “Isn’t that prohibited in your religion?”
“If it’s against my own people, yes. If others, then, no.” Jacob said softly, as if talking about religion relaxed him. “You seem to know our laws well, ya Akh, so perhaps you also know of this: ‘He who comes to slay you, slay him first.’ To do otherwise is suicide, and that I will not allow.”
Ibn-Khaldun laughed. “I see, I see. ‘If someone is coming to kill you, get up early and kill him first, eh?’ That’s a very assertive attitude, Jacob. Thankfully, I’ve seen it in action this morning and I think it saved my life.”
“I think you mock me, ya Akh. Our proverbs have another saying: ‘Rash words are like sword thrusts, but the tongue of the wise brings healing.’ I’ll let my sword do its work now, and try to think about your words.” Jacob rose to his feet, bowed curtly at Ibn-Khaldun, and said to his mother. “Imam, I’ll be at the other end of the grove. Practicing.”
Ibn-Khaldun thoughtfully watched the youth stride away.
“You talk too much like a rabbi,” the mother commented, “and Jacob very much wanted to become one someday. Your way of speaking angers him because it reminds him of the mitzvah and of what’s been lost. I hope that he might still become one, but,” tears filled her eyes, “death has been with us much of late and he’s not himself.” She watched the boy slashing at imaginary enemies and shook her head. “He’d rather be angry than face some difficult truths.”
“Well, he’s young. Isn’t that their way?” Ibn-Khaldun observed. “There’s a boy in that castle I should like to introduce him to. He’s had bad experiences, too, yet he’s an apt pupil and good friend. Yes, I think that your Jacob and my apprentice, Ríg, would... .”
The words faded as Ibn-Khaldun’s eyes narrowed and focused on a point in the distance, near the horizon, almost midway between Jacob’s shadow fencing and the fortress itself. He winced as he pushed himself to a standing position. “Perhaps such conversations might take place sooner than I thought. We must all get to the Krak.”
The woman shook her head. “We’ll not be joining you, Old One. You heard my son. We’re going with the caravan south to Jerusalem.”
“Not unless you’d walk through an army, you’re not,” Ibn-Khaldun corrected.
“What?”
“Look, there. Do you see?” Ibn-Khaldun rose to his feet, helping the woman up. “It has the look of a sand storm, but have you ever seen a storm that low-lying and against such a calm air and blue, sunny sky? No, we must get inside.”
Rebecca called Jacob. The boy stopped his fencing practice to run back and join them.
“We’ll also discuss that cough of yours when we’re inside,” Ibn-Khaldun promised quietly as the boy neared. “It’s not a good sign that you’ve had it so long.”
“You know medicinal arts?” Rebecca whispered.
“Enough, and, perhaps, more than enough. We’ll see.”
Jacob halted a few steps away, looking warily at Ibn-Khaldun.
“An army comes,” Rebecca said. “Look, there. We’ll take refuge in the fortress with this man. He says that a plea for sanctuary will be recognized.”
“Absolutely not, Ima ! They’re Christians!” Jacob exclaimed.
“As might be that army,” Ibn-Khaldun qualified, nodding to the distant smudge on the horizon. “At least the Christians in the castle I know. Besides, I follow the teachings of Muhammad, and there are others like me, as well as Hebrews within that fortress. It’s like a small city. Even Crusaders can’t live long in these parts without adopting many of the region’s customs. You and your caravan will all be welcome. Trust me.”
The boy’s eyes flicked from the horizon to the castle and back to the horizon again. “Imam, we could…no.” He lowered his eyes as if seeking an answer to the quandary from the ground itself. “Oh, very well.” He inhaled deeply. “We’re again in your debt, and will accept your kind invitation.”
Ibn-Khaldun’s eyebrows rose at that, pleasantly surprised. He nodded and moved to recover his camel.
“Master,” Jacob said, “I’ll go tell Ghannen of the armies and return his sword. There are only twenty carts in the caravan, and the animals will be ready. They’ll be there by the time you and Ima reach the bottom of the mountain.”
“Very well,” Ibn-Khaldun agreed, impressed by the boy’s efficiency.
Jacob gave a look to his mother and when she nodded with a shooing motion of her hand, he ran off down the trail.
As he helped Rebecca mount her camel, Ibn-Khaldun tried to ignore the whispers in his mind that returned almost immediately upon his settling into his own linen-lined saddle, the words spoken softly but with an almost overwhelming urgency that made him want to do nothing but flip open the saddlebags behind him and take the thing out. If he just took it for himself, the voices told him, so very many things could be made right. So many losses undone. So many years regained....
Jacob rejoined them sooner than expected, telling the two adults that Ghannen had already begun to move the caravan and would meet them on the valley road.
Grateful for the company on this leg of his journey, Ibn-Khaldun reflected on the last time he’d been around other people: a month ago, with his own family of bedouin traders in the heart of the Nafud Desert, or “Empty Quarter.”
That stay had been special for Ibn-Khaldun because he’d been able to spend some time with his son, Thaqib, who was the second-in-command to Khalil (the sheikh who led the tribe). Khalil was a man of great charisma who was married to Ibn-Khaldun’s daughter, Fatima. His adult children and son-in-law led a very successful camel caravan, participating in an overland trade that reached far eastwards into Persia.
When he’d been with them, he’d fought an overwhelming temptation to speak with them — particul
arly Fatima — but he couldn’t risk endangering his family.
Indeed, how could he tell anyone, when he still didn’t know how he was going to relate the news about his strange package to Ríg? He’d momentarily wanted to share his mind with Fatima. She’d always been able to predict future events long before they happened — so long as all the facts were in front of her — and she also knew Ríg as a friend because of the many years she’d spent visiting the Krak. But, Fatima would have told him to give the saddlebag to her or Thaqib, and insisted that he let one of them complete the delivery so the scholar could rest with the bedouin.
His response then remained the same as now: No, I’ve got to finish this myself. Ríg’s just a boy. He’ll need some kind of guidance with this…thing.
So, he’d left them full of questions, saying only that he was urgently needed back at the Krak. Reluctantly, Fatima and Thaqib let him go, taking some comfort in the fact that the citadel offered at least the consolation that Ibn-Khaldun’s other son — an adopted Christian named Marcus — still lived within its walls.
Ibn-Khaldun wasn’t a fool. He knew that getting the thing in the saddlebag to Rig was only half the battle. Solving its mystery would harshly test a friendship with his best student, and the entire matter deeply troubled him. Even though a westerner, Ríg had become as much of a son to Ibn-Khaldun as either Marcus or Thaqib.
However, wherever the hunters came from, their menace was real. They’d made four attempts on the Muslim scholar’s life in their half-year chase. Each of Ibn-Khaldun’s escapes was narrower than the previous one, and the latest assault in the city of Shuqrah had almost killed the old man. He’d badly injured his left knee when he fell while tipping a fruit cart, but the effort had wrenched something in his side that was still not fully right.
The trio finally closed in on the caravan, bringing Ibn-Khaldun’s thoughts back to the present. The drivers of its rearmost carts hailed Jacob and Rebecca.
“Now, let’s make haste and get me introduced to this Ghannen,” Ibn-Khaldun urged. “I’ve not journeyed seven hundred leagues to get caught at my front door!”
As Ibn-Khaldun and his companions joined the small caravan at the first switchback road leading up to the front gate, for the first time in six months he didn’t look back over his shoulder.
The oversight meant that he missed seeing two figures watch his progress from the rocky promontory and grove of terebinth trees that he and his companions had departed only a brief while ago.
Nor, of course, from his position on the slanting roadway could Ibn-Khaldun see the vast darkness of a larger, second army that followed a short distance behind the watchers.
Chapter 2
A Quarry Run to Ground
The two men rode great white Arabian stallions, restraining the wild-eyed and whinnying beasts from pursuing Ibn-Khaldun as the caravan made its way up switchback roads to the Krak des Chevaliers.
“Whether alone or with those merchants, the old man will reach Santini, Morpeth,” the larger of the two riders commented. “A member of that family line is in the castle. I can feel it now that we’re this close to him.”
A man of fair complexion, Farbauti wore a full golden beard and long hair bound by leather strips that reached past his shoulders. Both men seemed unaffected by the heat, even though they wore similar black Hospitaller cloaks over tunics and breeches, with the bulks of their gigantic frames accented by chain-mail ringlets visible at collars and wrists.
“Ja, Farbauti. Finally,” Morpeth agreed, leaning forward and peering at the fortress whose walls presented an intimidating sight. He was the younger of the two men, his face clean-shaven and his blond hair cropped short. “Pathetic that we’re the ones who have to correct a mistake that never should’ve carried the Codex this far away. It’s been a long time, even as we reckon such things, but now all is as it should be.”
“Do you truly feel that way, Morpeth? Santini’s awakening of the Codex Lacrimae will mean the beginning of the end game, and the chances of either of us ever holding it for our own have become slim to none.”
Morpeth looked briefly at the other man, and then returned his gaze to the Krak des Chevaliers resting on the mountain, Hisn al-Akrad.
“We weren’t ever meant to hold it, nor any other artifact, Farbauti,” Morpeth said musingly, as he assessed the citadel defenses. “That’s fine with me. I’ve no use for such things. We knew the rules, and swore the Oath. I’m just pleased that Ibn-Khaldun’s performed as predicted.” He adjusted a brace on his forearm and squinted at the castle. “No, it’s enough for me to know that Saladin’s and Fafnir’s armies are converging here.”
“Let’s not get overconfident,” Farbauti cautioned, “warfare’s first casualty is predictability. Still, I think we’ve done all the preparation we can.” He stretched. “Whatever happens, we need to be efficient, Morpeth. There are matters that need tending in Svartalfheim and Nidaveller.”
“We don’t need to go over that ground again,” Morpeth said, his tone insistent. “I told you earlier, we’ll make the dwarves see the error of their ways.”
“I don’t like leaving such important things to chance,” Farbauti grimaced. He inhaled deeply, adjusting himself on the horse. “I fear that we’ve spent so much time on the Codex Lacrimae that events might outpace our plans.”
“Worry not, old friend,” Morpeth said. “I’ve been setting a snare for Santini the last couple days if he happens to elude us after awakening the Codex. I’ve seen him in a glade where a madman roams. I know the place, and if the madman is who I think it is, he could serve as both a foil to the Codex Wielder and begin the doom of both Dark Elves and dwarves.”
“You’ve foreseen the Codex Wielder in a glade? In Svartalfheim?” Suspicion marked Farbauti’s words and glance. “I’ve seen nothing of this in the fires. If all goes to plan, Morpeth, Santini won’t be gone from here on Midgard for any meaningful time before we take the book from him. How could he be in the forests of the Dark Elves?”
“It’s the Sight,” Morpeth shrugged in apparent commiseration. “Perhaps it’s showing me one thing, and you another. It can’t hurt the Hunt to have too another contingency.” He frowned as his eyes turned inward, then nodded confirmation. “Ja, it’s still the same, Farbauti. I’ve seen the same vision five times — I’m getting sick of Santini’s pretty face. Does it help settle your mind if I tell you I think that the dwarf who will do our work is Dietrich the Mad?”
“Ah,” Farbauti laughed, “now I understand. Well done, Morpeth. Besides being an Arch-Mage, Dietrich holds no love for any Codex Wielder. Very well done. We’re covered, then?”
“As well as might be done at this point. There is —” Morpeth paused, started to speak again, and then pressed his lips together.
“There is, was ?”
“The Sight,” Morpeth said. “It showed me more. Besides Dietrich in the glade, there were others present whose features I can’t discern. Und, I’ve had visions of...other places. Places that should no longer be accessible in the Nine Worlds.”
“Speak plainly, Morpeth,” Farbauti snapped. “Tell me what you saw, and we’ll adjust the plan as we’ve done before.”
“That’s just it,” Morpeth said, “there’s no way to counter this kind of vision, because it’s impossible. The realm doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Was ist das ?” Farbauti insisted.
“Annen Verden.”
Farbauti recoiled as if his friend had slapped him.
“There’s no doubt, no possibility that you’re seeing something else?”
“Farbauti, it was the Otherworld, and, worse, on another front I fear that what we’re doing might somehow bring back Veröld Martröđ.”
“Morpeth, you might as well tell me that Mogthrasir has risen from the dead as believe the Nightmare Realm is come again.”
Morpeth smiled. “In giving a voice to my fears, it does seem unlikely. But, there it is, those are the dreams I’ve been having.”
“A
nnen Verden…,” Farbauti murmured, returning his attention to the great castle before them. “What a place to hunt that would be. No, no. This kind of vision must be related to our quest for the codex magic. It makes sense. The Book of Tears was the last and most powerful to be bound, and Taliesin used it to trap Veröld Martröđ in Annen Verden before the artifacts were lost.”
Silence fell for a long moment, and then he made a decision. “We can’t change our plans now. We’ll move forward under the assumption that these dreams come from the stirring of the Codex Lacrimae. It’s logical that those with Sight would see visions of its last moments in the Nine Worlds. Until we see evidence of Veröld Martröđ’s return, we can’t hunt him. He’s the Lord of Nightmare, and would have us jumping at every shadow if we try to anticipate him. If he’s returned, we’ll let him make himself known, then run him to ground.”
“But, like Dietrich with the Sampo,” Morpeth said warningly, “if Martröđ returns, he might interfere with our plans for the Codex. There were many forces in the Elder Days that sought its power.”
“Let any who’d dare vie with us for it!” Farbauti grinned. “We’re forewarned, thanks to your dreams, Morpeth. No, let’s stay the course. We’re as prepared as we can be, old friend.”
“Thank you, Milord. These dreams may just be excitement for the end of the chase.”
Farbauti nodded, the matter settled for the moment, and turned his gaze southward, staring for a long while at the rising dust cloud that canvassed almost the entire horizon.
An army marched within the approaching maelstrom, its forces instigated by his and Morpeth’s efforts. During negotiations with the commanders of the two armies, they’d let Ibn-Khaldun continue to race toward the Krak, running the sufi mystic to ground at this moment when the crusader castle would be surrounded by a two-pronged siege of their design.
All Ibn-Khaldun had to do now was deliver the Codex Lacrimae to the youngest member of the Santini family, and then the Huntsmen could complete the quest they’d begun so long ago.
The Codex Lacrimae Page 2