The Armenian's agonized voice cried out to them, also begging, to be let in, to be saved from the man who was killing him in the blackness.
Daoud readied himself, finding the water bucket again in the dark and picking it up. He held it with both hands, by the handle and by the base. He would have only a little time to use it, before they found some way to stop him.
He heard the men on the other side of the door slide back the iron bolt. It was the only thing they could do, Daoud thought. The other Armenians could not bear to keep the door shut and let their comrade die.
The wooden door swung inward. Light sprang out into the cellar from only one oil-fed lantern, but dazzled Daoud because he had been in complete darkness since he put out the candle. He now saw the man he had been fighting, a squat man with a thick black mustache, tears of pain running from his eyes, his right arm dangling limply.
In the fraction of an instant before his enemies saw him, Daoud took in everything in the spice pantry.
De Gobignon was standing just inside the door, holding his beautiful scimitar out before him in his right hand. With his left handhe reached for the wounded guard to pull him in. On either side of him were the other two Armenians, bows drawn, ready to fire. Beyond them Daoud glimpsed the Tartars, also with bows loaded and pulled, and the old priest.
But the most important thing in there was that small, weak flame flickering behind sheets of horn in a box-shaped lantern on the table in the center of the room.
Daoud stepped as close as he dared into the doorway and raised the bucket high, heaving the water in a stream at the table.
He heard a bow thrum and an arrow whistle past his shoulder. His eyes met de Gobignon's just as the light went out.
Like a stone fired from a catapult he hurled himself, crouching low, into the pantry.
Landing silently inside the room, he changed direction once, twice, a third time, ending up at the door. He slammed it shut and bolted it. They should all now be thoroughly confused.
In total darkness, seeing with his senses of hearing, smell, and touch, he began to stalk the Tartars.
Simon heard the thick door slam and the iron bolt driven into place. He stood in a blackness darker than any night outdoors would have been, his scimitar heavy and invisible in his hand. It was all he had against an enemy who was also invisible. He felt death rushing upon him out of the darkness.
Except for the occasional vibrations of a rock hitting the palace wall, all sounds of battle were blocked out of the spice pantry. In the deep silence, Simon's heartbeat thundered in his ears like a kettledrum.
It was my stupidity that opened the door to him.
He had caught only a glimpse of the enemy. All in black from head to foot, eyes shining through oval holes in his mask. Truly like a devil.
The stalker had deliberately doused the light, which must mean he could find his victims in the dark.
Simon's body went from hot to cold. While he stood here helplessly, the men with him could be dying. He tried to force himself to think, but his mind was motionless as a stone.
All around Simon was confusion. He heard Grigor, the guard who had staggered into the room just before the light went out, moaning with pain. He heard men stumbling about. They kept bumping into him. He lowered his scimitar to avoid stabbing someone by accident.
A crash made Simon jump. That was the lantern, smashed probably, by the man in black, so that no one could relight it.
Next he would start killing them, one by one.
God, if only I had some light. Just a little.
The odors of the precious spices the Monaldeschi stored in this pantry pervaded the air—saffron, cardamom, pepper, cloves, ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon. When Simon had first entered the spice pantry a short time ago it had seemed a pleasant enough smell. Now it was making him sick.
Was there still a lighted candle in the cellar outside?
"The door!" he shouted. "Get the door open." Friar Mathieu repeated his command in the Armenian tongue.
He heard a scraping, as of someone pulling on the heavy bolt that held the door shut. Then a thud and a choking cry of pain. Then a sound like a heavy sack being dropped.
Simon groaned inwardly. He could picture what had happened. Now the door was held shut, not just by a bolt, but by a dead body.
He felt ice cold, but sweat trickled under his mail. The blackness was thick, a blanket, smothering him. The smells of the spices were cloying, dizzying. His stomach felt queasy.
"Flint and tinder!" Simon shouted, and Friar Mathieu repeated his words for the Armenians and Tartars. Everything he said had to be translated. The delay was maddening.
And, Simon realized, anyone who tried to strike a light would make himself the enemy's next target.
God's blood, even by answering Friar Mathieu the Tartars would give away their location to the stalker. The man in black must be able to find his victims by listening for them.
So, if sound would make them visible, then the only way to thwart this demon would be by silence. And even now men were starting to answer Simon's call for flint.
"Silence!" he shouted. His voice sounded shrill in his ears, like a frightened boy's.
For a moment there was no sound in the blackness.
"He finds us by the sounds we make," Simon said. "Everyone remain still, and we will hear him when he moves."
As Friar Mathieu translated, Simon realized that either he or Friar Mathieu could be the next victim. The stalker would want to kill the Franciscan so Simon could not communicate with the others.
And one Armenian was badly hurt, one was probably dead outside and one dead by the door. Left able to fight were only Simon, the Tartars, and one Armenian guard. They had swords and bows, but the bows would just be encumbrances in this total blackness.
In minutes the ambassadors could be dead. Simon felt terrified, drowning in darkness, almost overcome with helplessness.
I must make him come to me.
The thought frightened Simon even more. He did not know whether he would have the courage to act on it.
What weapons did the stalker have? In the glimpse Simon had of him before he put the candle out, the man in black had seemed to be empty-handed. His weapons must be small ones that could kill, but might not be quite so dangerous to a man in mail.
"Everyone remain still," Simon said loudly. "You will hear me moving steadily about. If you hear someone else as well, it is the enemy."
He racked his brain to remember the size and shape of the room. Holding his sword low, he put his hand up before his face and forced himself to take one step, then another. An attack might come from any direction. The trembling of his hands and knees made his mail jingle faintly.
The mailed glove dangling from his wrist rattled as his bare hand encountered a man's face. The man gasped and pulled away.
"C'est moi," said Simon, just to let the man hear his voice, knowing it did not matter what language he spoke. He was not afraid of calling attention to himself. He wanted the stalker to come for him. And he wanted those on his side to know where he was so they would not attack him by mistake.
The face he felt was hot, sweaty, with a bushy mustache—one of the Armenians. The killer had been masked. Simon patted the man on the shoulder and moved on. He doubted that he could find theman in black this way. If the stalker were as skilled at moving about in the dark as he seemed to be, he could easily evade Simon.
The Tartars seemed to have understood the peril they were in; they had been silent now for a long time.
The thought struck him like ice between his shoulder blades: What if the killer had already gotten to them, and they were silent because they were dead? He wanted to call out to them, or to Friar Mathieu, to be sure they were all right. He suppressed the urge and reached out for another face.
This time he felt a beard. It was long and full. Friar Mathieu.
"C'est moi," Simon said again, and a hand reached up and squeezed his reassuringly.
The next face was hard, bony. There was a mustache that his fingers followed long below the mouth. The beard was thin, sprouting from the chin only. One of the Tartars. Simon felt the face move under his touch. Thank God, the man was alive.
He reached beyond the Tartar and felt a shoulder. This must be the other Tartar. But no—the shoulder was high, as high as the Tartar's head.
Just as he was about to jump back he felt something brush over his hair.
A cord was around his neck.
It jerked tight with such force that Simon's breath was instantly cut off. Pain circled his neck like a band of fire.
His scream forced its way through his throat as a drawn-out grunt as the cord tightened still more. He could feel the blood in his head pressing out against his temples and eyeballs. He felt as if nails were being driven into his head.
He had his scimitar. He raised it and drove it back over his right shoulder. It went through empty air. The killer had felt it coming and ducked out of the way. But for a moment the cord cutting into Simon's throat let up just a bit.
He heard voices all around him. The others knew what was happening. They stumbled about, but they could not see to reach him. He felt himself being dragged backward, pulled away from his comrades. The cord was digging into his windpipe harder and harder. In a moment his mind would go black. He would not even know when he died. He fought his terror, knowing that if he yielded to it, he would surely die.
Hewouldlive. Hewouldsee Sophia again.
He tried to lean forward, to bend his knees, to find some purchaseon the stone for his iron-shod feet. Still, the attacker pulled him. Simon felt he had only a child's strength compared to the man in black.
Dizzily Simon remembered tug-of-war games when he had been a page at the royal palace.
When one side lets go, everyone on the other side falls down.
With his last bit of consciousness, Simon squeezed his whole body into a crouch, then sprang up and backward, like a bow released.
His mail-clad weight and the attacker's momentum threw them both backward. They crashed together against shelving, and Simon heard porcelain shatter. Clouds of ground spices enveloped them, and they fell sideways to the floor, Simon on top of his attacker.
He heard a gasp as the man's breath was knocked out of him. And nowhecould breathe. He choked on air saturated with cinnamon and curry, but the cord was loose.
The fall had knocked his scimitar out of his hand. Anguished, he felt for it, but it was as if it had fallen into a well.
"Simon! Where are you?" Friar Mathieu shouted.
"Ah! Ah!" Simon let his breath out and sucked it in, gasping. He wanted to cry for help, but he could not use his voice. His body shook with terror.
And he felt the body under him moving with swift and terrible power. The cord snapped tight again.
But not before Simon got his right hand under it. The killer gave a vicious jerk on the thin cord, and it felt as if it might slice through his fingers. But Simon pushed against it with all the strength in his right arm, and loosened the cord enough to be able to pull air into his throat. He worked his other hand under it.
His shout burst from his throat. "M'aidez! Help me! Here! Here!"
Boots pounded toward him. He felt men around him. He heard them coughing and sneezing from the spices that filled the air. A sword poked him through his mail.
"Under me! Stab! Stab! You cannot hurt me!"
The cord went lax. The attacker had let go of it. Simon drew air frantically through his tortured windpipe.
Before he could get to his feet, an arm, hard as if clad in mail, whipped around his neck, clamping him to his enemy. He felt the edge of a dagger at his throat.
Simon could hear the devil's breathing right by his ear. Frantic,he jerked his head forward and drove it back, ramming the back of his head into his attacker's face, slamming the enemy's head against the stone floor. Simon felt stunned, but the other must have been stunned, too. He heard a whispered gasp.
How can the devil be so silent?
He heard men speaking above him and feet shuffling around him, but despite his command, no swords were jabbing downward. They were afraid of stabbing him, even though he was wearing mail.
He arched his body and brought all his mailed weight down hard. He felt the edge of the enemy's dagger scrape across the chain around his neck. A bolt of terror shot through him. If not for that medallion, he would be bleeding to death right now. Simon thrust his steel-encased elbows into his enemy's ribs. The gasp was louder this time, and with a violent heave he freed himself.
He twisted over, arms reaching to wrap around his enemy.
I have to pin him down. I cannot let him get loose in this room again.
But the knees below him drew up and the feet kicked against him, throwing him back.
"Right in front of me!" Simon cried. "Get him!" And then he realized despairingly that none of the armed men on his side could understand him.
And no one, it seemed, had flint and steel to strike a light. He knew he was carrying none. Such a simple thing, yet tonight its lack might be his death.
His foot kicked something that rang against the stone floor. His sword. He swooped down on it, seized it, and thrust blindly straight ahead. The point struck a stone wall, and he felt the blade bend. He checked his thrust just in time to keep the scimitar from breaking.
He heard a movement to his left and stabbed again. Again he struck blank stone.
The devil is somewhere in this part of the room.
"The door!" Simon shouted. "Mathieu, get the door open."
He heard the iron bolt shoved back, the creak of hinges, the scrape of a body being pushed aside.
But the blackness remained absolute.
He must have put out the candle in the cellar before he broke in here.
Simon heard running footsteps outside the spice pantry. Sandals slapping up wooden stairs. The creaking of the trapdoor at the topof the cellar steps. And then there was light. Gray, faint, but after what seemed like hours spent in utter darkness, it was as if the sun had suddenly risen.
God bless you, Mathieu.
Scimitar at the ready, Simon swept the room with his gaze.
A shadowy figure stood halfway along one of the side walls, holding something out before him in both hands. A miniature crossbow, a vicious-looking thing. Simon turned to see where it was pointed.
He saw John Chagan on the other side of the pantry facing the killer.
He heard a snap.
But Grigor, the Armenian who had been hurt outside the spice pantry, had stepped between John and the crossbow, and he took the bolt in his leather cuirass. Simon felt his mind moving much more slowly than things were happening, trying to grasp it all.
Grigor's eyes opened wide. Perhaps, Simon thought, he had expected that a bolt from such a little bow would merely bounce off his hardened leather armor. Or perhaps he knew that it would kill him.
In the semidarkness Simon could not see the hole in the cuirass, but Grigor's hand went to his chest, and then he toppled over.
The Tartar Philip had picked up a bow from the floor, and so had the other Armenian. Both raised their weapons toward the man in black.
Now we have him cornered and in a moment I will rip off his mask and know who he is.
The stalker's black-gloved hand flashed upward and he threw a tiny, round object into the pile of broken wooden shelves on the floor. A roar deafened Simon, and a blaze of white flame blinded him. The wooden shelves were afire, the flames feeding on the powdered spices that floated in the air. Heat seared Simon's face.
Death of God! He truly is a devil!
By the time Simon and the others had recovered from the burst of fire, the enemy was out the door and running for the cellar stairs. Simon cried out wordlessly in frustrated rage. He must not get away, not after all he had done to them.
As the man in black reached the foot of the stairs, Philip stepped into the doorway, drew his bow as calmly and carefully as if he were hunting, and loosed an arrow. The man in black jerked to astop. Simon could see the shaft of the arrow protruding from his right thigh.
The man reached down and with a sudden movement snapped away the arrow shaft. He drew a dagger with a strange blade that did not gleam; it was dead black. He raced on up the stairs, limping, but with inhuman strength and speed. Two more arrows flew at him, but missed, clattering against the cellar walls.
Friar Mathieu stood at the top of the stairs. He held his arms out, a lit white candle in one hand, blocking the stalker's path. The man came at him with the dagger.
"No!" Simon screamed.
With a sweep of his arm the man in black threw Friar Mathieu down from the banisterless stairs. The old priest fell six feet to the cellar floor, struck with a loud, sickening thump, and lay there, still.
And the enemy was gone.
By the time Simon and the others had climbed up to the kitchen, the man in black had vanished into the maze of dark rooms on the first floor of the palace.
Simon, wild with rage and grief, forced himself to think. He was alive, God be thanked, and he had saved the Tartars, but just for this moment. The man in black, seemingly routed, might renew his attack at any time.
And Friar Mathieu. Dear God, don't let him be dead!
What was the creature Simon had fought in the darkness? Christian? Saracen? Or, as his most frightening imaginings hinted, a being from hell itself?
Clearly it was not some Filippeschi bravo who had somehow broken through the palace's defenses. Simon's inspiration on the battlements had been right; the Filippeschi attack had been only a diversion.
If a demon of this sort opposed the alliance, Simon felt more than ever determined that the alliance must succeed. This was the hidden enemy whose presence he had sensed since coming to Orvieto. The force determined to prevent the alliance of Christians and Tartars. The one who had incited Orvieto's people against the Tartars when they first came. Who had set that poor devil of a heretic to draw his dagger against them in the cathedral. Alain's murderer. Stalker. Enemy. Killer. Devil.
Hatred blazed up within Simon.
If only he could have killed the man in black or caught him beforehe escaped. Now he must guard against an enemy as evil as Satan. An enemy powerful enough to throw an army against a fortified palace, subtle enough to reach into an impregnable chamber and strike at his intended victims. A being whose strength and skills made him seem more than human. Cruel and pitiless, ready to murder anyone who stood in his way.
It was as certain as the judgment of God that they would fight again. This was war to the death.
To be concluded inTHE HOLY WARBook Two of THE SARACEN
To be concluded inTHE HOLY WARBook Two of THE SARACEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert Shea has given his full time to writing novels since 1977. He is the co-author of the science-fiction novel ILLUMINATUS!, which won the Hall of Fame Award of the Libertarian Futurist Society and was produced as a play in the United States and in Europe. His historical novels are SHIKE, set in medieval Japan, and ALL THINGS ARE LIGHTS, which, like THE SARACEN, takes place in the era of the Crusades. He was a magazine editor for twenty years and is also a prolific magazine writer. He lives with his wife and son near Chicago.
IN THE SWEEPING FIRES OF THETHIRTEENTH CENTURY,A BOLD NEW WORLDIS FORGED....Into the furious whirlwind of war set offby the bloody Crusades, one man daresto step. His legacy belongs to theMamelukes, legendary warrior-slaves ofEgypt. His arsenal consists of no more thana sword and a bag of jewels. His mission isto enter Europe's powerful and treacherousrealms of king and pope, conspiratorand courtesan—and to single-handedlyturn the tide of battle betweencontinent and continent.The man is the one they call the WhiteEmir, the blond assassin and spy skilledin combat and sorcery, who movesadeptly and lethally through the worldsof both East and West. Against himstands Simon de Gobignon, a proud,young nobleman from one of the great—andaccursed—houses of France. Eachfights gallantly and desperately for thecivilization he serves—and for the love ofthe ravishing Sophia, whose powerfulerotic allure no other mortal woman cansurpass, and no man alive can resist.
IN THE SWEEPING FIRES OF THETHIRTEENTH CENTURY,A BOLD NEW WORLDIS FORGED....
Into the furious whirlwind of war set offby the bloody Crusades, one man daresto step. His legacy belongs to theMamelukes, legendary warrior-slaves ofEgypt. His arsenal consists of no more thana sword and a bag of jewels. His mission isto enter Europe's powerful and treacherousrealms of king and pope, conspiratorand courtesan—and to single-handedlyturn the tide of battle betweencontinent and continent.
The man is the one they call the WhiteEmir, the blond assassin and spy skilledin combat and sorcery, who movesadeptly and lethally through the worldsof both East and West. Against himstands Simon de Gobignon, a proud,young nobleman from one of the great—andaccursed—houses of France. Eachfights gallantly and desperately for thecivilization he serves—and for the love ofthe ravishing Sophia, whose powerfulerotic allure no other mortal woman cansurpass, and no man alive can resist.